Play Dead by Peter Dickinson Read Free Book Online Page A

Poppy joined in with the trumpets, far less expertly. Encouraged, he let himself go, bomping and baahing full throat. They were driving into the final tutti when Poppy noticed Elias staring up at her with that look of affront and disbelief which cats keep for outrages on their ideas of dignity. She collapsed into laughter. Jim closed with an unperturbed flourish and turned the volume down. Poppy could sense an inner lip-smack of self-satisfaction.
    â€˜If I had a fiver for every time I’ve played that,’ he said.
    â€˜Was Verdi using trombones as early as Aida ?’
    â€˜Brass band I’m talking about. West London Police Band. I still turn out for them if they’re short.’
    â€˜What else have I got …’
    â€˜First things first, Poppy. About if that fellow comes hanging around at the play centre. I’ll drop down to the station tomorrow, have a word with Terry Hicks. He’ll send someone along to talk to you, Ozzie Osborne, most like. Telephone at the play centre?’
    â€˜Yes. George has probably reported it already.’
    â€˜Right. Ozzie will know, then. She’ll give you a number and who to ask for. And most like she’ll drop by off and on for a couple of weeks, walk you home.’
    â€˜Oh, Jim, that’s marvellous! It’s such a load off my mind! I can’t thank you enough.’
    â€˜Listen to a bit more music, shall we? Not this caterwauling, mind.’
    â€˜It isn’t caterwauling!’
    â€˜And those fellows bawling away like they’re showing their tongues to the doctor.’
    â€˜1 don’t think I’ve got any proper brass band music.’
    â€˜Bet you have, too. Bet you’ve got old Vivaldi.’
    â€˜Yes, of course, but …’
    â€˜Let’s have Spring , then, for starters. Some bloody good tunes in there. Anything left in that gin bottle?’
    Buying her Guardian next morning Poppy thanked Mrs Jinja for her advice.
    â€˜He was wonderful,’ she said. ‘He didn’t just rescue us; he came round in the evening to tell me what to do if the man turned up again. Oh, you know that, of course—you gave him my address.’
    â€˜I hope you did not mind.’
    â€˜Of course not. Why?’
    Mrs Jinja’s mouth closed to a purple blob, like a shrinking anemone, in the large fawn face.
    â€˜Jim has a certain reputation, you understand me?’ she said. ‘I was careful to ask Mr Jinja’s permission before I consulted him about Farah’s difficulty.’
    â€˜I think I can look after myself.’
    â€˜He has his pension from the police. He does not need the money for being a crossing warden.’
    â€˜He says he likes being useful.’
    â€˜He also likes to inspect the young mothers who come to collect their children, and to make friends while they are waiting by the gate, and to be asked for advice, and to call round perhaps while the husband is working, and then … who knows, Mrs Tasker, who knows?’
    Poppy laughed.
    â€˜I promise you we spent the whole evening listening to music.’
    â€˜You do not object to my telling you this?’
    â€˜Of course not. I’m flattered.’

OCTOBER 1989
    1
    A vast Mercedes was waiting by the far entrance to the park. The chauffeur, blue-chinned, Greek-looking, simply stood and watched while Peony and Poppy collapsed their pushchairs and stowed them in the boot. There was a baby-seat fixed for Deborah in the back, but Poppy had to sit beside her with Toby on her lap, trying to control his impulse to explore every knob and handle. Peony sat in the front with the chauffeur, separated from the rear by a glass partition, and Poppy had the amusement of being able to watch their body language. When people know you can’t hear them they tend to forget how much their subsidiary modes of communication express their meanings and emotions. Even the back of the man’s head and the way his hands rested on