Deadheads

by Reginald Hill

  Wield who didn’t want to be separated from Aldermann after so short an encounter was about to spin his prepared line of perhaps your husband might be able to corroborate one or two points when the man saved him the trouble by saying, ‘You won’t disturb me, darling. And I’d be interested to hear what the police are doing, and to help if possible.’

  ‘Very kind, sir,’ said Wield, pulling a garden chair towards him and posing his buttocks over it while he looked enquiringly at Daphne.

  She let out a small sigh and sat down.

  Wield followed suit. Singh remained standing till Wield nodded significantly at him, when he sat a little distance from the other three and emulated the sergeant by producing a notebook.

  ‘I hadn’t realized this would be a CID matter,’ said Aldermann. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Thank you, no, sir,’ said Wield. ‘To tell the truth, sir, CID wouldn’t normally be involved with a bit of one-off car bashing, but this is threatening to become an epidemic. Also we like an experienced officer to show our cadets the ropes in all departments of police work.’

  Patrick Aldermann smiled faintly and Wield wondered if he were explaining too much. He put on his most serious dedicated look which could usually make children weep and strong men avert their gaze, but Aldermann’s cool brown eyes never flickered and the smile remained.

  Wield returned his attention to the wife and said ponderously, ‘Now, ma’am. Your car is a VW Polo, registration AWG 830T. On Monday of this week you parked it in the Station Street multi-storey car park. This was at what time?’

  ‘Oh, nine-fifteen, something like that. I dropped my daughter off at her school and then just drove straight into town to do some shopping.’

  ‘In fact, you did a whole day’s shopping, is that right, ma’am? You didn’t come back to your car till after three o’clock.’

  ‘That’s right,’ laughed Daphne. ‘I got rather carried away.’

  ‘One of those expensive days the ladies give us from time to time, eh, sir?’ responded Wield, smiling at Aldermann. The invitation to a shared domestic laugh came from Wield’s lips like a pop-song from the Delphic oracle. It was an incongruity which went far deeper than his unprepossessing exterior. Sergeant Wield was, and, having never received the hypothesized conditioning treatment of a good public school education, presumed he always had been, unrepentantly homosexual. He guarded the secret from all but those few whose relationship with him depended on a knowledge of it, not because he felt guilt or shame but because he felt (a) that his business was his business, and doubted (b) that the mid-Yorkshire force was yet ready for a fairy fuzz. Occasionally he made believe that next time Dalziel growled bad-temperedly Right, Sergeant, what have you got for me? he would jump on his knee and offer him a kiss, but the golden rays of such sunny fancies never touched the pits and promontories of his no-man’s-land of a face.

  Aldermann affected to take the remark seriously, saying, ‘If it were one of those days, Sergeant, I haven’t seen the results yet.’

  ‘Window-shopping mainly, was it?’ laughed Wield. ‘No harm done then. Except to your car. When you got back you found it had been badly scratched?’

  He glanced at his notebook which he held close to his face in the palm of his hand to conceal the fact that it was his diary and almost empty.

  ‘And you immediately reported this to the police,’ he continued, as a statement not a question, but Daphne replied carefully. ‘The police were already there. Someone else had found their car damaged and reported it.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ agreed Wield glancing at the diary again. ‘Now, when you parked the car that morning, did you see anything odd? Anyone hanging about for instance.’

  ‘No, no one,’ she said.

  Aldermann said, ‘It’s hardly likely that these vandals would already have been lurking at nine-fifteen A.M., is it, Sergeant?’

  His tone was one of polite enquiry.

  Wield looked once more at his diary which contained nothing more helpful than the information that the following Sunday was the 2nd after Trinity, 3rd after Pentecost and Father’s Day. He said, ‘We’re not yet sure of the time the damage was actually done, sir.’

  ‘But surely there have to be limits?’ pursued Aldermann. ‘Between the latest time of parking of a subsequently damaged car and the earliest time of complaint, for instance. Unless this lunatic was picking them off one by one throughout the day.’

  ‘Well, that’s always a possibility, sir,’ said Wield as if the suggestion had been seriously intended. ‘Were there many other cars about when you parked, ma’am?’

