The Hand of God (3 page)

A pleasant breeze had sprung up, taking the edge off the sun’s rays, making it an almost perfect day in an almost perfect country.
A green and pleasant land indeed!
Embraced by a sense of immense well-being, Palmer had to resist a strong temptation to sit down for a little nap. Yawning widely, his mind returned to the packet of Penguin biscuits winking at him from Marjorie Scanlon’s basket. He glanced at his watch. It was past lunchtime and he felt his stomach rumble. ‘Patience, patience,’ he mumbled to himself. There would be time enough to enjoy the woman’s hospitality later in the day. For now, it was time to go fishing.

By the time he reached the canal footpath, the sky had clouded over somewhat and the intense midday heat had been replaced by something more humid and indistinct. Pausing to wipe his brow, he gazed into the brown water and felt a slight shiver of disgust. As a child, he had never taken to things aquatic. His mother’s half-hearted attempt to get him to learn to swim had never proceeded beyond two unpleasant forty-minute lessons at Battersea baths. The experience of the instructor – a permanently angry woman with an appalling crew cut, built like a shot-putter – smacking him round the head as she shouted at the flailing youngster to ‘Kick those fat legs, boy, kick!’ had put him off for life. In the face of young Martin’s refusal to return for a third lesson, his mother’s resistance had crumbled. Since that day, the only water he was prepared to countenance was in a carefully drawn bath.

How deep is it in there?
Stepping towards the edge of the towpath, he cautiously dangled the toe of a brogue an inch out over the water before quickly returning it to terra firma none the wiser. Overhead, somewhere above the clouds, there was the faintest of mechanical whines, presumably an aircraft heading for Heathrow. Released from his reverie, Palmer looked right, along the canal. On the far side, about a hundred yards from where he was standing, a woman was walking a couple of dogs. Happily, they were heading away from him, towards the village. He turned to his left; in the middle distance he could just make out a solitary fishing rod poking out from under the shade of a tree. Otherwise, there was no one else to be seen. Resuming his tuneless version of ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, he continued his stroll.

He found Hugh Scanlon sitting on a small metal-framed folding chair of the kind people might take to Brighton beach on a bank holiday. The old fellow looked to be in good nick for his age, which Palmer knew to be eighty-one, indeed, almost eighty-two. At first glance, however, Scanlon appeared to be rather overdressed for a relaxed summer day by the side of the canal. He was resplendent in a pair of green cords, rather worn at the knees, and a white cotton shirt, buttoned at the neck, his yellow silk tie emblazoned with a succession of small mallard ducks. On his head was a grey flat cap of the kind Palmer’s grandfather used to wear and on his feet a pair of sturdy-looking tan walking boots. Over the back of the chair hung a brown jacket, a pipe sticking out of the breast pocket. On the ground by Scanlon’s feet was a large rectangular bait box, a small green knapsack and a tartan thermos. In one hand the fisherman held the plastic cup from the top of the flask and in the other a copy of that morning’s
Daily Express
, complete with the seemingly obligatory photograph of Princess Diana on the front page. His rod, supported on a small tripod, extended eight feet from the bank before a thin nylon wire disappeared into the water. Scanlon paid it no heed; the rod seemed to be doing the fishing all on its own.

How very civilised
, Palmer thought. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his Browning and let it hang by his side as casually as he could manage. The Hi-Power felt heavy in his hand and he wondered if he would ever get used to it. The weapon was supposed to demonstrate the seriousness of his intent, but, if anything, it made him feel like a fraud. It was a reminder of past failures; a replacement for one that he had lost on a previous mission, and he gripped it tightly. To lose one weapon was a misfortune; to lose a second would be marked down as severe carelessness. Worse than that, the powers-that-be would dock his pay.

Scanlon looked up as the younger man approached, squinting against the glare. He watched Palmer come to a stop five feet from his chair.

‘Mr Scanlon?’

With a tilt of his head, Scanlon gestured over his shoulder. ‘No son, he’s about half a mile further down, on the other side. That’s where he thinks the best fishing is, this time of year.’

Palmer frowned as he lifted his gaze to the middle distance. As far as he could make out, there was no one there.

‘Only joking, lad,’ Scanlon chuckled.

