Jean eyed him doubtfully. “Are you kidding me? Look at you. You’re an outsize American with a standout foreign accent, wearing a bright, if a little smudged, tan suit. What chance have we got?”
“So we’ll have to be extra careful,” Tayte said. “Look, we don’t exactly have time to work on our disguises, do we? This is all we’ve got. Besides, they don’t know what order we plan to visit the churches in.”
“They’ll cover all of them.”
“Probably,” Tayte conceded, “but we’ve got a head start. They won’t be out of that fix in any kind of a hurry.”
“Why are we going to Marylebone? The church in Covent Garden’s nearest.”
“I know, but it’s too predictable. Better if we start further afield. They might not expect that, and I want to avoid public transportation if we can. Didn’t Fable say this was the most surveilled nation in the world?”
“My bike?” Jean said.
Tayte nodded. “It’s not foolproof. They’ll be looking for the registration when they check the hotel and realise it’s gone but we’ll get around quicker. Maybe we can stay ahead of them. Where are Hammersmith and Shadwell located?”
“Hammersmith’s in the west - four or five miles from Marylebone. Shadwell’s east. It’s a little further out but there’s not much in it.”
“I wish my laptop still worked,” Tayte said, eyeing the bullet holes in his briefcase. “I could have accessed the parish register indexes. We might have been able to pinpoint the right church from that.”
“What about The National Archives? Couldn’t we access the registers from there?”
“We could,” Tayte said, thinking about it. “But it’s out of our way and we’d need to visit the church to confirm things anyway. More often than not the registers only give names and dates.” He paused. “There are only three churches. Let’s start with Hammersmith. We’ll work our way west to east across London.”
The taxi continued northwest to Marylebone. Jean stared out the window most of the way, leaving Tayte with his thoughts as she seemed to wrap herself in her own. They hadn’t been able to talk about her son since leaving the hotel earlier and Tayte imagined she was thinking about him now. When she spoke again she confirmed it.
“Did you tell Fable about Elliot? About the note?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Jean fidgeted with her hands. “If we don’t make it,” she said, pausing. She looked tearful just thinking about what might happen to her son if they didn’t.
“I know,” Tayte said. He placed a hand over hers to steady them.
“Did Fable say anything about Joseph Cornell? I don’t suppose they’ve found him yet?”
Tayte shook his head. “He never came up.”
“He must know where Elliot is.”
Tayte didn’t reply straightaway. A moment later he said, “Look, all the while the police are searching, there’s hope, right? They won’t stop looking - not for Joseph Cornell or your son. I know it’s hard but let’s stay focused. When we find what we’re looking for at least we’ll have something to bargain with.” He squeezed her hands. “Elliot’s going to be fine.”
Jean forced a smile. She gave a resolute nod. “Okay,” she said. “But I hope to God you’re right.”
Tayte hoped he was, too. He turned away and stared out the window, taking nothing in. All of London could have sped past him for all he knew or cared. He was oblivious to it. The real challenge had now begun. How to save Elliot was foremost in his mind, but in doing so, how could he hope to prevail against whoever had kidnapped him? He wanted no part in any implied threat to Britain’s national security either, and he supposed whoever was offering the exchange for Elliot might also have been behind Marcus Brown’s murder. How then could he simply hand everything over? The answer was simple: he couldn’t. But where did that leave Elliot?
Tayte’s head began to spin, like the Ouroboros was inside him, chasing the questions round and round, each one coming back to itself in an endless, unanswerable loop. When he factored in the latest information Fable had imparted - that the government were bent on preventing anything from getting out - he couldn’t see how any of them would be allowed to just walk away from this.
He had to find a way to change that.
