Denied to all but Ghosts (45 page)

* * *

Kate Watercombe, the head of household at
Flash Seminary, tapped lightly on the solid wooden door panel of
Cavendish’s bedroom. No one had seen him since he had disappeared
to his room the previous afternoon. She had last seen him Sunday
evening when they had dined together and she had rather warmed to
the eccentric German. Indeed, she was disappointed with his early
departure in order to 'chaperone', as he put it, his colleague and
the intriguing academic.

She rapped harder, careful not to spill the
mug of hot coffee she carried in her right hand. Still there was no
response from the room. Gently, she twisted the doorknob and was
not surprised to find the door unlocked, few people felt the
necessity in the comfort and security of the seminary.

She walked lightly in bare feet across the
carpeted floor, the folds of her pink dressing gown billowed,
agitating the stale atmosphere within the room, which was held in a
perpetual twilight by the heavy drapes blocking out the early
morning light. She sniffed the leaden air and detected the smell of
stale tobacco smoke and unwashed man. Instantly, she recalled her
heady college days when she would rise in the morning following a
heavy student night of partying. A mental note was made to admonish
Cavendish for his indoor smoking pursuits.

She could now see the man lying spread-eagled
on his back in bed; a single sheet was wrapped around his left leg
leaving his body intriguingly naked. He looked Christ-like and she
was reminded of a renaissance representation of the
crucifixion.

For a second she considered leaving the room
but he appeared to be sound asleep. His breathing was deep and
heavy, punctuated by an occasional snore, which made her smile.
Kate found the notion of being in the presence of a famous, snoring
and naked Untersucher highly amusing and arousing even in her sober
state. Walking around to the side of his bed, she placed the mug of
coffee on the bedside unit where Cavendish had placed his watch
next to the alarm clock that reported the time to be just after
seven o’clock on Thursday morning.

She was about to walk away but was stopped by
a particularly aggressive snore, which she assumed must wake him.
He remained motionless with his eyes closed, his breathing not
noticeably different. She could not help herself as she found
herself studying his naked torso. She was not wearing her glasses
so leant forward to gain a clearer image.

She had no idea that he was so thin, for he
looked almost emaciated. She could count each rib and easily define
his skeletal anatomy. His skin was pale, almost grey in the sallow
light of the room, and virtually hairless, yet as she looked more
keenly she realised he was far from emaciated for his muscular
definition was honed and well defined. She admired his musculature
as she scanned along his left arm.

She gasped as her gaze fell upon his upturned
wrist. Sitting where his watchstrap would lie was a large scar
across the inside of his wrist. A second, more prominent scar sat
just above it. There was no mistaking what they were. She stared in
disbelief to discover that a man of Cavendish’s reputation had at
one point chosen to slash his wrist.

Her eyes filled with tears as she considered
her recent traumatic past yet even so, she had never felt the need
for suicide. She leaned forward and reached out with her left hand,
the desire to touch the scars proving to be irresistible as she
lightly brushed her finger over the more prominent of the two
scars.

She cried with alarm as Cavendish sprang
upright and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her down on to the bed
so that she lay on her back to his right. He pinned her shoulders
to the bed with his hands as he straddled her waist and leaned over
her, his pale eyes looking hard and soulless. Kate could smell his
stale breath and body odour and even in her frightened state
wondered when he had last showered.

“They were a cry for help,” he whispered as
he smiled, keeping his mouth firmly clenched. “You know the
interesting thing about trying to kill yourself is that afterwards
you’re forever curious about dying. It wasn’t frightening at all.
You can feel life ebbing away in a detached, delicious way. I still
remember the disappointment of waking up in hospital.” He smiled
again and she stared wide-eyed back at him with a feeling of morbid
fright but also fascination.

“You know, Ms Watercombe, it is inadvisable
for a beautiful woman to sneak up on an Untersucher when he is
asleep, we are a dangerous, unpredictable breed.”

He eased his hand inside the folds of her
dressing gown, resting his palm teasingly on her breastbone. He
spread his fingers to caress her skin, discovering the swelling
contours of her breasts. She followed his eyes as he exaggeratedly
moved his head from side to side as if trying to peer inside the
folds of her gown.

