Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  He was struggling to control Blanch, quite understandably, she wanted the background on the two people in the house and he was beginning to resent her nagging presence. His thoughts were broken by the sound of shattering glass emanating from the kitchen followed by a loud expletive. Moments later Blanch strolled into view from the kitchen.

  “Sorry, Sir. Smashed a glass vase.” There was no hint of apology in her voice, she sounded flat and more that a little fed up. “Any idea where there might be a dust pan and brush?”

  “Try under the stairs, Sergeant,” suggested Houghton condescendingly. Beneath the stairs was a white wooden door, to which Blanch now walked without enthusiasm.

  She could not believe her luck when she had been offered a posting to London and the Met. She had not applied for the position; the position had found her. Her new job carried the rank of detective sergeant for a department she had never heard of, the ‘Regulatory Facilitations Unit’. She realised, with the benefit of hindsight, that she had foolishly accepted the position without really establishing the role she was expected to play. She had been naively seduced by the attention and by her unexpected promotion and salary increase. Having only just finished her induction into the Met, she had been summoned by her new boss and swept away to this remote part of Norfolk.

  She had tried to impress her chief with her keenness and effort but since their arrival she had become increasingly perplexed by his operating methods, the way he allowed the strange European to dictate proceedings back at the house and the way she had to play second fiddle to some moronic civilian. She tried to dispel the notion that her boss was taking bribes. They had conducted a pointless search, a meaningless quest, for she had no idea what was pertinent to the enquiry. She did not even know what the enquiry was.

  As she approached the door, her temper fraying to breaking point, she resolved to have words with the potentially corrupt chief inspector. What the hell, she could always go back to traffic in Birmingham, couldn’t she?

  Blanch opened the cupboard door and her thoughts were refocused immediately on what lay before her. It was if she had opened a door upon a secret world. Instead of the expected cupboard space, she found herself looking down a flight of steps that descended into darkness.

  “Sir, I think you’d better come take a look,” she said. Houghton noticed that the apathetic tone of her voice had vanished.

  “What is it, Sergeant?” he replied as he wearily stood up and walked slowly to see what she had discovered amongst the cleaning equipment.

  “Well I’ll be buggered, Blanch. Well done! Shall we take a look?” He smiled at Blanch and she grudgingly reciprocated. Thumbing the light switch, Houghton cautiously descended the stairs to stand in the utilitarian laundry room.

  Maybe it was his police training, maybe it was instinct, whatever the reason, Houghton headed directly for the chest freezer and cautiously opened the stiff lid. He was not shocked at what he found; he had seen too many violent deaths. He had become desensitised, inured to the grim reality of seeing one’s own mortality reflected back from the lifeless obscenity of a corpse. He was acutely saddened and disappointed. No, he was angry, furious that a trite theft and potential loss of money had resulted in the death of a man. It bore all the hallmarks of a Cavendish enquiry.

  CHAPTER 33. THE STUDENT AND THE POODLE.

  The train rolled out of Temple Meads station only seconds after Cavendish had frantically climbed aboard. He was passing through his third carriage when he spotted the man he was looking for.

  Zach Asimov sat alone at a table seat on the right hand side of the carriage and the seats on the opposite side were occupied by a lone teenage girl. She was listening to music via her mobile and seemed oblivious to the world around her as Cavendish took the vacant forward facing seat opposite her. On the empty seat to his left, he carefully placed his overcoat, hiding the shoulder holster, and made a big show of making himself comfortable as he looked across to his right. He remained staring until the man in the seat across the aisle turned to glance at him. Cavendish smiled gently and after a moment of brief hesitation, Asimov returned a nervous, fleeting smile. Cavendish studied the man.

  Asimov appeared younger than the photo Bethan had sent him suggested. He dressed in the style that Cavendish would have described as ‘student chic’. His long narrow face was topped by a thatch of thick straw-coloured hair, which had seemingly not seen a comb this side of Christmas. Cavendish nodded, shifted in his seat and peered aimlessly out of the window.

