Play Dead by Peter Dickinson Page B

pleasant to listen to. Mr Capstone liked it more than Poppy. The conversation about the supposed watcher was brief.
    â€˜I’m sorry to have alarmed you.’
    â€˜It was a bit frightening, but I’ve got good locks and a chain on the door. I don’t think he’s come back. What did the police say?’
    â€˜Their interest was perfunctory. It suited me to have them believe that the man, if he was not a figment of my imagination …’
    â€˜Of course he wasn’t! There were cigarette butts all over that corner!’
    â€˜It’s a sheltered spot for a down and out. He may have wanted to beg off me, or mug me if he could follow me to a suitable place.’
    â€˜But you seemed so sure at the time!’
    â€˜Ah, well, when one has lived by one’s wits in a police state … Do you think Poulenc overrated?’

NOVEMBER 1989
    1
    S omething was happening by the play centre. Poppy had already been aware of it while they were feeding the ducks, some kind of crowd, a police car, TV crews. Bother, she thought—they’re shooting a telly ad and they won’t let us in, or more likely they’ll expect us to wait around for hours while they set things up so that they can film us for about two minutes. Nell will have gone home, anyway—it’s not her sort of thing at all. Poppy wanted to talk to Nell. The Ethelden Echo had had a story yesterday about closing a squat in Sabina Road at the weekend. She thought it must be the one where Nell used to live, and wanted to know whether shutting it down affected her at all, but Toby was not to be hurried.
    It was a grey day, still vaguely autumnal, but chill. He insisted on the full ritual, the gravel scratching and fence rattling and peep-bo. A fluffy poodle demanded his attention for several minutes. He found a big chestnut leaf and considered the possibility of restoring it to its tree. Poppy began to wonder whether any research had been done on the incidence of constipation among the mothers and minders of toddlers. It wasn’t the sort of work that won Nobel prizes, but she did find that the wearying yet unexercising pace had that effect on her, though she treated it with extra bran and striding flat out whenever Toby could be prevailed on to use the push-chair. Not now, so she had plenty of time to study the scene ahead.
    It became apparent that it was not what she’d thought. There were too many TV crews, and several men with stills cameras too. Another police car arrived. The crowd was not right up against the fence, but held well back by a barrier of yellow tape on iron poles, patrolled by uniformed police. Attitudes were wrong: too still, too interested. Oh God, she thought, someone’s been hurt. Badly.
    â€˜Look, darling,’ she said. ‘Cameras.’
    He let her pick him up and carry him, pushing the pushchair with her free hand. Some of the children were running around behind the crowd, apparently unwatched. The crowd itself was larger than she’d thought, eighty or ninety people, most of them unconnected with the play centre. She spotted Big Sue’s diabetic bulk with Denny looking tearful on her shoulder.
    â€˜Sue. What’s up?’
    Sue craned round.
    â€˜They’ve been looking for you, Poppy. That woman cop, the one came about the fellow that other time, she’s been asking.’
    â€˜What’s happening?’
    Bystanders, hearing what Sue had said, refocused their interest.
    â€˜It appears they discovered a dead body in the building this morning,’ said a man with a fastidious voice.
    â€˜Murdered,’ said a woman.
    â€˜We have not been told that,’ said the first man.
    â€˜Ah, come off it,’ said another man. ‘Haven’t been told a bloody thing yet, have we? But look at the bloody cameras—wouldn’t get that for a dosser having a heart attack, would you now?’
    â€˜You better find her,’ said Sue. ‘Don’t want