“Don’t worry; the Old Guard are few on the ground these days. There were many on the committee who simply wanted to make an example of Cavendish, bring him down a peg or two. As I said, he’s a nice enough guy, just don’t give him reason to dislike you. One thing that he does like, and it’s pretty much his number one rule, he needs to be able to trust you. When he does, he’s fine, but don’t go thinking it’s a two-way arrangement. Marchel has been given this case by the firm to restore their confidence in him, it’s make or break. His ambitions for promotion will be ruined if he screws up here.”
“Is he gay?” asked Blanch candidly. Houghton laughed, pleased that Blanch had not been too disturbed by his earlier rape comments and answered.
“Again, not the first time or the last. I don’t think he is; part of the reason for many of the committee voting against him was that he ended up shagging the widow who had been raped by Klauss. Doesn’t lend a lot of credibility to your story, does it? But I admit, he does have a certain ambiguity about him sexually speaking. Apparently he has a beautiful young Bavarian aristocratic fiancée waiting for him at home, but he’s reluctant to talk about her.” Blanch was intrigued by Cavendish’s sexual ambiguity, she blamed it on too many years of reading shallow magazines.
“What’s her name?” she asked.
“The fiancée or the widow?” asked a straight-faced Houghton.
“The fiancée!” laughed Blanch. Houghton had to think and sipped his beer as he searched for a name.
“Magdalena von Stromberg,” came his reply; he was pleased to recall the name so easily. He knew that Blanch would have no problem remembering the name, for her commendable memory was a fine asset in their line of work.
“So is he your boss, you seem to kowtow to him?” asked Blanch.
“Cavendish is an Untersucher, an inquisitor. It’s a position within the firm whereby he investigates irregularities and such like. It is a powerful position; they have carte blanche to do almost anything they like. They can destroy the reputation, hence life, of anyone within the organisation, which includes you and me. He is a good man but don’t underestimate his powers. You will be committing yourself to an organisation that will look after you all your life so long as you look after it. It’s a bit like the Hells Angels; you can’t just cop out when it suits you.”
“So people never leave?” asked Blanch.
“People do retire but they are still part of the firm and are expected to behave so. Only death absolves you of obligation. Does that scare you, Blanch?”
She did not answer. They both answered the question in their own private, complex way.
“May I ask a question, Sir?”
“That’s why we are here, Sergeant.”
“Is Dr Spelman a suspect in the killing of Slingsby?”
Houghton reflected for a good while whilst he composed his reply. He explained in greater depth the role played by Emily and Slingsby but he could not really explain Cavendish’s sudden and frantic departure.
“Dr Spelman is naturally a suspect in the murder. But the fact we never found the sword does lend credence to her assertion about the American’s involvement. However, knowing Cavendish as I do, he will see things differently to you and me. He will be unconcerned about the murder, or to any crimes inflicted upon Dr Spelman. All he is interested in is finding out who has been leaking information, endangering the auction, and the privacy of the firm. Now it may appear that he has his priorities wrong but he hasn’t. He is employed directly by the firm, unlike you and I, and lives or falls by his success and reputation. It is our role to clear up the mess he creates and see that the law is upheld whilst protecting the interests of the firm. As you’ll discover, compromise is everything.”
He keenly studied Blanch's puzzled expression as she processed the information, it would take many hours and months of self-debate and torment to rationalise and come to terms with the world she had entered. He felt suddenly saddened. In what manner and to what degree would her inevitable corruption take?
“So where does the idiot Beckett fit into the organisation?” asked Blanch.
“Tom is no idiot, Blanch. He just isn’t one of us and I get the impression he feels like an outsider, take last night for example.”
“Well, Sir, he wasn’t the only one, I had no idea what you and Cavendish were referring to half the time, I could see you giving me funny looks and Cavendish looking confused when you refused to join in with some of his moot points. I can see why now.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant, I really should have briefed you fully before we left, it was a serious oversight on my part and...”
