Denied to all but Ghosts (51 page)

Blanch looked enquiringly at the inquisitor
and Cavendish mischievously raised his heavy blonde eyebrows at
her. It was as if Blanch suddenly woke up, her Brummie accent again
tenaciously apparent.

"No way, they never! Did they?” Blanch
glanced pryingly at Houghton who shrugged his shoulders as if to
indicate he could not care less.

After a few minutes of silence, Beckett
entered the room dressed in his new dark suit and his hair still
damp from his morning shower. He nodded his greetings to the room
and checked the food on offer. He sat down absently with his
selection and a mug of steaming tea, taking the vacant seat at the
head of the table. Beckett had an air of casual disregard about him
as he tucked eagerly into his plate of food. He looked up to see
Blanch studying him carefully. She leant to her right and jabbed
Cavendish in the ribs to attract his attention.

“I reckon they did,” she whispered to
Cavendish.

“Do you think so, Blanch?” replied Cavendish
before he too stared hard at Beckett.

“What?” asked a confused Beckett, regarding
both Cavendish and Blanch in turn, as if expecting an answer.
“What?” repeated Beckett, elongating the vowel sound of the
question.

Emily made her appearance; her long
towel-dried hair lay heavily against the vertically striped summer
dress that she had purchased in Fakenham. She took a croissant and
a cup of coffee and sat quietly at the vacant seat at the end of
the long table, ensuring the greatest degree of separation from
Beckett.

“They definitely did,” commented Blanch,
Cavendish smiled and nodded his agreement.

At just before seven o’clock, the group made
their way to the waiting cars. Cavendish stood idly by as Houghton
and Blanch effusively bid their respective farewells to Kate
Watercombe. Beckett suspiciously watched Kate have a long
conversation with Emily as he loaded the case that combined his
effects with those of Emily and similarly hefted Cavendish’s
holdall into the boot of the Ford Focus.

“Couldn’t you have hired a bigger car,”
moaned Cavendish as he stood beside the Focus, “Bethan could have
acquired any vehicle you requested.”

“Sorry, Marsh,” said Beckett crankily, “I
actually had other things on my mind at the time, I didn’t consider
test driving alternative models. If you’ve got the hump this
morning you can bloody well travel with Josh.”

“I have not ‘got the hump’, I just like to
have ample leg room, it’s a three hour journey and I don’t like
feeling confined, that’s all.”

“You never bloody complained when I drove you
around Bristol and Bath in my Focus.”

“That was different.”

“How so?” asked Beckett argumentatively.

Emily joined them. “So what are you two
arguing about now?” she asked as she opened the rear passenger door
of the car.

“Oh, Marchel is just whinging about lack of
leg room, that’s all,” informed Beckett.

“He’s right,” said Emily, “you should have
thought to get a bigger car.” She gave Cavendish a conspiratorial
wink and Beckett threw his hands skywards in exasperation.

Houghton and Blanch slowly pulled away in the
large Audi, both waving as they drove by. For Beckett it was like
saying goodbye to old friends after a shared holiday, such was the
transformative consequence of spending the past few days at the
seminary. Before stepping into the car, he took a final wistful
look at the gothic vision that was Flash Seminary and returned Kate
Watercombe’s wave before she turned and strolled into the entrance
cloister. Thomas Beckett would never forget his time at the
seminary as long as he lived; it had an aura and passion that he
was incapable of defining.

Beckett settled himself in the driver’s seat,
turned the ignition key and waited for the engine to assume a
steady rhythm. He was about to put the car into gear when Cavendish
tapped him on the shoulder and held out Beckett’s CD.

“I apologise now, Good Doctor, for what you
are about to receive. You see, Thomas, I may have been burdened
with the responsibility of retrieving potentially millions of
dollars worth of Russian billet-doux, but I still had time to think
of my friend Thomas and retrieve his CD from the Galaxy I was about
to recklessly abandon to the Bristol rush hour. That is the
difference between you and me, I think of other people’s
feelings.”

As Beckett accepted the CD, Cavendish turned
in his seat and returned Emily’s earlier wink.

“I think that was very sweet of Marchel,”
declared Emily, joining in with the good-natured taunting of Thomas
Beckett.

