Cavendish succeeded in creeping nonchalantly five or more feet into the room without anyone noticing his presence. To his right, at the far end of the white leather sofa, stood Estelle and Ralph, their attention fixed ahead upon their wilful daughter.
Jasmine stood to Cavendish's left by the TV where he had conducted his interview. She had the blade of the open scissors pressed against Emily’s throat and appeared to be coercing Emily towards the doorway he had just entered.
Directly opposite him stood the short arrogant figure he assumed to be Brad Patterson, who he had no doubt been guilty of patricide as well as the murder of Paul Slingsby. Brad stood confidently in front of the French windows watching with amusement the torment of Emily Spelman.
The Untersucher experienced an unfamiliar emotional kick in the gut as he caught sight of Thomas Beckett lying immobile on the floor in his crumpled and bloodied new suit. Such an emotion of pity was usually reserved solely for himself.
Cavendish appraised Emily’s situation before he spoke. Someone had hacked sadistically at her hair so that what remained stood spiky and bleeding against her scalp. The top half of her dress was gathered around her waist revealing a lacy blue bra. He dismissed the image of Tina leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe his kitchen.
Yet it was her face that most disturbed his underdeveloped sensibilities for he recognised the familiar expression of capitulation. The Good Doctor apparently had no fight left in her.
Emily had closed her eyes to the world and stood rigidly still, as if comatosed. Her life, like her dress, was in tatters for the second time in less than a week. She felt reconciled to her fate, for she could resist no more. She had experienced despair and happiness, and this final taste of the degenerate side of life was the final straw. She fatalistically decided it was perhaps no more than she deserved. She would have preferred to die with more dignity and her last reflections would be upon how shit her life had been.
“What on earth are you doing to my Emily?” declared Cavendish. The eyes of room snapped in his direction to see the tall scar-faced man standing side on to Brad, his revolver raised in a two handed shooting position, aimed directly at the American, whose automatic was pointed casually at the floor.
“Move one fucking centimetre and I’ll blow your fucking head clean off, which is what I should have done in Plymouth.” There was no mistaking the ferocious intent in the Untersucher’s voice.
Brad glanced nervously at Jasmine to receive his instruction. The Montgomery girl snarled with feral fury at Cavendish and pressed the scissors firmly against Emily’s rigid neck, inducing a trickle of blood as she lightly cut the skin.
“Back off, Butch!” she demanded, “the slag is ours!”
“To do what?” Cavendish suddenly sounded relaxed, almost chatty, as he observed Jasmine with his peripheral vision whilst keeping his attention firmly fixed on Brad.
“Brad wants her and I want to watch. We should have had her in Wells after we killed her boyfriend. How many men does the slut have for Christ sake!” exclaimed Jasmine.
Estelle released a gasp of horror at the sound of her own daughter’s confession. Brad grinned, emboldened by Jasmine’s psychotic bravado.
“Brad wouldn’t know what to do with a lady like Emily; she’s not a spoilt little rich girl like you,” uttered Cavendish accusingly.
Brad again flicked his eyes nervously towards Jasmine to see how she would react to the German’s goading. Jasmine laughed with delight and pushed the scissor blade deeper into the taut skin of Emily’s throat. Jasmine was desperately looking forward to the moment when Brad had tired of the woman and she could enjoy the blood pumping from her carotid, as it did from the pigs, which her father had so perversely enjoyed making her witness at the local abattoir when she was a young girl.
Cavendish had to concede he had no idea how he was going to resolve the standoff he had created. He should have simply shot Brad as he entered the room and dealt with the young woman. He was still considering his options when a familiar figure walked up to the French window having crossed the walled garden.
The bald headed Hugo Victor rapidly appraised the events unfolding in the room. He stood peering through the glass to Brad’s left and Cavendish watched him exaggeratedly raise his left hand as if he was about to perform a mime.
Victor extended three fingers and mouthed.
“Three."
He twisted his hand, folded his ring finger, leaving only two fingers visible, and mouthed again.
“Two." The countdown progressed until, at what would have been zero, Hugo Victor hammered on the exterior of the glass window with his clenched fist.
