JT01 - In The Blood

by Steve Robinson

  It only took a second for him to realise he wasn’t going to make it through. The gap was closing. His suit began to snag and tear and he wished now that he’d left his jacket on the boat. He reminded himself that he didn’t even know if Amy was on the other side. Yet at the same time it occurred to him that someone must have fixed that fishing line in there. So he wriggled and squeezed, forcing himself further in, millimetre by millimetre it seemed, until it was suddenly all or nothing. Then a swell surged in and gave him the push he needed.

  As Tayte burst through the gap, he realised the tide must still be coming in. There was still hope. He fell through the water to his hands and knees, still submerged, kicking up sand that clouded his view. He began to float and his feet scrabbled for purchase. When they found it he kicked into the sand and shot clear of the water, gasping for a long starved breath.

  It was then that he saw her. “Amy!”

  At least, he thought it must be Amy. He didn’t recognise her at first and she gave no response. She looked dead. Her eyes were wide and staring. Her bottom lip and what was visible above the water line of her lower jaw were moving in a perpetual shiver. Her chin was all but submerged and Tayte couldn’t understand why she didn’t get higher. There was still plenty of air space above her and further into the cave it was shallow enough to see breaking water, becoming more pronounced towards the tapering end of the cave where sea foam danced with abandon over the exposed and jagged rocks.

  Why doesn’t she move?

  Tayte surged towards her, ducking as he went. He almost had to crawl to reach her. “Amy!” he called again. She didn’t seem to notice he was there. From his jacket he pulled out the cellphone Bastion had loaned him. Water dripped from its insides and the screen was tellingly blank. He dropped it, doubting he would have got a signal anyway. Now he was close to Amy, everything about her looked odd. Her body leaned forward, tilting to her left, bringing her head lower in the water than it needed to be. Dangerously low. The water brought a kiss of death to her bottom lip now and it was rising with every surge.

  Tayte set the dive lamp down on a nearby rock and took hold of Amy’s shoulders. He tried to sit her up to get her head higher, but he couldn’t move her. Her body felt rigid and so very cold. Then he noticed her left arm reaching out beneath the water. He held his breath and went under with the lamp. She was definitely reaching for something. He went closer until he began to make out her hand, and the Celtic ring she wore caught the light, drawing his eye. As the sand began to clear, his eyes suddenly widened. He wrenched away, coughing and spluttering and almost filling his lungs with water.

  Tayte was looking into the empty eye sockets of a human skull, part buried in the sand, showing just enough to return his stare as his eyes fell upon it. Close by was a pile of small bleached bones, one with a gold ring still attached; a ring identical to Amy’s. Her arm reached past them, to the stubby ends of two larger bones protruding from the sand. It looked like she was trying to pull them free and could not let go. Tayte forced her hand away and he saw movement at last as Amy’s fingers autonomously clutched for the bones again, trying to re-establish the connection until, in sudden panic it seemed, she pulled away.

  Amy screamed his name. “Gabriel!”

  Tayte saw her fall back into the water. He rushed in, lifting her head above the rising tide. She spluttered, coughing up sea-water, thrashing in Tayte’s arms.

  “Hey! It’s JT!” He slipped his jacket off and pushed her arms into the sleeves, holding her head steady as he locked eyes. “Amy?” He tapped her cheeks. They felt ice cold. He cupped her face between his palms and rubbed them. “Amy, it’s me.”

  Amy’s brow furrowed. Then Tayte caught the faintest trace of a smile, and beyond his hopes, Amy spoke.

  “Thank you,” she said, her words shivering slowly free.

  Tayte returned the smile as eagerly as he knew how. “Let’s get you out of here.” He was already trying to carry her to the cave entrance, but something still restricted her.

  “Chains,” Amy said.

  Tayte shone the dive lamp behind her and saw the rusty quarter-inch link chain around her waist. In the lamplight he could see that it was cinched tight, secured by a heavy padlock that looked new. From the shackle he followed another length of chain that led away to either side of the rock.

