Denied to all but Ghosts (15 page)

“Hell no, Herr Cavendish,” Beckett smiled at
his passenger before continuing, “God knows why, but there is
something about you that is, well, fascinating and I’m victim to a
fatalistic, masochistic, nihilistic predisposition, which I think I
see a little of in you, but perhaps coming from opposite view
points. I do talk bollocks most of the time, by the way.”

Cavendish was taken aback by Beckett’s
succinct monologue. He knew Beckett was self-deprecating but even
so, his statement was insightful as it was unexpected. Cavendish
suddenly experienced a shudder of fear and self-doubt. He had a
morbid dread of friendship, a concept that conveyed weakness,
commitment and the potential of exposure to pain. He wondered if
his enforced layoff had somehow resulted in psychological
emasculation.

It had been arranged to meet on Wednesday
morning outside Cafe Snazerreir on the harbour side in Bristol,
weather permitting. It permitted in as much that it was a fine dry
day but a northeasterly wind kept the temperature firmly in single
figures even at eleven o’clock.

Cavendish sat at an outside chrome-plated
table wearing his ubiquitous long coat and heavy-framed sunglasses.
His scar seemed to grow from beneath the lens of his shades and his
blonde hair was swept back over his forehead.

Beckett was late. He strolled without
enthusiasm from the underground car park in Millennium Square and
passed the neo-classical Lloyds’ building before arriving at the
circular cafe adjacent to the harbour side. Cavendish was not
difficult to spot as he was sitting alone at one of the outdoor
tables.

“Good morning, Thomas, a decent spot as
Bristol goes, don’t you think?”

“Bristol is a beautiful city, you should
visit some of the dumps I’ve had to work in,” said Beckett
crankily. He actually did like the area but his mood following the
previous evening did not lend itself to defending the reputation of
his home city.

“You sound rather down, Thomas,” observed
Cavendish, as if implying such a disposition was highly
commendable.

“You’re not the one who had to sleep on the
sofa. We attended a parents’ evening last night. Apparently, it’s
my fault that the boy is lagging behind in his work. Am I a bad
parent, Marchel?” Cavendish handed Beckett a cardboard coffee cup
with the obligatory plastic lid.

“Drink this, Thomas, before it becomes cold.”
Beckett accepted the cup, held it in both hands, and adjusted his
body in the chair to put his back to the chill wind.

“How do I know if you are a bad parent? But
yes, you probably do lack something in the parenting department,”
offered Cavendish. “You probably try to compensate for your wife’s
aggressive manner. However, I would rather have you as a father
than the one I have.”

“What’s he like?” asked Beckett, keen to hear
about someone else who might share a similar situation, someone
else who was constantly in the doghouse.

“My Father is a serving officer in the
British Army, he has been in Military Intelligence for as long as I
can remember and he thinks he’s a bloody jet setting spy.”

“Why, because he travels the world, drives
fast cars and shoots people?”

“No, because he will fuck any woman that
moves.” A double whammy from the Cavendish arsenal of expletives
was Beckett’s pleasurable realisation that they must really be
treading on sensitive ground. Beckett took solace in Cavendish’s
angst.

“Don’t you get on with your father?” asked
Beckett.

“We get on very well, when I see him.
Everyone likes my father; he is the life and soul of any occasion.
You’d like him well enough. But he’s a bastard to my mother and for
that I admire him yet find him contemptible.”

“So Simeon Goldstein was not far off the mark
when he had a go at your father?”

“Thomas, Simeon knows of my father, and yes
there are several offspring that he has sired.”

“You mean you do have brothers, and or
sisters?”

“No, I have a half sister that I know of, but
I do not have a brother or sister,” said Cavendish
reflectively.

The pause that followed mirrored Beckett’s
uncertainly in pursuing the path they were currently following. He
had perhaps derived as much pleasure and reassurance from
Cavendish’s domestic situation as he was going to get. He had to
admit that he felt a lot better for having heard Cavendish’s
confessional.

