In the Blood (32 page)

“The box must be returned to me,” he added.
 
“It must never be allowed to tell its secret.”

“There is a greater risk of that sitting in your carriage.” the other man said.

“She is my daughter!
 
What would you have me do?”

Lowenna saw his answer.
 
She recoiled from the window, startled as his eyes pierced hers.
 
She receded into shadow, yet his eyes still managed to find her, holding her with such hatred as to suggest that he would have her father bid him kill her and be done with it.

She watched her father move away then, back towards the house.
 
“We shall conclude the matter upon your return,” he called.

Then he was gone, leaving Lowenna to the other’s mercy.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

T
he man rocking Tayte’s shoulder startled him.

“End of the line,” he said with an obvious eastern European accent.

Tayte’s head felt sore as he recoiled from his glass pillow to the almost musical twang of the nerves catching in his stiff neck as he straightened.
 
The train was at a standstill.
 
Through the window he recognised Truro train station.
 
He blinked and rubbed at his neck.

“Thanks,” he said, but the man had already moved on to the next waste-bin.

Tayte checked his watch: ‘22:18’.
 
That last snooze had taken him out cold for a few hours, rendering him oblivious to the fact that the train had lost some time and was overdue.
 
He grabbed the rucksack and his briefcase then struggled out of his seat, passing the cleaner as he left the otherwise empty carriage.
 
He was surprised that a call from Schofield hadn’t woken him before now with news of James Fairborne’s last will and testament; the meeting with his mystery caller should have taken place almost three hours ago.
 
He checked his phone for missed calls - nothing.

What’s Schofield playing at?

Tayte cleared the station concourse like he was running late for an interview.
 
It was a cool night, pricked with stars and the slightest crescent moon.
 
Floodlights over the car park shone circular pools onto the tarmac.
 
As he reached his hire car he pulled out his phone, thinking he’d try Amy again, this time to let her know he was on his way over.
 
She must be home now,
he thought.
 
His phone rang before he had chance to dial.
 
Schofield,
he thought.
 
About time.

He answered the call.
 
“Schofield!
 
How’d it go?”
 
He didn’t recognise the voice that answered.
 
The caller spoke slowly, almost mechanically, punctuating every few words with sharp precision.

“Is that Mr Tayte?
 
Mr Jeff Tayte?”

Tayte was cautious.
 
Only Schofield called him Jeff.
 
“Who wants to know?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Bastion, Mr Tayte.
 
Devon and Cornwall Police.
 
I am speaking to Mr Tayte then, am I?”

“That’s right.”

“And
Jeff?
 
Short for Jeffrey, is it sir?”

“It’s Jefferson actually.
 
Look, where did you get my number and what’s this all about.”

“Well that’s just the thing, sir.
 
I found your number in the call directory of Peter Schofield’s mobile telephone.
 
Are you related to Mr Schofield, sir?”

“No, I’m not.”
 
Tayte gritted his teeth.
 
“We’re ... working together.”
 
It was painful to say it.
 
“What’s he been up to?”
 
A few random thoughts scattered through Tayte’s mind.
 
Reasons why he might not have made the meeting he had lined up.
 
He knew he’d be unreliable.
 
“Don’t tell me,” Tayte said.
 
“He’s had a couple of drinks too many, been a pain in the ass and now you need someone to look after him.”
 
Well not me,
he thought.

“I wish it was that simple, sir.
 
I’m afraid Mr Schofield is dead.”

An eerie calm washed over Tayte, punctuating the silence.

“Sir?”

He wasn’t sure how to react.
 
That he didn’t like Schofield was no secret - but dead!
 
Peter Schofield!
 
He’d always put him up there with the Duracell bunny when it came to staying power.
 
He’d been a constant thorn in his side; an itch that would never go away.
 
Only now it had, and it felt like it had taken something vital to him along with it.

“Dead?” Tayte said.
 
He was thinking about that cool British sports car Schofield had mentioned earlier.
 
Had he pushed it too hard on Cornwall’s tight country lanes?
 
“I spoke with him just this afternoon,” he added.

“I know, sir.
 
Yours was the last number to call him.
 
Are you in Cornwall by any chance?”

“Truro.
 
I just got back from London.”

“That’s very useful, sir.
 
I’d be grateful if you could identify the body for us.
 
Help speed things along.”

“Yes, of course.”
 
Tayte had no idea how this sort of thing worked.
 
“When do you want to see me?”
  

“Right away, sir.
 
If that’s at all possible.
 
We’re still at the scene if you’d care to come down.”

“Scene?”

“That’s right, sir.
 
The crime scene.
 
Peter Schofield was murdered.”

The unusually pitched voice of Tayte’s earlier caller replayed in his head, setting up the meeting at Nare Point.
 
What have I done?
 
There was no other explanation.
 
He stared out into the quiet car park and tried to convince himself that this was real; that he wasn’t still on the train, asleep with his head against the window.
 
