Denied to all but Ghosts (19 page)

“How long do we sit here, won’t we look a
little suspicious just sat here drinking coffee?”

“Thomas, that is what people do in hotels,
they sit around and drink coffee. However, I have a feeling that
our man is a smoker, let’s hope he needs a nicotine fix soon.”

They had only to wait another fifteen minutes
before the striking figure of Paul Slingsby walked into the lobby
from the lift and left the hotel by the main entrance.

“Shit!” cried Beckett, attracting the
attention of the hotel guests around him, “I know the bastard!”

“What?” insisted Cavendish, the inflection of
his concern clearly perceptible.

“He’s a bloody journo from London,” said
Beckett, still too loudly for Cavendish’s comfort.

“Then I suggest you make a hasty visit to the
cloakroom and await my summons.” Beckett self-consciously sloped
off to the men’s toilet. Undercover work, he concluded, was
definitely not his forte.

Cavendish waited for Beckett to disappear
before walking to the front entrance of the hotel. The journalist
looked a good deal smarter than the last time Cavendish had seen
him. He grudgingly conceded he looked very handsome.

The man named Paul wore clean jeans, blue tee
shirt and a plain grey jacket. He had obviously showered, as his
shoulder length dark hair still appeared to be damp. Cavendish took
a cigarette from the packet in his coat pocket and fumbled around
for a light. The journalist glanced his way but returned his gaze
to the events of the hotel’s arrivals and departures, habitually
scanning for some illusive story.

Cavendish put the cigarette in his mouth and
waited for the journalist to turn his attention back to him, as he
knew he would. When eye contact was established, Cavendish made a
beseeching smile to the journalist, the cigarette dangling
forlornly from his lips. The man nodded knowingly without speaking,
took a lighter from his pocket, and lit Cavendish’s cigarette.

“My thanks,” said Cavendish after taking a
long lazy draw on the cigarette, “a much better day than yesterday,
don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” replied the journalist absently,
“visiting the country?”

“No, just a business trip” replied
Cavendish.

“Sorry,” smiled the journalist, for the first
time taking an interest in the stranger, “I thought you were a
tourist, you know, the accent and all that.”

“I’m not German,” said Cavendish
accusingly.

“I didn’t say you were, my friend, no
offence.”

“None taken,” replied Cavendish. The man
stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“Have a nice day,” said the journalist by way
of a parting gesture. Even though they had never met, Slingsby was
certain that the man who had unofficially introduced himself was
the man Emily described as the intimidating German with whom she
had dined. His honed instincts told him that procuring the sword
was not going to be as simple as Emily innocently believed.

The Untersucher smirked as he watched the man
walk back into the hotel to rejoin his beautiful accomplice.
Cavendish returned to collect a grateful Beckett from the
toilet.

“Hell, Marchel,” complained the photographer,
“you can get locked up in this country for loitering around the
gents.”

They left the hotel, and walked up to the top
of Corn Street, which, Beckett informed Cavendish, was the heart of
the old city.

“I remember who the journo is, his name is
Paul Slingsby, a freelance, I met him at a photo shoot once,”
informed Beckett. “A photo shoot of what?” asked Cavendish
inquisitively.

“Oh, I can’t remember,” Beckett said
evasively, “I thought you’d be more interested in Slingsby than my
photo shoots.”

“Sorry to steal your thunder, Thomas, tell me
your story.”

“He’s an investigative journalist; he’s
always interested in cases of injustice and corruption. I’m sure he
would love to be the next Woodward and Bernstein, well, Woodward or
Bernstein, so it’s interesting that he’s latched on to Dr Spelman
in this particular instance, maybe he’s the one who has tipped her
off and knows all about the auction?”

“An interesting supposition,” commented
Cavendish. “Do you think he would recognise you?”

“Probably not, Marsh. Journos never generally
recognise photographers; we’re at the bottom of the food
chain.”

Beckett watched Cavendish lapse deep into
thought as they walked in silence towards Bristol Bridge. The
German did not like dealing with the likes of Slingsby, who
possessed the ability to penetrate Cavendish’s deceptions.

