Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  “Dr Spelman, you’ll be glad to know that I have spoken with my client and he has grudgingly agreed that you can view the artefact. There is one proviso though.”

  Beckett could see Emily trying to rearrange her thoughts back to the matter in hand. She was irritated with herself for having been side tracked by Beckett’s good-humoured aside.

  “And what might that be, Cavendish?” asked Emily. Beckett wondered if the lack of ‘Mr’ was deliberate or just the effect of the alcohol.

  “He wishes that you maintain the confidentiality that he is used to. He does not want any publicity what so ever or anyone other than you to see the item. Are you in agreement?”

  Emily looked at her empty wine glass and then at Beckett. She felt a thrill of triumph in having succeeded in what she had set out to do.

  “I have one condition myself.” Emily addressed Cavendish alone.

  “Yes?” enquired Cavendish.

  “Mr Beckett and I would like another bottle of wine. What do you say?” Emily offered Beckett a victorious grin that he could not help but reciprocate.

  “Mr Beckett,” asked Cavendish cynically, “would you like a bottle of the same?”

  “Sure thing, Marsh.” Both Beckett and Emily grinned at each other and missed the satisfied smile that Cavendish allowed himself during their shared mirth.

  They ate their main courses whilst Emily Spelman recounted college stories to her two hosts and Beckett regaled the ensemble with anecdotes mainly revolving around the wedding photo shoots he was involved with in his early career. A casual observer would have noticed that all of the stories were shared between Beckett and Emily. Cavendish nodded and smiled at the appropriate moments but was happy to play the bystander.

  Any final course was declined in favour of coffee and brandy. Cavendish was no judge of inebriation but he knew that his two guests were well oiled; a Beckett euphemism he had picked up, by the time the meal was completed.

  They were the only ones remaining in the restaurant on this mid week evening. Beckett looked at his watch; he had to jerk his arm away from his face and squint to focus upon its face. He was astonished to see that the hour was fast approaching midnight.

  “I must be going, gentlemen,” announced Emily, “may I thank you for a successful evening.”

  “It was our pleasure, Emily,” said Beckett. Emily stood up and hovered unsteadily for a second. Beckett saw her wobble, rose from the table and took her right arm. “Are you okay, Emily?”

  “Yes I’m fine thanks, Tom,” Emily slightly slurred her reply. She admitted to herself that she had drunk far more than she had intended but also felt the inebriation resulting from her personal triumph at securing a viewing of the sword.

  “Would you like me to order you a taxi, Dr Spelman?” enquired Cavendish.

  “Goodness no, I’m only just across the road, the walk will do me good.”

  “Perhaps I should walk you back, Dr Spelman? You shouldn’t walk alone at this time of night,” offered Beckett.

  “That would be most gallant of you Mr Beckett, thank you.”

  “You alright settling the bill, Marsh?” asked Beckett without a hint of irony. Cavendish supported his head with his right hand, his arm supported by the armrest of the chair. He smiled benevolently at Beckett before standing up. He took a card from his jacket pocket and offered it to Emily.

  “Dr Spelman, here is my card, please ring me in the morning to confirm what we have spoken of this evening. I suggest we meet again to discuss how we proceed with matters.” Emily nodded and took the card from him and placed it in her jacket pocket without looking at it.

  “Thank you, Mr Cavendish.” She offered her hand and Cavendish shook it lightly as he bowed.

  “Time to take the Good Doctor home, Thomas,” said Cavendish.

  Cavendish waited for only a few seconds after Beckett and Emily had left the restaurant before following them. To say that Thomas Beckett did not remember the walk back to Emily’s hotel would have been an inaccuracy. He remembered it as one remembers any drunken occasion; the cognitive senses were dulled yet he felt very much alive. He remembered the firmness of Emily’s arm as they supported each other. He remembered the touch of her body against his as her heels caught on the pseudo-cobbles on the Centre outside the Hippodrome Theatre.

