Play Dead by Peter Dickinson

path. Jim was there, waiting for his interview, but stood out of her way without a word. Her face seemed to have set like plaster. She could think of nothing but getting away. The WPC’s neat bum protruded from the barrel to a fusillade from the cameras. Poppy tapped her on the spine and she backed out, her face pink with the posture and embarrassment and puffing on her whistle.
    â€˜Thank you very much,’ Poppy managed to mutter. ‘You’ve been a great help. Come on, darling. Home now.’
    She tugged the barrel clear. Outraged, Toby seized the other rim and tried to pull it back.
    â€˜More eek!’ he demanded.
    â€˜Not now, darling. Home.’
    He clung to the rim, wrestling to free himself as she snatched him up. Then somehow he must have sensed that the rules had altered, felt the tension in her body, perhaps, understood with near-animal instinct that this was a time for stillness, for silence. They must know about danger, children. Deep in their genes there must be mechanisms that can feel the adult terror. Poppy hugged him to her, thankful to have him so close as she headed for the gate.
    Sue had the push-chair ready—she must have got someone else to take charge of Denny. She didn’t ask any questions.
    Men with notebooks and microphones jostled near by, but the police held them back. Toby made no attempt to resist as she strapped him into the push-chair—normally he would have insisted on walking at least as far as the ducks. People were shouting to her, questions, her name, what she’d seen. Their voices were wind in the trees, meaningless. She pushed the pram clear of the crowd but was aware of still being followed. A hand touched her arm.
    â€˜Please go away,’ she said.
    It was Sergeant Osborne.
    â€˜Please go away,’ she repeated. ‘I’ll be all right.’
    â€˜Inspector says to take you home in a car. You’ll be followed everywhere, else.’
    Poppy pushed on several more strides before she could take in the sense of it. A car, enclosing glass and steel, refuge. She let herself be guided back past the crowd to the west gate of the park. Several police cars were waiting there. She unstrapped Toby and lifted him clear.
    â€˜You’ll have to let me show you how the push-chair folds,’ she said.
    â€˜I’ll manage, love,’ said the driver. ‘Mothercare, isn’t it? Got one like that for my own little girl.’
    She climbed into the back seat and sat with Toby in her lap. He too seemed to feel the relief of being sealed off from the horror in the park, closed round, safe, and as soon as the car moved off he wanted to explore. Of course he’d seldom been in a moving car before without being strapped into a baby-chair, and now could see no reason why he shouldn’t use his freedom to help the driver in his interesting activities. Poppy shoved him up on to her shoulder to watch the road dwindling away behind. That distracted him for the moment. Sergeant Osborne was also looking out of the rear window.
    â€˜You’re clear, Mike, I think,’ she said. ‘Back to your daughter-in-law’s, Mrs Tasker?’
    â€˜Yes, please. Oh. I wonder if we hadn’t better go to my flat. I don’t want all those people knowing where Toby lives.’
    â€˜I’m afraid you’re in for that, whatever. This is the kind of case the papers really get hooked on—they’ll be at you over and over the next few days. Maybe you’d better have a social worker, help take a bit of the heat off.’
    â€˜But surely when they realise I’m not going to say anything …’
    â€˜Depends what else they’re getting.’
    â€˜All I know just now is I want to be alone. My daughter-in-law’s a social worker—not that sort, but she’ll know. I’ll talk to her. So don’t do anything about it for the moment anyway, please.’
    â€˜If that’s how you want