Denied to all but Ghosts (35 page)

Beckett was unsure of how he would react when
face-to-face with Emily again. She had been ensconced in the house
with Slingsby since Monday, what had they been up to for two days?
He would rather not go there. Which Emily would he find, the
sanguine Dark Age expert or the girl he took dancing only a few
nights earlier? He decided he would contemplate the problem for
another five minutes and then get up.

The next thing he knew was a gentle wrap on
his bedroom door, which opened sufficiently for Josh Houghton to
lean into the room.

“It’s seven thirty, Tom, kettle is on
downstairs.” Houghton offered a toothy smile before his head
vanished and the bedroom door closed.

Houghton drove his black Audi A6 carefully
through the quiet streets of Wells. Blanch purposefully glanced
around her as if memorising her surroundings for future reference.
From his rear seat position, Beckett found Houghton’s huge physical
presence reassuring yet still felt physically sick with nerves at
the prospect of what lay ahead. Houghton killed the Audi’s engine
unwittingly next to Slingsby’s vehicle in the car park at the top
of the Butlands.

The wind remained unsettling but had lost
most of its potency with the coming of dawn. The apprehensive
Beckett watched a solitary pensioner walk her dog across the green,
the dog giving the impression that he would rather be snug indoors
than out in the disconcerting wind. A plastic shopping bag floated
down the street towards them, even this Beckett perceived as a
threat as it caught beneath the front spoiler of the Audi. He
shrank from the world around them by concentrating his gaze on the
painted double yellow lines that hugged the roadside.

It was Houghton who led them to the
red-bricked Georgian house, the neoclassical columns standing
imperiously on either side of the door. He gave Beckett a
reassuring smile, as they turned right to walk up the short paved
path to the door.

The chief inspector struck the bare door
firmly several times with the side of his clenched fist. No
response was forthcoming and Beckett hoped that there would be no
one home, allowing them to leave and wait for Cavendish to return.
Houghton glanced at his watch; it was just after nine o’clock.

“Still in bed you reckon?” said Houghton
somewhat aimlessly to Beckett. “Sergeant, you wait here and cover
the front.”

“Yes Sir,” replied Blanch confidently,
pleased at last to be performing proper police work. The two men
walked cautiously past the ground floor window, a path led to the
rear of the house and here they found a back door.

“I assume you know the Cavendish rule of
stealth?” asked Houghton.

“Nobody sees you unless you want them to,”
answered Beckett.

“Yea, it seems to work for him, but I don’t
feel quite so optimistic. Let me tackle the door,” said Houghton
quietly. The Yale lock yielded after a little effort from
Houghton’s experienced hands. The house was ominously silent.

“Follow me, Tom.” Houghton drew a small
revolver from the rear waistband of his trousers. Beckett flinched
at the sight of the gun, which he thought best belonged in the
movies, not real life.

“Is that thing really necessary?” asked
Beckett, referring to the gun.

“Company rules, my lad. All for show. Never
had to use the bloody thing yet,” smiled Houghton comfortingly.

Houghton systematically searched the
downstairs rooms; there were signs of recent occupation but no
indication of anyone being home. He signalled that they should
continue their exploration upstairs and Beckett grudgingly followed
a few feet behind the chief inspector.

Houghton continued his search until they
reached the bedroom at the rear of the house. The door was secured
at the top by a sturdy bolt that seemed to have been poorly fitted
and out of keeping with the rest of the property. A large key
protruded from a substantial mortise lock. Houghton slowly turned
the key and felt the locking mechanism shift. He clutched the door
handle tightly with his left hand and swivelled his torso to look
at Beckett and with his gun wielding hand gestured that the
photographer should step back down the corridor. Beckett was only
too happy to oblige.

Beckett imagined he heard Houghton counting
to three before he opened the door and was reminded of a bobsleigh
team before it began its vital sprint start. In one fluid motion,
Houghton thrust the door handle down and burst into the room.
Beckett acknowledged that the police officer had far more
experience at this sort of thing than he did but he still found the
spectacle of the entrance into a locked room rather over the
top.

