Denied to all but Ghosts (32 page)

“Come on, Thomas, time is pressing,” declared
Cavendish, as he strode hastily towards the parked car. Beckett
offered the orange-haired woman a smile, which she vacantly failed
to respond to, and left her standing outside the entrance of the
supermarket vainly looking for a sign of Phil

“Did you have a word in his ear, Marchel?”
asked Beckett upon catching up with his partner.

“Yes, Thomas, you could say that. After all
the hassle of the past few days it was certainly a much appreciated
cathartic experience,” smiled Cavendish contentedly, feeling
decidedly calmer following his altercation with Phil.

The woman stood outside the supermarket
entrance for a full two hours calling out Phil’s name ever more
balefully. Her patience was finally rewarded when an ambulance
arrived and she recognised her partner on a stretcher. He had been
found by the waste bins and would be in hospital for several weeks
recovering from the vicious injuries inflicted upon his face and
body. He would walk with a limp for many months thereafter and be
constantly looking over his shoulder for the tall blonde psychotic
stranger who possessed the eyes of the devil.

* * *

The flint-decorated house was very much to
Beckett’s taste. It was a modern, three up, three down detached
house, with a kitchen extension and a small conservatory. The house
was pleasantly furnished for a holiday let, clean and tastefully
decorated. The interior walls had been recently painted imparting a
fresh homely ambience.

Beckett initially felt as if he was on
holiday as he explored each room of the house. He bagged the
largest bedroom and stood for some minutes watching the birds
enjoying what remained of the blustery spring day.

When he returned downstairs, he found
Cavendish out in the small back garden smoking a cigarette. Like in
most things, he considered Cavendish to be a pedantic smoker. He
took slow deep draws on the cigarette before exhaling with a
deliberate meticulousness. He felt a pang of desire, he had smoked
his last cigarette many years before, but watching Cavendish smoke
did remind him of the pleasures and comfort of tobacco.

“You okay, Marsh?” Beckett asked as he walked
out to join him. Cavendish blew out a long steady stream of smoke
that was quickly chased away by the gusting wind.

“I think we should take a walk before Josh
arrives. Let’s go and see where my sword is.” Beckett had been
quite happy to forget the reason for their visit to Norfolk and
watched as Cavendish carefully stubbed out his cigarette on a low
brick wall.

They left the house nestled in the small
cul-de-sac on the edge of town. Wells was tastefully arranged on
the Norfolk coast, technically a fishing town, it had seemingly
been given over to holidaymakers and second homes for the
prosperous folk from the South East. Most of the houses were
rendered with flint giving the town a distinctive rustic
facade.

Cavendish led them by a circular route to the
Butlands. This area resembled a rectangular village green with a
ring of deciduous trees that were only just coming into leaf.
Around the green stood town houses, mainly of Georgian design,
depicting a ruralised concept of Bath. Beckett was pleased to see
the two pubs at either end of the green, an indication of
civilisation if ever there was one.

“You know the Buts traditionally used to be
the area where men of the town would practice their longbow skills,
when the playing of football was illegal,” informed Cavendish as
they sat on a bench at the edge of the green.

“Which house are they in?” asked Beckett
quietly, ignoring his partner’s imparted knowledge.

“In the house over there,” pointed Cavendish,
“the one with the Greek columns by the front door. I should be able
to tell you if the columns are Corinthian or Doric, but I can’t
remember.”

“Do I look like a man who gives a shit about
Greek columns?” replied Beckett, his antagonism of the morning
rekindled by their proximity to Emily Spelman. “More to the point,
aren’t you worried about Slingsby seeing us?” asked Beckett.

“Not at all,” said Cavendish purposely
ignoring his partner’s provocative retort, “I’d welcome the
opportunity to speak to them, it would save all the rehearsed
nonsense I shall have to deliver when we pay them a surprise visit
tomorrow morning.” He shivered with the delightful warm glow of
anticipation imbued by the prospect of extracting the heretic’s
name from Slingsby. “Anyway, time we were getting back, Josh should
be here soon with his new sergeant, come on, it should be quicker
going back.” Beckett was oblivious to Cavendish’s barely restrained
desire to get to grips with Slingsby.

