JT01 - In The Blood Page 23

  “Tie the launch to the row boat and turn off the engine, Mr Tayte. Leave the key in the ignition.”

  Tayte blipped the throttle and spun the boat in the water, showing his back to the beach. He had no way of knowing now if that was Amy.

  “Put her on,” he said, closing on the rowing boat. The next voice he heard was thankfully familiar.

  “He said he’d let me go if he got what he wanted,” Amy said.

  Tayte thought she sounded tired and unconvinced.

  “Don’t trust him!” she shouted.

  Tayte heard her from the beach. He spun around to see one of the figures wrench away. A well placed kick sent the other crumpling and she was free. Running.

  Go on Amy! Tayte willed her to get away and he could only watch as he saw the crumpled figure rise again, showing no urgency. Amy’s movement looked awkward, like her legs were tied above the knees. The man was on her instantly and Tayte felt pathetic as he watched a two-handed blow beat her to the ground. Then she was yanked to her feet again.

  Tayte pressed his phone hard to his ear. “Amy! Are you okay?”

  “I think that’s enough talk, Mr Tayte. Now keep to our arrangement.”

  Tayte could feel his anger rising. He wanted to head into the beach and take Amy back by force - a lot of force.

  “You’re thinking too hard, Mr Tayte. Just do it or I’ll kill her here and now!”

  Tayte caught the flash of a blade in the sunlight and his focus returned to the blue-and-yellow rowing boat. He bit his lip until it bled.

  “Change boats, Mr Tayte. Then row ashore. When you’re halfway, I will leave. Amy will remain.”

  Tayte secured the launch to the buoy and climbed across into the rowing boat. He untied it and pushed himself away then began to row ashore. He saw no problem with the plan so far, not as long as he was between this man and what he wanted.

  “That’s it, Mr Tayte. This will soon be over.”

  Tayte still had his back to the beach, and looking over his shoulder only upset his stroke when he tried, so he kept rowing. He was halfway in when he became aware of an inflatable orange dinghy powering straight for the launch. He stopped and looked back to the beach, the hooded figures were moving away. Then someone climbed across from the dinghy into Amy’s motor launch, fired it up and left again at speed, chasing after the dinghy without a glance in his direction. On shore, Tayte saw Amy being forced into the back of the car.

  “Hey!” he shouted into his phone, but the call was over.

  Tayte suddenly felt like he was running in both directions and getting nowhere. He knew he couldn’t get to Amy before the car drove off, and he knew he had no chance of catching the launch. He watched as the driver got into the car. Then he heard the distant thump of the door closing. Looking towards the harbour entrance, the launch was already gone.

  Tayte stood up and steadied himself as the rowing boat tipped beneath him. He watched the car pull away and tried to make out the face he knew was looking back from the rear window. He wondered how he’d fallen for this simple deception, but he was confused. Who took the launch? He’d assumed the killer was working alone. All he knew for sure was that he’d lost the box, the letter and Amy to the man who had killed Schofield and who, in his own words, wanted him dead.

  In the back seat of the electric-blue Mazda hatchback, Amy Fallon shrieked into the gag at her mouth. But her cry for help was useless. There was no one close enough in sleepy St Anthony to hear her. With bound hands she thumped at the car window as it pulled away from the shingle beach, all the while looking back across the water to the man who had come to help her. She saw Tayte stand up on the boat. She cried out again in vain desperation.

  Then the car stopped. She could see Tayte clearly now. She quietened. Through her gag she tried to smile at him; for trying perhaps. Then she saw an intense flash and the blue-and-yellow rowing boat splintered apart. The sound of the explosion seemed to wait for her to comprehend what had happened. Then it came and there was no denying it. As the debris fell, Jefferson Tayte and the rowing boat were gone.

  Several minutes later, somewhere on the road between St Anthony and Helford, the man driving the beat-up Mazda made a call.

  “It’s done,” he said.

