The Hand of God (8 page)

Staring into his lap, Carlyle was forced to admit that he had not.

‘Bit of a boring place to die,’ Marshall said drily. ‘Anyway, it was a while ago. Presumably you’re referring, technically, to my stepmother?’

‘Our apologies,’ Callender conceded, in a tone that suggested he took such bureaucratic cock-ups in his stride. ‘I was referring to Mrs Marjorie Scanlon.’

‘Marjorie was his third wife,’ Marshall explained, keeping the matter-of-fact tone going. ‘My mother was number two.’

‘I see.’ Callender nodded. ‘Still, we’re sorry for your loss.’

Carlyle raised an eyebrow.
Sorry for your loss? What are we these days, the bloody Samaritans? You’d never get anything as poncey as that from Jack Regan.

Marshall muttered something under her breath that sounded to Carlyle very much like
no great loss
, before sticking a rictus grin on her face. ‘Thank you for letting me know, Inspector.’

‘You are taking it very calmly,’ Callender observed.

‘He’d had a good innings and she . . . well, she wasn’t my mother. Both of them drank too much and he lived in that fantasy world of his, full of traitors and spies and so on. He was like a little kid who’d made a living out of playing cops and robbers.’ She shot them an unapologetic look. ‘Sorry, but you know what I mean.’

Callender nodded. Carlyle just stared at the painting, unable to work out what the inspector was hoping to get out of the visit.

‘I don’t know how my mother put up with it for so long,’ Marshall continued. ‘And then he ditched her, after almost twenty years. She never got over it, the silly cow.’ Draining her glass, she contemplated the bottle on the table for a long moment before deciding to resist the temptation for now. Carlyle watched as Callender pulled a small business card from his jacket pocket and, leaning forward, placed it next to the bottle.

‘That’s the details for the local funeral director. Apparently your father had already made all the necessary arrangements.’

‘I’m sure,’ was her only reply.

Pushing himself up from the sofa, Callender got to his feet and gestured for Carlyle to do the same. ‘Well then,’ he said solemnly, ‘we need to be going. Once again, let me express our condolences.’ When Marshall, gazing aimlessly out of the window, did not respond, he added: ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

Carlyle was relieved to find Whitelaw Walkway clear of any hostiles. Ushering the inspector towards the stairs, a thought suddenly struck him. ‘She didn’t ask anything about what happened. You would have thought she would have wanted to know how they died, her dad at least.’

‘You get all sorts of reactions, lad,’ Callender replied sagely, ‘when you give people news like that.’ He patted the constable on the shoulder.

Carlyle stopped and looked up at his colleague. ‘Do you think she’s in shock?’

‘I think she’s pissed,’ said Callender, moving round him and skipping down the stairs. ‘And after everything that’s happened in that family, she probably couldn’t care less.’

Back at the entrance to the estate, Carlyle was even more relieved to find the police Escort waiting for them still in one piece, its driver unmolested. Clearly the locals were off their game today. As they reached the car, he turned to Callender and smiled. ‘Sorry it was a wasted trip.’

The inspector scratched his head, careful not to leave a single slicked-back hair out of place. ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ he smiled.

‘But what did you get out of Claire Marshall? Nothing, as far as I could see.’ Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t even remember the inspector asking the woman any substantive questions.

‘I didn’t come here to see her,’ Callender explained, reaching for the door handle.

‘Oh?’

‘No, not really.’ Callender stood on the kerb, carefully looking Carlyle up and down as if unable to make his mind up about something. ‘Can you keep your mouth shut?’

‘Yes,’ said Carlyle a tad too eagerly. ‘Of course I can.’ It was one of the few things he knew he
could
do.

Callender pondered it for a moment longer. ‘Okay,’ he said finally. ‘Let’s go and see someone who will be a lot more useful than Claire bloody Marshall.’

Martin Palmer reached the bottom of the page and blinked. Unable to focus on the text in front of him, he blinked again. With some dismay, he realised that he couldn’t remember a single word he’d just read. Maybe it was an imbalance in his brain, a lack of a particular protein or something, another consequence, no doubt, of his mother’s attempt to place him on a starvation diet. Clearly it was having a terrible effect on his short-term memory. Then again, words had never been one of his strong points. They brought back memories of school. Unhappy memories.

