Denied to all but Ghosts (54 page)

She ignored the bloody mess that was his
mouth, and disregarded the almost closed right eye. Instead, she
focused on his left eye, where the dark blue iris seemed to be
fighting the black void of the ever-expanding pupil.

Cavendish, kneeling by Beckett's head,
retrieved his penknife. He opened the smallest blade of his Swiss
Army knife and laid it beside him. The fingers of his left hand
sought out Beckett’s Adam’s apple. He shifted his fingers an inch
or so down the throat until he located a bulge that indicated
Beckett's cricoid cartilage. Gingerly, he probed for the area
between the two, which, if the memories of his medical training
remained true, should be the area of the criothyroid membrane.

With the fingers of his left hand remaining
in place, he held the penknife with his right hand and brought it
to rest against the guide afforded by his left hand. Without
pausing, he made a horizontal incision to the depth of about one
inch into Beckett's throat.

Having no idea of what Cavendish was about to
do, Emily had watched Cavendish with a sense of detachment whilst
he measured Beckett's throat, and she had no time to react before
he made the aggressive, seemingly deep, yet narrow cut.

Emily's shock was tempered by the visual
curiosity at the apparent paucity of blood that Cavendish’s precise
incision had produced. With his left hand, Cavendish forced his
index finger into the cavity that he just created; she noticed with
fascination, the slight frothing of blood as Cavendish’s finger
opened an airway into Beckett's trachea.

Cavendish smiled, yet his pleasure was short
lived as he realised that he had acted a little too expeditiously.
He had performed a competent emergency tracheotomy but had nothing
to insert into the incision to keep the airway open.

“Shit, does anyone have a pen on them?”
demanded Cavendish.

Houghton shook his head for he had no plans
to make any notes that day. Cavendish shot Blanch an enquiring
look; she had never seen him appear so vulnerable. She had
collected Brad’s gun since Emily had struggled to Beckett’s side.
No, Blanch did not have a pen; she had left her notebook in the
car. She had nothing except the gun in her hand and the contents of
her suit jacket pocket, which was usually empty. Except at this
time of the month there was.

She withdrew one of the two tampons and
hastily put her gun on the floor and removed the protective wrapper
from the tampon before withdrawing the absorbent core from the
plastic tubes. She hurried towards the casualty scene whilst
tossing the absorbent pad to the spectating Houghton.

Blanch passed the plastic cylinders to
Cavendish. He examined them with a curious eye, never having
handled such objects before.

“The inner tube is narrowest, but I don’t
know what size you want,” announced Blanch calmly.

“The smaller one please, Blanch,” asked
Cavendish gratefully.

She retrieved the larger pipe whilst
Cavendish gently withdrew his finger and inserted the remaining
tube into the hole he had made with the penknife and watched
approvingly as the skin around the incision gripped the tube
tightly.

Cavendish would have preferred a longer tube
but this one would have to suffice. Without studying his handiwork
he bent over and blew a long steady breath into the tube, he paused
for five seconds and gave Beckett another breath. He listened and
nodded when he was confident that his friend was breathing
comfortably on his own and looked up and found Emily looking
enquiringly at him, her blood streaked face expressing the question
she needed answering.

“It’s not perfect, Emily," declared a visibly
relieved Cavendish. "But we’re getting some air into him. Hopefully
I haven’t damaged his vocal chords, now that really would upset
Thomas.”

He breathed a huge sigh of relief, allowed
his eyes to drop down to Emily’s chest, and tenderly wiped away a
splat of fresh blood that had trickled from her scalp onto her
supported cleavage.

“I do so hate the sight of blood.” Cavendish
laughed euphorically, only he seemed to appreciate the humour of
the moment, and it was as well that none of his associates had
witnessed Jasmine’s mania for the similarity would have been
disturbing. Cavendish sprang excitedly to his feet.

“Well done, Blanch, excellent work,” he
extolled exuberantly, and almost as a passing comment added, “I
hope you’re not going to run out of those things.” He winked at
Blanch and she smiled radiantly at his praise. She could actually
get to like Marchel Cavendish.

“Blanch, could you take a look at Emily, see
if you can stop that bleeding,” requested Cavendish. Blanch nodded
and went to kneel beside Emily and Beckett.

