Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  “Look, all being well, I’m going to ask you to take Dr Spelman back to the house before anyone comes back here. Make sure you lock yourself in and only answer the door to the DS or me. Feed her, water her, whatever, but keep an eye on her, remember what she did to you a few nights ago. If she gives you any lip or trouble, phone me.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Beckett as his former anxieties resurfaced.

  “Blanch and I will search the house, see what we can come up with,” answered Houghton.

  “What if she starts to, you know, make a run for it?” asked Beckett shakily.

  “For Christ sake,” mumbled Houghton, unused to dealing with the incompetency of a civilian, “keep her dressed as she is and bare foot, she can’t get very far dressed like she’s ready for a vicars and tarts party! You stay here; I’m going to have a word with Blanch.”

  Beckett shuffled awkwardly on the spot as Houghton departed before summoning the courage to look at Emily. He had no idea what to say to her.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “I banged my elbow when I ran into you,” she replied calmly.

  “No, I didn’t mean that...,” his words died in his throat as he realised he was incapable of asking the question uppermost in his mind.

  Blanch was still keeping a watchful eye on the Butlands at the front of the house. She had fought a constant battle with the wind to keep her centre-parted hair from billowing around her face but had finally given up. As she heard Houghton’s distinctive footfall she instinctively set about trying to put her hair in a semblance of order.

  Houghton quickly filled her in on what they had found, though managed to omit the part where he was flattened by a duvet-wielding academic, after all, it was hardly ‘Shawshank Redemption’.

  “I want you to go upstairs, I want you to ascertain quickly and without fuss if she shows any indications of recent assault. If she’s all clear, I’d like to get her away as soon as possible.” He tossed Blanch his car keys, she caught them and ran upstairs, eager to meet the suspect.

  The police officers entered the room together and both were struck in different ways by the silence that greeted them. To Houghton, the silence reflected Beckett’s inexperience in dealing with the whole situation. For Blanch, the silence represented something far more understated and repressed. It was reminiscent of many of the domestic incidents she had to attend in Wolverhampton.

  It was the first time that Blanch had set eyes upon the suspect Spelman. As Emily casually established eye contact with the sergeant, Blanch made an instant judgement of the woman. Pretty and perilous, that would suffice for now. Again, Houghton did the talking.

  “Dr Spelman, we are going to get you out of here as soon as possible, before we do, I’d like Sergeant Nichols to have a word with you.” Houghton indicated that Beckett should join him outside the room. They stood in silence whilst Blanch was alone with Emily. After a few minutes, the door opened and Blanch reappeared and stood before her boss.

  “Well, Sergeant?” asked Houghton, encouraging her to make her report. Blanch nudged her head in the direction of Beckett. “Oh, don’t mind about him, he’s harmless enough,” said Houghton.

  “I’m no doctor, Sir,” answered Blanch, “but she says that she has suffered no physical assault, not recently at least, mental perhaps but not physical.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant, do you agree that it is safe to move her from here and then seek medical treatment if necessary?”

  “I do, Sir. Have you cautioned her yet?”

  “Let’s do what we said earlier,” suggested Houghton softly, avoiding her question. Blanch looked confused by Houghton’s instruction, “The car, Blanch, the car.”

  “Ah, yes Sir,” she replied with a nod and left to collect the Audi.

  With Blanch out of earshot, Houghton asked Beckett the question that had been needling him ever since Emily had mentioned it.

  “Who the hell is this American; Cavendish made no mention of an American?” Again, he wished he had been better briefed by Cavendish, yet whose fault was that?

  “It could be the third person that Cavendish is always harping on about, the one he claims has set the whole thing up,” suggested Beckett.

  “That would be very convenient, or not, as the case may be.” Houghton stepped back and looked about the corridor, weighing up his options. “Blanch is collecting the car. As soon as it’s here I want you to escort Dr Spelman back to the house like we said.”

  Beckett nodded his agreement whilst Houghton headed downstairs leaving Beckett to return to the bedroom. He leant against the doorframe, desperately trying to think of anything mundane to say, it was his forte after all.

  “Where are your clothes, Emily?”

  “He took them.”

  “Slingsby?” Emily gave a controlled sigh of exasperation.

  “No, the young bastard,” she said wearily. Beckett opened his mouth to say something but wisely thought better of it. He reconsidered his words.

  “We’re getting you out of here, somewhere safe.” Emily made no reply. Beckett stood and took off his green parka, “come on Emily, put this on, you’ll be fine, trust me.”

  Beckett held his coat up, the inside facing Emily. Grudgingly, she stood up, speaking as she did so. “How far is it to the police station?”

  “The police station?” replied Beckett, suddenly comprehending the implication of her question. “I really don’t know what the long term plans are,” he said softly, “you’ve already met the chief inspector and he said to take you back to the house. Marchel wants you at Flash Seminary.”

  “Cavendish?” asked Emily, “why should he decide?”

  “Now is not the time for explanations, let’s get you out of here and smartened up, eh?” She looked slowly around the room for one last time before sliding her arms in to the capacious sleeves of the coat, she felt Beckett release his hold on the parka and she fumbled with the zip fastener, securing the oversized coat around her. She found Beckett’s residual body heat unsettlingly reassuring.

