Free Denied to all but Ghosts by Pete Heathmoor Page A

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.
    “Good afternoon, Herr Cavendish, it is good
to see you again,” answered the receptionist. Cavendish was taken
aback by the greeting.
    “You remember me from my last visit?”
    “Oh yes, Sir, I never forget a face,” the
girl blushed when she realised what she had said and deliberately
looked away from his scar so that she appeared, from Cavendish’s
perspective, to be peering passively past his right ear.
    “I’m sorry, Herr Cavendish,” continued the
receptionist, “I didn’t mean to cause offence, I was just
trying...”
    “It’s not a problem. It is a duelling scar
and I have no problem with it, I can assure you. By the way, it is
not ‘Herr’, I am English.” The young receptionist appeared
perplexed by Cavendish’s reference to his nationality and looked to
Beckett for support.
    “It’s alright, my love,” said Beckett,
addressing the receptionist using the typical west-country tag,
“don’t take any notice of Herr Cavendish, he’s had a long tiring
trip.”
    Cavendish took his room key and retreated
from the reception desk where he spoke quietly into Beckett’s
ear.
    “Thomas, why do people think that I am
German?” Beckett smiled wryly at the floor, acknowledging
Cavendish’s lack of self-awareness regarding countless aspects of
his appearance and mannerisms.
    “I really don’t know, Marchel, perhaps it’s
because you wear German clothes?”
    “Do my clothes look German?” asked Cavendish
innocently.
    “A bit, but it’s most likely the Iron Cross
you wear around your neck, it’s a dead giveaway.” For an instant,
Cavendish’s right hand moved impulsively towards his neck.
    Cavendish glared at Beckett. Why were the
English so bloody eccentric? Beckett noted the penetrating stare of
Cavendish’s wary eyes, no longer hidden by the sunglasses. The
expression slowly softened as he made a suggestion to Beckett.
    “I’m going to take my bag to my room now,
Thomas. May I invite you for dinner, tonight, say six thirty? There
are a few things I would like to brief you on.” Beckett glanced at
his watch; it was almost four thirty.
    “Are we drinking?” asked Beckett
hopefully.
    “I’m certainly having a glass of wine,”
answered Cavendish, aware that he was regaining a taste for alcohol
since drinking in the hotel with Tina. Was that less than a week
ago?
    “Then I’ll take the car home and catch a bus
down, thanks Marchel. Oh by the way, are you paying?” Cavendish
took out his wallet and handed Beckett two twenty pound notes.
    “Here Thomas, is that enough for a taxi?”
Beckett smiled his boyish grin that won over many a stony heart as
he took the money. Cavendish was certainly not tight when it came
to expenses.
     
     
     

CHAPTER 8 . A WORD IN YOUR HELL-LIKE EAR.

    Cavendish was already sitting at the dining
table when Beckett arrived fifteen minutes late for their meal. The
restaurant, at this early hour, was sparsely filled as Beckett
meandered through the elegant room to the table.
    “I took the liberty of ordering the wine. I
hope that is agreeable to you, Thomas?” announced Cavendish,
standing as Beckett approached.
    “So long as it is cold and wet,” said Beckett
moodily.
    “Is something wrong?” Cavendish asked.
Beckett slumped at the table,
    “Oh, nothing unusual in the life of Thomas
Beckett, just the usual domestic discord. I don’t think Mrs Beckett
likes you very much.” Cavendish smiled in