Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  A female voice screamed from somewhere out in the passageway as Cavendish scrambled clumsily to his feet and scampered to the doorway he had only seconds ago barged his way through. He peered around the doorframe in the direction that the assassin had fled. The assailant was fast and had almost reached the door at the end of the corridor, lead to the stairs and an exit route.

  Again firing one handed, the Untersucher let loose a third round. The bullet blasted a chunk of plaster off the wall at the end of the corridor, showering the fleeing assassin in white flakes and dust as he dived athletically through the exit door.

  Cavendish was about to give chase when he glimpsed the silenced gun barrel protrude around the exit doorframe. The assailant blindly fired four speculative shots along the corridor in an attempt to discourage the inquisitor’s pursuit. Cavendish ducked adroitly back inside the room and heard the insect-like drone of the bullets as they seared past him.

  Slamming the bedroom door shut, Cavendish understood that he had to act quickly. If the cleaner raised the alarm then it was unlikely that anyone would come to investigate when she reported that shots had been fired, it was far more likely that the police would be called and that they would respond with a trained firearms unit. That, he hoped, would lend him precious minutes. Asimov still exhibited the vacant appearance of a man in shock, which was understandable having been thrown to the floor, kicked into a bathroom and compelled to witness a gunfight.

  He left Asimov cowering on the floor and went to check on the man who been so crassly executed. Had the gunman been a professional Cavendish knew that he and Asimov would also be dead. Ignoring the flagrant wounds, he resourcefully rifled through the dead man’s pockets, oblivious to the still warm blood that seeped from the man’s perforated chest, already imbuing the room with a sweet sickly odour.

  He extracted all he could find and stuffed the eclectic collection into his voluminous pockets. He took a final glance at the man’s inert face in a bid to fix the image in his mind, the irrevocability of the deathly visage filled him with a fresh vitality and hunger, a physical response that he had experienced many times before and never desired to evaluate for fear of losing its galvanising impetus.

  Cavendish returned to Asimov, who was sitting hunched on the bathroom floor against the toilet bowl. The youngster physically recoiled when he saw the German enter the room still holding his 1955 weapon of choice.

  “Christ man, I just saved your life so stop pissing around!” shouted Cavendish. Asimov cowered before Cavendish’s agitated verbal tirade, possibly because it was delivered in German.

  “Get the fuck up!” he shouted angrily at Asimov.

  The young man seemed to shrink even more. Cavendish looked to the ceiling and took several deep calming breaths to quell his exuberance following the shootout. He re-holstered his gun and crouched down before the tearful man who looked so much younger than his twenty-something years. Finally, the emotive Untersucher remembered to speak in English.

  “Look, Zach,” he said with deliberate calm and tenderness, “your friend in there is dead. You should be dead, but you are not.” Cavendish put his hands on Asimov’s shoulder and felt the boy flinch as he made contact. “Zach, look at me,” ordered Cavendish. Asimov hesitated, Cavendish quietly repeated the instruction and finally eye contact was established.

  Zach Asimov looked into the pale cold eyes of the Untersucher. Like many a cornered man he looked for answers in the eyes of his attacker, eager to resolve his own desperate plight and hoping beyond hope that the eyes he was looking into were merciful.

  Cavendish spoke gently and without the haste that his persuasive intellect insisted upon. He spoke smoothly and in a controlled manner, carefully keeping to a precise measure, never once breaking eye contact with Asimov. Cavendish finished his address and hoped that he had connected with the bemused man but he could not be sure, Asimov had failed to respond in any way to his carefully chosen words.

  “Come on Zach, let’s be going.” Cavendish offered Asimov his hand and together they stood up and Cavendish, still holding his hand, led him from the bathroom.

  The bed hid the body of the shot man, only his legs, laying on the ground in an unnatural manner, were visible as they entered the room.

  “Don’t look over there, Zach, there is no need. Where’s your bag?” Asimov pointed towards the floor by the side of the bed. As of yet, Asimov had not spoken; Cavendish was fine with that so long as he did what he was told.