Instinct has a lot to answer for, some ramifications are benevolent and some are not. Instinct proved the undoing of Brad Patterson and the saviour of Marchel Cavendish, plus some smart help from Hugo Victor.
At the alarming sound of the thump behind him, Brad instinctively turned to face the noise, as did everyone else in the room save for Emily, the unconscious Beckett and one prepared Untersucher.
Even as the blow was being delivered, Cavendish had commenced to swing his aim towards Jasmine. As the blow struck the window, Jasmine snapped her head to her left, the movement revealing enough of her body to present a target for Cavendish to deliver a well-aimed shot. The Python belched its bullet and before the sound had registered in the room, the bullet tore through Jasmine’s right shoulder. Emily and Jasmine dropped to the parquet like de-stringed marionettes.
Brad’s football training again served him well as he recovered from his momentary distraction. As Jasmine was falling to the floor he fired off one shot from the hip with his automatic, the bullet impacted harmlessly high against the wall to Cavendish’s left, coating him in a thin layer of plaster dust.
The Untersucher was returning his aim towards Brad when a second round erupted from Brad’s automatic. This time the round narrowly missed the German’s stomach by a matter of inches, close enough to make the inquisitor flinch and delay his shot on Brad. With the benefit bestowed by an automatic, Brad was ready to fire a third round and now his aim at Cavendish would be true.
Instinct played its part for the second time that day, though not in a way foreseen by anyone in the room or outside for that matter. It was the impulse of a father’s love for his daughter. Ralph was not the most demonstrative of men; he left that sort of thing to his wife who was so much more proficient at it. Nevertheless, his often-inappropriate love for his little girl was undeniable and as he watched his daughter fall his reaction was unequivocal, it was to rush to his daughter’s aide.
Regrettably, for Ralph, his actions led him directly into the path of Brad’s third round that was destined for Cavendish. The round tore through Ralph’s right side, squeezing through a gap between two ribs, cheating the slug of most of its kinetic energy. However, the bullet retained sufficient impetus to tumble through his chest cavity and shredded his aorta before its lethal progress was arrested by a left rib.
Ralph was dead before he hit his wife’s beloved parquet floor. So too was Brad, for a fraction of a second later Cavendish’s second round tore off the back of the young American's head and shattered the safety glass of the French window behind him.
A stunning silence prevailed in the room as the ears of those still conscious rang with the concussive resonance of gunshots fired within the confined space. Houghton stumbled into the room, quickly followed by Blanch and both froze as they absorbed the carnage meted out at Yoxter Manor.
Cavendish was the first to recover and barked his orders.
“Blanch, check on Emily please. Josh, take a look at Thomas with me if you would be so kind.” Houghton noticed how the volume of Cavendish’s voice dipped away at the end of his order.
Cavendish squatted at Beckett’s side whilst Houghton looked down at the slumped untidy heap that constituted Thomas Beckett, his hidden face lying in a pool of his own blood.
“Oh shit, Marchel. What the hell have you done?” cried the quiver
ing voice of Houghton.
Cavendish fumbled for his penknife in his coat pocket and severed the plastic tie around Beckett’s wrists before gently rolling him over onto his back. Both he and Houghton were visibly shaken by the appearance of Beckett's battered face, and Houghton finally appreciated that it was not a bullet that had inflicted such blunt force trauma.
Cavendish lowered his face to Beckett’s ear.
“Thomas, it’s Marchel. Can you hear me?” Beckett lay as motionless as Brad Patterson. Cavendish placed his ear above Beckett's mangled mouth and listened carefully. He discerned a faint gasping sound. He probed Beckett’s pulped mouth as delicately as he could with his fingers, avoiding the remnants of his shattered teeth.
“Shit, Josh, he’s hardly able to breathe, his tongue is swollen!” Panic coloured Cavendish's statement.
Blanch had meanwhile freed Emily’s bound hands and helped her to her feet. She held a supporting arm around Emily, whilst her right hand held up the flapping material of Emily’s dress in a touching attempt to preserve her modesty.
