The Hand of God Read Online Free PDF Page B

However, a nice bench in the sun allowed him the chance of a postprandial snooze, and the wait was not so burdensome, even with an additional twenty-five-minute delay caused by signal problems at Swindon. Now, as the train pulled out of the station, he was surprised to see an ambulance making its way along the lane, its lights flashing and siren sounding. Palmer knew where it was heading.
That was quick,
he reflected.
Who’d have thought they’d have found the old buggers already?
The vague sense of annoyance permeating his brain quickly dissipated as he sat back in his seat.
Not that it matters.
Perhaps the woman with the dogs had returned, to find Mr Scanlon sleeping with the fishes. Giggling at the thought, he settled in for the short journey home.

6
    Stepping out of the Lumière cinema into the hustle and bustle of St Martin’s Lane, a somewhat dazed Carlyle rolled his head on his shoulders, trying to ease the gentle headache that was forming at the base of his skull.
    Helen hoisted her outsized leather bag over her shoulder and took his arm. ‘What did you think?’
    Trying to push all thoughts of Béatrice Dalle from his mind, he gave her hand a squeeze.
    ‘Not bad.’ The young policeman was still coming to terms with European cinema, struggling to understand the difference between your basic porno on the one hand and ‘art house’ movies on the other. He was grateful for the fact that his girlfriend would happily take him to see one, while doubtless running a mile from the other; grateful but confused.
    ‘Is that all you can say?’ Helen teased. ‘Not bad? Not exactly Barry Norman, are you?’
    Mm. What do you want me to say? ‘The sex scenes gave me a stiffy’?
Avoiding any eye contact, Carlyle felt himself blush. This was tricky ground. He knew that he would have to take a strictly safety-first approach to the conversation if he wasn’t to drop himself in it. ‘It was good,’ he said blandly. ‘I enjoyed it. Very stim— er, interesting.’ Not wishing to add anything more, he pulled her close and concentrated on slaloming through the evening crowds, leading her towards the Cafe Pasta fifty yards up the road.
    Ten minutes later, they were sitting at a window table, sipping a cheap Pinot Grigio that had doubtless been sourced from the new Tesco supermarket around the corner and nibbling on large slabs of focaccia. Looking around, it occurred to Carlyle that the restaurant was still quite busy for the reasonably late hour. The pre-theatre crowd, a staple of the restaurants that lined this side of the street, had been and gone but the place was still at least half full. A couple of overworked waiters – a boy and a girl who barely looked out of their teens – flitted from table to table, taking the diners’ orders.
    Helen gestured towards the handful of dough hovering in front of her boyfriend’s face. ‘Good?’
    ‘Mm.’ Struggling to make conversation, Carlyle took another bite of his starter and allowed himself to be distracted by a friendly-looking middle-aged couple at a nearby table.
Will that be us
, he wondered,
in twenty years’ time?
On first inspection, it didn’t seem such a bad prospect. The woman looked in good shape, at least for what he supposed to be her age; the man was clearly going to seed. Still, they seemed happy enough, engaged in thoughtful conversation, clearly relaxed in each other’s company.
    ‘So . . .’ Helen wiped the corner of her mouth with an oversized red paper napkin. ‘What are you going to do?’
    ‘Uh?’ Carlyle quickly returned his attention to his own table. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘In terms of getting somewhere proper to live,’ she explained. ‘When are you finally going to move out of your parents’ flat?’
    ‘I dunno.’ Carlyle reached over and took another piece of garlic bread from the plate in the middle of the table. ‘When I can afford it, I suppose.’
    Helen eyed him suspiciously. ‘Don’t you want to move out?’
    ‘Of