Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  “I’m really sorry, mate,” said Beckett, as he stooped over the fallen bag, as if in some way it might repair the smashed bottles.

  “You’re gonna pay for that, you are, I’m gonna make you pay!” The man was of a similar height to Beckett, yet was considerably bulkier and his recently shaved head did nothing to soften his daunting appearance.

  “Of course,” said Beckett reaching for his wallet, “how much did they cost?” The girl looked sheepishly at a shopping bill and pointed out the amount to Beckett, who failed to notice that the printed date indicated that the receipt was two months old.

  “It’ll be more than that!” shouted the angry man, “We’ve got to go back inside and buy some more and that costs, that does!” The male charity collector had walked across when he had heard the sound of the smashing glass, yet when he recognised the man who was shouting he slowly edged away from the scene. He had witnessed a similar confrontation involving the man several weeks ago and it had not been a pretty sight.

  “Excuse me, may I be of assistance?” asked Cavendish as he approached the trio involved in the accident.

  “Bugger off!” said the Norfolk lad.

  “Well, I think the gentleman here has offered to reimburse the lady for the damaged victuals, so I think you should accept his generous offer and be gone.”

  “Piss off; it’s nothing to do with you!” said the conman.

  “Do you always shout so, it must be very tiring,” said a bored sounding Cavendish. The man looked at Cavendish with an angry yet confused expression and shouted the only sensible words he could think of to the interfering interloper.

  “Go fuck yourself!”

  “Phil,” said his partner, “leave it Phil, he’s not worth it.” She may or may not have considered Cavendish to be ‘worth it’ but her feminine sensibilities were aware that this tall blonde man was not a suitable victim for their swindle.

  The deception had worked twice before; she would hover outside the supermarket with a carrier bag containing two vodka bottles full of water. She would select a likely candidate, someone who looked the sort to pay up with a minimum of fuss. Beckett appeared to fit that profile. However, this scar-faced man certainly did not.

  “Come with me,” said Cavendish eagerly to Phil, his eyes burning with intent. Before Phil could react Cavendish had spun him around, placed him in an arm lock and marched him swiftly around to the side of the supermarket. The local shoppers took no notice of the event; they assumed a shoplifter was being taken away, nothing for them to get involved with. Some minutes later, a flushed looking Cavendish reappeared, nursing his right hand. Beckett had been talking to the charity collector, whilst purposely avoiding making eye contact with the collection tin.

  “Come on, Thomas, time is pressing,” declared Cavendish, as he strode hastily towards the parked car. Beckett offered the orange-haired woman a smile, which she vacantly failed to respond to, and left her standing outside the entrance of the supermarket vainly looking for a sign of Phil

  “Did you have a word in his ear, Marchel?” asked Beckett upon catching up with his partner.

  “Yes, Thomas, you could say that. After all the hassle of the past few days it was certainly a much appreciated cathartic experience,” smiled Cavendish contentedly, feeling decidedly calmer following his altercation with Phil.

  The woman stood outside the supermarket entrance for a full two hours calling out Phil’s name ever more balefully. Her patience was finally rewarded when an ambulance arrived and she recognised her partner on a stretcher. He had been found by the waste bins and would be in hospital for several weeks recovering from the vicious injuries inflicted upon his face and body. He would walk with a limp for many months thereafter and be constantly looking over his shoulder for the tall blonde psychotic stranger who possessed the eyes of the devil.

  * * *

  The flint-decorated house was very much to Beckett’s taste. It was a modern, three up, three down detached house, with a kitchen extension and a small conservatory. The house was pleasantly furnished for a holiday let, clean and tastefully decorated. The interior walls had been recently painted imparting a fresh homely ambience.

  Beckett initially felt as if he was on holiday as he explored each room of the house. He bagged the largest bedroom and stood for some minutes watching the birds enjoying what remained of the blustery spring day.

