Dying Games (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 6)

by Steve Robinson

  ‘So it’s all a game to whoever’s behind this?’ Rudi said. ‘He kills someone and leaves a note, giving you a clue as to who will be next, and how and where this person is going to die if you can’t save them in time.’

  ‘Exactly that,’ Tayte said. ‘Only the last note, the note that was found on Adam Westlake when he was killed, only told me who the next victim was going to be. Jean.’

  ‘But that’s out of keeping with the rest of the game, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes, but the game was pointing to Jean all along. The clues were there, building murder by murder, only I was too blind to see it. There would have been time to save her if the pattern had been spotted sooner, but when Lauren Emerson was killed, and Westlake with her, time ran out.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, as all the other notes and text messages carried clues that allowed you to try to save each of the victims, perhaps there was something on this last note that gave you the chance to save Jean. Did the note say anything else?’

  ‘Just a personal jibe, letting me know I wasn’t going to marry Jean after all.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s more to it. Do you have a copy? Can I see it?’

  Tayte felt a cold sweat wash over him. What if Rudi was right? What if there was more to the note and he’d missed something vital, and along with it his chance to save Jean? The thought did nothing for Tayte’s already delicate state of mind. If he had missed something, he knew he would blame himself entirely for Jean’s death.

  He stood up. ‘I’ll go up and get it. It’s in my briefcase.’

  When Tayte returned he handed his photocopy of the note to Rudi. Having read it to himself again on his way back, he could draw nothing more from it. The last part was just a throwaway quip to twist the knife after letting him know Jean was going to die next.

  Rudi read the note aloud, slowly, as though making sure to take every word in. ‘The last round of the game is simple. Guess the missing letter. It’s a pity she doesn’t have a sister, or perhaps you could have married her instead.’

  ‘You see,’ Tayte said. ‘There’s just that jibe at the end.’

  Rudi was silent for several seconds. Then he asked, ‘Does Jean have a sister?’

  ‘No. At least none either Jean or her parents have ever mentioned. If Jean had a sister I’m sure she would have told me. We made a guest list for our wedding. There wasn’t any sister on it. The note even says it’s a pity she doesn’t have a sister.’

  ‘She doesn’t have a sister,’ Rudi repeated, thoughtfully. A moment later, he added, ‘Not now, perhaps, but did she ever have one? Maybe a sister who died?’

  The potentially devastating connotations of that simple question struck Tayte dumb. He couldn’t answer. He didn’t know, but he realised it was a possibility and that worried him deeply. If Jean did once have a sister who had died, then in keeping with the rest of the Genie’s game, he knew that would potentially give him a past family member whose manner and location of death was to be replicated with Jean. It would be a recent past family member, but it would still fit the pattern.

  Tayte felt numb as he reached into his suit jacket pocket, suddenly in a hurry to find out. ‘I’ll call Jean’s parents and ask them,’ he said, looking up their number in his phone’s address book.

  His call was answered so promptly that he wondered whether Jean’s parents were still waiting beside their phone, as they often had while he was staying with them, in case the police called with news of their daughter. If that were true, Tayte was sorry to disappoint them.

  It was Jean’s mother who answered. Her tone was unsurprisingly melancholy.

  ‘Hello, Linda Summer.’

  ‘Hi, Linda, it’s Jefferson Tayte.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, coldly. ‘What do you want?’

  Tayte paused before telling her, fully aware that in her current fragile state, the last thing she needed was to be reminded of the other daughter she’d lost, if there had been another, but he had to ask. ‘I need to know if Jean was your only daughter, or whether perhaps she has, or once had, a sister.’

  The line went silent for several seconds. Tayte’s eyes were locked on Rudi’s as he waited to hear the answer. Then he heard a sigh, followed by a single word that shook him to his core.

  ‘Yes.’

  Tayte swallowed hard as he gave Rudi a nod, letting him know he was right—that the last part of the note was indeed a clue that might have led him to Jean in time to save her. But he had failed to see it.

  ‘Yes, she has, or yes she had?’ Tayte asked. ‘Can you tell me about her?’

