Denied to all but Ghosts (14 page)

During the short walk back to the car Beckett
avoided looking at Cavendish. He pointed his key fob at the Focus
and pressed the unlock button repeatedly to little effect.

“Would it not be quicker to put the key in
the lock, Thomas?” queried Cavendish. Beckett persisted with his
efforts, holding the key fob at various angles to the window and
dashboard before finally, a dull single thud from the driver’s door
locking mechanism endorsed Beckett’s grunts of encouragement.

Beckett climbed hurriedly into the car and
leaned across to open the passenger door. Cavendish lowered his
body into the car and meticulously wrapped the material of his long
coat around his legs. Beckett could not resist a quick glance at
Cavendish. He caught Cavendish staring at him and immediately
turned his head away.

“It’s alright Thomas, I’m not angry with
you.” Beckett peered at Cavendish.

“What do you mean?” asked Beckett.

“I mean that I’m not angry with you,” said
Cavendish evenly.

“I didn’t say that you were,” said Beckett
evasively.

“You didn’t have to say anything; I know what
you’re thinking. Drive on before the Montgomery clan wonder what
we’re up to.”

Beckett started the car and accelerated with
greater severity than he had intended and the gravel path could
tolerate. Gravel spewed from the front drive wheels and showered
the lawn and the parked Volvo.

“Anyway, you don’t know what I’m thinking,”
said Beckett.

“Yes I do,” countered Cavendish, peering in
the door mirror to verify Beckett’s efforts at pebble dashing the
old Volvo.

“So what was I thinking?” demanded
Beckett.

“You were thinking that I was angry with
you.”

“No I wasn’t,” replied Beckett more
vociferously than he had intended.

“You were thinking that Jasmine was very
photogenic and how well she would look through the view finder of
your camera.” Beckett pulled out onto the tarmac road that
signified, he hoped, a return to normality.

“No I wasn’t!” shouted Beckett.

“You always look at women like that,”
commented Cavendish.

“No I don’t!” protested Beckett. “You calling
me some sort of perv or something?”

“No, I find your appreciation of women very
refreshing. My world can be most misogynistic at times. Moreover,
no, I’m not upset with you, quite the contrary. You made my job a
lot easier.”

“I did?” asked a surprised Beckett.

“Yes, it made the interview much shorter that
I had planned, we cut to the chase very quickly. I cannot keep
brandishing my weapon at people. People will consider me a one
trick horse.”

Beckett laughed aloud as he steered through
the twisting lanes, partly in relief from not having incurred the
wrath of the Untersucher and also from the German’s misuse of the
English language.

“Why do you continually burst out laughing
for no apparent reason?” asked Cavendish, correctly assuming that
he was the source of Beckett’s merriment.

“You know, Cavendish, you really are a funny
bastard. The funny thing is you don’t realise it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Cavendish
suspiciously, turning to face his accuser.

“Well, ‘brandishing my weapon’, I mean.”
Beckett adopted a juvenile voice to repeat Cavendish’s words.

“What is wrong with that?” asked a flummoxed
Cavendish.

“What the hell do you think it sounds
like?”

“It sounds like I got my weapon out to show
people.” Beckett laughed again, more forcefully this time.

“Marchel, why don’t you try listening to
yourself occasionally?”

“Thomas, my English is very good, I will have
you know I studied the works of all the great English writers,”
said Cavendish indignantly.

“Yes, that’s your problem. You’re a little
bit too highbrow for us country boys. And by the way, it’s ‘one
trick pony’, not ‘one trick horse’.”

“Are you sure, Thomas?”

“Oh, I’m sure, Herr Cavendish. I’ve been
meaning to ask since earlier on, are you really bonkers or is it
all an act?” Beckett was feeling emboldened by his criticisms of
the Untersucher.

“Bonkers? Oh, you mean mentally deranged. Of
course it’s an act. It is an assumed role. I merely step into the
role that is required of me.” Beckett was not convinced.

“So what did you say to the young Montgomery
lad?” Cavendish did not reply immediately, a few hundred yards of
hedgerow sped by before he answered.

“I gave him some careers advice.”

