Free The Hand of God by James Craig Page B

the door and disappeared inside without breaking his stride. By the time Carlyle followed him through, he was engaging in a hearty handshake with a middle-aged man in a white lab coat. The professor was a rather unprepossessing fellow; about five foot eight, with a small paunch, tired blue eyes and a most unfortunate comb-over that did nothing to hide his bald pate.
    ‘Sorry to burst in on you like this, Paul,’ said Callender, taking a half-step backwards to reveal Carlyle hovering in the background. ‘This is one of my colleagues, John Carlyle.’
    All the young constable got from the scientist was a facsimile of a smile and the briefest of nods. ‘No, no, not at all,’ he responded, immediately turning his attention back to the older man, ‘but didn’t I hear somewhere that you’d retired?’
    ‘Not quite,’ Callender explained, his tone more than a little apologetic. ‘We moved to Berkshire. Mrs C had fancied it for some time,’ he added, sensing that some kind of explanation was necessary.
    Poor sod, Carlyle thought.
    ‘My commiserations.’ The scientist chuckled. ‘How long did it take you to realise that you were bored?’
    Callender smiled sadly. ‘About two weeks.’
    ‘Ah yes,’ the professor mused, ‘the things we do for the sake of domestic harmony. Anyway, what brings you to Imperial College?’
    From his holdall Callender retrieved a clear plastic evidence bag about the size of an LP cover. Inside was what appeared to Carlyle to be a pair of knickers. ‘I was wondering if you would look at something for me.’
    Taking the bag, Lamb held it up to the light above their heads. ‘Messy.’
    ‘Yes,’ agreed Callender. ‘There should be plenty of genetic material on there for you to find.’
    ‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do.’ Lamb tossed the bag on to a nearby workbench. ‘Give me a couple of days, okay?’
    ‘That would be great. Thanks.’
    ‘Do I have something to compare it to?’
    ‘Not yet.’ Callender grinned sheepishly. ‘Soon.’
    Lamb nodded. ‘Is this official?’
    The inspector’s grin grew wider. ‘Not yet. Soon.’
    ‘All right, all right.’ The professor shook his head, as if he was dealing with a troublesome but likeable student. ‘I suppose it is better if I don’t know. Come back in a couple of days. In the meantime’ – he gestured towards a pile of files on the bench – ‘I’ve got work to do. Forgive me if I don’t offer you a cup of tea.’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ said Callender, winking at Carlyle. ‘I think we’ll head off for a glass of something stronger. It’s been a long day.’
    ‘Fair enough. The Union Bar is just across the road. It has some good guest ales at the moment. Cheap, too.’
    ‘Sounds perfect.’ Callender gestured for Carlyle to lead the way. ‘See you the day after tomorrow.’

12
    They arrived at the bar to find it packed. There were one or two funny looks, but no one said anything about his uniform. Carlyle gestured towards a small TV screen hanging from the ceiling in the far corner of the room. It commanded the rapt attention of about ninety per cent of the almost exclusively male clientele. ‘I’d forgotten about the football,’ he groaned. ‘England are playing Argentina.’ From what he could make out, the game was still scoreless.
    ‘Maradona will stuff ’em,’ Callender muttered under his breath as he pushed past a couple of dishevelled-looking students to reach the bar. ‘Hopefully.’ Catching the eye of the girl behind the bar, he ordered a whisky. ‘What d’ya fancy?’
    Carlyle glanced at his watch. ‘Technically, I’m still on duty.’
    ‘Pfff.’ The inspector scowled.
    ‘Okay, I’ll have a lager.’
    ‘Good man.’
    Edging backwards into the drinkers behind him, Callender carved out a niche for them. To Carlyle’s left, a pair of middle-aged academics were discussing the various shortcomings of their respective students; it appeared that they were the only people in the bar who were