  The Untersucher picked up the backpack and rummaged in the bottom until he finally found the small package he was looking for and grinned triumphantly, causing Asimov to cower before the scar-faced blonde. The veil, which had clouded Cavendish's mind the moment Simeon informed him about the stolen letters vanished in an instant. He could not logically justify his decision but he left the items in the bag, believing Asimov would be more cooperative if he was still in possession of the booty that he had been entrusted to steal from the Goldsteins.

  On the stand in the corner of the room lay a sturdy suitcase. He raised it with one hand to guesstimate its weight. It felt full, implying that the American had not been in the room long or that he was the sort of person who refrained from unpacking if he intended only a short stay.

  Cavendish carried the case with him out in to the small lobby and opened the hotel room door. He cautiously looked out in to the corridor, initially in the direction taken by the lone assassin and then back towards the lifts. The corridor was empty save for the laundry trolley he had earlier passed. He continued scanning the corridor until he spotted an object on the wall and gave a tight smile of approval.

  Alone, the inquisitor headed towards the lifts, on the wall to his left was the object of his attention. He flexed his knees to lower his torso and with his elbow nudged the fire alarm button, suffusing the corridor with the strident demands of the hotel fire alarm, as was the entire hotel.

  He swiftly retraced his steps to rejoin Asimov and took the young man’s hand as he led him to the staircase taken by the assassin. No one emerged from any of the rooms on the eighth floor, the floor was either empty or the sound of gunfire had persuaded the occupants to remain in their rooms despite the urgent summons of the alarm. The stairway, Cavendish assumed, was for staff use, it was stark and undecorated and only the varied subtle shades of grey concrete offered any colour contrast.

  When they reached the seventh floor, they were joined by an elderly couple and as the descent continued, a further ten or more people melded into the exodus. On the ground floor, an emergency exit opened out into the car park and Cavendish and Asimov remained embedded in the centre of the crowd of evacuees.

  Cavendish observed the hotel main entrance off to his left, from which a far greater migration was taking place, namely the delegates from the sales conference. He hurriedly surveyed the view around him before turning right to head for the road on which the taxi had earlier deposited him; still he clutched Asimov’s hand as if the grasp offered an umbilical cord for the traumatized man.

  They hastily rounded the corner of the hotel without being confronted. At the end of the short road lay a choice of left or right, right down the hill towards God knows where or left towards what he guessed was Plymouth Hoe. Following his instincts, he chose what he considered the least restrictive route offered by the Hoe.

  A large tarmac area led towards the red and white hooped Seaton lighthouse and Hoe memorial. He guided Asimov along the concourse as briskly as possible. He had to decide quickly where he and Asimov should go, he had no idea how long the student would remain cooperative and the quicker he could extricate himself from Plymouth the better. His long-term goal was to deliver Asimov to Flash Seminary as swiftly as possible.

  Cavendish drove Asimov along the promenade towards the memorial and then left through an ornamental garden and past a bowling green where the path sloped down towards the shopping district of Plymouth. Cavendish grabbed his phone from somewhere within the depths of his coat and summoned the numbe
r of Bethan Williams.

  “Hello! How goes it, Marchel?” asked Bethan.

  “Not too good, Miss Williams, I need you to get me and A.N. Other out of here as quickly as possible, I cannot explain now but I believe our ‘friends’ will want words with me before too long.”

  “How quick is quick?” asked a concerned Bethan, correctly interpreting Cavendish’s reference to the police.

  “Now.”

  “Marchel, you sound a bit weary. Give me five and I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.” Cavendish terminated the call,

  Bethan Williams maybe good, but he was not sure how she could rescue him from this dire situation. He put the phone in his outside pocket and as he did so, his hand brushed an unfamiliar object, which he took out to examine. He offered a propitious smile as he read the card given to him by the taxi driver, Harry.

  He punched the numbers displayed on the card into his mobile and waited impatiently as the phone emitted a ringing tone. He swore as he thought the voicemail was about to cut in, but instead he recognised the impenetrable vernacular of the taxi driver.