Chapter Twenty-Three
St Paul’s Church in Hammersmith was located in the centre of town to the north of the River Thames. It was besieged by fast dual carriageways and the busy Hammersmith flyover, and the swarming traffic filled the air with a constant drone. Tayte and Jean arrived little more than forty minutes after parting company with Security Service officers Jackson and Stubbs, and Tayte supposed that was plenty of time for them to confirm to the police who they were. They would be free men again by now and Tayte had no doubt that they were hungry to reacquire them. As Jean revved the bike up onto the pavement by the low trees that lined the church grounds, Tayte felt his heart race just knowing that they had now become the hunted.
“Let’s get this done with as soon as we can,” he said. “We could have company any minute.”
They followed the path towards the early-English, Gothic-style church and Tayte wondered if they already had the kind of company he was talking about, perhaps waiting for them around the corner or inside the building. He had to remind himself that neither he nor Jean knew what to look out for. These people were just like everyone else: regular clothes, ordinary cars. He’d recognise Jackson and Stubbs but he didn’t expect to see them so soon.
He scanned the area. It wasn’t busy, which came as a welcome change to Central London, although he thought the whine of the traffic up on the flyover spoiled an otherwise pleasant environment. Beyond a mighty oak tree that stood adjacent to the church’s impressive tower, Tayte saw a young couple holding hands as they walked the path beside the lawn. There was an elderly woman by the oak, talking to a mother who had a child in a pushchair. No cause for concern. Tayte wanted to see the churchyard first so they kept to the path.
“It doesn’t look promising,” he said, noting that the grounds were small and unremarkable: a strip of mown grass here and a barely larger triangle of grass further down. “It all looks pretty new.”
“Even the trees,” Jean said. “Apart from that oak.”
Given how long there had been a church on the site, Tayte had hoped to find a graveyard of considerable age, replete with crooked, lichen-stained headstones. But this was a memorial garden bereft of any planted shrub or flower. They continued around the path and Tayte saw that several of the paving slabs were actually headstones laid horizontal. The dates he saw were mid to late nineteenth century and of no interest.
“This whole area’s recently been redeveloped,” he said. He pointed to the church wall ahead. “Look there. The headstones have been moved.”
The wall was lined with grey headstones, secured to the wall in close proximity to one another. Further inspection revealed similar dates that were too late to be of any value to their investigation. All were clearly inscribed and easy to read. They reached the end of the wall and stopped.
“I suspect the less legible stones were destroyed,” Tayte said, gazing around and seeing nothing of relevance. He headed back to the church. “Let’s see what we can find inside.”
The church appeared considerably larger on the inside than Tayte had expected, and that lifted his hopes. The walls were festooned with memorial plaques and he concluded that the grounds had indeed diminished over the years because of the extensive infrastructure of public roads in the vicinity. The details from the headstones that had not survived were now either consigned to the parish records or had found their way into the church as plaques on the walls.
There was no service today. As they moved further in, beneath a high vaulted ceiling, Tayte’s eyes became alert for trouble again. He saw the backs of several heads seated in the pews, facing the altar. They were exclusively elderly people. Retired people, he supposed. Towards the altar, someone who clearly worked there was polishing br
ass.
So far so good.
Tayte stopped when his eyes fell on a memorial at his feet. “This is more like it,” he said. “Timothy Walker, 1788.”
They moved on, scanning the walkway until they found another.
“Thomas Bowden. 1761,” Jean said. “Apothecary.”
The date was still over sixty years too late but Tayte felt they were getting closer. When they came to a monument for Sir Nicholas Crisp, who died in 1665, he knew there was a good chance that a memorial covering one of the dates they were looking for might be there. They moved into the south aisle where they saw several plaques dating from the eighteenth century but all were decades too late.
“We should split up,” Jean said.
Tayte looked around. There were so many memorials. He knew that even if they did, it would take too long to check every inscription and he didn’t want to risk missing anything
“I don’t think we have the time.”
He glanced at the entrance, checking for trouble. As he looked away again his eyes were drawn to a man in black, wearing a clergyman’s dog collar. He was a young man with dark hair and a six o’clock shadow that might have been designer stubble. As he came towards them along the nave, Tayte stepped out to meet him.
