Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  “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.

  CHAPTER 8. A WORD IN YOUR HELL-LIKE EAR.

  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.

  “With, for, it doesn’t matter,” said Beckett impatiently, Cavendish’s preciseness could be irritating at times, “I just don’t understand why you should want someone like me working with you.” Cavendish ignored Beckett and instead led the conversation.

  “I don’t know what you remember from our last association so I feel it is better that I give you a résumé of whom and what I am.” Cavendish took Beckett’s silence as his consent to continue. They turned right to walk under the covered walkway of the old warehouses that now housed copious eating and drinking venues. Already music issued from the bars on this Friday evening and disparate clusters of people walked hurriedly past on their way to seek inebriation and a good time.

  “My name is Marchel Cavendish, which you at least seem able to remember. I work for a private organisation, often simply referred to as the firm or any such like local translation. The firm is principally involved in antiques and rare artefacts; however, that scarcely covers what we do. The backbone of the organisation is made up of an eclectic mix of like-minded individuals who have a passion for the rare, beautiful and obscure. These people tend to be very private and very rich. The organisation can trace its roots back to the Holy Roman Empire, founded in the reign of Charlemagne. I started my career as a Zusteller, a runner for the agents who represent the collectors. I then became an Untersucher, which is a Germanic corruption for an investigator or inquisitor, if one likes to use an historical context. I am here in my role as Untersucher. Clear so far, are the memories flooding back?”

  “They were already there.”

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think I feel relieved, relieved that I never dreamt up the whole thing about secret societies.”

  “We are not talking secret societies, Thomas; there is nothing secret about the firm.”

  “Then why isn’t it common knowledge?”

  “The firm is not secretive, merely discrete.” Beckett laughed sarcastically as they approached Perot’s bridge to their left and turned right heading for Millennium Square, a modern development reminiscent of a piazza. The paved square was dominated by the thirty feet diameter golf ball-like planetarium, sheathed in sheets of highly polished metal.

  “I do like this atrium, Thomas. It has a very European roomy feel to it.”

  “Yeah, I like to take a wander around here. I can remember when it was a disused cattle market.” Beckett watched a group of young girls dressed in their Friday night ‘pulling gear’ heading towards the bars on the Waterfront. “Nothing much has changed really...,” laughed Beckett.

  As they crossed the flag stone amphitheatre, the curious partnership approached two young couples sitting on a stone bench by the statue of Cary Grant at the edge of the square. Both couples were engaged in a turbulent argument, swearing vehemently at each other, whilst aimlessly tossing peanuts in the nearby water feature.

  Cavendish halted and scrutinized the arguing couples. Beckett missed the narrowing of his partner’s eyes and the visible vascular throbbing at his left temple.

  “Best keep moving, Marchel, we’re not looking for trouble,” advised the Bristolian cautiously.

  Cavendish smiled seductively at the prettiest girl, maintaining his bogus leer until she made eye contact. Beckett did not believe up until this point that a smile could be so confrontational.

  “What’s up with you, perv!” she shouted at Cavendish. The girl’s boyfriend looked around, discovered the provocative smile of the tall stranger, and immediately stood up to shuffle across as fast as his low-crotched jeans would allow him to confront the oddball.

  “Why don’t you fuck off now while you can still walk!” screamed the youth, casting a furtive grin back at his companions.

  “I think you had better move along, you are causing a disturbance,” said the cheery Cavendish to the young man, emphasising the ‘you’.

  The youth, who stood substantially shorter than the Untersucher, raised the hood of his top as a medieval knight may have donned a helmet to signify an imminent fight. Beckett scarcely believed what Cavendish had just said to the youth.

  “Come on Marchel, leave it, he’s not worth it,” he implored. Any shame at the use of a cliché was displaced by his fear of being involved in a fracas with two younger men, who were now being egged on by their respective girlfriends.

  Beckett backed away swiftly as the second youngster swaggered across to Cavendish so
that he now faced two belligerent hooded youths. Beckett found time to be saddened that his partner should be greeted with two caricatured examples of atypical British youth.

  The German refused to yield his ground as the two hurled a stream of abuse at him. It never remotely occurred to Beckett that it was actually Cavendish who had instigated this whole set-to.

  Cavendish’s grin morphed into smile of contempt as he dismissively folded his arms against the tirade of threats. Finally, the smaller of the two young men swung a lazy punch at Cavendish, who caught the incoming fist in his hand and held it firmly as the youth winced in pain. The Untersucher stepped forward and hooked the man’s right leg with his own, dumping him efficiently upon the ground. The second lad charged, only to find himself somehow spun on the spot and put into a restraining arm lock.

  Beckett heard Cavendish order the youngster.

  “With me!” To the stunned youth lying winded on his back he shouted, “and you stay there!” The hoody was marched away some twenty paces towards the spheroid planetarium, where Cavendish commenced to speak passionately into the ear of the flinching lad.

  For Beckett it was an inexplicable scene. The detained youth’s friend lay submissively on the paving, seemingly intent on watching Cavendish. Beckett could see the anger and defiance slip from the face of the restrained youth as Cavendish leant forward and continued to whisper in his ear. A fearful respectful countenance replaced the aggressive guise as the youth slowly nodded his head, as if agreeing with whatever Cavendish was saying.

  The counselled youth beckoned over his co-aggressor to join him and Cavendish repeated the aural therapy. Eventually all three of them shook hands before the two lads called upon their bewildered girlfriends to join them before walking off towards the Waterfront.

  Beckett watched the group of youngsters depart, the bemused girls demanding explanations from their emasculated boyfriends, and then turned quickly to find Cavendish.

  The Untersucher stood coolly scrutinizing himself in the reflective surface of the planetarium sphere. Beckett silently observed the German for in excess of one minute before Cavendish walked calmly back to join him.