  He now found the scent of her perfume enthralling as it wafted on the cool night air, the way she laughed easily and politely at his inane comments was sublime. He walked her into the hotel reception area and delighted in the fleeting touch of her moist lips on his cheek during their formal exchange of farewells. His walk back to his own hotel was lost in the reminiscence of the evening and outward journey.

  It therefore came as no surprise that Thomas Beckett failed to notice Cavendish follow them into Emily's hotel. The German took up a position in the hotel bar where he observed a seated man who had eyes only for Beckett and Emily as they parted in the foyer. What Beckett did not observe as he left the hotel was the man advance towards Emily.

  The stranger wore two days worth of stubble on his face and his hair appeared to have been unwashed for even longer. Beckett would have described him as being ruggedly handsome; Cavendish named him trouble. The man was certainly not the most discrete of men, he was either very brash or had been drinking, the Untersucher concluded it was a mixture of both.

  “Christ Em, you took your bloody time!” declared the man.

  “I’m sorry, Paul, have you had a tough day?” The man ignored her question.

  “How did it go?” he asked insistently.

  “Like a dream!” she purred.

  “You seemed pretty close to that one.”

  “Who, Tom? Yes, a nice guy.”

  “You are a slut, Em,” said the man grabbing her by the shoulders. Emily flinched but hid her annoyance with a quick repost.

  “I’ve not heard you complaining.” Emily licked her lips enticingly. He spun her brusquely around and pushed her towards the lift, landing the flat of his palm against her retreating left buttock. She lurched towards the lift under the impact of the blow; the slap effectively snapped her out of the trance-like state that had accompanied her seemingly easy victory over Herr Cavendish. She remembered that it was this man, Paul Slingsby, who had made her aware of the sword’s existence, for this was his victory as well as hers.

  Emily smiled seductively over her shoulder, yet the man remained rooted to the spot as the lift door opened and Emily entered. She leaned against the lift doors to prevent them closing and beckoned the man to join her with her finger.

  He remained motionless for several seconds whilst the finger continued its summons and she bent to raise the hem of her skirt to reveal a stocking top. Finally, he glided towards the lift to join her. The last thing Beckett would have heard had he not been on his way back to his hotel, was Dr Emily Spelman shrieking. Cavendish gave a nod of satisfaction as he concluded that it was no cry for help, quite the opposite in fact.

  CHAPTER 14. A RUSE BY ANY OTHER NAME.

  “How goes it in the land of heretics, Marchel?”

  “That’s not funny, Horst.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be. And how is the weather, raining no doubt!”

  “Actually, it’s quite pleasant, though rain is forecast.”

  Cavendish was lying on the bed in his hotel room, at almost eight o’clock in the morning following the meal the previous evening with Dr Spelman. He had already ventured outside for a morning smoke only to be greeted by the incessant drizzle of the Bristol morning. He wasn’t in the mood for being lectured by his superior.

  “Never mind, you’re not on holiday,” stated Steinbeck.

  “How are things at home, have you seen my mother?” asked Cavendish casually.

  “My God Marchel, you really must hate it there to be asking after your mother. Missing her are you?”

  “No, Horst, just small talk, it’s something the English are very big on, it’s part of their evasive persona. I was just wondering how things
were at home.”

  “Marchel, I cannot believe you are homesick!”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “No, I saw her recently with Frau Huber.”

  “I see.”

  “She was out with your sister.”

  “Did you speak to them?”

  “Of course”

  “How were they?”

  “Your mother is fine, she was asking after you.”

  “And Tina?”

  “Marchel, I haven’t got time for chitchat concerning your family, no matter how sorry I feel for you. Tell me, how is your Mr Beckett, is he on board?”

  “Yea, he is on board, grateful for the payday, I suspect. I forgot how amenable he is. He would probably jump of the local suspension bridge if I asked him to,” enthused Cavendish, the distain for his colleague solely for Steinbeck’s benefit.