  ‘We never talk about her. It’s too painful, even now, and I certainly don’t want to talk about her with you.’

  ‘But it’s very important that—’

  ‘Haven’t you done enough damage to this family?’ Linda said. Then she ended the call.

  Tayte lowered his phone and stared at it, thinking that he’d done far more damage than Linda Summer knew. She had just confirmed that he’d had a chance to save Jean, and he’d blown it. How could he live with himself knowing that?

  Rudi sat forward. ‘That didn’t seem to go too well.’

  ‘No, it didn’t,’ Tayte said, putting his phone away. ‘All I managed to get from the conversation was that Jean either has or had a sister they never talk about. I suppose that’s why she never told me about her.’

  ‘Perhaps she would have, given time.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps. Linda said it was too painful to talk about Jean’s sister, even now, so it seems likely that she died and that whatever happened to her happened a while ago.’

  ‘Can we find out about her some other way?’

  Tayte thought about the newspaper archives, although as he hadn’t managed to get the name of Jean’s sister from her mother, he knew they didn’t have enough to go on yet. Jean’s family history records could tell him more, but it would take time, and not being a family member or having been employed by the family, and without the backing of the authorities, as had been the case when he was trying to stop Adam Westlake, he knew there would be obstacles in his way.

  He shook his head. ‘What good does any of this do? It’s been three months. Jean’s dead. Finding out how she died isn’t going to bring her back.’

  Rudi stood up. ‘You’ve got to stop this. You don’t know what you don’t know, and until you do you have to keep an open mind.’ He still had the copy of Westlake’s note in his hand. He tapped it, drawing Tayte’s attention back to it. ‘Something else stands out about this note that’s worth mentioning.’

  ‘Go on,’ Tayte said. ‘Tell me what else I missed?’

  Rudi gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Look, don’t be so hard on yourself, Jefferson. In your position, I would likely have written off this comment about Jean’s sister just as you did. You were too close to see it. Sometimes it takes an outsider.’

  Tayte drew a deep breath. ‘Being hard on myself is how I deal with things. Just let me get on with it. Tell me what else stands out.’

  ‘Well, from what you’ve told me about the killings in America, the clues to help you save the victims came with deadlines, didn’t they?’

  Tayte nodded. ‘That’s right. All the clues sent directly to me, that is—the phone calls and text messages.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Rudi said. He held out the note again. ‘But this clue comes with no such deadline.’

  Tayte could see where Rudi was going with this. ‘You mean because there’s no deadline, there could still be time to save Jean?’

  ‘Why not? If no deadline has been set, logically, as per the rules of the game, there must still be time. If we’re to go on, you at least have to believe that. And you must have hope, whatever we may ultimately find.’

  Tayte desperately wanted to believe there was still time to save Jean, but the last three months had made it difficult for him to trust in hope. Now that they had a way into the game again, through Jean’s sist
er, he decided to trust in his own ability to find out what had happened to Jean instead. He was about to suggest they start digging in the archives to see what they could turn up when his phone rang.

  He checked the display. ‘It’s Jean’s mother,’ he said to Rudi. ‘Maybe she wants to talk after all.’ He answered the call. ‘Hi, Linda, I’m glad you called back, I—’

  ‘It’s Keith,’ the voice said. ‘Linda just told me you’d called. She said you were asking about our Cathy, and I’d like to know why you thought it was important.’

  ‘Keith, hi. I’m sorry if I upset Linda, but I think there could be a connection with Jean’s disappearance.’

  There was a brief pause. Then Jean’s father spoke again. ‘You’d better come and see us right away,’ he said. ‘It’s best if I show you what we have.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It was mid-afternoon by the time Tayte and Rudi arrived at Jean’s parents’ home, in a car they had hastily hired for the week. The house was a modest semi-detached property not far from London on the northern edge of the rural village of Sandridge, near St Albans. It backed on to more of the same open farmland they had passed on their way there. They were greeted on the doorstep somewhat coolly by Jean’s parents, Keith and Linda Summer, who were both in their sixties. Tayte thought their faces looked older and considerably more drawn than when he’d last seen them. Having introduced Rudi, they were led through an uncomfortably warm living room to the dining room at the back of the house.

