‘Good heavens, no.’
‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘Don’t ask any questions. Do it.’
‘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.
‘What is this about?’ she snapped.
‘Were you aware that your flat was being watched?’ he said.
‘Watched? But …’
‘You remember I had to park in the next Street? As I was walking round to my car somebody who had been standing in the shadow of that hedge opposite you started to follow me.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I know about these things. I walked past my car and on for long enough to make sure. Then I shook him off, went back for the car and drove home. It is just conceivable that somebody had been watching me and that we were followed back to your place from the concert, but if so that part of it had been very skilfully done, whereas the latter part when I left you was not.’
‘Did you see his face? Had he got a beard?’
The phone bleeped for more money. She fed it in. ‘A beard? Why?’
‘Somebody tried to follow us from the play centre the other day. He was, you know, interested in Toby. That sort. He’d got a beard. I’ve only got one more lot of money left.’
‘You want to report this to the police?’
‘I think I’ve got to. Sorry.’
‘In that case … Can you see that corner from your window? No, that won’t do. Will you please report that I told you I saw somebody there who I thought was watching your flat, but not that he tried to follow me?’
‘Oh, but …’
‘I will tell them that I wasn’t bothered at the time, but decided later I ought to warn you. If, as seems likely, the man’s interest was in you or your grandson, then the police will have been made aware of it, and that is all you need.’
‘I suppose so, but … You haven’t said if he had a beard. If you’re going to tell them you only saw him under the hedge, you wouldn’t have seen, would you?’
‘I didn’t, in any case. You don’t let your man know you’re aware that he’s following you. But you can give the police my name and I’ll tell them as much as I can. You have our address?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right. I’ll send you a ticket for the Whitechapel concert. We’ll meet there.’
‘All right.’
She walked back to her flat feeling chilly and sick. The house opposite had a ramshackle garden shed and a shaggy privet hedge at right angles to it, composing that corner of the cul-de-sac. Right in the corner, under the arch of the outward-leaning privet, there were seven or eight scattered cigarette stubs. Sicker still now, beginning to believe, she telephoned the police station and asked for Sergeant Osborne, who had been visiting the play centre regularly since the man had tried to follow her home with Toby. She wasn’t on duty yet, so Poppy, flustered now, had to speak to the duty sergeant, who switched with electric suddenness from apathy to attention at Mr Capstone’s name. A detective sergeant and a uniformed WPC were round within twenty minutes. She showed them the cigarette butts, and explained rather too emphatically that she and Mr Capstone were no more than acquaintances who had met at a concert and come back for supper so that they could continue to talk about music.
For several mornings after that Poppy inspected the corner for fresh cigarette butts. Before she went to bed at night she switched off the living-room lights, waited till her eyes were used to the dark and peered for any sign of an extra darkness in the shadow under the privet. Twice she took out her flour-dredger and powdered the area over in the dusk, but could see no signs of footprints there in the morning. Sergeant Osborne, visiting the play centre, told her that the cul-de-sac was now on the list for random night-time checks, but these, if they took place at all, must have happened while Poppy was asleep.
McCall-Baines turned out to be an organist, female. She played some Poulenc in the first half, and then a piece which called itself ‘Variations on a Theme of Schoenberg’s’ but whose sections seemed to Poppy quite unrelated to the announced theme or to each other, though some were pleasant to listen to. Mr Capstone liked it more than Poppy. The conversation about the supposed watcher was brief.
‘I’m sorry to have alarmed you.’
‘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?’
‘Their interest was perfunctory. It suited me to have them believe that the man, if he was not a figment of my imagination …’
‘Of course he wasn’t! There were cigarette butts all over that corner!’
‘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.’
‘But you seemed so sure at the time!’
‘Ah, well, when one has lived by one’s wits in a police state … Do you think Poulenc overrated?’
NOVEMBER 1989
1
Something 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.
‘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.
‘Sue. What’s up?’
Sue craned round.
‘They’ve been looking for you, Poppy. That woman cop, the one came abo
ut the fellow that other time, she’s been asking.’
‘What’s happening?’
Bystanders, hearing what Sue had said, refocused their interest.
‘It appears they discovered a dead body in the building this morning,’ said a man with a fastidious voice.
‘Murdered,’ said a woman.
