Free To The Grave by Steve Robinson Page A

Anne Hathaway’s cottage on a bigger scale.  It had a red, peg-tiled roof that sank in places between a number of small dormer windows with leaded lights and garages had been added in more recent years to accommodate the changing times.
    Tayte paid the driver, wondering whether he should ask him to stick around in case no one was home, but he figured he was expected so he took the chance and the cab left him there, suitcase in one hand, his briefcase in the other.  He paused and watched the cab go back along the narrow road it had arrived by, noticing that it was a very quiet area with no other visible houses nearby.  He headed down the drive, crunching the gravel that slipped beneath his loafers as he walked.  There was a little icy rain in the air and he was glad of his coat.  It was nothing like as cold as back home, but it seemed to get to him more, maybe on account of the wind that came at him in daggers across the fields, rattling his cases and ruffling his lapels.
    When he reached the front door, he didn’t have to knock.  It opened as he reached out to try and a tall, slim man who looked in his late fifties or early sixties appeared in the frame with a smile, which accentuated his chiselled features.  He had tidy salt-and-pepper hair and wore chinos and a blue Oxford weave shirt, open at the neck.
    “Mr Tayte?” the man said.
    “Yes,” Tayte replied, smiling back.
    “I thought it must be you.  We don’t get many visitors out here.  I’m Jonathan.”  He shook Tayte’s hand.  “Come on in.”
    Jonathan Lasseter took Tayte’s coat and suitcase from him and led him into the sitting room.  There was already a fire lit beneath the beam, which gave the otherwise modern, uncluttered and neutral decor a homely feel.
    “My wife isn’t back from town yet,” Jonathan said, “but she shouldn’t be long.  She’s dying to meet you so don’t feel there’s any rush.  Can I offer you some tea or coffee?”
    He was a well-spoken man who sounded very British, Tayte thought.  “Coffee would be great,” he said.  “Might help to keep me going after the flight.”
    “Milk and sugar?”
    “No thanks,” Tayte said, thinking that every little helped and that he had some making up to do after going through that bag of Hershey’s.
    He sat on a brown leather armchair by the fire, briefcase at his feet, and warmed himself as Jonathan made the drinks.  A few minutes later Jonathan came back and set a steaming mug in front of Tayte and sat on the sofa opposite him.
    “It’s instant, I’m afraid,” Jonathan said.  “We’re a household of tea drinkers really.  I only keep a jar in for guests.”
    “Just as long as it contains caffeine,” Tayte said, “I really don’t mind what kind it is.”  He took a sip.  “Do you have other family living with you?  Children?”
    “No,” Jonathan said.  “The kids moved away years ago now.  Jennifer, our eldest, took a job in Bristol where she now has a family of her own and Caroline went east to Norwich University.  She married an accountant and settled in the area.”  He sat back with his tea.  “But what about you and your client?  And this little suitcase that’s turned up out of the blue.  You’ve no idea who sent it?”
    Tayte took another sip of coffee and shook his head.  “Without the packaging, we’ve no way of knowing where it came from.”
    “No, I suppose not.  Still it’s a shame.”
    Tayte agreed, but there was nothing to be done about it.  “Maybe someone else can shed some light on that,” he said.  “I’m keen to talk to the family and anyone else who knew Philomena.  I want to gather any information I can that might help me find her.”
    “I’ll do all I can,” Jonathan said. “And it’s Mena.  Dad always called her Mena.  I never met her, of course, but he used to talk about her whenever anyone set him off down Memory Lane.  It was always the same old story really, about how he went off to war and when