Denied to all but Ghosts (8 page)

“But Mum said it would be a waste of
money!”

“You what?” Anger engulfed Beckett’s normally
good-natured core.

“She said sending a girl to uni would be a
waste of time and money. That’s not fair, you let Robert go!”
Robert was Beckett’s eldest son.

“Sorry, love. I had no idea. I’ll speak to
her later, promise. If you want to go to uni then you’re going,
okay?” Sarah nodded against his chest. “Tell you what, you do your
revision, I’ll sort out the washing and we’ll take the boys out for
lunch, buy a burger or something. How does that grab you?”

Sarah’s gentle sobbing abated and she pushed
herself reluctantly away from her father’s comforting embrace.

“You know what, dad. You’re the best!” she
hastily kissed him on his cheek and departed to memorise the German
prepositions that required the accusative case.

Alone, Beckett gave a huge sigh. How had his
relationship with Sue reached such a nadir of distrust and
animosity? He could blame the influence of the Catholic Church as
much as he liked but he knew their problems ran much deeper.

It was perhaps just as well that at that
precise moment Beckett’s mobile phone rang. He took the phone from
his pocket and looked at the caller ID, the phone stated ‘Unknown
caller’. He let the phone ring until the voice mail kicked in.

Staring at the silent phone, he swore under
his breath, memories of the argument with Sue the previous evening
hit him like an avalanche. One of her accusations was that as a
freelance photographer he was not proactive enough in seeking work.
He naturally argued his case but in this instance, she was correct.
The call may have been from a potential client and he had declined
to accept it.

He silently fumed and began to construct his
case for the coming evening’s argument concerning Sarah attending
university when his mobile startled him as it rang again. This time
Beckett answered the call from the withheld number.

“Hullo?” answered Beckett using his
‘professional voice’, which he denied he ever used or possessed.
“Hullo?” Beckett repeated.

“Thomas, good morning, it’s Marchel, how are
you?”

Despite not having heard the voice for almost
a year, the distinctive timbre was instantly recognisable. It
reminded him of a stereotypical arcane BBC newsreader attempting to
suppress a German accent but not quite managing it.

“Marchel who?” Beckett had always pronounced
his name ‘Marshall’, making no attempt to enunciate the French
epithet correctly.

“Marchel Cavendish, we met last year in
Marlborough. You remember; the case of the missing German shepherd
dog?”

How could Thomas Beckett fail to recall the
event? Well, at least what the acquired concussion permitted.
Beckett’s body flushed with anticipation, akin to the feeling he
remembered as a child when he realised it was almost Christmas.

“How could I forget a man who had his face
cut in two by a cutlass? How are you, Marchel?” asked Beckett
evenly.

Cavendish paused before answering;
recollections of Beckett’s mellifluous voice with the reassuring
trace of the West Country inflection came flooding back to him.

“I am well thank you, Thomas. Actually, it
was a duelling sabre, not a cutlass.”

“So how can I help you exactly?” Beckett
asked, suppressing his rising excitement.

“Well, Thomas, I was hoping we could
meet?”

“Why does your phone show up as an ‘Unknown
caller’? I distinctly remember putting you in my contacts list.
You’re not trying to sell me something are you, because if you are
you can piss off, I haven’t got any money.”

Beckett cringed. Why had he said such a
stupid thing, why did he not know when to shut up? Then he recalled
how Cavendish had hurt him, how he believed he had been abandoned
in hospital with concussion. He had phoned Cavendish many times
after leaving hospital but his calls went unheeded. It was all so
reminiscent of the first date with a girlfriend when he was a
teenager.

“Sell you something? No, it is the way the
phone is set up. It is so that I do not receive unwanted calls.
Thomas, I could be in Bristol on Friday. Can you meet me at Temple
Meads railway station?” Cavendish’s question was met with silence.
“Thomas, are you still there?”

“Yea, I’m still here, but my phone is
wondering whether it wants to speak to someone it doesn’t
recognise”.

Cavendish ignored the comment, mostly due to
his bafflement.

