Denied to all but Ghosts (40 page)

He left Asimov cowering on the floor and went
to check on the man who been so crassly executed. Had the gunman
been a professional Cavendish knew that he and Asimov would also be
dead. Ignoring the flagrant wounds, he resourcefully rifled through
the dead man’s pockets, oblivious to the still warm blood that
seeped from the man’s perforated chest, already imbuing the room
with a sweet sickly odour.

He extracted all he could find and stuffed
the eclectic collection into his voluminous pockets. He took a
final glance at the man’s inert face in a bid to fix the image in
his mind, the irrevocability of the deathly visage filled him with
a fresh vitality and hunger, a physical response that he had
experienced many times before and never desired to evaluate for
fear of losing its galvanising impetus.

Cavendish returned to Asimov, who was sitting
hunched on the bathroom floor against the toilet bowl. The
youngster physically recoiled when he saw the German enter the room
still holding his 1955 weapon of choice.

“Christ man, I just saved your life so stop
pissing around!” shouted Cavendish. Asimov cowered before
Cavendish’s agitated verbal tirade, possibly because it was
delivered in German.

“Get the fuck up!” he shouted angrily at
Asimov.

The young man seemed to shrink even more.
Cavendish looked to the ceiling and took several deep calming
breaths to quell his exuberance following the shootout. He
re-holstered his gun and crouched down before the tearful man who
looked so much younger than his twenty-something years. Finally,
the emotive Untersucher remembered to speak in English.

“Look, Zach,” he said with deliberate calm
and tenderness, “your friend in there is dead. You should be dead,
but you are not.” Cavendish put his hands on Asimov’s shoulder and
felt the boy flinch as he made contact. “Zach, look at me,” ordered
Cavendish. Asimov hesitated, Cavendish quietly repeated the
instruction and finally eye contact was established.

Zach Asimov looked into the pale cold eyes of
the Untersucher. Like many a cornered man he looked for answers in
the eyes of his attacker, eager to resolve his own desperate plight
and hoping beyond hope that the eyes he was looking into were
merciful.

Cavendish spoke gently and without the haste
that his persuasive intellect insisted upon. He spoke smoothly and
in a controlled manner, carefully keeping to a precise measure,
never once breaking eye contact with Asimov. Cavendish finished his
address and hoped that he had connected with the bemused man but he
could not be sure, Asimov had failed to respond in any way to his
carefully chosen words.

“Come on Zach, let’s be going.” Cavendish
offered Asimov his hand and together they stood up and Cavendish,
still holding his hand, led him from the bathroom.

The bed hid the body of the shot man, only
his legs, laying on the ground in an unnatural manner, were visible
as they entered the room.

“Don’t look over there, Zach, there is no
need. Where’s your bag?” Asimov pointed towards the floor by the
side of the bed. As of yet, Asimov had not spoken; Cavendish was
fine with that so long as he did what he was told.

The Untersucher picked up the backpack and
rummaged in the bottom until he finally found the small package he
was looking for and grinned triumphantly, causing Asimov to cower
before the scar-faced blonde. The veil, which had clouded
Cavendish's mind the moment Simeon informed him about the stolen
letters vanished in an instant. He could not logically justify his
decision but he left the items in the bag, believing Asimov would
be more cooperative if he was still in possession of the booty that
he had been entrusted to steal from the Goldsteins.

On the stand in the corner of the room lay a
sturdy suitcase. He raised it with one hand to guesstimate its
weight. It felt full, implying that the American had not been in
the room long or that he was the sort of person who refrained from
unpacking if he intended only a short stay.

Cavendish carried the case with him out in to
the small lobby and opened the hotel room door. He cautiously
looked out in to the corridor, initially in the direction taken by
the lone assassin and then back towards the lifts. The corridor was
empty save for the laundry trolley he had earlier passed. He
continued scanning the corridor until he spotted an object on the
wall and gave a tight smile of approval.

Alone, the inquisitor headed towards the
lifts, on the wall to his left was the object of his attention. He
flexed his knees to lower his torso and with his elbow nudged the
fire alarm button, suffusing the corridor with the strident demands
of the hotel fire alarm, as was the entire hotel.