The sun broke through the cloud fleetingly as
they stopped on the bridge, leaned on the balustrade, and watched
the swans glide gracefully beneath the span.

“Still,” Cavendish announced as he emerged
from his reverie, as if assuming Beckett had been privy to his
private deliberations. “Nothing has intrinsically changed. We
follow the plan as it has been laid out.”

“And what plan is that?” asked Beckett.

“You go home, Thomas. I’ll contact you in a
few days. Be prepared for a trip away for a week or so I’d guess.
If you have any problems with Mrs Beckett give me a call and I’ll
have a word in her ear.” Beckett considered Cavendish’s directive.
He and Sue may have had their downs and then some more downs, but
he was not sure that she deserved the ‘word in her ear’
treatment.

“You always thought that Emily had been
tipped off though, didn’t you?” stated Beckett after a reflective
pause.

“Yes, I thought she had been tipped off by
someone inside the firm. What I had not considered was that she had
an accomplice. Is Spelman the heretic’s point of contact or is your
Mr Slingsby. Is Slingsby taking advantage of Dr Spelman in more
ways than one? How innocent is Dr Spelman?”

“To be fair,” defended Beckett, “she hasn’t
exactly done anything wrong has she? All she believes is that some
dodgy deal with an old sword is being done.”

“In my world, Thomas, the bad guys aren’t
necessarily bad in the eyes of your world, yet they are bad in the
eyes of my Inquisitorial Rules. The intriguing thing is, that as
far as I am aware, there is no sword up for sale.”

“So what’s the point of telling her that
there is?” asked Beckett, turning his head to face the angular
profile of the inquisitor.

“You will see, Thomas, all in good time,”
grimaced Cavendish as he dwelt upon the diminishing odds of pulling
off the infamous Didier ruse.

Saturday morning was and always had been a
day for optimism according to Thomas Beckett. Nobody could get you
on Saturday morning was his false philosophy, you could always put
off anything of consequence until Monday.

He sat on the back door step looking out onto
his garden whilst his two youngest children, Daniel and Antony,
watched TV in the front room. Fifteen-year-old Sarah was still in
bed as was his wife, Sue, who had worked a late shift the previous
evening. He had done little the previous day save for the necessary
domestic chores and mulling over the events of earlier in the week
and the way that Marchel Cavendish now dominated his life.

Many would question the blind dogged role he
assumed when with Cavendish and would question why he had remained
with him after the fright of the Simeon incident. He only had one
motive, to secure enough cash to allay Sarah’s fears about going to
university. To that end, he was resolved to endure what he must and
ask no questions.

He was realistic enough to know that his
input was negligible, save perhaps as a taxi service, but he
equally realised that Cavendish was hardly the sort of man to carry
around any loose baggage. Whatever his assigned role was, it
obviously suited Marchel Cavendish.

The aquilegia were coming into flower and the
white blossom on the pear tree was in full bloom, it was, even to a
gardening moron such as himself, a wonderful time of year. He had
drifted off into thoughts of shopping in the afternoon when he
heard his mobile ring. There was no thrill at the thought of a
photo assignment; instead, there was the anticipated excitement of
the prospect of Cavendish making contact.

“Good morning, Thomas. Hope I find you well
this beautiful morning?” asked Marchel Cavendish.

“Yes, thank you, Marsh.”

“Excellent. Not far from you there is a car
hire company on Hartcliffe Way, do you know it?”

“Sure, I know it.”

“Excellent. I have arranged for you to pick
up a Ford Galaxy. It should be available at ten thirty. It’s booked
in your name and is paid for; all you will need is your driving
licence. I would like you to pick me up at four o’clock from my
hotel. Is that all clear?”

“Bit short notice isn’t it?”

“Sorry, but events generate a momentum of
their own.” Cavendish hung up.

The Fates, or Cavendish, now dictated the
pace of Thomas Beckett’s life. He collected the Galaxy and parked
it on the road at front of his house. Daniel and Antony became
extremely excited at the presence of a new car, so too the teenage
Sarah, who stood next to it for far longer than was necessary in
the hope that her text messages were not in vain and that some of
her friends would see the new car parked in the street. Even Sue
Beckett was not immune to the potency of the new vehicle and was
more than happy when the whole family went shopping together. It
had required 'the word in the ear' from Cavendish to allay Sue
Beckett's misgivings about her husband going away for an
indeterminate length of time.