“I could be in Bristol around 16:00, will
that be alright?” asked Cavendish.

“Four o'clock. Nobody says ‘16:00’,”
corrected Beckett.

“Do I detect a hint of antagonism in your
voice, Mr Beckett?” asked Cavendish, smothering his rising
frustration. Why did everyone in England have to query everything
he said?

“Cavendish, I’ve not seen you for twelve
months, the last time we saw each other I was laying in a hospital
bed suffering from concussion and you never even brought me any
grapes. How do you expect me to sound?” replied a truculent
Beckett.

“I deposited £30,000 in your bank account. I
believe, at the time, you could buy a good many grapes for that
amount of money.” Again, Cavendish was greeted by silence. “Thomas,
are you there?”

“Give me a call when you arrive,” said a
grinning Beckett before ending the call.

The man stood beside the blue Ford Focus
casting furtive glances around him, his eyes always drawn back to
the main station entrance beneath the Tudor Revival styled clock
tower, four sandstone pointed pinnacles adorning each corner. The
wooden spire that once sat atop the tower was lost many years ago
due to the attentions of the Luftwaffe.

He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of
his green army surplus coat and hunched his shoulders to raise the
upturned collar against his exposed neck. The light but persistent
rain continued to fall from the dour late afternoon sky.

His short hair with ‘executive highlights’
was without a parting and already the rain had began to drip onto
his forehead and become trapped by his full dark eyebrows.
Sometimes he regretted that the style of coat, which he referred to
as a parka, did not possess a hood, but he refused to look like a
sixties Mod.

As he continued his surveillance, he wondered
if he would recognise the German who he had agreed to meet at such
short notice. He had only known the man for a few weeks and that
was over twelve months ago. They had met by accident when the
German had interviewed him during the investigation into the
disappearance of the dog that he was photographing for its
eccentric owner.

He had annoyed the German by showing his
amusement at Herr Cavendish’s earnest endeavours into looking for a
missing animal. Despite Thomas Beckett’s irreverence, Marchel
Cavendish had obviously seen something in him that he liked, for
the investigator asked him to assist him with his
investigation.

Beckett was happy to go along with the
investigator, or so called Untersucher, despite his anomalous way
of speaking and his even odder moods. He found something
fascinating, almost exotic about Marchel Cavendish, and dare he
admit it, something to like, in a masochistic way.

The concussion he had received from the dog’s
owner when he had somehow come between the investigator and a
tirade of abuse and violence had not been appreciated. Yet the
ridiculously handsome pay cheque he had received for doing, what
was in his own opinion, not a lot, was more than adequate
compensation.

The German had explained to Beckett the
reason for the investigation and had even filled him in on who his
employers were. The details, if somewhat implausible, made perfect
sense at the time. Yet dealing with the improbable was never a
problem for Beckett, being unhappily married to a devout Irish
Catholic. The complexities of her particular faith were equally
unfathomable yet seemed to be readily accepted.

Now, after twelve months, he had not
forgotten what Cavendish had told him but it seemed as if his
memories were no more than the plot of a ridiculous novel. He also
remembered the pain of rejection after Cavendish’s disappearance.
The man seemed to offer so many possibilities yet had vanished from
his life as quickly as he had arrived. He resolved that he was
either crazy or desperate to be here.

When Beckett finally spotted the man emerging
from the station entrance he had no doubt as to whom he was. He
waved his arms at the German to attract his attention and wondered
why the man was wearing sunglasses whilst the skies were heavy and
overcast.

Cavendish stood only three inches or so
taller than Beckett but appeared loftier due to his narrow frame,
even when wearing the thick woollen overcoat. His angular features
may have been considered handsome had it not been for the ugly scar
that dominated the left side of his face, bisecting his eyebrow and
scouring his left cheekbone. His appearance was not enhanced by the
sardonic fixed smile he offered as he drew close to Thomas
Beckett.

“Hurry up, Cavendish. I’m parked on double
yellows,” was Beckett’s impatient greeting, as he lapsed into his
habit of over familiarity in times of stress. Cavendish smirked
knowingly. For him, Beckett’s self-deprecating humour and verbal
recklessness were facets of his character that he recalled as his
more endearing features.