Pushing thoughts of 4B from his mind, he closed the file and pushed it across his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he laced his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. It needed a coat of paint. Just like the rest of the place. As far as anyone knew, the last time the department had enjoyed a decoration budget it was managed by Kim Philby.
Explains the drab, Soviet-style decor
, Palmer reflected drily.

Philby, one of the most infamous traitors of all time, had been the subject of not one but
three
books by Hugh Scanlon. There had been another two about the Cambridge Five, the spy ring of which he was a leading member. Compared to them, who was Maurice Peters? Little more than a complete nobody. It was arguable whether the man was even a traitor at all. But a senior ex-service operative writing his memoirs was a clear breach of the Official Secrets Act. The
Daily Mail
had described it as a ‘truly shocking threat to national security that could put the lives of untold agents in the field at risk’.

That’s the problem with people these days,
Palmer mused,
they simply have no respect for anything, whether it be signed contracts or national security. Always bleating about the so-called ‘public interest’ in order to justify their shallow and venal behaviour.
It was all just too much.

Peters, feeling cheated over his pension, had pocketed a six-figure advance from an American publisher and signed Hugh Scanlon as his ghostwriter. With the book due to be published abroad, beyond the reach of the British courts, the powers-that-be had decided that more drastic action was required. That was where Palmer came in.

He had no idea whether Peters’ memoirs contained anything of any interest to anyone. Of course, the newspapers speculated about the ‘explosive revelations’ contained therein, but then they would, wouldn’t they? The draft manuscript that Brewster had retrieved from Scanlon’s study was safely behind lock and key in her office. Palmer wouldn’t be reading it even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. All he was concerned about was finishing the job.

After a rather rushed lunch in the Brideshead Café, close to the office, he took a short cab ride to the Pitchfork Club, down by the river in Millbank, in search of his quarry. When he arrived, the press conference called by Peters’ agent had just broken up. Waiting for the throng in the Cromwell Room to disperse, Palmer manoeuvred his way behind Peters, who was holding court in front of a gaggle of journalists. They were waiting, pens poised over ring-bound notebooks, for a final juicy quote.

‘I have no doubt,’ Peters opined, unaware of the new arrival, ‘that Hugh Scanlon was murdered by the security services. They’re trying to shut me up.’ It was the first time that Palmer had seen the man in person. His initial impression was of an eccentric-looking bloke with wild blue eyes and a shock of unruly white hair, who still retained an imposing physical presence despite being in his late sixties. His shabby suit looked like it had been slept in, and Palmer was reminded of nothing so much as a tramp from one of the
Just William
books he vaguely remembered from his childhood.

The journalists finally dribbled away. Palmer waited until they had the room to themselves, then stepped in front of the old man, hand extended. ‘Mr Peters . . .’

Taking a half-step backwards, the retired spook shoved his hands in his pockets, his busy eyebrows knitting together in disgust. ‘Who are you?’

‘The name’s Palmer,’ came the cheery reply. ‘I’m from—’

‘I know where you’re from, sonny,’ Peters said sharply, edging further away. ‘I can spot one of you from a mile away.’

Palmer stepped forward, conscious that they appeared to be practising dance steps together.
Keep smiling
, he told himself, wishing that he could finish off the old bugger on the spot. ‘Don’t you mean one of
us
?’

Flaring his nostrils, Peters looked like he was about to spit on the carpet. He thought better of it and jabbed an angry index finger towards his latest foe. ‘We’ve got nothing in common,’ he hissed, ‘so why don’t you just run along?’ He tried to push past the younger man, but Palmer moved into his path.

‘I think you need to come with me,’ he said quietly, trying to inject a little menace into his voice, opening his jacket to give the old-timer a clear sight of his side arm.

Peters’ reaction to the glimpse of the gun, however, was only to smile. Palmer felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to face a giant of a man, easily six foot three and built like the proverbial brick outhouse. He glowered at Palmer. ‘Everything all right, Maurice?’

‘This is Kelvin McKillick,’ Peters explained with relish. ‘He’s a producer at ITN. Ex-SAS. He’s very interested in me as a story. So unless you want him to break your neck, or worse, stick a camera in your face, I suggest that you bugger off.’

Palmer hesitated.