  The train glided through the hotchpotch of dwellings that comprised the Bristol suburbs before speeding up as it reached the countryside of Somerset. The weather remained frustratingly overcast, not that Cavendish cared, for it reflected his mood. It was to be a two-hour run to Plymouth and Cavendish instinctively looked at his watch, the train had departed punctually at a quarter to nine.

  So far, his only lead to the theft of the Romanov items was Asimov, he glanced again at his watch, by now he suspected Beckett and Houghton would have made a move on Spelman and Slingsby. He wondered briefly if he should contact Beckett, it would soothe his shredded nerves to hear his voice, yet he knew that the idea was impractical.

  He had noticed that Asimov carried a backpack, which he kept within arm’s reach at all times, and he surmised, well hoped, that the Romanov articles were contained within. At some point, he had to decide when and how to confront Asimov.

  At just after quarter to eleven the train pulled into Plymouth station. Cavendish timed leaving his seat to coincide with that of the painfully thin Asimov; they collided abruptly in the aisle.

  “Sorry,” smiled Cavendish as he leant his arm against Asimov for support. The desire to make physical contact was compelling and lent him the notion of empowerment over the thief’s future. He had no idea where Asimov might be heading but the simple physical act reassured him that Asimov wasn’t going to elude him. Asimov said nothing; he looked worried and preoccupied.

  They left the train together and headed for the station exit; Cavendish followed closely in Asimov’s wake and was unconcerned regarding his almost intimate proximity to the irresolute youngster.

  Two taxis queued at the station entrance and Asimov dashed for the first and jumped impatiently inside. Whilst retaining a watch over his quarry, Cavendish stepped towards the remaining taxi. Preoccupied with Asimov, the Untersucher failed to notice the briefcase wielding suited man who dashed from the station exit. The stranger shoved Cavendish forcibly aside to claim the remaining cab for his own.

  No one could accuse Marchel Cavendish of being slow to react. He absently dumped his bundled coat on the roof of the cab and roared defiantly as he brutally tore open the cab door. The passenger looked astonished to see the tall blonde leaning into the cab and even more astounded when he felt Cavendish’s bony right hand grip and squeeze him maliciously around the throat. As the snarling Untersucher increased the pressure, he withdrew his arm from the cab and with it came the businessman, as if glued to the hand. By the time the slick executive stood before his assailant his eyes bulged from his puce face.

  “My cab I believe,” stated Cavendish quietly as he theatrically opened his right hand and released the object of contempt from his grasp. The executive fell gasping to his knees, clutching his agonized throat with both hands as if trying to retain his severed head. Cavendish collected his bundled coat and climbed economically into the cab. A briefcase flew from the cab to land on the pavement beside the throttled man and burst open, spewing forth the reprobate’s documents.

  “Would you kindly follow that cab, please,” asked Cavendish of his driver whilst pointing at the cab, which was queuing to gain access to the main road. The weathered-faced man, who epitomised a man of the sea, laughed.

  “Nice move, son. Haven’t had a private detective in my cab for a long time, certainly not a foreign one.”

  “Then today is your lucky day,” replied Cavendish grimly. His blood was again pumping after his encounter with the businessman a
nd his attention returned to the task ahead, the extent of his preoccupation exemplified by his acceptance of the man’s statement regarding his nationality without his customary denial.

  “I had a regular once who was a private eye, used to specialise in divorce cases, you know, following wayward husbands and wives, all that kind of stuff.” The man’s Plymouth accent was new to Cavendish and difficult to understand. “Yeah, that was a nice little earner whilst it lasted, ended in tears though, I read they plucked him out of the Barbican, been in the water for long enough for the fish to have a go at him. Fish eat anything, you know, if it’s dead they’ll eat it. When I was on the trawlers...”

  Cavendish paid no further attention to the taxi driver; he concentrated on the taxi ahead. However, he had little to fear for the driver certainly knew how to tail a suspect. He stayed close at traffic lights so as not to lose their target but maintained a circumspect distance at other times so as not to arouse suspicion.

