The Hand of God (11 page)

Letting the fork fall back on to the plate, Palmer grimaced. When even the
Mail
was this hostile, the game was surely up. The newspaper, however, was the least of his worries. After interminable delays, he had managed to escape from Savile Row police station, but there was still a charge of indecent exposure and lewd behaviour hanging over him. The way things were shaping up, even a posting to Port Stanley was looking vaguely desirable. Maybe he could try and work something out with his Falklands-based colleagues Marchmain or Flyte; he had absolutely no doubt that either one of them would bite his hand off if he offered them the possibility of an accelerated passage back to civilisation.

He looked at his cooling breakfast and a ripple of nausea passed through his gullet. At the very least he had aimed to present himself in front of the commander fortified, with a full stomach, but even that seemed a forlorn hope. Pushing away the plate, he took a sip of tea, wondering how much longer he could postpone the inevitable carpeting.

‘There you are.’ Before he could look up, Brewster slipped into the seat opposite and placed her purse on the table. A waitress appeared to take her order and was immediately sent scuttling back behind the counter by an imperious glare. ‘How long have you been hiding in here?’

‘Well . . .’ Palmer tried to inject the slightest hint of insouciance into his voice, but he was immediately distracted by movement behind the commander. Unable to focus on his boss, he looked past her shoulder to see a man in a tweed jacket making his way towards them with a police constable in tow. The plod was smirking like a teenager who’d just got laid; he looked vaguely familiar, but there was nothing particularly surprising about that – all those young boys in uniform looked the same. The man in the tweed jacket stopped behind Brewster.

‘Martin Palmer?’

‘That’s me,’ the spook conceded.

‘Inspector Callender.’ The man flashed a warrant card by way of confirmation. ‘I need you to come with me, please.’

A look of shock passed across the commander’s face. Keeping her gaze fixed on the wall, she made no effort to turn towards the new arrival.

‘Now look here,’ Palmer protested. ‘If it’s about the most unfortunate misunderstanding at the Duchess cinema . . .’

‘Martin Palmer,’ Callender intoned, with all the solemnity of a hanging judge, ‘you are under arrest on suspicion of murder.’

‘Murder?’ Palmer squeaked. He tried to appeal to Brewster, but she had turned to stone. Out of the corner of his eye, he was conscious of the waitress edging round the counter to get a better view of the drama.

Callender signalled to the uniformed officer for a pair of handcuffs. The plod, who seemed to be enjoying the show immensely, obliged immediately.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Palmer protested.

‘Protocol.’ The inspector waited for Palmer to struggle to his feet, then snapped on the cuffs. ‘After you, sir,’ he said, gesturing towards the door.

As Palmer walked slowly towards his fate, Brewster finally spoke. ‘I’ll have a bacon sandwich,’ she instructed the waitress, ‘and a pot of Earl Grey tea.’

The basement restaurant was packed with a happy, slightly inebriated crowd. The staff at the Tandoori Nights flitted from table to table, handing out menus, taking orders and delivering plates of food and trays of drinks to hungry customers. Every so often a table would be vacated by one group, only for it to be immediately claimed by another. Later, once the pubs shut, the clientele would take a turn for the worse, but for now, it was largely just couples wanting to enjoy their Saturday night.

Finishing his lager, Dominic Silver waved the empty pint pot in the air, signalling to a passing waiter that he would like another of the same. Without breaking his stride, the waiter collected the glass and headed towards the tiny bar at the end of the room. ‘Poor bloke,’ said Dom, stifling a burp as he watched the waiter refill his glass from a large bottle. ‘What a shocker!’

‘I know,’ Carlyle mumbled from behind his own glass. ‘But the worst thing about it is that it could have been me.’

‘I suppose.’ Dom shrugged, apparently not too bothered at the thought. Picking up an onion bhaji from his plate, he dropped it into his mouth and began chewing as the waiter reappeared with his drink. Relieving him of the glass, Dom swallowed before offering a toast. ‘To Dudley!’

‘To Dudley.’ Carlyle thought of the hapless PC Stockbridge, stuck in an intensive care bed in St George’s, and wondered if their good wishes would make him feel any better. Around the time that he had been enjoying the arrest of Martin Palmer, someone had lobbed a brick off Whitelaw Walkway, right on to Dudley’s bonce. Carlyle would have been standing next time to him at the time had he not been seconded to Walter Callender; it was another reason for him to thank the inspector. And he had Paul Lamb to thank as well. Together, the three of them had nicked a killer. Carlyle had been amazed when the professor was able to get a match from Palmer’s genetic material. It still sounded like the stuff of science fiction to him, but maybe this DNA thing would catch on after all.

‘The Castle always was a rough old spot,’ Dom observed. ‘They’re all bloody animals in there.’

Carlyle nodded sagely. ‘Yes indeed.’

‘Do you think he’ll come back?’ Dom tipped back his head and let half the pint slide down his throat.

‘Dunno.’ Carlyle broke off a piece of poppadom and nibbled it thoughtfully. ‘I wouldn’t if I was him. Not after a fractured skull. You’d have thought the Federation would be able to get him a good deal, maybe even early retirement.’

‘At twenty-four?’

‘Why not? There’s the emotional trauma, as well as the physical damage.’

‘You’ve clearly given it a bit of thought,’ said Dom, taking another mouthful of beer.

‘Well,’ Carlyle reflected, ‘if you’re not fit for duty, you’re not fit for duty.’

From the other side of the table, Helen glared at him over the top of her glass of Merlot. ‘Are you going to talk shop all night?’

Eva Hollander placed a hand on Helen’s shoulder. ‘I know what you mean,’ she giggled, her sparkling eyes locked on Dom. ‘He’s just the same. And he doesn’t even work there any more.’

Carlyle looked at Dom, and they both laughed.

‘So what are you two talking about?’ Dom retorted.

Eva took a sip of her gin and tonic. ‘Just . . . stuff.’

Carlyle held Helen’s gaze, and her smile caused a flowering of hope to bloom in his chest. Taking another swig of his lager, he felt almost giddy with happiness. Helen had finally relented and called him; they had survived another bump in the road. Indeed, he liked to think that he had almost detected a hint of contrition when she had agreed to go on a double date with Dom and his ‘non-girlfriend’. Now that they were here, the two women were getting pissed . . . and getting on like a house on fire.

‘Coppers,’ Helen laughed. ‘Who’d have ‘em?’

The Hand of God
playlist

1. Everybody Wants to Rule the World – Tears For Fears

2. Money For Nothing – Dire Straits

3. Take On Me – A-Ha

4. Miami Vice Theme – Jan Hammer

5. The Boys of Summer – Don Henley

6. Glory Days – Bruce Springsteen

7. Walking on Sunshine – Katrina and the Waves

8. Sugar Walls – Sheena Easton

9. Addicted to Love – Robert Palmer

10. West End Girls – Pet Shop Boys

11. Alive and Kicking – Simple Minds

12. Kiss – Prince

13. Higher Love – Steve Winwood

14. Sledgehammer – Peter Gabriel

15. Manic Monday – The Bangles

16. The Sweetest Taboo – Sade

17. Living in America – James Brown

18. Walk This Way – Run-DMC

19. Sweet Love – Anita Baker

20. Spies Like Us – Paul McCartney