The Hand of God

by James Craig

  ‘Can I help you?’ she repeated, making it sound more like a threat than a question. Placing her basket on the grass, she widened her stance by an inch or two, as if she were getting ready for a fight.

  ‘I was looking for Mr Woolfall.’ Palmer smiled sweetly, casually dropping the name of one of the neighbours into the conversation. On first inspection, the woman looked to be in her late sixties, maybe even early seventies. A handsome old girl, he thought, and just my cup of tea, too. An idea popped into his head, causing a frisson of excitement to ripple through his chest, heading towards his loins. Maybe I’ll drop in on her on my way home.

  Tilting her head, the woman gestured back in the direction from which he’d come. ‘Wrong house,’ she said. ‘He lives at number three.’

  Palmer started back down the path. ‘Ah, my mistake,’ he said, trying to grovel just a little bit. ‘Apologies for the intrusion, Mrs . . .’

  ‘Scanlon.’

  That’s right. Marjorie Scanlon. Game old bird. Debutante of the year in 1930-something. A stalwart of the London social scene until she was caught shagging some judge and was cast out into the Home Counties wilderness.

  Everything was falling nicely into place. Palmer gave himself a mental pat on the back. At this rate, he’d be home in time for tea with the minimum of fuss.

  ‘It’s a strange time to be making a call. Mr Woolfall should be at work.’ The woman looked at him suspiciously. ‘I was just speaking to his wife at the shops,’ she added, as if this was somehow proof of her thesis. ‘She was just off to the butcher’s to get a nice bit of brisket for his tea.’

  ‘Yes, normally that would be correct. Now, however, things have taken a most unfortunate turn for poor Mr Woolfall.’

  ‘They have?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pausing at Mrs Scanlon’s shoulder, Palmer lowered his voice. ‘Let’s just say that brisket might be off the menu for a while at number three, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t say I mentioned it,’ he whispered, throwing a furtive glance towards the lace curtains that hung in the window of number three, ‘but he was sacked last week.’

  ‘No!’ The mock horror in the woman’s voice betrayed her hunger for more gossip.

  Did the curtains twitch? Or did he imagine it? Turning his gaze back to Marjorie Scanlon, Palmer arched his eyebrows. ‘You can’t tell anyone about this.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Now it was the woman’s turn to lick her lips. Her posture relaxed as she folded her arms, preparing to receive some juicy gossip.

  Palmer thought about Alfred Woolfall sitting at his desk at Devonish & Co. in the City, daydreaming about his brisket supper, blissfully unaware of this completely slanderous conversation taking place outside his front door, and wondered if he should be hamming it up quite so much. Unable to resist, he continued with his improvised tale. ‘Well, some irregularities were discovered, you see, and certain sums appear to be unaccounted for. So far, at least.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Scanlon, a little too eagerly.

  Taking a half-step backwards, he held up a hand. ‘I really shouldn’t say any more. And not a word to poor Mrs Woolfall.’

  ‘No, no. Of course not.’ Letting her arms fall to her sides, Marjorie Scanlon shook her head vigorously, as she ran through a mental list of all the people whom she would be telling as soon as she’d squeezed the juicy details out of the strange chap standing in front of her.

  ‘In a situation like this, when a husband has fallen off the straight and narrow, the least he can do is make sure that his wife hears it from him first, surely?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Get on with it. Mrs Scanlon hopped from foot to foot, like a six-year-old in need of the bathroom.

  ‘Anyway,’ Palmer continued, amazed at the rubbish he seemed able to spout at will, ‘I’m not really the chap who has to worry too much about precisely what has happened up to this point. Nor, indeed, about what the proper explanation for the events leading up to the matter in question might, in fact, be. Rather, my job is more to help determine and shape what happens next.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mrs Scanlon, obviously not having a clue what he was talking about.

  ‘Yes . . .’ Like an actor momentarily forgetting his lines, Palmer scratched his head and took a moment to watch a crow sitting on a nearby telephone pole while he tried to work out where he was going with this. ‘I’ve been sent here by the company, you see, to do a psychological assessment on Mr Woolfall in the wake of these . . . issues coming to light. By all accounts he’s a good chap really. And the bank will get its money back, so it’s best all round if he’s just quietly moved on to another employer.’

