To The Grave (16 page)

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” he said.

Joan didn’t stop or turn to look at him.

“Something about Danny perhaps?”  He was fishing and he knew it, but he was sure she was holding something back and he wanted to know what that was.  “What about Mena?” he added.  “Was there something else about Mena?”

Joan stopped walking then and when she turned around she had tears in her eyes.  “I think it’s time you left, Mr Tayte,” she said.  “I’d like to be alone if you don’t mind.”

She tried to smile, Tayte thought, but he could see it was difficult and he immediately regretted trying to push her like that.  It wasn’t like him.  He watched her step through into the conservatory and a moment later she handed him his briefcase.

“You can go around the house to your car,” she said.  “The gates will be open.”

With that she closed the doors and disappeared into the house, still in her boots and coat, leaving Tayte confused if not surprised that his visit was over.

Chapter Nineteen

T
ayte was less than a mile into his journey back to the hotel when his phone rang.  He was still in the Hertfordshire countryside, driving down a leafless lane that looked much like every other.  He pulled over to answer it and put his hazard lights on.  He didn’t have time to check who was calling.

“Jefferson Tayte.”

“JT.  It’s Jonathan.”

“Hi Jonathan.  How’s it going?”

“Good.  I’ve managed to set things up with Mary’s son, Christopher.  Just got off the phone with him, actually.”

“That’s great,” Tayte said.  “When can he see me?”

“Right away.”

“He’s keen.  I like that.”

“Yes, perhaps.  Although I think the main reason he suggested seeing you now was because he’s flying to New York tonight and won’t be back until Wednesday.”

“I see,” Tayte said.  “Well, I’m glad he could fit me in.  Where do I need to go?”

“He’s at a gala lunch and conference in London,” Jonathan said.  “It’s for the charitable trust I told you about.  He said you were welcome to go along.  You’ll have missed the main course by the time you get there, but if you’re quick you might catch dessert.”

Tayte licked his lips.  “Where’s it being held?”

“It’s at the QE2 Conference Centre in Westminster.”

Tayte got out his pad, pinning his phone to his ear with his shoulder while he wrote the details down.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to miss him, so I told Christopher you’d be there.  He said he’d have your name added to the guest list.  Just ask for him when you arrive.”

“How long a drive do you think it is from Joan’s house?  I’ve only just left.”

“I wouldn’t drive,” Jonathan said.  “The traffic might not be too bad on a Sunday afternoon, but you’ll still have a tough time parking anywhere close.  I’d drive to the train station in Hertford if I were you.  You can leave your car there and pick it up again later.  The conference goes on into the early evening so you’ve plenty of time.”

“I’ll do that,” Tayte said.  “Thanks.”

He was about to say goodbye when he thought to ask Jonathan if he’d managed to get into the attic.

Jonathan hesitated before he gave his reply.  “I did,” he said.

“No good?”

“No.  There are just so many nooks and crannies that are hard to get at.”

“That’s no problem,” Tayte said.  “Thanks for trying.”

With that he said goodbye and set the car’s satnav for Hertford.

The Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre wasn’t difficult to find once Tayte arrived in London.  He got off the Tube at Westminster by the bridge, and standing in what would have been the shadow of Big Ben if the skies weren’t so leaden, he was given directions to Broad Sanctuary, which was just off Parliament Square.  It was spitting with rain again, but it only took a few minutes to walk the rest of the way.

Inside the building, Tayte cleared security and reported to one of the reception desks.  From there he was directed to the second floor.  As the lift doors opened and he stepped out, a display screen bearing the word ‘GIFT’ greeted him.  The ‘I’ was pictured as a gift-wrapped parcel in the style and colours of the South African flag and beneath it were the words, ‘Welcome to the Grace Ingram Foundation Trust annual charity conference’.

Further in he gave his name to a young black girl wearing a floor-length dress that looked like the ‘I’ from the GIFT poster.  She was standing beside a lectern next to a set of double doors and she had a big smile on her face that seemed to contradict the fading burn scars that reached up from her neck and fanned out across her cheek.  Watching over her was a heavyset man in a tuxedo.  The girl checked Tayte off the screen in front of her and she smiled again as the man opened the doors into a large conference room that was lit with subtle blue lighting around the perimeter and over the tables, which were laid out cabaret style in the middle of the room, seats facing the stage.

