Body Politic by J.M. Gregson

the hands of the clock crept towards the end of what for Joe was the longest day of all. The brown eyes looked up into the gaunt face, the tail wagged brief appreciation as the hand moved almost reluctantly to caress the soft fur of the tawny head. Joe stared unseeingly at the television set which had droned for hours at the other side of the room. ‘Good lad, Chester!’ he said softly to the dog.
    It was a relief to him to find he could still give affection when it was asked for. But dogs made no demand for words or effort. Presently he opened the door and said reluctantly, ‘Better go home now, Chester.’ He watched from his back door as the animal loped away over the white frost of his neglected rear garden and slipped through the hole it had fashioned in his hedge.
    *
    Raymond Keane’s mother enjoyed the evening, once her boisterous grandchildren were out of the way. It was half past eleven before she said to her daughter, ‘That Raymond has forgotten to ring us, you know. And he promised!’
    ‘ Give him a ring yourself, Mum, if you like. And wish him a Happy Christmas from us.’ Kate grinned secretly at her husband as the old lady went to the phone. If Kate knew her brother, he would be in bed with the delectable Zoe by now. But not asleep. Well, serve him right for not ringing his mum on Christmas Day if he was interrupted in flagrante delicto.
    Old Mrs Keane let the phone ring in the cottage a dozen times before she gave up, her face filled with disappointment. ‘I expect they’re out with friends,’ she said. ‘He might not have been able to ring.’
    *
    By two a.m. on Boxing Day, the vast majority of Christmas revellers were sleeping heavily in their beds. The temperature outside their houses was now well below freezing, and still dropping steadily. The Cotswold ground was frozen hard, the frost thick as a dusting of snow at the sides of the deserted lanes.
    The vehicle carrying the corpse of Raymond Keane moved cautiously through the deep woods around his cottage, its lights the only movement in that silent, frozen landscape. The body was covered with a blanket and an old coat. It was unlikely that there would be police on the route of this final journey, but there was no need for unnecessary risks. Besides, the driver preferred to have those wide, unblinking brown eyes covered on this final journey.
    It seemed to take a long time to reach the place, though the distance could not have been more than four miles. The car hesitated for a moment at the side of the road, then turned carefully through the ragged gap in the hedge, where years ago there had been a gate. On the uneven track between the young birch trees, it was more than forty yards to the chosen place.
    Once there, the driver switched off the car’s lights. There was enough light from the low crescent moon and the stars for the task that was left.
    No great strength was needed now. The pool was below the back of the vehicle, not more than four yards away. The driver dragged the corpse out, hearing but scarcely registering the thud as it landed heavily on the iron-hard ground. The material at the bottom of the trousers gave the easiest hold: the mortal remains of Keane were dragged unceremoniously feet first down the steep slope of frozen mud and flung vigorously on to the surface of the pond.
    For the person conducting this awful dispatch, there was then a moment of black farce that might have come straight from Hitchcock. The surface of the pond was already frozen hard. The body slid spread-eagled on to it, the white face staring unseeingly at the night sky. And lay there, its eyes glinting white in the light of the moon. For a long fifteen seconds, it seemed to the watcher as though the ice was already too thick for the evidence to disappear from sight. Then, with a noise which sounded in the living ears beside the pond like that of an alpine glacier cracking into movement, the ice broke, and the body of Raymond Keane disappeared into the