  ‘But . . .’ Mrs Scanlon frowned as she glanced back at number three, home, she now realised, to a plethora of sins, ‘he stole your money!’

  Palmer shook his head ruefully. ‘You’d be amazed how common this kind of thing is. That’s the sad thing about banking these days: it’s simply not the safe, respectable profession it used to be. A get-rich-quick mentality has infected every corner of our society, corroding its very fabric. On the other hand, if we threw every light-fingered banker into jail, there would be none left. London’s role as a financial centre would be fatally undermined. The business would go to the French and the Germans. And what would that do for our balance of payments?’ Watching her hanging on his every word, he pulled from his memory a recent conversation he’d heard in the office canteen. ‘As you know, all the traditional industries in this country have either collapsed or are on the brink of collapse. Banking is about all we have left and, God knows, the socialists have done what they can to try and kill that off too. Like it or not, the bankers pay the bills. If we don’t let the City of London . . . well, get on with things, we’ll end up broke, like some banana republic.’

  Mrs Scanlon harrumphed, as if to signify just how insignificant the balance of payments was compared to the fall of her neighbour.

  Palmer made a face, as if to say, I don’t disagree with you, madam, but that’s just the way of the world. ‘I’m a small cog in a big machine, Mrs Scanlon. What I do is part of the outplacement service that Devonish and Co. offers staff they have to let go, under whatever circumstances. The company needs to make sure they’re in a fit state to try and find a new job, so that they can get them off their books as quickly as possible.’

  ‘But I thought Alfred was doing so well at the bank. His wife told me only the other day that he was expecting a promotion.’

  Palmer stared apologetically at his shoes. ‘Sadly, the spouse is often the last to know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marjorie Scanlon with feeling. ‘The poor woman, she’s going to get a terrible shock.’

  ‘I fear that may be correct.’ Palmer glanced down the lane. The last thing he wanted now was to see Hugh Scanlon returning home for his lunch. Happily, of the fisherman there was no sign.

  ‘And they’ve booked a holiday,’ Marjorie continued. ‘Two weeks in Florida next month. It wouldn’t be what I’d choose, of course, but it was very expensive. And now that the bank has dumped him, how will they be able to afford it?’ There was more than a touch of glee detectable in her voice. ‘The silly bugger really has made a mess of things, hasn’t he?’

  The conversation had gone on for more than long enough. Edging towards the gate, Palmer observed, ‘It’s just the world we live in, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Picking up her basket, Mrs Scanlon retrieved a set of keys and headed towards her back door. ‘Well, nice to meet you, Mr . . .’

  ‘Er . . .’ For a moment, he was stumped. Recovering his composure, he doffed an imaginary cap. ‘Bullivant,’ he smiled. ‘Henry Bullivant.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Bullivant.’

  ‘You too, Mrs Scanlon. But remember’ – he gave her a theatrical wink – ‘not a word to anyone about this.’

  Waiting until the woman had disappeared indoors, he quickly retraced his steps. Rounding the far end of the terrace, he ran past the r
ow of garages and clambered over the stile into the field at the back. Checking that he could not be seen from the houses, he surveyed the scene. A footpath was clearly visible leading down into a wooded hollow. Beyond the trees he could just catch a glimpse of the Kennet and Avon Canal. Twenty yards away, a solitary cow stood in the middle of the field. It eyed him with a bored expression as it deposited a large pat on to the grass before wandering off down the hill.

  A pleasant breeze had sprung up, taking the edge off the sun’s rays, making it an almost perfect day in an almost perfect country. A green and pleasant land indeed! Embraced by a sense of immense well-being, Palmer had to resist a strong temptation to sit down for a little nap. Yawning widely, his mind returned to the packet of Penguin biscuits winking at him from Marjorie Scanlon’s basket. He glanced at his watch. It was past lunchtime and he felt his stomach rumble. ‘Patience, patience,’ he mumbled to himself. There would be time enough to enjoy the woman’s hospitality later in the day. For now, it was time to go fishing.