  When he returned downstairs, he found Cavendish out in the small back garden smoking a cigarette. Like in most things, he considered Cavendish to be a pedantic smoker. He took slow deep draws on the cigarette before exhaling with a deliberate meticulousness. He felt a pang of desire, he had smoked his last cigarette many years before, but watching Cavendish smoke did remind him of the pleasures and comfort of tobacco.

  “You okay, Marsh?” Beckett asked as he walked out to join him. Cavendish blew out a long steady stream of smoke that was quickly chased away by the gusting wind.

  “I think we should take a walk before Josh arrives. Let’s go and see where my sword is.” Beckett had been quite happy to forget the reason for their visit to Norfolk and watched as Cavendish carefully stubbed out his cigarette on a low brick wall.

  They left the house nestled in the small cul-de-sac on the edge of town. Wells was tastefully arranged on the Norfolk coast, technically a fishing town, it had seemingly been given over to holidaymakers and second homes for the prosperous folk from the South East. Most of the houses were rendered with flint giving the town a distinctive rustic facade.

  Cavendish led them by a circular route to the Butlands. This area resembled a rectangular village green with a ring of deciduous trees that were only just coming into leaf. Around the green stood town houses, mainly of Georgian design, depicting a ruralised concept of Bath. Beckett was pleased to see the two pubs at either end of the green, an indication of civilisation if ever there was one.

  “You know the Buts traditionally used to be the area where men of the town would practice their longbow skills, when the playing of football was illegal,” informed Cavendish as they sat on a bench at the edge of the green.

  “Which house are they in?” asked Beckett quietly, ignoring his partner’s imparted knowledge.

  “In the house over there,” pointed Cavendish, “the one with the Greek columns by the front door. I should be able to tell you if the columns are Corinthian or Doric, but I can’t remember.”

  “Do I look like a man who gives a shit about Greek columns?” replied Beckett, his antagonism of the morning rekindled by their proximity to Emily Spelman. “More to the point, aren’t you worried about Slingsby seeing us?” asked Beckett.

  “Not at all,” said Cavendish purposely ignoring his partner’s provocative retort, “I’d welcome the opportunity to speak to them, it would save all the rehearsed nonsense I shall have to deliver when we pay them a surprise visit tomorrow morning.” He shivered with the delightful warm glow of anticipation imbued by the prospect of extracting the heretic’s name from Slingsby. “Anyway, time we were getting back, Josh should be here soon with his new sergeant, come on, it should be quicker going back.” Beckett was oblivious to Cavendish’s barely restrained desire to get to grips with Slingsby.

  It was early evening when the doorbell rang and Cavendish rose from the dining room table and walked to the front door of Flint House. Beckett assumed correctly that he must have expected it to be Houghton with some confidence, as he never attempted to remove his shoulder holster. Beckett heard no exchange of greetings but detected the approach of at least two people. Cavendish reappeared followed by Houghton and a third person, Houghton brandished two bottles of white wine, which cheered Beckett considerably.

  Chief Inspector Josh Houghton was as tall as Cavendish but considerably more solid in appearance. His black hair was cut in the close shave style, made popular by African Americans. He considered it gave him a contemporary edge, as did the short moustache and goatee beard. At thirty-five, Houghton was in fine physical shape and the expensive dark suit
flattered his figure. However, Beckett considered the West Indian looked a good deal different from the man he remembered, for he appeared far more careworn.

  The reason Beckett had only definitely heard two people walk into the house was that there was not much of Blanch Nichols to create a disturbance. She stood perhaps five feet five inches from the ground, including the couple of inches provided by her black leather shoes. She wore a smart black suit, was slimly built and standing next the two tall men, she appeared positively diminutive.

  Beckett immediately picked up upon her most obvious physical traits. She wore the minimal amount of make-up and her light brown doe-eyes seemed to be incessantly on the move, continually appraising her new surroundings. Her pursed thin lips betrayed her stubborn streak. She frowned as she walked into the room, as if not quite expecting what she saw and stared hard at Cavendish’s firearm but said nothing as she followed Houghton to the dining room table. Beckett stood up as Houghton made the introductions.

