“'Course we’re alright, why do ask?”
“'Cos I heard you arguing again last night, about money this time.”
“No, we were just talking,” he lied.
“Well, you seem to be ‘talking’ a lot lately.” Beckett glanced across at Sarah.
“Sorry, love. I sometimes forget how old you are, I still think of you as my ‘little Shazer’.” He often overlooked the fact that she would soon be sixteen.
“Dad, I’ll always be your ‘little Shazer’.” Beckett looked quickly up to the sky to resume soaking up the sun’s rays, hoping that she would not notice the tears that moistened his deep blue eyes.
“I dreamt about you last night,” she said casually.
“Oh yea, what was I, a gallant knight on his white steed, rescuing you from some wicked dragon?” He quickly dismissed the image of his wife.
“As if!” exclaimed Sarah.
“What then?”
“You’ll laugh, I know you!”
“Won’t, promise,” he smiled self-deprecatingly in admission that he probably would.
“You were a tree.”
Beckett laughed.
“I told you you’d laugh!” shouted Sarah spiritedly.
“Go on,” he encouraged, suppressing his smile with difficulty.
“Well, you weren’t exactly a tree, bit difficult to explain. Your face was growing out of a tree, but I know it was you.”
“You been reading Tolkien again?”
“Maybe,” she laughed sharply before her face took on an earnest expression. “You looked very happy being a tree man, swathed in green leaves and stuff. Trouble was, someone had a big axe and was trying to cut you down.”
“Who, an evil troll?”
“No, Mum.”
The smile vanished from Beckett’s face.
“Look, Sarah. Me and your mother are fine.”
“No you’re not!” Sarah began to cry. Beckett had not seen his daughter cry for many years and it wrenched at his heart to see her so distressed. He quickly stood up and squatted before her.
“Hey, none of that, come here!” He extended his arms and Sarah accepted the invitation of his embrace. “Hey, look, me and your mum are fine; all grownups go through difficult times. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“But what about uni?” she cried pitifully.
“Hey, uni is not in doubt, there is no way you’re not going, if that’s what you want. I promised you that I’ll help pay your way, I told you not to worry about student debt, no other kids seem to worry about it, I don’t know why you do.”
“But Mum said it would be a waste of money!”
“You what?” Anger engulfed Beckett’s normally good-natured core.
“She said sending a girl to uni would be a waste of time and money. That’s not fair, you let Robert go!” Robert was Beckett’s eldest son.
“Sorry, love. I had no idea. I’ll speak to her later, promise. If you want to go to uni then you’re going, okay?” Sarah nodded against his chest. “Tell you what, you do your revision, I’ll sort out the washing and we’ll take the boys out for lunch, buy a burger or something. How does that grab you?”
Sarah’s gentle sobbing abated and she pushed herself reluctantly away from her father’s comforting embrace.
“You know what, dad. You’re the best!” she hastily kissed him on his cheek and departed to memorise the German prepositions that required the accusative case.
Alone, Beckett gave a huge sigh. How had his relationship with Sue reached such a nadir of distrust and animosity? He could blame the influence of the Catholic Church as much as he liked but he knew their problems ran much deeper.
It was perhaps just as well that at that precise moment Beckett’s mobile phone rang. He took the phone from his pocket and looked at the caller ID, the phone stated ‘Unknown caller’. He let the phone ring until the voice mail kicked in.
Staring at the silent phone, he swore under his breath, memories of the argument with Sue the previous evening hit him like an avalanche. One of her accusations was that as a freelance photographer he was not proactive enough in seeking work. He naturally argued his case but in this instance, she was correct. The call may have been from a potential client and he had declined to accept it.
He silently fumed and began to construct his case for the coming evening’s argument concerning Sarah attending university when his mobile startled him as it rang again. This time Beckett answered the call from the withheld number.
“Hullo?” answered Beckett using his ‘professional voice’, which he denied he ever used or possessed. “Hullo?” Beckett repeated.
“Thomas, good morning, it’s Marchel, how are you?”
Despite not having heard the voice for almost a year, the distinctive timbre was instantly recognisable. It reminded him of a stereotypical arcane BBC newsreader attempting to suppress a German accent but not quite managing it.
“Marchel who?” Beckett had always pronounced his name ‘Marshall’, making no attempt to enunciate the French epithet correctly.
“Marchel Cavendish, we met last year in Marlborough. You remember; the case of the missing German shepherd dog?”
How could Thomas Beckett fail to recall the event? Well, at least what the acquired concussion permitted. Beckett’s body flushed with anticipation, akin to the feeling he remembered as a child when he realised it was almost Christmas.