  She remained motionless, considering her fate, still with her back to him, before putting her hands in the coat pockets in an act of resigned submission. She realised the game was up, better to be in the hands of the police than be a hostage of persons unknown.

  Her hand touched something furry and, like Beckett the previous day, her hand recoiled before it returned to examine the foreign object. Her fingers slowly wrapped around the soft toy and she knew instantly what she had found. She slowly raised Holmcourt Bear to her face. Staring into the face of the smiling bear, she felt a sudden all-consuming swell of emotion rise up through her body and engulf her mind with a sickening clarity. She was physically overwhelmed by the acceptance of her despicable act in the name of the dishonourable cause she had been pursuing.

  What fight she had left dissolved at the sight of the benign bear. She bent double as her body ceased to be hers to control, she sobbed violently as if trying to catch her breath, and cried without pity for the reprehensible exploits of Emily Spelman.

  An extraordinary sight greeted Houghton as he returned upstairs to inform Beckett that Blanch had returned with the car. He discovered Beckett hugging an obviously distraught Dr Spelman who was sobbing incessantly against his chest.

  “Christ, Tom,” demanded Houghton, “what the fuck have you done to her?”

  CHAPTER 30. DIFFERENT TO ALL THE REST.

  The black Audi saloon crunched heavily along the gravel drive as Blanch slowly parked the car by the side of the garage as instructed by Houghton. The house next door stood empty, the estate agents sign confirming that it was up for sale. A gloomy silence had accompanied the short drive through the muted streets of Wells-next-the-Sea; Emily regarded the flint-dashed houses with an equivocal curiosity through the side window whilst clutching the teddy bear, her thoughts as flowing as the wind that buffeted the coastal town.

  Beckett hurriedly exited the car; the wind was biting as he ducked around to the pass
enger side, his blue polo shirt offering little respite against the spiteful elements. He opened the passenger door and Emily at once put a bare foot tentatively onto the gravel and trod gingerly towards the smoother concrete path that ran up to the front door of Flint House. Beckett followed closely behind her; he glanced over his shoulder as Blanch reversed the Audi to rejoin her boss and he cast a furtive glance skyward where the low grey cloud scurried threatening beneath the milky sunlight. Emily stood waiting by the door and he reached over her, his chin brushing against her hair as he fumbled with the door lock.

  Once inside, he thrust the keys into his jean’s pocket before shepherding Emily into the large extended kitchen, where he immediately advanced the heating to get some warmth into the property. A feeling of relief rushed through his chilled body as he savoured the comparatively familiar surroundings of Flint House, away from the scene of Emily’s imprisonment.

  Emily walked to the sink and poured herself a glass of water from the tap and drank it greedily, refilled the glass and padded lightly across to the fridge behind Beckett, who was attending to the kettle.

  “Coffee?” he asked. Emily leant back against the tall white fridge and nodded. “Will you promise me one thing?” he added cautiously. She had regained some of her composure following her emotional breakdown at the Georgian house, yet Beckett sensed a fragility that he had not seen before.

  “What?” she replied absently, sipping water from her glass.

  “Promise me you won’t do a runner.” He spoke quietly, almost apologetically.

  “And where am I supposed to go?” she replied wearily.

  “I don’t know, Emily. Is it too much to ask that you just stay put?”

  “Tom, I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

  “Promise?”

  “Christ, I promise!” she said in an exasperated tone, slamming the glass down on the worktop. His attention was drawn to her left breast as she patronizingly crossed it with her right forefinger. He found the sight of Emily wearing his coat induced a warm sensation in the pit of his stomach, she appeared small and insecure in her new surroundings. Beckett nodded, acknowledging that he may have pushed her too hard.

  “Tell you what, why don’t you freshen up whilst I make a coffee. Use my towel; it’s hanging over the banister at the top of the stairs. I’ll show you the way.”

  “It’s okay, I’m sure I can find the bathroom,” she said irritably.

  Emily trudged towards the doorway and as she passed he grabbed her right arm entrenched somewhere within the padded green sleeve of his coat. She stopped abruptly and looked fiercely up into his face.

  “Emily?” he said as she tried to free her arm, “don’t treat me like one of the bad guys; I’ve never done anything to hurt you.” She stopped struggling and cooly regarded the man before her.

  “No, but I did something to hurt you. That’s the difference between you and me.”

  “Let’s not go there,” he tried to smile, but all that emerged was a sulky grimace. “Listen, Emily. Take whatever clothes you can find of mine in the front bedroom, I’m sure there is something you can wear.” He remembered Houghton’s advice about keeping her effectively naked but chose to ignore it.

  “You are a good man, Tom,” she said passively as she left the kitchen and climbed the anti clockwise stairs up to the first floor landing. She let Beckett’s coat slip to the floor, grabbed the towel, and entered the bathroom, bolting the door behind her. Emily spent countless minutes under the shower, washing and rinsing, repeating the process until the hot water tank was expended and the water began to run cold.

  She was shivering by the time she switched the shower off; she let the last few drips from the showerhead splash against her body and flinched at the icy caress.

