JT01 - In The Blood Page 22

They both looked out the window and saw Warwick pacing towards the car, smart for a change in a charcoal pinstripe suit. In one hand he waved a bright cerise tie. In the other he was closing the flip on his cellphone. One corner of his mouth was raised like he knew he’d kept them waiting.

  Celia wound the car window down. “Do come along, Wicky!”

  Warwick raised a hand in apology. He stuffed his tie and his phone into his pockets and quickened his pace.

  Beside the car, the chauffeur smiled and readied himself to open the door. His last passenger was nearly there. He reached for the handle…

  The dance tune playing on Warwick’s cellphone glued him to the spot. He checked the caller number and the colour drained from his cheeks, taking his grin with it.

  “Is everything all right, Wicky?” his mother called.

  “Business,” Warwick said. “It’s complicated, but I really need to take this.” He backed away.

  “Driver!” Sir Richard called.

  “I’ll follow on, Mother,” Warwick said. “Once I’ve sorted this out. Meet you at the heliport.”

  Celia shook her head, rapping her perfect fingernails on the armrest. “Things aren’t going too well for him, Richard,” she said.

  “I could have guessed,” Sir Richard said. “What fool’s funding him this time? No one we know, or I’d have heard about it.”

  “He won’t say, but he looks worried sick. Can’t you do something for him?”

  “The boy’s old enough to sort his own problems out. For God’s sake, he’s had enough practice!”

  Celia watched Warwick recede towards the house, his free hand gesticulating aggressively one minute then resting in defeat behind his head the next. As the car moved off, she knew in her heart that he would not be going with them to London after all.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Jefferson Tayte was lost with a car that wouldn’t start, and he now had less than an hour to get back to Treath or in the killer’s own words, Amy dies. He kicked a tyre on the diminutive lemon-yellow car he now knew to be a Citroen C2, cursing his stupidity, knowing now that his laptop must have drained the battery. Since returning to Cornwall yesterday his life had been turned on its head and the new dawn promised no better.

  There has to be a number to call.

  He was heading back into the car when he stopped that thought in its tracks. How could he call for assistance if he didn’t know where he was? Even if he did, he knew it would take too long. In both directions he could see nothing but a narrow winding track hemmed in by tall hedgerows. He doubted the road was used all that much; nothing had passed him. It was just him and the cows. They retreated as he approached the galvanised gate. Beyond, all he could see was a few more cows and an ever deepening field. He knew the only chance he had was to get the car started and that meant pushing. But he could also see that the road was too narrow. There was no room to run alongside it until he reached one of the wider passing places he’d seen. It would be tight. He would have to get the timing right.

  He studied the road. It was relatively flat, running straight for a while until it dipped. It looked wider there. That’s where he would have to get in quick and coast until he picked up speed. He made sure the car was in neutral and took off the handbrake. He closed the door and got around the back, and then he started to push, mindful of where the dip in the road came, knowing he would have to get in before the car ran away from him. He peered over the roof as he walked with it. It was hard to see where the dip began now. Then the car began to roll unaided.

  With no one at the wheel to steer, the car veered left to right at random. The gap was too tight to get alongside yet and even if he could squeeze in, he realised now that he would have no room to open the door. The car was picking up speed by the second. His walk became a jog. Then ahead, a few cars’ length away on the apex of a tight bend, the road widened. It was his only chance.

  The hedgerow continued to guide the car as it picked up speed, scraping the paintwork. By the time the road widened, he was jogging and out of breath. He ran for the door and opened it as the track narrowed again. Then he jumped for the seat head first. The pain echoing around his right ankle told him he hadn’t quite made it. The door bounced off his ankle, back into the hedgerow then returned for an encore that brought tears to his eyes.

  But Tayte had no time to indulge his pain. As he settled into the driver’s seat, dipped the clutch and engaged second gear, ready to bump start the car into life, the front end of a tractor turned the corner and came straight at him. He yanked at the handbrake and the car lurched to a stop, putting him back where he’d started. Only now he had even less time and he was trapped in his car by the hedgerows, nursing an ankle that felt like it needed a plaster cast. Frustration arrived like a bullet. It hit him hard and he flopped lifeless over the steering wheel.