Another young girl, also gift-wrapped in the flag of her nation, ushered Tayte towards the front of the room, keeping to the edge so as not to block anyone’s view of the stage.  Looking around, it was apparent to Tayte that GIFT was a big-money business.  He thought there had to be at least three hundred smartly dressed business men and women sitting at the tables, which were all crowded with wine glasses and bottles of water.  He quickly noticed that the cutlery was gone, telling him that he’d missed both lunch and dessert.  Ahead, the raised stage was lit up like a theatre set, minus the curtains, and the trust’s logo, GIFT, appeared over the central podium.  The woman speaker standing behind it was in mid flow.

“When my grandmother, Grace Ingram, began this trust almost fifty years ago,” she said with a distinct South African accent.  “She could have had no concept of just how much happiness her commitment would bring to so many lives.”

To either side of the room, Tayte saw screens showing images of the work the charity was involved in.  Some had pictures of smiling children, others of happy parents and of schools and hospitals.  Several conveyed information about the corporations already involved with GIFT and every one showed an image depicting the results of GIFT’s work in South Africa, rather than showing the often desperate images that necessitated its creation.  He supposed the young girl at the door was reminder enough of that.  He saw a number of men in tuxedos, standing in the shadows between the lighting, their hands clasped in front of them as they stood and watched the room like FBI agents at a presidential visit.

Tayte turned his attention back to the speaker as she continued her presentation.

“But just as the monkey-bread seed grows into the ancient and mighty baobab tree we call the tree of life - as it provides shelter, food and water in the dry savannah regions to both animal and human-kind alike, without intolerance or prejudice - so has the Grace Ingram Foundation Trust grown to replicate that design.  For so many South Africans - like the baobab tree - GIFT has come to symbolise life.”

Applause erupted from the room, which seemed to embarrass the speaker.  She appeared humble before her audience as she put her hands together and pressed them to her lips as if in prayer, closing her eyes and bowing her head.  Tayte arrived at a table at the front of the room and was invited to sit down.  There were only two people sitting at this table and he supposed it was Christopher Ingram and his wife.  He nodded and smiled and the bald-headed man beside him, dressed in a silver-grey suit, smiled back.

“That’s my daughter,” he said, indicating the stage, also exhibiting a strong South African accent as he spoke.  “Her presentation is almost finished.  We can talk after.”

“Sure,” Tayte said.

The applause began to fade.

“Thank you,” the speaker said.  “But that applause belongs to each and every one of you.”  She clapped back at them, turning in a slow semi-circle as she did so.  “GIFT is a name that successful companies such as those represented here today want all the more to be associated with, and I thank you all for helping to make that happen.  Now before the coffee is served, please take a moment to consider where your donations are going.  Think to the future and about the many people your generosity is saving.  Because the gift you give, truly is the gift of life.”

The room fell silent.  Heads began to bow.  Then a moment later two sets of doors to the side of the room opened and a host of serving staff came pouring through with coffee jugs, stirring the room back to life as conversation erupted and the air began to buzz.

“I’m Christopher Ingram,” the man beside Tayte said, and at that point the woman sitting next to him turned towards Tayte for the first time.  “This is my wife, Sarah.”

They all shook hands.

“I’m pleased to meet you both,” Tayte said.

Ingram shifted in his seat until he was almost facing Tayte.  “I wish my son was more like my daughter,” he said, “but he has no interest in the trust.  He prefers to climb mountains.  Now, Jonathan tells me you’re looking for my mother’s sister, Mena Lasseter?”

“That’s right,” Tayte said.  He was about to explain why when Ingram cut him short.

“There’s no need to go into the details,” he said.  “Jonathan filled me in.  I don’t know how much I can tell you about her, but I’ll do my best.”

That he knew anything at all was a good start, Tayte thought.  Before he could ask his first question, Ingram and his wife both stood up, their faces suddenly full of smiles.  Tayte followed suit and as he turned around he saw the woman from the stage approaching.

