Denied to all but Ghosts (31 page)

“Do you accept my apology?” asked
Cavendish.

“Oh, for Christ sake, Marchel. Stop being so
anal! If it will shut you up, then yes, I accept your apology.”
Beckett stood up and walked around to the rear of the bench and
stood beside Cavendish. “And I’m sorry I called you a Kraut.”

“You can call me a Kraut as much as you like,
Thomas. It will be a good test for me in temper control.”

“Then that would be no fun at all. I wouldn’t
mind being German.” Cavendish looked directly at Beckett.

“Why do you say that, Thomas?”

“It must be great being a German, great cars,
successful economy, always winning the World Cup. You know when I
was a kid there used to be a TV programme. It was called ‘It’s a
Knockout!’ After the domestic series, there was an international
season, held in various European cities. As a kid, it was my first
taste of the exotic sights of Europe. A place populated by people
dressed in silly costumes and over-sized shoes throwing buckets of
water at each other. But you know what I always seem to remember?
It was always the bloody Germans who seemed to win. You’d have your
half-arsed, amateurish Brits giving it a go, but you always got the
impression that the soddin’ Germans had been practising.”

Cavendish continued studying Beckett and
hoped that he hid his bemusement, for he had not the slightest idea
of what Beckett had just been talking about. The inquisitor was
simply glad to have Beckett talking his usual gibberish.

What Cavendish grudgingly accepted was his
desire for Beckett’s friendship. That he experienced remorse at
having used him in the firm’s ruse to establish who was attempting
to compromise the auction implied that the inquisitor’s underused
and underdeveloped conscience had been pricked.

Cavendish held out his hand for Beckett to
shake.

“I’m not shaking hands, it’s too formal,”
insisted Beckett. Cavendish withdrew his hand and looked a little
crestfallen. He then smiled and reached inside his coat pocket and
took out a pair of sunglasses identical to his own and offered them
to Beckett.

“They are a spare pair, please, take them.”
Beckett grinned as he took the shades. He put them on and made a
big show of adjusting them on the bridge of his nose.

“Tell me, Marchel, do you sing or play a
musical instrument?”

“I sang in the choir at school and
university, why do you ask?”

“We would make a great blues band wearing
these. Oh, by the way, what’s the status with the hotel, did you
‘do your thing’ with regards to damage limitation?”

“They want us to leave. But it’s not a
problem, we were leaving anyway.”

“We are?”

“Yes, we have places to go, Mr Beckett”

“And where might that be, Mr Cavendish?”

“Well, the last time I checked, before I came
to rescue you, it was to a coastal town in Norfolk.”

“Do I have to ask why?” asked Beckett
guardedly.

Cavendish turned his head to Beckett. He
remained silent, gauging Beckett's likely reaction. Beckett became
aware of the searching look and turned his head to look back at
Cavendish. All he could see was his own reflection in Cavendish’s
glasses. “Spit it out, man,” urged Beckett.

“It's because that is the sword's current
location.” Beckett absorbed Cavendish’s statement, his only
reaction was to remove his shades and stare off towards the
bandstand. Eventually he asked the question.

“And how do you know that, Marchel?”

“Because built into the handle of the sword
is a tracking device. Its current location is a town called
Wells-next-the-Sea in Norfolk. It arrived there yesterday morning
and has remained there ever since. My suspicion is that Slingsby
and Spelman are holed up there considering their next move.”

“Bugger me!” exclaimed Beckett.

“Not at the moment, Thomas, I’ve already had
the firm’s local doctor suspecting me of drugging you with carnal
intent.”

“No more than you deserve, Cavendish,” said
Beckett acerbically as he handed Cavendish back the sunglasses.

“Perhaps you’re right, Thomas. Are you fit
for a drive to Norfolk?”

“I’ll be glad to leave this town; I can’t
claim to have had a weirder weekend. Anyway I’m bloody freezing.”
They turned to leave the park and walk the short distance to the
concrete footbridge.

“We’ll come back next year and enjoy the
festival properly,” said Cavendish lightly. “I’m sure it must be a
very pleasant town when you get to know it,” added the man who
claimed to hate England.

It did not take long for Thomas Beckett to
check out of the Holmcourt hotel. His case had remained unpacked
except for his washing gear, which had resided in the bathroom.

