To The Grave (30 page)

Could she really be here?

He had to remind himself that although someone called Emma Danielson had without question been resident at this care home in 2002, he had yet to prove that she and Mena were one and the same person, despite growing odds in favour of that being true.   He took a deep breath, knowing there was only one way to find out.  They made their way inside.

“Seems nice,” Jonathan said.

Tayte just nodded as he took the interior in.  It was a bright reception area, made all the more cordial by the expansive windows and unhindered sunlight that washed through them.  He expected to see old people and walking-frames being shuffled from one place to the next, but he saw nothing of the kind.  Of the few residents he could see, both here and through an open door that looked in on what appeared to be a visitor and patient lounge area, he saw only women and they were of various ages: some old, others less so.  One woman who was sitting by the window in the lounge looked closer to his own age.

As he approached the smiling face that greeted him from behind a curved birch-wood reception desk, he saw that Logan House was not a stereotypical, government run home for the elderly but a privately run facility catering for somewhat different needs.  He smiled back at the young rosy-cheeked woman behind the desk, who was dressed in a smart, pale blue tunic, and wondered who was paying Emma Danielson’s bills.

“Hi,” he said.  “I’ve come to enquire about a woman who was staying here in 2002 and I was wondering whether you could tell me if she’s still here.  Her name’s Emma Danielson.  She’d be around eighty four years old.”

Tayte held on to his smile while he waited for a reply.  Then an answer came that told him he was about to hit another barrier.

“Are you next of kin?” the woman asked.

Tayte grabbed Jonathan’s arm and pulled him closer.  “No, but this is her nephew, Jonathan Lasseter,” he said, still smiling.  “He’s a doctor,” he added, like he’d just produced a backstage pass.

“Retired,” Jonathan corrected.

The receptionist began to suck air through her teeth.  She shook her head.  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but we’re only allowed to give information out to the immediate next of kin - parent, husband or child.  Is there someone else you can come back with?  We’d need to see two forms of identification as well.”

By now, Tayte had already lost his smile.  “Her parents are dead,” he said.  “To my knowledge she never married and her daughter - whom she was forced to give up for adoption a long time ago - lives in America.  I think long-haul travel would be an issue for her.”

“I see,” the woman said.  “Well, her daughter can apply for information by post.”  She swivelled around in her chair and reached beneath the desk.  She brought up two forms and slid them towards Tayte.  “She’ll need to fill these in and send them back to us with her ID, and we’d also need to see her adoption records.”

Tayte sighed as he took the forms, knowing the process could take weeks if not months to complete.

“Can’t you at least check your records and tell us if she’s still here?”

“No, I’m sorry.  We have a duty of care to our residents.  Their needs must always come first.  I’m sure you understand.”

Tayte did.  Fully.  He supposed that this care facility was full of women who had led difficult, probably traumatic lives.  The rules were there to protect them.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  He gave a weak smile and picked up the forms.  “Thanks for your time,” he added as he turned away.

He had only taken two paces when he stopped himself and turned back to the desk.

“What am I thinking,” he said.  “My client’s adoption records won’t mention Emma Danielson.  You see - that’s not her real name.  I mean it’s not the name Emma Danielson was born with.  She changed it.”  At least, Tayte hoped that was the case.

The woman smiled sympathetically.  “Several of the women staying with us are understandably here under a different name,” she said.  “Most want to forget their past and we offer to help with that if a guest wishes it.  We keep records of any changes of name that occur while a guest is in residence with us.”

“That’s great,” Tayte said, expecting worse.  At least there was a chance that Mena had changed her name after she came to Logan House, although he knew there was every possibility that she’d changed it beforehand, in which case the care home would have no record of Mena Fitch or Lasseter and they would not release any records they held for Emma Danielson.

“If your client returns the forms with her documentation,” the woman reiterated, “we can go from there, but there’s really nothing we can do until then.”

“Of course.  Thanks for your time,” Tayte said.  Then he turned away again and headed outside.

“What do we do now?” Jonathan asked as soon as they were out on the forecourt.

“I’m going to call my client and tell her I’m coming home with these damn forms,” Tayte said.

