“Why did you disappear?” challenged Cavendish.
“I, I felt, I felt ashamed and embarrassed if you must know, Mr Smarty-Pants-Cavendish!” Miles voice rose in defiance. Cavendish’s resolute expression softened a little.
“Miles, just a couple of questions before I let you return to your bed. I want his name and contact number. I’m sure you checked him out.”
“He used a false name, not unusual, but his mobile number is real enough, he doesn’t know I have it.” Cavendish almost smiled. If the rent boy did not realise that his phone number had been taken then he was unlikely to have disposed of it.
“Miles, you did very well, I need his mobile number now,” demanded Cavendish.
“My phone is in my room, I’d better go and get it,” Miles began to rise unsteadily from his chair as he finished speaking.
“You sit tight, Miles, Simeon will fetch it for you, won’t you, Simeon.” Cavendish was clearly not giving Simeon a choice in the matter. It was fortunate for Simeon that Cavendish had his back to him and so was unable to see the snarl that Simeon threw at the Untersucher.
“Miles,” asked Cavendish gently when Simeon had left the room, “did your friend give you any reason to believe that he was working with someone else?” With Simeon out of the room, Miles felt more at ease with Cavendish.
“You know, Marchel, I swear to you that I never made any mention of the valuables, you know I keep my private life separate from the firm’s business. Someone must have told him where to find the items, there was no way that he could have just stumbled upon them. He had to get hold of my keys to gain access to the lock-up.”
“So you think he had inside knowledge,” speculated Cavendish.
“Be careful what you say to the inquisitor, Miles, he’ll have you burnt at the stake for heresy,” interjected Simeon who had not wasted any time in retrieving Mile’s phone and returned with three mugs of steaming coffee. Simeon walked over to his brother and handed him his phone. Whilst Miles looked for the number in the directory, Cavendish took his phone out of his pocket and prepared to input the number.
“Are you sure that is the number?” asked Cavendish when Miles had completed his dictation.
“Yes, Marchel, I’m sure.”
“Then I suggest you go back to bed, Miles, you have given me enough to go on for now, let’s just hope he hasn’t gone too far, I don’t fancy tangling with the Russians.”
“Marchel,” said Miles quietly.
“Yes?”
“Please don’t hurt him, I don’t think he is a bad person, he doesn’t deserve to be hurt.”
“Not many people do, Miles, not many people do,” answered Cavendish reflectively.
Simeon showed Cavendish to the door, he looked tired but also relieved. Cavendish paused before walking out on to the quiet streets of Bath.
“What exactly are these items that were stolen,” asked Cavendish. He did not want to ask the question in front of Miles.
“I’m not sure, they were in a sealed box recovered from the late Ghost,” answered Simeon. His voice had lost its usual bellicose bitterness. He leant wearily against the hallway wall and continued his supposition. “I had a look through the old records pertaining to anything that might remotely have been associated with the Romanovs. The only thing I found were documents relating to alleged letters sent by the Tsarina. That’s all I know.”
“So the items are not bulky?” asked Cavendish.
“Bravo, Untersucher. I can see why you have attained the rank of medius so swiftly,” smiled Simeon without malice.
“How did you discover the theft so quickly?”
“I keep an eye on Miles. I didn’t like the young schmuck he was seeing. I’m getting very distrustful in my old age. Anyway, when Miles disappeared, as he has done many times before I hasten to add, I decided to do an inventory count, just in case. It took me as long as it did to discover the box missing.”
Cavendish considered Simeon’s statement. It was fortuitous that Simeon was the old grouch he was, for not many people would have made the stock check and the items would have been long gone before their absence was noticed.
“Does anyone else know about the missing items?” inquired Cavendish. Simeon shook his head before he spoke.
“Only you, Marchel.” Cavendish nodded approvingly.
“Thank you, Simeon. I owe you big time.” Simeon stared intently at the younger man before voicing his opinion.
