In the Blood (27 page)

“You know, the décor in my room reminded me of you the minute I opened the door,” Kapowski added.
 
“Lots of neutral colours, just like your suit.
 
So exactly how far away is ‘not really
’?
”

“Look, Julia,” Tayte said.
 
“I’d like to see you, but it’s not what you think.”

“But you
do
want to see me, right?”

“Yes I do, tomorrow if possible, but the truth is I need a favour.”

The call went quiet for a few seconds.
 
Then Kapowski said, “Okay, I’m still interested.”

“Great.
 
I’ve something I’d like to show you.”

Tayte knew Kapowski wasn’t about to let the conversation get all serious after a line like that, but it was out before he could stop himself.

“Easy there fella,” she said.
 
“I don’t know what you’ve heard about us Brooklyn girls...”
 
She was laughing in Tayte’s ear.
 
“But I’m sure it’s all true.”

By the time the call finished, Tayte was blushing like an over-ripe tomato.
 
He put his phone away and looked across the room to Amy who had been watching him intently, grinning like a schoolgirl.

“Don’t say a word,” Tayte said.

Tayte was back in his room at St Maunanus House the next time his phone rang.
 
He’d only been back ten minutes and the display told him it was almost 9pm.
 
Peter Schofield’s typically hyper greeting opened a floodgate of unpleasant memories along with the sudden realisation that it wasn’t just a bad dream.

Schofield had landed.

Tayte’s emotions sank with him onto the bed.
 
He couldn’t mask his disappointment.
 
“Oh, it’s you,” he said.
 
Everything about the man scraped at Tayte’s nerves, like a screaming dentist’s drill.

“Who were you expecting, big guy?” Schofield said.
 
After a pause he added, “Never mind.
 
Main thing is, I’m here and I’m raring to go!”

Tayte wondered where Schofield got his energy.
 
The only place Tayte wanted to go was bed.
 
“Look, Schofield,” he said.
 
“Seems we’re destined to work together on this.
 
I can’t pretend I’m happy about it, but there it is.”

“Yeah,” Schofield said.
 
“I had a message from Wally Sloane waiting for me when I cleared customs.
 
I know the score.
 
You’re running the show.”

Tayte was happy
that
much was clear.

“And, hey,” Schofield said.
 
“I’ve got no problem with that.
 
Just so you know.”

“Okay then,” Tayte said.
 
“I’ve got something for you when you get down here tomorrow.
 
I’ll be away most of the day, so you’ll have to go it alone ‘til I get back.
 
I’ll fill you in then.”

“Whatever you say, Jeff.”

Tayte had already concocted the assignment he planned to give Schofield.
 
Something that would keep him busy all day - keep him occupied and make him regret ever getting involved.
 
“I need all the churchyards in the area checked out,” he said.
 
“Start where you like.
 
Cover the gravestones and check out any local church records you come across.
 
I’ll e-mail you with the names and dates we’re looking for.”

“Already got ‘em,” Schofield said.

Tayte wasn’t surprised.

“I’m driving down first thing,” Schofield added.
 
“Got this cool car - very British.”

“You’re staying in London tonight?”

“Yeah.
 
Thought I’d check out the nightlife first.
 
Few drinks, ya know...
 
I’ll get some rest before I set off.”

Rest.
 
Tayte thought Schofield ran purely on adrenaline and annoying people.

“Don’t worry,” Schofield said.
 
“I’ll be there bright and early.
 
I’ll get straight to it.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Friday.

T
he envelope had arrived at Rosemullion Hall looking as innocent as the rest of the morning post.
 
It was addressed to Sir Richard Fairborne and the phone call Manning was about to put through to him in his study prompted him to reach into the breast pocket of his navy suit and take it out for another look.
 
He turned it in his hands then studied the Bodmin postmark for the umpteenth time, getting no further clue as to who the sender was.

Sir Richard Fairborne was the kind of man who did not lose.
 
When the last tin mines closed in Cornwall in the early 1990s, he was already well into his second career.
 
The tin market was all but over by 1985 and he’d seen it coming.
 
He’d kept employment going for as long as he could and he was there among the last to call it a day, but he’d been clever about it.
 
He was able to turn a profit right to the end, however small.
 
He’d kept things ticking over for a grateful community while he increasingly detached himself from the business.
 
The key then was to have other irons in the fire.
 
As one market dies, another emerges.

As a politician of retirement age, he’d put on a little weight and lost a little hair over the years, but those years had been good to him and he was ever mindful of the people who made him who he was.
 
He had never failed them; always fair and true to his word.
 
And his intent was staunch once fixed - however much that intent might be skewed at times by well-meaning others.
 
Systems fail.
 
Sir Richard Fairborne does not.

It was now late morning and Sir Richard had not long returned from London.
 
His study was a small private room containing a desk to sit at and little else that was not used to store books or papers.
 
It was the only place in the house where he could think and speak freely without fear of being overheard.
 
The room was on the ground floor to the front of the house, looking out towards garages that had been converted from the old stable block some years ago.
 