Blanch decided to cut Houghton’s explanations short by continuing her line on Beckett.
“So if Beckett isn’t part of the firm, why is he with Cavendish?”
“Many people in the firm are asking just that. I think it all boils down to chemistry. As I said, Cavendish likes to trust people and there is obviously something about Beckett that suits the Cavendish psyche. Quite what that is, is anybody’s guess, a bit like love I suppose? And I wasn’t trying to imply anything before you go off down that track again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Sir,” smiled Blanch, “You reckon Beckett has got a thing about Dr Spelman?”
“I would say so, but Cavendish didn’t mention it. Part of me wonders who the victim is in this case and who the perpetrator is. Okay, Dr Spelman came looking for a sword that did not exist but she was set up by Cavendish. I think he would have been distraught had she not taken the bloody sword.”
“But you said earlier that she drugged Beckett. Did Cavendish allow that to happen to his so called friend?” enquired Blanch perceptively.
“Apparently, Blanch. Welcome to the crazy world of Marchel Cavendish, Untersucher medius. Uh oh,” said Houghton, leaning forward to survey the house opposite, “the SOCO team is here, lunch time over, Sergeant.”
CHAPTER 35. PIGEONS AND THE EXPLOITATION OF ORANGES.
Houghton enjoyed the late afternoon drive back to Flint House. The wind had eased to no more than the occasional strong gust and as if to celebrate the climatic improvement, the local bird life emerged from hiding.
Houghton had lived in the city for as long as he could remember, save for his time at Cambridge. He often listened to birds singing in his north London garden, but here in rural north Norfolk the bird song was almost overwhelming. By far his favourite was that of the Blackbirds, whose melodious voices were warming up for their evening performance.
He heard the distant call of the Wood Pigeon. He was no ornithologist but for some obscure reason he remembered a feature on Radio 4 concerning the correction of the recording of the Wood Pigeon’s song by some eagle-eared listener. The song apparently went ‘take two cows taffee, take two cows taffee, take two cows taffee, take.’ The number of repetitions varied but the song must always end on ‘take’, this was the important correction insisted upon by the listener.
Houghton was returning home after the conclusion of a particularly repulsive case of child abuse when he heard the broadcast. The sheer banality of the item had restored a little sanity back into the wicked world. He repeated the story to his wife and kids, they humoured him but he could tell they were unimpressed by his knowledge of bird song. After all these years, the memory had stuck with him, unlike the evil case involving the child. For a second he considered relating the story to his sergeant but decided to save it for a rainy day.
Houghton rapped on the door of Flint House and waited for Beckett to answer the door. It took a few attempts before the door opened and Beckett allowed them in. Houghton caught the stale odour of cigarettes on Beckett’s breath and was surprised, having never considered Beckett to be a smoker. This day was full of revelations. Beckett had not smoked for many years but had found a packet that Cavendish had left behind and in the past hour had smoked two of the contents.
A gathering of three took place in the kitchen, Houghton, Blanch and Beckett.
“Where is she, To
m?” asked Houghton regarding the whereabouts of Emily Spelman.
“She is resting upstairs, thought it was the best place for her,” replied Beckett cautiously. He glanced at Blanch, who still eyed him suspiciously and he wondered if it was a compulsory expression taught during police basic training.
“How did it go your end?” asked Beckett of Houghton.
“We found Slingsby in a chest freezer, looks like multiple gunshot wounds, the fact he was in the freezer means an accurate time of death will be difficult to ascertain.” Beckett felt his mind swoon with shock as he took in Houghton’s appalling news.
“Emily might be able to tell you,” suggested the stunned Beckett. Blanch did not like the way Beckett used her name with such familiarity. If Houghton thought the same, he declined to mention it.
“You’ve spoken with her then?” asked Houghton.
“Yeah,” replied Beckett, he hoped the brevity of his answer would disguise any inferences. Emily was now fully aware of the world of Marchel Cavendish.