  “Well that is good, as I said, use anyone you have to. And this Doctor Spelman, what do you make of her?”

  “She’s a cracker, gorgeous and no doubt intelligent. I don’t believe her to be the instigator of the heresy. I shouldn’t have any problem breaking her.”

  “I don't want you breaking anyone. Listen Marchel, I want you to incorporate the Didier ruse into your assignment.”

  “The Didier ruse?”

  “Yes, you know what it is don’t you?”

  “Of course I do, any novice Untersucher knows about the Didier ruse. It was a trick used by Francois Didier in 1845 to reveal the identity of the man behind the theft of the Bonaparte gem.”

  “Very good, Marchel. So tell me how it works.”

  “One allows the victim, usually a third party, access to an object they desire or are charged with obtaining, enabling them to steal it and so open the way up to revealing the instigator of the plot. Why the hell do you want to use such a complex scam when I can simply get the information directly from Spelman?”

  “Marchel, Marchel, you must remember you are on probation. You’ve already run into Hugo Victor, so you know the council is monitoring your progress. We are now in a situation where it is insufficient to merely succeed, we have to succeed with style, with a flourish, and we need to demonstrate that you are not a one trick horse.” The ‘we’ came over loud and clear to Cavendish.

  “Pony, not horse,” corrected Cavendish.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I have it from the pony’s mouth.”

  “Well, whatever it is, you’ll have to show some ingenuity.”

  “For God sake, Horst, the Didier ruse has only worked three times; the last time was in 1945 when Franz Schickler duped some no-brain National Socialists. Usually the subterfuge ends in failure with someone getting hurt.”

  “Since when did you worry about someone getting hurt?”

  “I’m more concerned with failure. You told me to just get the job done and come home.”

  “Yes, but circumstances change. You didn’t do yourself any favours by wafting your bloody gun at Simeon Goldstein. The English don’t like firearms. For goodness sake, keep it locked away. Oh, and talking of lethal weapons, don’t go making any advances on this Spelman woman. The last thing you need now is anymore assignations with the fairer sex.” Cavendish made no reply to Steinbeck’s unequivocal order.

  “Do you hear me, Cavendish? Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, I hear you, Herr Steinbeck,” he replied sullenly, “there is a complication, though. It looks like Spelman has an accomplice.”

  “So what! It doesn’t matter how many people are involved, in fact the more the merrier, it makes us look so much smarter!”

  As Steinbeck’s laughter resonated in the earpiece, Cavendish held the phone at arm’s length and mouthed obscenities in its general direction. The laughter subsided and he returned the mobile to his ear.

  “Marchel, are you still there?” enquired a distant Steinbeck.

  “I’m still here, Horst.”

  “Good, now work on the ruse and let me know your plan of action. And Marchel?”

  “Yes Horst?”

  “Don’t let me down, you need all the friends you can get around here.” Steinbeck terminated the call.

  CHAPTER 15. TO SUCCEED WITH SUCCESS AS OPPOSED TO FAILURE.

  The bath was deep and the hot water caressed the body of Paul Slingsby as he sank backwards and submerged his head below the foaming surface. He lay beneath the water for as long as his lungs held out before pushing himself desperately upright to gasp greedily at the steamy air. He dismissed the slopping water that spilled over the sides of the bath, inundating the tiled floor, as he wrung his hands through his freshly washed hair.

  He shook his head to expel water from his ears and gave a long smile of satisfaction. It was rare of late for him to concede that things were going well but his superficial thoughts this morning certainly bestowed that impression. He spent a night of passion with Emily, the once unversed yet now committed student, which had exceeded even his strenuous demands for gratification. She had returned in an ebullient mood from her meeting with the two men and reported that she had achieved all they had set out to do.

