The Hand of God

by James Craig

  Sitting uncomfortably on Dominic Silver’s new blood-red leather sofa, the disgruntled plod took a slurp from his cola. As Don Johnson socked another criminal in the mouth without creasing his shapeless pastel jacket, he let his attention drift towards the coffee table in front of him. Sitting on the glass top was a pile of papers about three inches thick, next to another, unopened, can of Coke. Leaning forward, Carlyle realised he was looking at a selection of property details that had been collected from various estate agents scattered around west London. On top were the particulars for a three-bedroom penthouse flat with a small roof terrace just off the King’s Road. The asking price made him wince.

  After a few minutes, Dom appeared in the living room, pulling a Rust Never Sleeps T-shirt over his head while tunelessly mumbling the chorus of ‘Welfare Mothers’. Trying to make himself more comfortable, Carlyle sat back on the sofa, pointing at the papers with his toe. ‘That price. Is it a typo?’

  Bending over, Dom peered at the six-figure number printed in large bold type next to the address. ‘No, ‘fraid not.’

  ‘That’s a fuck of a lot of money,’ Carlyle observed.

  ‘It is what it is,’ his host grunted.

  ‘You moving, then?’

  ‘Thinking about it.’ Picking up the Coke, Dom retreated from the table and flopped into the matching leather armchair in the corner of the room by the window. ‘Not that place, though.’ He grinned. ‘It’s in a nice enough neighbourhood, but I want something better.’

  ‘Jesus, Dom.’ A familiar mix of envy and irritation coursed through Carlyle’s brain until his temples throbbed. As an officer of the law, he might look askance at his mate’s drug-dealing, but he couldn’t help but lust after Dom’s turbo-charged lifestyle; the boy was well on the way to meriting his own guest appearance on Miami Vice. ‘How would you explain having the cash to pay for something like that?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’s not a problem. As you might expect, I have people who sort that kind of thing out for me.’ Dom popped the ring pull and chugged down half the can before letting out a modest burp. ‘Anyway, that’s all boring stuff. How’s the little lady?’

  ‘Fucking hell.’ Carlyle giggled nervously. ‘You can’t call her that.’

  ‘Why not?’ Dom’s grin grew wider as he glanced around the room. ‘She’s not here, is she?’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘So she’s never going to know, unless you let it slip.’

  ‘I’m hardly likely to do that, am I? I’m not that stupid.’

  Dom gave him a look suggesting that that was a matter of some continuing debate.

  ‘I’m not,’ Carlyle said huffily. Finishing his Coke, he placed the empty can on the table, pulled a copy of that morning’s Daily Mirror from the back pocket of his jeans, unrolled it and began scanning the back page, which was given over to Scotland’s inevitable elimination from the World Cup.

  ‘You Jocks fucked up again,’ Dom chuckled. ‘Didn’t ya?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Carlyle said wearily. ‘Let’s see how your lot get on.’

  ‘At least we’re still in it,’ Dom observed.

  ‘That’s only because you haven’t played anyone half decent yet.’

  ‘Fair point,’ Dom conceded. ‘But at least we’ve lasted longer than your boys.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Folding the paper in half, Carlyle tossed it on top of the estate agents’ particulars. ‘So, you’ve had a go at my girlfriend and my heritage. Is there anything else?’

  Dom gave an innocent shrug. ‘Bit touchy today, aren’t you?’

  No more than usual, Carlyle thought. ‘How would you like it if I had a dig at your bird?’

  ‘My bird?’ Dom chortled.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Carlyle persisted. ‘How would you like it?’

  ‘I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment,’ Dom mused.

  The realisation hit Carlyle that his own relationship status was currently in some doubt. He hadn’t seen Helen since the post-Betty Blue debacle. So far, he had called her three times without getting past her father. Waiting for her to return his calls was wearisome, and he tried to push it to the back of his mind. ‘Still,’ he mumbled, ‘you’d be pissed off.’

  Dom thought about it for a moment. ‘Depends on what she was like, I suppose. But I’ve got nothing against Helen; she seems like a very nice girl.’

