Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tayte and Rudi spent a quiet evening at a hotel in St Albans, getting to know one another better, talking about nonsense much of the time, which Tayte thought was mostly just Rudi’s way of distracting him from the painful thoughts that would creep into his mind whenever he had nothing else to occupy it. He already had Rudi pegged as a pragmatic man, whose strength transcended his obvious physical attributes, and he thought that was just the kind of friend he needed right now. He felt glad to know him at last, and to have his companionship through this most difficult of times.
Having tried in vain to obtain any contact information from the Metropolitan Police for former Detective Chief Inspector Philip Wendholt, which he thought was entirely understandable, Tayte had called DI Rutherford, the detective working on Jean’s disappearance. He’d told Rutherford about the possible connection with the abduction of Jean’s sister and how imperative he believed it was that they speak with Wendholt about the case he’d been in charge of over thirty years ago. By early evening Rutherford had called back with positive news. Wendholt had agreed to see them to discuss the Ring Road Killer, Donald Blackhurst, the following day. Tayte had sensed that Rutherford wasn’t entirely happy to hear that he and his brother had taken it upon themselves to investigate Jean’s disappearance, but knowing that Tayte had previously helped the FBI, and that there was some correlation between the two investigations, he’d simply advised Tayte to be careful, and to let him know straight away if any new evidence concerning Jean’s disappearance came to light.
The meeting had been arranged for midday at a village pub in Surrey called the Queen’s Head, and it was close to twelve when Rudi drove into the car park. It was another chilly day, the ground damp and the sky that same shade of dove grey Tayte had become accustomed to. It wasn’t actually raining, but he figured it would be by the time the meeting was over.
The interior of the pub was darker than Tayte had expected, in part due to the overcast sky, but also because of the low ceiling, the small windows and the black oak beams that traced a web-like pattern across the walls and ceiling. It was unusual to see candles glowing in their glass dishes on the tables at midday, but the effect served to brighten the otherwise dull atmosphere. It was relatively quiet, but it was early yet, Tayte thought as they moved further in, looking for the man they had gone there to meet. There was an open fireplace at one end and they migrated towards it. A man was sitting at one of the tables with a pint of ale in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He appeared to be around seventy years old, which was about the right age for Wendholt, so they approached, drawing his eye as they stepped closer.
‘Mr Wendholt?’ Tayte asked, smiling.
The man rested his paper and his pint, which he’d almost finished. ‘Mr Tayte?’ he replied, and Tayte nodded.
‘This is my brother Rudi,’ Tayte said, shaking Wendholt’s hand.
‘Can I get you another beer?’ Rudi asked.
‘That’s very kind of you. I’ll have a pint of Speckled Hen. Thanks.’
Rudi looked over at Tayte. ‘You want to try one, Jefferson?’
Tayte hadn’t had anything alcoholic to drink since that bottle of Jack Daniel’s up on Beachy Head, but he’d acquired something of a taste for British cask-conditioned ales of late and he hadn’t tried this one.
‘Sure, why not?’ he said, pulling out a chair to sit down.
Philip Wendholt was a stocky man with dense salt-and-pepper hair, and a thick grey goatee. He wore glasses, perhaps just for reading, and he had a kind, almost jolly face that immediately put Tayte at ease. His dark-green Barbour-style coat was hanging over the back of his chair, and there was a pipe and tobacco pouch on the table in front of him, which Tayte thought he must have recently prepared, perhaps for his walk home again once the meeting was over.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see us,’ Tayte began. ‘We’d like to talk to you about Donald Blackhurst. Among others, he abducted and murdered a young girl called Cathy Summer in 1982, and I believe there’s a connection with the recent disappearance of her sister, my fiancée, Jean Summer.’
‘I know precisely who Donald Blackhurst is, Mr Tayte, and why you’re here,’ Wendholt said. ‘DI Rutherford gave me the details. You’ve been working with the FBI in America on an investigation into a serial killer that’s led to the disappearance of your fiancée. Now you’re of the opinion that Blackhurst is the key to finding her.’