  3

  By the time he reached the canal footpath, the sky had clouded over somewhat and the intense midday heat had been replaced by something more humid and indistinct. Pausing to wipe his brow, he gazed into the brown water and felt a slight shiver of disgust. As a child, he had never taken to things aquatic. His mother’s half-hearted attempt to get him to learn to swim had never proceeded beyond two unpleasant forty-minute lessons at Battersea baths. The experience of the instructor – a permanently angry woman with an appalling crew cut, built like a shot-putter – smacking him round the head as she shouted at the flailing youngster to ‘Kick those fat legs, boy, kick!’ had put him off for life. In the face of young Martin’s refusal to return for a third lesson, his mother’s resistance had crumbled. Since that day, the only water he was prepared to countenance was in a carefully drawn bath.

  How deep is it in there? Stepping towards the edge of the towpath, he cautiously dangled the toe of a brogue an inch out over the water before quickly returning it to terra firma none the wiser. Overhead, somewhere above the clouds, there was the faintest of mechanical whines, presumably an aircraft heading for Heathrow. Released from his reverie, Palmer looked right, along the canal. On the far side, about a hundred yards from where he was standing, a woman was walking a couple of dogs. Happily, they were heading away from him, towards the village. He turned to his left; in the middle distance he could just make out a solitary fishing rod poking out from under the shade of a tree. Otherwise, there was no one else to be seen. Resuming his tuneless version of ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, he continued his stroll.

  He found Hugh Scanlon sitting on a small metal-framed folding chair of the kind people might take to Brighton beach on a bank holiday. The old fellow looked to be in good nick for his age, which Palmer knew to be eighty-one, indeed, almost eighty-two. At first glance, however, Scanlon appeared to be rather overdressed for a relaxed summer day by the side of the canal. He was resplendent in a pair of green cords, rather worn at the knees, and a white cotton shirt, buttoned at the neck, his yellow silk tie emblazoned with a succession of small mallard ducks. On his head was a grey flat cap of the kind Palmer’s grandfather used to wear and on his feet a pair of sturdy-looking tan walking boots. Over the back of the chair hung a brown jacket, a pipe sticking out of the breast pocket. On the ground by Scanlon’s feet was a large rectangular bait box, a small green knapsack and a tartan thermos. In one hand the fisherman held the plastic cup from the top of the flask and in the other a copy of that morning’s Daily Express, complete with the seemingly obligatory photograph of Princess Diana on the front page. His rod, supported on a small tripod, extended eight feet from the bank before a thin nylon wire disappeared into the water. Scanlon paid it no heed; the rod seemed to be doing the fishing all on its own.

  How very civilised, Palmer thought. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his Browning and let it hang by his side as casually as he could manage. The Hi-Power felt heavy in his hand and he wondered if he would ever get used to it. The weapon was supposed to demonstrate the seriousness of his intent, but, if anything, it made him feel like a fraud. It was a reminder of past failures; a replacement for one that he had lost on a previous mission, and he gripped it tightly. To lose one weapon was a misfortune; to lose a second would be marked down as severe carelessness. Worse than that, the powers-that-be would dock his pay.

  Scanlon looked up as the younger man approached, squinting against the glare. He watched Palmer come to a stop five feet from his chair.

  ‘Mr Scanlon?’

  With a tilt of his head, Scanlon gestured over his shoulder. ‘No son, he’s about half a mile further down, on the other side. That’s where he thinks the best fishing is, this time of year.’

  Palmer frowned as he lifted his gaze to the middle distance. As far as he could make out, there was no one there.

  ‘Only joking, lad,’ Scanlon chuckled.

  Palmer felt his frown deepen. He had a good mind to shoot the cheeky old buzzard on the spot. ‘Sorry, but—’

  Scanlon cut him off with a wave of his newspaper. ‘Sorry. Not much of a joke.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s always been a problem.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My so-called sense of humour. Never knew when to keep my mouth shut.’

  That’s true enough. ‘I see.’