  “D.S. Nichols, may I introduce you to Marchel Cavendish and Thomas Beckett.” Blanch stepped forward, still frowning as her eyes flitted between the two strangers before her. She offered her hand to Cavendish.

  “I’m pleased to meet you both,” she said, exchanging a polite handshake with both men. Beckett detected more than a hint of a modulated Birmingham accent. Houghton did not make any small talk, from Beckett’s perspective he looked ill at ease.

  “So where are the two suspects now?” Houghton asked Cavendish.

  “I can’t say for sure, but the sword is certainly still in the property,” replied Cavendish as he resumed his seat at the table. Beckett followed his lead and the two police officers took a seat around the table.

  “So what are your plans, Marchel?” It surprised Beckett that a chief inspector in the Met should wish to follow Cavendish’s plan of action.

  “I suggest we wait until the morning and pay them a visit, if that is alright with you, Josh,” replied Cavendish.

  “Fine by me, Marchel, I reckon Blanch and me have had enough for one day.” Houghton glanced at Nichols who looked back and offered a nod to signify her accord with his sentiments.

  “Have you both eaten?” enquired Cavendish, “I’m reliably informed that there are several good eating pubs not far from here.”

  “What do you say, Blanch?” asked Houghton tentatively. She looked at her boss and again nodded but Beckett thought he perceived a definite reluctance judging by their body language.

  “That’s decided then,” said Cavendish, who failed to recognize the police officers’ unwillingness.

  This Tuesday evening was the first time that Thomas Beckett drank alcohol since his drugging on the previous Sunday night. His prowess for consuming alcohol was an odd conceit of his, never the less it was a fact that he had remarkable powers of recovery from the effects of alcohol and so it would appear, to administered date rape drugs. Beckett was quite happy with the glass or two of wine that he drank with his meal in the Sceptre gastro pub and content later to demolish more than his fair share of the two bottles that Houghton had brought along.

  However, Beckett found the meal an unpleasant and awkward experience. There seemed to be a general reluctance around the table to converse openly, Houghton stymied Cavendish’s blatant attempts to steer the conversation in the direction of the case. Beckett considered that Cavendish definitely did not enjoy the meal, for him it would have lacked purpose. Cavendish had looked fidgety and more than once had vacated the restaurant section of the hotel to stand outside and smoke a cigarette whilst staring intently at the unlit Georgian house at the opposite end of the Butlands.

  Back at Flint House, the uneasy atmosphere persisted. The four of them sat awkwardly around the dining table and again any attempts by Cavendish to steer the conversation in a direction pertaining to the investigation were quashed by Houghton. Beckett could see Cavendish’s frustration increasing when suddenly Cavendish made a suggestion.

  “Josh, I think you and I should have a talk in private.”

  “Fine, Marchel,” said Houghton reluctantly. Both men stood up and Blanch started to rise from the table. She was prevented from doing so by Houghton’s large hand as it pressed gently on her shoulder.

  “You stay here, Blanch. We shalln’t be long,” he said. No one in the room could miss her look of anger as she received the order. Cavendish and Houghton walked out to the back garden, which was as black as pitch beneath the heavily clouded sky.

  “What the hell is going on, Josh?” asked Cavendish angrily as he hastily lit a cigarette with his Zippo lighter, the petrol flame illuminating his irate face as it fought the gusting wind. “Why the hell are you so reluctant to discuss the case?” Houghton stared intently upon the glowing embers of Cavendish’s cigarette.

  “Well?” insisted Cavendish.

  “It’s Blanch,” Houghton said hastily, “she doesn’t know!” Cavendish stared in disbelief at the Chief Inspector.

  “What do mean, ‘she doesn’t know’? You’ve briefed her haven’t you?” insisted Cavendish.

  “She knows we’re here to investigate a stolen relic, that’s all.” Cavendish stared hard at Houghton as he asked his next question.

  “She is part of the firm?”

  “Of course she is!” said Houghton, louder than he intended.

  “So what is the problem?” came Cavendish’s searing demand.