“Someone has to look after your mother, and it certainly isn’t your father.” Cavendish smiled knowingly, shook Simeon’s hand and opened the front door.
CHAPTER 29. VICARS AND HEARTS.
The intensity of the wind had increased during the night. Beckett slept soundly enough until five o’clock when he was awoken by the demands of his bladder. He regretted drinking those cups of coffee following Cavendish’s departure, but he needed something to drink and coffee was all the poorly cached house had to offer.
He could not recall what time he went to bed, it was gone midnight, and following Cavendish’s hasty departure, the three housemates had retired with barely a spoken word. Houghton had briefly confirmed the time they would meet in the morning leaving the abandoned Beckett to drink several cups of coffee alone at the small kitchen table.
A telephone cable whined torturously as the wind howled in off the cold North Sea, seeding his dreams with macabre and threatening images. He lay on his back, trying to ignore the intrusion of the elements and wondered what Cavendish was doing at that precise moment. He had never spent such an intense, dedicated period in the service of any man and the knowledge that Marchel Cavendish was hundreds of miles away elicited an apprehensive stirring in his rebellious gut.
Beckett was not great at self-analysis, his instincts were usually sound but any lengthy deliberation often led to inaccurate conclusions. His usual suspicion was that everyone thought as he did, which might well be a general truism, but often such a supposition ended up with him out of pocket, being hurt or hurting someone else’s feelings. The day ahead was going to be difficult, had Cavendish been present then he might have felt confident of the outcome of the confrontation with Slingsby and Emily, with Houghton calling the shots he most certainly was not.
He had first met Houghton over a year ago at the conclusion of his first encounter with Cavendish. He remembered liking him well enough at the time but possibly due to his concussion, could not recall why. Here in Wells, Houghton seemed like a troubled man and he certainly had not been up for any small talk the previous evening after Cavendish’s unexpected departure.
Beckett was unsure of how he would react when face-to-face with Emily again. She had been ensconced in the house with Slingsby since Monday, what had they been up to for two days? He would rather not go there. Which Emily would he find, the sanguine Dark Age expert or the girl he took dancing only a few nights earlier? He decided he would contemplate the problem for another five minutes and then get up.
The next thing he knew was a gentle wrap on his bedroom door, which opened sufficiently for Josh Houghton to lean into the room.
“It’s seven thirty, Tom, kettle is on downstairs.” Houghton offered a toothy smile before his head vanished and the bedroom door closed.
Houghton drove his black Audi A6 carefully through the quiet streets of Wells. Blanch purposefully glanced around her as if memorising her surroundings for future reference. From his rear seat position, Beckett found Houghton’s huge physical presence reassuring yet still felt physically sick with nerves at the prospect of what lay ahead. Houghton killed the Audi’s engine unwittingly next to Slingsby’s vehicle in the car park at the top of the Butlands.
The wind remained unsettling but had lost most of its potency with the coming of dawn. The apprehensive Beckett watched a solitary pensioner walk her dog across the green, the dog giving the impression that he would rather be snug indoors than out in the disconcerting wind. A plastic shopping bag floated down the street towards them, even this Beckett per
ceived as a threat as it caught beneath the front spoiler of the Audi. He shrank from the world around them by concentrating his gaze on the painted double yellow lines that hugged the roadside.
It was Houghton who led them to the red-bricked Georgian house, the neoclassical columns standing imperiously on either side of the door. He gave Beckett a reassuring smile, as they turned right to walk up the short paved path to the door.
The chief inspector struck the bare door firmly several times with the side of his clenched fist. No response was forthcoming and Beckett hoped that there would be no one home, allowing them to leave and wait for Cavendish to return. Houghton glanced at his watch; it was just after nine o’clock.
“Still in bed you reckon?” said Houghton somewhat aimlessly to Beckett. “Sergeant, you wait here and cover the front.”