“Sue has always been the one who has taken
care of the kids, the first two have turned out fine, that is
Sarah, she’ll be sixteen soon,” Beckett smiled lovingly at the
mention of his only daughter, “and Robert, who is at uni. It just
the last two boys who have caused problems.”

“Why is there such an age range between the
two groups of children?” asked Cavendish with genuine interest.

“Sue decided to stop taking the pill having
reached a certain age which coincided with her re-found religious
fervour. The result was Daniel, the consequence of too much cider
and a night of passion down in Somerset. Good job we didn’t follow
the fashion of naming him after the town he was conceived in, or
else he’d be called Weston Zoyland Beckett. Has a certain ring to
it, don’t you think?”

“Indeed it does, Thomas, indeed it does,”
smiled Cavendish, “and the other child?”

“Oh, Antony was just a mistake.”

“Are you not religious?” probed the Catholic
Cavendish.

“Hell no, opium for the masses. I’ve no
problem with other people being religious. All I know is that
religion bollocksed up my marriage.” Cavendish smiled
sympathetically at Beckett’s affirmation.

“Thomas, we must plan how we approach the
meeting with Dr Spelman tonight.” The change of subject was abrupt,
a facet of Cavendish that Beckett was slowly getting use to.

“And what precisely is my input. Do I hold
her whilst you beat her up with a stick of celery to obtain a
confession?” asked Beckett.

“Very droll, Thomas. I think you should
follow my lead.”

“Gosh Marsh, I would never have thought of
that, and there was me thinking I was going to do all the talking
whilst you sat there looking inscrutable. After all, look at my
startling success with the Montgomery kids.”

“Tonight, Thomas, we celebrate with a meal.
The wine will flow, tongues will be let off the leash and we will
play the perfect hosts. We want her relaxed and off her guard, if
possible. She may not directly reveal how she came to know of the
item she is so keen to obtain, yet she may give some intimation,
intentionally or not. I have learnt as much about the Doctor as I
possibly can at such short notice but I have to say it’s not a
great deal. You should, however, enjoy looking at her.”

“Don’t come that one again. I told you I
don’t undress women with my eyes, or whatever it was you said. And
how exactly do you know what she looks like?” Cavendish grinned
mischievously as he extracted a picture from the inside breast
pocket of his coat. He handed it over lazily to Beckett.

The portrait, according to Beckett's
professional opinion, was a copy of a studio shot, the likeness
that accompanied the publication of a book and could well be found
on the fly cover of a hardback copy. It showed the half-profile of
woman in her late twenties or early thirties. The picture portrayed
a face with pleasant symmetry, high cheekbones, professional make
up and smartly groomed long straight dark hair. Although perhaps
air brushed, the photo flaunted a beautiful woman. Beckett studied
the picture for some while and he considered that the evening might
not be a complete waste of time after all.

“I expect the picture is heavily touched up,”
Beckett announced, “it’ll be interesting to see what she looks like
in the flesh.” Beckett quickly corrected himself, “... in real
life.”

Cavendish expounded the academic’s CV. “Dr
Emily Sophie Spelman. Thirty-three years old. She’s an Oxford
academic who researches into the Anglo Saxon period. She’s had one
book published and various papers but has yet to achieve any
particular acclaim for her work. I have found it hard to gain any
significant data regarding her personality. I read such adjectives
as ‘ambitious’ and ‘hardworking’ yet in themselves such terms mean
very little, it could be applied to the majority of the population,
even you.”

“Thank you very much,” beamed Beckett.

“The question is ambition to achieve what? It
is the key to understanding her rationale. If I had to guess I
would say that she has reached a point in her career where she
requires a fillip.”

“Phillip who?”

“No, fillip what does, not a Philip who does.
I see no man in her life, thus academia still seems to be her
world. The discovery of a rare and or valuable Saxon object would
be a definite coup. Now if I wanted to shake up the world of the
firm I would use someone who fits Dr Spelman’s tenacious
background. The question is does she really know what the object
is, of how much has she been made aware? I have seen the auction
catalogue and the only item that she could possibly be referring to
is something that in the eyes of a layman would appear absolutely
worthless.”