  Keith took his blazer off and hung it over the back of a chair. ‘Have a seat,’ he said, and everyone sat around the table.

  ‘How have you both been?’ Tayte asked, meaning well, but seeing it for the dumb question it was as soon as he’d asked it. Linda, who had been a petite woman when Tayte first met her, now seemed so thin and frail. ‘And Jean’s son . . . How’s he holding up?’

  ‘Not good,’ Keith said, fiddling awkwardly with his glasses. ‘Elliot’s back with his father now.’

  No drinks were offered, and it quickly became clear to Tayte that Jean’s parents wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. So he began by showing them his copy of Westlake’s note again, explaining why they now believed Jean’s disappearance was connected with her sister, Cathy.

  ‘If there is a connection,’ Tayte continued, ‘then learning more about Cathy could help us find Jean, or at least find out what happened to her.’

  There was a tatty old shoebox in the middle of the table. Keith pulled it towards him and opened it. He took out a photograph and set it down on the table before sliding it across to Tayte and Rudi. The photograph was of a young girl in a light-blue dress with a navy cardigan over the top. She had mid-brown hair, tied back in a ponytail, and a dimpled smile that reminded Tayte of Jean. There was an emblem of some kind embroidered into the cardigan, which led Tayte to believe that he was looking at an old school photograph.

  ‘Cathy was Jean’s older sister,’ Keith said. ‘This picture of her was taken over thirty years ago, just before she went missing.’

  ‘Missing?’ Tayte repeated, glancing at Rudi.

  ‘She was only eight years old,’ Linda said, wrapping her long grey cardigan tighter around her. ‘She was out playing with her friends in the street one day after school, as she often did. One of her friends lived further down the road, no more than a hundred yards away. When the police asked her about Cathy, she told them Cathy had gone in for her tea. She always came in around the same time. I never had to shout for her or go out and fetch her.’

  ‘But she didn’t come in for her tea that day,’ Keith said, gravely. ‘It’s believed she was snatched right outside our front door, or close by.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear this,’ Tayte said.

  ‘Yes, well, you can understand why no one in the family likes to talk about it.’

  ‘Was she found?’ Rudi asked.

  At hearing the question, both of Jean’s parents seemed to sigh at the same time. Linda sank her head and began to shake it from side to side as Keith said, ‘No, not to this day. That’s what goes on hurting inside us. It’s not knowing where our baby is, only that she’s dead. Now it’s happening all over again.’

  At that point, Linda burst into tears. She stood up, and without saying a word she almost ran from the room.

  ‘I’ll make no apology for my wife,’ Keith said as soon as the door closed behind her. ‘I’m surprised she could even sit down at the table and talk about Cathy in the first place.’

  ‘I understand,’ Tayte said, and now with Jean gone, he truly did.

  ‘Of course you do. I’m sure this has been very hard for you, too. I’m only sorry we couldn’t bring ourselves to be more supportive.’

  Tayte wanted to say he understood that, as well, and that he’d been blaming himself so much for everything that had happened that he didn’t want to be around himself any more, either. But he didn’t want to talk about his recent visits to Beachy Head. He wanted to stay focused. ‘You said you knew Cathy was dead. I know it’s been a long time, but how can you be certain if she was never found?’

  ‘I’m certain because I heard it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. I know who killed her. His name’s Donald Blackhurst, and he admitted to it soon after the police caught him. That was early the following year. My Cathy wasn’t his first victim. Neither was she his last.’

  ‘Another serial killer?’ Tayte said.

  Keith nodded, frowning. ‘The very worst kind. All his victims were young girls about the same age as Cathy. They were just children.’ He reached into the shoebox again, and this time he pulled out several newspaper cuttings. ‘I collected these at the time. Don’t ask me why. I suppose it helped to make me feel more connected, as though I was doing something useful, although Linda didn’t like it. She thought my interest in the other victims was too morbid, and maybe she was right, but I’ve kept this shoebox all these years. As painful as it is, I never want to forget.’ He paused, indicating the cuttings. ‘There are four other victims mentioned in there, all since my Cathy was taken, of course. I had no reason to collect anything before then. The police told me Cathy was his third known victim, making seven in total, although after the trial Blackhurst admitted to more.’