His smile expanded to reveal his white teeth
and she watched with curiosity, as the scar on his cheek appeared
to move by its own volition. Cavendish’s smile morphed into a laugh
as he contemplated the day ahead. He was definitely in one of his
better, more playful moods after a sound night’s sleep and the
violence of the previous day.

He knew where he would come in future if he
ever needed to rest, for Flash possessed an invigorating quality.
Cavendish’s libidinous attributes had been stirred but the words of
Horst Steinbeck’s warning rang loudly in his ears.

“I think you’d better leave, Kate, before I
forget I’m a gentleman and do unspeakable things to you.”

He knelt upright and raised his knee allowing
Kate to tumble inelegantly off the side of the bed. She quickly
raised herself from the worn carpet, feeling flustered and excited
in equal measure by her brush with Cavendish. Her face and neck
blushed as she glanced across to his kneeling body, for she could
hardly fail to notice his own excitement.

Fighting the compunction to flee the room she
doggedly stood firm, refusing to be intimidated. Regaining her
composure, she straightened her long blonde hair and slowly
adjusted her dishevelled gown.

“You know the word around the seminary is
that you are gay,” she said forcefully but evenly. Cavendish
glanced down to beyond his stomach and shrugged dismissively.

“Kate, you shouldn’t listen to what people
say, anyway, I like surprising people. Sometimes, I think life
would be far simpler if I was. Just don’t tell Christian, he’ll be
very jealous of our morning assignation. Oh, and thanks for the
coffee.”

Kate scoffed at his insinuation, turned
towards the bedroom door, and sauntered unhurriedly away, hiding
her smile from the Untersucher. The smoking chastisement would have
to wait.

Even Thomas Beckett was aware that the
dynamic within the house had changed at some point during the past
twenty-four hours. He struggled to define the transformation and
was reluctant to ascribe it to the arrival of Emily.

It was eight o’clock on Thursday morning and
Beckett found himself pensively stirring a tea bag in his mug. He
had been surprised the previous evening when Houghton had switched
on the TV and together they had watched ‘News Night’ and enjoyed
berating the various interviewees whose pronouncements did not
coincide with their own points of view.

Beckett was startled by Houghton’s
metamorphosis, his relaxed attitude reminded Beckett of the man he
had met the previous year, yet it was Houghton’s leftwing comments
that most amazed him; he misguidedly believed the police force to
be inherently rightwing fascists.

Emily had somehow managed to win over the
confidence of Blanch, which he considered no mean achievement in
itself, the two women retiring the previous evening with an air of
conspiratorial glee. Blanch had amazingly offered him a glowing
smiled. Emily continued to mystify him, and despite their intimate
conversation the previous day, he still felt ill at ease with his
feelings for her.

The kitchen was warm, heated by the
conservatory that soaked up the weak rays of the watery April
sunshine.

“You can’t expect Emily to meet Cavendish
dressed as she is,” announced Blanch from the kitchen table over a
bowl of cornflakes. Beckett glanced at Houghton to witness his
response to her statement. Houghton, similarly entrenched at the
breakfast table, addressed Beckett as he lingered over his brewing
tea.

“Take her to Fakenham when Blanch and I visit
the crime scene, use that card the firm gave you,” Houghton
instructed Beckett.

Thomas Beckett had momentarily forgotten
about the new plated Ford Focus, which stood on the gravel drive
outside Flint House, as organised by Bethan Williams, who he now
considered his Fairy Godmother. A credit card in his name, but from
an unknown account, had similarly been hand delivered. He had
received a curt text message from Cavendish stating the postcode to
guide him to Flash Seminary.

Houghton glanced at his watch. “Time we
weren’t here, Blanch,” he said to his sergeant, “where is Dr
Spelman, anyway?”

“I suggested she laid in, Sir,” replied
Blanch, “she’s had a difficult few days.”

Both men looked upon Blanch but hid their
curiosity with regard to Blanch’s uncharacteristic concern for
Emily’s well being, certainly when compared to the previous day.
Houghton raised himself laboriously from the small table.

