The Hand of God by James Craig Read Free Book Online Page A

it is,’ Brewster agreed. ‘And rather predictable. Hugh always did have his difficulties with women, and I believe his relationship with Marjorie was particularly tempestuous. Neither of them seemed to mellow very much with age.’
    Callender leaned against the frame of the door, the sun hot on the back of his shirt. ‘You seem to know a lot about their relationship.’
    ‘I’ve read the reports.’
    The inspector frowned. ‘He was under surveillance?’
    ‘Not particularly.’
    ‘I see.’ Callender thought back to George Smiley and the Circus. Spy stories weren’t really his thing, but le Carré’s fictional characters seemed far more real than this woman standing in front of him. Somehow she appeared as little more than a two-dimensional cut-out character.
    ‘When will you get the report?’ Brewster asked, tiring of their small talk. ‘From your Dr . . .’ She tried to recall the name, but failed.
    ‘Scudder.’
    ‘Ah yes, from Dr Scudder.’
    ‘In the next day or so, I should imagine.’
    The commander looked disappointed. ‘He takes his time,’ she said almost huffily.
    ‘He is very thorough,’ Callender explained, refusing to take offence on his colleague’s behalf. ‘And it’s not like we’re looking for anyone else, is it?’
    Brewster held his gaze for several seconds. ‘No, not if you tell me that is the case.’
    ‘Good. We’ll let you have a copy of the report as soon as we get it ourselves.’
    ‘Thank you.’ The commander took one last look at Hugh Scanlon’s book collection and gestured towards the house. ‘I think we’ve done all that we can here, for now.’
    Stepping out into the garden, Callender lifted his face to the sun as the commander strolled regally across the grass and disappeared around the side of the house. A few doors down, one of the neighbours, the Woolfall woman, was pretending to water her roses while taking stock of what was going on. The inspector looked at her blankly as he listened to the sound of Brewster’s chauffeur-driven Ford Granada heading back to the big city.

8
    On the far wall, the tattered poster of Clyde Best had been replaced by a shiny new image of Tony Cottee celebrating a goal in front of a mass of happy supporters, torn from the pages of
Shoot
magazine. Underneath the latest hero of Upton Park,
Miami Vice
was playing silently on the TV, courtesy of the chunky Panasonic video cassette player squatting on the carpet nearby. Carlyle realised that he had seen the episode before but he couldn’t remember the title or the ending. Reluctantly, he had to admit to himself that the show was beginning to get on his nerves. He had always been a big fan, but the gap between the fantasy and the reality of being a policeman was becoming too hard to bear. However long he worked in the Met, the young constable knew he would never gun down a major-league crime boss and enjoy the satisfaction of watching the criminal bleed out in a blizzard of cocaine. When you thought about it, life was fucking boring.
    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