His parka hung in the wardrobe and to avoid
carrying the extra bulk he decided to wear it. Something bulky
filled the right hand pocket and his explorative touch revealed a
furry entity that made his hand recoil for an instant before he
extracted the object.

It was a teddy bear and he smiled as he
examined it, remembering the coconut shy. Holding the bear to his
nose, he imagined that he could still catch the scent of Emily’s
heady perfume. Why did the thought make him smile? Why did he not
hate Emily Spelman? There were many mysteries in life that he did
not understand, the main one being Thomas Beckett. He returned
Holmcourt Bear to his pocket, the justification for his action was
unclear to him, but as he always said, there did not have to be a
reason for some actions, some things you just did.

Cavendish was already waiting in the car as
Beckett slinked out of the rear entrance of the hotel into the car
park. Unusually, Cavendish was in the driver’s seat and he gestured
Beckett around to the passenger side of the vehicle. Beckett slung
his suitcase in the rear of the Galaxy and threw his parka on the
back seat before climbing aboard.

“According to the satnav it should take about
three and a half hours to get to Wells, which means we’ll be there
about two o’clock,” informed the inquisitor.

“Can’t wait,” said Beckett dryly.

Cavendish’s driving style was, as Beckett
remarked, very much as he presented himself to the world, very
precise and very polite. It was only after they had driven through
Mansfield that Cavendish said anything that raised a query from his
passenger.

“I have asked Josh Houghton to meet us when
we reach Wells-next-the-Sea,” announced Cavendish solemnly.

“Why have you asked him along?” asked Beckett
suspiciously.

“We are approaching the end game, a theft has
taken place and you were poisoned.”

“Drugged,” corrected Beckett.

“Technically poisoned, she could have killed
you.”

“That was not her intention, Cavendish, and
you know it.”

“Please do not assume to know her intentions,
Thomas.”

“So why do you need Josh?” asked Beckett.
Cavendish considered his answer.

“Right now I need all the friends I can get.
The firm is expecting a result and I don’t want any
misunderstandings. We need someone like Josh around to corroborate
our story. I’m not leaving anything to chance.”

“So where are we meeting him?”

“Bethan Williams has arranged a house for us
in the town; we’ll meet Josh and Blanch there.”

“Hold on, who is Bethan Williams?”

“She’s the UK fixer.”

“What’s that?”

“She arranges things. If I need a car, I’ll
contact Bethan. Likewise for anything else.” Beckett nodded before
asking a further question. “And who is Blanch?”

“Blanch Nichols is Josh’s new sergeant.”

“Is she part of the thing, you know, the
firm?”

“I would have thought so, I have never met
her. I can’t imagine her not being part of the firm, that would
make things far too complicated. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll like her.”
Beckett smiled at Cavendish’s usual optimistic assumption. Thomas
Beckett, the everyman for every occasion. Just don’t rely on him
too much.

“So, we’re not staying in a hotel?” asked
Beckett.

“No, at this juncture, I think it’s better we
keep a low profile. Small towns are harder to blend into.”

“A house, eh?” said Beckett, “that will be
nice, self catering, come and go as we please. You any good at
cooking a decent breakfast?”

“I’ve never tried, Thomas, it can’t be too
difficult.”

“Oh, don’t you believe it, mister. There’s an
art to making a good fry up. You’d better stop on the way so we can
buy some goodies.” Cavendish glanced at his Breitling watch,
checking their progress against the Satnav’s prediction.

The landscape changed as they drew near the
Wash, the terrain revealed an absence of hills, valleys or
woodland. Only the soaring electricity pylons offered stature to
the topography as they stretched away into infinity. Beckett felt
relieved after they had crossed the fertile yet seemingly barren
land and bridged the river Ouse, skirting the port of King’s Lynn.
The landscape now became softer with yellow flowering gorse and
deciduous forests.

Beckett eventually spotted his goal, a
supermarket on the edge of Fakenham, where they refuelled the
Galaxy and went in search of provisions. It was approaching three
o’clock as they strolled stiffly across to the supermarket
entrance. A blustery northeast wind blew in off the North Sea,
which partly explained why the good folk of Norfolk seemed to be
agitated into hasty jerky movements as they crossed the car park.
At the entrance, two people were gently shaking collection tins to
encourage shoppers to donate to a charity. Beckett took a metal
basket and walked down the nearest aisle closely followed by
Cavendish.

