The Hand of God by James Craig Read Free Book Online

who lived and worked here, now that he’s gone.’
    Callender nodded solemnly. ‘I was expecting CID,’ he said finally.
Not the bloody security services.
    ‘I can imagine.’ The smile made a fleeting reappearance. ‘But we didn’t think that would be necessary,’ Brewster continued, making no effort to explain who she meant by
we
. She gave the inspector a look of such utterly shameless mock sincerity that he briefly had to look away. ‘Your team is doing a professional and thorough job. I don’t see any need to bring in outsiders at this stage, do you?’
    What would you be, then?
Callender wondered, feeling his hackles rise. It had taken him the best part of thirty minutes to get over his initial shock after she had first flashed some ID and asked to be shown the house and then Scanlon’s den. The shock had since been replaced by a growing annoyance at her relentlessly patronising attitude and her refusal to explain what she was up to.
    ‘As you can imagine,’ the commander purred, laying on what charm she could muster for the benefit of the provincial plod, ‘MI5 has followed Mr Scanlon’s career very closely.’
    ‘He was one of your spies?’
    ‘No, no.’ Brewster paused as a technician, one of the MI5 bods bussed in from London that morning, appeared in the doorway. ‘Yes, Root?’
    The technician, a small, tubby bloke with vague features, could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. He was dressed in white nylon overalls, which looked like they hadn’t been washed in some considerable time. ‘We’re finished here,’ he said quietly, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with his sleeve, ‘so we’re off back to Gower Street.’ Not waiting for a reply, he turned and headed towards the house.
    Callender returned his gaze to the empty desk. ‘What was Scanlon working on?’ he asked. ‘Was it relevant to his death?’
    ‘There’s no reason to suppose so,’ Brewster said airily. ‘What we are doing here, it’s just standard protocol.’
    ‘Of course,’ said Callender stiffly, knowing bullshit when he heard it.
    ‘Hugh Scanlon was a bona fide reporter,’ the commander continued, ‘a leading expert in his field. He served a number of Fleet Street’s great proprietors with distinction for more than four decades. He would come into our offices and give talks to our people once in a while, give them a taste of developments in the wider world, but he wasn’t on the payroll or anything like that.’
    Anything like that?
    ‘Personally, I thought he was interesting but a bit . . . obsessive.’
    From the far side of the house came the sound of a van engine roaring into life and starting off down the lane; Brewster’s crew heading back to London. ‘You knew him?’ the inspector asked.
    ‘We met maybe half a dozen times over the years,’ Brewster replied casually. ‘Either at one of his seminars or for a chat over a large tumbler of expensive single malt in the bar of the Athenaeum. Hugh liked his whisky, especially in more recent years. To be honest, I’m surprised that his liver was able to take it for so long.’
    Callender knew when he was being pushed in a certain direction and he was happy to play along. If he was going to lock horns with this woman, it would have to be further down the line. ‘Well,’ he said, edging towards the door, ‘it looks like he’d had a skinful when he went into the canal.’
    ‘I’m not surprised, really.’
    ‘I’m still waiting for the pathologist’s report from Dr Scudder, but it looks like he had polished off something like half a bottle, maybe more, of Scotch. We would have probably considered it an accident if it wasn’t for what happened to the unfortunate
Mrs
Scanlon.’
    Brewster folded her arms, waiting for him to go on.
    ‘So . . . it’s looking like he killed her and then took his own life.’ Having told her what she wanted to hear, the inspector allowed himself a rueful shake of the head. ‘It’s a sad business.’
    ‘Yes,