Tayte lowered the phone from his ear and in that split second it all kicked off. He saw Simon reach a hand towards his jeans pocket and he didn’t wait to find out what he was reaching for. He dropped the phone and lunged at him, throwing Simon back into the steering wheel, spinning the vessel away from the pontoon as the boat began to wheel away from shore in a wide arc. As Tayte crashed into Simon, he felt the kick against his sore, bandaged legs. It forced him back, but he managed to stay on his feet. This time the kid’s hand reached his pocket unhindered and eight inches of broad polished steel flashed into view.
“I think you two have met before,” Simon bragged, waving the knife in front of Tayte.
Then he went for him.
Tayte didn’t think about it. He saw the coil of rope on the floor, grabbed it and swiped it across the arm brandishing the knife. The blade went spinning across the boat, caught the canopy and landed on the seat moulding, sliding all the way to the rear of the vessel.
Simon shot after it, passing Tayte before he could recover from the momentum as the rope swung him around. On the rebound, Tayte threw the rope at Simon’s feet and Simon tripped, reaching for the blade as Tayte arrived with all his weight, crashing down on him like a wave. He knew he’d knocked the wind out of him. He heard Simon’s breath escape in a rush as he went for the knife, sliding it back along the seat moulding, out of harm’s way as he pinned the kid face down on the deck.
“Get the fuck off me!” Simon yelled.
“No chance. Where’s Amy?”
“Where you’ll never find her.”
Tayte picked Simon’s head up by the hair and slammed his face into the gritty deck. One for Schofield, he thought. In his mind he was tearing Simon to shreds with his bare hands. “Who are you working with? Who took Amy’s boat this morning?” Tayte thumped Simon’s head into the deck again, harder this time. In the background he heard that unfamiliar ring-tone again.
“He was just a kid I paid to pick up the boat,” Simon said. “We never even met. I left a twenty under the seat for him.”
Tayte lifted Simon’s head off the deck again and turned his face around. His teeth were dripping blood. “Now where’s Amy!”
A spiteful grin crossed Simon’s face. “You can’t hurt me,” he said.
Tayte slapped the exposed side of Simon’s face with the hard end of his palm. “I can take a long time finding that out,” he said. “Now where is she?”
“It’s funny,” Simon said. He sounded calm now, coming right back at Tayte like he’d barely felt it. “I could see this going wrong when you spotted the car.”
“Yeah, that must have been a real blow.”
“Lucky you saw the crucifix and realised it was me.”
“Really?” Tayte said.
Simon laughed. “I couldn’t have let you off the boat alive,” he said. “Martin would have told you it was my car, that he just borrows it now and then. The game would have been up anyway, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s already up,” Tayte said. “The police know who you are.”
The persistent ring-tone had not long stopped. Tayte looked for the phone and noticed that the boat had wandered away from shore. Now it was running in circles, fortunately clear of other craft for now. He saw the phone at the other end of the boat, towards the wheel. He knew he couldn’t get to it without letting Simon up, but he figured someone would soon spot the ferry’s unusual behaviour and come out to see what was going on, and the police were on their way, coming for Simon. He just had to wait.
“We work in shifts,” Simon announced. “In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t,” Tayte said. He began to wave his arms above his head, trying to get someone’s attention.”
“Martin was on this morning while I was busy blowing you up. Now I’m on for the afternoon shift. It was working out really well.” Simon let out a scornful laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe the unexpected predicament he now found himself in. “You’re supposed to be dead!” he added. “So much for third time lucky. I should have knifed you after I gave you that lump on the back of your head. I knew it had to be you when I saw you down by the ferry that morning - when you spoke to Martin. After I followed you onto the Fairborne estate I had no doubt.”
Tayte leant forward and pressed down on Simon’s head like he was trying to crush his skull into the deck. It was an act of pure frustration. “Unless you’re going to tell me where Amy is,” he said, “just shut your mouth!”
“Amy? Oh, yeah…”
Simon was laughing again. It unnerved Tayte. He could have wrung his neck there and then just to silence him.