“Excuse me.”
The clergyman paused and smiled and Tayte introduced himself and told him how he made his living, saying nothing of the real reason they were there. They quickly found out that the clergyman was called the Reverend Johnson and he was interested to hear that Tayte was a genealogist.
“I’m a bit of an amateur myself,” the Reverend said.
Tayte didn’t want to deviate from their objective just now. “That’s great,” he said. “Look, I was wondering if you keep any parish records here? I’m interested in the late seventeenth century?”
“Copies,” the Reverend said, hesitating. “But they’re only for church use. The originals are held at the Archives and Local History Centre on Talgarth Road. You can view them there but they’re closed on Wednesdays and Fridays. You could try tomorrow.”
Jean stepped forward. “We don’t have until tomorrow.” Her tone was curt - all sense of tact undermined by the need to find what they were looking for.
The Reverend frowned. “Well, I’m sorry,” he said, “but -”
Tayte put a hand on the Reverend’s shoulder. “What my friend means is that we’re flying home this afternoon,” he said, leading the Reverend away from Jean towards the pulpit. “We’re trying to find someone and she’s a little upset that we’re running out of time.” They stopped walking. “From one family historian to another,” Tayte added, smiling his cheesiest smile. “I’m sure you’ll understand how important this is to her.”
“Well, I don’t -”
“Perhaps I could make a donation to the church?”
Tayte reached into his jacket pocket and produced the dates they were interested in. He showed the slip of paper to the Reverend, hoping to get him interested.
“I just need to know if there were any births or burials recorded at this church on or very close to these three dates. If I’m not permitted to look myself, perhaps you could check for me. How does twenty pounds per date sound for your donation box?”
The Reverend almost snatched the list from Tayte’s hand. “Wait here,” he said. “It might take a few minutes.”
Tayte gave Jean a thumbs-up as he went back to her.
“Sorry,” she said. “I nearly screwed that up, didn’t I?”
“Don’t sweat it,” Tayte said. “I wanted to say the same thing.” He took out his wallet and removed three twenty-pound notes. He looked at the money and scoffed. “A little church bribery never fails.”
When the Reverend Johnson returned, he shook his head as he gave Tayte the slip of paper back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “There was nothing recorded within weeks of those dates. Maybe the person you’re looking for was buried elsewhere?”
“I’m sure that must be the case,” Tayte said. He handed the donation over. “Thanks for looking.”
As they turned to leave, two men entered the church and Tayte and Jean froze like rabbits in their gaze. Their casual attire might not have given them away but the instant recognition on their faces as they stopped inside the doorway left Tayte in no doubt as to who they were. A second later, he squeezed Jean’s arm and pulled her close as he made straight for them.
“Come on,” he said. “I’m not playing chase with these guys.”
He knew he couldn’t outrun them anyway. He thought Jean probably could, but he also imagined they were carrying firearms and he didn’t want to find out.
“What can they do to us anyway?” he added, thinking aloud as they drew closer.
Tayte hadn’t seen either man before and he supposed they had just been sent there to cover the bases, or the churches in this case, as he and Jean had thought they would. He knew that even if they managed to evade them here, others just like them would be waiting at Covent Garden and at Shadwell. He had to deal with this now. As he approached the men, he tightened his jaw and went in bolder than he would have thought possible three days ago.
“You need us,” he said, punctuating the words. “Call it in. I want you off our backs or this ends now.” He stopped a few feet short of the door. “And if that happens, you lose - plain and simple. Whoever else is looking for this thing will get there first.”
One of the men stepped towards him. “We have instructions to take you in, Mr Tayte.”
“We’re not going in,” Tayte said, defiant. The adrenaline pumping through his veins was beginning to make him feel ill. All the same, he stepped closer to meet the man, briefcase ready to swing if it came to it. “So what are you going to do about it?”
The man looked at his colleague and his colleague reached beneath his jacket and kept his hand there, leaving Tayte with little doubt as to what he had in mind.
