Denied to all but Ghosts (36 page)

The police officers entered the room together
and both were struck in different ways by the silence that greeted
them. To Houghton, the silence reflected Beckett’s inexperience in
dealing with the whole situation. For Blanch, the silence
represented something far more understated and repressed. It was
reminiscent of many of the domestic incidents she had to attend in
Wolverhampton.

It was the first time that Blanch had set
eyes upon the suspect Spelman. As Emily casually established eye
contact with the sergeant, Blanch made an instant judgement of the
woman. Pretty and perilous, that would suffice for now. Again,
Houghton did the talking.

“Dr Spelman, we are going to get you out of
here as soon as possible, before we do, I’d like Sergeant Nichols
to have a word with you.” Houghton indicated that Beckett should
join him outside the room. They stood in silence whilst Blanch was
alone with Emily. After a few minutes, the door opened and Blanch
reappeared and stood before her boss.

“Well, Sergeant?” asked Houghton, encouraging
her to make her report. Blanch nudged her head in the direction of
Beckett. “Oh, don’t mind about him, he’s harmless enough,” said
Houghton.

“I’m no doctor, Sir,” answered Blanch, “but
she says that she has suffered no physical assault, not recently at
least, mental perhaps but not physical.”

“Thank you, Sergeant, do you agree that it is
safe to move her from here and then seek medical treatment if
necessary?”

“I do, Sir. Have you cautioned her yet?”

“Let’s do what we said earlier,” suggested
Houghton softly, avoiding her question. Blanch looked confused by
Houghton’s instruction, “The car, Blanch, the car.”

“Ah, yes Sir,” she replied with a nod and
left to collect the Audi.

With Blanch out of earshot, Houghton asked
Beckett the question that had been needling him ever since Emily
had mentioned it.

“Who the hell is this American; Cavendish
made no mention of an American?” Again, he wished he had been
better briefed by Cavendish, yet whose fault was that?

“It could be the third person that Cavendish
is always harping on about, the one he claims has set the whole
thing up,” suggested Beckett.

“That would be very convenient, or not, as
the case may be.” Houghton stepped back and looked about the
corridor, weighing up his options. “Blanch is collecting the car.
As soon as it’s here I want you to escort Dr Spelman back to the
house like we said.”

Beckett nodded his agreement whilst Houghton
headed downstairs leaving Beckett to return to the bedroom. He
leant against the doorframe, desperately trying to think of
anything mundane to say, it was his forte after all.

“Where are your clothes, Emily?”

“He took them.”

“Slingsby?” Emily gave a controlled sigh of
exasperation.

“No, the young bastard,” she said wearily.
Beckett opened his mouth to say something but wisely thought better
of it. He reconsidered his words.

“We’re getting you out of here, somewhere
safe.” Emily made no reply. Beckett stood and took off his green
parka, “come on Emily, put this on, you’ll be fine, trust me.”

Beckett held his coat up, the inside facing
Emily. Grudgingly, she stood up, speaking as she did so. “How far
is it to the police station?”

“The police station?” replied Beckett,
suddenly comprehending the implication of her question. “I really
don’t know what the long term plans are,” he said softly, “you’ve
already met the chief inspector and he said to take you back to the
house. Marchel wants you at Flash Seminary.”

“Cavendish?” asked Emily, “why should he
decide?”

“Now is not the time for explanations, let’s
get you out of here and smartened up, eh?” She looked slowly around
the room for one last time before sliding her arms in to the
capacious sleeves of the coat, she felt Beckett release his hold on
the parka and she fumbled with the zip fastener, securing the
oversized coat around her. She found Beckett’s residual body heat
unsettlingly reassuring.

She remained motionless, considering her
fate, still with her back to him, before putting her hands in the
coat pockets in an act of resigned submission. She realised the
game was up, better to be in the hands of the police than be a
hostage of persons unknown.