“Are you two going to pick on me for the
whole bloody journey?” asked Beckett with no hint of antagonism,
for he struggled to recall a time when he had felt more content and
it was with a heavy heart that he left the charm and inspirational
world of the seminary for the long drive south.

They left the overcast weather of the north
midlands behind them and the sky cleared as they crossed into
Gloucestershire on the M5. A journey had seldom past as speedily or
with more apparent ease for Beckett. He educated Emily with regards
to the subtleties of Bill Hardy’s music, even if she did question
many of his observations and conclusions.

Cavendish occasionally joined in with the
banter but had to concede it was not really his forte. When he was
not speaking to Josh Houghton on his mobile he often reclined back
in his seat and close his eyes, after first complaining about the
lack of legroom, and listened to Emily and Beckett conversing.

Emily would flout the seatbelt legislation by
sitting forward with her arms resting on the back of his and
Beckett's seat. He could almost taste her sublime perfume; it was
the same scent that he had first encountered when they shared the
meal in Bristol. He again wondered if Beckett and Emily had
considered their futures, a love driven by a man desperate for
affection and a woman riven by guilt.

The Untersucher was not a great humanitarian,
he had only made one real friend in his life and that was Sepp von
Manstein, with whom he spent his school days and his time at
University. Following the duelling incident, they had become best
friends. As he often conceded, the scar totally changed his life.
For the first time he found peer group acceptance, the scar was
indeed the making of Marchel Cavendish. With the odd perversity
upon which human kind thrives, Cavendish suddenly found himself
attractive to both sexes and, with his naturally boyish charms
replaced by an ostentatious disfigurement, he enjoyed the sexual
gratification that had previously eluded him, all thanks to Sepp.
For twelve electrifying months, he and Sepp were inseparable.

Then Sepp died. He did not die heroically in
a blaze of glory; he died from flu-like symptoms, which exposed a
hitherto unknown weakness within his heart. Cavendish was
distraught, to have experienced intense friendship and to have it
so quickly snatched away. He had a breakdown, culminating in the
scars on his wrist, which ended his ambitions of becoming a doctor
as his faith in medicine died along with his best friend. He
transferred courses and after University Sepp’s father approached
him. Matthias Graf von Manstein had a proposition for him regarding
an organisation he had never heard of but one that intrigued
him.

Cavendish convened a swift meeting at the
Michael Wood Service Station, just north of Bristol, so that the
team could go over any last minute details. Beckett took
reassurance from Cavendish's relaxed demeanour as he shared a joke
with Houghton; he was suffused with an inexplicable calm that made
no sense to him. Perhaps he was just getting used to Cavendish’s
world.

The sun lent warmth to the spring day as
Beckett followed Houghton up the winding lane that led to Yoxter
Manor. He was amazed by the number of cars on view for he had not
considered the scale of the event they were about to attend.
Stewards efficiently directed him into a field adjacent to the main
property where parking provision had been laid on.

The plan was for Cavendish and Houghton to
confront Hugo Victor whilst Beckett and Emily were to remain near
the manor with Blanch as backup. Cavendish and Houghton dodged
their way through the annoying throng of people who, from
Cavendish’s blinkered perspective, had nothing better to do on this
fine spring day.

A brass band, wearing smart blue uniforms,
played a rousing tune that Cavendish failed to recognise but which
Beckett could have informed him was ‘Congratulations’, the Cliff
Richard Eurovision Song Contest entry. In due course, Cavendish
spotted the marquee he was looking for, which housed the
horticultural exhibits.

By mutual consent, the two men stopped
outside the entrance. They glanced at each other and Cavendish
offered Houghton a grin, for he was relishing the prospect of
confronting Victor. The chief inspector was simply relieved that
Cavendish had not offered some corny line like, ‘let’s do it!’

“Hello Hugo, how are you?” Hugo Victor was
pampering his Freesias in the marquee with perhaps a dozen other
exhibitors. Cavendish found the floral displays underwhelming and
was oblivious to the powerful aromatic fragrances of the exhibits
and damp grass that sweated beneath the warm canvas.