The laughter stopped. Simon was still grinning. “I haven’t worked out why that box was so valuable,” he said. “Perhaps you can help me.”
The suggestion almost made Tayte laugh.
“Oh, I think you’re going to help me, Mr Tayte,” Simon said, forcing his voice into tones that Tayte recognised from all those phone calls.
The words made his skin crawl. He heard Simon laugh again, spluttering into his own blood and spittle on the deck.
“It doesn’t sound as good without a spliff to drag on,” he said. “Can’t quite get the squeaky notes.” He seemed to be enjoying this. Then his tone changed, adopting a more serious air. “If I don’t get back to Amy by nine-thirty tonight, she’ll drown,” he said. “We all need a little security, don’t we, Mr Tayte?”
Tayte felt like he was playing noughts and crosses; he couldn’t win. He eased off. Thinking. He didn’t like the way this was going.
“Irony’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Turn me in and you kill Amy. The very person you want to save. You have to save me from the police now in order to save Amy.”
Tayte couldn’t miss the mocking smirk on Simon’s face. “I’m through playing your games, you sick fuck! You’ll tell the police where she is or -”
“Or what? They’ll lock me up for murder. Too late. I’m already up for two recent counts. What have I got to lose?”
“Two counts?” Tayte said as the inference of Simon’s statement hit him.
“That’s right,” Simon said. “Oh, you don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“That deli owner…”
Tayte went limp.
“I told you not to get anyone else involved.”
Tayte looked around for anything he could use to smash this kid’s head with. If something suitable had been within reach he might well have used it.
“Then there’s Gabriel Fallon,” Simon added. “I saw him at the cottage through the dining room window one afternoon. I was sure he’d found the box - it looked like a box. Next day he came strolling out looking pleased with himself. He was carrying something in an old towel, so I followed him onto the river. I figured he was taking it to show someone. It must have been important to him - the weather had turned to shit by the time we reached Toll Point. I mean, he must have had a good reason to stay out there, right?” Simon laughed through his nose. “Well, I couldn’t let the opportunity go?”
Tayte could feel his breath catch in his tightening chest as adrenalin began to pump through his veins. His hands formed tight knots beside him.
“I slit his throat for a fucking tackle box!” Simon added. His laugh was sickening. “The idiot was out fishing and he didn’t even have the sense to turn back when the storm hit. What was I supposed to think he was doing out there? A fucking tackle box! So don’t think Amy’s life means more than piss to me, because it doesn’t.”
Tayte had heard enough. He raised an arm above his head, ready to end this. Then through his rage he saw an image of Amy, cold and alone. His only thought was that he had to help her if he could. He let out a frustrated roar and slapped the deck hard beside Simon’s face.
Simon glared back at him. “So here’s the new game,” he said. “Get your fat arse off me. Find out what’s so valuable about that box. Then meet me on the beach at Durgan tonight at eight o’clock with the answer. If I like what I he
ar, I’ll tell you where Amy is so you can be the all-American hero and go save her.”
“What if I can’t find the answer in time?”
“It’s a gamble, but that’s all the time you have. At the risk of sounding like a broken record…” Simon slipped into his alternate voice again. “If you don’t find out by eight o’clock tonight, Mr Tayte - Amy dies!” He laughed at himself then stopped abruptly. “Or you can just turn me in now and she dies anyway. It’s up to you.”
That’s really all it came down to and Tayte knew it. He could turn Simon in and risk drowning Amy if he couldn’t find her in time. Or he could let Simon go. In which case he had five hours to find out what dark discovery Lowenna Fairborne had made. Five hours to find out what she knew that was so valuable that she could use it against her father to protect herself. Tayte assumed that Simon wanted this information to use against the Fairbornes himself, all these years later.
“So that’s all this is about?” Tayte said. “Revenge?”
“More or less,” Simon said.
“Revenge for Mawgan Hendry?”
“For Mawgan…” Simon nodded. “And for me. I need to set things right.”
“And I suppose you’ll get rich along the way?”
Simon mocked him, like he resented the suggestion that this was all about the money. “The chat’s over,” he said. “Time to choose.”