  ‘Hardly any,’ said Daphne promptly.

  ‘No? Of course, you were parked on the roof, weren’t you? The first couple of floors fill up pretty quick with business people, I suppose. But there must still have been a lot of room on the next four floors at nine-fifteen.’

  ‘I always park on the roof,’ said Daphne promptly. ‘I’m not very fond of enclosed spaces, nor am I a particularly good reverser. So, open air and no other cars to hit, that’s my ideal.’

  ‘No other cars?’ said Wield. ‘You were the first on the roof park?’

  ‘I might have been,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember. Does it matter?’

  No, thought Wield. It didn’t matter in the least. His little plan of getting a close look at Aldermann at home without rousing any suspicions was not working very well. At the very least he must be arousing the suspicion that he was a half-wit. Even Police Cadet Singh had stopped writing every word that was said in his book and was making faces at the little girl.

  ‘Won’t keep you much longer,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Mrs Aldermann, is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to do you a bad turn?’

  ‘By damaging my car, you mean?’ said Daphne in surprise. ‘But it wasn’t just my car, was it?’

  ‘I know that,’ said Wield. ‘But according to our officers on the spot, the scratchings on your car might have been words.’

  ‘Words?’ said Aldermann. ‘You mean a message.’

  ‘Not exactly, sir. The second possible word was cow. This would suggest the vandal knew you were a woman, madam.’

  ‘Well, I did leave an old hat I carry around in case it rains on the rear sill,’ said Daphne. ‘So it wouldn’t need a detective to work out it was a woman’s car, would it?’

  ‘What,’ said Aldermann pleasantly, ‘was the first possible word, Sergeant?’

  ‘Hard to say, sir,’ said Wield uncomfortably, thinking that Dalziel, for instance, would not have found the four letters in the least hard to say.

  ‘If it were aimed specifically at my wife, then why did the vandal damage other cars? And didn’t you say there’d been an epidemic of this recently?’

  This was too sharp for comfort and all Wield could manage in reply was the stock, ‘We have to cover every possibility, sir.’

  ‘Well, I certainly don’t know anyone who’d do this kind of thing,’ said Daphne firmly.

  ‘I see,’ said Wield. ‘And you, sir? Is there anyone you can think of who might have a grudge against you? In your work perhaps?’

  Aldermann shook his head slowly as much in disbelief as negation.

  ‘I’m an accountant. I work for Perfecta Ltd. I can think of no one there, or indeed in any department of my life, who might bear a grudge sufficiently strong to make him vandalize my wife’s car and then set about several more to cover up his deed.’

  The man’s tone was still perfectly polite but it was approaching the politeness of farewell. It was saying that unless this idiot policeman could produce some reason even slightly above the moronic for continuing this interview, it ought decently to draw to a close.

  Wield could only agree, even though it meant he was going back to Pascoe empty-handed. He had heard nothing and seen nothing worth commenting on.

  Suddenly the little girl who had been sitting all this while playing a game with Police Cadet Singh which involved peeping at him through her fingers and shak
ing with internalized giggles whenever he caught her eye and grimaced in reply, said, ‘Mummy, can I play on the swing?’

  ‘Of course, dear,’ said Daphne. ‘Shall I come and give you a push, if the sergeant is finished, of course.’

  ‘No, I want him to push me,’ said Diana, pointing at Singh.

  ‘I don’t think …’ began the woman but Singh rose with his brilliant smile and said, ‘I don’t mind. All right, Sarge? Up you come, love.’

  He swung the girl up on to his shoulder and set off down the garden.

  ‘He sounds like a native. Of Yorkshire I mean,’ said Daphne.

  ‘You pick it up quite fast after seventeen years,’ said Wield gravely.

  ‘But he can’t be more than … oh, I see, you mean he is a native?’

  Wield who knew the old rule which said Don’t be cheeky to the customers unless they’re nicked, or you’re Dalziel, said, ‘He’s a nice lad. Lovely roses, you’ve got, sir.’

  Aldermann’s face lit up with a smile which equalled Singh’s.

  ‘Yes, it’s promising to be a good year. They’ve made an excellent recovery after that awful winter. Are you a rose man, Sergeant?’