“How could I forget a man who had his face cut in two by a cutlass? How are you, Marchel?” asked Beckett evenly.
Cavendish paused before answering; recollections of Beckett’s mellifluous voice with the reassuring trace of the West Country inflection came flooding back to him.
“I am well thank you, Thomas. Actually, it was a duelling sabre, not a cutlass.”
“So how can I help you exactly?” Beckett asked, suppressing his rising excitement.
“Well, Thomas, I was hoping we could meet?”
“Why does your phone show up as an ‘Unknown caller’? I distinctly remember putting you in my contacts list. You’re not trying to sell me something are you, because if you are you can piss off, I haven’t got any money.”
Beckett cringed. Why had he said such a stupid thing, why did he not know when to shut up? Then he recalled how Cavendish had hurt him, how he believed he had been abandoned in hospital with concussion. He had phoned Cavendish many times after leaving hospital but his calls went unheeded. It was all so reminiscent of the first date with a girlfriend when he was a teenager.
“Sell you something? No, it is the way the phone is set up. It is so that I do not receive unwanted calls. Thomas, I could be in Bristol on Friday. Can you meet me at Temple Meads railway station?” Cavendish’s question was met with silence. “Thomas, are you still there?”
“Yea, I’m still here, but my phone is wondering whether it wants to speak to someone it doesn’t recognise”.
Cavendish ignored the comment, mostly due to his bafflement.
“I could be in Bristol around 16:00, will that be alright?” asked Cavendish.
“Four o'clock. Nobody says ‘16:00’,” corrected Beckett.
“Do I detect a hint of antagonism in your voice, Mr Beckett?” asked Cavendish, smothering his rising frustration. Why did everyone in England have to query everything he said?
“Cavendish, I’ve not seen you for twelve months, the last time we saw each other I was laying in a hospital bed suffering from concussion and you never even brought me any grapes. How do you expect me to sound?” replied a truculent Beckett.
“I deposited £30,000 in your bank account. I believe, at the time, you could buy a good many grapes for that amount of money.” Again, Cavendish was greeted by silence. “Thomas, are you there?”
“Give me a call when you arrive,” said a grinning Beckett before ending the call.
CHAPTER 7. A MEETING OF KINDS.
The man stood beside the blue Ford Focus casting furtive glances around him, his eyes always drawn back to
the main station entrance beneath the Tudor Revival styled clock tower, four sandstone pointed pinnacles adorning each corner. The wooden spire that once sat atop the tower was lost many years ago due to the attentions of the Luftwaffe.
He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his green army surplus coat and hunched his shoulders to raise the upturned collar against his exposed neck. The light but persistent rain continued to fall from the dour late afternoon sky.
His short hair with ‘executive highlights’ was without a parting and already the rain had began to drip onto his forehead and become trapped by his full dark eyebrows. Sometimes he regretted that the style of coat, which he referred to as a parka, did not possess a hood, but he refused to look like a sixties Mod.
As he continued his surveillance, he wondered if he would recognise the German who he had agreed to meet at such short notice. He had only known the man for a few weeks and that was over twelve months ago. They had met by accident when the German had interviewed him during the investigation into the disappearance of the dog that he was photographing for its eccentric owner.
He had annoyed the German by showing his amusement at Herr Cavendish’s earnest endeavours into looking for a missing animal. Despite Thomas Beckett’s irreverence, Marchel Cavendish had obviously seen something in him that he liked, for the investigator asked him to assist him with his investigation.
Beckett was happy to go along with the investigator, or so called Untersucher, despite his anomalous way of speaking and his even odder moods. He found something fascinating, almost exotic about Marchel Cavendish, and dare he admit it, something to like, in a masochistic way.
The concussion he had received from the dog’s owner when he had somehow come between the investigator and a tirade of abuse and violence had not been appreciated. Yet the ridiculously handsome pay cheque he had received for doing, what was in his own opinion, not a lot, was more than adequate compensation.
The German had explained to Beckett the reason for the investigation and had even filled him in on who his employers were. The details, if somewhat implausible, made perfect sense at the time. Yet dealing with the improbable was never a problem for Beckett, being unhappily married to a devout Irish Catholic. The complexities of her particular faith were equally unfathomable yet seemed to be readily accepted.
Now, after twelve months, he had not forgotten what Cavendish had told him but it seemed as if his memories were no more than the plot of a ridiculous novel. He also remembered the pain of rejection after Cavendish’s disappearance. The man seemed to offer so many possibilities yet had vanished from his life as quickly as he had arrived. He resolved that he was either crazy or desperate to be here.
