JT01 - In The Blood

by Steve Robinson

  “That’s right, sir,” Bastion said. “Simon Phillips. Young lad. Works the ferry down at Helford Passage. He was shot twice in the chest. Did you know him?”

  Sir Richard curled his lower lip and shook his head. “No.” It was an honest reply.

  “Well he seems to have known you. Your mobile was the last number he called. About one-forty this afternoon. The call lasted a few minutes.”

  “I was flying back from London. We were halfway through the journey by then.”

  Bastion threw Sir Richard a raised eyebrow. “I do hope you’re not going to tell me it was a wrong number, sir?”

  “No, I’m sure it wasn’t.” Sir Richard pulled at his bow tie and let the silk fall to either side of his neck. He rubbed it like his collar had been too tight. “Truth is I didn’t know who the caller was.”

  “Anonymous then?”

  “No. Not exactly anonymous either. You see, that wasn’t the first call.” Sir Richard paused, still unsure whether he was ready to unleash the nightmare he knew would follow if he continued.

  “Go on, sir.”

  Sir Richard took the deepest breath of his life and sighed. Then he said, “I was being blackmailed.”

  It was out.

  Bastion shifted in his seat, his brows rising as though to the welcome ring of familiarity.

  “I was at Durgan tonight making a pay-off,” Sir Richard said. “A man called a few days ago. Said he had information that would destroy my career - perhaps even my family. He sent proof. Part of it at least.”

  “James Fairborne’s last will and testament?” Bastion said. He looked proud of himself.

  Sir Richard nodded. It surprised him that Bastion knew, but it eased the pressure of talking about it. “I couldn’t afford the scandal,” he said. “Even if the implication was a lie. I suppose it will all be looked into now anyway?”

  “I couldn’t say just now, sir,” Bastion said. He turned the conversation back to the beach at Durgan. “So you dropped the money off and left, did you?”

  “That’s right. I was there no more than five minutes. Did you recover the suitcase?”

  “Suitcase, sir? We found no suitcase. Just Mr Phillips’s body.

  No suitcase, Sir Richard thought.

  “Did anyone else know about this pay-off?” Bastion asked.

  And there it was.

  Warwick knew. And I’ve led the police to him.

  No one had seen Warwick since the guests began to arrive at Rosemullion Hall. It was clear to Sir Richard that Warwick must have followed him to Durgan; that he’d waited for the blackmailer to show. Then he’d killed him to protect his future and taken the money to clear his debts. Sir Richard might have played things down even now, suggesting that the blackmailer might have had an accomplice who’d turned on him. But with Tayte still alive and Warwick on the loose, he understood that Warwick could not let Tayte live now he’d gone so far.

  And it was all his fault. He could see it no other way. Systems fail. Sir Richard Fairborne does not. He knew that maxim now for the lie it was. He’d failed his son. Every bitter discourse between them had pushed Warwick further away. And now to this. He knew he had to end it before anyone else was killed.

  “Where is Mr Tayte?” he asked.

  Bastion related Amy’s situation. “… and Mr Tayte’s out with my sergeant looking for her now.”

  “I believe they’re both in danger,” Sir Richard said.

  Soon after the conversation ended, a high-speed police response RIB launched out of Falmouth. It cleared Falmouth Bay and passed the mouth of the Helford River in under two minutes, heading for a rendezvous with the Aquastar. Hayne had already told them they should expect to find Tayte somewhere in between and the bright beam of Tayte’s dive lamp had been easy to locate. But the situation was already hot as they came in sight of him.

  Now, in a room off the first floor gallery, the radio Bastion was cradled over suddenly crackled into life. “We have confirmation, sir. The subject has been taken down.”

  Bastion sank his head into his hands. “Thank you,” he said, though he wasn’t sure he meant it. It was not the result he was hoping for. It never was to his mind, regardless of the things people did that led to the need for an Armed Response Unit. He’d promised Sir Richard that they would, as always, use as little force as was deemed necessary.

