The Hand of God (6 page)

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, 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.

On the far wall, the tattered poster of Clyde Best had been replaced by a shiny new image of Tony Cottee celebrating a goal in front of a mass of happy supporters, torn from the pages of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 the papers with his toe. ‘That price. Is it a typo?’

Bending over, Dom peered at the six-figure number printed in large bold type next to the address. ‘No, ‘fraid not.’

‘That’s a fuck of a lot of money,’ Carlyle observed.

‘It is what it is,’ his host grunted.

‘You moving, then?’

‘Thinking about it.’ Picking up the Coke, Dom retreated from the table and flopped into the matching leather armchair in the corner of the room by the window. ‘Not that place, though.’ He grinned. ‘It’s in a nice enough neighbourhood, but I want something better.’

‘Jesus, Dom.’ A familiar mix of envy and irritation coursed through Carlyle’s brain until his temples throbbed. As an officer of the law, he might look askance at his mate’s drug-dealing, but he couldn’t help but lust after Dom’s turbo-charged lifestyle; the boy was well on the way to meriting his own guest appearance on
Miami Vice
. ‘How would you explain having the cash to pay for something like that?’ he demanded.

‘It’s not a problem. As you might expect, I have people who sort that kind of thing out for me.’ Dom popped the ring pull and chugged down half the can before letting out a modest burp. ‘Anyway, that’s all boring stuff. How’s the little lady?’

‘Fucking hell.’ Carlyle giggled nervously. ‘You can’t call her that.’

‘Why not?’ Dom’s grin grew wider as he glanced around the room. ‘She’s not here, is she?’

‘No, but . . .’

‘So she’s never going to know, unless you let it slip.’

‘I’m hardly likely to do that, am I? I’m not that stupid.’

Dom gave him a look suggesting that that was a matter of some continuing debate.

‘I’m not,’ Carlyle said huffily. Finishing his Coke, he placed the empty can on the table, pulled a copy of that morning’s
Daily Mirror
from the back pocket of his jeans, unrolled it and began scanning the back page, which was given over to Scotland’s inevitable elimination from the World Cup.

‘You Jocks fucked up again,’ Dom chuckled. ‘Didn’t ya?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Carlyle said wearily. ‘Let’s see how your lot get on.’

‘At least we’re still in it,’ Dom observed.

‘That’s only because you haven’t played anyone half decent yet.’

‘Fair point,’ Dom conceded. ‘But at least we’ve lasted longer than your boys.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Folding the paper in half, Carlyle tossed it on top of the estate agents’ particulars. ‘So, you’ve had a go at my girlfriend and my heritage. Is there anything else?’

Dom gave an innocent shrug. ‘Bit touchy today, aren’t you?’

No more than usual
, Carlyle thought. ‘How would you like it if I had a dig at your bird?’

‘My
bird
?’ Dom chortled.

‘You know what I mean,’ Carlyle persisted. ‘How would you like it?’

‘I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment,’ Dom mused.

The realisation hit Carlyle that his own relationship status was currently in some doubt. He hadn’t seen Helen since the post-
Betty Blue
debacle. So far, he had called her three times without getting past her father. Waiting for her to return his calls was wearisome, and he tried to push it to the back of his mind. ‘Still,’ he mumbled, ‘you’d be pissed off.’

Dom thought about it for a moment. ‘Depends on what she was like, I suppose. But I’ve got nothing against Helen; she seems like a very nice girl.’

I wouldn’t call her that, either
, Carlyle thought as he descended into a dark funk. Dom and Helen had met only the once; the idea of introducing his best mate to his girlfriend had caused considerably more angst than any meeting with his parents, and with good reason, as it turned out. He had arranged a quick drink at the De Hems Dutch bar, off Shaftesbury Avenue; it had not gone well. The two of them seemed to get on each other’s nerves from the start; Dom started laying on his cheeky chappy charm with a trowel, while Helen became increasingly monosyllabic. The final straw came when a drunken punter came up to Dom and tried to buy some weed. After Carlyle explained what Dom actually did for a living, Helen simply picked up her bag and walked out.

‘Why don’t we do something next Saturday?’

‘Huh?’

‘We could all go out next Saturday night, have a few drinks and maybe grab a curry at Tandoori Nights.’

‘The three of us?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘I wouldn’t want you playing gooseberry.’

‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve got someone I can bring along.’

Carlyle looked at him suspiciously. ‘I thought you didn’t have a girlfriend.’

‘That doesn’t mean I can’t rustle up someone to take to dinner.’

‘An escort?’

‘No, no, no.’

‘Helen would go mad.’
Even assuming I can get her to come in the first place.

‘No. Nice girl. Eva Hollander. I’ve seen her a few times . . . nothing serious.’

