At first, Capshaw had derived a sense of satisfaction from his close connection with such a notorious family as the Maitlands, but as time went on and Capshaw's own wealth and influence had grown he became less dependent on the relationship with the brothers. Boris and Karl, however, had seen things a different way. With Capshaw's wealth and seemingly legitimate business connections they found a new outlet for their own criminal activities. Capshaw was able to provide a legitimate front for some of their less than savoury dealings, and it wasn't long before he had become an integral cog in the wheel that represented their world of crime and wrongdoing. By making sure Capshaw was deeply embroiled in a host of illegal transactions they had made sure he would remain loyal to their cause. The chances of Malcolm Capshaw ever betraying the Maitlands had been reduced to zero.
Now, as the green of the countryside began to give way to the grey of the city, and the leaves of the treetops replaced by the rooftops of the suburbs of London, Malcolm Capshaw wondered just what the day would bring. He knew Boris Maitland was unhappy with the fact that the survey team had unearthed the body of Hogan, though how he could have indemnified against that possibility was anyone's guess. Knowing that the prize they sought had to be in quite close proximity to Hogan's burial place must have meant there was a strong possibility that the body would have been found first. It was plain bad luck that Cutler's team had blundered upon the grave first; it could so easily have been the other way around. Capshaw knew that either way, Cutler and his team would have to be `dispensed with' at some point in the operation. Finding Hogan meant that Walter Graves would have his work cut out keeping a lid on the discovery of the body until Cutler had served his purpose. That was the problem he knew the Maitlands wanted to discuss with him that day.
Baines the driver suddenly broke into his thoughts.
“We're almost there, Mr. Capshaw.”
Capshaw abandoned his thoughts and turned to look out of the window. Sure enough, the entrance to the Maitland's home was coming up on the right. Baines slowed the car and turned into the entrance gates to the mansion. He brought the car to a standstill at the closed wrought iron gates and pressed a button on the intercom panel attached to one of the gate's two supporting pillars. After announcing their arrival, a camera atop the left hand gate swung to take in the view of the car and its occupants, and the gates swung open, allowing them entry. Gravel scrunched beneath the wheels of Capshaw's Bentley as Baines drove along the long sweeping tree-lined drive that led up to the Maitland's home. Built originally in the nineteenth century as a sanatorium for the wealthy, complete with lake and boathouse, Dangerfield Hall had been the home of the Maitland family since old Samuel Maitland had bought it as a ruin soon after the end of the Second World War. He'd invested much of the ill-gotten gains of his criminal enterprises into renovating and improving the old sanatorium until it had assumed the imposing proportions of a neo-gothic mansion. Even today, his grandsons were perpetually adding to and improving the various wings of the twenty-five bedroom hall.
As the Bentley drew nearer to the hall itself, the driveway opened up, becoming wider and ascending a gentle incline. Beautifully kept gardens swept outwards from the verges of the drive, the grass a deep emerald green and cut as short as a bowling green. Occasional trees broke up the view, giving the observer the impression of being far from the city, deep in the English countryside as opposed to the reality of being only fifteen miles from the centre of the city. A pair of peacocks was strutting across the grass to the left of the car as the Bentley swung in a wide arc at the end of the drive to pull up in front of the steps that led up to the main entrance of Dangerfield Hall. Baines applied the brakes and the car came to a graceful halt, the tires quietly crunching the gravel beneath them. Capshaw's driver was out of the car as soon as the engine died, and opened the door for his employer to exit the vehicle.
Capshaw stepped out into the fresh air, breathing in deeply as he stretched his arms and legs after the long journey from his own sanctuary in the country. Compared to this place, however, even he was forced to admit that his own home in Stratford was small by comparison. Nevertheless, he preferred it to what he thought of as a rambling old pile of masonry from a bygone era. Stratford had class after all!
Baines had no need to ring the doorbell on Capshaw's behalf. As the two men ascended the steps that led to the imposing double doors fashioned in oak, the doors swung open to reveal the person of Howard Mallory. Employed by the Maitlands for as long as Capshaw could remember, Mallory had at one time been the chief enforcer for the criminal family. Anyone who had ever fallen foul of the family's temper would have had good reason to fear Howard Mallory. An ex-professional boxer, he'd left the ring under a cloud when a scandal broke in respect of the alleged `fixing' of certain bouts. “Mr. Boris and Mr. Karl are expecting you Mr. Capshaw,” he announced as Capshaw crossed the threshold of the hall. “They're in the library.”
“I know my way thank you, Howard,” Capshaw replied. “Perhaps you could take Baines here to the kitchen and fix him up with a drink and a sandwich.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Capshaw,” Mallory replied, motioning to Baines to follow him. As the two men disappeared through a door at the far end of the entrance hall Capshaw took a deep breath and headed in the opposite direction. The door to the library stood off to the left of the hall. His footsteps echoed, announcing his progress as he walked across the highly polished stone floor.
As he approached the door to the library a voice from within said, “Come in, Malcolm, we've been waiting for you.”