  ‘From afar,’ said Wield. ‘I live in a flat. The best I can manage is a couple of houseplants and they’re likely to die from neglect.’

  ‘Have you thought of a window-box and some of the miniatures?’ asked Aldermann. ‘They can do astonishingly well, so long as the box is well drained and preferably south-facing.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Wield, alert to the change from watchful reserve to lively enthusiasm, though it was so marked that he didn’t need to be very alert. ‘What varieties would you recommend?’

  ‘That’s hard,’ said Aldermann. ‘I can point out growing characteristics, but as for looks, every man’s his own arbiter. “Varieties” in roses means just that. Their variety is infinite; at least it appears so. Every year brings new advances. That’s the fascination of being a hybridist. You’re never really certain what you’re going to get. You select your stock according to the best horticultural principles, you do all the work, everything goes according to plan, but not until you see that first bloom do you really know what you’ve achieved. It brings a whole new range of excitement and uncertainty into our experience!’

  ‘I get plenty of that in my job already,’ laughed Wield.

  ‘Do you?’ Aldermann sounded mildly surprised. ‘I suppose policing is rather unique. But on the whole, isn’t most of life, outside the rose-garden, I mean, surprisingly unsurprising?’

  ‘My husband is an enthusiast and also an evangelist, Sergeant,’ interrupted Daphne with a slightly strained laugh. ‘I really must see to the dinner, darling. And it’s time that Diana was coming in, I think. Would you see to her?’

  This was dismissal, polite but clear, and Wield stood up to take his leave.

  Aldermann however came to his aid.

  ‘Diana sounds happy enough,’ he said, glancing down the garden where they could see and hear the little girl squealing in delight as Singh pushed the swing higher and higher. ‘And I must show the sergeant some of the miniatures he’s interested in. I’ve got a few in a raised bed down here.’

  He set off down the steps which led from the terrace into the garden. Daphne Aldermann said, ‘Goodbye then, Sergeant,’ and held out her hand. Wield shook it, wondering where this well-bred lady drew the line. Would she shake hands when saying goodbye to a uniformed constable, for instance? And was he right in sensing an enthusiasm to be rid of him that would have made her shake hands with a leprous cannibal?

  He followed Aldermann down the garden along a narrow path between two clumps of exuberantly colourful rhododendrons to a long windowless outhouse in rustic brick. As if the shrubbery were not screen enough, the building was almost covered by a huge climbing rose which seemed to support the walls rather than vice versa. It was laden with large, ruffled, soft pink blossoms which exhaled a rich perfume.

  ‘You like my Madame Grégoire?’ said Aldermann as he fitted a key in the door. ‘You’re seeing her at her best. Another month and she’ll be down to a handful of blooms.’

  He opened the door and went inside, snapping on a light switch.

  ‘It’s very nice,’ said Wield, following, though to tell the truth he was finding all this colour and scented air a little cloying. His thoughts somehow drifted to his mother, a generously rounded woman who had been much given to gaudy blouses and musky perfumes and empty sentimentalities.

  The outhouse was full of the instruments of gardening, all in neat array. Aldermann took a pair of gardening gloves and a pruning knife from a high shelf and removed what looked like a newspaper boy’s bag from a hook, completing the impression by draping it round his neck. Wield’s eye meanwhile was taken by a large wall-cabinet with a solid front held shut by a solid-looking padlock.

  ‘Good security, sir,’ he said approvingly.

  ‘What? Oh yes. It’s for the children’s sake, of course,’ said Aldermann. ‘I doubt if it would do more than slightly delay real burglars, Sergeant, but modern gardening uses modern substances and I’ve got enough stuff in there in the way of herbicides and pesticides to kill an army!’

  He led the way out, carefully locking up behind him. When they reached the rose-garden, the function of his neck-bag became apparent. From time to time he paused to slice off a wasting bloom and drop it into the bag.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ he said, ‘but it’s the only way to keep control.’

  ‘You surely don’t take care of everything yourself?’ said Wield, who was still pondering the easy reference to the lethal contents of the locked cabinet.