‘Of course,’ Peters continued, his eyes twinkling with mischief, ‘if you
were
to suffer a broken neck, it would be a terrible accident, just like Hugh Scanlon.’

Feeling the hand on his shoulder tighten, Palmer reluctantly turned towards the door.

‘You know what was completely unprofessional?’ Peters said behind him.

Sod off, you old bastard
, Palmer seethed.

‘The wife,’ the old man continued. ‘That was totally unnecessary and deeply suspicious. If you had been working for me, I would have had you sacked on the spot.’

Feeling his face going red with embarrassment, Palmer restricted his response to a grunt as he kept walking.

‘Mark my words,’ Peters cooed cheerily as he disappeared through the door, ‘that will bring you down, sooner or later.’

After more than ten minutes stalking through the Wolfson Building, they finally found Laboratory 6. On the door of Room 415 was taped a printed sign that said
PROFESSOR PAUL LAMB
. Below that had been added in red biro:
Please knock and wait to be invited to enter.
Ignoring the instruction, Callender pushed open the door and disappeared inside without breaking his stride. By the time Carlyle followed him through, he was engaging in a hearty handshake with a middle-aged man in a white lab coat. The professor was a rather unprepossessing fellow; about five foot eight, with a small paunch, tired blue eyes and a most unfortunate comb-over that did nothing to hide his bald pate.

‘Sorry to burst in on you like this, Paul,’ said Callender, taking a half-step backwards to reveal Carlyle hovering in the background. ‘This is one of my colleagues, John Carlyle.’

All the young constable got from the scientist was a facsimile of a smile and the briefest of nods. ‘No, no, not at all,’ he responded, immediately turning his attention back to the older man, ‘but didn’t I hear somewhere that you’d retired?’

‘Not quite,’ Callender explained, his tone more than a little apologetic. ‘We moved to Berkshire. Mrs C had fancied it for some time,’ he added, sensing that some kind of explanation was necessary.

Poor sod, Carlyle thought.

‘My commiserations.’ The scientist chuckled. ‘How long did it take you to realise that you were bored?’

Callender smiled sadly. ‘About two weeks.’

‘Ah yes,’ the professor mused, ‘the things we do for the sake of domestic harmony. Anyway, what brings you to Imperial College?’

From his holdall Callender retrieved a clear plastic evidence bag about the size of an LP cover. Inside was what appeared to Carlyle to be a pair of knickers. ‘I was wondering if you would look at something for me.’

Taking the bag, Lamb held it up to the light above their heads. ‘Messy.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Callender. ‘There should be plenty of genetic material on there for you to find.’

‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do.’ Lamb tossed the bag on to a nearby workbench. ‘Give me a couple of days, okay?’

‘That would be great. Thanks.’

‘Do I have something to compare it to?’

‘Not yet.’ Callender grinned sheepishly. ‘Soon.’

Lamb nodded. ‘Is this official?’

The inspector’s grin grew wider. ‘Not yet. Soon.’

‘All right, all right.’ The professor shook his head, as if he was dealing with a troublesome but likeable student. ‘I suppose it is better if I don’t know. Come back in a couple of days. In the meantime’ – he gestured towards a pile of files on the bench – ‘I’ve got work to do. Forgive me if I don’t offer you a cup of tea.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Callender, winking at Carlyle. ‘I think we’ll head off for a glass of something stronger. It’s been a long day.’

‘Fair enough. The Union Bar is just across the road. It has some good guest ales at the moment. Cheap, too.’

‘Sounds perfect.’ Callender gestured for Carlyle to lead the way. ‘See you the day after tomorrow.’

They arrived at the bar to find it packed. There were one or two funny looks, but no one said anything about his uniform. Carlyle gestured towards a small TV screen hanging from the ceiling in the far corner of the room. It commanded the rapt attention of about ninety per cent of the almost exclusively male clientele. ‘I’d forgotten about the football,’ he groaned. ‘England are playing Argentina.’ From what he could make out, the game was still scoreless.

‘Maradona will stuff ’em,’ Callender muttered under his breath as he pushed past a couple of dishevelled-looking students to reach the bar. ‘Hopefully.’ Catching the eye of the girl behind the bar, he ordered a whisky. ‘What d’ya fancy?’