  There was a pause while he listened to the response. Then he turned his head towards the back seat where Amy was sitting huddled. She felt numb from the shock of what she had just witnessed. His eyes flashed on her briefly and she sensed he was talking about her.

  “No,” the man said. “I already told you. No one else knows.”

  His voice lowered then, until Amy could just about hear it. “Have the money ready,” he said. “I’ll call again with the time and place.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Waiting in the mouth of the Helford River off Dennis Head, Tom Laity was anxious. The early sun was like a floodlight behind him, flushing the shadows from the inlets to Gillan Harbour and the river, affording him an advantageous view. It had been twenty-five minutes since he’d watched Tayte go into Gillan Harbour. Now as he watched an orange inflatable dinghy power out of the harbour entrance, closely followed by Amy’s teak motor launch, his hopes lifted.

  But something about the scene wasn’t right. The boats appeared to be racing each other as they turned the headland. Laity was too far out to see who was on board, but it was clear that there was only one person in each craft and neither looked like Amy or the American he’d just met. Anxiety returned like a clamp around his chest. He tried to make sense of the scene and realised he had no idea what to expect; not even if Tayte was supposed to bring Amy back out this way. For all he knew, Amy could be with Tayte right now, safe at St Anthony. He looked into Gillan Harbour again then back to the boats.

  Then the explosion came.

  The sound cracked out from the resting harbour like thunder after forked lightning. Laity shot to his feet, staring after the sound, but Gillan was a deep inlet and the source of the explosion was too far in to see anything. He watched the boats chase into the Helford River - seemingly oblivious - and he knew he had to act fast. His rationale was simple. If the explosion had anything to do with the American, he supposed he could do nothing for him; at least nothing more than anyone else in the area could do. If not, Tayte could look after himself. Either way, he saw no purpose in going into Gillan Harbour to find out.

  Laity’s focus was on Amy now and his only link to her was racing into the Helford River, already distant. He needed to know who was in Amy’s launch and where they were taking it, and as he pointed his bow towards the river and threw open the throttle in pursuit, he considered that he might even catch whoever was doing this. If things hadn’t gone well for the American - if the killer still had Amy - there was still hope for her if he followed the launch.

  The boats ahead of Laity had a strong lead. Had they been chasing the coastline Laity knew they would have been impossible to catch. But on the Helford River things were different. There were other craft on the water, both active and moored. Consideration was expected and strictly enforced. So when his quarry reached a pool of sailboats, slowing at last as they became lost among them, Laity closed the gap, only throttling back when he arrived there himself.

  Where are they? he thought. Then he heard the throb, throb of Amy’s launch, almost at idle. To his left he saw it, heading in towards the bank, to the sailing club adjacent to Helford Village. He saw the orange dinghy there too. It was tied off at the end of a pontoon; one of two similar grey wooden platforms that stretched away from the club. He heard the man from the dinghy laugh at the other as Amy’s launch went further in between the walkways.

  Laity cruised out from the pack of sailboats, observing their behaviour as the man from the orange dinghy helped the other out of Amy’s boat. Something was exchanged between them. Money, Laity thought. Whatever it was didn’t look large enough to be the letter Tayte had taken to exchange for Amy. He pushed on the throttle, knowing he had to confront them.

  The men were s
till out on the walkway as he came in between the pontoons, creeping towards Amy’s launch. He could see them clearly now. One turned and looked out across the river. Laity knew him. He was a young lad, only fifteen or so. He’d seen him in his shop on occasion and often around the village. A nice lad as he recalled. He wondered how he could be caught up in all this; he was no murderer or kidnapper to Laity’s mind. He watched them move away, talking together in high spirits as they headed into the sailing club, not looking back, paying no further attention to Amy’s launch.

  Laity passed the motor launch trying not to draw attention to his interest in it. A cursory glance revealed that the key was still in the ignition and his curiosity peaked. He passed a few other boats; all were small craft that gave him no cover. He stopped, reminding himself that Amy was not there. If the lad was involved, any confrontation would only alert him to the fact that Laity was on to him.