  She was unused to what she excitedly described as ‘clandestine activities’ and acquired a tremendous buzz out of the whole exercise. He was reminded of an old girlfriend he had back in the nineties who was a minor star on the West End stage. He recalled sweetly the high on which she left the stage and which carried over to the end of performance party with the cast. The sex they had was terrific but her comedown the next morning was impossible to live with. He made sure he had left the flat before she awoke. He speculated as to how Emily would feel this morning, she would not be subjected to the low that constant performing would inevitably induce but she would no doubt be suffering from a hangover.

  He lay against the embracing white enamel and allowed himself to sink so that his torso was submerged and only his raised knees and head were exposed.

  Two possible outcomes now lay before them. The sword might now be made available to them following Emily’s rehearsed threats. Her description of the man named Cavendish had been inconsistent at best and had left him with no clear picture of the man other than Emily’s obvious abhorrence. Moreover, that came from a woman who seemed to enjoy the company of men. The other guy never really made the radar yet that was also no doubt part of her feminine wiles, for she was reluctant to talk about him. Maybe he really was that insignificant.

  The sword may indeed be made available legitimately as part of Emily’s rationale concerning treasure trove and articles of historic national importance. It all seemed gobbledegook to him. Nevertheless, such an outcome ensured Emily’s fame as a champion of historical importance and granted him a journalistic coup with national exposure and syndication rights. That was the simplest scenario but he feared the least likely outcome, despite Emily’s assurance otherwise.

  The second likely scenario was that they would have to procure the sword, which he conceded was his euphemistic expression for stealing it. He had argued with Emily that if the sword was what it was purported to be then there would be no case of theft to answer for, it would be a act of socially responsible liberation for the common good of the people.

  His private fantasy, which deviated from their agreed procedure, was to take the sword and sell it to a private dealer yet he hardly knew enough about the antiques market to make a swift buck. Nevertheless, it was always a fall back plan. Perhaps the man who had informed him about the sword in the first place, and who had set the whole chain of events into motion, would be interested if approached. It was certainly worth bearing in mind.

  He laughed impulsively when he considered that it was Emily’s drunken and sexually fuelled assertion that date rape was a sadomasochistic fantasy of the repressed bourgeoisie. He fondly remembered laughing at her pompous yet outrageously alluring Oxford delusions, which she countered eloquently by her continued labours for his personal libidinous pleasure.


  Yet her naive claim enabled him to remember the date rape drug he had obtained during one of his undercover investigations. He concluded the drugs were worth having to hand should they need to steal the sword. He wondered how long her initiation into a new world of lasciviousness would keep her compliant. Long enough to complete their mutual transactions, in and out of bed, he hoped. Stealing an object from the protection of the constipated German would be no easy task. It would require luck and a ruthlessness that he doubted the determined yet ultimately intellectual Emily lacked. Fortunately, he had an insurance policy

  The bathroom door suddenly opened and Emily slouched into the steamed up room. She stood dispassionately naked for his perusal with her hands pressed upon her flat belly framing the diamond belly button stud, which proclaimed her sexual emancipation.

  Her pounding hangover obviated any consideration that her nakedness might have upon him. Long strands of dark hair lay dishevelled across her face, so that she balefully studied him with one mascara-smudged eye.

  “Are you going to lie in that bath all morning? I need to use the loo.” she attempted to sound reproachful but her words emerged without conviction.

  “That’s fine coming from you; I thought you were dead to the world.”

  “Don’t shout, Paul. I’m not deaf.”

  “You look like shit,” he said impassively so as not to elicit a heated reply.

  “I feel like shit. I’m supposed to ring that bloody German but I can’t face him,” she muttered dejectedly as she tiptoed across the wet tiled floor.

  “Then make your excuses and see him later. We hold all the aces.” She nodded accordingly, relieved that he had not insisted on her meeting the demanding Cavendish.

  “Why don’t you go back to bed, Emily, it’s still early.” He tried to make the phrase sound like a suggestion but he could detect the edgy harassment creeping into his speech.