  They would have had no other option, Bastion told himself as he left the room to tell Sir Richard and Lady Fairborne that their son was dead, killed long distance by a 7.62 calibre sniper round.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  As the bullet hit its mark at Nare Cove with a dull thump, Jefferson Tayte fell back into the inflatable. He watched the impact explode from Warwick’s chest, staggering the man forward, jerking his gun closer, and the shock of Warwick’s sudden advance under those heightened circumstances sent Tayte reeling and tripping over the seat board. Were it not for the blood spattering off Warwick’s dinner jacket, Tayte would have been checking himself for holes. As it was, Warwick’s plans had been terminally interrupted before he’d squeezed out a single shot.

  The gun fell to Warwick’s side like it was suddenly too heavy to hold. Tayte heard it clatter onto the deck with focused clarity as he watched the nervous grin on his adversary’s face turn to disbelief. His wide eyes stared at Tayte, lost and child-like in the lamplight. Then Warwick dropped and Tayte didn’t know if he was shaking more from the cold or the shock. As he sat up he saw a searchlight off to his right; the Aquastar had turned the point. To his left, the rapid response RIB approached, skimming another bright light low over the water.

  Within twenty minutes Tayte was sitting in the RIB with two grey blankets around him. He was watching Amy being winched like a giant foil wrapped sub sandwich into a pillar-box-red air ambulance. She was still alive, but it was too soon to tell how the next few hours would go; too soon to know if any damage had been done. Her core temperature had dropped dangerously low.

  DS Hayne was with him. “She’s in good hands,” he said as the helicopter dipped its nose and headed back.

  Tayte nodded. He believed him. Amy would get the care she needed now. He watched until the helicopter banked inland and passed out of sight. Then he turned an absent gaze back past the Aquastar, to the cave that could so easily have claimed her. Police divers were still in the water and Tayte knew they couldn’t have done a better job. With all the gear and the expertise they made getting Amy out of there look easy. Tayte knew it wasn’t. Now that Gabriel was off the missing person’s list the cave was yet another crime scene. The divers would be there a while, Tayte supposed, as the RIB fired up.

  “Are you going to keep that torch, too?” Hayne asked indicating the dive lamp.

  Tayte returned his smile. The dive lamp had become such a part of him that he almost forgot he was still holding it. He studied it briefly, relaxing his grip at last, knowing what was inside. “Can I?” he said.

  “I’d expect a good reason. Like superglue or something.”

  “Superglue,” Tayte repeated. He nodded. “Yeah, you could say there’s a bond between us that can’t be broken just yet.”

  Hayne shook his head. “Don’t tell the Chief will you?”

  A growing assortment of craft had gathered in the bay at Nare Cove; a community of well-intending locals who had come out from the river to help if they could. At the head of the fleet, Martin Cole watched the proceedings with renewed hope. He’d been among the first there, close behind the coast guard which by now had stood down. Martin had spearheaded the recruitment of volunteers as soon as he heard news of Amy. But it had taken time for word to get around.

  He lit a roll-up and watched the RIB approach the anxious gathering. His eyes were on the man in the grey blankets and he knew he had a lot to thank him for. As he caught Tayte’s eye and a subtle nod of recognition, Martin raised his hands above his head and slowly began to clap until that one gesture was joined by many and the RIB was gone.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

>   Sunday.

  It was mid-morning when Jefferson Tayte returned to the Royal Cornwall Hospital in Truro. After watching the air ambulance rush Amy away from Nare Cove little more than twelve hours ago, the police RIB had taken him to Helford Passage where Hayne’s car waited to take him the rest of the way to the hospital himself. More clean dressings and another to the gash on his stomach saw Tayte heading for his bed, but not before he’d stuck around long enough to learn that Amy was out of danger. He’d left knowing that she was expected to make a full and speedy recovery.

  Tayte was looking across the hospital bed in Tom Laity’s room at the evidence of that recovery now. He watched Amy smile again. Then he looked at Laity sitting up in bed and he was scarcely able to believe the scene possible. Beside him on the floor, his tired cases were packed and ready to go home with him. But not before he’d concluded his business in Cornwall.

