Denied to all but Ghosts Read Free Page A

too, Herr Steinbeck,” replied Cavendish
as impassively as he could. Steinbeck resumed his casual survey of
the surrounding peaks, his eyes coming to rest on the distant
Zugspitze, the highest German mountain in the Alps.
    A group of schoolchildren, who had hiked
their way up the mountain, disdainfully passed them by, rendering
the alpine tranquillity with a cacophony of disparate shouts and
competing conversations, en route to the cafeteria.
    Cavendish had not seen Steinbeck since late
January. Steinbeck had been away, preparing and fighting
Cavendish’s case at the tribunal convened in Vienna to hear and
pass judgement upon the events that had unfolded in Prague.
    “Please sit down, Marchel. You’re making my
old neck ache,” insisted Steinbeck. Cavendish obliged, twisting his
long legs through the wooden framework of the picnic table.
    “How long have you been suspended now?” asked
Steinbeck absently.
    “Since January,” scowled Cavendish irritably,
knowing that his boss knew full well how long he had been idle.
    Steinbeck picked upon Cavendish’s rancour and
smiled.
    “Yes, my business has never been so well
attended yet so badly served.” Steinbeck was referring to
Cavendish’s enforced sojourn at his antique shop in Schongau where
he had begrudgingly endured his months of suspension.
    Despite his outward bravado, Cavendish was
tense with trepidation. The reason this meeting had been convened
was for Steinbeck to reveal the outcome of the final sitting of the
committee deliberating upon Cavendish’s fate following the shooting
in Prague.
    Thus far, Cavendish had not been able to pick
up any inferences from Steinbeck’s demeanour. During the recent
months, Cavendish had played out every conceivable scenario of
possible outcomes. As the months rolled by, the picture became
increasingly pessimistic. In the world of the firm, no news was
certainly not good news.
    “Tell me, how is your mother? I haven’t seen
her for a good while,” continued Steinbeck. Cavendish could feel
his shoulders tightening as the tension increased. The last thing
he needed was to talk about his mother.
    “She’s keeping busy. She has recently
acquired a new daughter, as I’m sure you are well aware,” answered
Cavendish with forced conviviality.
    If Horst Steinbeck was intrigued by the
notion of a woman in her early sixties having ‘acquired a daughter’
then he betrayed nothing to Cavendish. It was the younger man who
continued to speak, his words fuelled by the irrational hope that
Steinbeck’s enquiry regarding his domestic life heralded good
news.
    “Yes, she appeared on the scene a few months
ago, she is my father’s handiwork by some woman in Munich.”
Steinbeck frowned at Cavendish’s inappropriate choice of words.
    “Your new sister appears to have made an
impression on you, Marchel,” commented Steinbeck dryly.
    “Half-sister,” corrected Cavendish stiffly.
“She means nothing to me but she has certainly made a big
impression on Mum, they are virtually inseparable.”
    “Very interesting, do you think she should be
investigated? Odd that your father's love child should suddenly
appear on the scene out of the blue? Anyway, Fräulein Kretschmer
can wait until you have finished the job you are about to do for
us.”
    Cavendish found his legs convulsing in
response to the adrenalin rush as he interpreted Steinbeck’s last
statement. He found himself standing, looking down on Steinbeck’s
unnaturally thick grey hair, grinning with relief and unbound
joy.
    “Sit down, Marchel, your excitement over the
reprieve is understandable but I’m sure no one else wants to share
in your moment, you’re scaring the school kids.” Cavendish sat down
but the grin refused to be vanquished despite his best efforts.
    “There is a job for you in England,” said
Steinbeck as he followed the flight of a crow-like Alpine Chough
before it alighted upon the railings to his left. The smile
instantly evaporated from