Beckett’s twelve-year-old blue Focus was at
once recognisable to Cavendish.

“I thought there was a scrappage scheme to
remove old cars from the road?” asked Cavendish patronisingly.

“Old?” answered Beckett, “she’s only just run
in, a great little runner. Quick sling your bag on the back seat,
there’s someone over there giving out parking tickets.”

Beckett quickly started the Focus as
Cavendish took his time settling into the car, which pulled away
sharply causing Cavendish to miss the slot as he tried to secure
his seatbelt. Beckett drove swiftly down the ramp to wait at the
traffic lights, frustratedly tapping the steering wheel, before
joining the tiresome one-way system that led away from Bristol’s
central railway station.

Cavendish felt ill at ease, sitting close to
the person he had abandoned twelve months ago. The car smelt
unfamiliar, as did the damp Englishman, something that Cavendish
the loner found unsettling. He found it difficult to maintain his
air of premeditated conviviality.

“Where to?” asked Beckett.

“The Central Hotel,” informed Cavendish.

“Which one is that, the one off Corn
Street?”

“The one by the Cathedral.”

“Isn’t that the Regal?”

“No, it’s the Central”.

“Hell, I don’t even know my own city
anymore,” moaned Beckett. The investigator looked to his left out
of the passenger window, his eyes drawn down into the empty tidal
man-made waterway known as ‘the Cut’. His judicious pale eyes were
assailed by the thick gelatinous mud lining the sides of the deep
channel.

“There doesn’t appear to be much worth
remembering,” observed Cavendish wretchedly. He recollected little
about his previous visit to the city. Having completed the canine
investigation as a favour to von Manstein, he had left England as
quickly as possible and had given the case no further thought. His
sunglasses hid the sceptical condescension that his eyes betrayed
as he took in the offerings of Bristol.

“So, business or pleasure?” asked Beckett
brightly, seemingly oblivious to Cavendish’s melancholy.

“The former. I was hoping that you might be
available for a few weeks?” Beckett’s stomach leapt, the prospect
of another large contribution to his bank account outweighed any
misgivings he may have had about further hospitalisation.

“Well, you know how things are, but I’m sure
I could pull a few strings to make some time for you.” Beckett
wondered if Cavendish realised how few the number of the strings,
if any, required pulling. Thanks to Blythe Campbell’s inquiries,
Cavendish did.

“I don’t want to take you away from an
important assignment, I realise my job offers are few and far
between,” said Cavendish, his apparent sincerity even surprising
himself.

“No, Marchel, don’t worry, I’ll be
available.” Beckett hated to sound so keen.

Beckett parked his car on a metre behind the
cathedral and took out a laminated card from the glove compartment,
which he placed on the dashboard.

“I didn’t realise you were a qualified
Doctor,” said Cavendish as he read the card, “I almost became a
Doctor.” The first statement bore no hint of a question and Beckett
could not be sure whether the words were intended with sarcasm or
simply as an observation.

“You could have parked in the hotel car park,
Thomas,” continued Cavendish.

“Oh, that’s alright, it’s a quicker getaway
from here,” replied Beckett disarmingly.

The rain had abated to leave a dreary
afternoon as the two men walked up to the city’s elegant medieval
cathedral and turned right, the crescent shaped red-bricked Council
House to their left behind the lawned expanse of College Green. The
hotel was now just ahead to their right and Cavendish quietly
approved of the hotel’s classic Georgian architecture. He had no
recollection of the two evenings when he had stayed there twelve
months ago.

“The name is Marchel Cavendish. I believe I
have a reservation.” Beckett slyly smiled to himself as Cavendish
announced himself to the petite brunette hotel receptionist with
polite Germanic civility.

Cavendish's appearance had something acutely
acceptable yet vaguely anonymous, save perhaps for the facial scar.
He had the chameleon-like ability to blend into the background yet
had great personal presence when he decided to unleash himself upon
the world.