“Yes Sir,” replied Blanch confidently, pleased at last to be performing proper police work. The two men walked cautiously past the ground floor window, a path led to the rear of the house and here they found a back door.
“I assume you know the Cavendish rule of stealth?” asked Houghton.
“Nobody sees you unless you want them to,” answered Beckett.
“Yea, it seems to work for him, but I don’t feel quite so optimistic. Let me tackle the door,” said Houghton quietly. The Yale lock yielded after a little effort from Houghton’s experienced hands. The house was ominously silent.
“Follow me, Tom.” Houghton drew a small revolver from the rear waistband of his trousers. Beckett flinched at the sight of the gun, which he thought best belonged in the movies, not real life.
“Is that thing really necessary?” asked Beckett, referring to the gun.
“Company rules, my lad. All for show. Never had to use the bloody thing yet,” smiled Houghton comfortingly.
Houghton systematically searched the downstairs rooms; there were signs of recent occupation but no indication of anyone being home. He signalled that they should continue their exploration upstairs and Beckett grudgingly followed a few feet behind the chief inspector.
Houghton continued his search until they reached the bedroom at the rear of the house. The door was secured at the top by a sturdy bolt that seemed to have been poorly fitted and out of keeping with the rest of the property. A large key protruded from a substantial mortise lock. Houghton slowly turned the key and felt the locking mechanism shift. He clutched the door handle tightly with his left hand and swivelled his torso to look at Beckett and with his gun wielding hand gestured that the photographer should step back down the corridor. Beckett was only too happy to oblige.
Beckett imagined he heard Houghton counting to three before he opened the door and was reminded of a bobsleigh team before it began its vital sprint start. In one fluid motion, Houghton thrust the door handle down and burst into the room. Beckett acknowledged that the police officer had far more experience at this sort of thing than he did but he still found the spectacle of the entrance into a locked room rather over the top.
However, Houghton was no fool; his sixth sense told him that something was not right behind the bolted door. In spite of being forewarned, he was still unprepared for what happened as he took his first steps into the room.
With his gun raised before him, Houghton had the fleeting opportunity to observe a very comfortably furnished bedroom, which was at odds with the sturdy bolt on the exterior of the door. Unfortunately, his assessment was cut short.
Emily Spelman sprang screaming like a banshee from behind the bedroom door and cast the bed’s red duvet cover over the chief inspector like a fisherman casting a net. She had weighted its edges with the cross frames torn from the bed, enabling it to completely engulf and ensnare the unsuspecting police officer. She gave a holler of rage as she hurled herself shoulder first against her captor with all her might.
She knew as soon as she saw the back of the stranger from her concealed position that he was not the American, this man was twice his size. Nonetheless, she realised it was too late to change her plan and continued her brazen assault. She was fortunate that Houghton was off balance, for under normal circumstances she was hardly ever likely to overwhelm the bulky West Indian. As it was, he collapsed ignobly upon the carpeted floor.
As she had rehearsed many times in her head, she dashed straight for the open door and desperately snatched it shut behind her, simultaneously turning the key before snapping the bolt shut. She gave a whoop of delight, as she turned, head down, intending to run the length of the corridor towards the stairs and make her bid for freedom. She was still snarling triumphantly as she blindly ran straight into the flesh and bones obstacle that was presented by an astounded Thomas Beckett.
This time providence was not with her. It was Emily’s misfortune to be caught off balance and she ricocheted off the man like a pool ball off the cushion. Only a matter of seconds had elapsed since Houghton had entered her prison.
As Emily lay spread-eagled on the hallway carpet, Beckett heard the strident demands of Houghton’s fists as he pummelled against the locked door. Beckett cast a glance at Emily who had rolled onto her back and began to groan softly as she clutched her left elbow.
She wore what he could only assume to be a sari, fashioned from plain white cotton; he thought it an odd choice of garment to wear. Further musings were put on hold by Houghton’s continued frustrated assault against the door. Beckett quickly stepped over Emily’s dazed body and shouted through the door to Houghton that he was about to let him out.
