The Hand of God (2 page)

Grunting with the effort, Carlyle planted his right foot firmly down. As he pushed forward, he felt it slide away from underneath him.
Argh!
Unable to correct his balance, he careered head first into a concrete wall and landed in a dazed heap on the ramp.

For a moment there was silence, followed by the sound of a dry cackle from somewhere above his head. Then came a hawking noise, and what felt like a fat raindrop landed on his head, accompanied by the mocking cry, ‘Ha! Fuck
you
, copper.’

At least it wasn’t a brick
, Carlyle thought, as he used the sleeve of his uniform to wipe the phlegm from his hair. Satisfied that he’d done the best he could, he lay back and contemplated the small patch of blue sky visible above the walkway as he took stock of his injuries. There was a gash on his forehead, near the hairline, and his right arm ached, but it wasn’t serious. He would have a few bruises but nothing seemed to be broken. Shuffling himself into a sitting position, he saw Stockbridge appear at the foot of the ramp.

‘What happened?’

Carlyle tilted his chin in the direction of the freshly minted dog shit that was now smeared all over the concrete. ‘I went arse over tit, didn’t I?’

Stockbridge began to grin but quickly thought better of it. From the direction of the Old Kent Road came the sound of police sirens, getting closer at a rate of knots. ‘Backup’s on the way.’

A bit fucking late for that
, Carlyle groused. Holding up a hand, he levered himself an inch off the floor. ‘Help me up,’ he commanded wearily. ‘We’d better go and tell them what’s happened, I suppose.’

Dressed for the occasion, in a tweed jacket, checked shirt, brown cords and a pair of the most sensible brogues, Martin Palmer stepped off the 11.18 from Paddington and breathed in deeply, enjoying the warm countryside air. It was a lovely day to be out of the office. And out of the city. Loosening his tie, he allowed himself a moment to take in his surroundings. ‘What a fine spot,’ he murmured, watching the handful of his fellow passengers who had similarly disembarked make their way out of the station before letting his gaze drift upwards, to take in the spire of St Mary’s parish church. ‘What a fine spot indeed.’

With the platform emptied, he sauntered slowly towards the station exit, careful to let his fellow travellers disperse before stepping through the ticket office and heading outside. Ignoring the hopeful waiting taxi driver, Palmer took a left down what passed for the main road, heading into the village proper. Keeping to his leisurely pace, he made his way past a primary school, a post office, a butcher’s and a corner shop. Apart from a bright red Mini that roared past, its aged driver squinting through the screen in search of oncoming traffic, he did not encounter another soul. It was the middle of a working day and the streets were deserted.

A hundred yards or so further on, the road forked in
two. The visitor paused to get his bearings under the branches of a massive oak tree. It was fiercely hot, even in the shade. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand as he wondered about the wisdom of his choice of such a heavy jacket. Standards of dress, however, were important. After giving the matter some careful thought, he resisted the temptation to take off the garment and slip it over his arm. From the far distance came a low, insistent rumble, and he imagined that it might be the gentle roar of artillery on Salisbury Plain. Military manoeuvres.
A bit like what I’m on.
Laughing at his own joke, he considered the road once again. Deciding to take the right fork, he began humming the opening lines of ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ as he resumed his journey.

After walking for another minute or so, he came to a rusting signpost sticking drunkenly out of the grass verge at a forty-five-degree angle. Its black and white paint had peeled off in large patches and it pointed off in the direction of a dusty field on the other side of the road. ‘Bingo!’ Palmer smiled; for once, it looked like he had chosen the right option. He assumed that Birinus Way had been named after the saint who had reputedly converted the locals to Christianity back in the seventh century; it was one of the few facts that an expensive public school education had managed to plant in his brain. Presumably it was the narrow lane that led off to the side of the field, rather than the field itself. Glancing over his shoulder to check on the non-existent traffic, he jogged over to its entrance, quickly disappearing behind a large hedge.

Somewhat incongruously, a row of six two-storey redbrick houses had been built in a shallow hollow about three hundred yards from the main road, looking out across a field containing a small copse of poplar trees. As he approached, Palmer scanned the buildings. Each property appeared well looked after, with small, tidy gardens both back and front, consisting of neatly mowed lawns surrounded by modest flower beds backing up to a low stone wall. Further back stood a line of small garages, each with the same red-painted door. All were shut and padlocked. Next to the nearest garage was a wooden stile giving access to the field beyond.

