Denied to all but Ghosts (41 page)

“How are you feeling, Zach?” asked Cavendish.
He asked, not out of sentiment, simply to re-assess Asimov’s mental
state. The student stared wide-eyed at the distant trees, lost in
the depths of his mind. Cavendish was self-interestedly pleased,
Asimov maybe undergoing some sort of mental breakdown but he was
quiet and compliant, all that the Untersucher required from him.
Yet, he would have appreciated the distraction from himself, a role
that Thomas Beckett played to perfection. Cavendish’s mind drifted
off to days long ago.

Marchel had just finished his finals at
Heidelberg, having only recently returned after recovering from his
mental breakdown following the death of his friend, Sepp von
Manstein. Now he was back again in Oberammergau, his life having
reached a crossroads with no clear direction ahead. He stood on the
footbridge that crossed the rich clear azure waters of the fast
flowing Ammer River, beside him stood Sepp’s father, Matthias, Graf
von Manstein. Marchel wished he had shaved before seeing the man
for the prearranged meeting, his patchy facial hair and overly long
blonde hair gave him the appearance of the bohemian artist he
longed to be.

“
Thanks for seeing me, Marchel,” said von
Manstein. Marchel nodded whilst watching the water eddying over the
rocks at the bottom of the river.

“
I’ll get to the point,” continued von
Manstein, “you were Sepp’s best friend; he was very fond of you as
I am. What you had was a special friendship, which I know you have
struggled to come to terms with now that he is gone. Marchel, I had
plans for Sepp and I’d like to give you the opportunity of taking
what Sepp has missed out on.”

And so it was that Marchel Cavendish took the
first steps into the world of the firm. It was a world that he
would embrace and grow to love, a world that he could not imagine
giving up. It gave him wealth, but most of all it gave him a
purpose and role in life for which his equivocal nature was well
suited. He enjoyed the reputation that his fellow members bestowed
upon him even if it was, like most reputations, not strictly
accurate. He lived for being an Untersucher, he would do anything
to retain his position and fulfil his future advancement.

“Is anyone sat here?” asked a short elderly
woman walking her black miniature poodle. Cavendish was brought
sharply back to the present by the woman’s enquiry. He looked
around and saw at least three vacant benches in the park. The woman
sat down next to Asimov, sandwiching him in the centre of the bench
whilst her dog sniffed around the student’s training shoes.

“I haven’t seen you two here before,” she
said smiling insincerely whilst leaning forward blatantly examining
the clenched hands of Cavendish and Asimov.

“It’s our first visit,” replied Cavendish,
without enthusiasm, yet he thought it prudent not to ignore
her.

“Where are you from, dear?” she asked.

“Osnabrück,” replied Cavendish, where he had
indeed been born whilst his father served in the British garrison
town.

“Oh, you Polish, are you? We get a lot of you
over here now. My eldest sister married a Pole after the war,
lovely man, he and his sister were the only survivors from his
family, the rest were killed by the Jerries.”

“Osnabrück is in Germany, I’m German,” said
Cavendish. He was unsure of why he spoke so openly. Sometimes he
simply fell victim to his own belligerent disposition.

“My brother did his National Service in
Germany,” informed the smiling woman, “in Münster, do you know
it?”

“It’s not very far from Osnabrück.” Cavendish
looked down at the black dog, which was desperately trying to
copulate with Asimov’s leg. Even now, the student did not react and
neither did the ferret-like woman.

“Jim did six months in the Glass House for
beating up a German girl, he said all the girls over there were
begging for it all the time, said they were all whores.”

Cavendish gazed lazily over to the woman; he
was struck by a compelling urge to shoot her and was moving his
right hand towards his revolver, when his ears detected the distant
yet distinctive sound of a helicopter coming in from the north.

“Is he your boyfriend then, I can’t help but
notice you both holding hands? Doesn’t say much, does he? Hey, I’m
talking to you, don’t be so rude,” she jabbed Asimov viciously in
the ribs and he performed a double take as he looked left to see
who had poked him. Staring to his right, he discovered the
enquiringly gaunt face of Marchel Cavendish, who raised his blonde
eyebrows and gestured downwards with his eyes.