  “Stay with me, Amy!” he said.

  He could see that she was struggling to remain conscious and it was clear that she was as much in danger of hypothermia now as she was from drowning. He propped her up against the rock, as high as the chains would allow, tilting her head back to keep her airway clear. Then he followed the chain further into the cave.

  Rust had stained the granite. It looked like an ancient snake fossil, suggesting that the chain had been there for some time. The rising sand bed, more pronounced on this side, meant that he was now in shallower water. The chain was just visible above the waterline and Tayte noticed how eroded the links were. Under closer scrutiny he thought they had to be weak enough to give out with the right persuasion. If he could find a lump of rock big enough then maybe he could break one of the links apart.

  He looked around, his vision blurring as he flicked his head one way then the other. Then his eyes fell on something he hadn’t expected to see again. The writing box was at the back of the cave. The swell was playing with it, lifting it and tossing it among the rocks like a mouse at the mercy of some tireless cat. He hadn’t heard its hollow clatter before over the sound of the breaking water, but now that he could see it, it yelled for his attention. The box looked damaged. The lid appeared to be loose - part hanging off. He crawled towards it, catching his knee on a rock, reminding him of his priorities.

  Amy… What am I thinking?

  He pulled the rock out from beneath the water and with both hands he flew at the exposed length of chain. It landed right on target, sandwiching rusty steel between hard rock and the chain exploded, sending the remaining links crashing into the water. He crawled back to Amy to find the rising water lapping at her mouth and nose. With the chain broken she was slipping forward. She seemed to stir as he caught hold of her and pulled the chain through the shackle until he was able to lift her clear.

  Thank God, he thought. Then still on his knee’s he made for the exit with Amy cradled in his arms. His touch must have reached her. Amy’s eyes very slightly and very slowly opened.

  “The box,” she said, like she could read his mind.

  Tayte had already dismissed the idea. “I can’t chance it,” he said. “We need to get out of here.” He kept going.

  “Please!” Amy’s eyes were staring again. “Or all of this is for nothing.”

  Her words stopped Tayte in his tracks. He understood. Amy needed to know why Gabriel had been murdered; why Simon Phillips had taken her husband’s life from her so abruptly and now so definitely. Tayte understood, just as he knew he owed it to Schofield to finish what he’d started. The writing box’s final secret had to be told to make any sense of his bizarre few days in Cornwall. For Amy it meant everything now. They had to win unequivocally, whatever the consequences.

  Ahead, Tayte could no longer see the slit in the rock; the cave entrance was completely submerged now. Getting out again would be difficult at best and to compound the problem, the chain that was still locked around Amy’s waist by the padlock would act like a dive belt as soon as they hit deeper water. It would drag them both down.

  One step at a time, Tayte thought. He carried Amy back, past the rock where she’d spent the worst part of the last two days, and set her down towards the back of the cave where the sand bed rose. Over a clutter of broken bottles he could see the box again. As he crawled through the tapering innermost reaches of the cave, holding his breath each time the swell washed over him, he could see that the box was definitely breaking up. Returning for it in the morning when the tide was out - a thought that had crossed his mind - was not an option.

  He threw a hand out for the box as soon as it was within rea
ch, catching the lid as the swell surged into the box and ripped the main body away. He watched the swell cast it over the rocks on a bed of frothing sea foam until it finally smashed against the back of the cave. The pieces drifted on the backwash, suddenly insignificant and unrecognisable. The box that had caused so much pain to all who encountered it was no more. A fold of paper floated among the pieces briefly - Lowenna’s letter, Tayte supposed - then it dissolved in the water like wet rice paper.

  Tayte’s heart sank. But as he looked down at the lid in his hand - at the ivory carving of the lady reclined on a chaise - hope returned. The left edge of the lid was cracked, revealing the damp corner of another fold of paper. He tried to pull it free but it broke away as soon as he touched it. Something, however, had moved. The inner lining with the ivory rose dial slid away slightly from the carved outer piece and despite being cold and wet he felt his palms flush.