  The journey through the post-war developed streets of Plymouth was thankfully brief as far as Cavendish was concerned, only a matter of seven or eight minutes. For all he cared they may as well have still been in Bristol, indeed the architecture and retail outlets did not look dissimilar to his foreign eye.

  Asimov was dropped off at a tall seventies-style hotel up on the Hoe and Cavendish’s driver continued his well-versed techniques in covert operations by driving past the hotel and stopping just out of view amongst the Victorian hotels and B&B’s that seemed to dominate this part of Plymouth. Cavendish paid the driver and gave a generous tip.

  “Very decent of you, Sir. Here, grab hold of this, and give me call if you need me, the name’s Harry.” The old sea dog handed Cavendish a battered looking card from a pile of similar cards held together by a rubber band. The German absently took the card and placed it in his coat pocket, which he still carried to conceal his firearm.

  As the taxi pulled away, Cavendish walked urgently back towards the hotel, discerning the charmless vibes of a state built urban tower block in eastern Europe, announced garishly by the glass and reinforced pebble dashed concrete. He smiled grimly at the thought that the hotel would not have looked out of place in the downtown suburbs of Prague.

  The hotel was accessed through an automatic sliding glass door and to his left he noted the two lift doors. Ahead of him stood the veneered reception desk, the receptionist on duty was busy in an office to the rear. A large foyer area, with spaced seating lay to the right, beyond which large panoramic windows offered a view to the paved patio area outside. The hotel interior appeared far more inviting than the exterior might suggest.

  He followed the directions to the toilet. A conference room lay before him and as he approached the toilet door, he heard the pontificating voice of a speaker addressing his audience, lecturing them upon how to close a sale.

  The inquisitor quickly confirmed that the clean air-freshened toilet was devoid of delegates as he strode across the tiled floor and made for the end cubicle. After completing his much needed comfort break he extracted the Colt Python from its holster and swung out the chamber. Upon checking the five rounds he kept loaded at all times, he inserted an additional sixth. He reassured himself that the weapon was only for show as he slowly pulled the holster around his shoulders. Finally, he donned his coat and immediately felt appreciably calmer and secure within the sanctity of its woollen embrace.

  Cavendish left the cubicle and walked over to a hand basin where he methodically washed his trembling hands as he fought the temptation to rush recklessly ahead. Pouring fresh water into the basin, he scooped the warm water onto his face. Looking in the mirror, he waited for his pale eyelashes to expel the water from his eyes, allowing him to focus on his reflected image. His appearance did not surprise him, the dark shadows under his eyes were emphasised by the pallor of his sallow skin, his blonde hair looked greasy and in need of washing. Had his beard been darker then his chin would have revealed a prominent twelve o’clock shadow.

  Once again he was forced to confront what he was about to do. Should he challenge Asimov or keep him under surveillance? He desperately wanted to select the latter course of action but knew that by doing so he was only delaying the inevitable. At some point, he had to deal with the rentboy and recover the stolen artefacts. Regrettably, that point had arrived.

  He made his way through the empty foyer to the lifts and selected the top, eighth floor. As the lift rose, he fretfully studied his mobile's tracking app, tuned to locate Asimov's mobile. He alighted cautiously.

  To his right the corridor ended abruptly with a window overlooking the hotel’s front car park. Glancing to his left, he noted the main corridor running left and right at the end of the short passage he was standing in. He took three swift strides to reach the junction of the main corridor and peered stealthily around the corridor to his left.

  A trolley, used by the hotel staff to convey linen and towels, stood in the otherwise empty passageway. Cavendish walked silently along the green-carpeted corridor with the bedroom doors to his right. An open door on his left revealed the contents of the linen room, he listened to a female voice emanating from somewhere within, enthusiastically singing an eastern European folk song. Studying his mobile, he cursed as the screen displayed an erratic image; the device was not sensitive enough to pinpoint Asimov’s exact location.

