Reginald Hill: Deadheads

He became aware that Pascoe was observing him curiously. And not only Pascoe. His son was standing close behind the policeman, almost invisible in the camouflage of sun-flecks through the breeze-stirred roses.

'Hello, David,' said Aldermann, resuming his pruning. 'What are you up to.'

'Mummy sent me to say it's rude for you to keep Mr Pascoe standing out here so long.'

'And she's right, of course. Thank you, David. Peter, I'm sorry.'

‘It was my idea,' said Pascoe.

'That's no excuse,' said Aldermann, slicing another bloom off its stem with a single economic motion which set the sunlight spilling off the silver blade like alien blood.

'Daddy,' said the boy.

'Yes, David.'

'What is it that you're doing? I mean, I can see what you're doing, but why do you do it?'

'Well,' said Aldermann with his knife poised above another deadhead. 'I'm. .'

Then he paused and smiled as if at some deep, inner joke.

Carefully he closed the pruning knife and put it in his pocket.

'Later, David,' he said. 'I'll explain to you some other time. We have our guests to look after. Peter, you must be roasted, standing out here in the sun. Let's go and find a cool drink and sit and talk to the ladies. Isn't it a perfect day?'