‘We have not been told that,’ said the first man.
‘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?’
‘You better find her,’ said Sue. ‘Don’t want to get into trouble, do you?’
‘All right. Keep an eye on my push-chair, will you?’
Toby was wriggling to get down and go and help the camera crews. She ignored him and marched down behind the line of the crowd towards the entrance path. Two constables and a sergeant were guarding a gap in the tape.
‘The play centre is temporarily closed,’ said the sergeant for what sounded like the hundredth time. ‘Pass along, please.’
‘Apparently I’m wanted.’
‘Not now, madam. Please will you …’
‘Sergeant Osborne has been asking for me, I’m told.’
‘One moment, madam. Seen Ozzie, Bob?’
‘She’s around.’
‘Get hold of her. No, hold it. What’s your name, madam?’
Poppy told him. The moment she’d approached she’d been aware of the click and purr of cameras trained on her, but the centre of their interest had switched again and they were pointing towards the hut.
‘Wait here a moment, please,’ said the sergeant, and let himself in through the gate. Two men had emerged from the hut and were standing a few yards along the path, talking. One wore a black leather jacket and jeans and the other a brown suit and hat. The sergeant spoke to them and returned.
‘This way, madam,’ he said. ‘Bob, find a WPC to take charge of the little lad. You hang on to him for the moment, madam.’
Thrilled with the nearness of the cameras Toby had been almost uncontrollable, threshing and bucking and reaching out pleading hands. Poppy’s arm was aching unendurably.
‘I’m going to have to put him down,’ she said, not waiting for introductions. ‘Can we go over to the climbing frame?’
‘Used to take my own kids to a place like this,’ said the man in the brown suit. ‘Not so much kit those days.’
He walked beside her in silence to the frame where Toby, though still yearning for the cameras, allowed himself to be coaxed into his routine of inspection. Poppy positioned herself to stop him when he made his inevitable break for the gate.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Firth,’ said the man. ‘You’re Mrs Tasker, right? Now, a few weeks back you reported a man watching you here …’
‘Watching Toby, I thought. So did the others. Then a man—I think it was the same one—tried to follow us home.’
‘You’d know him again?’
‘I think so. My eyesight’s not very good, even with specs, but I got a proper look at him when I was in Mrs Jinja’s.’
‘And if he’d shaved off his beard?’
‘Oh, well, yes, I think … hang on a mo—I’ll have to introduce them.’
A strange WPC had arrived and was trying to make friends with Toby, who was ignoring her advances.
‘Hello,’ said Poppy. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Poppy and this is my grandson, Toby.’
‘I’m Vi,’ whispered the girl.
She was as petite as regulations could possibly allow, frail-looking and uncertain, obviously fresh out of whatever training they did.
‘Hello, Vi. Can you say Vi, darling?’
Toby had remembered about the cameras. Poppy blocked his path. He glowered. His lower lip protruded. In a couple of seconds he’d yell.
‘No, darling, we’ve got to stay here for a bit. Look, Vi’s got a really interesting radio sort of thing. She’ll show you how it works. And I expect you’ve got a whistle too, haven’t you, Vi?’
Indeed she had, a whistle on a gleaming chain. She blew hesitantly through it. That was enough to start the friendship. Poppy turned back. Mr Firth was alone now, the other man walking back towards the hut.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That’ll keep him happy for a bit. They said somebody’s dead. Do you want me to look at the body?’
‘The sergeant’s gone to see if the lab boys have finished lifting the footprints off the floor. Normally we’d leave identification twenty-four hours, but this time the boss thinks it’s worth knowing straight off if it’s the same chap you saw before … Ah …’
The sergeant had disappeared through the door of the hut and now returned and waved. Poppy walked up the path beside Mr Firth.
‘You feel all right about this, Mrs Tasker?’ he said.
‘I hope so. It’s got to be done. I shan’t know till I’ve tried, shall I?’
‘That’s the spirit. Now, I don’t want to go putting ideas into your mind. Like as not this isn’t the fellow you saw, and it’s no use to me you saying it is because you think that’s what I want, right?’
‘Oh, yes. Of course. Jim Bowles got a much better look at him than I did, you know. He’s the crossing warden at the Primary, the one in Starveling Lane.’
