Deadheads

'If you think that, sir, I'd have a word with your insurance company,' said Pascoe. 'It'd be easy enough to pack a couple of thousand pounds' worth at least into a few suitcases. And it could be a great deal more. Those little Dutch flower paintings in your study: I'm no expert, but if they're genuine, they must be worth a bomb.'

'Good Lord. I'd forgotten about them. They were Uncle Eddie's. In fact, a lot of the stuff in the house was his. You can take things in your life so much for granted that you lose sight of their value, can't you?'

'Very true, sir,' said Pascoe. Briefly he explained that they would like to put some men on watch in the house on the two nights the Aldermann family would be away.

'Of course,' said Aldermann. 'You must do what is necessary. I do hope there won't be any mad dashes across the garden, though?'

'We'll try not to damage anything, sir.'

Somewhere a telephone rang. Daphne went to answer it.

'I believe congratulations are in order,' said Pascoe.

Typically Aldermann did not make any pretence of not understanding.

'Thank you. Yes, it's splendid. I feel I've achieved something worthwhile,' he said. 'And started something worthwhile too. A new beginning.'

Daphne returned.

'It's Dick Elgood,' she said. 'He wants to talk to you.'

'And I to him. Goodbye, Mr Wield, Mr Pascoe. Happy hunting next week!'

He went out. Pascoe and Wield exchanged glances which said they were both finished, and allowed Daphne to usher them to the door.

As they passed the open study, Pascoe glimpsed Aldermann at his desk with the phone in his hand. He was listening intently.

At the front door Daphne offered her hand.

'I hope we'll see more of you and Ellie,' she said.

'I'd like that,' said Pascoe.

2

 

SOUVENIR D'UN AMI

(Tea-rose. Delicate, requires protection in winter, a sheltered wall, and good soil, coppery-pink blooms with yellow stamens, beautifully fragrant.)

Shaheed Singh felt his left wrist seized and his forearm forced upwards behind his body which was rammed sideways against the wall, pinning his right arm uselessly against the rough brick.

'I've been looking for you,' growled a hoarse voice in his ear.

Twisting his head round, Singh found himself looking into the deep-set and vein-crazed eyes of Superintendent Dalziel whose normal ferocity of expression was not improved by a bruised and swollen nose.

'Come on, lad,' said the Superintendent, releasing him. 'You've got some answering to do.'

Feeling more like a prisoner than a colleague, Singh trailed along behind Dalziel's huge hulk, out of the car park where he'd been intercepted and into the station and up the stairs to the Super's room.

Dalziel settled comfortably into the extra-large executive-type office chair, all black leather and chrome, which baffled the annual inventory-takers, and said, 'Sit yourself down, son, make yourself at home,' with a geniality Singh found even more frightening than the initial assault.

'You might as well enjoy the facilities,' continued Dalziel, 'as I gather you've been kind enough to lend CID a hand while I've been away. Sort of filling the gap, so to speak.

‘Some gap, thought Singh, and the comic response, though naturally internalized beyond identification without truth drugs, relaxed him a little.

'Mr Pascoe has left me a full report of everything,' said Dalziel. 'Everything. He's out just now, acting on information you've supplied him with. That must make you proud, lad. To have a Detective-Inspector, not to mention a Detective-Sergeant, occupying a Saturday morning at your behest. And now you've got me. So tell me all about it.'

Singh told. Dalziel questioned. After twenty minutes they both fell silent. Singh sat anxiously, waiting for blame, praise or just simple dismissal. Dalziel stared gloomily at his desk surface, shoulders hunched as though under a burden, and right index finger gently patrolling the fold of flesh which hung over his shirt collar.

'Want to be a copper, do you?' Dalziel said suddenly.

'Yes, sir,' said Singh in a positive tone.

'Why?'

Singh thought of the tangle of reasons which had led, if such a tangle could be said to lead, him to his decision. He settled for simplicity.

'Because I think it's an interesting job, sir. And I think I'll like it. And I think I'll be good at it, sir.'

'Strikes me you think too bloody much, lad,' growled Dalziel. 'Mebbe you should try knowing and doing instead of all this thinking.'

'I'm sorry, sir,' said Singh. 'I just thought . . .' He tailed off miserably.

'There's only two places in a bobby's life, son,' said Dalziel, 'and you've got to be able to live in 'em both. One's out there.'

The index finger emerged from the carnal crease at his collar and poked a hole (metaphorically, though to