Tayte sat there a moment, though he already knew what he had to do. He shook his head and pushed himself up off Simon’s shoulders, knowing he had to take the chance. If he turned Simon in, Simon would deny knowing anything about Amy’s whereabouts until it was too late. He stood back and let him up. He could barely look at him now, grinning as he rose from the deck, smug in his moment of triumph.
“Enjoy your freedom,” Tayte said through gritted teeth. “It won’t last.”
The two men circled one another warily as Simon went to the wheel and regained control of the boat, guiding the vessel back to shore but away from the ferry pontoon.
“So you’re a descendant of Mawgan Hendry and Lowenna Fairborne,” Tayte said as the boat took him in.
“Once a bastard always a bastard, eh?” Simon said, still wearing that grin. “I’m glad you worked it out,” he added. “It’s good to know someone else knows the truth, and the letter you gave me this morning proves it.”
“Not much good to you now, though, is it?” Tayte said.
“Not much,” Simon agreed. “I can’t exactly tell anyone, can I? When this is all over, I can hardly turn up as the rightful heir to claim the spoils. That’s why the rest of the puzzle is so important.” Simon lined the craft up for the landing. “Looks like you’ve won yourself a victory after all,” he added. “Still, it’s important to know who we are, don’t you think?”
Tayte gave no answer as the catamaran slid into the shingle. He went out onto the bow and lowered the ramp, wondering what Simon meant by rightful heir as he watched the kid collect his knife from the seat moulding.
“Don’t forget this.” Simon tossed Tayte his phone. “You might need it.”
As Tayte jumped clear of the craft, he was aware of a police car arriving along the road towards the Ferry Boat Inn. He turned back to the river and watched the catamaran pull away and he just stared after it. He felt sick to his stomach.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Five hours… Tayte couldn’t get that number out of his head. He knew he had plenty to do in that time if he was going to save Amy and he knew where he wanted to start: Rosemullion Hall. Eleanor Fairborne and her children had to be buried on the estate. Their headstones would tell him if they survived the Betsy Ross or not, and he was sure that the circumstances of their deaths and Lowenna’s dark discovery had to share the same answer. Find one, find all.
Tayte wanted to go to Rosemullion, but he couldn’t. The police car that had arrived at Helford Passage to take Simon Phillips in for questioning had left instead with Jefferson Tayte. Now he was on his way to see Bastion and Hayne at an address a few miles away in Porth Navas: Simon’s flat.
As the car arrived along a tight single lane, sandwiched between a terrace of cottages on the left and a tree-lined creek on the right, Tayte supposed that police boats would be out on the river and the surrounding coastline by now, looking for the distinctive catamaran that Simon had made off in. He found himself hoping that Simon had had sense enough to ditch it, and it pained him to think like that - like he was on the killer’s side, rooting for him. And he knew he would have to lie to Bastion and Hayne. He’d been picked up at Helford Passage, having crossed the river on the most wanted ferry in England with the man his list had led them to. He was ever aware that he’d helped the killer evade the law; he would have to watch what he said.
“This way, sir.” A uniformed officer was standing by the car; another was already at the door to a stone cottage that faced the creek. There was no garden as such, just a bench that sat in a three foot deep border with large red and pink hydrangeas to either side. The officer at the door led Tayte in and up a short flight of stairs to the upper flat. He announced Tayte then left.
“Mr Tayte,” Bastion said. He offered his hand and Tayte shook it. “Keeping out of trouble, are we?”
If only you knew! Tayte thought. “So far,” he said, staring into the room, intrigued by what he saw.
“I must ask you to stay by the door and not touch anything,” Bastion said. “You shouldn’t really be here, but given what we’ve found, I could use your professional opinion. See if you think we’ve got the right man.”
Tayte already knew they had. “Of course,” he said.
Across the room DS Hayne was arched over a teak sideboard that had several stacks of A4 paper piled neatly on top of it. He looked up and gave Tayte a nod. They were in a sitting room of minimal comforts: a television in one corner, a thin-legged table by the window. A dark brown sofa and two matching armchairs rested against white walls and the sage carpet looked like it was long overdue for replacement.