  The dive lamp already had their attention. Tayte had watched their eyes flitting to and from it all through his update on what had happened since he’d last seen them. Then Laity told him how he’d followed the launch until he’d lost sight of it, only to see it again as it came out from the cover of the cliffs a short while later.

  “When I thought the coast was clear,” Laity said, “I went in for a closer look.”

  “I couldn’t believe it,” Amy said. “I thought Simon had come back, but there was Tom Laity. I was saved.” She frowned. “Or so I thought.”

  “He must have spotted me,” Laity said. He put a hand to the wound on his head. “He came at me while I was busy trying to free Amy; thumped me with a rock and left me for dead.”

  “I thought you were dead,” Amy said.

  Laity chuckled. “I’m made of tougher stuff than that.

  “What was the deal with that fishing line?” Tayte asked.

  Laity chuckled. “The rising tide must have brought me round,” he said. “I crawled over to Amy and pulled a reel from my pocket: bright orange line I use for mackerel. When Amy tied it off I half swam, half floated out. I must have got separated from the line, drifting until that fishing boat picked me up.”

  “Knots aren’t really my thing,” Amy said in her defence.

  “Well, I’m glad things turned out okay,” Tayte said. He lifted the dive lamp from his lap at last, refocusing their attention. “I couldn’t open it,” he said, thinking how he’d wrestled with his conscience all night, contemplating the lamp and its contents until its image was burnt on his retina like a bright object stared at too long. “It didn’t seem right somehow,” he added. “Not after all you’ve been through.”

  Amy didn’t seem to recognise the lamp and beyond his fixed smile Laity just looked confused.

  “The box was destroyed in the cave,” Tayte added. “The lid’s in my briefcase, but that’s all there is.” He imparted a knowing smile. “Apart from what I found inside the lid. That’s now in here.” He tapped the dive lamp.

  “Answers?” Amy said.

  Tayte nodded. His hands were shaking with anticipation as he unscrewed the base of the lamp. “I hope so,” he said.

  The cell-pack was tight inside. Tayte took a pen from his jacket pocket and prized it free, and as it fell onto his lap the papers unfurled. He studied them, carefully separating the pages, taking his time now the moment had arrived. There were two types of paper: two letters. The first was thick and rough to the touch. Its edges were tattered and the words were blurred and smudged in places. It was dated October 23rd, 1783 - the day the Betsy Ross went down.

  Tayte’s palms were sweating again. He read out the title on the first page. “Journal of Katherine Fairborne.” He bowed his head and silently followed the words, noting that the style changed part way through. It looked suddenly rushed and the smudges became more frequent. He took a deep breath. “Here goes then,” he said.

  “It is early evening and we are caught between a raging sky and a tumultuous sea as we reach our destination at last. It is dark as midnight in a place without moon or stars, giving no distinction to our eyes. Yet hope greets us in the form of a single light in the darkness; another ship that Captain Grainger hopes we may follow into Falmouth, skippered perhaps by one who may better know these waters…”

  Tayte paused. A long sigh slipped unheard from his lips as his eyes scanned ahead. Though what he read next he already knew.

  “Disaster! We have run aground! Such a crack shook the cabin that I can only believe the hull has split in two… The Betsy Ross is listing. We are taking on water…”

  Tayte’s mood darkened with every word, reflecting Katherine’s anguish like he was aboard the Betsy Ross with her in its last moments.

  “Mother is fussing over Clara and is greatly concerned for her condition. Little George clings to her like a limpet and Laura has curled into a tight ball beside me. I fear that panic is upon us all…”

  Tayte had trouble reading the next line. The paper was folded through it, distorting the words. He flattened the sheet then slowly determined each word until he could make sense of it.

  “Father has come for us. One by one we are leaving what must otherwise become our watery tomb…”

  October 23rd, 1783. Aboard the Betsy Ross, off Godrevy Cove, Cornwall.

  The hatch burst open and Katherine watched her father slide down the ladder rails, bringing all the elements into the Great Cabin with him.

  “Quickly!” he called. “On deck all of you. She’s going down!”