“Careers advice?” asked Beckett
dubiously.

“That’s right; he is a good lad at heart, I
can see a bright future for him.”

“And what would that be?” asked Beckett.

“Ah, now that would be telling, but there is
certainly no love lost between Edward and the rest of the
family.”

“So why doesn’t he leave them?” asked
Beckett.

“You know families are not that straight
forward from your own experiences,” Cavendish was actually thinking
of his own. Beckett nodded his.

“So Edward wasn’t a suspect?”

“Not particularly, everyone is a suspect at
the moment but I cannot see a particular motive for him to betray
the firm. He does not seem idealistic or ambitious enough based on
the little talk I had with him. But I can’t have people questioning
me in public; I do have a reputation to uphold.”

Neither man spoke until they reached the
reservoir.

“Marchel?” asked Beckett who had been
deliberating whether now was a good time to start asking
questions.

“Yes, Thomas?”

“What did the kid mean when he said you were
at the last chance saloon?” Cavendish considered what he should say
to Beckett. His natural response would have been to say nothing,
yet Beckett’s dogged steadfastness following the Goldstein
interview had touched an underused part of the Cavendish psyche.
What he said he would never have said to anyone else, save perhaps
for one other person.

“My track record has been a little shaky of
late, Thomas. My success rate has been maintained, and that is the
key criteria to my assessment and rating but unfortunately there
have been a few complications, such as in Prague.”

“What happened?”

“Well, you may be surprised to learn that my
style can be rather confrontational at times.”

“I would never have guessed that, Marchel,”
said Beckett slyly.

“And so people do tend to get a little hot
under the shirt.”

“Collar, I think you’ll find, Marsh.”

“Are you sure?”

“Carry on, Herr Cavendish.”

“Several people died in Prague.”

“Died! I thought you investigated missing
dogs and ‘compromised auctions’. What is there for people to die
about?”

“You forget we are talking large amounts of
money within the organisation, millions of Euros. There is much
greed and corruption and it attracts a lot of the wrong sort,
people interested in making money out of the firm, abusing their
power and position. The firm is the home of the very wealthy.
However, one does not become wealthy by joining the firm. The
wealth comes first. There were some very nasty individuals in
Prague.”

“So who is Hugo Victor?”

“Victor was on the committee in Vienna who
reviewed my case concerning Prague. I guess he was there to keep an
eye on me, I am on probation following the hearing.”

“What actually happened in Prague?” asked
Beckett, not for a moment expecting a reply from the reticent
German. His suspicion was confirmed by Cavendish’s serene gaze. Yet
Cavendish was reliving his experiences in Prague on a bleak
winter’s day.

Even before he opened the door, Cavendish
knew something was wrong. The sight of Holger Ehlers’ terrified
face and damp crotch confirmed his fears as the young man seemed to
stare right through him at something horrific in the corner of the
room. The air of foreboding was palpable as he thrust Dagmar Klum
towards the couch where her bemused son had remained. Cavendish
twisted at the waist to discover the source of the room’s
affliction.

“
Hello, Marchel, don’t you know it is the
height of bad manners to interfere in a fellow Untersucher’s case?
Perhaps you don’t, you mongrels have no class.” Dieter Klauss sat
in the corner of the room on a wooden chair. He was leaning forward
and wafting his exotic 1912 Mauser pistol vaguely in the direction
of Cavendish.

In his early fifties, Klauss had aged well
like one of the fine wines from his extensive cellars in Saxony. He
was a tall man with the dark distinctive looks that he had
inherited from his father. He was every inch the proud Prussian
Junker and thought little of the likes of Cavendish, who was no
true German. He would take pleasure in killing the reckless
foreigner.

“
Aren’t you supposed to be ill in bed with
appendicitis, Dieter,” asked Cavendish calmly.

“
You are a gullible young pup, always
were. You’re playing with the big boys now. You really shouldn’t be
so keen to get involved with things you know nothing about.” Klauss
spoke quickly, barely able to contain his rage at being exposed for
what he was.

“
What have you been up to, Dieter?”
solicited Cavendish, fighting to control the effects of the
adrenalin unleashed by Klauss’ taunts.

