Body Politic Read Free

contained the usual furniture; table, two stick-legged chairs, a sofa that looked like an elephant had been trampolining on it, a desk, uneven bookshelves and, to my relief, no body.
    Katharine K. remained in the doorway till I beckoned, then came forward into the main room. “He’s not here.”
    She breathed out slowly and turned to me. “Your turn for a test.” She gave me a smile that was about as encouraging as the thumbs-down to a stricken gladiator. “I heard from one of the girls at work that you find missing people. Convince me you’ve got what it takes, citizen.”
    â€œCall me Quint.” I’ve had to get used to clients who think investigators are magicians. Sometimes I refuse to perform, but not when they’re female and have her looks. “You want a demonstration?” I scrutinised her, taking my time. I enjoyed it more than she did. “So, you work as a chambermaid at the Independence Hotel, you live in William Street, you’re left-handed, you burned yourself with an iron five, maybe six days ago and you spend a lot of your free time in the staff gym.”
    She wasn’t impressed. “Come on, all that’s obvious from my appearance. And everyone knows where Indie staff live.”
    I shrugged. “I haven’t finished. You have an unusually close relationship with your brother, your parents are dead, you used to be an auxiliary and you have a dissidence conviction.” I gave her my best smile. “Also, you like Chinese poetry.”
    She glanced at the tattered book that was protruding from her bag. “Very observant. But most of that is just guesswork.” She didn’t sound quite as sceptical.
    â€œYou reckon?” I don’t usually reveal how my mind works and a lot of what I’d said was just supposition, but I wanted her to think I was as sharp as they come. Maybe I was trying to convince myself too. “I saw your handwriting, remember? Only someone who doesn’t care what people think would write a note to a stranger without using copperplate. And you aren’t in a hurry to get off to evening classes either. Demoted auxiliaries like us aren’t allowed to attend classes in case we have a bad influence on the others.”
    Katharine K. nodded. “You were one too. I was beginning to wonder. Don’t tell me – Public Order Directorate?”
    I raised my hands in surrender. The way she had shifted the discussion from her past to mine was impressive.
    â€œGuardsman?” she asked acidly.
    â€œNot exactly.” I went over to the kitchen. It was tidy, a cup and plate on the draining-board. “Do I get the job, then?”
    â€œI suppose so.” She was right behind me, looking at the crockery, then touching the cup carefully as if she were trying to re-establish contact with her brother. “How do I pay you?”
    â€œNo cure, no pay. If I find your brother, it’s up to you what you give me. None of my clients has much to spare after buying the week’s food and electricity vouchers. I often get whatever they can lay their hands on at work. I had half a pound of coffee last month.”
    â€œRiches indeed.” She finally took her fingers away from the cup. “Why do you do it?”
    I’ve never been too sure of the answer to that question myself. “It’s a way of staying alive.” I moved over to the sofa. “You’d better tell me something about your brother.”
    Katharine K. sat down beside me and took a piece of hotel notepaper from her book of poetry.
    â€œAdam Peter Kirkwood,” I read. “Status – citizen. Born 3.12.1995, height six feet two inches, weight thirteen stone twelve pounds, hair dark brown, nose snub, teeth complete, distinguishing mark none, employment Roads Department, Transport Directorate, address 3 Lennox Street Lane, next of kin Katharine Kirkwood (sister).” I nodded. “That’ll do for a