Houghton looked flustered as he stepped out of the room and took in the sight of Emily Spelman lying in the hallway. She had fallen silent; the adrenalin rush that had accompanied her breakout had lost its vigour. She lay dejectedly on her back as she realised her escape attempt had been foiled, the only thing that prevented the onset of terror at the certain retribution to be exacted by her captors was the realisation that the man who had prevented her flight was unmistakably Tom Beckett.
Houghton stood imposingly over Emily before he lowered himself to squat by her side. He quickly assessed the woman with his knowledgeable eye. She was wearing what was obviously a bed sheet, wrapped around her in the style of a sarong, indicating a lack of available clothing.
Her hair appeared somewhat lank suggesting that it had not recently been washed yet her face appeared clean but devoid of makeup. He recognised the hard to define yet palpably real pallor and demeanour that went with enforced incarceration.
“Good morning, Dr Spelman. My name is Chief Inspector Houghton, and judging by your condition I’m not sure if I come as your apprehender or rescuer.” He stood up and faced Beckett.
“Help Dr Spelman in to the bedroom,” he ordered Beckett.
“Me?” questioned Beckett. Houghton looked grimly around him.
“Well I don’t see anyone else, do you?” Beckett felt his hackles rise but sensibly said nothing, under calmer circumstances he might have recognised that Houghton was attempting to restore his equilibrium after having been humiliated by Emily. Beckett bent and offered her his hand.
“Hi, Emily.” She noted the impassive tone of his voice as she looked up at the expressionless face that hid his conflicting emotions. Her eyes betrayed her distrust and he thought it might be necessary to repeat Houghton’s request when slowly she raised her right hand to his. With Beckett standing behind her, she dejectedly followed Houghton back into room that had been her cell since Monday morning.
“Where is Mr Slingsby?” asked Houghton. His words were direct and unexpected, taking Beckett by surprise as he guided Emily to the edge of the bed, carefully avoiding the red duvet cover that lay in an untidy heap on the floor. She grimaced as she distracted herself by rubbing her sore left elbow with her right hand.
“Where is he?” repeated Houghton firmly. Emily cast him a spiteful look. “How the hell should I know, I’ve not seen him since he left with the American.”
“What American?”
“The bastard who locked me in this room!”
�
�No honour amongst thieves, eh? How long have you been kept here?” continued Houghton's line of questioning.
“Since eight o’clock Monday morning,” she answered precisely. Houghton noted the en suite bathroom so he knew sanitation and water had not have been an issue.
“Have you eaten?” asked Houghton. Emily considered the stranger's question stupid. She had been locked in a room for two days with no knowledge of when she might be released, if ever. Hunger had not been her prime motivator.
“Yes, I was left sandwiches and cakes yesterday morning.”
“By whom?” enquired Houghton.
“By the American, I suppose,” she replied sulkily.
“Did you see him?”
“No, he threw them through the door.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t Slingsby?”
“Yes,” she replied with certainty, but in truth, she had no idea what had become of Paul. She found it hard to believe that he was responsible for her incarceration, or perhaps that was plain wishful thinking. Slingsby, she knew was prone to violence, and she conceded that she really knew nothing about the man at all.
“When was the last time you saw anyone?” continued Houghton.
“When the food was delivered.”
“So you’ve not seen anyone for nearly twenty-four hours?”
“No,” she said with finality.
Beckett had sidled away from the bed towards the door during Houghton’s no-nonsense, direct questioning. He watched Houghton nod at Emily before walking over to him. Houghton spoke quietly to Beckett.
“I’m sure Cavendish made his wishes well known to you. Before I can comply with his wishes, I have to make sure I’m not compromising the situation. Slingsby seems to have scarpered along with this American, if he actually exists at all. Dr Spelman seems to have been genuinely held here against her will.” He paused for a few seconds as he reached his decision.
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