Reginald Hill - Ruling Passion

'Jesus!' said Dalziel in admiring anticipation. 'Well, that's buggered my diet!'

They all laughed. Pascoe, watching Ellie's genuine uninhibited amusement, felt the springs of his own laughter dry up. He busied himself with the carving knife and sharpening steel. It would be easy to become permanently suspicious of happiness, to taste no joy without glancing sharply over the shoulder to check who was watching. Perhaps this was the formula for survival that Dalziel would offer, though he could not think so, looking at the fat man this very moment.

But then, to look at Ellie now, proudly explaining the subtle modes by which the birds had been brought to their present fragrant succulence, who would know that a few hours previously he had found her standing in tears, looking down at the unplucked pheasants whose plumage's iridescent green and purple gleamed on the kitchen table like the silk of a woman's evening gown?

To be a look-out, to keep alert, was not a bad role. Particularly if you did not make a great show of it.

He put down the sharpening steel and approached the pheasants with the knife. Poker-faced, he jerked his head at Dalziel and said to Ellie, 'Which one is his?'

They all began laughing again. This time Pascoe laughed to the finish.