“Where are you from, dear?” she asked.
“Osnabrück,” replied Cavendish, where he had indeed been born whilst his father served in the British garrison town.
“Oh, you Polish, are you? We get a lot of you over here now. My eldest sister married a Pole after the war, lovely man, he and his sister were the only survivors from his family, the rest were killed by the Jerries.”
“Osnabrück is in Germany, I’m German,” said Cavendish. He was unsure of why he spoke so openly. Sometimes he simply fell victim to his own belligerent disposition.
“My brother did his National Service in Germany,” informed the smiling woman, “in Münster, do you know it?”
“It’s not very far from Osnabrück.” Cavendish looked down at the black dog, which was desperately trying to copulate with Asimov’s leg. Even now, the student did not react and neither did the ferret-like woman.
“Jim did six months in the Glass House for beating up a German girl, he said all the girls over there were begging for it all the time, said they were all whores.”
Cavendish gazed lazily over to the woman; he was struck by a compelling urge to shoot her and was moving his right hand towards his revolver, when his ears detected the distant yet distinctive sound of a helicopter coming in from the north.
“Is he your boyfriend then, I can’t help but notice you both holding hands? Doesn’t say much, does he? Hey, I’m talking to you, don’t be so rude,” she jabbed Asimov viciously in the ribs and he performed a double take as he looked left to see who had poked him. Staring to his right, he discovered the enquiringly gaunt face of Marchel Cavendish, who raised his blonde eyebrows and gestured downwards with his eyes.
Asimov followed Cavendish’s gaze towards the dog that was still passionately humping his leg. Asimov straightened his left leg forcefully and flung the rampant canine five or six feet away where it landed awkwardly and painfully on the grass, yelping miserably for its bigoted mistress.
“Welcome back, Mr Asimov,” said Cavendish to Zach with a gentle smile, “good timing, our taxi awaits.”
“Hey, you can’t go kicking my dog like that,” shouted the woman, “I’m going to report you gay-boys to the police!”
“Please, feel free,” said Cavendish as he rose serenely from the bench, suitcase in one hand and Asimov’s hand in the other, “my name is Hugo Victor, not to be confused with the French novelist, and I live in Bath. ‘Wiedersehen, meine alte Hexe.”
The blue Eurocopter EC135 appeared over the tree line and hovered briefly to access the landing space before making its final descent into the centre of the park. Cavendish loped in a crouching style, dragging a now cognisant Asimov behind him. The door of the Helicopter opened and Cavendish thrust Asimov inside before he too climbed aboard. In a matter of seconds, the Eurocopter was airborne. Cruising speed would enable Cavendish and Asimov to be at Flash Seminary in a few hours.
CHAPTER 34. WELCOME TO MY WORLD OF COMPROMISE.
“Shouldn’t we be arresting this Dr Spelman and interviewing her down at the local nick, Sir?” asked Blanch Nichols, not for the first time.
Houghton reflected that it was a perfectly normal question for the sergeant to be asking under normal circumstances. He continued to berate himself for his failure to brief her before they had left London. What was he thinking of? How could he possibly bring her along on this trip without first informing her about what she was getting herself involved in?
Houghton realised that he was not the man he once was. Once there had been a fire in his belly, a fierce ambition fuelled by intellect and race. His wife had recently made the accusation that he had forgotten his West Indian roots. He considered it at the time to be an astonishing thing to say and it had upset him deeply, yet on reflection he had to admit that she was correct.
He idealised that colour was an irrelevance, that he had reached a stage in his life where his race was indeed inconsequential. He had forgotten the years of struggle against the inherent racism during his climb up the slippery pole, ranging from snide comments to downright abuse. His wife, however, still worked within the West Indian community as a solicitor and saw the effects and issues of race every day, and was hence still an activist in the promotion of social justice.
He had grown soft, he refused to use the word corrupt, but he had been seduced by the comforts offered by the firm. Yet having a foot in both camps was not an easy compromise. Despite being a police officer, the direct line of authority above him led all the way to the home office, where Fletcher Dobson had firm connections. It amused him to think how he used to despise the ‘funny hand shake brigade’ and had turned down frequent opportunities to join them.
His compliance was his ticket to the top table in the things that now seemed important, his kids would always go to the school of his choice and yet his wife would believe it was due to the great meritocracy in which they lived. But he would always know better.
However, there was a price to pay for this privilege; he would always be at the beck and call of an unseen hand that did not tolerate question or insubordination. He turned a blind eye to any lack of accountability that the firm was required to demonstrate. How much influence did the firm really have?
It resembled a private members club whose extravagant activities impinged little on the lives of the majority and was a plaything of the rich. Most people could not even begin to imagine the combined wealth within the organisation, which exceeded the GDP of many countries. It was essentially an esoteric, artistic organisation, which dealt in things above the mundane drama of political life but it was also a corporate monster. Perhaps Cavendish had the correct attitude, ‘never ask why, just how, when and where’.
“Sir, you alright?” asked Blanch, she queried the strange look on his face. Houghton shook his head; his mental jogging failed to resolve his current difficulties with Blanch. How much did she really know of the ‘Regulatory Facilitations Unit’? Already she had been partly seduced; she had accepted the promotion and salary with little concern of what might lie ahead.