He swiftly retraced his steps to rejoin
Asimov and took the young man’s hand as he led him to the staircase
taken by the assassin. No one emerged from any of the rooms on the
eighth floor, the floor was either empty or the sound of gunfire
had persuaded the occupants to remain in their rooms despite the
urgent summons of the alarm. The stairway, Cavendish assumed, was
for staff use, it was stark and undecorated and only the varied
subtle shades of grey concrete offered any colour contrast.

When they reached the seventh floor, they
were joined by an elderly couple and as the descent continued, a
further ten or more people melded into the exodus. On the ground
floor, an emergency exit opened out into the car park and Cavendish
and Asimov remained embedded in the centre of the crowd of
evacuees.

Cavendish observed the hotel main entrance
off to his left, from which a far greater migration was taking
place, namely the delegates from the sales conference. He hurriedly
surveyed the view around him before turning right to head for the
road on which the taxi had earlier deposited him; still he clutched
Asimov’s hand as if the grasp offered an umbilical cord for the
traumatized man.

They hastily rounded the corner of the hotel
without being confronted. At the end of the short road lay a choice
of left or right, right down the hill towards God knows where or
left towards what he guessed was Plymouth Hoe. Following his
instincts, he chose what he considered the least restrictive route
offered by the Hoe.

A large tarmac area led towards the red and
white hooped Seaton lighthouse and Hoe memorial. He guided Asimov
along the concourse as briskly as possible. He had to decide
quickly where he and Asimov should go, he had no idea how long the
student would remain cooperative and the quicker he could extricate
himself from Plymouth the better. His long-term goal was to deliver
Asimov to Flash Seminary as swiftly as possible.

Cavendish drove Asimov along the promenade
towards the memorial and then left through an ornamental garden and
past a bowling green where the path sloped down towards the
shopping district of Plymouth. Cavendish grabbed his phone from
somewhere within the depths of his coat and summoned the number of
Bethan Williams.

“Hello! How goes it, Marchel?” asked
Bethan.

“Not too good, Miss Williams, I need you to
get me and A.N. Other out of here as quickly as possible, I cannot
explain now but I believe our ‘friends’ will want words with me
before too long.”

“How quick is quick?” asked a concerned
Bethan, correctly interpreting Cavendish’s reference to the
police.

“Now.”

“Marchel, you sound a bit weary. Give me five
and I’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Cavendish
terminated the call,

Bethan Williams maybe good, but he was not
sure how she could rescue him from this dire situation. He put the
phone in his outside pocket and as he did so, his hand brushed an
unfamiliar object, which he took out to examine. He offered a
propitious smile as he read the card given to him by the taxi
driver, Harry.

He punched the numbers displayed on the card
into his mobile and waited impatiently as the phone emitted a
ringing tone. He swore as he thought the voicemail was about to cut
in, but instead he recognised the impenetrable vernacular of the
taxi driver.

“Hello?” said the broad Plymouthian
voice.

“It is the man to whom you gave a lift to a
hotel this morning, do you recall?” Cavendish smiled conceitedly,
pleased with his phraseology despite his stressful
circumstances.

“Aye, I remember you, son. So does that bloke
you nearly choked to death, I expect,” laughed the taxi driver.

“Is there any chance of picking up me and my
friend, as soon as possible?” enquired Cavendish.

“Well now, that depends where you are, and it
depends where I am and who I’m with. As it happens, I’m sat outside
the station where I picked you up earlier. Now where exactly are
you?”

Cavendish scanned his environment. “We are
walking down from the Hoe, we have passed a large hotel on our
right and there is a church on the left, ahead looks like a large
anchor and a pedestrian crossing leading to the shopping area.”

“I knows where you’re to. Wait by the Anchor
and I’ll be with you in ten minutes, I’ll just call control to let
them know.”

“If you make it two minutes and don’t tell
your controller then you’ll be able to afford to take the rest of
the day off.” There was a slight pause leaving Cavendish worried in
case he had scared the man away.

“I’ll see you in five,” confirmed Harry.

The reticent Asimov suddenly began to whimper
and visibly wince as Cavendish belatedly realised he was squeezing
the man’s hand. He focused on Asimov to prevent himself looking
around furtively and drawing attention to them both, he hoped the
good burghers of Plymouth would not be too concerned with two men
sitting on a bench holding hands.

