Denied to all but Ghosts (9 page)

“Good afternoon, Herr Cavendish, it is good
to see you again,” answered the receptionist. Cavendish was taken
aback by the greeting.

“You remember me from my last visit?”

“Oh yes, Sir, I never forget a face,” the
girl blushed when she realised what she had said and deliberately
looked away from his scar so that she appeared, from Cavendish’s
perspective, to be peering passively past his right ear.

“I’m sorry, Herr Cavendish,” continued the
receptionist, “I didn’t mean to cause offence, I was just
trying...”

“It’s not a problem. It is a duelling scar
and I have no problem with it, I can assure you. By the way, it is
not ‘Herr’, I am English.” The young receptionist appeared
perplexed by Cavendish’s reference to his nationality and looked to
Beckett for support.

“It’s alright, my love,” said Beckett,
addressing the receptionist using the typical west-country tag,
“don’t take any notice of Herr Cavendish, he’s had a long tiring
trip.”

Cavendish took his room key and retreated
from the reception desk where he spoke quietly into Beckett’s
ear.

“Thomas, why do people think that I am
German?” Beckett smiled wryly at the floor, acknowledging
Cavendish’s lack of self-awareness regarding countless aspects of
his appearance and mannerisms.

“I really don’t know, Marchel, perhaps it’s
because you wear German clothes?”

“Do my clothes look German?” asked Cavendish
innocently.

“A bit, but it’s most likely the Iron Cross
you wear around your neck, it’s a dead giveaway.” For an instant,
Cavendish’s right hand moved impulsively towards his neck.

Cavendish glared at Beckett. Why were the
English so bloody eccentric? Beckett noted the penetrating stare of
Cavendish’s wary eyes, no longer hidden by the sunglasses. The
expression slowly softened as he made a suggestion to Beckett.

“I’m going to take my bag to my room now,
Thomas. May I invite you for dinner, tonight, say six thirty? There
are a few things I would like to brief you on.” Beckett glanced at
his watch; it was almost four thirty.

“Are we drinking?” asked Beckett
hopefully.

“I’m certainly having a glass of wine,”
answered Cavendish, aware that he was regaining a taste for alcohol
since drinking in the hotel with Tina. Was that less than a week
ago?

“Then I’ll take the car home and catch a bus
down, thanks Marchel. Oh by the way, are you paying?” Cavendish
took out his wallet and handed Beckett two twenty pound notes.

“Here Thomas, is that enough for a taxi?”
Beckett smiled his boyish grin that won over many a stony heart as
he took the money. Cavendish was certainly not tight when it came
to expenses.

Cavendish was already sitting at the dining
table when Beckett arrived fifteen minutes late for their meal. The
restaurant, at this early hour, was sparsely filled as Beckett
meandered through the elegant room to the table.

“I took the liberty of ordering the wine. I
hope that is agreeable to you, Thomas?” announced Cavendish,
standing as Beckett approached.

“So long as it is cold and wet,” said Beckett
moodily.

“Is something wrong?” Cavendish asked.
Beckett slumped at the table,

“Oh, nothing unusual in the life of Thomas
Beckett, just the usual domestic discord. I don’t think Mrs Beckett
likes you very much.” Cavendish smiled in response to the appraisal
from a woman he had never met before retaking his seat.

“I do take a bit of getting used to. Try the
Sauvignon; I am sure you’ll feel better for it,” said Cavendish
playfully. Beckett took the half-filled glass from the table and
downed it in one.

“Very nice, Marchel,” he offered his glass to
Cavendish for a refill.

Cavendish stared intently at Beckett. He had
forgotten how intrinsically handsome the man was, albeit in a
steadfastly self-effacing way. He was a man who wore his heart on
his sleeve, who found it difficult to mask his emotions. He exuded
a casual charm and openness and spoke fluently from his backside.
Beckett’s whole demeanour was at odds with his own taut
reticence.

He recalled from their first collaboration
involving the missing dog how Beckett displayed an irrational
fervid loyalty and commitment to a foreigner he barely knew. Yet he
remembered how, in Beckett’s company, he found himself inexorably
drawn out of his shell and found a freedom of thought and
expression that quelled his usual deliberations.