  She felt cleansed.

  Leisurely, she dried herself before studying her reflected image in the mirror for some minutes, not as an act of vanity but one of curiosity. She was familiar with her unmade up face but realised she hadn’t truly looked at herself in a long while.

  She noticed the lines at the corner of her eyes, the blue shadows that framed her puffy eyes; there were creases in her face that she had not noticed before. Who was Emily Spelman, a scholar or a thief? She knew the answer; Cavendish and the police would be after her blood.

  Yet at that precise moment she did not care, her personal circumstances were in chaos, the immediate future held little prospect of improvement. Her life lay in tatters, and yet she felt an odd sense of relief, as if something terrible was behind her. Now was the time to move on to what providence had planned for her, albeit with a little improvisation of her own.

  When Emily reappeared downstairs, she found Beckett sprawled on the sofa in the lounge, toying with his Canon digital camera. He peered over the top of his reading glasses and smiled impulsively. Emily had put on a pair of his jeans, which she had to hold up with one hand above her waist, the trouser legs rolled up to shin level. She wore his old red cheque lumberjack shirt, a relic from the past, which he had brought along as a sartorial comfort blanket.

  “What are you smiling at?” she asked, pleased that he had lost his earlier scowl.

  “Nothing at all, honest. I was just wondering how many trees you planned to chop down this afternoon. You look like an extra from ‘The Good Life’.”

  “The what?”

  “You know, ‘The Good life’, checked shirt and all that.” Emily looked none the wiser. He was about to remonstrate at the paucity of her knowledge regarding trivial TV culture but stopped himself. She had more in common with Cavendish than he cared to admit.

  Emily swayed barefoot across to the sofa that stood at right angles to the one upon which Beckett reclined. He gesticulated towards her cup of coffee on the table.

  “It’s fresh, I remade it a few minutes ago, thought you were never going to get out of the shower.”

  She hugged the cup of steaming coffee in both hands and sipped tentatively at the hot brew, smiling appreciatively.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened back there?” he asked delicately.

  “No, not particularly,” she whispered over the top of her mug, he watched the wisps of steam scatter as she spoke.

  “What happens now?” she asked, addressing the question to the opposite wall.

  “Marchel said he wants you at Flash Seminary,” he answered, his attention seemingly focused on the camera. She baulked at the mention of the name, unsure of why she found the German so intimidating.

  “Is that a police station?” she asked.

  “Not that I’m aware of, though I’ve never been there, truth be told.”

  “So am I to be arrested?” she asked blatantly.

  “What, for stealing a fake sword?” She snapped her head in his direction at the bombshell he so nonchalantly disclosed.

  “Fake?”

  “Yea, it’s a fake,” still his gaze was fixed upon the aperture ring of the camera.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Met the nice lady who made it.”

  “But I could have sworn it was real.”

  “Only ‘cos you wanted it to be,” said Beckett quoting his employer. If Emily was surprised then she hid her emotions admirably from the photographer.

  “So you set us up?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “So you would lead Marchel to whoever told you about the sword’s existence.”

  “So I hurt you for nothing?” She paused before adding, “you know I didn’t want to do that, don’t you? It was all Paul’s idea.”

  “If you say so, Emily.”

  Beckett sounded meaner than he had intended, but he could not pretend that he had not been distressed by the drugging, despite the persistent unsettling feelings he still carried for her.

  “Perhaps Josh will arrest you for the drugging but I fancy Marchel would like to get his hands on you first.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He is an Untersucher.”

  “What
’s that?” she asked suspiciously. Beckett relented from inspecting his camera, removed his glasses and twisted to face Emily. He silently cursed at the involuntary reaction his body made whenever he looked at her.

  “Search me, he’s an investigator for some organisation. You seem to have fallen into a world of skulduggery without realising it.”

  “What does he want?”

  “I told you, he wants you. Wants you to tell him how you came to know about the sword. I’d tell him if I was you, he does have a bit of a reputation.” It was the mediocrity and the low-key delivery of his words that chilled Emily the most.

  “And there was I thinking that you had come to rescue me, Mr Beckett, but I don’t suppose you are any different from all the rest.” If her words were meant to sting Beckett then they certainly hit the mark.

  “Hey, I don’t know what sort of men you’re used to hanging out with, but you seem to have made some dodgy choices of late. Don’t go comparing me with Slingsby; I remember what he was like when I worked in London.”

  “I’m sorry, Tom. I’m tired. I’m talking rubbish. Please believe me when I say I hate myself for what I did to you. You might not believe me but it’s true.”

  “Do you realise what you’re doing when you do that?” he said gravely. She screwed up her face, fashioning a quizzical expression.

  “Do what?”

  “Do that ‘girly’ thing; it really is a powerful tool.”

  “You think I’m playing with you.”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know you well enough to know. I guess Sunday was all play-acting on your part. I was certainly taken in.”

  Emily was about to reply but was cut short by Beckett, angry at betraying his suppressed emotions concerning Sunday evening.

  “I mean, all that stuff in the fairground, the dancing. You had me bloody convinced!” Beckett felt the pain and disappointment of that evening spill out as he made his caustic comments.