  Tayte began to look over the newspaper cuttings, noting that the report for Cathy’s abduction was dated April 1982. He passed each of the cuttings to Rudi as he worked his way through them, and he quickly learned that the missing girls had been abducted over a two-year period from villages and towns in rural areas around London, from Hertfordshire, where Cathy was taken, Essex, Kent and Surrey. The cuttings all focused on the families of the missing girls, offering no clue as to what might have happened to them or why, other than to suggest a probable connection with the man the press had dubbed the ‘Ring Road Killer’ because he was thought to have used the North and South Circular ring roads that ran through the Outer London suburbs to both select his target areas and to make good his escape.

  ‘When you told me this man’s name,’ Tayte asked, ‘you spoke in the present tense. Is Donald Blackhurst still alive?’

  ‘As far as I know, more’s the pity. He was sentenced to life imprisonment with a recommendation that he should never be released. Last I heard he was in Broadmoor.’

  Tayte wasn’t familiar with the name. ‘Broadmoor?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a high-security psychiatric hospital in Berkshire, not far from London. It’s home to several of Blackhurst’s ilk.’

  Tayte took his notepad out and wrote down the name of the place. He also wrote down a name he’d read several times in the newspaper cuttings. ‘I kept seeing mention of a police detective, DCI Philip Wendholt. I take it he was running the investigation?’

  ‘That’s right. I met him a few times. He was very kind and supportive, as everyone was. He was hell-bent on catching the Ring Road Killer from the outset, and it’s a blessing he did, before too many other girls were taken. Heaven knows the first was already one too many.’
<
br />   ‘Do you know if Wendholt is still alive?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say. He was close to forty then, so if he is, he’d be retired now. He was based in London. The Metropolitan Police might be able to help if you think it would be good to talk to him.’

  ‘I’m sure it would,’ Tayte said, noticing the nod Rudi gave him, affirming that he also thought the former detective chief inspector could prove to be a good source of information.

  Keith waved a hand over the table. ‘You can keep all this,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if it’s of any use to you, but it’s high time I let it go.’ He reached across the table and placed a firm hand on the back of Tayte’s. ‘Find out what happened to Jean,’ he added. ‘From what she’s told me about you, I know you’re not one to give up the search once you’ve got your teeth stuck into things. And I know it’s a lot to hope for, but maybe along the way you’ll also find out what became of Cathy. It would ease our hearts to know.’

  Tayte gave Keith a firm nod. ‘I’ll never stop,’ he said, and he meant it. ‘You have my word.’

  He gathered the items from the table and put them into his briefcase. He stood up to go, and perhaps it was because his brother was with him and that he was no longer alone in this that he felt suddenly re-energised and strong enough to go on again. His sense of determination to know what had happened to Jean, for his sake and for the sake of her family, could not have been stronger.

  Tayte shook Keith’s hand. ‘Goodbye, and thank you. I know how difficult talking about Cathy must have been, and please say goodbye to Linda for me. I’ll be in touch.’

  With that, Tayte and Rudi headed back to the car. As they went, Tayte thought over what Keith had said about also finding out what had happened to Cathy. Along the way, he’d said, but Tayte knew it was imperative they find out what had become of Cathy first if they were to have any chance of discovering what had happened to Jean. According to the rules of the Genie’s game, knowing the location and manner of Cathy’s death was vital, yet hearing that Cathy’s body had never been found had come as a major blow. It appeared that the only person who knew where she had died was the man who had killed her—Donald Blackhurst, a criminally insane murderer who had kept the location of Cathy’s remains to himself all these years. As Tayte climbed into the driving seat of the car, however, he had to remind himself again that to play this out, the Genie must have discovered where Cathy had died, and if the Genie had found out, there had to be a way.