For both men there had been a spontaneous
bond, which overcame their mutual shortcomings. However, Cavendish
had dismissed their ‘friendship’ as a temporary debilitating
weakness once he had returned home and filed the memories of their
association as securely as he had his written report.

Untersuchers had no need for friends.

Beckett felt uneasy with the prolonged
scrutiny of his host’s interrogating eyes.

“You are very quiet, Thomas. Surely your wife
has not upset you that much?” enquired Cavendish.

“I’m often quiet; it’s not true that I talk
too much.”

“I did not say that you did,” said Cavendish
evenly.

“Are you always so bloody picky?” replied
Beckett irritably, feeling uneasy with Cavendish’s quiet
aloofness.

To Cavendish’s credit, he quickly sensed
Beckett’s discomfort and realised that he had not been as welcoming
as he had intended. Cavendish face broke into a strained lop-sided
smile, startling Beckett with its emotive abruptness.

“It is good to see you again, Thomas,”
announced Cavendish brightly.

“You too, Marchel,” conceded Beckett as he
emptied another glass of wine. “So what have you been up to since I
last saw you?” asked Beckett conversationally, “you said you’re
here again on business. I like to think you’ve come especially to
see me, but you don’t strike me as being an especially gregarious
guy.”

“Really? I think I’m a very sociable person.
But I suppose you don’t know me that well, our last meeting was
very brief.”

“Long enough for me to get a dose of
concussion,” said Beckett flatly.

“I didn’t think that concussion came in
doses?” responded Cavendish cynically.

Beckett scowled at the last remark and was
about to offer a caustic reply but thought better of it. He had
arrived in a foul mood thanks to yet another quarrel with his wife.
This time, instead of arguing over the usual subject of home life,
they rowed over his involvement with Cavendish, a man whose name
immediately aroused her Irish suspicions. Beckett was sufficiently
sagacious not to rile the German. He had no desire to ruin the
prospects of a decent payday and knew he had been unnecessarily
abrasive with his hopeful employer.

“Well, Thomas, since you last saw me I can
tell you that I’m engaged to be married.”

“Really?” said Beckett, putting a little more
enthusiasm into his response, “Congratulations, and who is the
lucky girl?”

“Magdalena von Stromberg.”

“Who?”

“Magdalena von Stromberg.”

“Sorry, I did hear, I just couldn’t take in
it in one go. What sort of name is that?” Cavendish shook his head
in disbelief and offered a genuine laugh as he looked across to
attract the waiter’s attention.

“It’s the name of a young lady from an old
Bavarian family.”

“What like the singing mob in the film in
Salzburg?” asked Beckett furrowing his brow.

“No,” smiled Cavendish, “nothing like that.
Don’t ever call her an Austrian or she'll punch you. And she
doesn’t yodel either.”

“You don’t seem very enthusiastic about your
engagement?”

“Very adroit of you, Thomas.”

“Some sort of munter is she?” asked Beckett.
Cavendish gazed upon Beckett with a puzzled expression, wondering
what language the Englishman was speaking. “Minger, you know,
ugly?” continued Beckett.

“No, I’m sure you would like her. She is
twenty years old, I think. Firm bosomed, wide hipped, blonde
haired, blue eyed, flawless porcelain complexion, do you wish me to
go on?”

“Then what’s the problem?” asked Beckett,
frowning at Cavendish’s dispassionate description of the young
woman.

“I don’t love her,” said Cavendish whilst
staring absently at the contents of his untouched glass. Beckett
laughed impetuously.

“What’s love got to do with getting married?”
queried Beckett, the man who had been out of love for too many
years. His laughter subsided as he took note of Cavendish’s fierce
expression. “Then why are you marrying her?”

“Because it is expected of me. Because my
mother would like it to happen and because I generally do what my
mother expects of me.”

“You don’t strike me as a mummy’s boy; you
come across as a fairly assertive bloke. You are an investigator,
after all.”

“I’m not an investigator at home; as far as
my family is concerned I work as a runner for an antique
dealer.”

“What, so your fiancée doesn’t know what you
actually do?”

“No, none of my family does.”

