There was no sign of any local police; Cavendish considered that Houghton had thus far refrained from informing them to enable him to put a cohesive story together. Cavendish had to concede that it would be a tough assignment, even for an experienced officer like Josh Houghton. He suspected a contribution by Sir Fletcher Dobson at the Home Office would be greatly appreciated.
The fete had carried on as if nothing had happened, as indeed for the vast majority of attendees nothing had. The arrival of the air ambulance added an unexpected excitement to the day and no one seemed to question the reason for its dramatic arrival. According to Edward Montgomery, any sound of gunfire had been masked by the brass band’s stirring rendition of ‘The Dambusters March’.
Edward joined Cavendish and they stood beside the marquee where Emily and Beckett had been abducted. The young man had not seemed phased and looked almost relieved when Cavendish gave a rapid, though concise, account of what had happened, confirming Cavendish’s appraisal of the young man all those days ago.
“I’d like to apologise, Herr Cavendish. I’d guessed what was going on but didn’t say anything, I was too weak, too frightened,” confessed Edward.
“You were dealing with some very dominant and dangerous characters, Edward. I’m very sorry all this had to happen. I appreciate it was your family after all. Do you think you could run things here?” asked Cavendish with unusual sensitivity.
“I’d like to get away for awhile, see the world, you know,” replied Edward thoughtfully.
“So would you be interested?” asked Cavendish.
“Me? The firm are hardly going to consider me for the position, are they?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A word in the right ear from the right chap,” smiled Cavendish.
“Thank you, Herr Cavendish,” said Edward appreciatively.
“I’ll make sure someone is available to keep an eye on you.” The Untersucher already had Blanch in mind for the task.
Cavendish returned his gaze to the fete and the mingling crowd. He glimpsed a familiar group in the distance and hoped that they would not recognise him. Sure enough, they spotted him and Simeon redirected the triumvirate in his direction. Simeon took the lead, talking animatedly to the taller, dignified Hugo Victor. As ever, Miles Goldstein brought up the rear. Cavendish hated the notion that he owed Hugo Victor an apology and his thanks. He folded his arms and stood dispassionately beside Teddy Montgomery as Simeon thrust himself aggressively before him.
“Untersucher,” demanded Simeon, prodding Cavendish’s chest with a pointed index finger, “Untersucher, you owe Hugo an apology.” Hugo Victor appeared expressionless behind his sunglasses and the broad brimmed Fedora hat, which he wore to prevent his scalp burning in the strong April sunshine.
“And why is that, Simeon?” asked Cavendish in a measured manner.
“For falsely accusing him!” answered Simeon uncompromisingly.
“Simeon, if I apologised to everyone who I falsely accused, what sort of reputation would I have?” Simeon just glared at Cavendish. “Although as it happens,” continued Cavendish, “I will apologise to Hugo, not for the accusation, but for the disrespect I showed for his flowers and to the other people in the tent. I’m sorry, Hugo, it was all part of the theatre of the moment.”
Cavendish held out his hand to Hugo Victor and in doing so physically brushed Simeon Goldstein to one side. Victor silently shook Cavendish’s hand.
“I really would like that cup of tea now, Simeon,” said Miles plaintively.
“Take Miles for a cuppa, Simeon,” suggested Victor, “I’ll be with you shortly.” Simeon gave Cavendish a sour look and led Miles away in search of tea.
“Good friends of yours then, Herr Cavendish?” asked Edward Montgomery flippantly.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” replied Cavendish, “but for what it’s worth, Simeon Goldstein is my godfather.” Edward took the hint and departed, leaving Cavendish alone with Victor.
“So have you worked out what’s been going on?” asked Victor, once Edward was out of earshot.
“I believe so,” replied Cavendish, “but I would like to hear your opinion.” Allowing Victor to talk was the inquisitor’s tacit acknowledgement that he was in the Englishman’s debt. Victor spoke quietly, taking up a position at Cavendish’s shoulder.