Cavendish turned his attention to Houghton
who stood holding the tampon in his raised palm before him as if in
offering to the advancing Cavendish. The Untersucher picked up the
absorbent pad by its tail and grinned at Houghton as he pretended
to mop his brow.

“That was a close thing, Josh!” exclaimed
Cavendish with glee as he playfully slapped Houghton’s left arm.
Houghton remained unmoved. Cavendish was slow to catch onto
Houghton’s distress.

“Don’t you think you’d better ring for an
ambulance, Josh?” Houghton remained silent. “Josh?” repeated
Cavendish, craning his head back and leaning it to one side as he
asked the question.

“You stupid fucker, you could have got
everyone killed!” shouted Houghton furiously.

“But I didn’t,” said Cavendish with chilling
calmness.

“What were you fuckin’ thinking of!” barked
the enraged Houghton with an outpouring of pent-up emotion.

“What was I supposed to do, Josh?” said
Cavendish evenly, “surround the place and starve them out?”

“How the fuck am I going to explain this one
away!”

A look of anguish overwhelmed Houghton’s
strong features, Cavendish thought he was about to burst into
tears.

“Chief Inspector, we have one man down, would
you please ring for medical assistance. If they have an air
ambulance in this part of world, I’m sure Mr Beckett will be
eternally grateful.” Cavendish slapped Houghton’s arm once more and
the detective coughed as if clearing his throat, shook his
shoulders and nodded to Cavendish before slowly walking out of the
room whilst holstering his gun and taking out his mobile phone from
his suit jacket.

Cavendish brushed the plaster dust from his
coat and smoothed his hair as he crossed the wooden floor to Ralph
Montgomery, who was lying lifeless and unlamented on the laminate
floor. Estelle ignored Cavendish’s consoling hand as she cradled
the limp body of Jasmine, who had died shortly after being hit by
Cavendish’s powerful bullet, a result of shock and blood loss.

Slowly circling, Cavendish assessed the
carnage inflicted upon the family room. Blanch was attending to
Emily’s wounds with fabric ripped from Emily’s dress, whilst the
academic smoothed Beckett’s head and tearfully whispered inaudible
words. Jasmine, her apparently abandoned father and her boyfriend
lay dead and bleeding over the parquet flooring. Had Estelle not
been inconsolably grieving at the death of her daughter, she would
have been furious with the bleeders.

“Sir?” asked Blanch. It took a few seconds
for Cavendish to realise that she was addressing him. “What happens
now, Sir?” enquired the diminutive detective.

“I’m not a ‘sir’, Blanch. I’m just a simple
‘Herr’, replied the Untersucher as his fervour began to wane. “We
take care of Emily and Thomas, that’s what we do. Come on; let’s
get them out of this charnel house.”

The day remained dry and sunny and an hour
after the encounter at Yoxter Manor, Marchel Cavendish felt well
pleased with his days work. He could now begin to relax with the
knowledge that Beckett and Emily were on their way to hospital by
air ambulance, arranged with his usual efficiency by Josh Houghton,
who seemed to have quelled the demons of doubt, temporarily at
least.

There was no sign of any local police;
Cavendish considered that Houghton had thus far refrained from
informing them to enable him to put a cohesive story together.
Cavendish had to concede that it would be a tough assignment, even
for an experienced officer like Josh Houghton. He suspected a
contribution by Sir Fletcher Dobson at the Home Office would be
greatly appreciated.

The fete had carried on as if nothing had
happened, as indeed for the vast majority of attendees nothing had.
The arrival of the air ambulance added an unexpected excitement to
the day and no one seemed to question the reason for its dramatic
arrival. According to Edward Montgomery, any sound of gunfire had
been masked by the brass band’s stirring rendition of ‘The
Dambusters March’.

Edward joined Cavendish and they stood beside
the marquee where Emily and Beckett had been abducted. The young
man had not seemed phased and looked almost relieved when Cavendish
gave a rapid, though concise, account of what had happened,
confirming Cavendish’s appraisal of the young man all those days
ago.

“I’d like to apologise, Herr Cavendish. I’d
guessed what was going on but didn’t say anything, I was too weak,
too frightened,” confessed Edward.

