Deadheads

'What are you doing here? Sir?' demanded Pascoe

'Pastoral care, Peter,' said Dalziel genially. 'I woke up and got to thinking about you, stuck out here all night with nothing happening. Nothing did happen, did it? No, I didn't think it would. In fact, I didn't think it would last evening, but it seemed silly to be a kill-joy when you'd gone to all that bother to set things up.'

What the hell did he want? wondered Pascoe.

'Looking for anything in particular, sir?' he asked, nodding at the desk.

'No, not really. Aldermann's in the clear, isn't he? I've got your word on it, and that's good enough for me. Just my natural curiosity, lad. Unpaid bills, mainly, but he'll soon have that sorted. And a lot of stuff about roses. He corresponds with the best people, doesn't he? Even I've heard of some of their names. Let's bung this stuff back and take a stroll around, shall we, Peter? Best time of day, this. You ought to try getting up early more often. Taste the dawn.'

He watched like a benevolent Nature spirit as Pascoe tidied up the papers he'd disturbed and closed the drawers.

'It's all right, lad,' he said, observing the Inspector's hesitation. 'They weren't locked. Trusting soul, Aldermann. And it helps your tender conscience, I've no doubt. Where's Beauty and the Beast, by the way?'

Pascoe led the way to the kitchen. Wield and Singh were deep in conversation which stopped as he entered, and when Dalziel came in behind him, they both stood up, Singh's chair practically falling over in his eagerness.

'Take it easy, lad,' said Dalziel in his kindly voice. 'Not quite got the hang of chairs yet? Don't worry. It'll come, it'll come. You know, I could just fancy a cup of tea. Think you can manage that, son?'

Singh nodded.

'Good. And have a bit of a poke around in the larder. I don't expect you'll find any beef dripping here. That's what I'd really like, a beef dripping sarnie. Failing that, a bit of toast with Marmite. I'm sure they'll have Marmite. Lay it on thick so there's a bit of flavour. Will you do that for me?'

'Yes, sir,' said Singh.

'Good lad. Come on, Inspector. We'll take a turn round the garden.'

'I'll have a coffee,' said Pascoe to Wield. 'But no Marmite.'

As he walked towards the front door with Dalziel, the fat man boomed, 'A good lad, that darkie. He'll go far. Wouldn't surprise me if he went all the way. I'd like to see that. Make a change from some of these pasty-faced buggers I saw last week. You'd think they lived under stones down there!'

Outside Pascoe was puzzled to see no sign of Dalziel's car. He couldn't have walked here, surely! The turbulence of the night was long past and a fine summer's day was unfolding like a flower. But the storm had left its mark. Dalziel tutted as he walked across the once smooth lawn now strewn with twigs and leaves and petals.

'Bit of tidying up for our Patrick here,' he observed.

'I think he pays someone to do the basic stuff,' said Pascoe.

'Aye, he would. No expense spared with this lad. Mind you, he'll need help. There's a lot of land here, a lot of land.'

They strolled round the formal gardens till they arrived at the small complex of greenhouses.

'This is where it all happens, this hybridization is it?' said Dalziel, peering through the glass like a voyeur hoping to glimpse flesh. 'Clever fellow, our Patrick. Very clever.'

'Sir,' said Pascoe determinedly. 'Do you still suspect him of something?'

'Me? No. Why should I? A lot of people died, it's true. But there's always people dying, isn't there? And we've no bodies, have we? That's what we're short of Peter. Bodies.'

He sounded almost regretful. Pascoe was reminded of the police pathologist who demanded flesh.

'Plenty of nothing, that's all we have,' continued Dalziel. 'And all we're likely to have from the look of it. Let's get back to the house. All this morning air's making me hungry.'

'You really fancy him for at least one of these deaths, do you, sir?' persisted Pascoe as they walked back through the rose-garden.

Dalziel paused to pluck a crimson bloom which the wind had half snapped off its stem and put it in his button- hole.

'Milord,' he said, displaying that expertise in unexpected areas with which he sometimes surprised his subordinates.

'Very fitting,' said Pascoe drily. 'About Aldermann . . .'

'He frightened his mam,' said Dalziel. 'No, that's too strong. He had a lot of influence over her, and she's not an easy woman to dominate, I tell you. But you think he's all right?'

'I quite like him,' admitted Pascoe. 'And you?'

'Only met him once, haven't I?' said Dalziel, adding thoughtfully, 'But I must say I quite like his mam!'

Back in the house, they found a pot of tea and a plateful of Marmited toast waiting for Dalziel. He tucked in with a good appetite, telling a long rambling anecdote about his army experiences as a military policeman. Pascoe drank his mug of coffee and responded to Wield's interrogative glance with a minute shrug.

'Right,' said Dalziel, glancing at the kitchen clock which said seven A.M., 'let's get washed up. Always leave a place as you'd hope to find it, you shouldn't forget that, son.'

Singh nodded as if this were the most helpful piece of advice he'd ever heard.

Carefully, they washed up with Dalziel doing the drying. When he'd finished, he folded the tea-towel carefully