However, Houghton was no fool; his sixth
sense told him that something was not right behind the bolted door.
In spite of being forewarned, he was still unprepared for what
happened as he took his first steps into the room.

With his gun raised before him, Houghton had
the fleeting opportunity to observe a very comfortably furnished
bedroom, which was at odds with the sturdy bolt on the exterior of
the door. Unfortunately, his assessment was cut short.

Emily Spelman sprang screaming like a banshee
from behind the bedroom door and cast the bed’s red duvet cover
over the chief inspector like a fisherman casting a net. She had
weighted its edges with the cross frames torn from the bed,
enabling it to completely engulf and ensnare the unsuspecting
police officer. She gave a holler of rage as she hurled herself
shoulder first against her captor with all her might.

She knew as soon as she saw the back of the
stranger from her concealed position that he was not the American,
this man was twice his size. Nonetheless, she realised it was too
late to change her plan and continued her brazen assault. She was
fortunate that Houghton was off balance, for under normal
circumstances she was hardly ever likely to overwhelm the bulky
West Indian. As it was, he collapsed ignobly upon the carpeted
floor.

As she had rehearsed many times in her head,
she dashed straight for the open door and desperately snatched it
shut behind her, simultaneously turning the key before snapping the
bolt shut. She gave a whoop of delight, as she turned, head down,
intending to run the length of the corridor towards the stairs and
make her bid for freedom. She was still snarling triumphantly as
she blindly ran straight into the flesh and bones obstacle that was
presented by an astounded Thomas Beckett.

This time providence was not with her. It was
Emily’s misfortune to be caught off balance and she ricocheted off
the man like a pool ball off the cushion. Only a matter of seconds
had elapsed since Houghton had entered her prison.

As Emily lay spread-eagled on the hallway
carpet, Beckett heard the strident demands of Houghton’s fists as
he pummelled against the locked door. Beckett cast a glance at
Emily who had rolled onto her back and began to groan softly as she
clutched her left elbow.

She wore what he could only assume to be a
sari, fashioned from plain white cotton; he thought it an odd
choice of garment to wear. Further musings were put on hold by
Houghton’s continued frustrated assault against the door. Beckett
quickly stepped over Emily’s dazed body and shouted through the
door to Houghton that he was about to let him out.

Houghton looked flustered as he stepped out
of the room and took in the sight of Emily Spelman lying in the
hallway. She had fallen silent; the adrenalin rush that had
accompanied her breakout had lost its vigour. She lay dejectedly on
her back as she realised her escape attempt had been foiled, the
only thing that prevented the onset of terror at the certain
retribution to be exacted by her captors was the realisation that
the man who had prevented her flight was unmistakably Tom
Beckett.

Houghton stood imposingly over Emily before
he lowered himself to squat by her side. He quickly assessed the
woman with his knowledgeable eye. She was wearing what was
obviously a bed sheet, wrapped around her in the style of a sarong,
indicating a lack of available clothing.

Her hair appeared somewhat lank suggesting
that it had not recently been washed yet her face appeared clean
but devoid of makeup. He recognised the hard to define yet palpably
real pallor and demeanour that went with enforced
incarceration.

“Good morning, Dr Spelman. My name is Chief
Inspector Houghton, and judging by your condition I’m not sure if I
come as your apprehender or rescuer.” He stood up and faced
Beckett.

“Help Dr Spelman in to the bedroom,” he
ordered Beckett.

“Me?” questioned Beckett. Houghton looked
grimly around him.

“Well I don’t see anyone else, do you?”
Beckett felt his hackles rise but sensibly said nothing, under
calmer circumstances he might have recognised that Houghton was
attempting to restore his equilibrium after having been humiliated
by Emily. Beckett bent and offered her his hand.

“Hi, Emily.” She noted the impassive tone of
his voice as she looked up at the expressionless face that hid his
conflicting emotions. Her eyes betrayed her distrust and he thought
it might be necessary to repeat Houghton’s request when slowly she
raised her right hand to his. With Beckett standing behind her, she
dejectedly followed Houghton back into room that had been her cell
since Monday morning.