  I wouldn’t call her that, either, Carlyle thought as he descended into a dark funk. Dom and Helen had met only the once; the idea of introducing his best mate to his girlfriend had caused considerably more angst than any meeting with his parents, and with good reason, as it turned out. He had arranged a quick drink at the De Hems Dutch bar, off Shaftesbury Avenue; it had not gone well. The two of them seemed to get on each other’s nerves from the start; Dom started laying on his cheeky chappy charm with a trowel, while Helen became increasingly monosyllabic. The final straw came when a drunken punter came up to Dom and tried to buy some weed. After Carlyle explained what Dom actually did for a living, Helen simply picked up her bag and walked out.

  ‘Why don’t we do something next Saturday?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘We could all go out next Saturday night, have a few drinks and maybe grab a curry at Tandoori Nights.’

  ‘The three of us?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘I wouldn’t want you playing gooseberry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve got someone I can bring along.’

  Carlyle looked at him suspiciously. ‘I thought you didn’t have a girlfriend.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I can’t rustle up someone to take to dinner.’

  ‘An escort?’

  ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘Helen would go mad.’ Even assuming I can get her to come in the first place.

  ‘No. Nice girl. Eva Hollander. I’ve seen her a few times . . . nothing serious.’

  Carlyle was briefly distracted as the episode of Miami Vice came to an end. With the criminals safely behind bars, the credits rolled before the video clicked off and began rewinding itself. Ignoring the asthmatic noise coming from the VCR, Carlyle asked: ‘Does this poor girl know what you do for a living?’

  ‘Sure,’ Dom said evenly. ‘Her husband is a customer of mine.’

  ‘Her husband?’ Carlyle spluttered. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘He’s a total shit.’ Dom gazed at the window. ‘I feel a bit sorry for her really. Hopefully she’ll leave the dickhead and stop wasting her time trying to get him clean.’

  You could always stop selling to him, Carlyle reflected. ‘So you want her to dump him and run straight to you,’ he quipped.

  ‘Nah.’ Dom shook his head. ‘I think she’ll go travelling. She graduated from university last year; needs to put that loser behind her and see a bit of the world. It’ll do her good.’

  A vision of the double date from hell flashed through Carlyle’s mind. ‘She’s not a customer as well, is she?’

  ‘Not really. Well, maybe just the occasional toot. She’s far too smart to be using regularly.’

  I’ve heard that before, Carlyle thought sourly.

  ‘Speaking of which . . .’ Leaning back in his chair, Dom reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a clear grip-seal plastic bag containing an off-white powder. ‘Want some whizz? This is good stuff.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Dom’s eyes gleamed with mischief.

  Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Good lad. Half a gram?’

  ‘Maybe just a quarter.’

  ‘The customer is always right,’ said Dom with a flourish, tossing the bag to Carlyle, who caught it in his left hand and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Pay you next week?’

  ‘Sure.’ Dom gestured towards a pile of glossy magazines sitting on the floor next to the coffee table. ‘Help yourself to a couple more mags if you want. Last month’s Playboy is quite good. There’s an interesting article in there about . . . something or other
.’

  Carlyle leaned forward, then hesitated. A vision of his mother swooping into his bedroom to confiscate his porn stash made him wince. ‘Nah,’ he replied. ‘It’s okay. Thanks, though.’

  ‘You know what, Johnny boy?’ Dom chuckled. ‘You need to get out of there.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Carlyle groaned.

  ‘I don’t know how you put up with your mother.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘You can crash in the spare room for a while if you like. You could have the place to yourself when I move.’

  Carlyle shook his head. He could never afford Dom’s flat, and even if he could, there were other considerations. Helen would never allow it, for a start. And his employers would be less than impressed as well. ‘I’m sorting something out. It’ll be fine.’ Suddenly energised, he jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll be getting somewhere soon.’

  9

  Still mulling over his conversation with the spook, Walter Callender wandered into the kitchen with a Spar plastic bag that he had retrieved from his car. From the bag he took a tin of tuna and a pint of full-fat milk, along with a cheap metal tin-opener. Finding a couple of bowls in a cupboard over the sink, he poured a third of the milk into one and placed it on the floor. ‘Hey, cat. Where are you?’