‘That’s it in a nutshell,’ Tayte said. ‘We’d be glad to hear anything you can tell us about him.’
Wendholt finished what was left of his pint. ‘And what exactly are you hoping to achieve from this line of investigation?’
‘I want to know where Blackhurst killed Jean’s sister—where her remains are.’
‘And how do you propose to discover that? Blackhurst certainly won’t tell you. Believe me, we tried for years. He didn’t seem to care so much about the others, but he’ll never give up Cathy Summer.’
‘You mean he’s told you the locations of some of the other victims?’
‘Over the years he’s revealed every one of them, except Cathy’s.’
Rudi returned to the table with three pint glasses clutched in his large hands. He set them down on the table, lowering himself into one of the spare Windsor chairs as he did so. ‘Did I miss much?’
‘Cathy is the only one of Blackhurst’s victims he won’t talk about,’ Tayte said. ‘The only one whose location he won’t give up.’
‘Really. Why’s that?’
‘I was about to ask the same thing,’ Tayte said, turning back to Wendholt.
Wendholt raised his glass to them before taking a sip. He set it down thoughtfully, and said, ‘To better explain, I should begin by giving you some background on Blackhurst, and what drove him to abduct those girls in the first place. He had a younger sister called Stephanie. She was eight years old when she died. At the time, her death was recorded as an accident—death by misadventure. She’d been out playing in some nearby woods with Donald, who said she’d fallen from a tree they’d been climbing. The coroner’s report showed that she died from massive haemorrhaging due to the fall, and the injuries sustained to her skull were in keeping with Donald’s account of what had happened. It wasn’t until much later, after Blackhurst had been caught, that he admitted to his sister’s murder along with the rest. He said she hadn’t fallen from the tree at all. He said she looked so pretty he wanted her to stay as she was forever. Apparently she told him she was going to grow up to be just like her mother because that’s what she’d heard other people say, so he took a rock to her head to make sure she wouldn’t.’
Tayte shook his head. ‘The crazy bastard.’
Wendholt nodded. ‘Oh, he’s crazy all right. There’s no doubt whatsoever about that.’
‘So the girls he abducted,’ Rudi said. ‘They reminded him of his sister Stephanie?’
‘Yes, apparently he saw his sister in all of them, so he snatched them off the street, as if to make things right again as he saw it. There was his sister, just as she was, not having grown a day older.’
‘So why did he kill them?’ Tayte asked. ‘If he thought he was putting things right, that is.’
‘The illusion didn’t last,’ Wendholt said. ‘Eventually he’d snap back to reality and realise the girl wasn’t his sister after all, so he’d kill her. He liked using rocks and other heavy objects. Most if not all of the remains we managed to locate showed extensive trauma to the skull. I imagine Cathy Summer shared a similar fate. As to why he won’t give her up, it’s because he said she was special to him. If I could show you a photo of Cathy Summer and Stephanie Blackhurst side by side, you’d be hard pushed to tell them apart. But again, sooner or later, the illusion had to end. It’s just that with Cathy, because she and Stephanie were so alike, he chose to keep her to himself. It’s not believed there was any sexual motivation. It was simply that he wanted to be with his sister again. Whatever was going on in that deeply troubled
mind of his, and still is, for all I know, it was as if it gave him some inner peace, until the illusion ended, of course.’
‘I see,’ Tayte said, wondering where this left his line of investigation. Under the circumstances, it seemed that Blackhurst wasn’t about to tell them what he’d done with Cathy after he killed her. But if he was right about this, surely he must have told someone. He must have told the Genie. He then wondered whether it was at all possible that he could go and see Donald Blackhurst. ‘Jean’s parents told me Blackhurst was being treated at Broadmoor Hospital,’ he said. ‘Would it be possible to arrange a visit so I can talk with him?’
Wendholt smiled to himself. ‘You’re not easily deterred, are you? You’d have made a good detective.’
