Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  “You’re helping me, Thomas,” said Cavendish gently.

  “Helping you? Quite what the fuck am I doing that is helping you? Oh, silly me, I forgot, I let myself be duped by a woman into losing the one thing that I was supposed to be fuckin’ looking after. Well done, Tom!”

  The morning receptionist entered the restaurant with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave the restaurant, you’re upsetting the other guests.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Cavendish, “we’ll leave now.”

  “I’m not leaving,” said Beckett stubbornly folding his arms across his chest.

  “Come on, Thomas, let’s go.” Cavendish leant forward and placed his hand on Beckett’s shoulder.

  “Get your goddamn Kraut hand off me!” shouted Beckett angrily.

  “What?” asked a stunned Cavendish, taken aback by Beckett’s insult. Cavendish removed his hand from Beckett’s shoulder as he stood up to leave.

  “For Christ sake, Thomas, calm down,” urged Cavendish, uneasy with the way the situation was developing. He had naively not foreseen Beckett’s sustained anger. The Bristolian stood and angrily confronted the German.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down, you German prick! Piss off back to the Fatherland!” Cavendish replaced his hand on Beckett’s shoulder, hoping to calm his partner. Beckett clumsily responded by wafting his left arm to dislodge Cavendish’s hand and in doing so, inadvertently sideswiped Cavendish’s cheek with the back of his hand.

  Cavendish reacted instinctively and threw a punch so fast that Beckett never saw it coming. One minute he was standing, the next he was crashing against a breakfast table, spewing plates and crockery in all directions. He lay on his back amongst the breakfast debris clutching a bloody nose. Cavendish stood in shocked silence, not able to believe what he had just done.

  “I’m sorry, Thomas,” he implored as he bent over to offer a hand to assist Beckett from the floor.

  Beckett brushed the hand derisively aside and stood shakily to his feet, snatching a serviette off an empty table, which he held to his blooded nose. He stood glaring at Cavendish, whose face wore a look of dismay. Beckett raised his right hand, dropped it contemptuously and hurriedly left the restaurant, making straight for the main entrance. Cavendish remained standing, rooted to the spot.

  “I’m sorry, Thomas,” said Cavendish despondently.

  Thomas Beckett found himself shivering on a park bench in Queens Park overlooking the boating lake. The sun briefly burst through a gap in the clouds that the blustery southwesterly wind had fashioned. A pensioner sat feeding the ducks on an adjacent bench and a swarm of mallards and sparrows greedily accepted her offerings. He looked across the lake towards the bandstand and watched the workmen taking down the last of the marquees from the weekend’s activities. As the main canvas was lowered to the ground so too was Beckett's take on the world, it was a reaffirmation of his melancholic credo.

  The past week with Cavendish had been a whirlwind trip. It was hard to believe all the things that had happened in such a short space of time. He had been sitting at home, hoping for a phone call to offer him a commission, too scared to seek assignments proactively for fear of rejection. Then the German reappeared on the scene like a tornado of intent. Cavendish had brought him along on his interviews and trips, making no demands, and after a night where the air was filled with craziness, he self-righteously believed himself to be a victim of the man’s ambition.

  What the decent Beckett failed to comprehend was that he and Emily were indeed victims of Cavendish’s Machiavellian scheming, albeit upon the insistence of Steinbeck. Yet for all that, he needed Cavendish, for he offered the potential of aiding his daughter’s ambitions.

  Cavendish walked slowly to the park, his coat tightly buttoned against the breeze, his hands deep within the pockets, his sunglasses masking any emotion that his eyes might betray to the world. He guessed where Beckett would go, a place with happy memories in an unfamiliar town and had left him to stew for half an hour. He saw Beckett and slowly made his approach.

  “This is nothing like where I live, you know,” said Cavendish, “it is quintessentially English. Even the Englischer Garten in Munich is nothing like this.”

  “Where exactly do you live?” asked Beckett, neither man diverting their eyes from the view ahead.

  “Oberammergau,” answered Cavendish.

  “That’s a mouthful, what’s it like?”