  Scanlon took a quick gulp from the cup and Palmer noticed that his hand was shaking. ‘It’s funny what other people find funny. Or, rather, don’t.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ Palmer replied, never having given the matter any thought.

  ‘Anyway,’ Scanlon continued, injecting as much cheer into his voice as he could muster, ‘I was wondering when you’d turn up.’ Making no reference to the gun, he held up his cup and offered it to his guest. ‘Fancy a nip before we get started?’

  Palmer looked at the cup suspiciously. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Bell’s,’ replied Scanlon. ‘Not the best, but not bad for a day like today.’

  That would explain it, Palmer thought. You’re sloshed. He looked at his watch and saw that it was past lunchtime, too. How many days like this had the old chap sat here getting pickled, waiting for Palmer – or someone like him – to arrive? What a sorry carry-on. At least the poor sod wouldn’t have to wait any longer.

  An idea floated casually into his head. He glanced back down the canal. The woman with the dogs had disappeared and there was no one else in sight. They had the place completely to themselves. He gestured towards the thermos with the semi-automatic. ‘How much have you had?’

  ‘Not so much,’ the old fellow replied amiably.

  ‘Drink up then,’ Palmer commanded, slipping the gun back into his pocket. ‘Then we can get this over with.’

  ‘You’re the boss – cheers!’ Scanlon held up the cup in a mock toast, before downing its contents in a single gulp. Tossing the Express on to the ground, he reached down for the thermos, unscrewed the top and refilled the cup to the brim, splashing some excess whisky on to his trousers. Placing the flask carefully on the ground, he returned his gaze to Palmer. ‘Just one thing, old chap.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Marjorie. The lovely Mrs Scanlon.’ He gazed down into his Scotch. ‘The third Mrs Scanlon, actually, but by far the best of the bunch. I should have married her straight off the bat in ’34 when I had the chance. No doubt it would have saved a lot of anguish over the years. But hey ho, we all make mistakes, eh? C’est la vie.’ Taking another mouthful of whisky, he looked at Palmer for some confirmation of this universal truth. Finding none, he continued: ‘Anyway, none of this has anything whatsoever to do with her. Marjorie has never been involved in my professional life in any way, shape or form. So I hope that you’re not going to drag her into this.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Palmer said sharply. Looking away from his victim, he gazed into the canal. All of a sudden there was a ripple on the surface of the water and something began pulling on the line. Ignoring
the fish, he turned his attention back to Scanlon, who, despite the heat, was making an exceedingly good stab at polishing off the Bell’s in record time. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, trying his best to sound reassuring, ‘nothing is going to happen to your wife. We play fair, you know.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Scanlon muttered, ‘I know you do. I just wanted to have some clarification on that particular point.’

  ‘That’s settled then.’ Palmer smiled. ‘Now, drink up before we get started.’

  4

  Sitting at the kitchen table, Helen Kennedy pushed a strand of hair behind her ear as she inspected the various cuts and bruises that littered his face. ‘Does it hurt?’ Her expression was a perfect mixture of compassion and annoyance.

  ‘Nah, I’m fine,’ Carlyle replied, happy to play the brave soldier if it would win him some cheap sympathy. ‘They sent me to A and E for a check-up, but nothing’s broken.’ He grinned at her lecherously. ‘They gave me the day off, though, to recover.’

  ‘What happened?’ Helen asked, leaning back in her chair, all the better to get away from his raging hormones.

  Before he could say a word, his mother hijacked the conversation. ‘The silly sod was chasing after some criminal,’ she snapped, ‘and he slipped on some dog’s mess.’

  ‘You tripped up?’ Helen bit her lower lip in an attempt not to laugh.

  Gripping his Fulham FC mug tightly, Carlyle glared at his mother, even though she had her back turned to him. ‘I thought you were off to the shops, Ma.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Rummaging under the sink, she came up with a couple of Tesco plastic bags. ‘Is there anything you fancy for your tea?’ Then, more hopefully, ‘Will you be staying for something to eat, Helen love?’

  ‘That’s all right, Lorna,’ Helen said brightly. ‘We’re going out tonight.’