As Beckett studied Cavendish’s features,
which expressed a painful distance from his immediate surroundings,
he finished another glass of wine.

“No offence, Marchel, but you are a funny
bugger.” Not for the first time, Beckett speculated upon the source
of his uncharacteristic brashness when conversing with the man he
barely knew.

“None taken,” replied Cavendish impassively
as the waiter finally arrived to take their order.

They ordered only main courses and there was
an awkward hiatus as both men reviewed their openings before
Cavendish resumed the conversation.

“You have not asked me why I contacted you,”
said Cavendish.

“So why exactly, did you contact me?” obliged
Beckett. Cavendish speculated whether it would cause offence if he
stated he required a chauffeur.

“Because Thomas, I very much appreciated your
help last time and I was hoping we could work together again.”

“But I didn’t do anything last time; I drove
you around a bit and got twated across the head.”

“You did much more than that, Thomas.”

“What do you mean?” asked Beckett curiously.
Cavendish paused, unable to give a cohesive answer, which Beckett
misinterpreted as a compliment.

“I’m here on business on behalf of the firm,”
said Cavendish. Beckett paused before his next mouthful of wine,
carefully choosing the words of his response.

“You’ll have to remind me of all that stuff,
Marchel. I have to confess that when I left hospital I was a bit
unsure as to what was real and what I imagined.”

“I haven’t apologised for the beating you
took last year, forgive me, Thomas.”

Beckett picked upon a note of contrition in
Cavendish’s voice, which he found strangely moving, to the extent
that he felt compelled to reply.

“That’s okay, Marchel.” Beckett felt he ought
to encourage their dialogue. “What happened to the big West Indian
chap we were with, was he okay?” Cavendish took a tentative sip of
his wine before answering.

“Chief Inspector Josh Houghton subdued your
assailant; unfortunately it involved breaking the idiot’s jaw and
removing most of his front teeth.” Beckett smiled appreciatively.
Cavendish continued. “His misfortune was that the man was well
connected within our organisation, hence our reason for
investigating a missing hound. Josh’s misdemeanours never made it
to your civil court because it was an in-house investigation. Yet
it resulted in Josh’s sergeant being transferred and Josh being
sidelined for a few months by his own police force at the firm’s
behest. I’m afraid you can’t go around assaulting prominent members
of the firm.” He wanted to add as a footnote, “I ought to know,
it’s the only reason I’m here in this shit-hole,” however, he
refrained from doing so.

“Bloody hell, I’m sorry about that,” said
Beckett truthfully, “I liked the guy.”

“Well, to be honest, Thomas, it all worked
out for the best. The firm reviewed the case and had Josh
reinstated into his former position, much to the annoyance of the
then Commissioner, who was moved on thanks to the machinations of
your Fletcher Dobson. Josh was given a more direct line of
accountability to the firm, one that hopefully will suit us all a
great deal better.”

“So he is still a real policeman?” asked
Beckett.

“Yes, but he is the liaison officer between
the police and the firm. He treads the difficult line of looking
after the firm’s interests from a civil law perspective.”

“Who is Fletcher Dobson?”

“Dobson? Oh, he is what I believe you refer
to as a ‘Whitehall Mandarin’. He is the firm’s representative in
your corridors of power.”

Beckett fell silent with the effects of
finishing the bottle of wine and having to deal with the flood of
reminiscences that assailed his alcohol-affected consciousness. He
realised how he had suppressed the details of the events concerning
the previous year after the initial few months of disappointment.
All that was left was the hazy concoction of a yarn that seemed to
come from a ludicrous film script.

“I have an idea, Thomas,” said Cavendish,
finishing off his third glass of wine on concluding their meal,
“let’s go for a walk. You can show me this city of yours.” A walk
suited Beckett, he hoped the fresh air might de-fug his head.

It was a chilly evening and darkness had
fallen prematurely with the overcast conditions. The Council House
curved before them in a neon crescent across College Green and the
Cathedral dolefully tolled the half hour, as they turned right to
walk down to the Waterfront bar area. Cavendish was quiet, lost in
thought.

“Marchel,” Beckett said, more as a statement
than a question, “you are serious about wanting me to work for
you?”

“With me, not for me,” corrected
Cavendish.