It was also the least distracting view in the house.

Sir Richard picked up the handset on his desk and pressed a button.
 
“Thank you, Manning,” he said.
 
He heard a beep as Manning dropped out.

The caller wasted no time.
 
“Do you have the document I sent you?”

Richard Fairborne felt his hackles rise to attention.
 
“I have it,” he replied with a level of stoicism that surprised him.
 
“And I’m at a loss to understand how it’s of any interest to me or my family.
 
You said you’d be sending proof.
 
Something I’d want to pay for.”
 
He opened the envelope and pulled out the contents, unfolding a crisp sheet of A4 photocopy paper bearing a scanned image of the last will and testament of James Fairborne.
 
He slapped it down on the desk.
 
“What you’ve sent me isn’t worth a penny.”

The amused laughter Sir Richard heard in response unsettled him.
 
Clearly there was more to it than was apparent.

The laughter stopped.
 
“You’re right,” the caller said.
 
By itself it’s worthless.
 
But look into James Fairborne’s brother, William Fairborne, and you’ll find that he never left America.
 
His descendants still live there today.
 
That’s who this American, Tayte, is working for.”

Sir Richard eyed the document, paying particular attention to the words ‘sole beneficiary’ and ‘William Fairborne’.
 
He began to see the angle.
 
Then his caller confirmed it.

“You’re no Fairborne,” the caller said.
 
“Trace your ancestry back two hundred years and you’ll find a liar who stole a baronetcy and a good man’s fortune by pretending to be someone he wasn’t.”

For the first time in Sir Richard Fairborne’s life he had no immediate answer.
 
His mind was busy working out the implications, forcing a silent pause.
 
Instead of a defensive strike that negated the blackmailer’s weapon, the best he could manage was, “This is absurd!”

“Is it?
 
I doubt the papers will think so.
 
They just love a story like this.
 
It’ll do wonders for your political career - your
Lordship.
 
Not to mention how William Fairborne’s real descendants will take the news.
 
Just think about it.
 
Can you really believe they’ll just let it go?
 
That’s their house you’re living in.”

Sir Richard’s breath caught in his chest.
 
He knew the caller was right.
 
If what he claimed could be proven so easily then he would be ruined.
 
The family would be shamed and the hereditary peerage would be lost forever.
 
Then the Press would carve him up; his political career would die a quick and ugly death.
 
On top of all that, there would be a law-suit to fight and with so much at stake it would be a costly battle with no certainty of a favourable outcome.
 
It was not a path upon which he wanted to tread.

“So what do you plan to do with this knowledge,” he said.

“I don’t plan to do anything with it.
 
You’re going to pay me a considerable sum of money to ensure that I
don’t
do anything with it.”

“And what about the American?
 
He called here today.”

“I know.
 
Don’t worry about him.
 
I have Mr Tayte on a leash.”

“I won’t pay a penny until he’s taken care of.”

Sir Richard bit his tongue.
 
He couldn’t bear to listen to himself, unable to believe what his own words were condoning, even bidding, this low-life to do.
 
But Sir Richard Fairborne was a winner.
 
Sir Richard Fairborne did not fail, and on this matter there was no other acceptable outcome.
 
At any cost...

“If I’m to go through with this,” he added, “then I need assurances.
 
I can’t have anyone else finding out.”

“He’ll be taken care of before we conclude our business.”

“Does anyone else know about this?”

“No one.
 
I’m a strictly
private
enterprise.”

“Don’t call me again until it’s done.”

Sir Richard hung up, suddenly feeling his age for the first time in his life.
 
His hands were shaking as he pushed his chair away from his desk.
 
He didn’t dare try to get up yet.
 
His only thought was that he could not fail.
 
He would do whatever it took to beat this.
 
The family had to come first.
 
Lose now and he would lose everything.
 
His entire life would have been in vain.

Sir Richard Fairborne was noticeably pale when he returned to the drawing room at Rosemullion Hall.
 
Celia and Warwick were there, waiting.
 
He approached slowly, his thoughts locked in repetition like an endless-loop recording, playing back his limited options and the unthinkable deeds he’d just sanctioned.

A man’s life to keep a secret...

Sir Richard arrived between the pair of yellow settees without making eye contact with anyone.
 
He looked up from the rug in front of the fireplace, first to Celia, then to Warwick where his eyes paused.
 
“Leave us, would you.”
 
It was not a question.

Warwick was about to go when Celia said, “It’s all right, Richard.
 
He knows.”

Sir Richard sighed into the settee opposite them, too drained to argue the matter.
 
The letter from the blackmailer was prominent in his hands, drawing their eyes.
 
He slid it onto the coffee table.
 
“This arrived earlier,” he said.
 
“I’m afraid the call I received the other day was not without foundation.”

“What does it say?” Celia asked.

Warwick edged forward, his eyes fixed on the envelope.

“Not much.
 
It looks just like any other last will and testament.
 
But throw in a few other facts that are easily proven and it says more than enough.”