Body Politic by J.M. Gregson Page B

It was the only consolation he could think of to offer the smartly uniformed man on the other side of the big desk.
    George Harding smiled, ruefully rather than grimly, Lambert hoped. ‘It’s just the beginning, John. You know the pattern. Tomorrow, if there’s still no news, we’ll get some of the tales of gay MPs and scandals which have led to resignations. Anyway, we shan’t be responsible for that. Keane will have brought it upon himself. If he chooses to disappear without telling anyone where he’s off to, he knows what the press will do with the story. I take it we haven’t any further news?’
    ‘ No, sir. But I wouldn’t expect any, unless the man turned up of his own accord. We’ve put him on the missing persons register, but otherwise kept it low key, as we agreed. The family didn’t want us to stir up a hornet’s nest. His sister was more annoyed with Keane for not contacting his aged mum than worried about him. She seems to think he’ll turn up when he’s ready.’
    ‘ Has he done this sort of thing before, then?’
    ‘ No. Not as far as we can tell, without more detailed enquiries into his past activities.’
    Harding pursed his lips. He was a handsome man, his hair now a becoming silver but still plentiful, his body comfortably covered with flesh rather than plump beneath the well-tailored uniform. The chances were that nothing was seriously amiss, that he would only irritate Keane when he turned up if they were too persistent now with their enquiries into his absence. But once the press was on to these things, you had to be seen to be doing something. If anything proved to be seriously amiss with the police reaction to the disappearance, they would use the blissful benefits of hindsight to hold an inquest on it. An unfortunate word. Harding said, ‘Give it another day: if there’s still nothing then, step up the activity. Let them see we’re taking the matter seriously.’
    Even Chief Constables cannot expect to know the moment when events will take such decisions out of their hands.
    *
    It was good to be out in the fresh air. Detective Sergeant Bert Hook sniffed it appreciatively. The British climate was as perverse as ever; on this second day of January, when winter should have been at its hardest, there was a hazy blue sky and a most unseasonable mildness. Over the edge of the Forest of Dean, May Hill was clearly visible; you would have a good view of the seven counties from there today.
    Hook rejoiced to be out on a day like this, especially after a morning in court where a key witness had failed to appear and the Crown Prosecution Service had decided not to pursue the case. It must be therapeutic to be out in the fresh air, even for this futile activity. ‘Blow the cobwebs away nicely, this will,’ Lambert had promised as they stepped out of the car, ‘and we can always count it as your belated lunch hour.’
    Hook smiled sourly, turning the bright steel five-iron speculatively in his large, strong hands. ‘I suppose golf at least gets you out into the countryside. Didn’t someone call it a good walk spoiled?’
    ‘ Mark Twain. Who seemed otherwise a nicely rounded human being. Mind you, on the driving range, you don’t get the good walk that homespun humorist offered you as consolation. But it’s a start.’
    ‘ And a finish, as far as I’m concerned!’ said Hook firmly. ‘Remember, I’m here under severe protest, and only because you made it one of your daft conditions.’
    ‘ Give us your money, lad. I’m not paying as well as instructing.’ Lambert took the coins from Hook and slipped them into the machine, watched the forty golf balls tumble into the basket below, and then put coins of his own in for another basketful. Might as well have a little practice himself, if he had to be here to oversee the novice golfer beside him.
    Hook, maintaining his gruff exterior, followed the superintendent along the row of covered stalls to the furthest and most private of them. He