He assumed she fitted the profile required for acceptance into the club, that she was single, her parents dead or out of touch, not especially gregarious, and the possessor of a fierce ambition. Oh, the things people will do and tolerate in the name of ambition. How much different was Blanch from Dr Spelman? He considered that any comparisons would have to wait.
“Sir, are we going to question Dr Spelman?” Blanch reiterated her initial question. Houghton continued to stare at the confirmed frozen remains of Paul Slingsby as he had done throughout his mental meanderings; finally, he closed the lid on the body and his ruminations. With the act of closure, he returned to the world of the present.
“Let’s get our SOCO team up here; the local boys can take care of the house until then. We’ll leave Mr Slingsby, he isn’t going anywhere.”
“But what about Spelman and this supposed American?” asked Blanch once more.
“Dr Spelman will be questioned at Flash Seminary when Herr Cavendish returns.”
“But Sir....”
“Sergeant.”
“Yes Sir?”
“How long have you been with the unit?”
“Three weeks.”
“A mighty three weeks! And do you know why we have driven to this remote, God forsaken, windswept corner of the country and why this man is in the freezer?”
“Not exactly, Sir”
“We’ll, if you want to find out I suggest you stop questioning me and do as you’re bloody well told. Now, call the SOCO team and get in touch with the local force.”
A flash of anger lit Blanch’s face, but to her credit, she swallowed the rage and quickly mounted the steps out of the cellar to make the requested calls. Houghton realised he had spoken out of turn and had only made matters worse between them. There were times when speaking one’s mind was the right thing to do; unfortunately, he had never come across that ‘right time’.
He walked reluctantly up the cellar steps to em
erge in the hallway. Blanch was completing her first call to the London SOCO team, they would not arrive in Wells for many hours, assuming that they left promptly, and from the tone of her voice, Houghton felt sure they would make all due haste. She was about to make a call to the local police force when she was interrupted by a hand on her shoulder.
“Hold on a moment, Blanch, I think we should have a chat. Come on; let’s go out to the car.”
Blanch Nichols’ stomach flipped. She felt her mouth go dry. She feared the worse, she had over stepped the mark once too often. She closed her mouth firmly to prevent any betrayal of weakness as she followed the chief inspector to the car. She summoned up everything she despised about Houghton, all the slights and rebuffs made against her and his possible corruption. She channelled her fear into anger, which had served her well in the past. She was not going to go down without a fight.
Both police officers ducked against the bracing onslaught of the wind as they made their way to the black Audi parked outside the property. The passenger door closed with an ominous finality as Blanch settled herself in the leather-clad seat beside Houghton. She stared defiantly ahead through the windscreen, focusing upon a red telephone box at the end of the road, determined not to make eye contact with her superior. Houghton hid his perverse amusement at the sight of her blatant hostility.
“The SOCO team will take a few hours to get here,” began Houghton, “the local plods can wait. I think it’s about time I told you a few things that you may or not be aware of concerning your position in the unit.”
“With the greatest of respect, Sir, if I may just...” Blanch’s defence was cut short by Houghton.
“Blanch, my sweet, you wouldn’t know what ‘with greatest respect’ meant if it jumped up and bit you on the arse.” Her face contorted upon hearing the unusual phraseology employed by her chief. Houghton was pleased with his choice of words; it had the desired effect of throwing her off balance. He softened his tone.
“Blanch, you’re not for the chop, I’m just going to tell you a few things I should have told you weeks ago.”
Houghton made a big show of loosening his floral patterned tie and undoing the top button of his white collared shirt. For almost an hour, with barely a pause, Houghton explained the raison d’être of the Regulatory Facilitations Unit.
“So what do you think, Blanch?” enquired Houghton at the end of his impromptu lecture.
“Perfectly clear, Sir,” replied Blanch in a matter of fact manner.
“What do you mean, ‘perfectly clear’, do you have any questions concerning what I just told you?” asked Houghton incredulously. Blanch had barely moved throughout his discourse.
“Oh, many, Sir. And no doubt I shall be annoying you forever and a day with questions, but I think you have been most succinct in your report and I thank you for being so open with me.” Houghton could not shake off the feeling that Blanch’s reaction to what he had just revealed resembled the response he might have expected had he just given a dissertation on neighbourhood policing. She showed no sign of astonishment at all.
He looked out through the car window onto the green swath of the Butlands, the elegant trees still dancing to the beat of the wind from the North Sea.
“You surprise me, Sergeant. Most people would believe that I had told them a load of tosh.”
“But why would you do that, Sir. I have to believe what you are telling me, or else our relationship will never work.” Houghton gave the briefest of smiles, he wanted to breakdown Blanch’s stonewall defence.
“But, Blanch, do you not find the things I have just told you incredible, amazing and frightening?”
“Yes Sir, I do.” Houghton turned to face her.
“Blanch, for Christ sake, will you please talk to me?” he implored.
