Free The Hand of God by James Craig Page A

job.
    After a rather rushed lunch in the Brideshead Café, close to the office, he took a short cab ride to the Pitchfork Club, down by the river in Millbank, in search of his quarry. When he arrived, the press conference called by Peters’ agent had just broken up. Waiting for the throng in the Cromwell Room to disperse, Palmer manoeuvred his way behind Peters, who was holding court in front of a gaggle of journalists. They were waiting, pens poised over ring-bound notebooks, for a final juicy quote.
    ‘I have no doubt,’ Peters opined, unaware of the new arrival, ‘that Hugh Scanlon was murdered by the security services. They’re trying to shut me up.’ It was the first time that Palmer had seen the man in person. His initial impression was of an eccentric-looking bloke with wild blue eyes and a shock of unruly white hair, who still retained an imposing physical presence despite being in his late sixties. His shabby suit looked like it had been slept in, and Palmer was reminded of nothing so much as a tramp from one of the
Just William
books he vaguely remembered from his childhood.
    The journalists finally dribbled away. Palmer waited until they had the room to themselves, then stepped in front of the old man, hand extended. ‘Mr Peters . . .’
    Taking a half-step backwards, the retired spook shoved his hands in his pockets, his busy eyebrows knitting together in disgust. ‘Who are you?’
    ‘The name’s Palmer,’ came the cheery reply. ‘I’m from—’
    ‘I know where you’re from, sonny,’ Peters said sharply, edging further away. ‘I can spot one of you from a mile away.’
    Palmer stepped forward, conscious that they appeared to be practising dance steps together.
Keep smiling
, he told himself, wishing that he could finish off the old bugger on the spot. ‘Don’t you mean one of
us
?’
    Flaring his nostrils, Peters looked like he was about to spit on the carpet. He thought better of it and jabbed an angry index finger towards his latest foe. ‘We’ve got nothing in common,’ he hissed, ‘so why don’t you just run along?’ He tried to push past the younger man, but Palmer moved into his path.
    ‘I think you need to come with me,’ he said quietly, trying to inject a little menace into his voice, opening his jacket to give the old-timer a clear sight of his side arm.
    Peters’ reaction to the glimpse of the gun, however, was only to smile. Palmer felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to face a giant of a man, easily six foot three and built like the proverbial brick outhouse. He glowered at Palmer. ‘Everything all right, Maurice?’
    ‘This is Kelvin McKillick,’ Peters explained with relish. ‘He’s a producer at ITN. Ex-SAS. He’s very interested in me as a story. So unless you want him to break your neck, or worse, stick a camera in your face, I suggest that you bugger off.’
    Palmer hesitated.
    ‘Of course,’ Peters continued, his eyes twinkling with mischief, ‘if you
were
to suffer a broken neck, it would be a terrible accident, just like Hugh Scanlon.’
    Feeling the hand on his shoulder tighten, Palmer reluctantly turned towards the door.
    ‘You know what was completely unprofessional?’ Peters said behind him.
    Sod off, you old bastard
, Palmer seethed.
    ‘The wife,’ the old man continued. ‘That was totally unnecessary and deeply suspicious. If you had been working for me, I would have had you sacked on the spot.’
    Feeling his face going red with embarrassment, Palmer restricted his response to a grunt as he kept walking.
    ‘Mark my words,’ Peters cooed cheerily as he disappeared through the door, ‘that will bring you down, sooner or later.’
    After more than ten minutes stalking through the Wolfson Building, they finally found Laboratory 6. On the door of Room 415 was taped a printed sign that said
PROFESSOR PAUL LAMB
. Below that had been added in red biro:
Please knock and wait to be invited to enter.
Ignoring the instruction, Callender pushed open