  One of the neighbours had told him that the cat was called Tebbit, after the politician. That would explain the animal’s anti-social attitude, he thought sourly. Cutting open the tin, he dumped the tuna into the second bowl and placed it next to the milk. ‘Tebbit. Dinner time!’

  After a couple of moments there was the sound of gentle mewing from somewhere behind the cooker. The inspector touched the bowl of food with the toe of his brogue. ‘It’s good stuff. I eat it myself.’

  There was another small yelp, but the cat showed no sign of coming out. Callender checked his watch. Mrs Callender would be getting his tea ready. ‘Come on,’ he pleaded. ‘I haven’t got all night.’

  Grabbing a fork from the cutlery drawer, he dropped to one knee, speared a fat chunk of tuna and waved it towards the gap between the cooker and an avocado-green fridge freezer that hummed noisily in the corner of the room. Instead of the cat, however, he was confronted by something else: a strip of torn grey cotton peeking out from under the side of the fridge. In the gloom, it took the inspector a moment to understand precisely what he was looking at. ‘Damn,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘how did we manage to miss those?’

  Struggling to his feet, Callender dropped the fork in the sink and began searching for a plastic bag. ‘More to the point, how did Brewster’s people manage to miss them?’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody smart alecs.’

  By the time he got round to calling Frank Scudder, Tebbit had demolished the tuna. and was agitating for a second bowl of milk. Shooing the cat away, the inspector waited patiently for his colleague to come to the phone.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ the pathologist asked cheerily. ‘I would have thought you’d have been off home by now.’

  God, Callender thought wearily, everyone’s got me pegged as a total time-server. That’s what happens when you leave London for the sticks, I suppose. ‘Sorry to call you so late,’ he said. ‘I was just wondering how the autopsies were going.’

  ‘I haven’t started yet,’ said Scudder. ‘There was a smash on the ring road last night. Some teenager sent a Capri into the back of a lorry. Caused a five-mile tailback. Three dead, six injured. Your two got pushed back down the waiting list, sorry.’

  Typical. ‘Okay, fair enough. Just one quick question.’

  ‘For you, Inspector, anything.’

  ‘Mrs Scanlon. Was she wearing knickers?’

  ‘Didn’t you check?’ Scudder chuckled. Not waiting for a reply, he continued: ‘Since you ask, no, she wasn’t. Moreover, in anticipation of your next question, from a preliminary investigation conducted before Boy Racer and his mates muscled their way on to my slab, it looks like she was sexually assaulted.’

  ‘By her husband?’

  ‘I would doubt it. According to his medical records, Hugh Scanlon had been struggling with impotence for more than a decade. Not such a big surprise when you think about it, given his age.’

  ‘Okay. When will you get round to them?’

  ‘Tomorrow at the earliest. More likely the day after. I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Ending the call, Callender wandered back into the kitchen to retrieve the Marks & Spencer plastic bag into which he had placed the newly discovered evidence. Locking up the house, he slowly made his way to the car, conscious of the lace curtains twitching in next door’s front room. The sun had disappeared behind the clouds and the temperature had fallen by maybe ten degrees, leaving a discernible chill in the air. Worse than that, it looked like he would be late for dinner again.

  Settling into the driver’s seat, the inspector knew what he had to do next. He had a lot of time for Frank Scudder and was sympathetic to the difficulty of doing his job with the limited resources provided by Berkshire County Council. If he was going to solve this case, however, Callender knew that he was going to have to call on additional help.

  It was impossible to ignore the flowers. Thirteen, no, fourteen roses, red, yellow and orange – a riot of colour in the otherwise monochrome office. From a secret admirer, perhaps?

  Catching her underling staring at the bouquet, the commander gave him a sharp look. ‘They brighten the place up a little, don’t you think?’

  ‘Er, yes, I suppose so,’ stammered Palmer, blushing slightly, worried that the old bag might be able to read his mind. These little chats in her office were becoming an unfortunate habit, and he wondered what she had in store for him this time. One thing was certain: she wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in his opinion of the flowers.

