Denied to all but Ghosts (29 page)

“I’d like you to come with me, Paul; I have
something to show you.” Brad beckoned with the gun for Slingsby to
extricate himself from the bed. He slowly pulled the quilt to one
side and slid out of the bed.

“Please, Mr Slingsby, you have an admirable
body, but please do put your pants on.” Slingsby hastily pulled on
his trousers and felt better for concealing his nakedness, a
strange reassurance had he been in a position to appreciate it.
Brad indicated with the gun that he wished Slingsby to head for the
bedroom door. “Kindly remain where you are, Miss Spelman.”

“Doctor, if you please,” said Emily defiantly
from the assumed sanctuary of the bed.

“Oh, I do please, Doctor, and you could
certainly please me,” replied Brad. He stooped low, with one hand
he bundled up Emily’s clothes, and threw them out through the open
bedroom door. He returned to the corner of the room and picked up
the suitcase before ushering Slingsby out of the room at gunpoint.
Emily heard the turn of a key in the door, audibly informing her of
her incarceration.

Slingsby led the way downstairs and along the
hallway towards the kitchen until he approached a small door in the
sidewall beneath the stairs. Brad gesticulated that Slingsby should
open the door. Before him, a dark stairway descended into a
basement.

Slingsby padded carefully down the stone
steps into darkness, the steps felt cold and frightening against
his bare feet. He trembled with fear as he sank into the black
void. As he progressed, the nightmarish gloom of the unknown
embraced him like a cloak and he placed his hand against the
right-hand rough hued stone wall for reassurance. Brad threw a
switch and a harsh unshaded light bulb flooded the space. Slingsby
blinked and shielded his eyes against the punishing glare. The
cellar was smaller than he imagined and appeared to be dry but
still possessed a dank, subterranean muskiness. It was clearly a
laundry room; a washing machine and drier were plainly visible in
the unflinching light.

“I’d like you to take a look in the freezer,
Paul and tell me what you think.” Slingsby tried to control his
racing thoughts at what might be in the chest freezer, the only
thing he could do was comply with Brad’s instructions. Slingsby
walked slowly over to the freezer and trod on a sharp object lying
on the floor. He howled a cry of pain that was disproportionate to
the injury inflicted by the unseen screw but which was wholly
consistent with the physical fear his body and mind were
experiencing. He paused before opening the lid. “Come on, we don’t
have all day, Dr Spelman is upstairs alone and is waiting for
you.”

Reluctantly he raised the lid towards the
wall. He felt a juddering sense of relief when he realised that the
freezer was empty save for a robust lining material of some
description.

That was the last conscious thought that Paul
Slingsby took as he was struck on the back of his head by a heavy
object. He saw the phenomenon of a brilliant white light followed
by stars before his eyes as his legs began to buckle; his mind
momentarily became a stew of expressionless introspection. As he
began to crumple to the floor, he felt himself lifted and pushed
into the freezer. Brad looked gleefully down at Slingsby
semi-conscious body. “You know, Paul, I thought I’d find this
difficult, but Jack Shit, it’s easy.” Brad had secured a silencer
to the gun and pointed it at Slingsby’s slumped body before firing
five shots.

Life had technically fled Slingsby’s body by
the time the third shot struck home, but Brad really did like to
make full use of the reinforced lining in the freezer. He unscrewed
the silencer from the gun and closed the lid on the regretful life
and career of Paul Slingsby. Brad turned slowly around to face the
staircase. Whilst firing the first shot he had become aware of an
engulfing shadow created by someone descending into the cellar. He
looked up and saw the silhouetted figure of a naked woman standing
half way down the steps. He lapsed into a conspiratorial grin of
satisfaction.

Monday morning slowly came into focus and
Beckett’s eyes were drawn towards the white door at the end of his
room, lit by the subtle light that filtered through his hotel room
curtains. He had an instant, vague notion that not all was well
with the world. At first, he thought he had been involved in a
blazing row with his wife. He then realised that he did not feel
well. His headache increased in intensity with his growing
consciousness and the more he struggled to wake, the more wretched
he felt.