“Estelle was ordered by someone in the firm to disseminate information about a fictional sword leading to your involvement. Said he knew all about her past misappropriation of funds and now it was time to make amends.”
“Who was he?”
“No idea, he was very careful to cover his tracks.”
“How do you know of this?”
“Estelle and I have a bit of a thing going on. She confessed to me what was happening on Tuesday after Bob refused to answer her calls. The disappearance of the letters was supposed to be your undoing.”
“So they were never stolen?”
“Well, they were taken from the Goldsteins but they should only have gone to Estelle, to be held until you were discredited and then make a miraculous reappearance.”
“But no one anticipated the involvement of Jasmine and her boyfriend.”
“Right, they obviously heard about the sword, thought it was real and unfortunately enacted their fantasies about making it on their own.”
“I assume that Patterson senior was Estelle’s man.”
“Yes, he was a small time dealer in the States and has known Estelle and Ralph for years. It wasn’t such a smart move bringing his son over from the States though, if he hoped a little English culture would straighten him out he was sadly mistaken. It was a fateful day when he met Jasmine, a dreadful synergy of malice was the result.”
“So we are to assume,” suggested Cavendish, “that Robert Patterson visited the rented house in Norfolk on Tuesday, the day before we found Emily. He somehow discovers Slingsby’s body when Brad and Jasmine were out; unaware that Emily is incarcerated upstairs. He panics, believing Estelle or Ralph have set him up, decides to take the Romanov letters for himself as payment for the double cross, having already employed Asimov to befriend Miles, and ends up being murdered by the last person he thought he could trust, his son.”
“Yes, a wicked web had been spun, don’t you think.”
Cavendish stood in silence as he pessimistically considered who on the council would have been prepared to instigate this appalling affair.
“So are you happy your assignment is closed?” asked Victor. Cavendish pondered the notion before speaking. The heresy had been dealt with but it threw up many questions about his future. In typical Cavendish style, he ignored Victor’s question and asked his own.
“Why did you help me, Hugo?”
“You? I wasn’t helping you, I was helping Estelle.”
“How convenient that Ralph took my bullet,” suggested Cavendish. Victor turned and glared at the German as he replied.
“Ralph was an unloved abuser. It’s no bloody wonder you’ve upset so many people. You’re a cold heartless bastard.”
“And you are not, I suppose,” said Cavendish evenly.
“No, I don’t use people, certainly not my so called friends.”
Victor left Cavendish to go and search for Estelle.
Cavendish was alone for some minutes with Victor’s accusations ringing in his ears. Before his trip to England the criticism would have been ignored, dismissed as irrelevant, yet now he suddenly found himself defending his actions, justifying his reasoning to an accusing self. He was saved from his conscience by Houghton who materialised by his side.
“How are you, Josh?” asked Cavendish tenderly.
“I’m alright, Marchel, I just didn’t feel too good back there, I’m sorry,” he said warily, unsure of which Marchel Cavendish was present.
“We all have are moments, Josh, it’s what makes us who we are.”
Houghton was lost for words, he did not know if Cavendish was simply paying him lip service. All he knew was that he was seriously g
oing to have to reassess his involvement in firm cases, especially involving a certain German. This was supposed to be a straightforward investigation, yet once again, Cavendish had ensured that it was not.
“Thanks for helping Thomas,” said Cavendish. Houghton looked puzzled. “I mean the helicopter,” clarified Cavendish.
“Oh, that,” replied Houghton absently, “that was nothing compared with what I’m going to have to do to clear up this fuckin’ mess. It was you who saved him.” Cavendish ignored the comment.
“How was Thomas?” asked Cavendish, trying not to sound concerned.
“He was stable. I’ll take you to see him later. I’m going to seal off the crime scene for now. I’ll get my people down here; Dobson is in the loop so that will help. Can’t say he sounded very happy though, having his weekend disturbed. Blanch can look after the crime scene. Your friend Hugo Victor just turned up to console Mrs Montgomery. He looked rather upset by it all.”
“Oh, he is just a big wusser,” said Cavendish acerbically.
