‘Poison?’
Levant pursed his lips awkwardly. It was a mannerism Tayte noticed the Frenchman displayed whenever he became overly flustered or perturbed. ‘Succinylcholine chloride,’ Levant said. ‘It’s a synthetic form of curare.’
Tayte had heard of curare. He’d read that the natives of South America used the naturally occurring poison to tip their deadly darts and arrows. He kept a firm hold of Levant’s wrist.
‘The dose would have been strong enough to paralyse you in seconds,’ Levant added. ‘Your lungs would cease to function and you would quickly suffocate.’
Rudi had come to Tayte’s side. ‘We should shut him in the car until the police arrive.’
Tayte nodded. He released the pressure on the door, and still holding Levant by the wrist, as if holding a deadly snake by the neck so it couldn’t lash out and bite him, he pulled Levant aside so that Rudi could retrieve the car key. Once he had, Tayte shoved Levant into the car and kicked the door shut behind him. There was a clunk as Rudi pressed the button to lock all the doors for good measure, and just in case Levant tried to open them again from the inside, they stood one to either side of the car, leaning against them.
‘I’ve been wanting to ask you,’ Tayte said to Rudi across the car’s roof. ‘What kept you back there?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean when Levant turned up and paused the timer, you can’t have been far behind him. Why did you leave me sweating for so long?’
‘You kept asking questions,’ Rudi said. ‘I thought you’d like to hear the answers, that’s all. I’ll admit I was also curious enough to want to hear them myself.’
Tayte laughed through his nose, knowing he’d have been just the same. He saw the flash of police lights approaching along the track and he bent down to look in on Levant for one last time, just to see his disappointment. What he saw made the smile drop from his face in an instant. He swallowed hard, unable to do anything more than stare into the car in disbelief. He wrenched open the door and reached in to check the Frenchman’s pulse. His face was noticeably pale and his hands were tellingly clasped together in his lap. Rather than spend the rest of his natural life in prison, he’d intentionally pricked himself with his own lethal ring.
Michel Levant was dead.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Six weeks later
Jefferson Tayte and Jean Summer were married on a fine Tuesday morning in early March. They left the St Albans registry office full of smiles to a barrage of confetti and cheers from the intimate gathering that had been invited to witness their union. On the bride’s side were Jean’s parents and her son, Elliot, and on the groom’s side there was Rudi, Emmy Brown and her sister, Joyce. Tayte had offered to hire a dark suit for the occasion, but Jean wouldn’t hear of it, and being Jean she had gone out the following day and bought herself a tan trouser suit to match Tayte’s, saying that she thought it the perfect attire for someone whose initials would also soon be JT. The degree of light-hearted amusement it afforded them had been just the tonic they needed after their recent ordeals, although Tayte was having a hard time trying to forget.
During the month that had passed since Michel Levant took his own life, ending the Frenchman’s nefarious activities for good, DI Rutherford had called Jean’s family to confirm that Cathy Summer’s remains had been found at the former marionette shop in Broadstairs. It had come as no surprise to Tayte to learn that Donald Blackhurst was the true owner, having bought it from his cousin, Georgina Budd, via a limited company so as to keep his identity from her. Because of this, the authorities had not connected the property to Blackhurst after his arrest. Nothing could bring Cathy Summer back, of course, but Jean and her family were now able to lay Cathy to rest at last, and Tayte hoped it would help Jean’s mother in particular to finally know what had become of her daughter.
The wedding photographs were taken in the gardens to the rear of the registry office, the former Victorian gatehouse providing a pleasing architectural backdrop to the setting, with its arched mullioned windows and patterned red and black brickwork. Jean was on Tayte’s left, and Rudi, his best man, was on his right. As they waited in between photographs, Rudi leaned closer to Tayte.
‘I have a wedding present in mind for you, Jefferson. How would you like to do something really useful with the money I have left over from the sale of my gallery?’
Tayte gave his brother a wary smile. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Well, you’re a genealogist. How about starting a school of family history, for young people perhaps? It could be good for you.’
Tayte thought it would certainly afford him a welcome change of pace. He could name it after his late friend, Marcus Brown. He thought it would be less hazardous, too, and he’d had enough adventures for the time being. All he wanted to do now was to be close to Jean.
‘I almost forgot!’ Rudi said, breaking formation just as the photographer was about to start shooting again. He ran off to the side of the gathering, and a moment later he returned with something that brought a smile to everyone’s face. It was Tayte’s briefcase. Rudi thrust it between the bride and groom. On the front he’d written ‘JUST MARRIED’ in bold white lettering.
As the photographer began shooting again, more confetti was thrown into the air, and in that moment Jefferson Tayte felt as if he were the happiest man alive. He turned to Jean and kissed her softly on the lips. Then, as if his heart were not full enough, she leaned close to his ear, and through her smile she whispered, ‘I’m pregnant.’
Tayte’s heart could have burst with joy right there and then. His breath caught in his chest. He could have laughed and cried at the same time were it not for Rudi, who in his other ear said, ‘Give my wedding present idea some thought, Jefferson. Family is so important. Don’t you think?’
Tayte smiled knowingly. ‘I do,’ he said for the second time that day, gazing back into Jean’s wide eyes as the camera shutter continued to click. They were about to start their own family history together, and that was one adventure Tayte welcomed, knowing it would surpass all others.
Acknowledgments
My continued thanks go to Katie Green for her editorial advice and guidance in helping to tell this story, to my copy editor Julia Bruce, to Emilie Marneur, Jane Snelgrove, and all of the team at Amazon Publishing for the many things that have gone into producing this book, to all the proofreaders who strive to make sure this work is as error free as possible, and I would also like to thank my friend, Kath Middleton and, as always, my wife, Karen, for the invaluable input that goes into creating every Jefferson Tayte story. I would also very much like to thank you for reading this book. I hope you enjoyed it.
About the Author
Photo © Karen Robinson
Steve Robinson drew upon his own family history for inspiration when he imagined the life and quest of his genealogist hero, Jefferson Tayte. The talented London-based crime writer, who was first published at age sixteen, always wondered about his own maternal grandfather. “He was an American GI billeted in England during the Second World War,” Robinson says. “A few years after the war ended he went back to America, leaving a young family behind, and, to my knowledge, no further contact was made. I traced him to Los Angeles through his 1943 enlistment record and discovered that he was born in Arkansas . . .”
Robinson cites crime-writing and genealogy amongst his hobbies – a passion that is readily apparent in his work. He can be contacted via his website, www.steve-robinson.me, his blog at www.ancestryauthor.blogspot.com, and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/SteveRobinsonAuthor.
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Dying Games (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 6) Page 30
