In the Blood (35 page)

Almost Saturday,
he thought, knowing that he should have been close to wrapping this assignment up by now and heading home.
 
But it had led him into a past that would not let go, and now he had Schofield’s killer and Amy to add to the list of people he needed to find.
 
People connected by one thread or another to the writing box Amy had entrusted to him.
 
The box he no longer had.

And yet he knew that was not the last of it.

He stopped typing.
 
The tangled thoughts spinning in his subconscious suddenly popped a clear fact into his head.
 
He’d lost the box, but he had not lost everything.
 
He patted his jacket pocket and heard paper crumple.
 
Lowenna’s letter...
 
He hadn’t put it back.
 
He smiled to himself, knowing that he still had a hand to play in this game.
 
He also knew that he had a good chance of finding out who this man was.
 
When he stole the crucifix and the verse book from the museum at Bodmin Jail he’d made a big mistake - he’d made it personal.

Tayte had suspected as much and tonight he’d confirmed it.
 
The man was related to Mawgan Hendry.
 
Those few words exchanged at the edge of the killer’s knife had left Tayte in no doubt.
 
Now he figured that if he could find the names of Mawgan Hendry’s living male descendants, he would have a strong list of suspects.

The idea was simple enough.
 
He had the root name from which all other family members descended: Mathew Parfitt.
 
Take that name and find out who his children were then repeat the process for each child and their children until he came to those who were still alive.
 
A quick-fire, run-through, following each dependent to their children, ruling out as many as possible by gender and age until he was left with just a few names - a few suspects.

In practice the process was not so simple.
 
He knew he would have to cut corners, make guesses and follow lines on unconfirmed data; not his style at all.
 
It carried a high risk of error, but there was a chance that some of the names he reached were correct, and a chance that one of them would be the man he was looking for.
 
He had access to the family history of more than four billion names worldwide.
 
Tonight, he just needed one.

Tayte had been absorbed by the information coming off his screen for over an hour now, dragging names and dates into a separate notes window to keep track.
 
The 1911 census had made the first part relatively easy, but there was no access to census information for the last hundred years.
 
He was using all the online resources at his disposal and more than once he’d paused to think about Peter Schofield.
 
This was right up his street - genealogy, Schofield-style.
 
In spite of everything, he wished the kid was in the car with him now.

Somewhere in the first half of the twentieth century, Tayte pulled away from his laptop and pinched his eyes.
 
He turned away from the screen and looked into the black night, thoughtfully stroking at the butterfly stitches on his neck.
 
The stars were like he’d seldom seen them; there was no light pollution here.
 
Whole galaxies presented themselves to him, like silver dust, flicked from a brush across a black canvas.
 

The hunt was going well.
 
Two world wars had expedited the search, significantly reducing the number of dependents who’d lived long enough to have children of their own who were not taken prematurely by one war or the other.
 
Yet the line continued along multiple branches of possibility, changing surnames where no male heir had been born to carry it.
 
Mathew’s branch of the Parfitt name had died out by the end of the 1800s, replaced by Miller through one daughter and Bakersfield through another.
 
He still had a few hours until daybreak and somehow he wasn’t tired.
 
He was too wrapped up in the chase; too mindful that he’d narrowly escaped death tonight and that Amy, if she was still alive, was somewhere in great need.

Before another hour passed, Tayte knew he was close.
 
The dependents he was looking at now could still be alive, yet were too old to be considered.
 
It was from their children that Tayte was sure he would get his man: the final layer.

Chapter Forty-Three

Saturday.

Tayte missed the crimson sunrise.
 
By the time he knew it was even light the sun was already too bright in his sensitive eyes as they peeled open.
 
His head was against the car window, his neck was sore and his stitches itched.
 
Two cows stared at him from beyond the galvanised gate; a third had its rump to him.
 
He felt like that last cow looked.

The sound that woke him buzzed again in his trouser pocket with a ring-tone he was fast growing to hate.
 
He glanced bleary-eyed at the clock in the unfamiliar dashboard; it was a quarter past eight.
 
His laptop lay open on the driver’s seat, discarded at the end of his research, still sleeping after a good nights work.
 
Tayte wished he was too.
 
His cellphone buzzed again, denying him the chance.

“JT,” he said.

“I
do
hope I didn’t wake you.”

Tayte was about to say that he needed a wake-up call anyway, but the caller continued.

“But then how could you sleep?” the caller said.
 
“I’d be grabbing all the life I could if I’d nearly lost mine last night.”

Tayte was suddenly wide awake.

“Why is everything so complicated, Mr Tayte?”

Tayte just listened.

“I’ve been looking for this box since I knew it existed.
 
Now I have it, and yet I don’t, do I?
 
Don’t have what I’ve been looking for.”
 
There was a pause.
 
Then the voice said, “It’s what is inside that counts...
 
That’s what the note I found in the box tells me.
 
So what else was inside the box, Mr Tayte?”

Tayte played his card.
 
“If you want what was inside that box,” he said, “let Amy go!”
 
He heard mocking laughter.
 