It was only as Emily became aware of Cavendish’s efforts that she regained a degree of reason. She shrugged off the comforting hold of Blanch and crossed the short distance to Beckett’s side, oblivious to her own wounds.
Cavendish pre-empted Emily's enquiry.
“He’s not dead yet, Emily. He will be if I don’t do something fast.” He spoke bitterly towards his friend, “don’t you go thinking you’re going to die on me, Thomas!”
Emily looked beseechingly at Cavendish.
“Do something, Marchel!” she implored. Cavendish looked fiercely into Emily’s pleading eyes. Could he perform the task that had coalesced in his mind?
“Do something useful and hold his arms steady for me, just in case,” instructed Cavendish. He whispered the words to Emily, who gazed at Cavendish with a bemused expression. He held her stare until satisfied that he had her full attention and gave, what for Cavendish, was a rather smart boyish smile.
“I’ve never done this before, Emily. However, he will die if I don’t attempt it. Do I make myself clear?” Emily wiped away the blood from her scalp wounds that refused to be stymied and threatened to impair the vision of her right eye. She nodded at Cavendish.
“Hold his arms, Emily,” repeated Cavendish. Emily complied and looked disconsolately into the face of Beckett.
She ignored the bloody mess that was his mouth, and disregarded the almost closed right eye. Instead, she focused on his left eye, where the dark blue iris seemed to be fighting the black void of the ever-expanding pupil.
Cavendish, kneeling by Beckett's head, retrieved his penknife. He opened the smallest blade of his Swiss Army knife and laid it beside him. The fingers of his left hand sought out Beckett’s Adam’s apple. He shifted his fingers an inch or so down the throat until he located a bulge that indicated Beckett's cricoid cartilage. Gingerly, he probed for the area between the two, which, if the memories of his medical training remained true, should be the area of the criothyroid membrane.
With the fingers of his left hand remaining in place, he held the penknife with his right hand and brought it to rest against the guide afforded by his left hand. Without pausing, he made a horizontal incision to the depth of about one inch into Beckett's throat.
Having no idea of what Cavendish was about to do, Emily had watched Cavendish with a sense of detachment whilst he measured Beckett's throat, and she had no time to react before he made the aggressive, seemingly deep, yet narrow cut.
Emily's shock was tempered by the visual curiosity at the apparent paucity of blood that Cavendish’s precise incision had produced. With his left hand, Cavendish forced his index finger into the cavity that he just created; she noticed with fascination, the slight frothing of blood as Cavendish’s finger opened an airway into Beckett's trachea.
Cavendish smiled, yet his pleasure was short lived as he realised that he had acted a little too expeditiously. He had performed a competent emergency tracheotomy but had nothing to insert into the incision to keep the airway open.
“Shit, does anyone have a pen on them?” demanded Cavendish.
Houghton shook his head for he had no plans to make any notes that day. Cavendish shot Blanch an enquiring look; she had never seen him appear so vulnerable. She had collected Brad’s gun since Emily had struggled to Beckett’s side. No, Blanch did not have a pen; she had left her notebook in the car. She had nothing except the gun in her hand and the contents of her suit jacket pocket, which was usually empty. Except at this time of the month there was.
She withdrew one of the two tampons and hastily put her gun on the floor and removed the protective wrapper from the tampon before withdrawing the absorbent core from the plastic tubes. She hurried towards the casualty scene whilst tossing the absorbent pad to the spectating Houghton.
Blanch passed the plastic cylinders to Cavendish. He examined them with a curious eye, never having handled such objects before.
“The inner tube is narrowest, but I don’t know what size you want,” announced Blanch calmly.
“The smaller one please, Blanch,” asked Cavendish gratefully.
She retrieved the larger pipe whilst Cavendish gently withdrew his finger and inserted the remaining tube into the hole he had made with the penknife and watched approvingly as the skin around the incision gripped the tube tightly.
Cavendish would have preferred a longer tube but this one would have to suffice. Without studying his handiwork he bent over and blew a long steady breath into the tube, he paused for five seconds and gave Beckett another breath. He listened and nodded when he was confident that his friend was breathing comfortably on his own and looked up and found Emily looking enquiringly at him, her blood streaked face expressing the question she needed answering.