“So what is it?” asked Beckett, now genuinely
intrigued after Cavendish had broadcast his theories.

“It is a piece of wood,” said Cavendish
dryly. Beckett’s frown was enough to encourage Cavendish to
continue. “The shaft of wood has a metal end attached. If I said
the metal end was an arrow head then you would get the
picture.”

“An arrow?”

“Bravo, Thomas, not just any arrow though, it
is the arrow that struck King Harold in the eye at the Battle of
Hastings.”

“No way!” exclaimed Beckett. Cavendish
offered no further explanation. “What are the chances of having the
arrow that poked his eye out?” asked an amazed Beckett.

“Every chance if someone decided to keep it
after the battle.”

“Come on Marchel, it could be any old stick
for all anyone knows.”

“Oh, you really are a doubting Thomas, aren’t
you? Do you really want to see the holes in my hands?”

“You know what I mean, Marsh.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. Do I have to run
over the whole provenance thing again?”

“It certainly sounds like it.”

Cavendish gave a theatrical sigh before
explaining. “All catalogue items in an auction will have been
validated by the Library, the arrow obviously is backed up by
provenance,” said Cavendish.

“Hearsay,” argued Beckett.

“It’s a good job you’re not at the auction;
you would just laugh your way through it.”

“Surely not every item?” asserted Beckett.
Cavendish cast Beckett his despairing, parental look.

“Are all the items really that crazy?”
Beckett paused before continuing. “Is there nothing intrinsically
valuable?”

“That depends on your definition of treasure.
What is more valuable, a diamond ring in a jewellers shop or the
ring worn by Jeanne d’Arc when she was burnt at the stake by the
perfidious English?”

“Before I met you my answer would have been
quite different,” replied Thomas thoughtfully.

“In our world, Thomas, provenance is
everything. I have seen the most apparently wretched objects bought
for millions purely because of the story they told.”

“I rather like that,” said Beckett, “one day
my old slippers might actually be worth something.”

“I am really looking forward to meeting Miss
Spelman tonight,” continued Cavendish.

“Doctor,” corrected Beckett.

“Why are you ill?” enquired Cavendish.
Beckett glanced across at Cavendish to explain his challenge.
However, he was cut short by Cavendish’s broad smile.

“My dear, Mr Cavendish. I believe you made a
funny. My company is obviously rubbing off on you. I must make a
note on Twitter.” The smile had not left Cavendish’s face as he
surveyed the water and watched a small cruiser pass the SS Great
Britain heading down towards the lock gates.

“You suddenly seem very pleased with
yourself, Marchel, is there something you aren’t telling me?”

“Sorry, Thomas. We are just reaching an
interesting point in the investigation, we are finally to meet the
person who has instigated the whole chain of events, don’t you find
that exciting?” Beckett thought of the face portrayed in the
picture that Cavendish had shown him.

“Yeah, I reckon you could be right, Marchel,”
said Beckett, unaware of the impact that Dr Emily Spelman would
make on his life.

The chill of the day heralded a cold evening.
Thomas Beckett had caught a taxi into the city. After the sofa
antics of the previous evening, he was glad that Cavendish had
booked him an hotel room for the night.

The taxi had dropped him off at the Centre
permitting him to walk the last few hundred yards to the hotel. He
enjoyed the centre at night and the cloud of the day had introduced
a prematurely dark evening. At this time of the day, the Centre was
not particularly busy, the Hippodrome audience were already seated
and watching their chosen show, and the youngsters would not be out
in force on this Wednesday evening.

He rounded the corner, heading for College
Green and looked towards the illuminated cathedral. The artist in
him always appreciated the way that city buildings were lit up at
night; it was both aesthetic and comforting. He pulled back his
jacket and shirtsleeve, revealing the second hand of his Rolex
watch, purchased with the proceeds following his first affiliation
with Cavendish. It was his treat before handing the remaining cash
to Sue and was the last he saw of the money, yet he felt a pang of
remorse at his self-assumed extravagance, which he quickly tried to
shrug off.