“It’s the only way you’ll get what you’re looking for.”

The laughter stopped.
 
“A stalemate then,” the caller said.
 
“I don’t play chess, Mr Tayte.
 
How about you let me have what was in the box or by this afternoon the police will be investigating another dead body!”

“No dice.”
 
Tayte’s response was sharp - stuff the chess, this called for hardball.
 
If he just handed everything over he knew Amy would never make it through the day.
 
“It’s an exchange or nothing,” he added.
 
“Amy for the contents of the box, or you can go to hell!”

The line went silent.
 
Tayte hoped his caller was giving it some serious thought.
 
After the silence turned uncomfortable he hoped he hadn’t overcooked it.
 
Then he knew he had.
 
He heard a faint click, and then static.
 
He checked for the caller’s number, but as he expected, it had been withheld.

“Shit!”

Tayte had to know who this man was and he had to know fast.
 
He woke up his laptop and the results of his hurried research glared back at him; five names that meant nothing to him; five possible suspects, all male descendants of Mawgan Hendry and Lowenna Fairborne, through their illegitimate son, Mathew Parfitt.
 
He had the age and place of birth for each, which was sure to help.

But where are they now?

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the calling card DCI Bastion had given him.
 
Further investigation into the names he’d come up with would need police resources.
 
He was halfway through punching in the number when the digits cleared and the screen changed, displaying ‘Incoming call’ - no number.
 
He picked it up at the first buzz and pressed the phone to his ear.

“An exchange then,” the caller said.

Tayte drew a deep breath and let it slowly out again.
 
“Where?”

“There are strict rules to the game, Mr Tayte.
 
Like all good games, it will be played in two halves.
 
First, you will go back to Amy’s house - to Treath.
 
Board the motor launch there and wait.
 
I will call you again in precisely one hour.”

Tayte glanced at his watch; it was 08:30.

“If you are not in that boat in exactly one hour,” the caller said, “then Amy dies.
 
If you call the police or I suspect you have brought anyone with you - Amy dies.
 
I’m giving you this one chance to save her.
 
If you do not play by the rules then you will learn just how strong my resolve can be.
 
I will not be screwed with, Mr Tayte.
 
Are we clear?”

Tayte’s heart was already racing.
 
“Crystal,” he said, looking out the car windows at the single lane track and the tall hedgerows to either side of him.
 
He wished he knew where the hell he was.
 
An hour didn’t seem long under the circumstances.

As the call ended, Tayte was already sliding across into the driver’s seat, fighting his way across the gear shift and the power cable feeding his laptop.
 
The key was already in the ignition.
 
He turned it, thinking his call to DCI Bastion would have to wait.
 
The rhythmic grating that came from the engine compartment froze his heart.
 
It was a painful sound to hear at the best of times, but now...

Come on.
 
This isn’t happening!

The engine churned more than it turned, slowing and groaning more and more with every cycle.
 
He unplugged the laptop power cable and tried again.
 
This time the engine barely turned over at all.
 
One last moan, then it died.

The car waiting on the drive outside Rosemullion Hall looked like it was going to a wedding.
 
The 1937 black-and-cream Rolls Royce Phantom III just needed the ribbons.
 
It was a special car for a special occasion: the official investiture of Sir Richard Fairborne’s Life Peerage.
 
Sir Richard and Lady Fairborne were already seated in the back of the car, trying to relax on the bisque leather seats while they waited.
 
A grey liveried chauffeur stood outside, ready to open the door for the last of his charges before conveying them all to the VIP air taxi that was waiting at Penzance Heliport.

“Well what’s keeping him?” Sir Richard said.
 
“Another minute and we’re leaving.”

Celia was trying to remain calm, but she knew Warwick was cutting it fine.
 
“There’s plenty of time,” she said.
 
“Stop fussing.
 
He had a late night, that’s all.”

“I don’t know why you insisted he came.”

“He’s coming because we’re a family, Richard.
 
And I want to remember what that feels like.”

Sir Richard scoffed, checking his watch again.

“Here he is.” Celia said.

They both looked out the window and saw Warwick pacing towards the car, smart for a change in a charcoal pinstripe suit.
 
In one hand he waved a bright cerise tie.
 
In the other he was closing the flip on his cellphone.
 
One corner of his mouth was raised like he knew he’d kept them waiting.

Celia wound the car window down.
 
“Do come along, Wicky!”

Warwick raised a hand in apology.
 
He stuffed his tie and his phone into his pockets and quickened his pace.

Beside the car, the chauffeur smiled and readied himself to open the door.
 
His last passenger was nearly there.
 
He reached for the handle...

The dance tune playing on Warwick’s cellphone glued him to the spot.
 
He checked the caller number and the colour drained from his cheeks, taking his grin with it.

“Is everything all right, Wicky?” his mother called.

“Business,” Warwick said.
 
“It’s complicated, but I really need to take this.”
 
He backed away.

“Driver!” Sir Richard called.

“I’ll follow on, Mother,” Warwick said.
 
“Once I’ve sorted this out.
 
Meet you at the heliport.”