Denied to all but Ghosts (43 page)

Houghton had lived in the city for as long as
he could remember, save for his time at Cambridge. He often
listened to birds singing in his north London garden, but here in
rural north Norfolk the bird song was almost overwhelming. By far
his favourite was that of the Blackbirds, whose melodious voices
were warming up for their evening performance.

He heard the distant call of the Wood Pigeon.
He was no ornithologist but for some obscure reason he remembered a
feature on Radio 4 concerning the correction of the recording of
the Wood Pigeon’s song by some eagle-eared listener. The song
apparently went ‘take two cows taffee, take two cows taffee, take
two cows taffee, take.’ The number of repetitions varied but the
song must always end on ‘take’, this was the important correction
insisted upon by the listener.

Houghton was returning home after the
conclusion of a particularly repulsive case of child abuse when he
heard the broadcast. The sheer banality of the item had restored a
little sanity back into the wicked world. He repeated the story to
his wife and kids, they humoured him but he could tell they were
unimpressed by his knowledge of bird song. After all these years,
the memory had stuck with him, unlike the evil case involving the
child. For a second he considered relating the story to his
sergeant but decided to save it for a rainy day.

Houghton rapped on the door of Flint House
and waited for Beckett to answer the door. It took a few attempts
before the door opened and Beckett allowed them in. Houghton caught
the stale odour of cigarettes on Beckett’s breath and was
surprised, having never considered Beckett to be a smoker. This day
was full of revelations. Beckett had not smoked for many years but
had found a packet that Cavendish had left behind and in the past
hour had smoked two of the contents.

A gathering of three took place in the
kitchen, Houghton, Blanch and Beckett.

“Where is she, Tom?” asked Houghton regarding
the whereabouts of Emily Spelman.

“She is resting upstairs, thought it was the
best place for her,” replied Beckett cautiously. He glanced at
Blanch, who still eyed him suspiciously and he wondered if it was a
compulsory expression taught during police basic training.

“How did it go your end?” asked Beckett of
Houghton.

“We found Slingsby in a chest freezer, looks
like multiple gunshot wounds, the fact he was in the freezer means
an accurate time of death will be difficult to ascertain.” Beckett
felt his mind swoon with shock as he took in Houghton’s appalling
news.

“Emily might be able to tell you,” suggested
the stunned Beckett. Blanch did not like the way Beckett used her
name with such familiarity. If Houghton thought the same, he
declined to mention it.

“You’ve spoken with her then?” asked
Houghton.

“Yeah,” replied Beckett, he hoped the brevity
of his answer would disguise any inferences. Emily was now fully
aware of the world of Marchel Cavendish.

“It’s okay, Tom; I’m not here to interrogate
you. Do you think that Dr Spelman is up for a quick chat with my
sergeant, just a few formalities, nothing too heavy?”

“I don’t know, I could go and ask her,”
replied Beckett protectively. He was conscious of Cavendish’s
instruction to shield Emily from Blanch.

“No need, Tom. Blanch can go find out.”
Houghton gave a brief nod to his sergeant and she eagerly left the
kitchen to head upstairs.

Emily heard the knock on the bedroom door and
knew immediately from the authoritative rap that it was not Beckett
behind the door.

“Come in,” announced Emily as politely as her
lack of enthusiasm would allow. She was sitting up on the bed still
wearing Beckett's clothes, leaning against the wooden headboard.
Blanch Nichols stepped officiously into what had been Beckett’s
room, whilst Emily looked on and assessed the diminutive police
officer. She noted the dark business suit, the sensible high cut
blouse beneath the jacket, which masked any physical attributes
that Blanch may have possessed. The centre parted auburn hair, now
secured at the back of her head, framed her narrow face that bore
the minimal amount of makeup. The face was pretty but not exploited
to its full potential; her appearance was designed to send out a
precise message to the world. Emily concluded that Blanch had
achieved the desired effect.

The police officer had spoken with her
earlier to establish if any assault had taken place and had been
efficient in her task, yet she was no Mother Teresa.

Emily decided that she would adopt an
attitude of reserved compliance whilst she evaluated the
high-handed young detective.

