The Detective's Daughter

25

He had said he would not be long. She did not like him going but had too much pride to tell him and he put up with the silent treatment because it was better than her not minding at all, which would mean she did not care about him. He thought of inviting her, but they got on better in the house; their private world. She approved of the flowers.

He seldom went after dark. Night was an obvious time – no one would intrude – but she said that night was precisely when those intent on spoiling it would come.

He propped up the fresh bouquet and wedged it with the flint, as she said. He had asked for the flowers to be gift-wrapped this time as a surprise.

‘No, just that one, thank you. The other is a present for me!’

The assistant had unfurled ribbon from a roller, using silver without consulting him. He supposed choosing colours kept the job interesting because even selling beautiful, fragrant blooms must pall.

She nipped tape from a dispenser, queuing strips on the counter, using them one by one to swaddle the flowers in cellophane and tissue, curling the ribbons with the scissor blade – one, two, three, four – performing the procedure with expertise born of repetition. With mild ceremony she handed him the finished object.

In the street passing women smiled; a man with flowers attracts feminine approval.

The other flowers had died, but he wouldn’t mention it, she couldn’t bear death. He had left footprints so kicked up snow to make it look as if children had been playing and then went up the slope, criss-crossing to other graves to further confuse.

He bundled the dead flowers up in the paper and stuffed them in the bin by the lych gate. It was snowing hard which meant that soon his mess of prints around the graves would be undulations, his effort to disguise them unnecessary.

He had promised he would not be long and had been away five minutes. Most people would not think that much, but she could not bear to be without him.