Her hand touched something furry and, like
Beckett the previous day, her hand recoiled before it returned to
examine the foreign object. Her fingers slowly wrapped around the
soft toy and she knew instantly what she had found. She slowly
raised Holmcourt Bear to her face. Staring into the face of the
smiling bear, she felt a sudden all-consuming swell of emotion rise
up through her body and engulf her mind with a sickening clarity.
She was physically overwhelmed by the acceptance of her despicable
act in the name of the dishonourable cause she had been
pursuing.

What fight she had left dissolved at the
sight of the benign bear. She bent double as her body ceased to be
hers to control, she sobbed violently as if trying to catch her
breath, and cried without pity for the reprehensible exploits of
Emily Spelman.

An extraordinary sight greeted Houghton as he
returned upstairs to inform Beckett that Blanch had returned with
the car. He discovered Beckett hugging an obviously distraught Dr
Spelman who was sobbing incessantly against his chest.

“Christ, Tom,” demanded Houghton, “what the
fuck have you done to her?”

The black Audi saloon crunched heavily along
the gravel drive as Blanch slowly parked the car by the side of the
garage as instructed by Houghton. The house next door stood empty,
the estate agents sign confirming that it was up for sale. A gloomy
silence had accompanied the short drive through the muted streets
of Wells-next-the-Sea; Emily regarded the flint-dashed houses with
an equivocal curiosity through the side window whilst clutching the
teddy bear, her thoughts as flowing as the wind that buffeted the
coastal town.

Beckett hurriedly exited the car; the wind
was biting as he ducked around to the passenger side, his blue polo
shirt offering little respite against the spiteful elements. He
opened the passenger door and Emily at once put a bare foot
tentatively onto the gravel and trod gingerly towards the smoother
concrete path that ran up to the front door of Flint House. Beckett
followed closely behind her; he glanced over his shoulder as Blanch
reversed the Audi to rejoin her boss and he cast a furtive glance
skyward where the low grey cloud scurried threatening beneath the
milky sunlight. Emily stood waiting by the door and he reached over
her, his chin brushing against her hair as he fumbled with the door
lock.

Once inside, he thrust the keys into his
jean’s pocket before shepherding Emily into the large extended
kitchen, where he immediately advanced the heating to get some
warmth into the property. A feeling of relief rushed through his
chilled body as he savoured the comparatively familiar surroundings
of Flint House, away from the scene of Emily’s imprisonment.

Emily walked to the sink and poured herself a
glass of water from the tap and drank it greedily, refilled the
glass and padded lightly across to the fridge behind Beckett, who
was attending to the kettle.

“Coffee?” he asked. Emily leant back against
the tall white fridge and nodded. “Will you promise me one thing?”
he added cautiously. She had regained some of her composure
following her emotional breakdown at the Georgian house, yet
Beckett sensed a fragility that he had not seen before.

“What?” she replied absently, sipping water
from her glass.

“Promise me you won’t do a runner.” He spoke
quietly, almost apologetically.

“And where am I supposed to go?” she replied
wearily.

“I don’t know, Emily. Is it too much to ask
that you just stay put?”

“Tom, I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

“Promise?”

“Christ, I promise!” she said in an
exasperated tone, slamming the glass down on the worktop. His
attention was drawn to her left breast as she patronizingly crossed
it with her right forefinger. He found the sight of Emily wearing
his coat induced a warm sensation in the pit of his stomach, she
appeared small and insecure in her new surroundings. Beckett
nodded, acknowledging that he may have pushed her too hard.

“Tell you what, why don’t you freshen up
whilst I make a coffee. Use my towel; it’s hanging over the
banister at the top of the stairs. I’ll show you the way.”

“It’s okay, I’m sure I can find the
bathroom,” she said irritably.

Emily trudged towards the doorway and as she
passed he grabbed her right arm entrenched somewhere within the
padded green sleeve of his coat. She stopped abruptly and looked
fiercely up into his face.

“Emily?” he said as she tried to free her
arm, “don’t treat me like one of the bad guys; I’ve never done
anything to hurt you.” She stopped struggling and cooly regarded
the man before her.

“No, but I did something to hurt you. That’s
the difference between you and me.”