“I think you had better get the provisions,
Thomas, you seem to know what you want.” Cavendish would pick up a
random packet or container, examine it with a feigned curiosity and
then return the item to the shelf. Beckett was aware of the odd
furtive glance in their direction and considering that Cavendish
maintained he was a master at remaining unobserved, he was equally
capable of standing out in a crowd like a proverbial sore thumb.
The Bristolian concluded that in this instance Cavendish actually
enjoyed being the centre of attention; it kept him occupied whilst
doing something he found patently boring.

Cavendish walked impatiently out of the
supermarket whilst Beckett clung on to two plastic carrier bags,
one clutched in either hand, and attempted to keep up with
Cavendish’s loping strides, an indication that the inquisitor was
in a hurry to move on.

Beckett stopped abruptly outside the store
entrance to allow a pregnant woman to wheel her large trolley
awkwardly onto the premises. Unfortunately, as he stepped aside to
allow the woman to pass, he felt his carrier bag collide with a
plastic bag carried by a young woman standing behind him. Beckett
held onto his carrier whilst the unlucky woman lost her grip on her
own bag. The Norfolk air was rent by the sound of shattering glass
as two litre bottles of Smirnoff vodka shattered on the paved
ground.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, love,” said Beckett as
he faced the victim of his assumed clumsiness. The slight looking
woman with lank orange hair ignored him but a man, who met the
likely candidacy for being her partner, exploded with rage. The
effect was to intimidate all within earshot.

“You stupid fucker!” came the strong local
accent, “look what you’ve done, two bloody bottles of Vodka. That’s
two nights drinking, that is!”

“I’m really sorry, mate,” said Beckett, as he
stooped over the fallen bag, as if in some way it might repair the
smashed bottles.

“You’re gonna pay for that, you are, I’m
gonna make you pay!” The man was of a similar height to Beckett,
yet was considerably bulkier and his recently shaved head did
nothing to soften his daunting appearance.

“Of course,” said Beckett reaching for his
wallet, “how much did they cost?” The girl looked sheepishly at a
shopping bill and pointed out the amount to Beckett, who failed to
notice that the printed date indicated that the receipt was two
months old.

“It’ll be more than that!” shouted the angry
man, “We’ve got to go back inside and buy some more and that costs,
that does!” The male charity collector had walked across when he
had heard the sound of the smashing glass, yet when he recognised
the man who was shouting he slowly edged away from the scene. He
had witnessed a similar confrontation involving the man several
weeks ago and it had not been a pretty sight.

“Excuse me, may I be of assistance?” asked
Cavendish as he approached the trio involved in the accident.

“Bugger off!” said the Norfolk lad.

“Well, I think the gentleman here has offered
to reimburse the lady for the damaged victuals, so I think you
should accept his generous offer and be gone.”

“Piss off; it’s nothing to do with you!” said
the conman.

“Do you always shout so, it must be very
tiring,” said a bored sounding Cavendish. The man looked at
Cavendish with an angry yet confused expression and shouted the
only sensible words he could think of to the interfering
interloper.

“Go fuck yourself!”

“Phil,” said his partner, “leave it Phil,
he’s not worth it.” She may or may not have considered Cavendish to
be ‘worth it’ but her feminine sensibilities were aware that this
tall blonde man was not a suitable victim for their swindle.

The deception had worked twice before; she
would hover outside the supermarket with a carrier bag containing
two vodka bottles full of water. She would select a likely
candidate, someone who looked the sort to pay up with a minimum of
fuss. Beckett appeared to fit that profile. However, this
scar-faced man certainly did not.

“Come with me,” said Cavendish eagerly to
Phil, his eyes burning with intent. Before Phil could react
Cavendish had spun him around, placed him in an arm lock and
marched him swiftly around to the side of the supermarket. The
local shoppers took no notice of the event; they assumed a
shoplifter was being taken away, nothing for them to get involved
with. Some minutes later, a flushed looking Cavendish reappeared,
nursing his right hand. Beckett had been talking to the charity
collector, whilst purposely avoiding making eye contact with the
collection tin.