“Dr Spelman, I don’t know if you remember me
from earlier, but I’m Detective Sergeant Nichols of the
Metropolitan Police, I’d like to ask you a few questions with
regard to the death of Paul Slingsby.”

Blanch derived a wicked thrill from the way
she delivered the news of Slingsby’s demise to the scholar. She was
impressed by the academic’s self-control, only the flickering and
misting of her hazel eyes betrayed her disbelief. Either the
announcement of his death came as a genuine shock or she was an
accomplished actress.

“I’d be grateful if you would recount the
events that took place after you arrived at the house with Mr
Slingsby,” asked Blanch callously. Emily felt disorientated; unable
to assimilate the emotional complexities of the police officer's
nodded and indicated that Blanch should sit on the bed with her.
She caught Blanch’s initial reluctance but, after a moment’s
hesitation, the sergeant sat next to Emily’s bare feet and took out
a notebook from her jacket pocket.

Blanch listened intently as Emily, patently
numbed by the news of Slingsby’s death, gave an intimate account of
the events that took place at the Georgian house. She took notes
whilst making a further assessment of the woman who recounted the
story.

Blanch had instantly taken a dislike to
Emily. She considered it an informed and objective opinion. Yet
from the initial description given to her by Houghton, she knew
Emily was the kind of woman that she could happily despise, without
even meeting her. She conceded that it was somewhat churlish that
her greatest motive for disliking Dr Spelman was simply because she
was beautiful and by the way men reacted to her.

Even without wearing makeup, Blanch’s
increased heart rate informed her that she was in the company of an
attractive woman. With makeup, Emily would be a real head turner.
She imagined the power that such beauty held in a male dominated
world. However, as she considered her line of reasoning, she also
appreciated what a handicap it must be. It was one of the reason
why she insisted on ‘dressing down’, or such was the opinion of her
sister. Blanch liked to appear functional and business like, there
was no room in her world for ‘chemistry’.

Nonetheless, during the interview Blanch was
disappointed not to perceive any of the arrogance or false modesty
she had expected to hear. Emily came across very matter of fact and
there was no deviation from the main thread of her statement to
imply innocence, and no defence or justification for her actions.
She seemed very calm and almost apologetic.

Blanch concluded the formal interview by
returning her notebook to her jacket pocket. Her instincts told her
that Emily’s story rang true and she trusted her instincts.

Blanch was about to get up from the bed when
she caught Emily’s enquiring stare, normally an interviewee would
look away when the notebook was closed, but not Emily.

“What?” Blanch asked with a hint of
annoyance. She did not intend to speak, the word just popped out of
her mouth.

“I beg your pardon,” replied Emily, “I didn’t
say anything.”

“You were staring at me,” replied Blanch
accusingly.

“And?” Emily asked suggestively. Blanch
regretted entering into the informal exchange, she considered it
unprofessional and put it down to the extraordinary revelations of
the day.

“Will you stay a bit longer?” asked Emily
quietly.

“Why?” asked Blanch brusquely, her attention
drawn to Emily’s naked calf tapering gently to her bare foot. Her
toes slowly kneaded the soft plump white duvet.

“I, I don’t want to be on my own, that’s all,
nothing sinister, honestly.” Emily offered a frail smile to the
stern face of the slight detective.

Blanch hesitated for it had been a long day
of conflict and disclosure. Part of her simply could not face any
more police work, which would inevitably ensue if she returned
downstairs. On the other hand, did she want to associate with this
femme fatale, as Emily had often been indicted?

“You don’t like me, do you?” asked Emily in
the same, casual tone. Blanch felt flustered and reacted
impulsively.

“Whether I like you or not is an irrelevance,
Dr Spelman.”

“I don’t mind, really. I’ve been disliked
most of my life, I’ve got so used to it that I positively encourage
it.” Emily smiled tenderly; Blanch swallowed uncomfortably.

“Please don’t hate me for what you think I
am, you can hate me for the things I’ve done, but not for what you
think I might have done.”