He recognised one stall displaying bottle
gardens and another with a range of carnivorous plants such as
Venus Fly Traps and Sundews. To Cavendish’s ill-informed opinion,
even Victor’s own display of blooms seemed rather low-key and
Victor irritably sensed Cavendish’s disdain for his months of hard
work.

“Come on, Cavendish. This isn’t the Chelsea
Flower show, it’s still early in the season and I did have to
attend a meeting in Vienna. Do you have any idea how hard these
people have worked to bring on their displays so early?” said an
annoyed Victor, his baldhead glistening in sympathy with the humid
conditions.

“No, I don’t Hugo, nor do I care very much if
I’m honest with you,” replied Cavendish, ignoring the Viennese
jibe, as he unbuttoned his coat for the benefit of Victor,
revealing the handgrip of the Colt Python.

“I take it that this isn’t a day off for you
then, Cavendish. When an Untersucher starts flashing his thing one
knows he means business.” Houghton showed his warrant card to the
other exhibitors and the mingling visitors and gently steered them
out in to the bright spring sunshine amid a chorus of rancour and
insinuations. He stood guard at the entrance to prevent any
unwelcome admissions.

“How can I help you, Marchel,” asked Victor
calmly.

“I’d like you to tell me why you have
compromised the auction and had the Romanov letters stolen.”

“You’ve got the wrong man, Marchel.”

“I do hate it when people won’t cooperate; it
is such a waste of everyone’s time,” said Cavendish, deliberately
sounding bored.

“Look, Marchel, Simeon gave me the heads-up
that my name was mentioned during your talk, he said he thought I
might be in the frame for something. Do you think I’d still be here
if I had done something wrong? I would hardly want to have a
confrontation with an evil bastard like you, would I?”

Victor’s cool and calm demeanour and the
succinctness of his delivery was unsettling Cavendish. The
inquisitor suddenly began to doubt his own conviction, Victor may
have twitched nervously, but people were supposed to be scared of
Untersuchers, after all, that was the whole point of myth and
legend. Maybe his burning desire to indict Victor had clouded his
judgement.

Houghton’s mobile rang. Both Cavendish and
Victor watched Houghton as he took the call, their altercation put
on hold as Houghton claimed their attention. When the call ended,
Houghton anxiously beckoned Cavendish to join him and spoke quietly
with him by the marquee entrance.

“SOCO results from Wells. Found a second set
of non-eliminated fingerprints. Also found traces of sexual
activity downstairs.”

“Spelman?” asked Cavendish, voicing a
suppressed possibility that he did not wish to consider.

“Can’t be sure yet, DNA results were
inconclusive, they’re running the tests again.”

“Verdammt!” shouted the confused and
mortified Untersucher.

* * *

Thomas Beckett was not enjoying the fete as
they loitered by the manor waiting for Cavendish and Houghton to
conclude their business with Hugo Victor. He was not happy, perhaps
it was due to Cavendish’s monologue the previous evening about how
the case would end, that there would be no pats on the back and
drinks at the bar. They would simply go their own way.

But where was his way? He could not face the
prospect of not seeing Emily, but if she was to be whisked away on
some firm induction course, where did that leave him?

Blanch would have been disappointed to know
that he and Emily did not ‘do it’ the previous evening. He had lain
on her bed and she had fallen asleep, cradled in his arms, whilst
he had run his fingers through her soft long hair. It was the most
blissful night he had ever spent.

Emily spotted the pavilion of a
fortune-teller by the high stone wall backing onto the manor.

“Come on, Tom, I’m bored, let’s have our
fortunes read!” she suggested.

“Oh, come on, Emily. You know it’s all
bollocks!” Beckett’s mind instantly returned to the crazy
atmosphere of Chesterfield and young Mary, the fortune-teller. He
had not thought of her since that day but her prophesy came back to
him, ‘I see a beautiful woman. She will fulfil a deep longing but
at a price.’ He suddenly felt worried for the first time that
day.

“Hey, sunshine. I was the one who listened to
you extolling the virtues of Bill Hardy, your favourite rock god,”
said Emily tugging at his arm. “It’s now pay back time. Blanch can
watch the entrance.” Beckett failed to see Emily mouth to the
sergeant, “please, Blanch!”