Free Some Deaths Before Dying by Peter Dickinson Page A

them.”
    “He’s got the most beautiful manners still. That’s how I’m going to raise ours, if I can.”
    “You probably can’t see it, but it’s pretty well in my genes, being scared of the old boy. I’d thought I was past it, but
     by God, no.
    “ ‘And what do you think you’re up to, my lad? Did I say open it up? Did I? No I did not. Put it away somewhere safe, I said,
     and don’t you go showing it around nor telling anyone about it. Right?’ ”
    Jeff had got the old soldier’s voice and manner spot on. He then laughed and shook his head, as if trying to come to terms
     with his having let himself be so dominated.
    “You did look, all the same,” said Jenny. “You knew it was a pistol.”
    “Well, yes. I was putting it away and decided I’d better check, but even then I felt guilty. God, I bet there was more than
     one recruit who pissed himself when Uncle Albert picked on him for dirty boots or something. Let’s just hope he doesn’t see
     the programme. When’s it on?”
    “Next winter sometime. They shoot miles more than they use, so they’ll probably leave me out.”
    But they hadn’t. She’d watched the programme with Jeff the Sunday before he’d left for Paris. All other reasons for watching
     were instantly forgotten in her fascination by her own appearance…nothing like the mirror of course, but not much like photographs,
     or even the odd glimpse on a wedding video. This was the Jenny strangers seemed to see, the chilly little bitch. (She had
     actually overheard that phrase after a case conference, from a QC who had tried to chat her up.) Yes, there was more than
     a touch of that on this apparently neutral occasion, when she hadn’t at all been aware of turning it on deliberately…and anyway
     she must stop wearing that denim jacket. It gave her a curious hump in profile…
    “Well, let’s just hope he’s missed it,” said Jeff with a worried sigh, as he switched off.
    “He can’t still do anything to you, darling.”
    “It isn’t really that. Or not just that. He hasn’t got much grasp of what’s going on these days, but that doesn’t stop him
     being pretty-shrewd at times. I told you he was talking about selling his medals to help with the fees at Marlings…”
    “He can’t. You’ve got power of attorney.”
    “That isn’t the point. I think he’s worked out that I’m paying some of it—he’s no idea how much, of course, but he still doesn’t
     like it. He hates the idea that he might be dependent on anyone. He’s saved all his life for his retirement, and he thinks
     that and his pension and the little bit he gets from the Cambi Road Association ought to be enough to see him out. Of course
     it isn’t, anything like, not at Marlings anyway. He likes it there. He’s got friends. The staff think he’s great. But if he
     decides that I can push him around and do what I like with his stuff because I’m paying the fees, he’s going to try and insist
     on moving out and going somewhere he can afford on his own. It would kill him, for a start, and anyway there’s no such place.
     Besides, I just don’t want the hassle, I get quite enough of that at work.”
    “Suppose I went and talked to him. I could tell him it was all my fault, and you didn’t know anything about it…”
    “It’s a thought. Look, I’ll call Sister Morris now and tell her we’ve just seen something on the box that might upset him,
     and could she just check if he’s OK without letting on that’s what she’s up to…”
    Sister Morris had said that the residents had been having their tea during the programme. The TV had been left on, but it
     was much more likely to have been ITV, and anyway Uncle Albert had had his back to it. He was fine. So that had seemed to
     be that.
    Until now.
    Jenny finished her drink, taking her time. Mr. Matson didn’t seem to mind waiting. If he was telling anything like the truth,
     he, or at least his family. obviously had a good claim on the