  Picking up a small card from her desk, Brewster smiled. If anything, it made her look scarier than usual. ‘They were a very nice surprise when I arrived in the office this morning.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ A thought popped into Palmer’s otherwise empty brain. Security probably shoved them through the X-ray machine in the basement. He smiled at the idea. The petals would probably drop off in a matter of hours. ‘Who were they from?’ he asked hopefully. Any scuttlebutt about the commander would be gold dust. After more than a year in Gower Street, Camilla Brewster was still an enigma to her colleagues. Forty-something. Divorced. Rumoured to be dating a still-in-the-closet junior minister in the seemingly impregnable Thatcher government. Not a lot to go on, really. The nearest they’d come to any colour was when Marchmain had tried to start a rumour that she liked it doggie-style; no evidence had ever been forthcoming and Palmer had always thought that his chum’s dirty mouth and loose tongue had played a not insignificant part in his subsequent deployment to the Falkland Islands.

  Ignoring the question, Brewster carefully returned the card to the table. When she looked again at Palmer, the smile was gone. ‘I went out to the countryside,’ she said grimly, ‘to see your latest handiwork for myself.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Palmer had known this was coming, but still it sent a shiver through his bowels.

  ‘Scanlon was handled . . . satisfactorily.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, bracing himself for the but.

  ‘But Mrs Scanlon . . .’ Brewster said grimly. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing? You had no authority in that regard.’

  ‘The old girl started cutting up rough,’ the agent said, staring off into space as if trying to recall the details. ‘I had to take some action.’

  A look of profound disgust swept across the commander’s face. ‘And the . . . assault?’

  ‘I had to make it look realistic.’ Palmer shrugged, crossing his legs to cover the quivering erection in his trousers.

  ‘You had no authority,’ Brewster repeated flatly.

  ‘I knew that if I didn’t take appropriate action, there was the likelihood that the operation would have been compromised.’

  Appropriate action? Brewster s
huddered. Was the boy some kind of psychopath? She realised that she should have sent him to the Falklands when she’d had the chance. Now she was stuck with him. Unbidden, a quote from Shakespeare popped into her head:

  I am in blood

  Stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more,

  Returning were as tedious as go o’er

  ‘So you tried to make it look like she’d hanged herself?’ The commander shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘It was enough to create some doubt in the minds of the local plod,’ Palmer continued, confident in his ability to brazen it out. ‘It’ll give us more time to, er, sort things out.’

  ‘Give me more time, you mean,’ Brewster barked, furious at herself for allowing this young whippersnapper to turn the tables on her so easily. ‘Time to clean up your mess.’ She stared at the flowers, but even that small pleasure seemed to have been ripped away from her. ‘If I’m not careful, Palmer, you are going to send me the way of my predecessor.’

  ‘How is Commander Sorensen?’ Palmer asked solicitiously.

  ‘Struggling, apparently. His wife has refused to relocate to Port Stanley and the poor fellow is hitting the bottle quite hard, by all accounts.’

  ‘Mm.’ Palmer had heard as much on the grapevine. Marchmain said they were running a book on how long it would take their boss to end up face down in the South Atlantic. Anyway, back to the matter in hand. ‘Do you need me to do anything about the Scanlon situation?’

  ‘No, no.’ Brewster dismissed the suggestion with an angry wave of her hand. ‘You’ve done enough already.’

  ‘So, everything is . . . sorted?’

  ‘Yes. My people . . . our people have gone over the scene and cleaned it up. CID has been told to keep its nose out. The local constabulary will remain nominally in charge. Happily these people couldn’t catch a cold. But I will keep an eye on it, just in case. I consider it my penance for letting you loose on those poor people in the first place.’

  Ignorning the barb, Palmer spread his hands wide. ‘So what can I help you with today, ma’am?’

  Brewster shuddered, then quickly pulled herself together. Taking a slim manila envelope from a drawer, she pushed it across the desk. ‘Now that Scanlon has been dealt with, we need to move up the food chain.’