  “Hello?” said the broad Plymouthian voice.

  “It is the man to whom you gave a lift to a hotel this morning, do you recall?” Cavendish smiled conceitedly, pleased with his phraseology despite his stressful circumstances.

  “Aye, I remember you, son. So does that bloke you nearly choked to death, I expect,” laughed the taxi driver.

  “Is there any chance of picking up me and my friend, as soon as possible?” enquired Cavendish.

  “Well now, that depends where you are, and it depends where I am and who I’m with. As it happens, I’m sat outside the station where I picked you up earlier. Now where exactly are you?”

  Cavendish scanned his environment. “We are walking down from the Hoe, we have passed a large hotel on our right and there is a church on the left, ahead looks like a large anchor and a pedestrian crossing leading to the shopping area.”

  “I knows where you’re to. Wait by the Anchor and I’ll be with you in ten minutes, I’ll just call control to let them know.”

  “If you make it two minutes and don’t tell your controller then you’ll be able to afford to take the rest of the day off.” There was a slight pause leaving Cavendish worried in case he had scared the man away.

  “I’ll see you in five,” confirmed Harry.

  The reticent Asimov suddenly began to whimper and visibly wince as Cavendish belatedly realised he was squeezing the man’s hand. He focused on Asimov to prevent himself looking around furtively and drawing attention to them both, he hoped the good burghers of Plymouth would not be too concerned with two men sitting on a bench holding hands.

  Cavendish had yet to study Asimov closely. He looked into his dark brown eyes nestling beneath his mop top and noticed the pupil dilation, perhaps drug abuse explained the man’s easy acquiescence or possibly he was simply in a state of shock. Cavendish did not care to deal with ‘why’.

  Some five minutes elapsed and the recognisable shape of the red taxi pulled over by the Pelican Crossing. Cavendish pulled Asimov to his feet and coerced him towards the waiting cab. The taxi parked illegally by the crossing but Harry showed little haste as he walked around to open the boot for the stowage of Cavendish’s case. Asimov refused to hand over his bag; he hung on to it tightly as if his life depended on it. Cavendish bundled Asimov into the rear seat of the taxi.

  “Where to?” asked the taxi driver. Cavendish spoke without hesitation.

  “North.”

  Cavendish’s phone rang with a startling abruptness heralding Bethan’s response.

  “Okay, here’s the plan, courtesy of Inspector Houghton,” proclaimed the excited fixer, “in about an hour a helicopter will arrive at Plympton Castle, can you get there in time or do you want me to hold it up?”

  “Hold on, Miss Williams,” replied Cavendish evenly, suppressing the rising excitement of the likely reprieve. “Do you know where Plympton Castle is?” he asked Harry.

  “I certainly do, my bird.”

  “How long will it take you to drive us there?”

  “‘Bout twenty minutes, I’d say, give or take, you knows.”

  “Right, that is where we are going,” Cavendish reverted to Bethan, “not a problem, Miss Williams.”

  “Marchel, the ‘copter will land on the large grassy area by the castle and they’ll be expecting two of you. By the way, if this comes off you owe Mr Houghton big time.”

  “Thank you, Bethan,” said Cavendish gratefully.

  “It’s all about the 6P’s, Marchel. Perfect planning prevents piss poor performance.” Bethan was pleased that the German had used her Christian name; it felt as if the illustrious inquisitor was offering praise.

  “That’s one to remember. Thanks, Bethan.”

  “No probs, Marchel. You hang tight down there.”

  The taxi followed the banks of the tidal River Plym; the low tide afforded the estuary a disconsolate look of redundancy. Driving beneath the A38, Harry delivered the fugitives to the outer fringes of Plympton. Cavendish became increasingly concerned with Asimov’s demeanour; no one had ever given Cavendish such little trouble, how much longer would his torpor last?

  The driver barely stopped prattling during the twenty or so minutes that it took to reach their destination, and try as he might; Cavendish could see no castle and began to consider the fact that Harry might not be as cooperative as he appeared. He found his right hand edging towards his revolver and evaluated how many unspent rounds were left in the cylinder.