They had stopped under the projecting roof at the door of the hut.
‘Oh, we all know Jim,’ said Mr Firth. ‘He’ll be along to tell us everything he knows, and more. Now listen, Mrs Tasker—you’ll see the face is a funny colour. Don’t worry about that. And stay on the matting, so you don’t go leaving your own prints around. You’ll be all right. In my experience women are better at this sort of thing than men.’
He opened the door and led her in. She kept her eyes down, not wishing to look until she had to. A narrow path of canvas matting had been laid towards the kitchen, then turning to cross the room. She saw the feet of camera tripods and other pieces of apparatus. There were strong lights, an electrical hum, the mutters and movements of intent work. The path stopped just short of the Lego table. The Lego blocks, always ritually tidied back on to the table when the centre was about to close, lay scattered across the floor.
‘Ready?’ he said.
‘You want me to look now?’
‘Please.’
The man lay spread-eagled on the table, a green sheet covering his body. As well as the head, a hand protruded. It had been lashed by the wrist to the leg of the table. From the further leg another cord strained up to the invisible ankle. The face … without Mr Firth’s warning Poppy would have assumed it had been painted, or partly made up, a preliminary shocking cherry-red base laid on to the visible cheek in a great coarse blotch, the lips tomato-red, the mouth-surround, nose and temple seeming white by comparison but in fact pinker than any natural skin. She would have known he was dead. This was never the colour of live flesh.
‘Let go, will you?’ she whispered. ‘I’m all right.’
He released her elbow and she crouched to study the face in profile. The fine, slightly curving nose repeated the line of the brow, but less markedly than she’d remembered. Perhaps that was because there was more to see with the beard gone, a small, rather immature-looking mouth and chin. Even in death, even in the obscene colours of that death, he had the look of a child. Poppy guessed he was in his early twenties. The hair was the right shade.
She rose and accepted his steadying hand on her arm.
‘I think that’s him,’ she whispered. ‘I only really saw him in profile. His forehead and nose are right. How tall was he?’
‘Five nine.’
‘That’s about right. Mrs Jinja at the corner shop saw him as well as Jim Bowles. What made you think it might be him?’
‘Chap who found him this morning, play-leader here …’
‘George?’
‘George McWatters. He’d seen him that day—was on his way to tell him to clear off, in fact, when he left. He said he thought it might be, but you’d had a better look.’
‘Yes. May I go now, please?’
This time she needed his help to cross the room. Outside, the breeze had winter in it. She swayed, pulled herself upright, and shook herself as if waking from an unwanted doze.
‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘Where’s Toby?’
He had dragged his captive over to the Wendy House and was trying to get her to understand the importance of getting the barrel properly jammed in the entrance before they could begin their experiments into the police-whistle-in-Wendy-House-and-barrel phenomenon. Beyond the barrier the ranked cameras jostled. Unlike Toby, the WPC was desperately aware of them.
‘Looks like he’s busy for a moment,’ said Mr Firth, pulling out a notebook. ‘Now, if you’ll tell me about the time he followed you. I know we’ve got a report on file, but I’d like the details. Feel up to it now?’
Poppy was glad to have something she must do. There were voices in her mind—Big Sue’s and the others’—and her own unspoken wish that the man was dead, six feet under, buried in lime. It was as though their curses, working together like the power of their united stare that had driven him off, had made the wish reality. She drowned the voices by concentrating on the exactness of her memory. Mr Firth made a few notes.
‘And you didn’t see him again?’ he said.
She hesitated.
‘No,’ she said. ‘But, well, I had a guest for supper a few days later, who rang next morning and said that when he left he thought he’d seen someone in the corner opposite my flat, watching. I looked and there were a lot of cigarette ends there. The man who’d followed us seemed to be pretty well chain-smoking. I did report that too, but I don’t know how seriously they took it.’
He made another note.
‘But you say the man was interested in Toby,’ he said. ‘Why should he be watching your flat? How do you know it wasn’t you he was interested in in the first place?’
‘Oh, we get that sort too—eyeing the young mums and the nannies. Sometimes you’re not sure. But when you are … it’s happened twice before since I’ve been here. It’s something about the way they stand, I think. So still. All I can tell you is I knew. We all did.’
Play Dead Page 7