“How are you feeling, Mr Beckett?” asked a
half-moon bespectacled man. Beckett’s torpid mind was not his to
control and his eyes rebelliously focused on the bizarre sight of
the tufts of hair on either side of the man’s balding head and the
forest of hairs that emanated from his ears.

“I’m Dr Hanratty. How are you feeling now?”
Beckett made no response as he tried to gather his thoughts but
found only vagueness and pain in his tortured mind.

“Thomas, it’s Marchel, can you hear me?”
Beckett turned his head towards the source of the familiar voice
whose identity remained elusive. He smiled weakly in recognition
that someone was attempting to communicate yet lacked the faculty
to respond coherently.

“Thomas,” continued Cavendish, “you have been
drugged; Dr Hanratty has been taking care of you. He assures me
that you should make a full recovery.” Beckett failed to make any
acknowledgement; already his mind had given up the struggle to
function effectively and deemed it prudent to return to a state of
unconsciousness.

Cavendish took the Doctor’s arm and steered
the portly physician in the direction of the bathroom away from
Beckett’s bed.

“Is he going to be alright, Doctor?” he
quietly asked Hanratty.

“He should be. I have tended to him and all
he needs to do now is rest. How much drug was he given?”

“I don’t know, Doctor, I was not here, I
suggest you ask the woman who did it.”

“Oh, how most unusual, but a lot of strange
things happen in this town during the Spring Festival. You really
wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen.” The doctor silently
contemplated his memories of the previous evening with a shake of
the head before continuing. “Rohypnol and the likes are often
associated with being a date rape drug. I assumed he had been
involved in some sort of, um, how do we say, ‘boy on boy action’?”
Cavendish smiled at the thought of Beckett being involved in such a
situation.

“No, Thomas is not that way inclined. He was
working with me on firm business. Be sure to address your bill to
the appropriate party.”

“Oh, indeed I will, Herr Cavendish; I thought
I was doing you a personal favour. Now the cost the consultation
has increased considerably!”

The doctor gathered his traditional black
leather case and made for the bedroom door. Cavendish looked
thoughtfully at Beckett, who lay still on the bed as he drifted off
back to sleep. He wondered if he should be more assertive in
correcting the doctor’s initial interpretation of the scenario he
had been summoned to.

“Did you think that I’d drugged him,
Doctor?”

“Well, Herr Cavendish, it did cross my mind,
if you don’t mind me saying so. When a visiting Untersucher of your
reputation invites one to a bedroom where his ‘partner’ has been so
obviously drugged, one does tend to leap to the obvious conclusion.
I hope I have not offended you in anyway?”

“No you haven’t, Doctor, thank you for
coming, is there anything I should do?”

“He’ll feel groggy all day but should feel a
lot better tomorrow after a restful day in bed. I don’t know how
much drug he was given, he may suffer amnesia so whatever happened
he may not remember.”

“Was he assaulted?” asked an inquisitive
Cavendish.

“You say you found him in bed, well I assume
that he got in by himself or someone helped him. As for rape, well
there are no physical signs of assault, as for him abusing anyone;
I’d say he was hardly in a fit state to do anything. Keep an eye on
him, he will wake periodically and then doze off again. Keep him
well watered when he does awake.”

The Doctor started to open the bedroom door
when Cavendish spoke.

“By the way, Doctor.”

“Yes?” Hanratty asked, peering over the top
of his glasses.

“I’m not German,” announced Cavendish.
Hanratty continued to observe Cavendish for a few seconds whilst
standing in the half-open doorway.

“Your prerogative, I suppose, but I’d seek a
second opinion. Good day to you.”

Cavendish took off his coat, folded it neatly
and put it on top of Beckett's suitcase, which still held most of
the clothes his wife had packed for him for the weekend trip. He
sank deliberately and slowly in the room’s solitary armchair,
adjusted his shoulder holster and extended his legs so that they
rested on the heels of his shoes. He consciously stretched the
muscles of his legs and tensed his whole body to fight off the
effects of fatigue. The previous day had been long and without
respite.

