Denied to all but Ghosts (34 page)

“
Oh please, Marchel, do grow up, you are
nearly fourteen, and you know very well the reasons why. Your
father wants you educated in Germany; it’s all for the best, we
want you near his posting. Don’t you like your school?”

“
I hate it!” the boy screamed.

“
You really are the limit sometimes,
Marchel, we do everything we possibly can for you and you’re so
ungrateful! You’ll thank us one day.”

The scene changed, Marchel stood on the
starting line for the one hundred metre sprint at the academy
athletics day. He knew he was fast but so too was his rival, Sepp
von Manstein. He looked towards the gathering of parents who sat
along the grass bank that lined the home straight of the running
track. He spotted his parents, his mother waved and his father
stood and raised a triumphant fist of encouragement.

The race started and for the first eighty
metres, Marchel held the lead, yet as the finishing line closed, he
was aware of a presence gaining on him. He pushed as hard as he
could, desperate to reach the line first, but still the person was
gaining on him. With only metres to go Marchel watched the speeding
figure of Sepp pass by and cross the line ahead of him.

“
Hard luck, Marchel,” said the
track-suited PE teacher, “fine run lad, pipped at the post.”
Marchel grinned, pleased with his performance, he looked across to
wave at his parents. His father had vanished and his mother was
crying.

The scene switched again to the Heidelberg
University gymnasium. It was late in the evening. Marchel stood a
few feet away from Sepp von Manstein, both held razor sharp
duelling sabres. Robust padding protected their chests, arms, and
throats whilst steel goggles safeguarded their eyes. The Mensur
commenced with a controlled slashing of blades, both Marchel and
Sepp standing rigidly still. The blade flashed towards Marchel’s
face, striking his eye guard and cheek, and was gone before Marchel
could feel anything. He was aware of his fellow students rushing
towards him, he was conscious of blood pouring onto his tunic.

“
Leave him alone!” The voice commanded and
was instantly obeyed. It was the voice of Sepp, who arrogantly
strode towards Marchel whilst hastily tugging his own metal goggles
back over his head. He snatched what remained of Marchel’s goggles
from his face, causing Marchel to wince aloud in pain, and
inspected the wound he had inflicted. Sepp grinned broadly, ran his
hand through Marchel’s straggly hair and tilted his head to prevent
any more blood seeping into his left eye.

“
Fantastic! That’s going to be one hell of
a scar if we treat it right. Christophe, come see,” Sepp beckoned
over one of the spectating students, “see how the wound extends
above the eye and beneath, an exceptional result!” The wound was
indeed treated in the prescribed manner; it was stuffed with
horsehair overnight to prevent it healing cleanly. To their kind,
such a scar was a thing of legend.

The road sign indicated the exit for Swindon
as Cavendish unconsciously raised a hand and traced the outline of
his Mensur smite. Cavendish was weary of reminiscences, he
considered ringing Beckett but at this early hour, he hoped Beckett
was still asleep. No doubt the wine he had consumed would help him
in that regard.

He imagined Beckett asking him a question.
“Are we going to wait ‘til a sensible hour before we visit the
Goldsteins?”

“Are we hell as like,” the reply came a
little less mollified than Cavendish would have answered had
Beckett been present, reflecting Cavendish’s state of mind. “He can
damn well get up and see us. The two of them have caused enough
trouble. At the moment I’d quite happily put a 357 round into both
of them.” He was not cognisant that alone this night, his imaginary
conversation had been conducted in German, the language he had
spent most of his life speaking. Had Beckett been able to
understand German he would have been surprised at how different
Cavendish sounded, the attentiveness of his speech pattern when
speaking English was absent in his native tongue.

Cavendish parked the Galaxy on an anonymous
side road, whether legally or not he did not know nor care. He
donned his shoulder holster and woollen coat, and set off on foot
to visit Simeon Goldstein. As it transpired, Simeon Goldstein was
already up; it was doubtful that he had seen his bed that night.
When Cavendish noted the dishevelled appearance of Simeon
Goldstein, he fleetingly thought of offering some words of
commiseration but quickly remembered why he was there. Cavendish
entered the house with no comment or small talk, leaving Simeon to
close the front door.