Cavendish had yet to study Asimov closely. He
looked into his dark brown eyes nestling beneath his mop top and
noticed the pupil dilation, perhaps drug abuse explained the man’s
easy acquiescence or possibly he was simply in a state of shock.
Cavendish did not care to deal with ‘why’.

Some five minutes elapsed and the
recognisable shape of the red taxi pulled over by the Pelican
Crossing. Cavendish pulled Asimov to his feet and coerced him
towards the waiting cab. The taxi parked illegally by the crossing
but Harry showed little haste as he walked around to open the boot
for the stowage of Cavendish’s case. Asimov refused to hand over
his bag; he hung on to it tightly as if his life depended on it.
Cavendish bundled Asimov into the rear seat of the taxi.

“Where to?” asked the taxi driver. Cavendish
spoke without hesitation.

“North.”

Cavendish’s phone rang with a startling
abruptness heralding Bethan’s response.

“Okay, here’s the plan, courtesy of Inspector
Houghton,” proclaimed the excited fixer, “in about an hour a
helicopter will arrive at Plympton Castle, can you get there in
time or do you want me to hold it up?”

“Hold on, Miss Williams,” replied Cavendish
evenly, suppressing the rising excitement of the likely reprieve.
“Do you know where Plympton Castle is?” he asked Harry.

“I certainly do, my bird.”

“How long will it take you to drive us
there?”

“‘Bout twenty minutes, I’d say, give or take,
you knows.”

“Right, that is where we are going,”
Cavendish reverted to Bethan, “not a problem, Miss Williams.”

“Marchel, the ‘copter will land on the large
grassy area by the castle and they’ll be expecting two of you. By
the way, if this comes off you owe Mr Houghton big time.”

“Thank you, Bethan,” said Cavendish
gratefully.

“It’s all about the 6P’s, Marchel. Perfect
planning prevents piss poor performance.” Bethan was pleased that
the German had used her Christian name; it felt as if the
illustrious inquisitor was offering praise.

“That’s one to remember. Thanks, Bethan.”

“No probs, Marchel. You hang tight down
there.”

The taxi followed the banks of the tidal
River Plym; the low tide afforded the estuary a disconsolate look
of redundancy. Driving beneath the A38, Harry delivered the
fugitives to the outer fringes of Plympton. Cavendish became
increasingly concerned with Asimov’s demeanour; no one had ever
given Cavendish such little trouble, how much longer would his
torpor last?

The driver barely stopped prattling during
the twenty or so minutes that it took to reach their destination,
and try as he might; Cavendish could see no castle and began to
consider the fact that Harry might not be as cooperative as he
appeared. He found his right hand edging towards his revolver and
evaluated how many unspent rounds were left in the cylinder.

“Well, here we are,” declared the
demonstrative Harry.

“Where is the castle?” asked a distrustful
Cavendish, reaching inside his coat.

“The ruins is over there,” pointed the
driver.

Cavendish could see nothing but the swathe of
shrubs in full leaf and the younger trees that were just awakening
from their winter slumber. They had come to a halt on a narrow road
by a school. Cavendish relaxed his grip on the revolver when he
spotted the brown sign that indicated the route to the castle.

“I cannot thank you enough for your help,
Harry,” declared Cavendish as he lifted the suitcase from the car
boot. During the drive, Cavendish had counted the money in his
wallet and he handed over in excess of £500.

“Well that is mighty generous of you, Sir, if
you’re ever in the area again and need my help, let me know,”
smiled Harry.

Cavendish speculated whether the man would be
so accommodating in the future when he read the local papers and
discovered the story of the body in the hotel. Had Houghton been
with him he was sure that he could have had the incident hushed up.
At least Harry gave the impression of being discrete.

The brown sign directed them up a narrow
shrub-lined path that led to a large open park beside the ruins of
the Norman keep. Cavendish could appreciate why the wide expanse of
parkland had been selected for a helicopter-landing site. He led
Asimov towards a bench below the castle motte and glanced at his
watch, the helicopter was now due in less than thirty minutes. It
was early afternoon; the sky remained grey and obstinate and looked
full of rain, not great weather for flying. He was now so close to
getting Asimov and the items back to Flash.