Asimov followed Cavendish’s gaze towards the
dog that was still passionately humping his leg. Asimov
straightened his left leg forcefully and flung the rampant canine
five or six feet away where it landed awkwardly and painfully on
the grass, yelping miserably for its bigoted mistress.

“Welcome back, Mr Asimov,” said Cavendish to
Zach with a gentle smile, “good timing, our taxi awaits.”

“Hey, you can’t go kicking my dog like that,”
shouted the woman, “I’m going to report you gay-boys to the
police!”

“Please, feel free,” said Cavendish as he
rose serenely from the bench, suitcase in one hand and Asimov’s
hand in the other, “my name is Hugo Victor, not to be confused with
the French novelist, and I live in Bath. ‘Wiedersehen, meine alte
Hexe.”

The blue Eurocopter EC135 appeared over the
tree line and hovered briefly to access the landing space before
making its final descent into the centre of the park. Cavendish
loped in a crouching style, dragging a now cognisant Asimov behind
him. The door of the Helicopter opened and Cavendish thrust Asimov
inside before he too climbed aboard. In a matter of seconds, the
Eurocopter was airborne. Cruising speed would enable Cavendish and
Asimov to be at Flash Seminary in a few hours.

“Shouldn’t we be arresting this Dr Spelman
and interviewing her down at the local nick, Sir?” asked Blanch
Nichols, not for the first time.

Houghton reflected that it was a perfectly
normal question for the sergeant to be asking under normal
circumstances. He continued to berate himself for his failure to
brief her before they had left London. What was he thinking of? How
could he possibly bring her along on this trip without first
informing her about what she was getting herself involved in?

Houghton realised that he was not the man he
once was. Once there had been a fire in his belly, a fierce
ambition fuelled by intellect and race. His wife had recently made
the accusation that he had forgotten his West Indian roots. He
considered it at the time to be an astonishing thing to say and it
had upset him deeply, yet on reflection he had to admit that she
was correct.

He idealised that colour was an irrelevance,
that he had reached a stage in his life where his race was indeed
inconsequential. He had forgotten the years of struggle against the
inherent racism during his climb up the slippery pole, ranging from
snide comments to downright abuse. His wife, however, still worked
within the West Indian community as a solicitor and saw the effects
and issues of race every day, and was hence still an activist in
the promotion of social justice.

He had grown soft, he refused to use the word
corrupt, but he had been seduced by the comforts offered by the
firm. Yet having a foot in both camps was not an easy compromise.
Despite being a police officer, the direct line of authority above
him led all the way to the home office, where Fletcher Dobson had
firm connections. It amused him to think how he used to despise the
‘funny hand shake brigade’ and had turned down frequent
opportunities to join them.

His compliance was his ticket to the top
table in the things that now seemed important, his kids would
always go to the school of his choice and yet his wife would
believe it was due to the great meritocracy in which they lived.
But he would always know better.

However, there was a price to pay for this
privilege; he would always be at the beck and call of an unseen
hand that did not tolerate question or insubordination. He turned a
blind eye to any lack of accountability that the firm was required
to demonstrate. How much influence did the firm really have?

It resembled a private members club whose
extravagant activities impinged little on the lives of the majority
and was a plaything of the rich. Most people could not even begin
to imagine the combined wealth within the organisation, which
exceeded the GDP of many countries. It was essentially an esoteric,
artistic organisation, which dealt in things above the mundane
drama of political life but it was also a corporate monster.
Perhaps Cavendish had the correct attitude, ‘never ask why, just
how, when and where’.

“Sir, you alright?” asked Blanch, she queried
the strange look on his face. Houghton shook his head; his mental
jogging failed to resolve his current difficulties with Blanch. How
much did she really know of the ‘Regulatory Facilitations Unit’?
Already she had been partly seduced; she had accepted the promotion
and salary with little concern of what might lie ahead.