  The box was giving up its final secret.

  Inside that lid Tayte was sure he would learn the truth about what happened the night the Betsy Ross arrived from Boston; would know at last what really happened to Eleanor and her children. Lowenna knew, as did her father and the impostor who called himself William Fairborne. Clearly he carried that hold over James Fairborne to his grave.

  Tayte hurried back to Amy, cutting his hands and knees on the bottle remnants in his haste. He took a piece as he returned, thinking about that snagged propeller blade on the incapacitated inflatable. When he reached Amy he saw no improvement; she was still that same blue-grey colour; still drifting in and out of consciousness. He held up the lid like a trophy for her to see, trying to keep her eyes open and interested. Then he slid the two sections apart and lifted out the papers that were folded in between. They were damp, but not excessively so. The space in the lid must have been tight, compressing the paper and keeping it dry. Now he just had to figure out how to keep it that way.

  He flashed the dive lamp around the cave to see if there was anything suitable, thinking it ironic that of all the plastic bottles that end up floating in the sea, there was never one around when you needed one. He was starting to think that the lid itself might be the best place. It had served well enough all these years. But it was broken now. He couldn’t be sure that the paper would be any good by the time he got back to the inflatable. He thought about reading it aloud to Amy, in part just to try and keep her awake; he felt sure she would have insisted if she knew there was any chance of losing it. But he suddenly saw the answer. He needed something with a waterproof guarantee and it was right there in his hand: the dive lamp.

  “Hang on,” he said, studying the lamp while he could still see it. Then he switched it off and darkness was as sudden as it was absolute. He unscrewed the base of the lamp to access the rechargeable cell, slipped it out and wrapped the papers around it. Getting the cell back in was tight and he only knew he’d managed it when he flicked the dive lamp back on.

  The first thing Tayte saw when the light returned was Amy. In the brief darkness he’d remembered her as he’d seen her that night at her house when he’d first seen the box. Now in the light again the stark contrast was too sudden a shock. Her eyes were closed tight on a still and expressionless face that was ashen as death. He pressed two fingers to her neck to check her pulse. It was slow and weak. He knew there was no way he could get her out unaided; he couldn’t even keep her conscious long enough to make the exit. Then there was that chain belt to contend with. He knew what he had to do, but he didn’t like it.

  Tayte closed the two pieces of the writing box lid together and slipped them down the neck of his shirt. He took a last look at Amy then made for deeper water and the exit, thinking about the Aquastar and the coastguard, knowing that help wasn’t far away.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  The night felt cold on Tayte’s back as he tossed the dive lamp into the inflatable and climbed in after it like a struggling seal. A wave of goose-bumps broke over his skin at the first hint of a barely discernible breeze and he could only imagine what it was like for Amy. He clutched at a sore but minor gash to his stomach - a parting gesture from the jagged walls inside the tight cave entrance - then felt the sharp outline of broken glass in his trouser pocket.

  He’d forgotten how choppy the water was in this enclosed space, hidden away in its own lost world behind that deep split in the cliff face. He steadied himself and through the restricted view offered by the gap in the rocks, he looked out for any sign of Hayne and the Aquastar.

  Where is he? Tayte thought.

  The Aquastar’s light was nowhere to be seen. His only thought then was that he had to get the inflatable running again. He had to find the help Amy so desperately needed. He took out the piece of broken glass and threw himself over the back of the motor, grabbing a handful of tangled line. As he went to hack into it, before a single strand had been cut, he heard a promising call.

  “Hello!”

  The voice was close by. Tayte turned to see a mid-sized craft entering his field of vision to his left, not twenty feet away. It had no light so he hadn’t seen it before. Bastion’s call to the coastguard, he thought. They must have rallied the locals.

  Tayte flashed the dive lamp across the approaching craft’s canopied bow. “I need help here!” he called. He grabbed an oar, pushed the inflatable towards the gap and paddled through.