“It’s not perfect, Emily," declared a visibly relieved Cavendish. "But we’re getting some air into him. Hopefully I haven’t damaged his vocal chords, now that really would upset Thomas.”
He breathed a huge sigh of relief, allowed his eyes to drop down to Emily’s chest, and tenderly wiped away a splat of fresh blood that had trickled from her scalp onto her supported cleavage.
“I do so hate the sight of blood.” Cavendish laughed euphorically, only he seemed to appreciate the humour of the moment, and it was as well that none of his associates had witnessed Jasmine’s mania for the similarity would have been disturbing. Cavendish sprang excitedly to his feet.
“Well done, Blanch, excellent work,” he extolled exuberantly, and almost as a passing comment added, “I hope you’re not going to run out of those things.” He winked at Blanch and she smiled radiantly at his praise. She could actually get to like Marchel Cavendish.
“Blanch, could you take a look at Emily, see if you can stop that bleeding,” requested Cavendish. Blanch nodded and went to kneel beside Emily and Beckett.
Cavendish turned his attention to Houghton who stood holding the tampon in his raised palm before him as if in offering to the advancing Cavendish. The Untersucher picked up the absorbent pad by its tail and grinned at Houghton as he pretended to mop his brow.
“That was a close thing, Josh!” exclaimed Cavendish with glee as he playfully slapped Houghton’s left arm. Houghton remained unmoved. Cavendish was slow to catch onto Houghton’s distress.
“Don’t you think you’d better ring for an ambulance, Josh?” Houghton remained silent. “Josh?” repeated Cavendish, craning his head back and leaning it to one side as he asked the question.
“You stupid fucker, you could have got everyone killed!” shouted Houghton furiously.
“But I didn’t,” said Cavendish with chilling calmness.
“What were you fuckin’ thinking of!” barked the enraged Houghton with an outpouring of pent-up emotion.
“What was I supposed to do, Josh?” said Cavendish evenly, “surround the place and starve them out?”
“How the fuck am I going to explain this one away!”
A look of angu
ish overwhelmed Houghton’s strong features, Cavendish thought he was about to burst into tears.
“Chief Inspector, we have one man down, would you please ring for medical assistance. If they have an air ambulance in this part of world, I’m sure Mr Beckett will be eternally grateful.” Cavendish slapped Houghton’s arm once more and the detective coughed as if clearing his throat, shook his shoulders and nodded to Cavendish before slowly walking out of the room whilst holstering his gun and taking out his mobile phone from his suit jacket.
Cavendish brushed the plaster dust from his coat and smoothed his hair as he crossed the wooden floor to Ralph Montgomery, who was lying lifeless and unlamented on the laminate floor. Estelle ignored Cavendish’s consoling hand as she cradled the limp body of Jasmine, who had died shortly after being hit by Cavendish’s powerful bullet, a result of shock and blood loss.
Slowly circling, Cavendish assessed the carnage inflicted upon the family room. Blanch was attending to Emily’s wounds with fabric ripped from Emily’s dress, whilst the academic smoothed Beckett’s head and tearfully whispered inaudible words. Jasmine, her apparently abandoned father and her boyfriend lay dead and bleeding over the parquet flooring. Had Estelle not been inconsolably grieving at the death of her daughter, she would have been furious with the bleeders.
“Sir?” asked Blanch. It took a few seconds for Cavendish to realise that she was addressing him. “What happens now, Sir?” enquired the diminutive detective.
“I’m not a ‘sir’, Blanch. I’m just a simple ‘Herr’, replied the Untersucher as his fervour began to wane. “We take care of Emily and Thomas, that’s what we do. Come on; let’s get them out of this charnel house.”
CHAPTER 45. WORDS OF HEALING.
The day remained dry and sunny and an hour after the encounter at Yoxter Manor, Marchel Cavendish felt well pleased with his days work. He could now begin to relax with the knowledge that Beckett and Emily were on their way to hospital by air ambulance, arranged with his usual efficiency by Josh Houghton, who seemed to have quelled the demons of doubt, temporarily at least.
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