“We’ll see you later at Flash, Tom. Don’t
take any chances with Emily, I know you trust her but I don’t think
Marchel will be very pleased if she goes AWOL. Get my drift?”

Beckett nodded dutifully at Houghton and
noticed Blanch shake her head contemptuously at her chief’s lack of
trust in Emily.

Fakenham was a pleasant market town to the
discerning eyes of Beckett. The hostile wind of the previous day
had fled to leave a benign if somewhat overcast spring day. Beckett
appraised the retail outlets as he and Emily explored the streets
of the Norfolk town and was intrigued as to whether it would be
able to furnish anything that ran to Emily’s tastes. She suffered
no such apprehension as she entered into the fray with gusto,
Beckett trailing in her wake, nodding compliantly, if somewhat
vaguely, when asked for his ill informed opinion.

“What do you think?” she asked regarding a
black and white striped summer dress.

“Very nice,” he answered without
conviction.

“I should have brought Blanch along instead
of you,” suggested Emily with a condescending smile.

“You two seem suddenly very pally,” he
stated, hoping not to sound jealous. She cast him a furtive look as
she explored a rail of dresses in the department store.

“Well weren’t you the one who said I was good
at the ‘girly’ thing? I have to admit; when I turn my mind to it I
can be damned good.”

“So how did you win her over?” he asked with
uncharacteristic directness.

“Come on, Tom. I know we had a heart to heart
yesterday but you can’t expect me to reveal all my secrets.” She
gave him her most contrite smile that so effectively absolved her
of all transgressions.

Beckett continually glanced at his Rolex
during the shopping trip, he was acutely conscious of having to
drive to Flash and deliver Emily into the hands of Marchel
Cavendish. The idea of meeting the German suddenly filled him with
dread.

Upon returning to Flint House, Beckett
changed into the dark grey suit, purchased at Emily’s insistence,
along with the pristine white shirt and black Italian leather
shoes. He made a final check around the house and smoked two
cigarettes whilst Emily changed upstairs.

When she reappeared, Emily was a changed
person. Beckett considered it bizarre how he had become accustomed
to her recent casual appearance, how easy it was to become
habituated with her presence. She wore a black suit with a cream
blouse and skilfully applied makeup and he recognized the striking
woman he had first met in Bristol. She caught the look of doubt in
his eyes.

“Well?” Emily asked. Beckett smiled
respectfully. She read his troubled thoughts and smiled. “It’s
still the same me, you know. But I’ll be buggered if I’m going to
meet Herr Cavendish without wearing my full war gear.”

“He’s not German, apparently,” said Beckett
absently, his mind preoccupied by the turmoil of conflicting
emotions aroused by the forth coming encounter of the two people
who now seemingly ruled his life and dominated his thoughts and
dreams.

“You don’t have to go,” declared Beckett in a
moment of reckless emotional tumult. “I’ll take you to a railway
station.”

“And why would you do that?” asked Emily as
she edged stealthily towards him.

“I won’t let him hurt you,” he mumbled,
staring blindly at her new patent leather heels, anywhere but into
her enthralling eyes.

“Of course you are going to take me to him,”
she said calmly as she put her hands on his hips.

“But...” Emily’s hands squeezed his hips and
silenced him, allowing her to interject.

“You’re going to take me to Herr Cavendish,
and one way or another, this ridiculous episode will be put to bed.
I’m not going to come between you and him. Your relationship is
anything but clear to me or anyone else it would appear, but I
realise it’s important to you and I’ll not come between you and
Cavendish. You know, Tom, I’m not getting any younger; when I look
back on what I’ve achieved it amounts to nothing. I’m lonely and
unloved. Whatever Cavendish’s intentions, it can’t be any worse
than my current situation. Present company excluded.” She dazzled
him with a smile and kissed him lightly on his cheek.

"Come on," she whispered. "Let’s get this
over with.”

The drive to Flash was conducted in silence
save for the commands of the satnav as it directed them northwest
towards Derbyshire. Emily continually glanced at the navigation
device and watched the miles countdown to their destination.
Beckett sensed their mutual tension increasing as they headed
towards the unknown.