understand that Marcus Brown was concerned about something we now believe could be a threat to our country’s national security. I’m sorry the matter wasn’t treated with more urgency when he first made contact with us and I can assure you that will be addressed. But, since he was murdered before we had the opportunity to speak to him, we have to suppose that the threat is real until proven otherwise.”
“And you want me to help identify that threat for you?”
It was clear to Tayte that these were the people Marcus was going to meet - the people who liked to keep their secrets close to their chest as Marcus had put it.
“You seem very competent at what you do, Mr Tayte,” the woman said. “And you told Inspector Fable yesterday that you and Mr Brown were close friends. Can you think of anyone better qualified?”
Tayte couldn’t.
“We need to know where all this leads,” the woman added, tapping the charts. “In short, we need to know what Marcus Brown knew.”
Tayte drew a deep breath. A threat to national security? What the hell were you into, Marcus? His friend’s dying words replayed through his mind. Treason... Hurry... This was all so much bigger than he’d imagined. He looked at Jean for confirmation that she still wanted in. She nodded back at him.
“Okay,” Tayte said. He gathered up the charts. “First thing in the morning we need to visit The National Archives.”
Chapter Six
F or their protection, and no doubt because the British Security Service wanted to keep them close, Tayte and Jean spent the remainder of the night at Thames House, sleeping in basic but comfortable accommodation. Early the following morning they took the Great West Road out of Central London and thirty minutes later the same silver Audi that had picked them up the night before arrived at The National Archives in Kew. It was another government agency building, this one home to almost three hundred million documents spanning a thousand years of history.
Tayte recognised the modern stone building as soon as they came in sight of it. He’d only been there once before, having travelled to England via a cruise ship because he wouldn’t get on an aeroplane. That was a while ago now but the building’s architecture was hard to misplace. It reminded him of something between an air traffic control tower and a compressed multi-storey car park. The windows on the first two floors were tall and angled towards the ground while those on the higher levels were no more than narrow slits that ran around the building, layering the stonework so as to allow in as little damaging UV light as was necessary.
They parked in the visitors’ car park and Tayte and Jean got out the back as the two efficient-looking Security Service officers who had been assigned to them for the duration got out of the front. The taller man was called Hampshire - the other was Hues. Neither spoke much, not even to each other. Fable wasn’t joining them. He had a murder investigation to conduct and a new lead to follow from the genealogy charts: Douglas Jones. They all wanted to know who he was and where he fitted into the picture.
As they paced beside a large rectangular pond towards the building’s main entrance - a tall cube-shaped glass appendage with a pyramidal roof - Tayte kept turning the data over in his head to keep it fresh. He had the charts in his briefcase but he wanted to commit the information to memory. Charles Naismith. Born 1668. Died 1708. The Reverend was their way in, he’d told them, and he hoped he was right.
In the foyer, Tayte checked his briefcase with security and they were met by the Chief Executive who introduced herself as Victoria Marsh. Someone had called ahead and she was expecting them. Tayte put her in her early fifties. She had ash-blonde hair and wore a light-green
“And you want me to help identify that threat for you?”
It was clear to Tayte that these were the people Marcus was going to meet - the people who liked to keep their secrets close to their chest as Marcus had put it.
“You seem very competent at what you do, Mr Tayte,” the woman said. “And you told Inspector Fable yesterday that you and Mr Brown were close friends. Can you think of anyone better qualified?”
Tayte couldn’t.
“We need to know where all this leads,” the woman added, tapping the charts. “In short, we need to know what Marcus Brown knew.”
Tayte drew a deep breath. A threat to national security? What the hell were you into, Marcus? His friend’s dying words replayed through his mind. Treason... Hurry... This was all so much bigger than he’d imagined. He looked at Jean for confirmation that she still wanted in. She nodded back at him.
“Okay,” Tayte said. He gathered up the charts. “First thing in the morning we need to visit The National Archives.”
Chapter Six
F or their protection, and no doubt because the British Security Service wanted to keep them close, Tayte and Jean spent the remainder of the night at Thames House, sleeping in basic but comfortable accommodation. Early the following morning they took the Great West Road out of Central London and thirty minutes later the same silver Audi that had picked them up the night before arrived at The National Archives in Kew. It was another government agency building, this one home to almost three hundred million documents spanning a thousand years of history.
Tayte recognised the modern stone building as soon as they came in sight of it. He’d only been there once before, having travelled to England via a cruise ship because he wouldn’t get on an aeroplane. That was a while ago now but the building’s architecture was hard to misplace. It reminded him of something between an air traffic control tower and a compressed multi-storey car park. The windows on the first two floors were tall and angled towards the ground while those on the higher levels were no more than narrow slits that ran around the building, layering the stonework so as to allow in as little damaging UV light as was necessary.
They parked in the visitors’ car park and Tayte and Jean got out the back as the two efficient-looking Security Service officers who had been assigned to them for the duration got out of the front. The taller man was called Hampshire - the other was Hues. Neither spoke much, not even to each other. Fable wasn’t joining them. He had a murder investigation to conduct and a new lead to follow from the genealogy charts: Douglas Jones. They all wanted to know who he was and where he fitted into the picture.
As they paced beside a large rectangular pond towards the building’s main entrance - a tall cube-shaped glass appendage with a pyramidal roof - Tayte kept turning the data over in his head to keep it fresh. He had the charts in his briefcase but he wanted to commit the information to memory. Charles Naismith. Born 1668. Died 1708. The Reverend was their way in, he’d told them, and he hoped he was right.
In the foyer, Tayte checked his briefcase with security and they were met by the Chief Executive who introduced herself as Victoria Marsh. Someone had called ahead and she was expecting them. Tayte put her in her early fifties. She had ash-blonde hair and wore a light-green
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