Denied to all but Ghosts (42 page)

“Oh, many, Sir. And no doubt I shall be
annoying you forever and a day with questions, but I think you have
been most succinct in your report and I thank you for being so open
with me.” Houghton could not shake off the feeling that Blanch’s
reaction to what he had just revealed resembled the response he
might have expected had he just given a dissertation on
neighbourhood policing. She showed no sign of astonishment at
all.

He looked out through the car window onto the
green swath of the Butlands, the elegant trees still dancing to the
beat of the wind from the North Sea.

“You surprise me, Sergeant. Most people would
believe that I had told them a load of tosh.”

“But why would you do that, Sir. I have to
believe what you are telling me, or else our relationship will
never work.” Houghton gave the briefest of smiles, he wanted to
breakdown Blanch’s stonewall defence.

“But, Blanch, do you not find the things I
have just told you incredible, amazing and frightening?”

“Yes Sir, I do.” Houghton turned to face
her.

“Blanch, for Christ sake, will you please
talk to me?” he implored.

Blanch had listened intently to her chief
inspector as he told the most amazing story. Although she had paid
careful attention to all he had to say, her mind still had time to
wander. It took her back to her childhood, to the days before her
sexual orientation had established itself, to an evening forever
lost in time, watching the ‘X Files’ on TV with her late Father.
She remembered how annoyed she used to feel when the pretty FBI
woman shot down the truthful, fantastic theories of the hero. How
could that woman disbelieve such a gorgeous man? With the surety of
ten years on the planet, she would go to bed thinking that she
would never have treated him with such cruelty, and so would fall
asleep with the transitory fantasy of one day marrying him. It was
only a few years later that her fantasies centred upon the female
protagonist.

When Houghton had finished his exposition
upon the machinations of this weird organisation, she felt somewhat
numbed. She had to believe what she was told, or else why did he
tell her? It certainly explained many of the strange anomalies she
had come across since joining the unit.

She never really cared for conspiracy
theories, although like most people, she was fascinated by the JFK
assassination stories. Perhaps everyone believed to a greater or
lesser extent in the concept of secret powers behind the throne.
Like the existence of ancient gods, they provided a logical
explanation for the chaos of everyday life.

Part of her even felt disappointed that the
organisation she was apparently now part of seemed so toothless,
almost benevolent, or at least that was how Houghton’s
interpretation had been received. So what could she say when asked
by Houghton what she thought?

“Would you like me to be forthright, Sir?”
she asked as she looked at him for the first time. Houghton’s eyes
begged for a connection. She hoped she was going to say the right
thing.

Suddenly Houghton’s mobile ring tone rendered
the air. He reached for his phone inside his jacket pocket. The
caller was Bethan Williams and he made his apologies to Blanch
before he listened patiently to Bethan as she described Cavendish’s
situation in Plymouth.

“I wondered what the hell he was getting
himself into,” explained Houghton to Bethan. “Listen Bethan, this
morning I arranged for a helicopter to be placed at Cavendish’s
disposal. You’ll find the necessary telephone number under my
folder on the computer database. Kindly liaise with the crew and
let Cavendish know will you?” He smiled as he ended the call.
“Sorry Blanch, you were saying...” The break had allowed Blanch to
re-evaluate what she was going to say.

“Well, to be honest, Sir,” stammered Blanch,
for the first time consciously lowering her guard to Houghton. “I
found the concept of what you told me terrifying. But, you know
something? It doesn’t frighten me at all, really. In fact it
explains a good many things, especially where you’re concerned. I’m
sorry if that’s the wrong answer.”

Houghton’s face took on a look of relief as
he laughed at her answer.

“Blanch, it’s not the wrong answer. It’s the
reason Sir Fletcher selected you for the position.”

Not only did he now believe that he had done
the necessary with Blanch but he had also made some recompense to
Cavendish for his procrastination the previous evening. Now he and
his sergeant could begin working together.

“Ring the local plods, Blanch. Then I think
we’ll have a drink.”