When Beckett finally spotted the man emerging from the station entrance he had no doubt as to whom he was. He waved his arms at the German to attract his attention and wondered why the man was wearing sunglasses whilst the skies were heavy and overcast.
Cavendish stood only three inches or so taller than Beckett but appeared loftier due to his narrow frame, even when wearing the thick woollen overcoat. His angular features may have been considered handsome had it not been for the ugly scar that dominated the left side of his face, bisecting his eyebrow and scouring his left cheekbone. His appearance was not enhanced by the sardonic fixed smile he offered as he drew close to Thomas Beckett.
“Hurry up, Cavendish. I’m parked on double yellows,” was Beckett’s impatient greeting, as he lapsed into his habit of over familiarity in times of stress. Cavendish smirked knowingly. For him, Beckett’s self-deprecating humour and verbal recklessness were facets of his character that he recalled as his more endearing features.
Beckett’s twelve-year-old blue Focus was at once recognisable to Cavendish.
“I thought there was a scrappage scheme to remove old cars from the road?” asked Cavendish patronisingly.
“Old?” answered Beckett, “she’s only just run in, a great little runner. Quick sling your bag on the back seat, there’s someone over there giving out parking tickets.”
Beckett quickly started the Focus as Cavendish took his time settling into the car, which pulled away sharply causing Cavendish to miss the slot as he tried to secure his seatbelt. Beckett drove swiftly down the ramp to wait at the traffic lights, frustratedly tapping the steering wheel, before joining the tiresome one-way system that led away from Bristol’s central railway station.
Cavendish felt ill at ease, sitting close to the person he had abandoned twelve months ago. The car smelt unfamiliar, as did the damp Englishman, something that Cavendish the loner found unsettling. He found it difficult to maintain his air of premeditated conviviality.
“Where to?” asked Beckett.
“The Central Hotel,” informed Cavendish.
“Which one is that, the one off Corn Street?”
“The one by the Cathedral.”
“Isn’t that the Regal?”
“No, it’s the Central”.
“Hell, I don’t even know my own city anymore,” moaned Beckett. The investigator looked to his left out of the passenger window, his eyes drawn down into the empty tidal man-made waterway known as ‘the Cut’. His judicious pale eyes were assailed by the thick gelatinous mud lining the sides of the deep channel.
“There doesn’t appear to be much worth remembering,” observed Cavendish wretchedly. He recollected little about his previous visit to the city. Having completed the canine investigation as a favour to von Manstein, he had left England as quickly as possible and had given the case no further thought. His sunglasses hid the sceptical condescension that his eyes betrayed as he took in the offerings of Bristol.
“So, business or pleasure?” asked Beckett brightly, seemingly oblivious to Cavendish’s melancholy.
“The former. I was hoping that you might be available for a few weeks?” Beckett’s stomach leapt, the prospect of another large contribution to his bank account outweighed any misgivings he may have had about further hospitalisation.
“Well, you know how things are, but I’m sure I could pull a few strings to make some time for you.” Beckett wondered if Cavendish realised how few the number of the strings, if any, required pulling. Thanks to Blythe Campbell’s inquiries, Cavendish did.
“I don’t want to take you away from an important assignment, I realise my job offers are few and far between,” said Cavendish, his apparent sincerity even surprising himself.
“No, Marchel, don’t worry, I’ll be available.” Beckett hated to sound so keen.
Beckett parked his car on a metre behind the cathedral and took out a laminated card from the glove compartment, which he placed on the dashboard.
“I didn’t realise you were a qualified Doctor,” said Cavendish as he read the card, “I almost became a Doctor.” The first statement bore no hint of a question and Beckett could not be sure whether the words were intended with sarcasm or simply as an observation.
“You could have parked in the hotel car park, Thomas,” continued Cavendish.
“Oh, that’s alright, it’s a quicker getaway from here,” replied Beckett disarmingly.
The rain had abated to leave a dreary afternoon as the two men walked up to the city’s elegant medieval cathedral and turned right, the crescent shaped red-bricked Council House to their left behind the lawned expanse of College Green. The hotel was now just ahead to their right and Cavendish quietly approved of the hotel’s classic Georgian architecture. He had no recollection of the two evenings when he had stayed there twelve months ago.
“The name is Marchel Cavendish. I believe I have a reservation.” Beckett slyly smiled to himself as Cavendish announced himself to the petite brunette hotel receptionist with polite Germanic civility.
Cavendish's appearance had something acutely acceptable yet vaguely anonymous, save perhaps for the facial scar. He had the chameleon-like ability to blend into the background yet had great personal presence when he decided to unleash himself upon the world.
“Good afternoon, H
err 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.
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