It was early evening when the doorbell rang
and Cavendish rose from the dining room table and walked to the
front door of Flint House. Beckett assumed correctly that he must
have expected it to be Houghton with some confidence, as he never
attempted to remove his shoulder holster. Beckett heard no exchange
of greetings but detected the approach of at least two people.
Cavendish reappeared followed by Houghton and a third person,
Houghton brandished two bottles of white wine, which cheered
Beckett considerably.

Chief Inspector Josh Houghton was as tall as
Cavendish but considerably more solid in appearance. His black hair
was cut in the close shave style, made popular by African
Americans. He considered it gave him a contemporary edge, as did
the short moustache and goatee beard. At thirty-five, Houghton was
in fine physical shape and the expensive dark suit flattered his
figure. However, Beckett considered the West Indian looked a good
deal different from the man he remembered, for he appeared far more
careworn.

The reason Beckett had only definitely heard
two people walk into the house was that there was not much of
Blanch Nichols to create a disturbance. She stood perhaps five feet
five inches from the ground, including the couple of inches
provided by her black leather shoes. She wore a smart black suit,
was slimly built and standing next the two tall men, she appeared
positively diminutive.

Beckett immediately picked up upon her most
obvious physical traits. She wore the minimal amount of make-up and
her light brown doe-eyes seemed to be incessantly on the move,
continually appraising her new surroundings. Her pursed thin lips
betrayed her stubborn streak. She frowned as she walked into the
room, as if not quite expecting what she saw and stared hard at
Cavendish’s firearm but said nothing as she followed Houghton to
the dining room table. Beckett stood up as Houghton made the
introductions.

“D.S. Nichols, may I introduce you to Marchel
Cavendish and Thomas Beckett.” Blanch stepped forward, still
frowning as her eyes flitted between the two strangers before her.
She offered her hand to Cavendish.

“I’m pleased to meet you both,” she said,
exchanging a polite handshake with both men. Beckett detected more
than a hint of a modulated Birmingham accent. Houghton did not make
any small talk, from Beckett’s perspective he looked ill at
ease.

“So where are the two suspects now?” Houghton
asked Cavendish.

“I can’t say for sure, but the sword is
certainly still in the property,” replied Cavendish as he resumed
his seat at the table. Beckett followed his lead and the two police
officers took a seat around the table.

“So what are your plans, Marchel?” It
surprised Beckett that a chief inspector in the Met should wish to
follow Cavendish’s plan of action.

“I suggest we wait until the morning and pay
them a visit, if that is alright with you, Josh,” replied
Cavendish.

“Fine by me, Marchel, I reckon Blanch and me
have had enough for one day.” Houghton glanced at Nichols who
looked back and offered a nod to signify her accord with his
sentiments.

“Have you both eaten?” enquired Cavendish,
“I’m reliably informed that there are several good eating pubs not
far from here.”

“What do you say, Blanch?” asked Houghton
tentatively. She looked at her boss and again nodded but Beckett
thought he perceived a definite reluctance judging by their body
language.

“That’s decided then,” said Cavendish, who
failed to recognize the police officers’ unwillingness.

This Tuesday evening was the first time that
Thomas Beckett drank alcohol since his drugging on the previous
Sunday night. His prowess for consuming alcohol was an odd conceit
of his, never the less it was a fact that he had remarkable powers
of recovery from the effects of alcohol and so it would appear, to
administered date rape drugs. Beckett was quite happy with the
glass or two of wine that he drank with his meal in the Sceptre
gastro pub and content later to demolish more than his fair share
of the two bottles that Houghton had brought along.

However, Beckett found the meal an unpleasant
and awkward experience. There seemed to be a general reluctance
around the table to converse openly, Houghton stymied Cavendish’s
blatant attempts to steer the conversation in the direction of the
case. Beckett considered that Cavendish definitely did not enjoy
the meal, for him it would have lacked purpose. Cavendish had
looked fidgety and more than once had vacated the restaurant
section of the hotel to stand outside and smoke a cigarette whilst
staring intently at the unlit Georgian house at the opposite end of
the Butlands.