Blanch had listened intently to her chief inspector as he told the most amazing story. Although she had paid careful attention to all he had to say, her mind still had time to wander. It took her back to her childhood, to the days before her sexual orientation had established itself, to an evening forever lost in time, watching the ‘X Files’ on TV with her late Father. She remembered how annoyed she used to feel when the pretty FBI woman shot down the truthful, fantastic theories of the hero. How could that woman disbelieve such a gorgeous man? With the surety of ten years on the planet, she would go to bed thinking that she would never have treated him with such cruelty, and so would fall asleep with the transitory fantasy of one day marrying him. It was only a few years later that her fantasies centred upon the female protagonist.
When Houghton had finished his exposition upon the machinations of this weird organisation, she felt somewhat numbed. She had to believe what she was told, or else why did he tell her? It certainly explained many of the strange anomalies she had come across since joining the unit.
She never really cared for conspiracy theories, although like most people, she was fascinated by the JFK assassination stories. Perhaps everyone believed to a greater or lesser extent in the concept of secret powers behind the throne. Like the existence of ancient gods, they provided a logical explanation for the chaos of everyday life.
Part of her even felt disappointed that the organisation she was apparently now part of seemed so toothless, almost benevolent, or at least that was how Houghton’s interpretation had been received. So what could she say when asked by Houghton what she thought?
“Would you like me to be forthright, Sir?” she asked as she looked at him for the first time. Houghton’s eyes begged for a connection. She hoped she was going to say the right thing.
Suddenly Houghton’s mobile ring tone rendered the air. He reached for his phone inside his jacket pocket. The caller was Bethan Williams and he made his apologies to Blanch before he listened patiently to Bethan as she described Cavendish’s situation in Plymouth.
“I wondered what the hell he was getting himself into,” explained Houghton to Bethan. “Listen Bethan, this morning I arranged for a helicopter to be placed at Cavendish’s disposal. You’ll find the necessary telephone number under my folder on the computer database. Kindly liaise with the crew and let Cavendish know will you?” He smiled as he ended the call. “Sorry Blanch, you were saying...” The break had allowed Blanch to re-evaluate what she was going to say.
“Well, to be honest, Sir,” stammered Blanch, for the first time consciously lowering her guard to Houghton. “I found the concept of what you told me terrifying. But, you know something? It doesn’t frighten me at all, really. In fact it explains a good many things, especially where you’re concerned. I’m sorry if that’s the wrong answer.”
Houghton’s face took on a look of relief as he laughed at her answer.
“Blanch, it’s not the wrong answer. It’s the reason Sir Fletcher selected you for the position.”
Not only did he now believe that he had done the necessary with Blanch but he had also made some recompense to Cavendish for his procrastination the previous evening. Now he and his sergeant could begin working together.
“Ring the local plods, Blanch. Then I think we’ll have a drink.”
The local police force arrived in the shape of two local plain-clothes detectives and two uniformed officers. The news of a body in a freezer excited the local constabulary and brought a swift response. They were disappointed and annoyed to be informed that the case would not be theirs and many phone calls took place to establish responsibility for the crime scene. Once it had been confirmed that this was Houghton’s case, a result that was never in doubt as far as he was concerned, the local force seemed reluctant to cooperate but did grudgingly concede to leave an officer to watch over the property until Houghton’s small team arrived from London. They also arranged for a local pathologist to be available and carry out the necessary formalities with regard to the late Paul Slingsby.
By the early afternoon, Houghton and Blanch were ensconced in a bay window seat of the Navigator pub, which was conveniently situated on the opposite side of the Butlands from th
e Georgian house. They had lunch, a round of sandwiches, and unusually Houghton had suggested an alcoholic option for them both, Houghton with a pint of the local bitter, Blanch with a pint of Suffolk cider.
“So who is this creepy Marchel Cavendish?” asked Blanch.
“Marchel isn’t creepy, he’s one of the good guys, he just sometimes has an unfortunate way about him,” replied Houghton tactfully.
“He’s a bit anal, don’t you think?” stated Blanch. Houghton wondered flippantly if encouraging Blanch to express herself freely had been such a good idea.
“He gets a little confused at times,” said Houghton, “you won’t meet many people like Marchel. A father from a family with strong military connections, a French mother who comes from a wealthy background. He was schooled in Germany and spent only a few holidays in England. His first language is German and then French, his English is very good but rather deliberate and precise, and he does have the knack of throwing in that German thing which confuses people.”
“I take it from that answer that it’s not the first time you have been asked that question,” commented Blanch.
“No, Blanch, not the first time, nor will it be the last. Marchel can actually be quite a fun guy at times, but often he tends to get clammy, you know, shuts up shop. He had a very difficult case recently in Prague; the firm doesn’t like the killing of its own people.”
“You mean he killed someone?” asked Blanch with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. “What happened?”
“Oh, he’s killed more than one person at one time or another. In Prague he shot a fellow inquisitor, a rapist by all accounts.”
“So why is that so terrible, he probably got what was coming to him,” insisted Blanch, reassessing her opinion of the German.
“You don’t shoot a fellow inquisitor. Some of the Old Guard on the committee could see nothing wrong with what old Klauss did.”
Blanch recoiled at the implications of Houghton’s statement. He read her concern and quickly attempted to reassure her.
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