Denied to all but Ghosts Read Online Free PDF

face,
feeling curiously jealous of the kids she taught at the school in
Steingaden. She was nothing like the teachers he had endured at his
German boarding school.
    In truth, he felt anything but an Untersucher
wearing his old white tee shirt and jeans. His mother had
reproached him for not dressing up for Holy day lunch and he chose
to display the petulant indifference of the spoilt single child
that he was as his contemptuous response.
    “I’d better go and change,” he said
sharply.
    “Into what?” she asked with an inquiring
smile.
    “A butterfly,” he replied charmingly, almost
as if she had put the words in his mouth. She side stepped to allow
him to vacate the kitchen and swiped him playfully on his backside
with her hand as he passed by.
    He preferred to travel light; a holdall would
contain all he needed. The bulkiest object was a smart light blue
formal jacket to which he added a few plain white shirts, underwear
and toiletries. His ‘uniform’ of the Untersucher was a pair of
slate grey turn-up trousers, open neck white shirt and a pair of
black Oxford-style leather shoes. A knee length black woollen
overcoat completed the ensemble. Cavendish was tall but possessed a
narrow sinewy frame and the coat added necessary bulk and gravitas
to his appearance.
    Once dressed, he returned to the lounge where
Tina was sitting curled up on the sofa cradling her coffee mug in
both hands.
    “My my, Herr Cavendish, what a difference a
few clothes make to a man,” noted Tina, amazed by the
transformation which transcended the sartorial.
    Cavendish walked to the Manet portrait
featuring the girl serving at the bar of the Folies Bergere and
swung it back to reveal a wall safe. He twisted the combination
lock eagerly; keen to remove the contents within. The safe
contained various documents required for the assignment and finally
he extracted what he considered the last item to complete his
assumed identity of Untersucher.
    It was a brown leather shoulder holster that
would not have looked out of place in a thirties gangster movie.
The holster housed his 1955 model Colt Python, which was one of
Cavendish’s few concessions to the theatrical. A modern lightweight
automatic would have been a far more suitable firearm but he
adhered to the adopted conceit of his profession by adopting a
weapon of character as opposed to practicality.
    Tina frowned as she watched him place the
weapon in his holdall.
    “Do you have to take that wretched thing?
They don’t have guns in England, you won’t need it.”
    “Company policy, it is the physicality of my
authority,” quoted the investigator. Tina scowled; she hated guns
and knew all too well the trouble they had caused him in
Prague.
    It was a beautiful afternoon for a drive
through the stunning scenery of southern Germany; the first golden
flowers were emerging in the Bavarian meadows. Their route took
them north to Landsberg before sweeping southwest to head for Lake
Constance and Friedrichshafen, a drive of two hundred-kilometres.
Friedrichshafen was in holiday mood as Tina parked the Golf in the
hotel car park by the Lake. That evening they dined in the quiet
hotel restaurant.
    “Tonight I’m going to have a drink,”
announced Cavendish defiantly as they sat in a secluded corner
overlooking the lake.
    “Are you sure, Marchy? You’re not a drinker,”
replied Tina, aware of his low tolerance to alcohol.
    “I kept off it because of the hearing, but
tonight, sod it! It’s my last evening in Germany. As my French
relations would say, ‘beware perfidious Albion’!” Cavendish
attracted the attention of a waiter and ordered a bottle of
Sauvignon Blanc, his preferred grape.
    “Why do you hate England so much, Marchy?
You’re half English for goodness sake!” enquired Tina as she sipped
the expensive wine.
    Cavendish exaggeratedly shrugged his
shoulders and peered outside to the water’s edge where his eyes
became entranced by the reflected light from the hotel as it