He assumed she fitted the profile required
for acceptance into the club, that she was single, her parents dead
or out of touch, not especially gregarious, and the possessor of a
fierce ambition. Oh, the things people will do and tolerate in the
name of ambition. How much different was Blanch from Dr Spelman? He
considered that any comparisons would have to wait.

“Sir, are we going to question Dr Spelman?”
Blanch reiterated her initial question. Houghton continued to stare
at the confirmed frozen remains of Paul Slingsby as he had done
throughout his mental meanderings; finally, he closed the lid on
the body and his ruminations. With the act of closure, he returned
to the world of the present.

“Let’s get our SOCO team up here; the local
boys can take care of the house until then. We’ll leave Mr
Slingsby, he isn’t going anywhere.”

“But what about Spelman and this supposed
American?” asked Blanch once more.

“Dr Spelman will be questioned at Flash
Seminary when Herr Cavendish returns.”

“But Sir....”

“Sergeant.”

“Yes Sir?”

“How long have you been with the unit?”

“Three weeks.”

“A mighty three weeks! And do you know why we
have driven to this remote, God forsaken, windswept corner of the
country and why this man is in the freezer?”

“Not exactly, Sir”

“We’ll, if you want to find out I suggest you
stop questioning me and do as you’re bloody well told. Now, call
the SOCO team and get in touch with the local force.”

A flash of anger lit Blanch’s face, but to
her credit, she swallowed the rage and quickly mounted the steps
out of the cellar to make the requested calls. Houghton realised he
had spoken out of turn and had only made matters worse between
them. There were times when speaking one’s mind was the right thing
to do; unfortunately, he had never come across that ‘right
time’.

He walked reluctantly up the cellar steps to
emerge in the hallway. Blanch was completing her first call to the
London SOCO team, they would not arrive in Wells for many hours,
assuming that they left promptly, and from the tone of her voice,
Houghton felt sure they would make all due haste. She was about to
make a call to the local police force when she was interrupted by a
hand on her shoulder.

“Hold on a moment, Blanch, I think we should
have a chat. Come on; let’s go out to the car.”

Blanch Nichols’ stomach flipped. She felt her
mouth go dry. She feared the worse, she had over stepped the mark
once too often. She closed her mouth firmly to prevent any betrayal
of weakness as she followed the chief inspector to the car. She
summoned up everything she despised about Houghton, all the slights
and rebuffs made against her and his possible corruption. She
channelled her fear into anger, which had served her well in the
past. She was not going to go down without a fight.

Both police officers ducked against the
bracing onslaught of the wind as they made their way to the black
Audi parked outside the property. The passenger door closed with an
ominous finality as Blanch settled herself in the leather-clad seat
beside Houghton. She stared defiantly ahead through the windscreen,
focusing upon a red telephone box at the end of the road,
determined not to make eye contact with her superior. Houghton hid
his perverse amusement at the sight of her blatant hostility.

“The SOCO team will take a few hours to get
here,” began Houghton, “the local plods can wait. I think it’s
about time I told you a few things that you may or not be aware of
concerning your position in the unit.”

“With the greatest of respect, Sir, if I may
just...” Blanch’s defence was cut short by Houghton.

“Blanch, my sweet, you wouldn’t know what
‘with greatest respect’ meant if it jumped up and bit you on the
arse.” Her face contorted upon hearing the unusual phraseology
employed by her chief. Houghton was pleased with his choice of
words; it had the desired effect of throwing her off balance. He
softened his tone.

“Blanch, you’re not for the chop, I’m just
going to tell you a few things I should have told you weeks
ago.”

Houghton made a big show of loosening his
floral patterned tie and undoing the top button of his white
collared shirt. For almost an hour, with barely a pause, Houghton
explained the raison d’être of the Regulatory Facilitations
Unit.

“So what do you think, Blanch?” enquired
Houghton at the end of his impromptu lecture.

“Perfectly clear, Sir,” replied Blanch in a
matter of fact manner.

“What do you mean, ‘perfectly clear’, do you
have any questions concerning what I just told you?” asked Houghton
incredulously. Blanch had barely moved throughout his
discourse.