Denied to all but Ghosts (18 page)

“Marchel, are you still there?” enquired a
distant Steinbeck.

“I’m still here, Horst.”

“Good, now work on the ruse and let me know
your plan of action. And Marchel?”

“Yes Horst?”

“Don’t let me down, you need all the friends
you can get around here.” Steinbeck terminated the call.

The bath was deep and the hot water caressed
the body of Paul Slingsby as he sank backwards and submerged his
head below the foaming surface. He lay beneath the water for as
long as his lungs held out before pushing himself desperately
upright to gasp greedily at the steamy air. He dismissed the
slopping water that spilled over the sides of the bath, inundating
the tiled floor, as he wrung his hands through his freshly washed
hair.

He shook his head to expel water from his
ears and gave a long smile of satisfaction. It was rare of late for
him to concede that things were going well but his superficial
thoughts this morning certainly bestowed that impression. He spent
a night of passion with Emily, the once unversed yet now committed
student, which had exceeded even his strenuous demands for
gratification. She had returned in an ebullient mood from her
meeting with the two men and reported that she had achieved all
they had set out to do.

She was unused to what she excitedly
described as ‘clandestine activities’ and acquired a tremendous
buzz out of the whole exercise. He was reminded of an old
girlfriend he had back in the nineties who was a minor star on the
West End stage. He recalled sweetly the high on which she left the
stage and which carried over to the end of performance party with
the cast. The sex they had was terrific but her comedown the next
morning was impossible to live with. He made sure he had left the
flat before she awoke. He speculated as to how Emily would feel
this morning, she would not be subjected to the low that constant
performing would inevitably induce but she would no doubt be
suffering from a hangover.

He lay against the embracing white enamel and
allowed himself to sink so that his torso was submerged and only
his raised knees and head were exposed.

Two possible outcomes now lay before them.
The sword might now be made available to them following Emily’s
rehearsed threats. Her description of the man named Cavendish had
been inconsistent at best and had left him with no clear picture of
the man other than Emily’s obvious abhorrence. Moreover, that came
from a woman who seemed to enjoy the company of men. The other guy
never really made the radar yet that was also no doubt part of her
feminine wiles, for she was reluctant to talk about him. Maybe he
really was that insignificant.

The sword may indeed be made available
legitimately as part of Emily’s rationale concerning treasure trove
and articles of historic national importance. It all seemed
gobbledegook to him. Nevertheless, such an outcome ensured Emily’s
fame as a champion of historical importance and granted him a
journalistic coup with national exposure and syndication rights.
That was the simplest scenario but he feared the least likely
outcome, despite Emily’s assurance otherwise.

The second likely scenario was that they
would have to procure the sword, which he conceded was his
euphemistic expression for stealing it. He had argued with Emily
that if the sword was what it was purported to be then there would
be no case of theft to answer for, it would be a act of socially
responsible liberation for the common good of the people.

His private fantasy, which deviated from
their agreed procedure, was to take the sword and sell it to a
private dealer yet he hardly knew enough about the antiques market
to make a swift buck. Nevertheless, it was always a fall back plan.
Perhaps the man who had informed him about the sword in the first
place, and who had set the whole chain of events into motion, would
be interested if approached. It was certainly worth bearing in
mind.

He laughed impulsively when he considered
that it was Emily’s drunken and sexually fuelled assertion that
date rape was a sadomasochistic fantasy of the repressed
bourgeoisie. He fondly remembered laughing at her pompous yet
outrageously alluring Oxford delusions, which she countered
eloquently by her continued labours for his personal libidinous
pleasure.

Yet her naive claim enabled him to remember
the date rape drug he had obtained during one of his undercover
investigations. He concluded the drugs were worth having to hand
should they need to steal the sword. He wondered how long her
initiation into a new world of lasciviousness would keep her
compliant. Long enough to complete their mutual transactions, in
and out of bed, he hoped. Stealing an object from the protection of
the constipated German would be no easy task. It would require luck
and a ruthlessness that he doubted the determined yet ultimately
intellectual Emily lacked. Fortunately, he had an insurance
policy

The bathroom door suddenly opened and Emily
slouched into the steamed up room. She stood dispassionately naked
for his perusal with her hands pressed upon her flat belly framing
the diamond belly button stud, which proclaimed her sexual
emancipation.

