Free The Body Politic by Catherine Aird

never be able to equate goodness with Plasticine, accepted a cup of tea and came back to the matter in hand. “As I explained on the telephone, madam,” he said to Hazel Ottershaw, “we’re just checking up on your husband’s sudden death.”
    â€œBecause he’d been abroad such a lot?” she asked.
    â€œIn a way,” said Sloan evasively. “Can you tell me anything about his last visit home?”
    â€œI wasn’t expecting him,” said Hazel Ottershaw, releasing her hold on her small son. “He arrived home quite out of the blue late on the Friday night by the last train. He told me he’d only just caught that by the skin of his teeth and hadn’t had time to ring me or anything like that.”
    â€œHe wasn’t due back?”
    She shook her head. “Not for ages.”
    â€œIt wasn’t so long since we’d all said goodbye to him,” contributed Mrs. Rebble, proffering a bowl of sugar to the two policemen. “That was when he went back to Lasserta after his last leave. I was so surprised to see him myself in the village on the Saturday morning.”
    â€œThe first thing I knew about Alan being back in England at all,” said Hazel Ottershaw dully, “was when I heard his latch-key in the door. It was very late and I was in bed.”
    â€œHe’d never come home like that before? Without warning, I mean.”
    â€œNever.” She ran a hand over her face as if to brush away a memory. “I’ve always known when to expect him in the past. He’s either written or cabled without fail.”
    â€œBut not this time?” said Sloan. Changes in a pattern were always interesting to a detective.
    â€œNot this time, Inspector.” Mrs. Hazel Ottershaw’s teacup rattled ever so slightly in its saucer. “It wasn’t ordinary leave, you see. Something had gone wrong at work, he said. Very wrong.”
    â€œAh,” said Sloan encouragingly. He couldn’t think for the moment of what the Middle Eastern equivalent of “trouble at t’mill” was likely to be: but there would be one.
    â€œHe hadn’t got the sack or anything like that,” she added swiftly.
    Alan Ottershaw’s mother-in-law said in stout tones, “Of course not, darling.”
    â€œBut he didn’t want to tell me what the trouble was,” said Hazel Ottershaw.
    â€œHe didn’t want to worry you,” said Mrs. Rebble.
    â€œAll he wanted to do,” said Alan Ottershaw’s widow evenly, “was to get on to his Member of Parliament as fast as possible.”
    â€œI see.” Detective Inspector Sloan made a note. In his experience, people usually only wanted to get on to their Members of Parliament when they wished to complain about their alleged ill-usage at the hands of civil servants, local government officers, and other unfortunate administrators.
    â€œLuckily he managed to arrange to talk to Peter Corbishley after the Garden Meeting at Mellamby Place on the Saturday afternoon,” said Hazel Ottershaw. “He told me after that he felt a whole lot happier.”
    â€œHappier?” In Sloan’s book Members of Parliament were seldom renowned as bringers of joy.
    â€œHe knew then what his rights were.”
    Sloan nodded at that. Knowing where one stood was always important. He said, “Do you know in what connection he was reassured, madam?”
    â€œExtradition back to Lasserta from the United Kingdom,” replied Hazel Ottershaw, adding bleakly, “although as it happened he needn’t have worried, need he?”
    So, thought Sloan to himself, it had been a case of being “not in England” after all. He did not say so though, but asked instead, “Was your husband at all unwell when he came home?”
    She hesitated. “The doctors kept asking me that. He was very, very tired when he got back and a bit jet-lagged, but he said his main trouble was