Free Denied to all but Ghosts by Pete Heathmoor

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