‘Leave no stone unturned and all that,’ Tayte said. ‘We may learn nothing from the visit, but I don’t want to miss anything just because I didn’t try. I’m realistic enough about this to know he’s not going to tell me where he killed Cathy, or what he did with her body afterwards, but I’d like to ask him just the same, so I know it’s covered. I believe he’s told someone recently. I don’t know why he would do that, but I feel I need to go and see the man if it’s at all possible.’
‘It’s definitely possible,’ Wendholt said. ‘It’ll take time to arrange—five days’ notice is the usual minimum requirement for Broadmoor—but if you’d like, I’ll see if I can use my once formidable influence in the Met to pull a few strings.’
‘That would be great,’ Tayte said, reaching into his pocket for a business card, which he handed to Wendholt with a smile, hoping the visit wouldn’t take too long to set up.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Two days later, Tayte and Rudi arrived at Broadmoor Hospital, one of three high-security mental health hospitals in England, accommodating over 240 male patients, including several high-profile serial killers. Known as the Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum when the first patient was admitted in 1863, the sprawling complex had been expanded and modernised over the years, although it still retained much of its Victorian architecture, including the iconic arched entrance now referred to as Gate 60, with its central clock set between two three-storey-high towers.
During their wait, Tayte and Rudi had returned to Joyce’s house in Eastbourne, where Rudi spent many hours walking on the South Downs, and Tayte learned more about Donald Blackhurst from the online newspaper archives, which included an interesting profile that spoke of a violent family background. His parents were Terry and Maureen Blackhurst. Tayte read that the young Donald Blackhurst had often witnessed his father beating his mother, sometimes savagely, until their relationship finally ended in divorce. That was soon after the death of Donald’s sister, when he’d been placed into foster care, subsequently undergoing psychiatric treatment for a personality disorder. Tayte thought the signs were all there, but as informative as his research had been, it had given him no further insight as to where Cathy had been murdered. It had, however, served to help keep his mind focused until the expected call from Philip Wendholt came through, confirming their visit to Broadmoor Hospital at eleven o’clock the following day.
Tayte and Rudi were taken to the Visits Centre, a large high-ceilinged room, painted white with blue squares fixed here and there to the walls, pale-beech woodwork and blue desks. There were fifteen desks in total, each accommodating up to four people, including the patient. Sitting opposite a man capable of doing the things Donald Blackhurst had done, Tayte was all the more glad to have his brother beside him. Blackhurst was a small, rather ordinary-looking man, but just the same, Tayte was also glad that the two highly trained members of staff who had brought them to the Visits Centre were standing close by, watching over them.
Now in his early sixties, Blackhurst had a balding pate with short brownish hair at the back and sides. He had small, wide-set eyes and shiny skin that was red like a rash around his mouth and nose. He wore a pale-blue shirt, which Tayte imagined had been issued to him by the hospital, since he’d been told that Blackhurst never received visits from family members, only from the police and from journalists looking for a story. It had piqued Tayte’s interest to learn that a journalist named Joshua Evans from a local newspaper called the Bracknell Times had visited Blackhurst in recent months, not least because he had also been told that visitors of any kind were extremely rare when it came to Donald Blackhurst.
‘My name’s Jefferson Tayte, and this is my brother Rudi,’ Tayte said.
The man opposite him just stared back, his face still as a mannequin.
‘We’d like to talk to you about Cathy,’ Rudi said. ‘Cathy Summer?’
Blackhurst’s eyes drifted across to Rudi. ‘You want to know where my sister is, don’t you?’
Blackhurst had a calm, slow voice, and at first Tayte couldn’t decide whether it was naturally slow like that, or whether it was because of the medication he was on. His eyelids were certainly droopy, as though he constantly had to fight to keep them open.
‘Can you tell us where she is?’ Tayte asked, thinking it was as well to get the big question out of the way.
Blackhurst’s eyes drifted back to Tayte again with all the speed of an old tortoise who seemed indifferent to the world beyond his shell. ‘Have you tried calling for her?’