  The other craft met him as he cleared the gap. It arrived bullishly and barely managed to stop in time. The engine sounded erratic, rising and falling in pitch and power like whoever controlled it didn’t know forwards from reverse. Tayte didn’t much care as long as the skipper had a radio or a phone that worked. He shone his lamp onto the settling craft and confused recognition washed over him.

  He was sure he knew that white boat with the walk-in bow canopy. It looked identical to Laity’s fishing boat. When he shone his light into the craft, to the man he was about to greet as Amy’s saviour, he knew just about everything in the picture before him was wrong. After all the surrealism he’d experienced in the past few days, the cherry had just landed on the cake. Tayte was incredulous.

  We’re being rescued by James Bond for Christ sakes!

  The canopy guarded the man’s face, but beneath it Tayte could see the contrasting sheen of a glossy black lapel and bow tie crowding a crisp white shirt. He’d seen that attire earlier this evening on the guests at Rosemullion hall. He knew it had no place out there tonight on a lone fishing boat of dubious identity.

  As the figure stepped out from the canopy, the barrel of a silencer demanded Tayte’s full attention. His eyes flicked up to a face he recognised from his first morning in Cornwall and suddenly everything on Durgan beach fell into place. The image of Simon Phillips sprawled back in the dinghy where he’d found him flashed in Tayte’s head like a single frame of subliminal advertising. That is Laity’s boat, he thought. He figured Simon must have used it to get about in after he’d ditched the ferry, taking it to Durgan. Then it changed hands again - clearly not part of Simon’s plans.

  Warwick Fairborne edged closer, his gun hand brandishing the black-market Bulgarian Makarov he’d acquired for the occasion; a gift from his creditors to help secure the debt. “Sorry to see you’re still running about,” he said.

  Tayte eyed the gun and the nervous look on Warwick’s face, registering that the two didn’t mix well.

  “Find anything out here?” Warwick added.

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Like a woman who probably knows as much about my family history as you do?”

  Tayte swallowed hard and shook his head. “Nah… Still looking.”

  “That’s a shame. Still, the tides in. I heard she’d be drawing her last breath about now anyway.”

  It was clear to Tayte that Simon must have done a little plea-bargaining before Warwick shot him. He wished he had something to fight back with, but a piece of broken glass against a bullet was no fair contest. All he had were words - they had served him well before.

  “Don�
�t you want to tell me all about it,” he said. “How you’re going to kill me to protect your family’s interests. Anyone would have done the same, right? Survival of the fittest and all that crap!”

  Warwick’s smile looked uncomfortable. “That’s very amusing, Tayte, but Darwinian Theory’s not really my bag, and I’m afraid you’ll get no megalomaniacal drawl from me about protecting my family’s interests.” He cocked the gun like he’d practiced it a thousand times. “This isn’t personal. You’re just an unfortunate side effect. A loose end in a game that’s gone too far.” He levelled the gun at Tayte’s chest. “Now it’s time to end it.”

  A split second later, a 7.62 calibre round hit home and Jefferson Tayte fell back into the inflatable.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  DCI Bastion was with Hayne’s uniformed standin at Rosemullion Hall; company for an arrest that was now on hold. He was sitting, curled over his radio, waiting for news like an expectant father while Sir Richard and Lady Fairborne were detained in a room along the hallway.

  When Bastion had arrived at Rosemullion Hall, Sir Richard had thought himself ready for him. His political years had prepared him well enough for a little police banter and he understood his rights. He knew from Tayte’s earlier visit with Hayne that the American was still alive, so that was off his conscience, and if the money had turned up and had been traced back to him then so what? He’d get his money back. What had he done wrong? Once Sir Richard knew why Bastion was really there, however, his steely façade had buckled, and it wasn’t until he was part way through explaining the situation that he realised the terrible truth of what he was indirectly suggesting.

  Sir Richard had moved the conversation from the entrance hall into a private room off the first floor gallery. He looked like he was scrutinising something on Bastions face that he could barely see. “Murder?” he said, still unable to comprehend how it was possible.