The Hand of God by James Craig

Author:James Craig [Craig, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, Crime Fiction
ISBN: 9781472107442
Google: NyxlAgAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00H46JKC2
Barnesnoble: B00H46JKC2
Goodreads: 19459327
Publisher: C & R Crime
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

9

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.’

‘I haven’t started yet,’ said Scudder. ‘There was a smash on the ring road last night. Some teenager sent a Capri into the back of a lorry. Caused a five-mile tailback. Three dead, six injured. Your two got pushed back down the waiting list, sorry.’

Typical. ‘Okay, fair enough. Just one quick question.’

‘For you, Inspector, anything.’

‘Mrs Scanlon. Was she wearing knickers?’

‘Didn’t you check?’ Scudder chuckled. Not waiting for a reply, he continued: ‘Since you ask, no, she wasn’t.

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