Emily broke eye contact and for Blanch’s
benefit looked poignantly out of the window at the bird that had
flown up beneath the roof eves, intent on making a nest, blissfully
unaware of the complexities of the human emotions inhabiting the
room beneath its home. She still had to reconcile herself with the
full emotional implications of Paul Slingsby's death. Yet there was
one overwhelming sentiment. She was free, released from the bully's
threats. Emily was unconcerned about the machinations of the
police; she was more apprehensive at the prospect of meeting
Marchel Cavendish. Yet having one police officer onside could do no
harm.

“I’ll stay for ten minutes,” answered Blanch
cautiously. Emily unleashed her most devastating smile and slid
across to sit next to Blanch, placing her left hand on Blanch’s
tense right shoulder.

“I’ve two things to ask of you,” whispered
Emily coyly. Blanch's entire body tightened as she blushed and
knotted her brow in anticipation.

“What can you tell me about the firm?” asked
Emily. Blanch’s disappointment was manifest and she shuffled her
bottom as she prepared to raise herself from the bed, yet was
prevented from doing so by pressure from Emily’s left hand. Emily
leant forward and slipped her right hand beneath the sergeant’s
skirt, smoothly sliding her palm along the inside of the Blanch’s
right thigh where her fingers provocatively caressed the warm soft
flesh.

“But more importantly,” whispered Emily,
“have you any underwear I could possibly borrow?”

The helicopter hovered over the expansive
lawn within the secluded grounds of Flash Seminary. From his
viewpoint, Cavendish noted the heavily forested land, with the deep
green pine trees contrasted by the silver bark of the birch trees
that surrounded the house. It was not unlike Oberammergau, but here
the land lacked the softness of his Bavarian home. There was a
barely tamed ruggedness to the landscape in these Derbyshire
hills.

The grey clouds carried by the stiff
northerly did little to soften the pastoral landscape. It was the
same view that he had been denied when he arrived courtesy of the
Adenauer’s biplane and he struggled to remember how long ago that
was. What he did enjoy was the view of the house itself. From the
sky, he could fully appreciate the Victorian architectural
grandeur. It felt oddly like coming home.

Asimov had remained silent and submissive
throughout the trip, a fact that Cavendish continued to be grateful
for, yet now Asimov was looking enquiringly out of the window,
suggesting to Cavendish that he had recovered from his earlier
state of lassitude. Now was not the time to question his good
fortune, analysis would come later.

Cavendish glanced at his Breitling on his
left wrist as the helicopter made a slow descent. Dust and organic
debris rose to greet and engulf the helicopter as it neared the
ground. A feeble jolt indicated their arrival. Immediately, the
engines were cut and as the rotors slowed, calmness was restored to
the grounds of the seminary.

Distracted by the house, Cavendish had not
noticed the waiting figure of a man dressed in a black puffer
jacket, who now approached the helicopter in the familiar assumed
helicopter crouch.

The Untersucher finally recognised the man as
Christian Searsby, who he had last seen in the crypt of St Mary’s
in Chesterfield only three days ago. Cavendish leaned over Asimov
and opened the door. He could see Searsby waiting just beyond the
rotor reach of the helicopter, the North Face jacket bulking out
the bearded figure, making him appear far more imposing than he
would have otherwise.

Asimov looked to Cavendish for guidance, the
latter nodded and Asimov took it as instruction to exit the
aircraft. He hesitantly unfastened his seat belt, picked up his bag
and stepped carefully down from the helicopter. Searsby took his
arm and guided him away from the aircraft in the direction of the
seminary. They paused and turned back to face the helicopter as
Cavendish climbed out having spoken briefly with the pilot.

Searsby felt a slight tug from Asimov as he
attempted to move towards Cavendish and had to apply a gentle
pressure to prevent his passage. Cavendish lugged the suitcase out
of the helicopter and walked stiffly over to Searsby, removing his
sunglasses as he made his approach. He held out his hand and
exchanged greetings with Searsby, each with a broad smile.

“Welcome back. Good trip, Herr Cavendish?”
asked Searsby stroking his beard as he spoke.

“A good result, I think, Christian. At least
I’m here. I’d be grateful if you could get my friend Zach settled
in.”