  “What am I doing here?” he shouted. He forced himself back into the seat and cried, “I’m a genealogist for Christ sakes!”

  Tayte’s encounter with the tractor turned out to be something of a godsend: not only did the tractor driver give him a push, but he told him exactly where he was and gave him directions. Tayte arrived at Treath with five minutes to spare.

  As he came in sight of Ferryman Cottage, he could see that a police presence had been maintained. So as not to draw attention, he parked beyond the roundabout at the bottom of the lane, screening his arrival beyond a display of colourful vegetation. He alighted unseen from the Citroen, walked with a mild limp to the water’s edge and casually skimmed a stone onto the river, like a tourist taking a morning stroll. He kept his back to the house as he made his way along the shore, trying to conceal the blood stains on his suit and the bandages on his hand. He could see Amy’s motor launch, moored up at the end of a garden that stretched down from the gated entrance and the rose arbour. He chanced a look at the house and saw a fresh-faced police officer standing by the front door like a sentry. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

  Before Tayte reached the boat, his phone rang. He checked the time: a few minutes to spare. He quickened his pace and answered the call.

  “What in the name of Mary’s going on over there, Tayte?”

  Sloane… This is all I need!

  “I’ve just been woken up in the middle of the night with the news,” Sloane said. “Now I’ve seen it on the goddamned TV set, for Christ sakes! Tell me I’m still dreaming.”

  “Look I can’t talk right now.” Tayte knew he had to get rid of his client and fast.

  “What do you mean, you can’t talk? I sent Schofield over there to help you out, now he’s dead! Mistaken identity they’re calling it. Mistaken for who?”

  “He was mistaken for me,” Tayte said. “Look, I need to go. I’ll call you back when I get a chance.”

  “Call me back! Get your ass back here, Tayte, that’s what you need to do. I don’t want another death on my conscience. It’s just a freakin’ birthday present!”

  Tayte hung up the call. Just a birthday present? This assignment was way beyond that.

  Tayte’s phone rang again.

  “I don’t like to be kept waiting, Mr Tayte.”

  “I had another call come in,” Tayte said. “Took a while to get rid of them.” He had one foot in the motor launch. Over his right shoulder he could see the police officer at the house getting interested.

  “I do hope you’ve not been discussing our business arrangement with anyone.”

  “No,” Tayte said. “It was just someone from back home.”

  “Then sit down, Mr Tayte, and open the compartment to the right of the wheel. There’s a key. Take it out and replace it with the contents of the box - and no games! I’ll know if you’re cheating.”

  Tayte looked around. There were at least a hundred boats on the river. The man could have been watching from any number of places. Then his eyes fell back to the house. He could see the police officer coming over. He reached a hand inside his jacket and pulled out Lowenna’s letter, holding it awkwardly
in his bandaged hand with his phone while his free hand fumbled around the compartment for the key.

  “That copper’s looking very interested, Mr Tayte. Better hurry.”

  The police officer was closing. “Everything all right there?” His voice was an unwelcome jar to Tayte’s already frayed nerves.

  Tayte glanced over his shoulder. “Fine,” he called. “Just dropped my key.”

  The officer kept coming, his pace a little quicker now, his expression suspicious.

  “Get the key, Mr Tayte. Start the engine and pull out towards the mouth of the river. If you speak to him again, Amy dies.”

  “Got it,” Tayte said at last. He glanced at the silver key in his palm then stuffed the letter into the compartment, closed the cover and started the engine, half expecting it to sound like his car had earlier. It didn’t. The inboard motor fired up first time and ticked over to a throaty drumbeat.

  Tayte flicked a rope off the boat and pulled away behind a screen of white smoke. “Okay,” he said. “Now what?”

  “Well done, Mr Tayte. Now keep the land to your right and you’ll come to a headland - Dennis Head. Look out for the shallows. The rocks around here will send you straight to the bottom.”