“So that’s it?”

“What else can I do?  If Mena came here under her own name we’ll find out more when the home writes back.  If she’s moved on, we should at least get a forwarding address.  Then we can confirm for sure whether it’s Mena and try to make contact.”

They reached the car.

“So close,” Jonathan said.

Tayte shrugged.  “Sometimes that’s just the way it is.”  He didn’t like it, but there it was.

He opened the passenger door and put his briefcase on the seat while he put the forms away.  He checked his watch and reached inside his jacket for his phone.  It would be early morning in Washington DC, but he couldn’t wait to call his client and he thought she would be keen to hear what he had to say.  The call only rang twice before it was answered.

“Mrs Gray?”  Tayte said.  “Eliza, It’s Jefferson Tayte.  I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

“JT,” Eliza said.  “No, of course you haven’t.  I’ve been up almost an hour.  What have you found?”

Tayte gave his client a brief summary of the research that had led him to Logan House and how he believed that Mena had changed her name to Emma Danielson.  He sensed her hopes lift each time he came to one breakthrough and another, and then he felt that hope deflate again when he told her he could go no further.

“They gave me some forms for you to fill out,” he said.  “I’m afraid it’s going to take longer than I’d hoped.”

“Oh, dear,” Eliza said.  “Could I talk to them on the phone, do you think?”

“I’m afraid not.  They need to see some proof of ID and your adoption records.”

The line went silent for several seconds.

“Eliza?”

“I’m coming over,” Eliza said.  “I’ll bring all the paperwork with me.”

Tayte knew how much this meant to his client and he understood that she wanted to speed things up.  He did, too, but he knew that it would be an uncomfortable journey for her and he hadn’t fully been able to confirm that Emma Danielson was Mena yet.

“I’d like to be certain that I’ve found the right person first,” he said.

“Can you do that?”

Tayte bit his lip.  “Through the forms, maybe.”

“But not without them?”

“No, not really.  I think I’ve exhausted just about every other avenue I can.”

“And you say there was only one Emma Danielson listed on the UK electoral register?” Eliza said.

“That’s right.”

“And she’s roughly the same age as Mena would have been at the time the register was taken?”

“To within a few years,” Tayte said.

“And don’t you think it’s a big coincidence that the only Emma Danielson on the register was living in a women-only care home in 2002?”

Tayte sighed.  “I guess, but there’s another complication.  You see, depending on when Mena changed her name, they might not have any knowledge of Mena at all, in which case they won’t be able to give us any information for Emma Danielson.”

“I don’t see how that really changes anything,” Eliza said.  “The forms are the only way we’re going to find out, aren’t they?”

Tayte had to agree.

“Well then it’s settled.  I’ll get myself organised and I’ll be there the day after tomorrow.  You can pick me up from the airport.”

Tayte knew there was nothing he could say to dissuade Eliza and a part of him was glad she wanted to make the journey.  As they said goodbye he just hoped that his research had led him to the right person, although despite his need to be thorough, he felt sure that it was.  Eliza had been right there; it had to be Mena.  He turned to Jonathan who had been listening to the conversation from the other side of the car.

“She’s coming over,” he said, in case Jonathan had missed anything.  “She’ll be here the day after tomorrow.”

“I shall look forward to meeting her,” Jonathan said.

“What am I going to do with myself until then?”

“I’m sure we can find something to keep you amused.  Geraldine’s swimming tonight - water aerobics.  You wanna go along?”

Tayte snorted.  “Definitely not.”  He got into the car.  “I could use some lunch, though?”

“Good idea,” Jonathan said.  “I know a pub not far from here.  It’s on the way back.”

As Tayte started the engine his phone rang.  Glancing at the display, he saw that the caller’s number was withheld.

“Hi,” he said.  “Jefferson Tayte.”

“DI Lundy, Mr Tayte.  We spoke on Monday following the murder of Edward Buckley at his home in Hampshire.  Whereabouts are you?”

“Market Harborough,” Tayte said, looking at Jonathan.

“Good,” Lundy said.  “I was on my way to Leicester to see you, but if you could make your way to the police station at Market Harborough, I’ll make a detour and meet you there.  I’m less than an hour away.”