A line of washing hung limply in front of the closest house; otherwise there was no sign of life. ‘Good,’ mumbled Palmer, patting the reassuring weight in his jacket pocket. ‘That’s perfect.’

The house he was visiting was the last in the row. Stepping through the open gate, Palmer walked casually up the path and went round the side of the house, heading towards a small garden shed that stood at the bottom of the back garden. As he approached, he noticed a small wooden sign hanging from the door handle by a piece of wire. The writing was small and he had to bend down and squint to see what it said.

Gone fishing.

‘Excuse me? Can I help you?’

Straightening himself up, Palmer turned to face a stern-looking woman, about his own height, with high cheekbones and lively blue eyes under a bob of white hair. She was wearing a floral-print dress, its short sleeves showing off her tanned arms to good effect. In her right hand she carried a wicker basket containing a selection of groceries. Sticking out of the top he noticed a packet of Penguin biscuits and licked his lips.

‘Can I help you?’ she repeated, making it sound more like a threat than a question. Placing her basket on the grass, she widened her stance by an inch or two, as if she were getting ready for a fight.

‘I was looking for Mr Woolfall.’ Palmer smiled sweetly, casually dropping the name of one of the neighbours into the conversation. On first inspection, the woman looked to be in her late sixties, maybe even early seventies.
A handsome old girl
, he thought,
and just my cup of tea, too.
An idea popped into his head, causing a frisson of excitement to ripple through his chest, heading towards his loins.
Maybe I’ll drop in on her on my way home.

Tilting her head, the woman gestured back in the direction from which he’d come. ‘Wrong house,’ she said. ‘He lives at number three.’

Palmer started back down the path. ‘Ah, my mistake,’ he said, trying to grovel just a little bit. ‘Apologies for the intrusion, Mrs . . .’

‘Scanlon.’

That’s right. Marjorie Scanlon. Game old bird. Debutante of the year in 1930-something. A stalwart of the London social scene until she was caught shagging some judge and was cast out into the Home Counties wilderness.

Everything was falling nicely into place. Palmer gave himself a mental pat on the back. At this rate, he’d be home in time for tea with the minimum of fuss.

‘It’s a strange time to be making a call. Mr Woolfall should be at work.’ The woman looked at him suspiciously. ‘I was just speaking to his wife at the shops,’ she added, as if this was somehow proof of her thesis. ‘She was just off to the butcher’s to get a nice bit of brisket for his tea.’

‘Yes, normally that would be correct. Now, however, things have taken a most unfortunate turn for poor Mr Woolfall.’

‘They have?’

‘Yes.’ Pausing at Mrs Scanlon’s shoulder, Palmer lowered his voice. ‘Let’s just say that brisket might be off the menu for a while at number three, I’m afraid.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t say I mentioned it,’ he whispered, throwing a furtive glance towards the lace curtains that hung in the window of number three, ‘but he was sacked last week.’

‘No!’ The mock horror in the woman’s voice betrayed her hunger for more gossip.

Did the curtains twitch? Or did he imagine it? Turning his gaze back to Marjorie Scanlon, Palmer arched his eyebrows. ‘You can’t tell anyone about this.’

‘No, of course not.’ Now it was the woman’s turn to lick her lips. Her posture relaxed as she folded her arms, preparing to receive some juicy gossip.

Palmer thought about Alfred Woolfall sitting at his desk at Devonish & Co. in the City, daydreaming about his brisket supper, blissfully unaware of this completely slanderous conversation taking place outside his front door, and wondered if he should be hamming it up quite so much. Unable to resist, he continued with his improvised tale. ‘Well, some irregularities were discovered, you see, and certain sums appear to be unaccounted for. So far, at least.’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Scanlon, a little too eagerly.

Taking a half-step backwards, he held up a hand. ‘I really shouldn’t say any more. And not a word to poor Mrs Woolfall.’

‘No, no. Of course not.’ Letting her arms fall to her sides, Marjorie Scanlon shook her head vigorously, as she ran through a mental list of all the people whom she
would
be telling as soon as she’d squeezed the juicy details out of the strange chap standing in front of her.

‘In a situation like this, when a husband has fallen off the straight and narrow, the least he can do is make sure that his wife hears it from him first, surely?’