  Tayte looked back to see the police officer standing at the water’s edge. He was on his radio. Tayte waved to him and watched as the officer retreated towards the house.

  “Follow around the headland, Mr Tayte. Then continue inland. You’ll be on your way into Gillan Harbour. Next stop will be St Anthony. When you see a church just off a small shingle beach to your right, stop and wait for my next call. I’ve allowed you forty minutes, less the time you’ve wasted getting the boat away. Better hurry - no time for detours. And remember, Mr Tayte. If you’re not there at precisely ten minutes past ten -”

  “Don’t tell me,” Tayte cut in. “Amy dies, right?”

  “I’m glad you’re paying attention, Mr Tayte.”

  “Just make sure she’s there,” Tayte said, but the call had already ended.

  Tayte pushed on the revs and found the boat sprightlier than he’d imagined. He pulled back a little and settled into a steady run, barely breaking water. He kept the land to his right as instructed, cruising out towards the mouth of a tree-lined river that here and there revealed rocky outcrops and sand spits at low tide.

  The scenery scrolled by and the tree-line Tayte had been following soon thinned out, giving way to a rocky fringe. Further on, the headland Tayte supposed was Dennis Head rose from the landscape as a pronounced hump, like the head of some sleeping giant that time had long since fused into the land. He was aware now that the water had begun to chop at the sides of the boat, becoming unsettled as the river began to stir with the sea. Then over the low drumming of the engine, he began to hear another sound which grew rapidly louder.

  He looked back to see another boat hurrying along behind him. It was a larger boat: white with a short canopied bow. Its single outboard motor made a distinctly higher-pitched sound as it strained to push it along at twice the knots Tayte was going. He watched it approach, thinking about the police officer back there on his radio and wondering if he’d sent someone after him. Or maybe it was his caller.

  As the boat came closer, heading straight for him and showing no sign of slowing, Tayte knew it was not the police. It arrived like a torpedo, ramming broadside into the motor launch, knocking Tayte off his seat. He saw a hooked pole reach in and lock the vessels together. Then before he could recover, the launch tipped again and the hooked end of the pole was suddenly jabbing at his face.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Tayte looked up from the pitching deck of Amy’s teak motor launch and saw a gangly figure bearing down on him. He wore old walking boots and cut-off combat trousers and his white t-shirt carried the words, ‘The Wetter the Better’ above an arty graphic of a sailboat. Tayte had no interest in it. His attention was on the hooked pole the man was holding and the raw aggression in his eyes.

  “Where’s Amy! And what are you doing with her boat?”

  Tayte steadied himself and went for the seat.

  “Stay down!” the man warned. His posture was dynamic - ready.

  The pole jabbed again and Tayte did as he was told. He remained on his knees, hands held up in front of him. “You’re making a big mistake,” he said. “I know Amy. I’m trying to help her.”

  The man mocked him. “You expect me to believe that, do you? I know Amy very well and she’s never mentioned knowing any yanks.”

  Tayte wondered how he could prove it. This guy had clearly heard the news. He could understand how seeing a stranger on Amy’s boat the next morning, looking bloody and bandaged as he did, might appear highly suspect. “Her husband’s called Gabriel,” he said. “He went missing two years ago.”

  The man with the pole advanced. “Everyone in the village knows that,” he said. He stabbed the pole closer to Tayte’s face.

  “Look, I just met her two days ago in Bodmin. We had a common interest.”

  “In what?”

  Tayte thought about it. The fewer people who knew about the box the better. “Just some research we were into. I haven’t seen Amy since the night before last.”

  “The night before last?”

  “That’s right. I went to call on her with something I thought she’d be interested in. We talked, had a few drinks, you know…”

  The man holding the pole relaxed a little. His expression was a portrait of disbelief, like what he was hearing couldn’t possibly be true. “I’m not so sure I do know,” he said. “What sort of drinks?”

  “Just wine,” Tayte said, bemused by the man’s interest in what they were drinking. “Does it matter?”

  The man looked disappointed and a little distant. After a few seconds he came back from his thoughts, reasserting his command of the situation with another firm thrust of his pole. “Did this research have anything to do with a box?”