  The key is in the ignition…

  The significance suddenly hit home. The boat’s journey was not over. Amy’s launch was going somewhere else today, and soon. Why else leave the key? Laity knew what he had to do. A quick blip on reverse sent his stern reeling into a free mooring space. Then he took off the way he’d come, back out into the cover of the nestled sailboats on the river. And there he would wait, like a cat in long grass, watching and waiting.

  Developments that morning in the case of Peter Schofield’s murder had left DCI Bastion in need of another, rather more urgent chat with Jefferson Tayte. DS Hayne had been trying his cellphone number for the best part of an hour now.

  “Still no good, sir,” he said. “Straight to voice-mail again.”

  Bastion turned away from the window in Tayte’s room at St Maunanus House and drew a sharp breath. “Well I shouldn’t bother leaving any more messages,” he said. He crossed the room to a single wardrobe and opened it. Two tan linen suits and a few white shirts hung above an old suitcase. He flicked a hand through the clothes. “Doesn’t look like he’s gone far.”

  “I’ll leave a message with the landlady,” Hayne said. “Have her call in when he shows up.”

  Bastion’s eyes interrogated the bed again; a bed that had clearly not been slept in. “Where did he go last night?” He was reflecting on Tayte’s condition when they left him at the hospital in the early hours. “You’d think he’d have been straight back here for a good night’s sleep.”

  “Doesn’t look too clever, sir, does it? You think he’s a runner?”

  Bastion had already dismissed the idea. “Why would he? His alibi checked out. He’s holding something back, but he’s not our killer.” He flattened his hair down and went for the door. “Maybe we’ll find out when we get to speak to him.”

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs they found Judith waiting for them, wearing a polite yet wary smile.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked.

  “Not really, madam,” Bastion said. “But thank you for your cooperation.”

  Judith raised a quizzical brow. “Is everything all right?” she asked. “With Mr Tayte I mean. Anything I should know about?”

  Bastion gave a tight smile. “There’s nothing at all for you to worry about, Madam. Just a few questions I was hoping he could help us with.” He continued towards the door. “Sergeant Hayne will leave you a card,” he added. “Perhaps you’d give us a call when you see him.”

  By the time Hayne caught up, Bastion was on the drive, leaning on an open car door, listening to a call on his radio. His features were sharp and serious.

  “Seems our man has turned up,” he said to Hayne when the call finished.”

  “I take it he wasn’t at the supermarket, then?”

  Bastion winced. “They fished him out of Gillan Creek earlier today.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Watching the sailing club from the cover of the Helford River’s mid-water moorings, Laity had seen few people come and go. A boat or two had gone out, another had arrived. Amy’s launch was still there and no one had paid any attention to it.

  “You won’t catch anything there!”

  The voice startled Laity. He looked away to the blue-and-white sailboat that passed close behind him. It was one of his regulars at the shop. “Morning, Mr Brooks.” Laity laughed. “Thought I might try for some crab. Nice morning for it.”

  “It is that.” The man touched a hand to his denim sailing cap, drew on his pipe, and slunk by on a gentle breeze.

  Laity watched him go then turned his attention back to business. His heart instantly picked up a beat. The young lad had come out at last, but he wasn’t heading for Amy’s launch as Laity had expected. Instead, he went to the side of the building where Laity lost sight of him for several seconds. When he saw him again he was pedalling a mountain bike away from the club, out onto the road towards the village, and Laity was pleased to see him go. He couldn’t discount his involvement, but it was clear now that the key to Amy’s launch had been left for another.

  As Laity settled again he saw a blue car arrive in hurry at the club car park, kicking up gravel as it stopped. He froze and sank lower, watching. His nerves were in tatters. He saw the driver get out and open one of the rear passenger doors. He helped someone else out. Both wore hooded grey sweatshirts and as they walked the driver put his arm around the other’s shoulders, like they were out for a romantic trip on the river, only Laity could sense the tension between them.

