Free In the Blood by Steve Robinson

the FBI; at hearing Tayte’s accent they had been keen to engage him in conversation seemingly just to impart this information.   He took a slow step beyond the terrace, leaving the cool shelter of the faux ship’s sail that canopied over it, lashed to imitation masts.
    He was facing the river, comfortably fed and slouched with his hands in his pockets, jacket resting loosely through his arm.   Before him, a short but lively beach ran to clear water that was turquoise under a strong sun barely past its zenith.   Children played at the water’s edge, monitored by their parents, and further out, the river was active with the mid-week sailing fraternity; a melee of white sails gently aslant in a soft breeze that was barely there.   The sun felt hot on Tayte’s face.
    Although not a great walker by preference, he found the stroll to Helford Passage almost as good a tonic as his lunch.   Along the way he’d passed the hamlet of Durgan, which consisted of a cluster of stone cottages surrounding an old school house at the edge of a small shingle beach by the river.   He’d spent a few minutes looking up into the sub-tropical gardens of Glendurgan while he was there, but those scant minutes were too few to do justice to the exotic beauty that was two hundred years in the making; the giant camellias and magnolias, now resting in preparation for next year’s show, when they would once again exhibit in all colours from white to deepest crimson.
    Tayte strolled onto the beach towards a metal railed gangway that arched onto the river to a floating pontoon.   An unusual catamaran approached, and to his right, at the top of the beach, level with the gangway, a sky blue kiosk advertised ‘Ferry Boat Hire’.   Tayte went closer.   Shingle and sand stirred and sank, crunching beneath his loafers.   He glanced at the operating times, taking nothing in.   Then he proceeded towards the pontoon which rocked as the catamaran arrived and moored up alongside it.
    Tayte watched a cheery-looking couple dressed in matching forest-green walking garb disembark and he wondered what it must be like to feel that close to someone.   As soon as they were on the pontoon, they extended their walking poles in perfect unison and linked arms before setting off towards him.   The boat hands’ attire was oddly conflicting, he thought: one dressed in black, the other in a bright blue t-shirt.
    The man in black called out to Tayte.   “You going across?”
    Tayte waved a dismissive hand.   “No thanks.   Maybe some other day.”
    He watched the ferry operators tie off the craft, then they followed after the walkers.   A lunch-time lull, Tayte supposed.   He smiled politely as they passed, all heading for the inn.   Then his gaze wandered back to the start of the coastal path, wondering as he set off towards it, whether his donation to the church of St Mawnan had been money well spent.
     
    When he arrived back at the church, Tayte got the impression that the Reverend Jolliffe had been standing there in the south doorway all this time, just admiring the view.   He was exactly where Tayte had left him a little over two hours ago.   He was all smiles as Tayte approached along the path and Tayte perceived the news to be good.
    “Lady Fairborne has been very accommodating,” Jolliffe said, his face beaming.   He moved out from the doorway to greet Tayte, who returned his smile.
    “I was lucky enough to be able to speak with her in person,” he continued.   “Did you have a good lunch?”
    “Yes, thanks,” Tayte said.   “I took your advice.   Good call.”
    Jolliffe stooped and pulled a tuft of grass out from the gravel.   “Lovely down there on a day like this.”   He scanned the path for further unwanted intrusions.   “I’m overdue a visit myself,” he added absently.
    Tayte tried to catch Jolliffe’s eye, raising his brows expectantly, urging him to continue.
    The reverend stood up again, still smiling.   “I am