Free Missing Person by Mary Jane Staples Page B

the relics to Rosie, who promised to hide them.
    ‘They’re old and cherished friends of ours,’ said Mr Finch.
    ‘Yes, I know, Grandpa,’ said Rosie, and away she went again, a girl of quicksilver. When she reappeared once more, she looked victorious.
    ‘They’re out of Nana’s reach?’ said Boots.
    ‘Oh, not half,’ said Rosie, ‘and I don’t suppose she’ll burn them now, in any case. I cut them up with Mummy’s dressmaking scissors and put them in the dustbin. D’you think that was a good burial for old and cherished friends?’
    ‘Say that again,’ said Boots, coming to his feet.
    ‘Well, they were a bit past it – oh, crikey, is that you looking like thunder and lightning? Oh, help.’ Rosie ran, Boots in pursuit. Over the lawn she ran, and around the kitchen garden, little shrieks escaping. Boots caught her as she travelled over the lawn again. She swung round, flushed and laughing.
    ‘Minx, you plotted that with your Nana,’ he said.
    ‘Yes, I know, Daddy. Well, Nana has to win sometimes.’ Boots laughed and shook his head at her. Rosie impulsively hugged him, thinking as she often did that her happiest moments were always those she shared with her adoptive father.
    ‘Anything else up your sleeve?’ asked Boots.
    ‘No, nothing,’ she said, ‘except you owe me seven-and-six for my money-box.’
    From the open kitchen door, Tim called.
    ‘Someone wants you on the phone, Grandpa.’
    ‘Who is it, Tim?’ asked Mr Finch, getting to his feet.
    ‘A man,’ said Tim, and Mr Finch entered the house , Sunday’s phone call on his mind. In the hall, he picked up the receiver.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘George here, Edwin.’
    ‘Problems?’ said Mr Finch. George Duncan was a close colleague.
    ‘Not really. The file you took home with you to study, can I rely on your bringing it back tomorrow?’
    ‘Of course. I intended to, in any case.’
    ‘Good. Sorry to have bothered you at home, old man.’
    ‘No bother,’ said Mr Finch, and said goodbye. The doorbell rang. He answered it. General Sir Henry Simms, very military-looking with his spruce iron-grey moustache and his straight back, smiled at him. Still on the active list at the age of fifty-six, his looks were deceptive at first glance. He was no old-fashioned, hidebound soldier. He was a very reasonable and percipient one, with a dry sense of humour. He’d become a family friend, mainly because of his great liking for Boots, to whom his daughter Polly was incurably attached.
    ‘Good evening, Edwin,’ he said, ‘I rang Boots earlier about coming over.’
    ‘Yes, I know,’ said Mr Finch. ‘Come in and have a light ale with us in the garden.’
    ‘Lead me to it,’ said Sir Henry, and followed Mr Finch through the house to the garden. Passing through the kitchen, he said hello to Emily.
    ‘Oh, pleased to see you, Sir Henry,’ said Emily, just a little flustered, despite being a woman who was rarely like that. But she sometimes found it difficult to believe this distinguished man had actually become a family friend. He and Lady Simms had even been to Sunday tea, with their daughter Polly, and Sir Henry and Polly had both joined in the garden cricket. Chinese Lady frequently said she just didn’t know how it had come about, it wasn’t any of her doing, Boots had sprung it on her some months after the wedding of Sammy and Susie, and only a few days after Polly Simms had come back from darkest Africa. Kenya, said Mr Finch. It’s all darkest Africa to me, said Chinese Lady. Boots just casually mentioned he’d invited them, which put her into the kind of state that shouldn’t be allowed. That only oldest son of mine, she said, I wouldn’t be surprised if he came home one day to say he could raise the dead, then ask if there was any tea in the pot.
    Boots, standing beside the garden table when Mr Finch appeared with Sir Henry, moved to greet the General. Rosie was at her father’s elbow.
    ‘Not interrupting anything, am I, Boots?’ said Sir