  Selecting the first likely room, he stopped and grasped the brass knob with his left hand, his right hand loosening the retaining straps securing his revolver before firmly gripping the handle of the gun. Gently, he attempted to twist the knob; it would not turn. He placed his ear to the door and strained to pick up any sounds that may be coming from inside the room. He heard nothing except his blood pounding in his ears.

  Moving on to the next room, he repeated the procedure, only this time he discerned the sound of a man’s voice and perhaps another, the dominant voice undoubtedly belonging to an American.

  Taking the gun from its holster whilst keeping it hidden within the folds of his coat, he side stepped left, leant his back against the wall. He rapped firmly on the door with his left hand. His knock went unanswered; he imagined the two men in the room looking at each other and hoped that one of them would come to the door to look through the spy hole. He rapped on the door a second time, a longer, more demanding summons. This time his call was answered by a challenge from within the room.

  “Who’s there?” asked a soft voice with no discernable accent.

  “Open the bloody door,” mouthed Cavendish, begging the man on the other side to cooperate. Cavendish was about to tap on the door a third time when he saw the knob turn.

  Instantly, the volatile Cavendish responded by shouldering all his weight against the wooden door. He wondered if his thrust was powerful enough to overcome the security chain but it was not an issue, the occupants had not bothered to utilise it.

  The lightweight person behind the door was hurled devastatingly backwards as the charging Untersucher stumbled inelegantly into a small hallway. He fleetingly noticed a bathroom off to his immediate right as he regained his balance and pointed his revolver into the bedroom in front of him. At his feet sprawled the fragile figure of Zachary Asimov.

  Cavendish responded at once by kicking Asimov hard several times, emphatically persuading the stunned student to crawl towards the waiting sanctuary of the bathroom away from the brutal assault. The Untersucher’s aggression saved Asimov’s life.

  The adrenalin flushed Cavendish instantly turned his attention to the stockily built man wearing a blue suit, who was in the process of turning away from the large panoramic window that offered a stunning view of Plymouth Sound and Drake Island. Cavendish fell into a half crouch and raised his revolver towards the man and was about to make a clichéd order for him to remain where he was. The command was unnecessary, for the grey haired corpulent man obligingly raised his podgy hands aloft. The sight of a firearm obviously did not faze him; he even offered Cavendish a submissive smile.

  “
I’m impressed, Herr Cavendish. I never expected you to get here so quickly. Perhaps you can sort out this mess,” said the calm modulated east coast accent of the American. Without losing his line of sight on the suited man, Cavendish took a step backwards with the intention of back heeling the door shut.

  Before the door could be closed, Cavendish experienced a fearful thrust as the door collided violently against his back and sent him staggering uncontrollably forward by means of the unforeseen impetus.

  He twisted instinctively as he tumbled to land on his back against the beige carpet just inside the bedroom. The heavy fall left him winded for the length of time it took for four rapid shots to be fired from a silenced semi-automatic pistol. That he heard the second and subsequent silenced shots informed him well enough that he was not the intended target.

  Cavendish, though still disorientated from his fall, looked up towards the source of the silenced gunshots. Intuitively, he swung his revolver towards the threat before him. His eyes did not centre on the dark clad figure that had fired the shots but instead upon the phallic black silencer that protruded from the end of the assailant’s handgun, now angled to point at his supine body. He knew that his gun was not aligned with the Balaclava-clad gunman yet even so, he squeezed the double action trigger.

  The resultant sound bore no comparison to the previous four shots. Instead of the contained expansive sneezing of the silenced automatic, Cavendish’s revolver roared like a cannon within the narrow confines of the room as the revolver bucked in his hand. The explosive nature of Cavendish’s discharge and the bullet’s shattering penetration of the wall adjacent to the assassin’s head was sufficient to terminate the stranger’s attack.

  The masked man spun and quickly ducked out of the room, which was fortuitous, as Cavendish fired a second deafening round that sped through the air space vacated by the gunman and embedded itself in the corridor wall.