“Some sort of what?” asked Houghton, “is that a German word?”
“I don’t believe so; it’s a word I picked up from Thomas.”
“I think the sooner you get back to Germany the better, Herr Cavendish.”
“You’re right, Josh. I’m beginning to yearn for the mountains, I’m beginning to miss the yodelling,” said Cavendish with a wry smile.
“Do you think Blanch will be okay on her own with the Montgomery kid? Can we trust him?”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be fine. Edward is a breed apart from the rest of his family. She did well today.”
“I know,” said Houghton proudly. Cavendish then asked a question that would not go away.
“Have you told Beckett’s wife yet?”
“No, I thought that we should go to the hospital first, you can follow me. I’ve arranged to pick up a WPC and we’ll pay Mrs Beckett a call later. A shit end to a fuckin’ shit day.”
“You did fine, Josh, you’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“I bloody well hope so, Marchel.” Houghton somehow doubted he would.
Thomas Beckett lay in a hospital bed on the north side of Bristol. It was early evening by the time Cavendish and Houghton arrived. Cavendish hated hospitals, he hated doctors for their earnest sincerity and he disliked nurses even more for their compassionate natures. He hated seeing the distress and helplessness of the patients.
The German was expecting to see Beckett in a single room and was surprised when they were steered into a ward containing four beds, curtained for privacy. All the beds were occupied and a friendly nurse pointed them towards the first bed in the corner on the left. Houghton left him to perform the onerous duty of informing and collecting Susan Beckett. A further surprise greeted Cavendish when he saw Emily Spelman sitting at Beckett's bedside where she was holding his hand and quietly talking to him.
Cavendish stayed back for a moment and examined Beckett’s savaged face. The Bristolian appeared to be conscious and was gazing at Emily with his healthy left eye, taking long blinks as his eyelid closed for a few seconds before struggling to reopen. Cavendish was seriously considering leaving the ward before his presence was detected when Beckett’s eye flicked to glance in his direction.
Cavendish would later swear that he saw Beckett smile at him even though his mouth was incapable of such articulation. Emily looked around to establish the source of Beckett’s sudden distraction and as she noticed the Untersucher, she offered him a captivating smile.
Although wearing a white bandage, tufts of hair still managed to bristle stubbornly from Emily's head. A white doctor’s coat, which she must have acquired to cover her ruined dress, gave her the appearance of a scalped Doctor. He smiled to himself when he appreciated that was exactly what she was. She beckoned Cavendish over to join them and took his hand as she reached up on tiptoe to kiss his right cheek.
“Thank you,” she said appreciatively.
Cavendish felt overwhelmed by a strange emotion he barely recognised. He could not speak, he was simply aware of smiling at Beckett, at Emily and even at the nurse who came in to check on her patients. The nurse indicated that she wanted to check Beckett's drip, requiring Emily to step aside. The movement parted the hands of Emily and Cavendish and with contact broken the spell under which Marchel Cavendish was temporarily bewitched vanished.
Cavendish and Emily edged towards the bottom of the bed where he leant over to speak softly through the bandage that covered her right ear.
“You haven’t got long, Emily. Josh is collecting Susan Beckett.”
Emily looked up into his face with a look of incomprehension before the reality of the situation sank in. He saw the tears in her eyes as she looked at Beckett, who had traced her movements to Cavendish side. If the wounded man had heard what Cavendish had said to Emily, he made no indication of reacting to the imparted information.
Over an hour elapsed before Houghton returned with a distraught Susan Beckett. Cavendish had been sitting in the corridor and upon seeing the arrival of Josh, Susan Beckett and a uniformed police officer, had quickly darted into the ward to give Emily the heads-up.
Houghton gave Cavendish a weary roll of his eyes as he escorted Beckett's wife to her husband’s bedside. Cavendish left the ward to avoid seeing the reaction of his friend as his wife made her theatrical entrance.