Back at Flint House, the uneasy atmosphere
persisted. The four of them sat awkwardly around the dining table
and again any attempts by Cavendish to steer the conversation in a
direction pertaining to the investigation were quashed by Houghton.
Beckett could see Cavendish’s frustration increasing when suddenly
Cavendish made a suggestion.

“Josh, I think you and I should have a talk
in private.”

“Fine, Marchel,” said Houghton reluctantly.
Both men stood up and Blanch started to rise from the table. She
was prevented from doing so by Houghton’s large hand as it pressed
gently on her shoulder.

“You stay here, Blanch. We shalln’t be long,”
he said. No one in the room could miss her look of anger as she
received the order. Cavendish and Houghton walked out to the back
garden, which was as black as pitch beneath the heavily clouded
sky.

“What the hell is going on, Josh?” asked
Cavendish angrily as he hastily lit a cigarette with his Zippo
lighter, the petrol flame illuminating his irate face as it fought
the gusting wind. “Why the hell are you so reluctant to discuss the
case?” Houghton stared intently upon the glowing embers of
Cavendish’s cigarette.

“Well?” insisted Cavendish.

“It’s Blanch,” Houghton said hastily, “she
doesn’t know!” Cavendish stared in disbelief at the Chief
Inspector.

“What do mean, ‘she doesn’t know’? You’ve
briefed her haven’t you?” insisted Cavendish.

“She knows we’re here to investigate a stolen
relic, that’s all.” Cavendish stared hard at Houghton as he asked
his next question.

“She is part of the firm?”

“Of course she is!” said Houghton, louder
than he intended.

“So what is the problem?” came Cavendish’s
searing demand.

“She doesn’t know anything about the bloody
firm!” Cavendish was stunned by Houghton’s response and a moment
later gave an unhinged laugh, blowing a steady stream of cigarette
smoke into the night air.

“I think you’d better explain yourself,
Josh.”

“Look!” flustered Houghton, “she was
recruited by Fletcher Dobson from the Midlands mob and assigned to
me. She’s undergone her Met induction; it’s just that she hasn’t
been briefed about the firm!” Houghton shifted uncomfortably on the
spot as Cavendish tossed his cigarette away in a most
un-Cavendish-like display of pique.

“And you thought you’d bring her along to the
most critical investigation of my career without telling her who I
am!” fumed Cavendish. He paused before continuing. “So who the hell
does she think I actually am?”

“She thinks you’re a private Dick, which is
all you are,” said Houghton disparagingly. Cavendish ground his
back teeth as he fought to control his temper; he wrestled with the
compunction to smash his fist into Houghton’s face. He had no wish
to fall out with Houghton; he just wanted things in this crucial
case to run smoothly. He breathed deeply to quell his inner
rage.

“No wonder she kept staring at my weapon. So
when are you planning to tell her?” asked Cavendish with a calmer
voice. Houghton detected Cavendish’s less hostile tone and
responded more openly.

“I was going to tell her in the car on the
way up, but it never happened. Do you know how difficult it is to
tell someone about this crazy mob we work for?”

“Tell her tonight, Josh. Thomas and I will
leave you alone with her. You know, Josh, I’ve got a lot riding on
this one.”

Houghton considered the stories he had heard
about the Prague episode. If only half the things he had heard were
true then Cavendish was indeed lucky to have any case to
investigate. He nodded his agreement and followed the German back
into the house.

Whilst Cavendish and Houghton were in the
garden, an awkward silence had descended upon the dining room where
Beckett and Blanch remained. Beckett studied the contents of his
wine glass as if it held the answer to some great-unexplained
mystery whilst Blanch kept her eyes firmly fixed on Beckett. Her
staring made him feel very uncomfortable.

“So you’re a photographer, are you?” enquired
Blanch, breaking the stony silence. She knew very well that he was,
having heard one of his mundane anecdotes during the awkward meal
in the pub.

“That’s right,” said Beckett, hoping that the
brevity of his answer might end the conversation.

“So why does a private Dick need someone like
you?” Beckett thought that Cavendish would have been most upset to
hear Blanch refer to them both in such a condescending manner.
Beckett however did not give a damn but it did serve to reinforce
his dislike for the police officer who had seemed impervious to his
geniality.