  “She doesn’t know anything about the bloody firm!” Cavendish was stunned by Houghton’s response and a moment later gave an unhinged laugh, blowing a steady stream of cigarette smoke into the night air.

  “I think you’d better explain yourself, Josh.”

  “Look!” flustered Houghton, “she was recruited by Fletcher Dobson from the Midlands mob and assigned to me. She’s undergone her Met induction; it’s just that she hasn’t been briefed about the firm!” Houghton shifted uncomfortably on the spot as Cavendish tossed his cigarette away in a most un-Cavendish-like display of pique.

  “And you thought you’d bring her along to the most critical investigation of my career without telling her who I am!” fumed Cavendish. He paused before continuing. “So who the hell does she think I actually am?”

  “She thinks you’re a private Dick, which is all you are,” said Houghton disparagingly. Cavendish ground his back teeth as he fought to control his temper; he wrestled with the compunction to smash his fist into Houghton’s face. He had no wish to fall out with Houghton; he just wanted things in this crucial case to run smoothly. He breathed deeply to quell his inner rage.

  “No wonder she kept staring at my weapon. So when are you planning to tell her?” asked Cavendish with a calmer voice. Houghton detected Cavendish’s less hostile tone and responded more openly.

  “I was going to tell her in the car on the way up, but it never happened. Do you know how difficult it is to tell someone about this crazy mob we work for?”

  “Tell her tonight, Josh. Thomas and I will leave you alone with her. You know, Josh, I’ve got a lot riding on this one.”

  Houghton considered the stories he had heard about the Prague episode. If only half the things he had heard were true then Cavendish was indeed lucky to have any case to investigate. He nodded his agreement and followed the German back into the house.

  Whilst Cavendish and Houghton were in the garden, an awkward silence had descended upon the dining room where Beckett and Blanch remained. Beckett studied the contents of his wine glass as if it held the answer to some great-unexplained mystery whilst Blanch kept her eyes firmly fixed on Beckett. Her staring made him feel very uncomfortable.

  “So you’re a photographer, are you?” enquired Blanch, breaking the stony silence. She knew very well that he was, having heard one of his mundane anecdotes during the awkward meal in the pub.

  “That’s right,” said Beckett, hoping that the brevity of his answer might end the conversation.

  “So why does a private Dick need someone like you?” Beckett thought that Cavendish would h
ave been most upset to hear Blanch refer to them both in such a condescending manner. Beckett however did not give a damn but it did serve to reinforce his dislike for the police officer who had seemed impervious to his geniality.

  “I’ve no idea,” was his honest reply as he emptied his wine glass and poured himself another generous measure of Houghton’s wine. “And what the hell are you doing here?” he asked provocatively.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Blanch, unused to being spoken to in such a forthright manner.

  “I said, what are you doing here, not enough crime for you to sort out in London or are the brown envelopes thicker in Norfolk?” Beckett knew he was being deliberately confrontational and did not really know why. His only rationale was that it had been a shit evening and his nose was still sore from Cavendish’s breakfast table punch. The day had started out with a blazing row so it might as well end on one.

  Blanch stood up in response to Beckett’s jibe, yet having done so was unsure as to what she was actually going to do. The whole evening had been nothing short of a disaster, epitomising confusion and procrastination. She had never before been involved in such a ridiculous investigation; it was more like an old boy’s reunion than a police enquiry. Any conversation regarding the case of the stolen sword and the poisoning had been studiously avoided by her boss. She felt as if something was going on that she had not been made aware of and when this idiot photographer mentioned bungs, her worse fears were confirmed, that her boss was on the take. It would certainly explain a thing or two. She suddenly felt frightened, that she was being involved in something that she detested.

  When the two men returned from the garden, they found only Blanch in the dining room.

  “Where is Thomas?” Cavendish quickly asked Blanch. She ignored the man who she considered represented a vocation that she hated. She despised the gentleman sleuth, for she had no time for amateurs.

  “Blanch, are you okay?” asked Houghton. Again, Blanch said nothing.