Whatever Cavendish had said certainly did the
trick, for throughout the remainder of that short day Sue Beckett
pampered and spoke to her husband in a way reminiscent of their
courtship. Beckett felt as if he was on a one-way suicide mission
into oblivion. He could suddenly empathise with the Kamikaze
pilots. Perhaps that was why his wife was so happy.

Come three thirty, after a late lunch and his
suitcase neatly packed by his wife, Beckett was given a grand send
off by his whole family, even a few of the neighbours waved as he
drove away, carried along with the emotional display of his family.
Sue’s delight at the prospect of his absence ad infinitum was
palpably manifest and he considered asking Cavendish what he had
said that was so agreeable to her. Yet he already knew the answer
he would get- none.

Cavendish was standing outside the hotel
wearing his omnipresent woollen coat and sunglasses, which the
weather certainly did not call for. The Galaxy pulled over to the
side of the road and the grinning driver stepped out to greet
Cavendish.

“What’s wrong with you, Thomas, only ten
minutes late, you must be in a hurry?”

“It took ten minutes to get over the
impassioned farewells; you never told me this was a one way
trip!”

“Laid it on a bit thick, did I? Ah well,
never mind, you’re all mine now, Thomas.”

“Bloody hell, I feel like I’ve just been
press ganged by Captain Bligh.” They mounted the Galaxy. Cavendish
was, as ever, meticulous in arranging his coat and adjusting his
seat to suit his long legs.

“Where to?” asked Beckett. “The fuel tank is
full and the Satnav is primed and ready to go.”

“Set a course for Stow-on-the-Wold, Mr
Beckett,” said Cavendish, enjoying a rare moment of flippancy.

“Aye, aye, skipper, slow ahead it is. That
is, after I’ve fart-assed around with this satnav.” Beckett was
pleased to see Cavendish playing along with him; it indicated that
he was in an easy frame of mind, which could only bode well for the
journey ahead.

Beckett enjoyed driving the Galaxy, for the
high driving position gave him an imperious feel over his fellow
weekend travellers. He took the roads north out of Bristol and felt
no compunction to ask anything about their destination until they
were well clear of the city.

“Why Stow-on-the-Wold, Marsh?” asked
Beckett.

“A timely question, Thomas. We are visiting a
true artisan, an artist and an alchemist of profound skill. We are
going to view Dr Spelman’s sword.”

“So you’ve found an Anglo Saxon sword for
her,” it was a statement rather than a question.

“Well done, Thomas, you are getting quicker
on the uptake, my presence must be brushing off on you. Although to
correct you, if I may, I have had a sword made for her.”

“Won’t it look a bit new?”

“Au contraire, Thomas, the alchemy involved
is in making the sword appear eleventh century. The sword was
forged the day after our meal with Dr Spelman; it has taken the
days since then to create a blade that will stand the perfunctory
scrutiny of an academic. The thing most in our favour is that Dr
Spelman obviously wants the sword to be genuine.”

“Has she been giving you much grief during
the past few days?”

“An extraordinary amount. I have received
various threats; most un-lady like at times, you would have been
shocked. I wondered if they were her words or Slingsby’s.”

“So you have had to stall her whilst the
blade was being made?”

“Yes, and I fancy I narrowly missed another
audience with your Mr Slingsby when I arrived early for a meeting
with Spelman.”

“Surely he knows you exist, Emily must have
told him about you?”

“Oh, we have already met. I went out to
assess him whilst you were hiding in the men’s room the other
day.”

“Why did you do that, bit stupid wasn’t
it?”

“Well, I didn’t say ‘hello, my name is
Marchel Cavendish, I am an inquisitor for a very discrete
organisation who happens to be on your case’. I suppose he has
worked out who I am concerning the Spelman connection. Whether he
sees our meeting as coincidence or planned is irrelevant, they
amount to the same thing. It is whether he raises his profile or
remains in the background that is of interest. The question is
this. Is it Slingsby who is pulling Dr Spelman’s strings?”