Palmer felt his frown deepen. He had a good mind to shoot the cheeky old buzzard on the spot. ‘Sorry, but—’

Scanlon cut him off with a wave of his newspaper. ‘Sorry. Not much of a joke.’

‘No.’

‘That’s always been a problem.’

‘What?’

‘My so-called sense of humour. Never knew when to keep my mouth shut.’

That’s true enough.
‘I see.’

Scanlon took a quick gulp from the cup and Palmer noticed that his hand was shaking. ‘It’s funny what other people find funny. Or, rather, don’t.’

‘I suppose it is,’ Palmer replied, never having given the matter any thought.

‘Anyway,’ Scanlon continued, injecting as much cheer into his voice as he could muster, ‘I was wondering when you’d turn up.’ Making no reference to the gun, he held up his cup and offered it to his guest. ‘Fancy a nip before we get started?’

Palmer looked at the cup suspiciously. ‘What is it?’

‘Bell’s,’ replied Scanlon. ‘Not the best, but not bad for a day like today.’

That would explain it
, Palmer thought.
You’re sloshed.
He looked at his watch and saw that it was past lunchtime, too. How many days like this had the old chap sat here getting pickled, waiting for Palmer – or someone like him – to arrive? What a sorry carry-on. At least the poor sod wouldn’t have to wait any longer.

An idea floated casually into his head. He glanced back down the canal. The woman with the dogs had disappeared and there was no one else in sight. They had the place completely to themselves. He gestured towards the thermos with the semi-automatic. ‘How much have you had?’

‘Not so much,’ the old fellow replied amiably.

‘Drink up then,’ Palmer commanded, slipping the gun back into his pocket. ‘Then we can get this over with.’

‘You’re the boss – cheers!’ Scanlon held up the cup in a mock toast, before downing its contents in a single gulp. Tossing the
Express
on to the ground, he reached down for the thermos, unscrewed the top and refilled the cup to the brim, splashing some excess whisky on to his trousers. Placing the flask carefully on the ground, he returned his gaze to Palmer. ‘Just one thing, old chap.’

‘Yes?’

‘Marjorie. The lovely Mrs Scanlon.’ He gazed down into his Scotch. ‘The third Mrs Scanlon, actually, but by far the best of the bunch. I should have married her straight off the bat in ’34 when I had the chance. No doubt it would have saved a lot of anguish over the years. But hey ho, we all make mistakes, eh?
C’est la vie
.’ Taking another mouthful of whisky, he looked at Palmer for some confirmation of this universal truth. Finding none, he continued: ‘Anyway, none of this has anything whatsoever to do with her. Marjorie has never been involved in my professional life in any way, shape or form. So I hope that you’re not going to drag her into this.’

‘Of course not,’ Palmer said sharply. Looking away from his victim, he gazed into the canal. All of a sudden there was a ripple on the surface of the water and something began pulling on the line. Ignoring the fish, he turned his attention back to Scanlon, who, despite the heat, was making an exceedingly good stab at polishing off the Bell’s in record time. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, trying his best to sound reassuring, ‘nothing is going to happen to your wife. We play fair, you know.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Scanlon muttered, ‘I know you do. I just wanted to have some clarification on that particular point.’

‘That’s settled then.’ Palmer smiled. ‘Now, drink up before we get started.’

Sitting at the kitchen table, Helen Kennedy pushed a strand of hair behind her ear as she inspected the various cuts and bruises that littered his face. ‘Does it hurt?’ Her expression was a perfect mixture of compassion and annoyance.

‘Nah, I’m fine,’ Carlyle replied, happy to play the brave soldier if it would win him some cheap sympathy. ‘They sent me to A and E for a check-up, but nothing’s broken.’ He grinned at her lecherously. ‘They gave me the day off, though, to recover.’

‘What happened?’ Helen asked, leaning back in her chair, all the better to get away from his raging hormones.

Before he could say a word, his mother hijacked the conversation. ‘The silly sod was chasing after some criminal,’ she snapped, ‘and he slipped on some dog’s mess.’

‘You tripped up?’ Helen bit her lower lip in an attempt not to laugh.

Gripping his Fulham FC mug tightly, Carlyle glared at his mother, even though she had her back turned to him. ‘I thought you were off to the shops, Ma.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Rummaging under the sink, she came up with a couple of Tesco plastic bags. ‘Is there anything you fancy for your tea?’ Then, more hopefully, ‘Will you be staying for something to eat, Helen love?’