Her pounding hangover obviated any
consideration that her nakedness might have upon him. Long strands
of dark hair lay dishevelled across her face, so that she balefully
studied him with one mascara-smudged eye.

“Are you going to lie in that bath all
morning? I need to use the loo.” she attempted to sound reproachful
but her words emerged without conviction.

“That’s fine coming from you; I thought you
were dead to the world.”

“Don’t shout, Paul. I’m not deaf.”

“You look like shit,” he said impassively so
as not to elicit a heated reply.

“I feel like shit. I’m supposed to ring that
bloody German but I can’t face him,” she muttered dejectedly as she
tiptoed across the wet tiled floor.

“Then make your excuses and see him later. We
hold all the aces.” She nodded accordingly, relieved that he had
not insisted on her meeting the demanding Cavendish.

“Why don’t you go back to bed, Emily, it’s
still early.” He tried to make the phrase sound like a suggestion
but he could detect the edgy harassment creeping into his
speech.

He smiled sweetly at her, as much in an act
of self-moderation as appeasement. He had to fight hard to suppress
the bullying side of his character, too many years in Fleet Street
was his justification for his aggression. He had managed to shield
Emily from it thus far, the only time it had emerged was during
their love making when it deceitfully masqueraded itself as zeal.
He must continue to work hard to control it; they still had some
way to go to achieving their goal.

The ringing telephone summoned Beckett back
to the waking world. For a moment he felt disorientated but quickly
remembered why he was lying in a delicious hotel bed. He smiled as
he remembered the previous evening but the strident demands of the
telephone could not be ignored.

“Hullo?” said Beckett warily.

“Good morning, Thomas, it’s seven thirty,
I’ll see you for breakfast at eight.” With that, Cavendish hung
up.

Beckett may well have been drunk the previous
evening but he was a seasoned drinker, allowing his body ample time
to detox overnight and to a casual observer he would have appeared
in fine fettle. The powerful shower blew away the cobwebs and by
the time he reached the breakfast area he was more than ready for a
full cooked breakfast. He arrived at ten past eight and knew he
should not have been surprised to find Cavendish already residing
at the table wearing the same white shirt, without the jacket, as
he had worn the previous evening.

“I ordered you tea, Thomas, hope that’s
okay?”

“Yeah, sure, thanks.”

“Did you enjoy our evening?” asked
Cavendish.

“Aren’t you suppose to say first ‘did you
sleep well last night’?” replied Beckett.

“Oh, I’m sure you did, Thomas, I’m sure you
did. A very successful evening I thought. What did you think of Dr
Spelman?”

“I thought she was very pleasant,” answered
Beckett as he poured his tea.

“I can hardly write ‘she was very pleasant’
in my report, can I?” said Cavendish critically.

“You write a report?”

“Of course I file a report; you don’t think
we enjoy all this fine living for nothing do you?”

“Suppose not,” said Beckett ignoring
Cavendish’s sarcasm.

“Despite what you may have thought of the
evening,” continued Cavendish, “may I say that you played your part
wonderfully, I thought it could not have gone better. We now know
what Dr Spelman is after, we know she is not working alone and I
believe she has no idea about the firm. I think that qualifies as a
successful evening. We must now step the operation up a gear.”

“Where were you last night, when I got back
from walking Emily home you were nowhere to be found?”

“I followed you both back to her hotel?”

“You did what?” asked a stunned Beckett.

“You heard perfectly well what I said. I
followed you back to the hotel and sat in the bar.”

“Well I didn’t see you!”

“You were not supposed to see me.”

“What did you do, wear a wig and a false
moustache?”

“It’s the simplest thing in the world to
remain unobserved, Thomas.”