The local police force arrived in the shape
of two local plain-clothes detectives and two uniformed officers.
The news of a body in a freezer excited the local constabulary and
brought a swift response. They were disappointed and annoyed to be
informed that the case would not be theirs and many phone calls
took place to establish responsibility for the crime scene. Once it
had been confirmed that this was Houghton’s case, a result that was
never in doubt as far as he was concerned, the local force seemed
reluctant to cooperate but did grudgingly concede to leave an
officer to watch over the property until Houghton’s small team
arrived from London. They also arranged for a local pathologist to
be available and carry out the necessary formalities with regard to
the late Paul Slingsby.

By the early afternoon, Houghton and Blanch
were ensconced in a bay window seat of the Navigator pub, which was
conveniently situated on the opposite side of the Butlands from the
Georgian house. They had lunch, a round of sandwiches, and
unusually Houghton had suggested an alcoholic option for them both,
Houghton with a pint of the local bitter, Blanch with a pint of
Suffolk cider.

“So who is this creepy Marchel Cavendish?”
asked Blanch.

“Marchel isn’t creepy, he’s one of the good
guys, he just sometimes has an unfortunate way about him,” replied
Houghton tactfully.

“He’s a bit anal, don’t you think?” stated
Blanch. Houghton wondered flippantly if encouraging Blanch to
express herself freely had been such a good idea.

“He gets a little confused at times,” said
Houghton, “you won’t meet many people like Marchel. A father from a
family with strong military connections, a French mother who comes
from a wealthy background. He was schooled in Germany and spent
only a few holidays in England. His first language is German and
then French, his English is very good but rather deliberate and
precise, and he does have the knack of throwing in that German
thing which confuses people.”

“I take it from that answer that it’s not the
first time you have been asked that question,” commented
Blanch.

“No, Blanch, not the first time, nor will it
be the last. Marchel can actually be quite a fun guy at times, but
often he tends to get clammy, you know, shuts up shop. He had a
very difficult case recently in Prague; the firm doesn’t like the
killing of its own people.”

“You mean he killed someone?” asked Blanch
with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. “What happened?”

“Oh, he’s killed more than one person at one
time or another. In Prague he shot a fellow inquisitor, a rapist by
all accounts.”

“So why is that so terrible, he probably got
what was coming to him,” insisted Blanch, reassessing her opinion
of the German.

“You don’t shoot a fellow inquisitor. Some of
the Old Guard on the committee could see nothing wrong with what
old Klauss did.”

Blanch recoiled at the implications of
Houghton’s statement. He read her concern and quickly attempted to
reassure her.

“Don’t worry; the Old Guard are few on the
ground these days. There were many on the committee who simply
wanted to make an example of Cavendish, bring him down a peg or
two. As I said, he’s a nice enough guy, just don’t give him reason
to dislike you. One thing that he does like, and it’s pretty much
his number one rule, he needs to be able to trust you. When he
does, he’s fine, but don’t go thinking it’s a two-way arrangement.
Marchel has been given this case by the firm to restore their
confidence in him, it’s make or break. His ambitions for promotion
will be ruined if he screws up here.”

“Is he gay?” asked Blanch candidly. Houghton
laughed, pleased that Blanch had not been too disturbed by his
earlier rape comments and answered.

“Again, not the first time or the last. I
don’t think he is; part of the reason for many of the committee
voting against him was that he ended up shagging the widow who had
been raped by Klauss. Doesn’t lend a lot of credibility to your
story, does it? But I admit, he does have a certain ambiguity about
him sexually speaking. Apparently he has a beautiful young Bavarian
aristocratic fiancée waiting for him at home, but he’s reluctant to
talk about her.” Blanch was intrigued by Cavendish’s sexual
ambiguity, she blamed it on too many years of reading shallow
magazines.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

“The fiancée or the widow?” asked a
straight-faced Houghton.

“The fiancée!” laughed Blanch. Houghton had
to think and sipped his beer as he searched for a name.

“Magdalena von Stromberg,” came his reply; he
was pleased to recall the name so easily. He knew that Blanch would
have no problem remembering the name, for her commendable memory
was a fine asset in their line of work.