  “It is a beautiful village in the Ammer valley in Upper Bavaria. Many people find it rather kitsch, trading on its association with the famous Passion Play. But I love it, You’d like it too. You could come for a holiday. There are plenty of things to do, hike in the mountains, swim in the local pool. You'd love the beer, brewed in accordance with the Reinheitsgebot, that’s the purity laws to you, no artificial preservatives and all that. You could even try yodelling.”

  Beckett let out a tut of disapproval. “Why do you correct people when they call you a German?” asked Beckett.

  “Because I am English,” replied Cavendish with a half-truth, to say he enjoyed being contentious seemed inapposite. Beckett tutted once more at Cavendish’s reply.

  “If you’re English then I’m a Dutch uncle,” announced Beckett flippantly.

  “You know my father is English and you know my mother is French, if anything they should say that I’m French.”

  “But you don’t come across as English, do you. You come across as German. What do you consider your native tongue?”

  “German.” replied Cavendish, almost as a denial.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Germany.”

  “Where did you go to school?”

  “Germany.”

  “Where did you go to University?”

  “Heidelberg.”

  “Do you prefer the witness for the prosecution to continue?”

  Cavendish laughed sharply at Beckett’s joke.

  “Do you know what it’s like being raised in a foreign land?” asked Cavendish softly.

  “No, but I could take you to a few inner city schools in your beloved England and ask a few school kids there.”

  “I endured a lot at school,” Cavendish said mournfully.

  “So do a lot of kids, Marchel. You’re not about to go off on some reminiscence about shorn scrotums are you?”

  “I don’t pretend to understand all the things you say, Thomas. I know I said sorry earlier, I should not have hit you, it was wrong, I, I...”

  “We lost it, Marchel. It’s perfectly normal in our house.”

  “I don’t act impetuously. Or at least, I shouldn’t,” declared Cavendish quietly.

  “No, I guess you don’t very often, I should be flattered really, the man who made the inquisitor lose his cool,” said Beckett, conveniently forgetting the episode with Simeon Goldstein.

  “Do you accept my apology?” asked Cavendish.

  “Oh, for Christ sake, Marchel. Stop being so anal! If it will shut you up, then yes, I accept your apology.” Beckett stood up and walked around to the rear of the bench and stood beside Cavendish. “And I’m sorry I called you a Kraut.”

  “You can call me a Kraut as much as you like, Thomas. It will be a good test for me in temper control.”

  “Then that would be no fun at all. I wouldn’t mind being German.” Cavendish looked directly at Beckett.

  “Why do you say that, Thomas?”

  “It must be great being a German, great cars, successful economy, always winning the World Cup. You know when I was a kid there used to be a TV programme. It was called ‘It’s a Knockout!’ After the domestic series, there was an international season, held in various European cities. As a kid, it was my first taste of the exotic sights of Europe. A place populated by people dressed in silly costumes and over-sized shoes throwing buckets of water at each other. But you know what I always seem to remember? It was always the bloody Germans who seemed to win. You’d have your half-arsed, amateurish
Brits giving it a go, but you always got the impression that the soddin’ Germans had been practising.”

  Cavendish continued studying Beckett and hoped that he hid his bemusement, for he had not the slightest idea of what Beckett had just been talking about. The inquisitor was simply glad to have Beckett talking his usual gibberish.

  What Cavendish grudgingly accepted was his desire for Beckett’s friendship. That he experienced remorse at having used him in the firm’s ruse to establish who was attempting to compromise the auction implied that the inquisitor’s underused and underdeveloped conscience had been pricked.

  Cavendish held out his hand for Beckett to shake.

  “I’m not shaking hands, it’s too formal,” insisted Beckett. Cavendish withdrew his hand and looked a little crestfallen. He then smiled and reached inside his coat pocket and took out a pair of sunglasses identical to his own and offered them to Beckett.

  “They are a spare pair, please, take them.” Beckett grinned as he took the shades. He put them on and made a big show of adjusting them on the bridge of his nose.

  “Tell me, Marchel, do you sing or play a musical instrument?”