“What’s it about?”

“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about, Mr Tayte.  You’re not a suspect or anything.  There’s been a further development, that’s all.  I’ve got a few more questions I’d like to ask you and I’ve got something to show you.  Just ask for me when you get to the station and someone will look after you until I get there.”

“Sure,” Tayte said.  “No problem.”

Tayte ended the call and arched a brow at Jonathan, wondering what DI Lundy had to show him.

“I suppose that pub-lunch is off then?” Jonathan said.

“I guess so.  I’m sorry.”  Tayte checked his watch: it was just after one p.m.  “There isn’t really time to drop you home,” he added.  “Will you be okay to wait?”

“Of course,” Jonathan said.  “I’ll get a bite to eat and take a look around the shops.”

“Any idea where the local police station is?”

“No, but I’m sure we can find someone to ask.”

Chapter Forty

D
etective Inspector Lundy was a stocky, dark-haired man in his early fifties who walked with a slightly hunched gait as he led Tayte and his briefcase into an interview room at Market Harborough police station.  Tayte thought he looked like a man who had seen as little sleep as he had over the past couple of days.  His eyes were red and puffy and it seemed to take all his energy to drag his chair out from behind the desk.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr Tayte,” Lundy said.  “Please take a seat.”

The ground floor room was plainly decorated with minimal furnishings and three small windows set high up in the far wall for privacy.  Tayte sat down and Lundy sat opposite, placing a manila folder on the table between them.

“I’ll try not to keep you too long,” Lundy said as he opened the folder and sat back with it.  “Firstly, I have some information that might be useful to you.  You mentioned a suitcase that was sent to your client in America.  Something that once belonged to a girl called Philomena Lasseter.”

“That’s right.”

Lundy slipped a piece of paper across the table.  “Is this your client’s address?”

Tayte sat forward to read it as the phone in his jacket pocket began to play its show tune.  He reached in and silenced it without looking to see who it was, thinking that it must be Jonathan.  “Sorry,” he said, turning back to the piece of paper.  “Yes, that’s her address.  Where did you find it?”

“Edward Buckley kept an address book, as most people do,” Lundy said.  “I think it’s safe to say that your suspicions as to who sent the suitcase were right.”

Tayte thought that was good to know, but he was still trying to figure out why Buckley had sent it after all these years and whether it had anything to do with Grace Ingram’s recent death.  The next piece of information Lundy imparted came as something of a surprise.

“Edward Buckley was arrested in January, 1945,” he said.  “It was for the abduction of Philomena from her home in Oadby, Leicestershire.”

“Abduction?”  That information didn’t tally with the story Tayte had heard.

“Apparently so,” Lundy said.  “Philomena’s mother -”  He paused to check his notes.  “Margaret Lasseter - she raised the charge against Mr Buckley and her daughter was later found at his home in Hampshire, which is what led to his arrest.”

“Was he charged?”

Lundy shook his head.  “No, the case against him was dropped as soon as Philomena was returned to her mother’s care, but I can see how it could have been very damaging to the Buckley family’s reputation if she had chosen to proceed.  Local scandal was already brewing at the mere mention of Buckley’s arrest by all accounts.”

Tayte had been wondering why Edward Buckley would choose to help Mena leave home as he had, seeming only to forget about her afterwards.  But then how could Buckley risk stirring Margaret Lasseter’s wrath for a second time, knowing that she would re-open the case against him and that his name would be dragged through the courts and all the major newspapers, accused of the abduction of a seventeen year old girl?

“How do you know all this?” Tayte asked.  “If Buckley wasn’t charged, I mean.”

“There’s the original arrest sheet,” Lundy said.  “And there are other resources I’m sure you’re familiar with.”

“Newspaper archives?”

Lundy nodded.  Then he began to scratch at his eyes, making them water.  “Excuse me,” he said.  “I’m trying to switch to contact lenses and the bloody things are irritating the life out of me.”  He took a tissue from his pocket and wiped his eyes.  “I’m beginning to wonder if they’re worth the bother,” he added as he put the tissue away again and turned his attention back to the manila folder.