Cavendish conceded that he had many faults
but acknowledged that his performing skills were very good.
Throughout the doctor’s consultation with Beckett, he had remained
focused and apparently unmoved by the doctor’s findings. The truth
was he felt anything but that.

He closed his eyes and clasped his hands
together on his lap as Beckett began to snore, an oddly reassuring
sound for the German. He backtracked through the events that
culminated in his being here in this dingy bedroom with a poisoned
man and how the evening had reached its inevitable conclusion.

Initially, Beckett had seemed so eager to
please that he often defied logic, yet he recalled the
photographer’s actions were no different during the investigation a
year earlier. Beckett simply displayed a tenacious loyalty that was
so alien to his own way of thinking. Following his gun waving
antics in front of Simeon Goldstein, he looked upon Beckett with a
profound sense of wonderment. Would any rational man have remained
with him after such a ludicrous display?

Then there was Horst Steinbeck’s insistence
on the use of the Didier ruse to expose the heresy. What a
preposterous idea that was, everyone in the firm knew that the
stratagem always ended in failure, there were too many things to go
wrong, so many ways for people not to cooperate. How convenient
that at every step the bait was taken. For a time, he believed that
Emily must have been aware of the ruse; such was her obliging
compliance at each step of the way. The Untersucher recalled
dealing the last hand of the ruse by so blatantly asking Beckett to
ring Emily so soon after he had insulted her. Her acceptance to
dine with Beckett defied rational behaviour. His gut reaction led
him to believe that Dr Spelman and Steinbeck must be involved in
some sort of conspiracy.

Yet as Sunday evening unravelled, he was well
aware that collusion was far from the name of the game. He observed
the interaction of his partner with Emily and comprehended the
intimacy of their assignation. At that moment, he appreciated that
the Didier ruse was doomed to failure.

He felt an uncharacteristic sense of relief
that he wasn’t betraying Beckett’s trust and almost intervened when
Slingsby assaulted Emily in the park. Yet something deep in his
soul held him back. Perhaps his recurring self-serving, duplicitous
streak overcame his concern for Emily’s welfare. He quickly grasped
the implication of Slingsby’s confrontation with Emily and held
himself in check as he read the change in Emily’s body language
after she had picked herself up from the wet grass and understood
that the dynamic of the evening had irreparably changed.

He again stood impassively by as he watched
the tearful Emily add the two pills to Beckett’s drink, which he
realised were no aphrodisiac. He drew the barman’s attention to the
unfolding last act of the successful completion of the Didier ruse,
not witnessed since the dying days of World War Two.

He had followed the trio upstairs and sat in
the chair in his room waiting for matters to resolve themselves in
Beckett's room. It took far longer than he imagined. One o’clock
had come and gone by the time he heard footsteps in the corridor.
He listened intently as he heard someone creep down the stairs. He
waited before following Emily, paused to ensure the lobby was empty
before proceeding, and caught a glimpse of Emily as she left the
hotel carrying the sword case.

Cavendish returned to Beckett's room as a
group of partygoers made their noisy way home outside the hotel.
The passkey he had obtained earlier was not required as the door
remained unlocked. He found Beckett lying neatly on his side in
bed, the sheet pulled up carefully to cover his exposed, naked
shoulder. The room stank of vomit, Cavendish checked the floor but
it seemed to be clear of contamination. Emily had obviously managed
to manhandle Beckett into the bathroom where he assumed she had
induced his vomiting.

The Untersucher knew Beckett to have the
constitution of an ox when it came to intoxicating liquids. He had
checked Beckett's breathing. It was slow but regular, and he
decided then that a doctor could wait until the morning.

The toughest part of the assignment was over
for he had completed the ruse successfully. Whether he was led to
the third man was now irrelevant in his eyes for he was confident
that he could extort the required information from Emily or
Slingsby, as had been his original intention.

Yet the euphoria of his success was sadly
short lived. He believed he would have no qualms about using
Beckett as bait but his satisfaction of a successful evening's work
was being sapped by a strange emotion a more rounded individual
would have recognised as suppressed guilt.