  “I sang in the choir at school and university, why do you ask?”

  “We would make a great blues band wearing these. Oh, by the way, what’s the status with the hotel, did you ‘do your thing’ with regards to damage limitation?”

  “They want us to leave. But it’s not a problem, we were leaving anyway.”

  “We are?”

  “Yes, we have places to go, Mr Beckett”

  “And where might that be, Mr Cavendish?”

  “Well, the last time I checked, before I came to rescue you, it was to a coastal town in Norfolk.”

  “Do I have to ask why?” asked Beckett guardedly.

  Cavendish turned his head to Beckett. He remained silent, gauging Beckett's likely reaction. Beckett became aware of the searching look and turned his head to look back at Cavendish. All he could see was his own reflection in Cavendish’s glasses. “Spit it out, man,” urged Beckett.

  “It's because that is the sword's current location.” Beckett absorbed Cavendish’s statement, his only reaction was to remove his shades and stare off towards the bandstand. Eventually he asked the question.

  “And how do you know that, Marchel?”

  “Because built into the handle of the sword is a tracking device. Its current location is a town called Wells-next-the-Sea in Norfolk. It arrived there yesterday morning and has remained there ever since. My suspicion is that Slingsby and Spelman are holed up there considering their next move.”

  “Bugger me!” exclaimed Beckett.

  “Not at the moment, Thomas, I’ve already had the firm’s local doctor suspecting me of drugging you with carnal intent.”

  “No more than you deserve, Cavendish,” said Beckett acerbically as he handed Cavendish back the sunglasses.

  “Perhaps you’re right, Thomas. Are you fit for a drive to Norfolk?”

  “I’ll be glad to leave this town; I can’t claim to have had a weirder weekend. Anyway I’m bloody freezing.” They turned to leave the park and walk the short distance to the concrete footbridge.

  “We’ll come back next year and enjoy the festival properly,” said Cavendish lightly. “I’m sure it must be a very pleasant town when you get to know it,” added the man who claimed to hate England.

  CHAPTER 26. A VISIT FROM THE CONSTABULARY.

  It did not take long for Thomas Beckett to check out of the Holmcourt hotel. His case had remained unpacked except for his washing gear, which had resided in the bathroom.

  His parka hung in the wardrobe and to avoid carrying the extra bulk he decided to wear it. Something bulky filled the right hand pocket and his explorative touch revealed a furry entity that made his hand recoil for an instant before he extracted the object.

  It was a teddy bear and he smiled as he examined it, remembering the coconut shy. Holding the bear to his nose, he imagined that he could still catch the scent of Emily’s heady perfume. Why did the thought make him smile? Why did he not hate Emily Spelman? There were many mysteries in life that he did not understand, the main one being Thomas Beckett. He returned Holmcourt Bear to his pocket, the justification for his action was unclear to him, but as he always said, there did not have to be a reason for some actions, some things you just did.

  Cavendish was already waiting in the car as Beckett slinked out of the rear entrance of the hotel into the car park. Unusually, Cavendish was in the driver’s seat and he gestured Beckett around to the passenger side of the vehicle. Beckett slung his suitcase in the rear of the Galaxy and threw his parka on the back seat before climbing aboard.

  “According to the satnav it should take about three and a half hours to get to Wells, which means we’ll be there about two o’clock,” informed the inquisitor.

  “Can’t wait,” said Beckett dryly.

  Cavendish’s driving style was, as Beckett remarked, very much as he presented himself to the world, very precise and very polite. It was only after they had driven through Mansfield that Cavendish said anything that raised a query from his passenger.

  “I have asked Josh Houghton to meet us when we reach Wells-next-the-Sea,” announced Cavendish solemnly.

  “Why have you asked him along?” asked Beckett suspiciously.

  “We are approaching the end game, a theft has taken place and you were poisoned.”

  “Drugged,” corrected Beckett.

  “Technically poisoned, she could have killed you.”

  “That was not her intention, Cavendish, and you know it.”

  “Please do not assume to know her intentions, Thomas.”