‘Excuse me?’ Tayte said, smiling awkwardly.
‘My sister, Stephanie. She’s always hiding under her bed. I’d look there if I were you.’
Tayte glanced at Rudi with raised eyebrows, unsure whether Blackhurst was just putting on a show for them, or whether he really did believe his sister was still alive, still the young girl he had known when they were growing up together. Before Tayte could think what to say next, Blackhurst spoke again.
‘I was excited when they told me I was having a visitor,’ he said, his eyes still fixed on Tayte. ‘You have a funny accent. Are you a cowboy? Like in the movies?’
Tayte had to stop himself from laughing at the suggestion that every man who spoke with an American accent had to be a cowboy. ‘No, I research people’s families—their family histories.’
‘And what are you?’ Blackhurst asked, turning surprisingly sharply now to Rudi, seeming to show no interest in Tayte’s profession, which came as no surprise to him, given what he’d read about this man’s own family.
‘I used to be an art dealer,’ Rudi said. ‘I—’
‘My sister likes drawing pictures,’ Blackhurst cut in. ‘Maybe she’s in the playroom with her crayons.’ To Tayte he added, ‘Have you tried looking there?’
Tayte gave a gentle sigh. They had been with Blackhurst less than five minutes, but he could already see that they weren’t going to get anything sensible out of him about Cathy Summer. He wasn’t ready to stop trying just yet, though.
‘Cathy Summer,’ he said, trying to refocus the bizarre conversation. ‘You remember her, don’t you?’
‘Summer . . .’ Blackhurst repeated, drawing the word out. ‘No, I don’t think so. We had a frost the other morning. I saw it from my window.’ He shook his head. ‘It can’t be summer.’
Rudi caught Tayte’s attention. He was shaking his head as if to say they might as well get out of there.
‘You had another visitor recently, didn’t you?’ Tayte said, still not quite ready to throw in the towel, now that he was sitting face to face with the man he knew had the answer he was looking for. ‘He was a newspaper reporter,’ he added. ‘What did you talk about?’
Blackhurst’s eyes were still on Tayte. He didn’t answer straight away, and before he did a wry smile creased his lips. ‘Do you like puppets?’
Tayte scrunched his brow.
‘We do, my sister and I,’ Blackhurst said. ‘We love puppets.’
Rudi stood up then. ‘Come on, Jefferson. Let’s go.’
Tayte sighed again as he followed Rudi’s lead and stood up. The interview was over. Tayte turned his back to Blackhurst and headed for the door, and as he went he heard faint laughter begin to rise behind him.
‘W
e’re all his puppets,’ Blackhurst said, laughing more fully as they left.
Driving back to Eastbourne with Tayte in the passenger seat, Rudi asked, ‘What do you suppose Blackhurst meant when he said we were all his puppets? It was an odd remark.’
‘Yes, it was,’ Tayte said, still thinking about the journalist who had gone to see Blackhurst recently. ‘But then just about everything the man said was odd.’
‘That’s true. He’s in the right place, that’s for sure. So where do we go from here? How are we going to find out what he did with Jean’s sister?’
‘That remains a very good question,’ Tayte said, and it was one to which he had no immediate answer. ‘I’d like to talk to the reporter who went to see Blackhurst. Maybe he managed to get more sense out of him than we did.’
As Rudi turned the car on to the M3 and they picked up speed, Tayte took out his notepad, into which he’d previously written the journalist’s details. His briefcase was between his feet. He reached into it and pulled out his laptop, partly out of habit, but mostly because he preferred its larger screen over his smartphone. He wanted a contact number for the newspaper he’d been told the journalist worked for: the Bracknell Times. He was pleased to see that his laptop had a good charge and that his phone, through which he could access the Internet, had a 3G data connection. He soon found the number he needed to call.
‘I’m going to see if I can reach that journalist,’ he said. ‘Maybe he’ll agree to see us.’
Dying Games (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 6) Page 23