“It’s okay, Tom; I’m not here to interrogate you. Do you think that Dr Spelman is up for a quick chat with my sergeant, just a few formalities, nothing too heavy?”
“I don’t know, I could go and ask her,” replied Beckett protectively. He was conscious of Cavendish’s instruction to shield Emily from Blanch.
“No need, Tom. Blanch can go find out.” Houghton gave a brief nod to his sergeant and she eagerly left the kitchen to head upstairs.
Emily heard the knock on the bedroom door and knew immediately from the authoritative rap that it was not Beckett behind the door.
“Come in,” announced Emily as politely as her lack of enthusiasm would allow. She was sitting up on the bed still wearing Beckett's clothes, leaning against the wooden headboard. Blanch Nichols stepped officiously into what had been Beckett’s room, whilst Emily looked on and assessed the diminutive police officer. She noted the dark business suit, the sensible high cut blouse beneath the jacket, which masked any physical attributes that Blanch may have possessed. The centre parted auburn hair, now secured at the back of her head, framed her narrow face that bore the minimal amount of makeup. The face was pretty but not exploited to its full potential; her appearance was designed to send out a precise message to the world. Emily concluded that Blanch had achieved the desired effect.
The police officer had spoken with her earlier to establish if any assault had taken place and had been efficient in her task, yet she was no Mother Teresa.
Emily decided that she would adopt an attitude of reserved compliance whilst she evaluated the high-handed young detective.
“Dr Spelman, I don’t know if you remember me from earlier, but I’m Detective Sergeant Nichols of the Metropolitan Police, I’d like to ask you a few questions with regard to the death of Paul Slingsby.”
Blanch derived a wicked thrill from the way she delivered the news of Slingsby’s demise to the scholar. She was impressed by the academic’s self-control, only the flickering and misting of her hazel eyes betrayed her disbelief. Either the announcement of his death came as a genuine shock or she was an accomplished actress.
“I’d be grateful if you would recount the events that took place after you arrived at the house with Mr Slingsby,” asked Blanch callously. Emily felt disorientated; unable to assimilate the emotional complexities of the police officer's nodded and indicated that Blanch should sit on the bed with her. She caught Blanch’s initial reluctance but, after a moment’s hesitation, the sergeant sat next to Emily’s bare feet and took out a notebook from her jacket pocket.
Blanch listened intently as Emily, patently numbed by the news of Slingsby’s death, gave an intimate account of the events that took place at the Georgian house. She took notes whilst making a further assessment of the woman who recounted the story.
Blanch had instantly taken a dislike to Emily. She considered it an informed and objective opinion. Yet from the initial description given to her by Houghton, she knew Emily was the kind of woman that she could happily despise, without even meeting her. She conceded that it was somewhat churlish that her greatest motive for disliking Dr Spelman was simply because she was beautiful and by the way men reacted to her.
Even without wearing makeup, Blanch’s increased heart rate informed her that she was in the company of an attractive woman. With makeup, Emily would be a real head turner. She imagined the power that such beauty held in a male dominated world. However, as she considered her line of reasoning, she also appreciated what a handicap it must be. It was one of the reason why she insisted on ‘dressing down’, or such was the opinion of her sister. Blanch liked to appear functional and business like, there was no room in her world for ‘chemistry’.
Nonetheless, during the interview Blanch was disappointed not to perceive any of the arrogance or false modesty she had expected to hear. Emily came across very matter of fact and there was no deviation from the main thread of her statement to imply innocence, and no defence or justification for her actions. She seemed very calm and almost apologetic.
Blanch concluded the formal interview by returning her notebook to her jacket pocket. Her instincts told her that Emily’s story rang true and she trusted her instincts.
Blanch was about to get up from the bed when she caught Emily’s enquiring stare, normally an interviewee would look away when the notebook was closed, but not Emily.
“What?” Blanch asked with a hint of annoyance. She did not intend to speak, the word just popped out of her mouth.