He’d sent Schofield to his death tonight and he wasn’t sure if that upset him more than the realisation that it should have been his own life instead.

“I know it’s a little irregular,” Bastion added.
 
“But we’re about wrapped up here and I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me.
 
Might take a couple of hours.”

“Sure, anything,” Tayte said, distracted.

“We’re at a place called -”

Tayte cut in.
 
“Nare Point.” he said.

“Nare Point, Sir?”

“Isn’t that where you found him?”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

D
etective Chief Inspector Leonard Bastion was in his late forties.
 
He wore navy suit trousers whenever he was on duty, but never the jacket, a pressed white shirt and black cleated shoes that always looked like he’d just taken them out of the box they came in.
 
He was a stocky man: barely five feet, eight inches tall, clean-shaven with a thick crop of short silver-grey hair that to his constant irritation would never sit down, spoiling an otherwise pristine appearance.

He was standing outside Ferryman Cottage lit up by several crime scene floodlights.
 
An ambulance was on standby alongside two police cars that continued to bathe the house in a lively blue and red glow.
 
Beyond the lights, the lane and the woodland were in blackout, camouflaged by the night and the dark Helford River.
 
Opposite Inspector Bastion stood the man who had discovered Peter Schofield’s body.

“Sorry you’ve had to wait around so long, sir,” Bastion said.
 
He flipped the cover of a small reporter style notepad.
 
“So you say Amy Fallon joined you every Friday?”

Martin Cole lit a roll-up cigarette and drew heavily on it, making the tip glow as it burned down the filter paper.
 
“That’s right,” he said.
 
“Why are we going over this again?
 
I’ve already explained why I was here.”

“Indulge me, sir,” Bastion said.
 
“If you don’t mind.”

Martin snapped his lighter shut and slipped it into the side pocket of his jeans.
 
“When Amy didn’t show,” he said.
 
“I walked up to the house to drag her down there.”

“To the Shipwrights Arms?”

Martin nodded.
 
“It’s been a bad week for her.
 
I thought maybe she needed some encouragement to come and have a drink with us.”

Bastion’s pencil stopped twitching.
 
“
Us
being?”

“Simon,” Martin said.
 
“Simon Phillips.
 
He’s the boat hand who works with me.
 
Amy always joined us at the Shipwrights on Fridays for a ... well, a sort of social team brief, I suppose you’d call it.
 
Just a couple of drinks and a chat.”

“And presumably Simon can vouch for that, can he, sir?
 
And the staff at the Shipwrights?”

“Of course.”

“So you called Amy Fallon and getting no answer you left Simon at the pub at twenty past eight and arrived at the house here approximately twenty minutes later?
 
Seems a fair walk, sir.
 
Just on the off-chance?”

“I do a lot of walking.
 
Most people around here do.
 
It was nothing.”

“You said Amy was having a bad week, Mr Cole?”

Martin nodded, taking another drag on his cigarette.
 
“Her husband went missing two years ago this week.
 
She’s having a rough time of it.”

“I see.
 
Well who wouldn’t?”
 
Bastion put a hand on his head and flattened his hair across his forehead.
 
It sprang straight up again.
 
“So you came to Ferryman Cottage,” he continued.
 
“And instead of finding Amy Fallon, you found the victim’s body?”

Martin flicked the glowing stump of his cigarette away and watched it corkscrew into the night.
 
As it hit the ground he took another from a brass case in the chest pocket of his green check over-shirt and fixed it loosely into the corner of his mouth.
 
“I knocked.
 
There was no answer.
 
No lights on.
 
So I waited.”

“How long for?”

“Not sure...
 
About five minutes, I guess.
 
I sat and watched the river.”

“Not much to see, I shouldn’t think?”

“No.
 
Not much.”
 
Martin reached for his lighter.
 
“Peaceful, though.”

“And then?”

“Then I went round the back of the house,” Martin said.
 
Thought I’d take a look around before I left.
 
I knocked on the back door and it swung open.
 
I called out, got no reply, so I knocked harder and went inside.”
 
He lit his cigarette and forced the smoke high above Bastion’s head.
 
“The place was a mess,” he added.
 
“I know she’d had decorators in all week, but this wasn’t home improvement mess.”

“That was about a quarter to nine, was it, sir?”

“Give or take.”

“And did you touch the body?
 
Move anything?”

“No ... well, not much.
 
I went into the sitting room first.
 
I turned on the light and saw him sitting there on the sofa, staring straight at me.
 
I asked him who he was, got no response, so I went closer.
 
That’s when I saw the blood.
 
It wasn’t clear against his dark shirt, but I saw his trousers were spattered with it.
 
I nudged his shoulder then his head flopped back and his neck opened right up.”
 
Martin pulled a sour face.
 
“I’ll never forget it.”

“No, I’m sure,” Bastion said.
 
“What happened after that?”

“I called for Amy again, had a quick look around.
 
She wasn’t there.”

“So at precisely three minutes to nine you called the emergency services?”