  His heart began to thump when he saw that they were heading for Amy’s motor launch. Seconds later it fired into life and began to pull out from between the pontoons, heading directly towards Laity who picked up an old mackerel line that needed untangling; anything to make it appear as though he had some purpose there.

  As the boat turned its bow to the mouth of the river and Falmouth Bay, Laity looked up again and caught a brief flash of the faces beneath the hoods. He thought he recognised the man behind the wheel, though the launch was distant, the faces too shrouded to be sure. Then he clearly saw Amy’s eyes above the gag at her mouth. He would have known those blue-green eyes at a crowded masquerade ball.

  His first reaction was to storm in and save her, like the hero he wanted Amy to believe he was. But the risk was too high. The man driving the launch had already killed and Laity supposed he would have no dilemma over doing so again.

  Just see where he takes her, Laity thought. Then snatch her back.

  So Laity followed, and he was soon in open water, east of the Helford River in Falmouth Bay. A fishing line stretched away from a rod hanging off the back of his boat into a calm sea, painting an everyday picture for anyone who might see him; a façade for his true purpose there. He slipped his olive-coloured fishing gilet on, the pockets of which bulged with spools of fishing line and other tackle, and sat by the rod, watching Amy’s teak motor launch cruise around the lowlying Nare Point, heading south towards the coastal village of Porthallow with its grey quarry-stone beach.

  Laity was wary of getting too close. His aim was to lie offshore where several small craft were already enjoying the morning. Out there he hoped to draw no lingering attention to himself. He would follow the serrated coastline as it rose to Nare Head and the cliffs beyond, just close enough to keep an eye on the launch and to know where they planned to go ashore. Then he would follow them in. He knew the Lizard’s serpentine coast well, from land and sea; knew there were no other inlets or creeks to hide in even if he had to follow them all the way to Lizard Point.

  But they did not venture far. Their pace was steady to Nare Cove - a particularly jagged tear of coastline - and there amongst the rocks they came to a full stop. Laity thought he must have been spotted, wondering if the launch had stopped just to see if he continued his course. So he passed them by, heading further south, knowing that on a clear morning like this he would have no trouble keeping them in sight.

  The launch did not move. Ten minutes passed and still they remained at Nare Cove. Waiting. But for what? Laity wondered. He considered that they coul
d be waiting for someone else. Then another reason struck him. He’s waiting for the tide.

  Laity was a walking tide-table. He checked his watch. It was a little after eleven. High water had long passed and the tide, though still above the median, was on its way out. It would be a few hours yet before low water, when Nare Cove would expose its sandy skin and its jagged claws.

  Laity heaved a weighted sigh and relaxed for the first time all morning. He was confident that time was on his side; sure the launch would remain in the area for now. He took his boat back towards the mouth of the Helford River and the confusion of craft coming and going. Then north towards Rosemullion Head, out of sight for a while to dispel any notion that he might be following the launch.

  When he returned, the launch was still there and Laity kept going, pretending to fish that stretch of water as he often did. He continued down to Porthallow and waited several minutes before heading back for another sweep. As he approached Nare Cove again, peering over the side of the bow canopy for a better look, he knew he’d waited at Porthallow too long. The motor launch was gone, no trace of it to be seen.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  She had been there no more than a few minutes, yet Amy could already feel the cold cave air creeping over her like an icy mist. Worse was the promise that the tide would soon return to drench her and she would be colder still. She stood staring at the bright slit of daylight at the cave entrance, knowing that by late afternoon when the sun fell into the west, what light it afforded her would be gone altogether.

  The sand felt cool and damp against her clothing as her captor pulled her to the ground by the rusting chain around her waist. Behind her she could hear the familiar clanking of more heavy chains being fastened, securing her to the rock she was forced to sit against. She felt the chains yank, testing her bonds, pulling her uncomfortably close to him. The man paused as though savouring the intimacy. Then he stood away at last, crouching beneath the jagged cave roof, snatching up his torch and turning the soft up-lit glow into a flickering beam that danced as he moved, lighting rough walls that were no more than ten feet apart.