“I beg your pardon,” replied Emily, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were staring at me,” replied Blanch accusingly.
“And?” Emily asked suggestively. Blanch regretted entering into the informal exchange, she considered it unprofessional and put it down to the extraordinary revelations of the day.
“Will you stay a bit longer?” asked Emily quietly.
“Why?” asked Blanch brusquely, her attention drawn to Emily’s naked calf tapering gently to her bare foot. Her toes slowly kneaded the soft plump white duvet.
“I, I don’t want to be on my own, that’s all, nothing sinister, honestly.” Emily offered a frail smile to the stern face of the slight detective.
Blanch hesitated for it had been a long day of conflict and disclosure. Part of her simply could not face any more police work, which would inevitably ensue if she returned downstairs. On the other hand, did she want to associate with this femme fatale, as Emily had often been indicted?
“You don’t like me, do you?” asked Emily in the same, casual tone. Blanch felt flustered and reacted impulsively.
“Whether I like you or not is an irrelevance, Dr Spelman.”
“I don’t mind, really. I’ve been disliked most of my life, I’ve got so used to it that I positively encourage it.” Emily smiled tenderly; Blanch swallowed uncomfortably.
“Please don’t hate me for what you think I am, you can hate me for the things I’ve done, but not for what you think I might have done.”
Emily broke eye contact and for Blanch’s benefit looked poignantly out of the window at the bird that had flown up beneath the roof eves, intent on making a nest, blissfully unaware of the complexities of the human emotions inhabiting the room beneath its home. She still had to reconcile herself with the full emotional implications of Paul Slingsby's death. Yet there was one overwhelming sentiment. She was free, released from the bully's threats. Emily was unconcerned about the machinations of the police; she was more apprehensive at the prospect of meeting Marchel Cavendish. Yet having one police officer onside could do no harm.
“I’ll stay for ten minutes,” answered Blanch cautiously. Emily unleashed her most devastating smile and slid across to sit next to Blanch, placing her left hand on Blanch’s tense right shoulder.
“I’ve two things to ask of you,” whispered Emily coyly. Blanch's entire body tightened as she blushed and knotted her brow in anticipation.
“What can you tell me about the firm?” asked Emi
ly. Blanch’s disappointment was manifest and she shuffled her bottom as she prepared to raise herself from the bed, yet was prevented from doing so by pressure from Emily’s left hand. Emily leant forward and slipped her right hand beneath the sergeant’s skirt, smoothly sliding her palm along the inside of the Blanch’s right thigh where her fingers provocatively caressed the warm soft flesh.
“But more importantly,” whispered Emily, “have you any underwear I could possibly borrow?”
CHAPTER 36. THE LADY AND THE VAMP.
The helicopter hovered over the expansive lawn within the secluded grounds of Flash Seminary. From his viewpoint, Cavendish noted the heavily forested land, with the deep green pine trees contrasted by the silver bark of the birch trees that surrounded the house. It was not unlike Oberammergau, but here the land lacked the softness of his Bavarian home. There was a barely tamed ruggedness to the landscape in these Derbyshire hills.
The grey clouds carried by the stiff northerly did little to soften the pastoral landscape. It was the same view that he had been denied when he arrived courtesy of the Adenauer’s biplane and he struggled to remember how long ago that was. What he did enjoy was the view of the house itself. From the sky, he could fully appreciate the Victorian architectural grandeur. It felt oddly like coming home.
Asimov had remained silent and submissive throughout the trip, a fact that Cavendish continued to be grateful for, yet now Asimov was looking enquiringly out of the window, suggesting to Cavendish that he had recovered from his earlier state of lassitude. Now was not the time to question his good fortune, analysis would come later.
Cavendish glanced at his Breitling on his left wrist as the helicopter made a slow descent. Dust and organic debris rose to greet and engulf the helicopter as it neared the ground. A feeble jolt indicated their arrival. Immediately, the engines were cut and as the rotors slowed, calmness was restored to the grounds of the seminary.
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