  The question hit Tayte like a demolition ball, leaving him in little doubt over who was interrogating him. “Laity?” he said. “Tom Laity?”

  The pole stood at ease. Looks were exchanged and the bewilderment on Laity’s face at hearing his own name from this stranger soon passed. “She must have considered you a friend if she showed you that box,” he said. Then a moment later he smiled proudly and added, “She told you about me then?”

  Tayte nodded. “You own the deli in the village.”

  “That’s right.” Laity laughed and offered Tayte his hand. “Now then,” he said, pulling Tayte to his feet. “What’s happened to Amy and what are we going to do about it?”

  It did not take Tayte long to convince Tom Laity that, for Amy’s sake, he had to proceed alone and quickly. He’d given Laity a rushed summary of all the key points that led to Amy’s disappearance, figuring that if Amy trusted him then why shouldn’t he? The plan now was that Laity would wait for him to return. If he wasn’t back within thirty minutes, Laity would follow into Gillan Harbour.

  Alone again in the teak motor launch, Tayte hoped as he turned Dennis Head and made for Gillan Harbour, that Tom Laity’s outlandish introduction hadn’t lost him too much time. His cheap digital watch, which he was surprised still worked after all the knocks they’d shared in the last twelve hours, told him he had just fifteen minutes to spare. Looking back through the bright morning glare, he could still see Laity’s boat in the mouth of the river - waiting.

  Tayte had no idea what lay ahead, no clue as to what further instructions he might have to follow when the next call came. But Laity had assured him that there was no way out of Gillan Harbour by boat that he could miss from his vantage point. He was Tayte’s back-up. Yet Tayte still felt very much alone as the little boat carried him further into the neck of a harbour that became narrower and shallower the further in he went. He felt like a fish swimming in a net that was gradually closing around him.

  To either side as he went, the banks of the inlet rose from granite foundations to a fringe of ancient oaks and o
ther fauna. Then higher up, beyond a scattering of nestled houses, green fields rolled away. He could soon see the harbour boats ahead, moored to buoy markers out on the water. He looked back for Laity’s boat again but could barely see it now. He tried to remember his instructions.

  When I see a church on my right. Stop and wait.

  He looked along the bank; nothing yet. He checked his watch again; five minutes left. He pushed the throttle forward and quickly arrived among the resting boats. Then easing back he worked his way through until he came out into another stretch of clear water.

  Further ahead he could see another group of boats, moored like the first, only they were fewer and generally smaller. He approached and to his right he saw a small shingle beach. There were a few buildings, a short make-shift jetty. Then as he cleared the bank he saw it. The Norman tower of what he supposed must be the church he was looking for rose out from the trees, dominating the scene.

  He throttled back until the boat was barely moving and pulled out his cellphone in readiness, looking towards the beach. It was quiet; no one about. Then he saw a car arrive along a road to his left. It was a blue hatchback: shabby-looking. It continued into what he supposed was a car park further along and to the left of the church. Then a moment later he saw it come out again towards the same road it had arrived by. It crawled along a few metres then stopped.

  Tayte supposed the driver might be lost, or a sightseer, perhaps, not staying long. Then his phone rang and he nearly dropped it in his haste to take the call.

  “Tayte,” he said, short and sharp.

  “Congratulations, Mr Tayte.”

  Tayte’s eyes were still on the car. A door had opened. Someone got out. He wished he had some binoculars.

  “Now,” the voice continued. Look for a blue-and-yellow rowing boat. It’s tied off to an orange buoy marker, number twenty-seven.”

  Tayte was reluctant to take his eyes off the car. Someone else had got out. They were standing close together. Both were similarly dressed in light-grey hooded sweatshirts and jeans. One was taller than the other and thicker set. Tayte looked for the row boat. It was easy to spot, some twenty metres back. He looked to the shore. The two figures were walking onto the beach, joined at the hip like newlyweds. It has to be them. His eyes were fixed on the smaller of the two. That has to be Amy, he thought.