‘Yes, of course.’
Get on with it.
Mrs Scanlon hopped from foot to foot, like a six-year-old in need of the bathroom.

‘Anyway,’ Palmer continued, amazed at the rubbish he seemed able to spout at will, ‘I’m not really the chap who has to worry too much about precisely what has happened up to this point. Nor, indeed, about what the proper explanation for the events leading up to the matter in question might, in fact, be. Rather, my job is more to help determine and shape what happens next.’

‘I see,’ said Mrs Scanlon, obviously not having a clue what he was talking about.

‘Yes . . .’ Like an actor momentarily forgetting his lines, Palmer scratched his head and took a moment to watch a crow sitting on a nearby telephone pole while he tried to work out where he was going with this. ‘I’ve been sent here by the company, you see, to do a psychological assessment on Mr Woolfall in the wake of these . . . issues coming to light. By all accounts he’s a good chap really. And the bank will get its money back, so it’s best all round if he’s just quietly moved on to another employer.’

‘But . . .’ Mrs Scanlon frowned as she glanced back at number three, home, she now realised, to a plethora of sins, ‘he stole your money!’

Palmer shook his head ruefully. ‘You’d be amazed how common this kind of thing is. That’s the sad thing about banking these days: it’s simply not the safe, respectable profession it used to be. A get-rich-quick mentality has infected every corner of our society, corroding its very fabric. On the other hand, if we threw every light-fingered banker into jail, there would be none left. London’s role as a financial centre would be fatally undermined. The business would go to the French and the Germans. And what would that do for our balance of payments?’ Watching her hanging on his every word, he pulled from his memory a recent conversation he’d heard in the office canteen. ‘As you know, all the traditional industries in this country have either collapsed or are on the brink of collapse. Banking is about all we have left and, God knows, the socialists have done what they can to try and kill that off too. Like it or not, the bankers pay the bills. If we don’t let the City of London . . . well, get on with things, we’ll end up broke, like some banana republic.’

Mrs Scanlon harrumphed, as if to signify just how insignificant the balance of payments was compared to the fall of her neighbour.

Palmer made a face, as if to say,
I don’t disagree with you, madam, but that’s just the way of the world.
‘I’m a small cog in a big machine, Mrs Scanlon. What I do is part of the outplacement service that Devonish and Co. offers staff they have to let go, under whatever circumstances. The company needs to make sure they’re in a fit state to try and find a new job, so that they can get them off their books as quickly as possible.’

‘But I thought Alfred was doing so well at the bank. His wife told me only the other day that he was expecting a promotion.’

Palmer stared apologetically at his shoes. ‘Sadly, the spouse is often the last to know.’

‘Yes,’ said Marjorie Scanlon with feeling. ‘The poor woman, she’s going to get a terrible shock.’

‘I fear that may be correct.’ Palmer glanced down the lane. The last thing he wanted now was to see Hugh Scanlon returning home for his lunch. Happily, of the fisherman there was no sign.

‘And they’ve booked a holiday,’ Marjorie continued. ‘Two weeks in Florida next month. It wouldn’t be what I’d choose, of course, but it was very expensive. And now that the bank has dumped him, how will they be able to afford it?’ There was more than a touch of glee detectable in her voice. ‘The silly bugger really has made a mess of things, hasn’t he?’

The conversation had gone on for more than long enough. Edging towards the gate, Palmer observed, ‘It’s just the world we live in, I’m afraid.’

‘I suppose so.’ Picking up her basket, Mrs Scanlon retrieved a set of keys and headed towards her back door. ‘Well, nice to meet you, Mr . . .’

‘Er . . .’ For a moment, he was stumped. Recovering his composure, he doffed an imaginary cap. ‘Bullivant,’ he smiled. ‘Henry Bullivant.’

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Bullivant.’

‘You too, Mrs Scanlon. But remember’ – he gave her a theatrical wink – ‘not a word to anyone about this.’

Waiting until the woman had disappeared indoors, he quickly retraced his steps. Rounding the far end of the terrace, he ran past the row of garages and clambered over the stile into the field at the back. Checking that he could not be seen from the houses, he surveyed the scene. A footpath was clearly visible leading down into a wooded hollow. Beyond the trees he could just catch a glimpse of the Kennet and Avon Canal. Twenty yards away, a solitary cow stood in the middle of the field. It eyed him with a bored expression as it deposited a large pat on to the grass before wandering off down the hill.