Somewhere over the Atlantic. It was time he spoke to his client. He pulled out his phone and dialled, hoping he wouldn’t get Sloane’s answer service or his PA. The call rang twice before it was picked up. Sloane’s deep bass voice vibrated the earpiece. “Shoot!” That was Walter Sloane. He was the only man Tayte knew who could make him nervous with a single word. Tayte turned the volume down. “Hi, Mr Sloane - it’s Jefferson Tayte.” “I know that, Tayte. I can see your name on the display. It’s called technology. Now what have you got for me, I’ve another call waiting.” Tayte updated his client - just the highlights, all up-beat and positive. “And I’m just about to find out who his father is,” he continued, referring to the discovery of the illegitimate Mathew Parfitt and his connection to the Fairborne family. “That’s a nice touch, Tayte. But what about this James fella and the family he took over there?” “Well, whoever was playing with the records back then missed this one,”