The thing about the room that had Tayte mesmerised was behind DS Hayne, on the wall. He was looking up at a neatly constructed family tree. Short lines linked a muddle of names written in tidy boxes in black felt pen. At the top of the chart were James and Susan Fairborne. On the left it traced down to Sir Richard and Lady Celia Fairborne and below that was their only dependent, Warwick. Lowenna Fairborne and Mawgan Hendry appeared to the right, beneath which he saw Mathew Parfitt and other names that were familiar to him from last night’s research. Circled in red at the bottom of the family tree, opposing Warwick’s, was a name Tayte recognised from his list of suspects: Daniel Hawthorne.
So that’s your real name…
Hayne picked up another pile of papers and began to flick through them. “What happened to that phone call?” he asked. I thought you’d like to know about that list you gave me.”
“The line was bad,” Tayte said. The lie sounded natural enough. His eyes were back on the wall like it was no big deal. “We must have got cut off. Then I couldn’t get a signal.”
“Reception’s a bit like that around here,” Hayne said. “Funny though, I got a ring tone when I called back.”
Tayte made no further comment. Hayne went back to the papers he was looking at.
Bastion eyed Tayte quizzically. “They tell me you were at Helford Passage when the car arrived to bring Phillips in.”
“That’s right.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I went to look for Tom Laity. Did you speak to him?” Tayte wanted to change the subject.
“No one’s seen him,” Bastion said. His eyes squinted at Tayte. “But you were on the wrong side of the river, weren’t you? His shop’s in the village.”
“I was planning to catch the ferry across,” Tayte said, hoping they didn’t check where his car was parked. “Only it wasn’t there.” His brow lifted and stuck there. “Now I know why. You didn’t get your man then?”
Bastion shook his head, brushing a hand thr
ough his wiry hair. “No,” he said. “Looks like he knew we were coming, and judging by what we’ve found here, he had good reason to run.”
Bastion crossed the room to Hayne and indicated the piles of paper Hayne was going through. “These all appear to be copies of certificates and other records,” Bastion said. “Records for all the names that appear on the wall here. Births, marriages and so on.” Bastion picked up one of the records from the sideboard. It was separate from the rest of the pile, sitting alone. “This is the only document that’s not a photocopy,” he said, crossing back to Tayte inside the doorway. “Looks like the original.” He handed it to Tayte. “You said Schofield’s killer baited you with the promise of seeing a probate record, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Well I need to know if this is the document you expected to see, and if you’ll testify to that in court once we’ve brought Simon Phillips - a.k.a. Daniel Hawthorne - in. I could make out a few words, enough to know what it is, but the rest of it might as well be in Swahili.”
Tayte opened the document. The text it contained was written by a wavering hand in a form that to most would be considered hard to read. To Tayte’s experienced eyes however, no transcript was required. He scanned the opening lines: ‘This is the last will and testament of me James Fairborne of Rosemullion within the parish of St Mawnan in the county of Cornwall’.
“This is it,” Tayte said. “The document was missing from the record office in Truro. I’ve wanted to see this from day one. How did Simon get hold of it?”
Bastion and Hayne looked at one another, like they were questioning how much of the case they should share. Then Bastion gave Hayne a nod.
“It seems that working the ferry wasn’t Simon’s only job in the area,” Hayne said. He crossed the room and flashed a plastic pass-card at Tayte; an ID that bore the Cornwall County Council’s logo and the words ‘Cornwall Record Office’ above a passport sized photograph of Simon Phillips.
“That explains a few things,” Tayte said, recalling the phone call he’d made to the record office on his way back from Devon; the uncooperative assistant he’d spoken to who Penny Wilson had said worked there part-time. He could have found so much out from Penny. She knew Tayte’s agenda; knew when he was coming to England from all the times he’d called her. And she had his number. Simon could easily have gotten that from her. Simon would have been on the lookout for him from day one. “An easy job for an insider,” he mused.
JT01 - In The Blood Page 26