Sue Beckett was genuinely shocked at the news of her husband’s illness. The tears were genuine enough, so too the emotion that swept over her. However, the promise of the dramatic scenario of a hospital visit as opposed to the undying love for her husband had prompted the sentiment. After all, how could any woman not fail to be moved by the attention and the excitement of calling upon her dying husband in hospital? Even when the nursing staff assured her that his life was not in danger, the pleasure of the moment had only been spoilt a little.
Yet she did have a slight reservation as she walked to her husband’s bedside. She knew the NHS was in financial difficulties but was it really necessary to have her husband treated by a doctor with such an obvious head wound and dubious hairstyle?
She had to confess however, that the way the doctor’s face hovered close to her husband’s ear and whispered her words of healing in such a tender way was most moving.
CHAPTER 46. THE GEOMETRY OF THE SOUL.
The Monday of the last week of April saw Marchel Cavendish arrive home. He noted how the trees in the village had developed a thicker coat of green during his absence.
Unusually, he had enjoyed the drive home from the airport and had taken the road from Oberau, driving up the twisting mountain road that climbed for ten kilometres from the valley floor before levelling out as it reached the cloister at Ettal.
He parked the hire car in the small car park by the Ammer River, where he had arranged for it to be collected later, and walked the remainder of the journey through the quaint alpine streets to his apartment. It was during the walk that depression began to set in. It was an inexorable sadness at the prospect of the bleak days ahead. He knew his position in the firm was anything but secure.
He decided to wait before informing his mother or Magda of his return. He had to finish his report for Horst Steinbeck before his assignment could truly be said to be finished. Nevertheless, he made two swift calls en route, one of which was to Steinbeck to let him know of his return, the other was a voicemail message.
When he turned the key to open his apartment door, it was already mid afternoon. The rooms smelt stale after being uninhabited for the best part of a month. He dropped his holdall on the floor beside his desk and opened the doors out on to his balcony. Lighting a cigarette, he rolled his eyes over the sun kissed summit of Kofel. This was the time he hated the most and he knew his reaction to this case would be extreme. It had been an emotional rollercoaster for the normally indifferent Untersucher.
He set about completing his report, most of which had been written at Flash and only the subsequent events required notation. He wr
ote in a plain simple and honest style and often wondered if Horst Steinbeck amended his prose for their mutual benefit. He initially struggled to compose the text as he relived the moments at Yoxter but soon the words began to flow and by five o’clock, his initial draught was complete. He knew he should take some time out before running a final corrective eye over the report.
The events at Yoxter were much harder to write than he had imagined, he stumbled over the phraseology as he attempted to play down the intensity of the moment. He declined to mention any suggestion of collusion that had taken place between Estelle and the committee, as he remained unsure of the extent of their involvement.
He moseyed into the kitchen to make coffee and as he opened the cupboard door, his eyes alighted upon a bottle of unopened Polish Wodka. The taste, or perhaps more accurately, the effect of the drink, seemed a far more appealing prospect than coffee. He took the bottle and a glass tumbler and returned to his desk. By the time he had proofread his composition and made the necessary amendments, over a quarter of the contents of the bottle had disappeared.
A thought suddenly struck Cavendish. He reached for his holdall, unzipped it and took out Beckett’s camera. There was no way he would allow Susan Beckett to get her hands on that. More by luck than judgment he found the camera’s memory card, extracted it and placed it into his PC’s card reader.
Beckett’s photos appeared on the computer screen. There were a few shots of the early days of the investigation but the majority were of Chesterfield, Wells and Flash Seminary. He guessed that he should not have been surprised to see so many shots of Emily Spelman. There were photos that he had not realised Beckett had been able to take, including several of the themed evening at Flash. Cavendish smiled forlornly as the images scrolled before his eyes.
A distant rumble of thunder echoed around the Alpine range, the sound sustained by the natural acoustics of the mountain topography. Cavendish sighed deeply, a storm was on the way and although it was early in the year, the region had enjoyed a fine spell of weather so it was only to be expected. He looked at his watch and sighed again, his head already swimming with the effects of the alcohol. He knew he had better shower now before apathy ensued.
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