“Where is Mr Slingsby?” asked Houghton. His
words were direct and unexpected, taking Beckett by surprise as he
guided Emily to the edge of the bed, carefully avoiding the red
duvet cover that lay in an untidy heap on the floor. She grimaced
as she distracted herself by rubbing her sore left elbow with her
right hand.

“Where is he?” repeated Houghton firmly.
Emily cast him a spiteful look. “How the hell should I know, I’ve
not seen him since he left with the American.”

“What American?”

“The bastard who locked me in this room!”

“No honour amongst thieves, eh? How long have
you been kept here?” continued Houghton's line of questioning.

“Since eight o’clock Monday morning,” she
answered precisely. Houghton noted the en suite bathroom so he knew
sanitation and water had not have been an issue.

“Have you eaten?” asked Houghton. Emily
considered the stranger's question stupid. She had been locked in a
room for two days with no knowledge of when she might be released,
if ever. Hunger had not been her prime motivator.

“Yes, I was left sandwiches and cakes
yesterday morning.”

“By whom?” enquired Houghton.

“By the American, I suppose,” she replied
sulkily.

“Did you see him?”

“No, he threw them through the door.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Slingsby?”

“Yes,” she replied with certainty, but in
truth, she had no idea what had become of Paul. She found it hard
to believe that he was responsible for her incarceration, or
perhaps that was plain wishful thinking. Slingsby, she knew was
prone to violence, and she conceded that she really knew nothing
about the man at all.

“When was the last time you saw anyone?”
continued Houghton.

“When the food was delivered.”

“So you’ve not seen anyone for nearly
twenty-four hours?”

“No,” she said with finality.

Beckett had sidled away from the bed towards
the door during Houghton’s no-nonsense, direct questioning. He
watched Houghton nod at Emily before walking over to him. Houghton
spoke quietly to Beckett.

“I’m sure Cavendish made his wishes well
known to you. Before I can comply with his wishes, I have to make
sure I’m not compromising the situation. Slingsby seems to have
scarpered along with this American, if he actually exists at all.
Dr Spelman seems to have been genuinely held here against her
will.” He paused for a few seconds as he reached his decision.

“Look, all being well, I’m going to ask you
to take Dr Spelman back to the house before anyone comes back here.
Make sure you lock yourself in and only answer the door to the DS
or me. Feed her, water her, whatever, but keep an eye on her,
remember what she did to you a few nights ago. If she gives you any
lip or trouble, phone me.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Beckett as
his former anxieties resurfaced.

“Blanch and I will search the house, see what
we can come up with,” answered Houghton.

“What if she starts to, you know, make a run
for it?” asked Beckett shakily.

“For Christ sake,” mumbled Houghton, unused
to dealing with the incompetency of a civilian, “keep her dressed
as she is and bare foot, she can’t get very far dressed like she’s
ready for a vicars and tarts party! You stay here; I’m going to
have a word with Blanch.”

Beckett shuffled awkwardly on the spot as
Houghton departed before summoning the courage to look at Emily. He
had no idea what to say to her.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I banged my elbow when I ran into you,” she
replied calmly.

“No, I didn’t mean that...,” his words died
in his throat as he realised he was incapable of asking the
question uppermost in his mind.

Blanch was still keeping a watchful eye on
the Butlands at the front of the house. She had fought a constant
battle with the wind to keep her centre-parted hair from billowing
around her face but had finally given up. As she heard Houghton’s
distinctive footfall she instinctively set about trying to put her
hair in a semblance of order.

Houghton quickly filled her in on what they
had found, though managed to omit the part where he was flattened
by a duvet-wielding academic, after all, it was hardly ‘Shawshank
Redemption’.

“I want you to go upstairs, I want you to
ascertain quickly and without fuss if she shows any indications of
recent assault. If she’s all clear, I’d like to get her away as
soon as possible.” He tossed Blanch his car keys, she caught them
and ran upstairs, eager to meet the suspect.