  ‘Hardly,’ laughed Aldermann, looking round at the huge expanse of gardens. ‘In my great-uncle’s day – he actually created the garden, by the way – there was a full-time gardener. Times, and costs, have changed, of course. The old gardener’s son started a gardening contracting business and they come out here one or two days a week during the growing season to keep things under control. I do as much as I can and almost everything to do with the roses.’

  ‘Even that must be almost a full-time job,’ said Wield.

  ‘It occupies the centre of my life, yes,’ agreed Aldermann. ‘But there’s plenty of room round the edges for earning a living. Not that I don’t sometimes dream of being able to give all my attention here. What harm does it do a man, I wonder, when the harsh facts of existence hinder him from growing steadily into the fullness of his own nature?’

  The brown eyes turned on Wield, not watchful now but vulnerably wide and full of frank, guileless innocence, yet arousing in the sergeant the uneasy feeling that Aldermann had somehow penetrated to the very heart of his own double existence.

  ‘You may be right, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s a fine-looking instrument.’

  He nodded at the pruning knife and felt angry with himself for the deliberate cutting off of this potentially productive shoot of personal philosophy. It was a small act of cowardice, almost certainly unnecessary, but none the better had it been necessary. Defence too can be habit-forming. It is aroused by threat. It can be activated when no threat is intended. And it sometimes continues when there’s nothing left to defend. For almost a year now, since a long-established relationship had died on him, he had led a life of hermit-like celibacy. There were no roses at the centre of his existence, just a dark, destructive hiding place in which there was no longer even anything hiding.

  Aldermann smiled as if he understood every thought in the sergeant’s mind and said, ‘Yes, I prefer it to secateurs. It belonged to my great-uncle, though curiously I was shown how to use it by my great-aunt who was strongly concerned for the good appearance of the gardens. So was my great-uncle, of course, but his motivation was not to impress others, but to express love. Removing the dying blooms is a sad but necessary task. Naturally a lover of the plants will want to use the quickest and kindest instrument available.’

  He held the knife up as he spoke, in a gesture clos
e to a chivalric salute, and the sunlight caught its curved and silvery blade.

  ‘Now, let me see; the miniatures! Of course, that’s what you want to see, isn’t it? Over here. I don’t have very many but you may get some ideas for your box. This Baby Masquerade is very pretty. The flowers change colour as they develop which would be interesting in a window. I prefer it as a miniature, myself. At full size, it’s a little too garish for my taste.’

  ‘I like the look of these,’ said Wield, finding the man’s enthusiasm infectious. ‘What are they?’

  ‘You have a good old-fashioned taste, I see,’ said Aldermann approvingly. ‘Those are dwarf polyanthas. That Baby Faurax is terribly pretty, don’t you think?’

  Wield looked down at the clusters of tiny lavender and violet pompoms and nodded. They certainly appealed to him much more than the full-sized heavy-headed bushes. They brought into his mind a cottage garden with a stream running through it and a low-roofed building in glowing Cotswold stone.

  He realized he was recalling a holiday cottage where he and his lost lover had spent a joyous fortnight many years before.

  ‘Diana! Come in now, dear!’

  Mrs Aldermann’s voice pushed the memory from his mind. She was standing on the terrace. From the swing came a token protest, but Police Cadet Singh swept the little girl up on to his shoulders and bore her laughing and chattering towards the house.

  ‘I’d best be off, sir,’ said Wield. ‘Good of you to spare the time.’

  ‘Shared not spared, I think,’ said Aldermann. ‘Goodbye now.’

  He accompanied Wield and Singh round the side of the house, then diverted to a screened compost heap where he deposited the deadheads and stood looking down at them in quiet contemplation. Wield, glancing back, was reminded of a priest standing alone by a flower-strewn grave after all the mourners had gone. ‘A priest’ wasn’t a bad image. Aldermann’s enthusiasm had something of the inaccessibility of the truly religious mind. The sergeant surprised himself by feeling a sudden surge of envy. For what? Not these huge gardens and that over-large house, certainly. And definitely not his wife, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor his servants, if he had any besides the jobbing gardeners and probably the occasional char. Perhaps, then, for knowing where his centre lay and daring to act upon that knowledge?