“So is he your boss, you seem to kowtow to
him?” asked Blanch.

“Cavendish is an Untersucher, an inquisitor.
It’s a position within the firm whereby he investigates
irregularities and such like. It is a powerful position; they have
carte blanche to do almost anything they like. They can destroy the
reputation, hence life, of anyone within the organisation, which
includes you and me. He is a good man but don’t underestimate his
powers. You will be committing yourself to an organisation that
will look after you all your life so long as you look after it.
It’s a bit like the Hells Angels; you can’t just cop out when it
suits you.”

“So people never leave?” asked Blanch.

“People do retire but they are still part of
the firm and are expected to behave so. Only death absolves you of
obligation. Does that scare you, Blanch?”

She did not answer. They both answered the
question in their own private, complex way.

“May I ask a question, Sir?”

“That’s why we are here, Sergeant.”

“Is Dr Spelman a suspect in the killing of
Slingsby?”

Houghton reflected for a good while whilst he
composed his reply. He explained in greater depth the role played
by Emily and Slingsby but he could not really explain Cavendish’s
sudden and frantic departure.

“Dr Spelman is naturally a suspect in the
murder. But the fact we never found the sword does lend credence to
her assertion about the American’s involvement. However, knowing
Cavendish as I do, he will see things differently to you and me. He
will be unconcerned about the murder, or to any crimes inflicted
upon Dr Spelman. All he is interested in is finding out who has
been leaking information, endangering the auction, and the privacy
of the firm. Now it may appear that he has his priorities wrong but
he hasn’t. He is employed directly by the firm, unlike you and I,
and lives or falls by his success and reputation. It is our role to
clear up the mess he creates and see that the law is upheld whilst
protecting the interests of the firm. As you’ll discover,
compromise is everything.”

He keenly studied Blanch's puzzled expression
as she processed the information, it would take many hours and
months of self-debate and torment to rationalise and come to terms
with the world she had entered. He felt suddenly saddened. In what
manner and to what degree would her inevitable corruption take?

“So where does the idiot Beckett fit into the
organisation?” asked Blanch.

“Tom is no idiot, Blanch. He just isn’t one
of us and I get the impression he feels like an outsider, take last
night for example.”

“Well, Sir, he wasn’t the only one, I had no
idea what you and Cavendish were referring to half the time, I
could see you giving me funny looks and Cavendish looking confused
when you refused to join in with some of his moot points. I can see
why now.”

“I’m sorry, Sergeant, I really should have
briefed you fully before we left, it was a serious oversight on my
part and...”

Blanch decided to cut Houghton’s explanations
short by continuing her line on Beckett.

“So if Beckett isn’t part of the firm, why is
he with Cavendish?”

“Many people in the firm are asking just
that. I think it all boils down to chemistry. As I said, Cavendish
likes to trust people and there is obviously something about
Beckett that suits the Cavendish psyche. Quite what that is, is
anybody’s guess, a bit like love I suppose? And I wasn’t trying to
imply anything before you go off down that track again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Sir,” smiled Blanch,
“You reckon Beckett has got a thing about Dr Spelman?”

“I would say so, but Cavendish didn’t mention
it. Part of me wonders who the victim is in this case and who the
perpetrator is. Okay, Dr Spelman came looking for a sword that did
not exist but she was set up by Cavendish. I think he would have
been distraught had she not taken the bloody sword.”

“But you said earlier that she drugged
Beckett. Did Cavendish allow that to happen to his so called
friend?” enquired Blanch perceptively.

“Apparently, Blanch. Welcome to the crazy
world of Marchel Cavendish, Untersucher medius. Uh oh,” said
Houghton, leaning forward to survey the house opposite, “the SOCO
team is here, lunch time over, Sergeant.”

Houghton enjoyed the late afternoon drive
back to Flint House. The wind had eased to no more than the
occasional strong gust and as if to celebrate the climatic
improvement, the local bird life emerged from hiding.