‘That’s all right, Lorna,’ Helen said brightly. ‘We’re going out tonight.’

Lorna?
A frisson of dismay spread through Carlyle’s brain. Since when was his girlfriend on first-name terms with his mother? He had been going out with Helen Kennedy for more than six months now, but this was only the fifth or sixth time that she had visited the flat that – much to his chagrin – he still shared with his parents. And only the second time his parents – to his even greater chagrin – had actually been present.

Even without the intervention of his parents, Carlyle was amazed that Helen hadn’t yet dumped him. He still shivered at the thought of how he had first met her, ducking into Westminster Reference Library to avoid the rain on a grim winter’s day and finding her almost totally hidden behind a large pile of books about nineteenth-century European history. How he had plucked up the courage to go over and talk to her was a mystery, both then and now, as was how he had managed to get her to agree to a date. Even now, he veered between insane glee at his good fortune and mortal terror that it could run out at any minute.

His mother looked at him slyly. ‘I thought you were going to watch the football with your dad? You know how he likes watching the World Cup.’

‘Not tonight,’ Carlyle said firmly.

‘Isn’t it Scotland tonight?’ his mother asked, demonstrating a level of awareness of the sport that had never been previously revealed. ‘They’re playing . . .’ she tried to dredge up a name from the depths of her brain, ‘someone or other.’

Yeah, and they’re crap.
After the complete and utter fiasco of the 1978 competition, a most abject failure even by Scottish standards, Carlyle had vowed never again to worry too much about what the eleven comedians in blue shirts got up to on a football pitch. Apart from anything else, he was only a second-generation Scot, which made him even worse than an Anglo! It wasn’t like his father was a raging fan either. Alexander Carlyle knew as well as his son that disaster would sink the current campaign sooner or later, and almost certainly sooner. It was as if football existed simply to replenish the well of deep, dark pessimism that characterised the Carlyle menfolk. When it was a choice between that and a night out with Helen, there was simply no contest. ‘There’ll be plenty of other games,’ he replied, trying to sound as reasonable as possible.

A pained expression settled on his mother’s face. ‘He’ll be really disappointed.’

Not that you give a toss.

‘We’re going to see a film,’ Helen explained, trying to move the conversation on. ‘
Betty Blue
.’

‘
Betty Blue
,’ his mother repeated, making it sound about as appealing as a dose of castor oil.

‘It’s French.’

Carlyle watched his mother consider a range of possible responses before limiting herself to ‘That’s nice’, delivered with the grumpy air of a woman who had long since forgotten what it was like to go on a date.

‘I’m really looking forward to it,’ Helen beamed. ‘And we’ll probably go somewhere to get a bite to eat afterwards.’ She shot a glance at Carlyle, who ignored the coming pain in his wallet long enough to nod his assent.

‘He’s taking you somewhere nice, I hope,’ his mother said grimly.

‘
I’m
taking him, actually.’ Helen grinned. ‘We’re celebrating.’

‘Oh?’ Carlyle watched as his mother’s brain ran through a list of stock possibilities, all of which would be guaranteed to cause her further annoyance. She shot him a look that said,
Something else you haven’t told me?
‘That sounds nice.’

‘Yes,’ Helen continued. ‘I’ve got a job.’

‘Ah.’ His mother’s shoulders relaxed as she stood down from red alert. ‘But I thought you hadn’t got your exam results yet?’ Helen had recently completed her finals at the LSE, where she had been studying international relations. To Carlyle’s mind, it was hard to come up with a degree less likely to equip you for the world of work, but Helen had surprised him by landing a job as an administration assistant in the London office of an American aid charity less than a week after the end of the summer term.

‘That doesn’t matter. I know I’m going to get a decent degree and I really need to start work sooner rather than later. It doesn’t pay a lot but it’ll be useful experience.’

‘Yes.’ A look of dismay passed across his mother’s face. ‘I often think that John should have gone to university. It might have helped him get a
proper
job.’

‘Mm.’ Helen stared into her tea.

‘Yeah,’ Carlyle scoffed. ‘Like a couple of O levels and a cycling proficiency test were ever going to get me very far.’

‘You could have done better in your civil service exam,’ his mother scolded.