  “So why do you need Josh?” asked Beckett. Cavendish considered his answer.

  “Right now I need all the friends I can get. The firm is expecting a result and I don’t want any misunderstandings. We need someone like Josh around to corroborate our story. I’m not leaving anything to chance.”

  “So where are we meeting him?”

  “Bethan Williams has arranged a house for us in the town; we’ll meet Josh and Blanch there.”

  “Hold on, who is Bethan Williams?”

  “She’s the UK fixer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She arranges things. If I need a car, I’ll contact Bethan. Likewise for anything else.” Beckett nodded before asking a further question. “And who is Blanch?”

  “Blanch Nichols is Josh’s new sergeant.”

  “Is she part of the thing, you know, the firm?”

  “I would have thought so, I have never met her. I can’t imagine her not being part of the firm, that would make things far too complicated. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll like her.” Beckett smiled at Cavendish’s usual optimistic assumption. Thomas Beckett, the everyman for every occasion. Just don’t rely on him too much.

  “So, we’re not staying in a hotel?” asked Beckett.

  “No, at this juncture, I think it’s better we keep a low profile. Small towns are harder to blend into.”

  “A house, eh?” said Beckett, “that will be nice, self catering, come and go as we please. You any good at cooking a decent breakfast?”

  “I’ve never tried, Thomas, it can’t be too difficult.”

  “Oh, don’t you believe it, mister. There’s an art to making a good fry up. You’d better stop on the way so we can buy some goodies.” Cavendish glanced at his Breitling watch, checking their progress against the Satnav’s prediction.

  The landscape changed as they drew near the Wash, the terrain revealed an absence of hills, valleys or woodland. Only the soaring electricity pylons offered stature to the topography as they stretched away into infinity. Beckett felt relieved after they had crossed the fertile yet seemingly barren land and bridged the river Ouse, skirting the port of King’s Lynn. The landscape now became softer with yellow flowering gorse and deciduous forests.

  Beckett eventually spotted his goal, a supermarket on the edge of Fakenh
am, where they refuelled the Galaxy and went in search of provisions. It was approaching three o’clock as they strolled stiffly across to the supermarket entrance. A blustery northeast wind blew in off the North Sea, which partly explained why the good folk of Norfolk seemed to be agitated into hasty jerky movements as they crossed the car park. At the entrance, two people were gently shaking collection tins to encourage shoppers to donate to a charity. Beckett took a metal basket and walked down the nearest aisle closely followed by Cavendish.

  “I think you had better get the provisions, Thomas, you seem to know what you want.” Cavendish would pick up a random packet or container, examine it with a feigned curiosity and then return the item to the shelf. Beckett was aware of the odd furtive glance in their direction and considering that Cavendish maintained he was a master at remaining unobserved, he was equally capable of standing out in a crowd like a proverbial sore thumb. The Bristolian concluded that in this instance Cavendish actually enjoyed being the centre of attention; it kept him occupied whilst doing something he found patently boring.

  Cavendish walked impatiently out of the supermarket whilst Beckett clung on to two plastic carrier bags, one clutched in either hand, and attempted to keep up with Cavendish’s loping strides, an indication that the inquisitor was in a hurry to move on.

  Beckett stopped abruptly outside the store entrance to allow a pregnant woman to wheel her large trolley awkwardly onto the premises. Unfortunately, as he stepped aside to allow the woman to pass, he felt his carrier bag collide with a plastic bag carried by a young woman standing behind him. Beckett held onto his carrier whilst the unlucky woman lost her grip on her own bag. The Norfolk air was rent by the sound of shattering glass as two litre bottles of Smirnoff vodka shattered on the paved ground.

  “Shit, I’m so sorry, love,” said Beckett as he faced the victim of his assumed clumsiness. The slight looking woman with lank orange hair ignored him but a man, who met the likely candidacy for being her partner, exploded with rage. The effect was to intimidate all within earshot.

  “You stupid fucker!” came the strong local accent, “look what you’ve done, two bloody bottles of Vodka. That’s two nights drinking, that is!”