“You were dealing with some very dominant and
dangerous characters, Edward. I’m very sorry all this had to
happen. I appreciate it was your family after all. Do you think you
could run things here?” asked Cavendish with unusual
sensitivity.

“I’d like to get away for awhile, see the
world, you know,” replied Edward thoughtfully.

“So would you be interested?” asked
Cavendish.

“Me? The firm are hardly going to consider me
for the position, are they?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A word in the right ear
from the right chap,” smiled Cavendish.

“Thank you, Herr Cavendish,” said Edward
appreciatively.

“I’ll make sure someone is available to keep
an eye on you.” The Untersucher already had Blanch in mind for the
task.

Cavendish returned his gaze to the fete and
the mingling crowd. He glimpsed a familiar group in the distance
and hoped that they would not recognise him. Sure enough, they
spotted him and Simeon redirected the triumvirate in his direction.
Simeon took the lead, talking animatedly to the taller, dignified
Hugo Victor. As ever, Miles Goldstein brought up the rear.
Cavendish hated the notion that he owed Hugo Victor an apology and
his thanks. He folded his arms and stood dispassionately beside
Teddy Montgomery as Simeon thrust himself aggressively before
him.

“Untersucher,” demanded Simeon, prodding
Cavendish’s chest with a pointed index finger, “Untersucher, you
owe Hugo an apology.” Hugo Victor appeared expressionless behind
his sunglasses and the broad brimmed Fedora hat, which he wore to
prevent his scalp burning in the strong April sunshine.

“And why is that, Simeon?” asked Cavendish in
a measured manner.

“For falsely accusing him!” answered Simeon
uncompromisingly.

“Simeon, if I apologised to everyone who I
falsely accused, what sort of reputation would I have?” Simeon just
glared at Cavendish. “Although as it happens,” continued Cavendish,
“I will apologise to Hugo, not for the accusation, but for the
disrespect I showed for his flowers and to the other people in the
tent. I’m sorry, Hugo, it was all part of the theatre of the
moment.”

Cavendish held out his hand to Hugo Victor
and in doing so physically brushed Simeon Goldstein to one side.
Victor silently shook Cavendish’s hand.

“I really would like that cup of tea now,
Simeon,” said Miles plaintively.

“Take Miles for a cuppa, Simeon,” suggested
Victor, “I’ll be with you shortly.” Simeon gave Cavendish a sour
look and led Miles away in search of tea.

“Good friends of yours then, Herr Cavendish?”
asked Edward Montgomery flippantly.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” replied
Cavendish, “but for what it’s worth, Simeon Goldstein is my
godfather.” Edward took the hint and departed, leaving Cavendish
alone with Victor.

“So have you worked out what’s been going
on?” asked Victor, once Edward was out of earshot.

“I believe so,” replied Cavendish, “but I
would like to hear your opinion.” Allowing Victor to talk was the
inquisitor’s tacit acknowledgement that he was in the Englishman’s
debt. Victor spoke quietly, taking up a position at Cavendish’s
shoulder.

“Estelle was ordered by someone in the firm
to disseminate information about a fictional sword leading to your
involvement. Said he knew all about her past misappropriation of
funds and now it was time to make amends.”

“Who was he?”

“No idea, he was very careful to cover his
tracks.”

“How do you know of this?”

“Estelle and I have a bit of a thing going
on. She confessed to me what was happening on Tuesday after Bob
refused to answer her calls. The disappearance of the letters was
supposed to be your undoing.”

“So they were never stolen?”

“Well, they were taken from the Goldsteins
but they should only have gone to Estelle, to be held until you
were discredited and then make a miraculous reappearance.”

“But no one anticipated the involvement of
Jasmine and her boyfriend.”

“Right, they obviously heard about the sword,
thought it was real and unfortunately enacted their fantasies about
making it on their own.”

“I assume that Patterson senior was Estelle’s
man.”

“Yes, he was a small time dealer in the
States and has known Estelle and Ralph for years. It wasn’t such a
smart move bringing his son over from the States though, if he
hoped a little English culture would straighten him out he was
sadly mistaken. It was a fateful day when he met Jasmine, a
dreadful synergy of malice was the result.”