“Rubbish, that simply isn’t true, and you
know it.”

“Did you just see that couple sit down at the
table over there?” asked Cavendish, pointing to a single man
breakfasting alone behind Beckett.

“What couple?” queried Beckett whilst peering
over his shoulder.

“Exactly,” said Cavendish evenly.

“But I wasn’t looking!”

“Precisely.”

“Hold on a minute, you’re saying it’s easy to
go unnoticed, so I could walk into a bank, take all the money and
no one would notice?”

“Not the same thing at all and you know it.
If you had been looking out for me last night then you might
possibly have seen me. But you were not and you did not.”

The conversation died as Cavendish played
with his mobile, as he frequently did. Beckett had no idea who he
was communicating with, and to be honest, he did not want to
know.

“I’m just popping out to make a call, Thomas,
you enjoy your breakfast.”

Beckett ate his breakfast alone, he fancied
that his appetite would have been keener had Cavendish been
present. Cavendish returned as Beckett was starting on his toast
and sat down silently, buttered some bread and took the bacon from
his plate and made a hasty sandwich.

“Is that all you’re going to eat?” asked
Beckett.

“It’s sufficient, Thomas. I have little
appetite when I’m working.”

“It’s no wonder you’re so bloody thin!”
commented Beckett caustically.

As if on cue, Cavendish’s phone rang. His
phone identified the caller as ringing from a Bristol Hotel
room.

“Ah, good morning, Dr Spelman, you slept well
I trust?” Beckett glanced up keenly from his plate in anticipation
but Cavendish stared off into the distance, divorcing Beckett from
the conversation.

“I’m sorry to hear that, perhaps you will be
feeling better tomorrow. Shall I call round to your hotel in the
morning, perhaps we could talk after breakfast?” Cavendish remained
motionless as he listened to her reply. “Very good, Dr Spelman,
I’ll call you tomorrow. I hope you are feeling better soon,
goodbye.” Cavendish terminated the call and finally smiled
derisively across to Beckett.

“It would seem that the lovely Emily is under
the weather this morning, Thomas, seems that something she ate
yesterday did not agree with her.” Cavendish scoffed as he finished
imparting the information to his colleague.

“That’s hardly very charitable is it?”
replied Beckett.

“Judging by the amount of wine and brandy you
two consumed last night and what she must have been up to
afterwards, I’m surprised that she is even awake yet. Although
having said that, she probably is still in bed.”

“What do you mean ‘what she must have been up
to afterwards’?” enquired a curious Beckett.

“What are your plans for today, Thomas?”

“I haven’t got any plans. My plan was dinner
last night, today wasn’t in the reckoning.”

“Excellent, then you must call your wife and
tell her that you will be home later. You and I are going to do
some surveillance work.”

An hour or so later Cavendish and Beckett
were drinking morning coffee in the lounge bar at Dr Spelman’s
hotel, watching the guests checking in and out.

“So are you going to tell me who we are
supposed to be watching?” challenged Beckett in a conspiratorial
whisper.

“There is no need to whisper, Thomas, just
talk softly and normally, and don’t suddenly jump up and
point.”

“That’s not going to be a problem if I don’t
know who I’m supposed to be bloody pointing at,” announced Beckett
sulkily. Cavendish extracted his phone from his bottomless inside
coat pocket and pressed a few buttons to summon up a photo before
passing it over to Beckett.

“It’s a poor profile shot I’m afraid, it was
the best I could do under the circumstances.”

“Dodgy looking git,” commented Beckett, “he
looks vaguely familiar, who is he?”

“I don’t know. The photo was not good enough
to run through the database. All I know is that he was the man who
spent the night with Dr Spelman and that his name is Paul.”

“You what?” replied a stunned Beckett,
preposterously disappointed that Emily had not slept alone. “Are
you sure?”

“Pretty much, he greeted her last night after
your poignant au revoir.” Beckett felt an absurd pang of envy and
was pleased when a question not involving Emily Spelman popped into
his head.