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Anthony Hetheridge, ninth Baron of Wellegrave, chief superintendent for New Scotland Yard, never married, no children, no pets, no hobbies, and not even an interesting vice, would turn sixty in three weeks.
Growing old did not torment Hetheridge; it was simply part of the graceful arc of his existence. His twenties had been the time for exploration and a thirst for learning; his thirties, for honing his strengths and accepting his weaknesses; his forties, for the cool, self-centered joy only true professional mastery could bring. His sixties would be the natural time of decline—withdrawal into memories, the descending curtain, the snuffed lights.
Arthritis, he had long ago learned, could only be managed with two things: denial, and an absolute refusal to stop moving.
Dylan was an anarchist at heart, or so he said, but not enough of an anarchist to refuse his dole money.
Keith
Kevin
I despise this generation who enters adulthood with no idea of who they are, or what they want to be, flailing around for the next ten years like a fish in a blender.
Did other people rehearse and rehash arguments while pushing a trolley round Tesco, or filling up on petrol, or tossing out junk mail?
Noticing them for the first time, Hetheridge realized Madge had stormed a crime scene in those heels. Jules, at least, wore trainers and jeans. It was a generational difference, he supposed: Madge belonged to an era that still believed in dressing up to break the law.