Capshaw pushed the heavy library door open and walked tentatively into the vast room that lay beyond. He'd never failed to be impressed by the Maitland's library. Row after row of books, many leather-bound antiques of great value stood side by side with more modern tomes, reflecting the family's eclectic taste when it came to literature. The brothers were well-read, highly educated, and could hold an intelligent discourse on almost any subject one could name. Criminally minded they might be, illiterate they most definitely were not.
Boris was leaning against the beautifully restored Edwardian fireplace. In colder weather a log fire would have been burning in the grate, today was warm, and no flames welcomed Malcolm Capshaw as he walked into a decidedly chilly atmosphere.
“Hello, Malcy” announced the voice of Boris's younger brother Karl, who sat cross-legged in a luxuriously padded leather armchair at the far side of the library, a goblet of brandy warming in the palm of his hand. Despite the hour, it was no surprise to see Karl with alcohol in close attendance. His alcoholism was an open secret between those who knew the family well.
Malcolm Capshaw hated the familiarity of the name that Karl addressed him by; even Boris always used his full given name. Not wanting to antagonise Karl however, he let it pass without comment.
“Morning, Boris, Karl.” He spoke as confidently and cheerfully as he could.
“Come and sit down, Malcy,” Karl ordered. “I think we've got a problem.”
“A problem?” asked Capshaw. “I've no idea what you mean, Karl.”
“Oh, but I think you do, Malcolm, my old friend,” said Boris, slowly and with a hint of menace in his voice that Capshaw had only heard once or twice before in his life, and never delivered in his direction. “Now be a good boy and do as Karl asked you. Sit!”
Like an obedient dog under orders from his master, Malcolm Capshaw sat in the chair facing him, opposite Karl Maitland, and waited for the anticipated interrogation to begin.
Chapter 21
“So, Malcy boy,” Karl Maitland sneered. “You still fucking that neat little whore of a secretary of yours?”
“I thought we were here to talk business, Karl, not discuss my sex life,” Capshaw retorted.
“You know Karl always gets down to the important things in life first,” Boris laughed. “Anyway, it was your sex life that nearly got you into big trouble in the first place wasn't it, Malcolm, and who supplied the lawyer who handled the negotiations
with that last little whore and got you off the hook?”
“Look, I know you helped me back then, and I'm grateful for that, Boris, you know I am, but what I get up to with Charlotte is my business and mine alone, do you understand?”
“Of course it is, Malcy,” Karl interjected with a sneer on his face. “I just wondered what it would be like to spend an hour or two in close company with your Charlotte. Nice tight little body, great figure, good tits. How about you fix us up for an evening's entertainment? Me and Boris wouldn't mind a piece of that, would we, brother?”
“You bastard,” Capshaw shouted at Karl. “Charlotte may be a whore, but she's my whore and a bloody good secretary as well, and I'm not sharing her with you and your brother, is that clear?”
“Well, well now. Do I detect an ounce of feeling there, brother? Can it be possible that Malcy here actually likes little Charlotte a bit more than his usual tarts?”
“I've told you, Karl, Charlotte's not for sale, so let's drop it and get down to whatever you asked me to come all this way for, shall we?” said Capshaw, trying to deflect the conversation away from the uncomfortable subject of Charlotte and his sexual relationship with her. He knew that if the brothers applied enough pressure, he'd probably be forced to try to convince Charlotte to sleep with them. He was well aware that he wielded sufficient power and influence over his secretary that if he insisted, she would grudgingly go along with any such arrangement, but would resent him for forcing her into such a position. Charlotte knew far too much about the hidden side of Capshaw's business enterprises for him to risk any such resentment that might lead to a betrayal of confidence. Charlotte might be good in bed and subservient to his will in that department, but she was intelligent, and he couldn't take the risk of doing anything that might destroy the employer/employee bond that existed between them. Not only that, but Malcolm Capshaw couldn't bear the thought of Boris and Karl pawing and enjoying the body of the girl who he thought of as his own personal property.
“Hey, calm down, Malcy,” urged Karl. “I'm only joking.”
Capshaw didn't believe him for a moment.
“That's enough,” said Boris Maitland, his voice changing to a brisk and businesslike tone. “Forget what Karl said. We can get any girl we want, any time we want, so why should we want your leftovers, eh? You keep your Charlotte to yourself old chap. Karl, shut up about it, we need to be together about we're doing. I will not tolerate any petty squabbles, is that understood?”
Karl Maitland simply shrugged and nodded in the direction of his elder brother. Malcolm Capshaw nodded to Boris who now left his position by the fireplace and took a seat at the highly polished antique Italian walnut table in the centre of the library and motioned for the others to join him.
“Listen, Malcolm. We've waited a bloody long time to get our hands on what is rightfully ours. Granddad went to a lot of trouble to make sure that it was well hidden, and what came afterwards was just bloody bad luck. How was anyone to expect that they'd all end up like they did? If he'd lived, Dad would have done just what we're doing. It's ours, and we're damn well going to have it, just you remember that. You and Graves are being paid a fucking fortune to carry out this little treasure hunt, and nothing, I repeat, nothing had better go wrong. Is that clear?”
Capshaw had nodded, his mouth dry, unable to speak.