“This is my daughter, Retha,” Ingram said.

She offered her hand to Tayte and he shook it, thinking that she had a surprisingly strong grip for someone who on first impression looked so fragile.

“Unusual name,” he said for want of something better to say.

He put her in her mid-thirties and up close he thought she was a striking woman.  She had a pale complexion, straight blonde hair that was cut in a short bob and deep red lips, which gave colour and vibrancy to her otherwise monochrome appearance.  Her petite frame was dressed in a burgundy trouser suit, no shirt or blouse visible.

“It’s short for Margaretha,” she said.  “It’s the equivalent of my English great-grandmother’s name, Margaret.”

“It’s an old Afrikaans tradition,” her mother offered.

Retha came closer to Tayte until he could smell her perfume.  “But you’re American, heh?  That’s very topical,” she said.

“It is?”

Retha nodded.  “You’ve come at an exciting time.  We’re about to sign our first big deal with a major US corporation.”

“Expansion,” Ingram said.  “We hope it will open the gateway for many more such partnerships.  If we can make an impact in America...”

He left the notion hanging as the coffee arrived.

“Stay and join us,” Ingram said to his daughter.

“I can’t, really.” Retha said.  “I have to prepare for the next presentation.”

“Of course, darling,” Ingram said.  He turned to Tayte.  “She’s such a hard worker.  The trust really couldn’t be in better hands.”

Sarah Ingram moved around the table.  “I’ll give you a hand,” she said to Retha.  Then turning to Tayte, she added, “If you’ll excuse me, Mr Tayte.  I’ll leave you both to chat.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Tayte said and he watched them leave.

“So tell me, Mr Tayte,” Ingram said as they sat down again.  “What is it that I can tell you?”

Tayte eyed the coffee as it was being poured.  He drew a deep breath and wondered where to start.  Then considering that Mena was reportedly out of the family’s life before Mary went to South Africa and became Grace Ingram, he said,  “How did you come to know about Mena?”

“Photographs,” Ingram said.  “Mamma kept a few around from her old life here in England and I came across them one day.  I suppose I was in my late teens then.  There was a photo of the two of them together and I asked who the other girl was.  When she told me she had a sister called, Mena, naturally, I asked where she was because I’d never seen nor heard of her before then.  She just said that she didn’t know.  That she ran away and was never seen again.”

“Did your mother say whether she ever tried to find her?”

“I asked her that very question,” Ingram said.  He shook his head.  “No,” he added.  “She never tried.  But you have to understand that her life changed quite dramatically when she became a missionary and founding the trust kept her busy, I can tell you.”

All the same, Tayte thought she might at least have tried - unless perhaps she already knew or just didn’t care.  It was a cynical view, but he couldn’t help seeing it that way.

“I don’t suppose she talked about why Mena left?”

“No,” Ingram said.  “I don’t recall ever asking her and she never offered up any stories from her old life.”

“That’s too bad,” Tayte said.  He could see this visit going about as well as his visit with Alan Driscoll at the rugby club.  “Your sister moved to England some years ago,” he added.  “Did you keep in touch?”

“For a few years,” Ingram said.  “But families drift apart and ours was no exception.”

“I’ve heard that she fell out with your mother over something.  Do you know why?  That is, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“You seem to know quite a lot about my family already, Mr Tayte.”

“Jonathan gave me the background and I spoke to Alan Driscoll this morning.”

Ingram nodded.  “I see.  Well that would explain it.  What did Alan tell you?”

“Not much.”

“And I don’t believe I can tell you much either,” Ingram said.  “My sister and Mamma always had their differences.  I wasn’t surprised when I heard that she’d left.”

“You weren’t home at the time?”

“No, I was away at University.”

“And your mother never explained the reason to you?”

“Like I said, Mr Tayte, they had their differences.  It was always on the cards so to speak.  Mamma didn’t need to explain anything to me.  She said she didn’t want to talk about it and that was good enough.”

Tayte got the feeling that no one liked to talk about it.  He decided to move on.