  “Well, here we are,” declared the demonstrative Harry.

  “Where is the castle?” asked a distrustful Cavendish, reaching inside his coat.

  “The ruins is over there,” pointed the driver.

  Cavendish could see nothing but the swathe of shrubs in full leaf and the younger trees that were just awakening from their winter slumber. They had come to a halt on a narrow road by a school. Cavendish relaxed his grip on the revolver when he spotted the brown sign that indicated the route to the castle.

  “I cannot thank you enough for your help, Harry,” declared Cavendish as he lifted the suitcase from the car boot. During the drive, Cavendish had counted the money in his wallet and he handed over in excess of £500.

  “Well that is mighty generous of you, Sir, if you’re ever in the area again and need my help, let me know,” smiled Harry.

  Cavendish speculated whether the man would be so accommodating in the future when he read the local papers and discovered the story of the body in the hotel. Had Houghton been with him he was sure that he could have had the incident hushed up. At least Harry gave the impression of being discrete.

  The brown sign directed them up a narrow shrub-lined path that led to a large open park beside the ruins of the Norman keep. Cavendish could appreciate why the wide expanse of parkland had been selected for a helicopter-landing site. He led Asimov towards a bench below the castle motte and glanced at his watch, the helicopter was now due in less than thirty minutes. It was early afternoon; the sky remained grey and obstinate and looked full of rain, not great weather for flying. He was now so close to getting Asimov and the items back to Flash.

  “How are you feeling, Zach?” asked Cavendish. He asked, not out of sentiment, simply to re-assess Asimov’s mental state. The student stared wide-eyed at the distant trees, lost in the depths of his mind. Cavendish was self-interestedly pleased, Asimov maybe undergoing some sort of mental breakdown but he was quiet and compliant, all that the Untersucher required from him. Yet, he would have appreciated the distraction from himself, a role that Thomas Beckett played to perfection. Cavendish’s mind drifted off to days long ago.

  Marchel had just finished his finals at Heidelberg, having only recently returned after recovering from his mental breakdown following the death of his friend, Sepp von Manstein. Now he was back again in Oberammergau, his life having reached a crossroads with no clear direction ahead. He sto
od on the footbridge that crossed the rich clear azure waters of the fast flowing Ammer River, beside him stood Sepp’s father, Matthias, Graf von Manstein. Marchel wished he had shaved before seeing the man for the prearranged meeting, his patchy facial hair and overly long blonde hair gave him the appearance of the bohemian artist he longed to be.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Marchel,” said von Manstein. Marchel nodded whilst watching the water eddying over the rocks at the bottom of the river.

  “I’ll get to the point,” continued von Manstein, “you were Sepp’s best friend; he was very fond of you as I am. What you had was a special friendship, which I know you have struggled to come to terms with now that he is gone. Marchel, I had plans for Sepp and I’d like to give you the opportunity of taking what Sepp has missed out on.”

  And so it was that Marchel Cavendish took the first steps into the world of the firm. It was a world that he would embrace and grow to love, a world that he could not imagine giving up. It gave him wealth, but most of all it gave him a purpose and role in life for which his equivocal nature was well suited. He enjoyed the reputation that his fellow members bestowed upon him even if it was, like most reputations, not strictly accurate. He lived for being an Untersucher, he would do anything to retain his position and fulfil his future advancement.

  “Is anyone sat here?” asked a short elderly woman walking her black miniature poodle. Cavendish was brought sharply back to the present by the woman’s enquiry. He looked around and saw at least three vacant benches in the park. The woman sat down next to Asimov, sandwiching him in the centre of the bench whilst her dog sniffed around the student’s training shoes.

  “I haven’t seen you two here before,” she said smiling insincerely whilst leaning forward blatantly examining the clenched hands of Cavendish and Asimov.

  “It’s our first visit,” replied Cavendish, without enthusiasm, yet he thought it prudent not to ignore her.