“If anything does go wrong and we lose it, then I'll hold you and Graves personally responsible Malcolm, do you understand?” Boris said.
Another nod from Capshaw signified his understanding. He didn't dare make a sound, knowing that his voice would betray his fear.
“Hogan died over sixty years ago. I agree that it's unlikely that he'd be identified quickly if the cops did become involved, but I can't take that chance. At the first sign of Graves losing control, or of these fucking surveyors screwing the operation then we get rid of the lot of them straight away, Graves as well if necessary. I've nothing else to say to you, Malcolm, except is that all quite clear?”
Capshaw gulped and nodded, still not yet confident that his voice wouldn't betray his fear.
“Will you answer the man for God's sake?” Karl snapped. “Or have you lost your tongue, lover boy?”
“Yes, Boris, it's quite clear. I know what has to be done,” Capshaw suddenly blurted out, his voice returning in one splendid moment of bravado as he directed his answer to the elder Maitland, ignoring Karl's sneering. “Now, if there's nothing else I'd like to get back to Stratford as soon as I can.”
An hour later the three men emerged from the library. Capshaw's brow was coated in the residue of the sweat that the conversation had induced in him. His armpits were damp; his shirt felt as though it were stuck to his back. The two Maitlands had managed to make Capshaw feel more uncomfortable than he could ever remember feeling. Most of the conversation had centred on the discovery of Hogan's body. Boris was concerned that Graves might be losing control of the situation in Glastonbury; that Cutler and his people might discover the truth or go running to the police, or both. As he'd pointed out, if Hogan's remains were to be exhumed and identified then the whole enterprise would be placed in jeopardy.
Karl had joined in by suggesting that the time had come for Cutler and his people to be eliminated. They were already a liability and why should Graves be trusted when he said that Cutler would keep silent for five days? All of them knew that the survey team would have to disappear at some time, so why not sooner rather than later?
Capshaw had reiterated his faith in Graves and his abilities, and urged the brothers to be patient. Plans had been laid by Graves that would make the eventual demise of the Strata Survey Team appear to be no more than a tragic accident. They still needed the team and their ground penetrating radar, and moving too soon to eliminate them would be counter-productive. He urged the Maitlands to trust Graves; he was an expert after all, that's why they were paying him so much.
So the meeting ended, and Boris Maitland had summoned Mallory with instructions to order Baines to bring Mr. Capshaw's car to the door. Ten minutes later a much relieved Malcolm Capshaw sat back in the plush leather rear seat of the Bentley and allowed himself a large sigh of relief. The morning had been bad, but not as bad as he supposed it might have been.
The car swished out of the Maitland's driveway, the tires kicking up a small amount of gravel before they took a firm grip on the tarmac of the main road outside, and Baines pointed the Bentley back in the direction they'd approached from. Capshaw relaxed a little, knowing that he'd soon be back in Stratford, in an environment where he was the master, though as the wheels ate up the miles beneath him, the last mocking words spoken by Karl as he'd pulled away from the front of Dangerfield Hall echoed in his head.
“Say hello to that little whore Charlotte for me, Malcy boy, and next time you put your hands on that tight little body, give her one for me!”
Somehow, Capshaw knew that he hadn't heard the last of the younger Maitland's lust for Charlotte Raeburn, and that, more than the worries about what was happening in Glastonbury, gave him greater cause to be anxious. After all, Glastonbury was business, but Charlotte was personal!
Chapter 22
“Sounds to me like our Mavis chose the wrong profession, eh, Boss?” quipped Winston as he drove towards their rendezvous with Graves. “The old dear should have been a private eye, she's a veritable Miss Marple, don't you think?”
“Don't let Mavis hear you referring to her as an `old dear'. She'll kill you,” Cutler joked in reply.
“Hey, man, I think she's great to have found out all that info in a short time,” Winston went on.
“Seriously though, Joe, aren't you a bit worried by what she told you?” asked Sally, who felt a little unnerved herself after Cutler had brought them up to date with Mavis's findings.
“I'd be a liar if I said no, Sally,” he replied. “It looks as if by taking the job from Capshaw I may have signed us all up to a whole load of trouble. If I have then I apologise right now, and if either one of you w
ants to quit and get back to Cheltenham that'll be fine with me.”
“I ain't goin' anywhere, boss man,” was Winston's instant reply. “What you gonna do without me if you go gettin' yourself into trouble now, you answer me that?”
“And you, Sally” asked Cutler. “I'd understand if you wanted to go home and sit this one out. Mavis could use the company in the office.”
“Are you kidding, boss?” she came back at Cutler without hesitation. “Do you think just because I'm a woman I've got no sense of adventure? This could be big, bigger than any of us can imagine. Okay, so there might be an element of danger in it somewhere, but I'm not going to run away and leave you two to face Graves and Capshaw's machinations on your own.”
“Good for you, Sally girl,” said Winston, taking one hand from the steering wheel long enough to drape it around Sally's shoulder and give her a one-handed hug.
“You're sure this is what you want to do?” asked Cutler seeking a final reassurance from Sally. “You're not just doing this out of some weird sense of loyalty or bravado, or feminist empowerment?”
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