“
Doing my job,” snarled the older
man.

“
Since when did stealing from the firm and
committing rape constitute our job?”

“
Watch your mouth, boy! I’d hate for you
to wet yourself like your gofer.”

“
Why the antique gun, Dieter?”

“
Don’t tell me you’re not carrying your
cowboy gun, Marchel.”

“
Actually Dieter, it’s a 1955 model, a bit
late for cowboys.”

“
So how do we settle this, Marchel? I
can’t have you going back and spoiling things for me, not when this
place has so much to offer.” He smiled sweetly at Dagmar.

“
I’m afraid I have to stop you. It’s my
duty.” Cavendish knew the likelihood of now stopping Klauss was nil
yet his calmness so close to death came as no surprise.

“
Duty! What the hell do you know about
duty! You have never served anyone except yourself! I’ve done more
for the firm than you ever will, so don’t you dare judge me,
boy!”

The occupants of the room became aware of a
scratching sound emanating from the far side of the door in the
corner of the room. The door suddenly burst open and a large
handsome black and tan German shepherd bounded purposefully into
the room, heading for the rug where Cavendish had earlier been
standing.

The dog looked suspiciously around the room
as she appraised the strangers responsible for her eviction from
her favourite room. Cavendish and Ehlers were quickly assessed as
being of no threat but that was not the case when Klauss become the
subject of her intelligent eyes. She crouched and began to bark
threateningly at the senior Untersucher.

Kurt Meyer sensed trouble and stood up from
the couch where he had been sitting beside his wife and hastened
towards his irate hound. “Blondie, no!” he ordered. However, the
dog’s threatening bark had now matured into a menacing growl.

“
Blondie, no!” repeated Meyer as he
reached for her collar. Before he could restrain her, Blondie leapt
up and hurled herself at the menacing presence of Dieter
Klauss.

“
Blondie...” Meyer said no more as the
authoritative crack of Klauss’ weapon punctured the room. The gun
fired three times, hitting the brave dog twice and Kurt Meyer
once.

Cavendish had not been idle. As soon as the
valiant Blondie had charged Klauss, he was delving desperately
inside his coat to extract his Python from its holster. Even as he
was grasping the handle of the revolver, he knew he was going to be
too late, for already Klauss had fired his first shot.

As he brought the revolver clear of his coat,
the second round had been discharged and as he was trying to bring
his weapon to bear the third shot was already becoming part of
legend. Klauss’ weapon was now pointing at him and he gave up
trying to align his revolver as he awaited the fourth discharge and
certain oblivion.

Yet the round was never delivered. Klauss’
weapon had jammed. A look of horror transfixed the Junker’s face as
Cavendish took careful aim at his chest and fired once.

“So you killed this Klauss chap?” asked
Beckett softly. He was shocked, not at what Cavendish had just told
him, but at his own dispassionate reaction to the narrative. He
honestly didn’t know what he felt; there was an illusory quality to
Cavendish’s story that mitigated reason. He simply had an image of
Cavendish playing the lead character in his favourite Western
movie, ‘Shane’.

“Yes,” replied Cavendish distantly, as if he
was still in the room in Prague.

“Shit, Marchel, but it was self defence,”
offered Beckett.

“His gun had jammed, he was defenceless,”
Cavendish’s voice was almost inaudible above the sound of the
engine.

“So why did you shoot him?” asked Beckett.
Cavendish thought his answer through carefully.

“I was angry. He had shamed Holger. He had
repeatedly raped a vulnerable woman and he killed a dog. I like
dogs. Oh, and he killed Kurt Meyer. It was him or me, an easy
choice really.”

“Jesus, Marchel. What happened to
Holger?”

“He’s undergoing therapy and psychological
evaluation. He’s currently persona non grata.”

“Why because he wet himself?”

“Perhaps. He could not handle Klauss’
corruption; he thought all Untersuchers were noble good guys.”

Beckett paused before asking his next
question. “Are you corrupt, Marchel?”

“Everyone becomes corrupt in time, Thomas,
yes I am corrupt but not in the way you imagine. Do you trust me,
Thomas?”