Carlyle was briefly distracted as the episode of
Miami Vice
came to an end. With the criminals safely behind bars, the credits rolled before the video clicked off and began rewinding itself. Ignoring the asthmatic noise coming from the VCR, Carlyle asked: ‘Does this poor girl know what you do for a living?’

‘Sure,’ Dom said evenly. ‘Her husband is a customer of mine.’

‘Her husband?’ Carlyle spluttered. ‘What the fuck?’

‘He’s a total shit.’ Dom gazed at the window. ‘I feel a bit sorry for her really. Hopefully she’ll leave the dickhead and stop wasting her time trying to get him clean.’

You could always stop selling to him
, Carlyle reflected. ‘So you want her to dump him and run straight to you,’ he quipped.

‘Nah.’ Dom shook his head. ‘I think she’ll go travelling. She graduated from university last year; needs to put that loser behind her and see a bit of the world. It’ll do her good.’

A vision of the double date from hell flashed through Carlyle’s mind. ‘She’s not a customer as well, is she?’

‘Not really. Well, maybe just the occasional toot. She’s far too smart to be using regularly.’

I’ve heard that before
, Carlyle thought sourly.

‘Speaking of which . . .’ Leaning back in his chair, Dom reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a clear grip-seal plastic bag containing an off-white powder. ‘Want some whizz? This is good stuff.’

‘Yeah?’

‘
Yeah.
’ Dom’s eyes gleamed with mischief.

Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Go on, then.’

‘Good lad. Half a gram?’

‘Maybe just a quarter.’

‘The customer is always right,’ said Dom with a flourish, tossing the bag to Carlyle, who caught it in his left hand and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

‘Pay you next week?’

‘Sure.’ Dom gestured towards a pile of glossy magazines sitting on the floor next to the coffee table. ‘Help yourself to a couple more mags if you want. Last month’s
Playboy
is quite good. There’s an interesting article in there about . . . something or other.’

Carlyle leaned forward, then hesitated. A vision of his mother swooping into his bedroom to confiscate his porn stash made him wince. ‘Nah,’ he replied. ‘It’s okay. Thanks, though.’

‘You know what, Johnny boy?’ Dom chuckled. ‘You need to get out of there.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Carlyle groaned.

‘I don’t know how you put up with your mother.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘You can crash in the spare room for a while if you like. You could have the place to yourself when I move.’

Carlyle shook his head. He could never afford Dom’s flat, and even if he could, there were other considerations. Helen would never allow it, for a start. And his employers would be less than impressed as well. ‘I’m sorting something out. It’ll be fine.’ Suddenly energised, he jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll be getting somewhere soon.’

Still mulling over his conversation with the spook, Walter Callender wandered into the kitchen with a Spar plastic bag that he had retrieved from his car. From the bag he took a tin of tuna and a pint of full-fat milk, along with a cheap metal tin-opener. Finding a couple of bowls in a cupboard over the sink, he poured a third of the milk into one and placed it on the floor. ‘Hey, cat. Where are you?’

One of the neighbours had told him that the cat was called Tebbit, after the politician. That would explain the animal’s anti-social attitude, he thought sourly. Cutting open the tin, he dumped the tuna into the second bowl and placed it next to the milk. ‘Tebbit. Dinner time!’

After a couple of moments there was the sound of gentle mewing from somewhere behind the cooker. The inspector touched the bowl of food with the toe of his brogue. ‘It’s good stuff. I eat it myself.’

There was another small yelp, but the cat showed no sign of coming out. Callender checked his watch. Mrs Callender would be getting his tea ready. ‘Come on,’ he pleaded. ‘I haven’t got all night.’

Grabbing a fork from the cutlery drawer, he dropped to one knee, speared a fat chunk of tuna and waved it towards the gap between the cooker and an avocado-green fridge freezer that hummed noisily in the corner of the room. Instead of the cat, however, he was confronted by something else: a strip of torn grey cotton peeking out from under the side of the fridge. In the gloom, it took the inspector a moment to understand precisely what he was looking at. ‘Damn,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘how did we manage to miss those?’

Struggling to his feet, Callender dropped the fork in the sink and began searching for a plastic bag. ‘More to the point, how did Brewster’s people manage to miss them?’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody smart alecs.’

By the time he got round to calling Frank Scudder, Tebbit had demolished the tuna. and was agitating for a second bowl of milk. Shooing the cat away, the inspector waited patiently for his colleague to come to the phone.

‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ the pathologist asked cheerily. ‘I would have thought you’d have been off home by now.’

God,
Callender thought wearily,
everyone’s got me pegged as a total time-server. That’s what happens when you leave London for the sticks, I suppose.
‘Sorry to call you so late,’ he said. ‘I was just wondering how the autopsies were going.’