  Katherine was sitting in shadow at the back of the cabin, recording the scene of fear and panic as the rest of her family cleared their cramped accommodation. Her father went last and she did not run after him. Not yet. The lamp was still lit and secure on the table. She had to get all of this down while there was still time. She was nearly done.

  The brig lurched again, creaking and cracking around her. The hatch flapped and banged, loose in the vicious wind, adding to the chaos. Then the cabin’s rear wall suddenly split across and the wind ravaged the timbers, opening up the room like it was nothing more than a paper bag.

  It brought Katherine to her senses.

  She grabbed the box, threw her quill and journal inside, then ran for the ladder. “Wait!” she called. She felt her heart begin to pound in her chest, quickening her breath like she had suddenly emerged from the story she was writing and knew how it would end. She reached for the rails as another crack ripped across the cabin and knocked her to the floor. The brig was breaking up. She had to get out. She tried to stand, but could only watch in horror as the ladder broke away and fell towards her, smashing into the table and throwing the room into darkness.

  The Betsy Ross was disintegrating rapidly with every tidal assault that came in regular foaming barrages of such destructive might that the one hundred and ten ton vessel had no more strength against it than if it was made of balsa wood. In the darkness inside the Great Cabin, Katherine began to pick out distant and unfamiliar voices over the panic of her family and the brig’s crew who by now were clear of the wreck. She scrabbled to the gap where the timbers had earlier cracked open, knowing only that she had to get out before the brig suffered further damage or was washed off the rocks and down into the depths where she knew it would ultimately rest.

  Has help arrived already? she wondered.

  There was little to see in the continuing darkness outside. She was aware of people in the water, though, and of others clinging to the rocks. She thought she heard her mother crying for a moment but the lashing wind carried it off again all too soon to be certain. Then a light caught her eye, drawing her gaze away from the rocks beyond the shoreline. There was a house. A light blazed in the window. Had they seen the vessel in danger and raised the alarm?

  As Katherine’s eyes became accustomed to the dark, she began to notice other lights, small and distant, between the house and the rocks. They were drawing closer. She clapped her hands and smiled. “We are saved!” she called for the benefit of anyone beyond the wreck who might hear her. She swung a leg awkwardl
y through the opening, catching her loose undergarments and wishing then that she had taken to dressing more like the crew as Laura had since their first week at sea.

  Katherine cursed and tugged at the pathetically inappropriate ‘costume’ that was as pink as her first blush at meeting the man she had since worn it for. She despised herself now for allowing herself such arrogant vanity.

  And where is my helmsman now? she wondered. Where is Jack when I need a strong arm to lift me down and help me safely ashore?

  She pulled at the material again, harder this time until it tore away, unsteadying her to the extent that she nearly fell into the sea below. The brief sight of spitting sea foam as she tipped over told her she would have to time her exit well. There were rocks below and the wreck was shifting and titling in time with each new crescendo of waves. It would be difficult to miss them.

  The lights were at the shoreline now, several figures with lanterns held out before them giving each an isolated glow in the darkness, like spectres come-a-haunting. She watched one of the lanterns throw its light onto a crew member as he made it to shore. Then in that same moment she became both confused and horrified. She clasped a hand to her mouth to silence any scream that dared to rise, unable to take in the truth of what she had just seen.

  The subsequent violent blows however, served well to convince. Katherine looked on, terrified as the helpless man was beaten repeatedly with what looked like the rough form of a rock; beaten back into the sand as he tried in vain to claw himself hopelessly to his feet. She watched it all unfold by the light of that single lantern; a spotlight on the stage of some macabre play.

  Several more lanterns quickly joined the first, lighting the entire stage as another of the crew rose exhausted from the sea, apparently unaware of his shipmates end. His arms were extended to the gang, clearly mistaking them for their saviours as Katherine had. She watched a brute of a man leave the pack then, charging and splashing into the sea with enthusiasm, dwarfing the company around him and carrying no rock or blunt implement other than his own clenched fists, which he brought down onto the crewman’s shoulders, smashing him to his knees. Then by the throat he held him under the dark water until he was still.