An Unsuitable Death Read Online Free Page B

inevitable. Nor even the tears of relief that this was not after all her daughter. Mrs Rennie looked down at the tranquil face for a long moment, her eyes taking in its every detail. She was as calm as a woman contemplating the purchase of a piece of exquisite porcelain.
    Then she said quietly, “Yes. That is my daughter. That is Tamsin Elizabeth Rennie,” and signalled to the attendant that the sheet should be replaced.
    Almost, thought DS Bert Hook, as if she had known all about this death.
    ***
    In the brightly lit Hereford Council Chamber on that night of Thursday, August 18th, the meeting of the full council was almost over. One of the Independent members raised a point of order, and the Chair dealt with it painstakingly, anxious to show that his political allegiance was not colouring his reaction.
    One prominent member was resolutely silent through the last hour of the meeting. As far as he was concerned, the important matters had been dealt with early in the evening and the important votes had been taken then. The meeting would have been concluded by now, if it had had a brisker and more ruthless person in the chair. Normally this member would have been patient, knowing from long experience that the more you tried to hasten things on in Council meetings, the more ponderous they seemed to become. Parkinson’s law, the law of diminishing returns, and various other axioms were easily witnessed in local government, but Sod’s law still seemed the most powerful one of all.
    Especially, it seemed, when you had urgent business elsewhere.
    He tried to avoid looking at his watch as the meeting wound its interminable way through Any Other Business. Had these buggers no homes to go to? Had they no life outside this place?
    This last was the wrong question to ask of himself. It made him uncomfortably aware that a year ago people might have been asking the same question about him. Hopefully, indeed, most of them still did, for the thing that had brought his life alive could not be made public. Not yet awhile, anyway, she had said; not until he had sorted out her life for her and made things regular. Had that been allowed to happen, he would have been only too proud to announce their partnership to the world.
    Whereas now, he thought bleakly, it must be kept secret forever.
    He fretted anew as the Chairman dealt ponderously with a question about refuse collection in the new estate of houses in Tupsley. The Chair was too patient with trivia that should be referred to sub-committees. It seemed to be almost a principle of their operations that meetings had to be prolonged until after ten thirty, whether there were real items to discuss or not. Things would be conducted altogether more briskly when he was in charge. If he ever was.
    He became suddenly aware that the Chair was referring to him by name. He gathered his resources, forced his racing brain into the strait-jacket of concentration, and referred the questioner to the decision of the Housing Sub-committee in their February meeting, which had been confirmed by the March meeting of the full Council. This stilled discussion, because he was the only one who knew clearly what he was talking about. Thank heavens for his memory, which had not let him down, even in this crisis. The Chair thanked him, gratefully and elaborately. Get on with it, you orotund old windbag.
    It was ten to eleven before he had made his hasty farewells to his colleagues and moved away into the darker world outside. It was still warm on this August evening, but he wore his long winter coat and a hat, as he had not done for months. He did not
    know why he had chosen to wear them; perhaps he thought they were some sort of disguise, that if he enveloped himself in clothes he would be less recognisable. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time that a man muffled secretly to the eyes had moved through these ancient streets, he was sure. The attempt at a grim humour failed to console him.
    The streets in the oldest