“Is he back?” asked Cavendish harshly.

“Yes, yes he returned in the early hours. I
put him straight to bed with a sleeping tablet.” Simeon sounded
flat and subdued.

“Get him up,” ordered Cavendish.

“But he is...”

“I said, get him up.” There was a tone of
quiet menace in the Untersucher’s voice. For a second it seemed as
if Simeon was about to remonstrate but instead he shrugged and
disappeared to collect his brother. At length Simeon returned,
supporting his brother with his arm around his shoulder. Simeon sat
Miles on one of the dining table chairs in the parlour.

“Be a good chap and put the kettle on,
Simeon.” Cavendish forced a smile as he made his request; Simeon
wished he had not, for it made him look far more menacing.

Cavendish took a seat and sat rigidly upright
with his arms folded across his chest and stared directly at Miles,
who briefly made eye contact before furtively glancing back at the
tabletop.

“I think you’d better tell me what you have
been up to,” said Cavendish, his eyes never leaving Miles and the
fierce intensity of the stare made Miles cower before him.

“Marchel, my brother has had an awful time
and is still feeling the effects of the tablet,” said Simeon
standing in the doorway, he had obviously switched the kettle on
and returned immediately to the room. Cavendish held his left hand
up to silence Simeon, his eyes remaining firmly fixed on Miles. The
momentary silence was finally broken by Miles, who spoke in a soft,
almost inaudible voice.

“I’ve been a bit foolish, Marchel. I’m afraid
I had my head turned by a handsome young man.” Miles brought his
hands up to cover his face and began to cry gently. Simeon went to
consol his brother but Cavendish’s raised hand stopped the elder
brother in his tracks.

“Coffee please, Simeon. Carry on, Miles.” The
sobbing eased and finally Miles looked up at Cavendish with
pleading eyes.

“I had no idea he would take the valuables, I
didn’t even know that he knew where they were. He seemed such a
nice young man, not like a lot of the youngsters these days who
just seem to want to get on with it. He seemed to enjoy our walks
and talks, he was very attentive.” Miles started to sob again, this
time Cavendish suspected the tears reflected the sadness of a lost
moment as opposed to his predicament with an angry Untersucher.

“Why did you disappear?” challenged
Cavendish.

“I, I felt, I felt ashamed and embarrassed if
you must know, Mr Smarty-Pants-Cavendish!” Miles voice rose in
defiance. Cavendish’s resolute expression softened a little.

“Miles, just a couple of questions before I
let you return to your bed. I want his name and contact number. I’m
sure you checked him out.”

“He used a false name, not unusual, but his
mobile number is real enough, he doesn’t know I have it.” Cavendish
almost smiled. If the rent boy did not realise that his phone
number had been taken then he was unlikely to have disposed of
it.

“Miles, you did very well, I need his mobile
number now,” demanded Cavendish.

“My phone is in my room, I’d better go and
get it,” Miles began to rise unsteadily from his chair as he
finished speaking.

“You sit tight, Miles, Simeon will fetch it
for you, won’t you, Simeon.” Cavendish was clearly not giving
Simeon a choice in the matter. It was fortunate for Simeon that
Cavendish had his back to him and so was unable to see the snarl
that Simeon threw at the Untersucher.

“Miles,” asked Cavendish gently when Simeon
had left the room, “did your friend give you any reason to believe
that he was working with someone else?” With Simeon out of the
room, Miles felt more at ease with Cavendish.

“You know, Marchel, I swear to you that I
never made any mention of the valuables, you know I keep my private
life separate from the firm’s business. Someone must have told him
where to find the items, there was no way that he could have just
stumbled upon them. He had to get hold of my keys to gain access to
the lock-up.”

“So you think he had inside knowledge,”
speculated Cavendish.

“Be careful what you say to the inquisitor,
Miles, he’ll have you burnt at the stake for heresy,” interjected
Simeon who had not wasted any time in retrieving Mile’s phone and
returned with three mugs of steaming coffee. Simeon walked over to
his brother and handed him his phone. Whilst Miles looked for the
number in the directory, Cavendish took his phone out of his pocket
and prepared to input the number.