“Let’s not go there,” he tried to smile, but
all that emerged was a sulky grimace. “Listen, Emily. Take whatever
clothes you can find of mine in the front bedroom, I’m sure there
is something you can wear.” He remembered Houghton’s advice about
keeping her effectively naked but chose to ignore it.

“You are a good man, Tom,” she said passively
as she left the kitchen and climbed the anti clockwise stairs up to
the first floor landing. She let Beckett’s coat slip to the floor,
grabbed the towel, and entered the bathroom, bolting the door
behind her. Emily spent countless minutes under the shower, washing
and rinsing, repeating the process until the hot water tank was
expended and the water began to run cold.

She was shivering by the time she switched
the shower off; she let the last few drips from the showerhead
splash against her body and flinched at the icy caress.

She felt cleansed.

Leisurely, she dried herself before studying
her reflected image in the mirror for some minutes, not as an act
of vanity but one of curiosity. She was familiar with her unmade up
face but realised she hadn’t truly looked at herself in a long
while.

She noticed the lines at the corner of her
eyes, the blue shadows that framed her puffy eyes; there were
creases in her face that she had not noticed before. Who was Emily
Spelman, a scholar or a thief? She knew the answer; Cavendish and
the police would be after her blood.

Yet at that precise moment she did not care,
her personal circumstances were in chaos, the immediate future held
little prospect of improvement. Her life lay in tatters, and yet
she felt an odd sense of relief, as if something terrible was
behind her. Now was the time to move on to what providence had
planned for her, albeit with a little improvisation of her own.

When Emily reappeared downstairs, she found
Beckett sprawled on the sofa in the lounge, toying with his Canon
digital camera. He peered over the top of his reading glasses and
smiled impulsively. Emily had put on a pair of his jeans, which she
had to hold up with one hand above her waist, the trouser legs
rolled up to shin level. She wore his old red cheque lumberjack
shirt, a relic from the past, which he had brought along as a
sartorial comfort blanket.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked, pleased
that he had lost his earlier scowl.

“Nothing at all, honest. I was just wondering
how many trees you planned to chop down this afternoon. You look
like an extra from ‘The Good Life’.”

“The what?”

“You know, ‘The Good life’, checked shirt and
all that.” Emily looked none the wiser. He was about to remonstrate
at the paucity of her knowledge regarding trivial TV culture but
stopped himself. She had more in common with Cavendish than he
cared to admit.

Emily swayed barefoot across to the sofa that
stood at right angles to the one upon which Beckett reclined. He
gesticulated towards her cup of coffee on the table.

“It’s fresh, I remade it a few minutes ago,
thought you were never going to get out of the shower.”

She hugged the cup of steaming coffee in both
hands and sipped tentatively at the hot brew, smiling
appreciatively.

“Do you want to talk about what happened back
there?” he asked delicately.

“No, not particularly,” she whispered over
the top of her mug, he watched the wisps of steam scatter as she
spoke.

“What happens now?” she asked, addressing the
question to the opposite wall.

“Marchel said he wants you at Flash
Seminary,” he answered, his attention seemingly focused on the
camera. She baulked at the mention of the name, unsure of why she
found the German so intimidating.

“Is that a police station?” she asked.

“Not that I’m aware of, though I’ve never
been there, truth be told.”

“So am I to be arrested?” she asked
blatantly.

“What, for stealing a fake sword?” She
snapped her head in his direction at the bombshell he so
nonchalantly disclosed.

“Fake?”

“Yea, it’s a fake,” still his gaze was fixed
upon the aperture ring of the camera.

“Are you sure?”

“Met the nice lady who made it.”

“But I could have sworn it was real.”

“Only ‘cos you wanted it to be,” said Beckett
quoting his employer. If Emily was surprised then she hid her
emotions admirably from the photographer.

“So you set us up?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“So you would lead Marchel to whoever told
you about the sword’s existence.”

“So I hurt you for nothing?” She paused
before adding, “you know I didn’t want to do that, don’t you? It
was all Paul’s idea.”