Play Dead by Peter Dickinson

you were doing fine when I saw you with her the other day.’
    â€˜That’s very helpful. You’ll come to another concert with me?’
    â€˜Oh, I’d love to, but …’
    â€˜I would appreciate a companion who is prepared to think about music. Not necessarily talk, but think, recognising it as a cerebral activity. I can’t always be sure of my free time, so it would mean asking you at short notice.’
    â€˜I do evening classes on Mondays and Wednesdays.’
    â€˜Polish, you said?’
    â€˜I’m only just starting. That’s Mondays. I do German on Wednesdays.’
    â€˜Why Polish?’
    â€˜Because the course fitted in. My German’s fairly good, but I wanted a third language, partly to see if I could and partly to help me get a job. Polish worked out best, and besides, I thought, with such a lot happening there—it’s terribly exciting, isn’t it, even for a political innocent like me.’
    â€˜It is the major event of our lifetimes.’
    â€˜Do you know Poland?’
    â€˜I am Polish by origin. My original name is unpronounceable in English so I chose a new one.’
    â€˜It’s still a very unusual one. There aren’t any in the phone book.’
    â€˜I didn’t wish to share my name. But you will be able to practise your Polish in the intervals of the concerts.’
    â€˜I’ve only just started. I certainly won’t be up to talking about music.’
    â€˜We will set aside ten minutes for telling each other that it’s a fine day but it’s going to rain. I’ll call you next time I’m likely to be free for something that might interest us both. You will need to progress beyond Tippett.’
    â€˜Oh, I’d love to try, but … well, there’s something you ought to know …’
    She hesitated again. Was there any way she could ask him not to tell Mrs Capstone? The big eyebrows had risen, amused, mocking. She floundered.
    â€˜I don’t want … oh … you see it looks as if my daughter-in-law is going to be the Labour candidate at the next election.’
    He sat silent for an instant, and then burst into a big, raucous, uncontrollable laugh. He rose and slapped his thigh and stretched like a waking dog. He was a peasant in a mired farmyard, bellowing mirth at some rustic mishap.
    â€˜And Deborah and Toby are getting on so well …’ she explained.
    â€˜So I am to keep the affair secret from my family and you from yours!’ he said. ‘And Cherubino is hiding behind the curtain and Falstaff in the laundry basket! Wonderful! But her name is Jones, isn’t it? Were you twice married?’
    â€˜Janet uses her maiden name. Do you think it matters?’
    â€˜Of course not. It’s a triviality. Still, I think we will keep our meetings to ourselves, perhaps. Are you likely to meet any of your acquaintances at concerts of modern music?’
    â€˜Good heavens, no.’
    â€˜Nor I. There’s a McCall-Baines recital next Thursday at a church hall in Whitechapel. I have another engagement but I’ll see if I can change it. Would you be free?’
    Thursday was bridge night. Poppy had already agreed to play. She had never heard of McCall-Baines.
    â€˜I’m not doing anything,’ she said. ‘That would be lovely.’
    The call came early, while Poppy was on her first cup of coffee. The voice was unmistakable.
    â€˜Go to the nearest call-box and ring me on this number,’ he said, and gave her the number. She kept pencil and paper ready.
    â€˜Don’t ask any questions. Do it.’
    â€˜All right,’ she said, baffled.
    She was still in her dressing-gown but scrabbled on clothes and reached the call-box panting and angry. He answered at the first ring.
    â€˜What is this about?’ she snapped.
    â€˜Were you aware that your flat was being watched?’ he said.
    â€˜Watched? But …’
    â€˜You remember I had