“Are you sure that is the number?” asked
Cavendish when Miles had completed his dictation.

“Yes, Marchel, I’m sure.”

“Then I suggest you go back to bed, Miles,
you have given me enough to go on for now, let’s just hope he
hasn’t gone too far, I don’t fancy tangling with the Russians.”

“Marchel,” said Miles quietly.

“Yes?”

“Please don’t hurt him, I don’t think he is a
bad person, he doesn’t deserve to be hurt.”

“Not many people do, Miles, not many people
do,” answered Cavendish reflectively.

Simeon showed Cavendish to the door, he
looked tired but also relieved. Cavendish paused before walking out
on to the quiet streets of Bath.

“What exactly are these items that were
stolen,” asked Cavendish. He did not want to ask the question in
front of Miles.

“I’m not sure, they were in a sealed box
recovered from the late Ghost,” answered Simeon. His voice had lost
its usual bellicose bitterness. He leant wearily against the
hallway wall and continued his supposition. “I had a look through
the old records pertaining to anything that might remotely have
been associated with the Romanovs. The only thing I found were
documents relating to alleged letters sent by the Tsarina. That’s
all I know.”

“So the items are not bulky?” asked
Cavendish.

“Bravo, Untersucher. I can see why you have
attained the rank of medius so swiftly,” smiled Simeon without
malice.

“How did you discover the theft so
quickly?”

“I keep an eye on Miles. I didn’t like the
young schmuck he was seeing. I’m getting very distrustful in my old
age. Anyway, when Miles disappeared, as he has done many times
before I hasten to add, I decided to do an inventory count, just in
case. It took me as long as it did to discover the box
missing.”

Cavendish considered Simeon’s statement. It
was fortuitous that Simeon was the old grouch he was, for not many
people would have made the stock check and the items would have
been long gone before their absence was noticed.

“Does anyone else know about the missing
items?” inquired Cavendish. Simeon shook his head before he
spoke.

“Only you, Marchel.” Cavendish nodded
approvingly.

“Thank you, Simeon. I owe you big time.”
Simeon stared intently at the younger man before voicing his
opinion.

“Someone has to look after your mother, and
it certainly isn’t your father.” Cavendish smiled knowingly, shook
Simeon’s hand and opened the front door.

The intensity of the wind had increased
during the night. Beckett slept soundly enough until five o’clock
when he was awoken by the demands of his bladder. He regretted
drinking those cups of coffee following Cavendish’s departure, but
he needed something to drink and coffee was all the poorly cached
house had to offer.

He could not recall what time he went to bed,
it was gone midnight, and following Cavendish’s hasty departure,
the three housemates had retired with barely a spoken word.
Houghton had briefly confirmed the time they would meet in the
morning leaving the abandoned Beckett to drink several cups of
coffee alone at the small kitchen table.

A telephone cable whined torturously as the
wind howled in off the cold North Sea, seeding his dreams with
macabre and threatening images. He lay on his back, trying to
ignore the intrusion of the elements and wondered what Cavendish
was doing at that precise moment. He had never spent such an
intense, dedicated period in the service of any man and the
knowledge that Marchel Cavendish was hundreds of miles away
elicited an apprehensive stirring in his rebellious gut.

Beckett was not great at self-analysis, his
instincts were usually sound but any lengthy deliberation often led
to inaccurate conclusions. His usual suspicion was that everyone
thought as he did, which might well be a general truism, but often
such a supposition ended up with him out of pocket, being hurt or
hurting someone else’s feelings. The day ahead was going to be
difficult, had Cavendish been present then he might have felt
confident of the outcome of the confrontation with Slingsby and
Emily, with Houghton calling the shots he most certainly was
not.

He had first met Houghton over a year ago at
the conclusion of his first encounter with Cavendish. He remembered
liking him well enough at the time but possibly due to his
concussion, could not recall why. Here in Wells, Houghton seemed
like a troubled man and he certainly had not been up for any small
talk the previous evening after Cavendish’s unexpected
departure.