Body Politic by J.M. Gregson Page B

Someone had combed back the hair while it was still sodden, so that it clung to the scalp, looking less thick than it had in life.
    ‘ That’s my brother,’ Kate said, and the attendant replaced the sheet quickly, as if anxious the vulnerability of that distended face should be protected as swiftly as possible.
    The warm little waiting room outside was deserted. Hook completed the formalities of the official identification sheet, assessing with a practised eye how brittle the calmness of this seemingly self-possessed woman might be. ‘If you could answer a few questions now, it would mean we did not have to disturb you at home,’ he said quietly.
    She looked up into his face for the first time, registering the rubicund, concerned features. Like the village bobby they used to have when she was a child, she thought inconsequentially. ‘I should prefer that,’ she said. ‘I have young children at home, you see. I wouldn’t want them to be affected by this.’
    ‘ It won’t take long. First of all, I have to tell you that we suspect foul play in this matter. We shall know more certainly by the end of the day, but even at this stage—’
    ‘ Raymond was killed. You can be sure of that, Sergeant. He wasn’t the type to commit suicide.’
    This calm acceptance of murder was unusual; most people recoiled from the darkest of crimes. Perhaps she found the waste of suicide, with its disturbing implications for the rest of the family, less acceptable even than murder. Hook said, ‘We need to establish who were the last people to see him. To build up a picture of—’
    ‘ Last persons apart from the one who killed him, you mean, of course.’ She was disturbingly abrupt in her correction. ‘I don’t know of anyone who saw him after my mother. That was at around three thirty p.m. on Christmas Eve, apparently.’
    She had been making her own enquiries, clearly. But Keane had been a missing person for a week before he became a murder victim and Hook became involved in this. He wrote the time in his notebook in his clear, round hand, giving himself a moment to think, deciding that there was no point in being oblique with this organized, almost impatient sister of the victim. ‘Where was he going?’
    ‘ To his cottage. We already told that to the constable who came to see us when we reported him missing.’
    He ignored her rebuke. ‘Was he planning to meet someone there?’
    ‘ Yes. His fiancée. Or the woman who was to become his fiancée: I’m not sure it had been formally announced.’
    So she wasn’t quite as close to this brother as he had thought her to be up to now, thought Hook. Or at least, she wasn’t quite up to date on the latest developments. ‘What is this lady’s name?’ he said.
    ‘ Zoe. Zoe Renwick.’
    ‘ You’ve met her?’
    ‘ Just once. She’s attractive. And well organized. Just the wife for a coming man in parliament, I’d have thought.’ She ticked off the statements as though they were a list; Hook realized for the first time what her outward calmness was costing her. ‘Have you and this Miss Renwick been in contact since Christmas Eve?’
    ‘ No. At least I haven’t. My mother managed to contact her on Boxing Day, and found that she hadn’t been down to the cottage after all.’ She looked at him in surprise, as if giving him the credit for prompting an idea she should have thought of for herself. ‘It seems odd we haven’t heard from her since then, doesn’t it? You’d have thought she would have been as anxious to know where Raymond had got to as we were.’
    Bert Hook put away his notebook, thanking her for her help. He too thought that it was indeed very odd.

     
     
    CHAPTER TWELVE
     
    ‘It’s years since I came to London,’ said Lambert, as they followed the tide of grey-green winter coats towards the ticket barrier.
    ‘ The last time I drew into Paddington, it was behind a steam engine. A big green one,’ said Bert Hook.
    Lambert looked at him sharply. He was