“Are you authorised to kill us before we’ve found what we’re looking for?” Tayte saw the man’s gun arm relax a little. He swallowed hard. “I didn’t think so.”
The man in front of Tayte gave a cheerless smile. “Come on,” he said. “Don’t make this hard on yourself.”
Tayte scoffed, eying the pair up and down. “Do you really think you could get me to your car without shooting me first? I probably weigh more than both of you put together.”
He was exaggerating, or hoped he was, but they seemed to get the idea. He could see they were thinking about it.
“Don’t try to make the decision for yourselves,” he said. “It’s above your pay grade. Just call it in. Either we continue this by ourselves or it’s over. When we find what we’re looking for…” He paused, reached into his pocket and showed them the battery-less BlackBerry. “We’ll let you know.”
Tayte’s eyes followed one of the men as he stepped outside. The other just kept staring at Tayte, so Tayte stared back. He could feel his legs begin to shake. A second later the remaining man went to the doorway and he too stepped outside. After a full minute passed and neither man returned, Tayte went and peered after them.
He turned back to Jean. “They’re gone.”
Jean checked for herself. “Wow, I’m impressed.”
Tayte scoffed. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Not this time. Now it was over, all he wanted to do was sit down with a hot, sugary beverage and wait for his pulse to climb down. But there wasn’t time for that.
He grabbed Jean’s hand. “Come on. They won’t be far away. Next stop, Covent Garden.”
Tayte and Jean headed back to Central London via Knightsbridge, following road signs that told Tayte they were heading towards Piccadilly Circus. It was just after midday and the sun felt hot on his shoulders as he hugged his briefcase to his chest, moving with the roll of the bike as Jean continued to manoeuvre the big BMW through the traffic with all the proficiency of a seasoned London courier.
They passed Green Park on their right and further down Tayte saw the Academy of Arts. He
craned his neck to admire the architecture and saw that they had a car close behind them. Too close. He heard its engine rev hard, observed the aggravated behaviour of the driver who seemed keen to overtake them. Then as soon as a gap appeared in the oncoming traffic, the car swerved out and swerved back in again, cutting in front of the bike. Jean hit the horn but the driver of the car - a blue Ford - seemed ignorant to the fact that he’d just narrowly squeezed into a space that was barely there.
A side road was coming up on their left. Tayte saw the Ford’s indicator blink as it slowed and began to turn. Jean, who was clearly aggravated, twisted the throttle and began to overtake, giving the horn another blast for good measure.
Take it easy, professor, Tayte thought. It’s just some jerk. He’ll be out of our lives in a second.
But he wasn’t.
As they drew level with the Ford, instead of turning left, it swerved right, cutting across them. Jean was quick to respond, avoiding contact, but the car forced the bike onto the other side of the road into the oncoming lanes. Horns screamed from just about every direction as Jean weaved in and out of the traffic on the edge of control. The bike’s engine was suddenly screaming and the last thing Tayte heard from Jean was, “I’m losing it!”
Tayte hit the Tarmac first. He landed with a thump that sent a jolt of pain ripping through his shoulder as Jean laid the bike down. Cars swerved around him as he rolled to the far kerb and came to a stop. In his periphery he saw the bike continue to slide into the traffic with Jean still attached. He sat up, saw Jean kick herself free and part slide, part roll across the oncoming traffic. She made it but her motorbike did not. Tayte watched it slam into an oncoming lorry and disappear partway beneath it.
“Jean!”
Tayte was on his feet, running to her. She was moving - slowly getting up. The traffic had stopped in both directions and people had begun to gather.
“Are you okay?”
Jean didn’t reply. She was looking at her bike, or what used to be her bike. “I can’t deal with this now,” she said. Then she walked away, limping slightly. She took off her helmet and threw it to the ground.
The Last Queen of England: A Genealogical Crime Mystery #3 (Jefferson Tayte) Page 23