The Mushroom Man (10 page)

We joined the force within a year of each other, but Sparky had never chased promotion.
Thief-taker
was the only recognition he ever aspired to. Many policemen say that sergeant is the most satisfying rank, but all Sparky ever wanted to be was a DC, and he was the best I’d known. We went down to the canteen for some breakfast.

Nigel and Mad Maggie joined us for a mug of tea and a toasted currant teacake.

‘I have the impression that you’re not a believer in the supernatural, boss,’ stated Maggie.

‘Correct,’ I replied through a mouthful of toast.

‘There’s a woman in Heckley who has a terrific reputation for fortune-telling,’ she said. ‘I’ve spoken to several people who’ve visited her, and they’ve
been told things about themselves that have really shaken them. I don’t believe in it, but she’s very clever.’

‘You’ve said it all there, Maggie,’ Sparky confirmed. ‘They’re clever. Shirley once went to a spiritualist with a neighbour. She came home full of it. This chap had the audience hanging on his every word. Claimed he was receiving messages from some poor woman’s dead husband. I had to put my foot down to stop her from going again.’

‘You?’ I said. ‘Put your foot down with Shirley? Pull the other one.’

‘My grandmother held regular conversations with my grandfather,’ Nigel added. ‘Went on for years. Mother said it used to drive her potty.’

‘Through a spiritualist?’ asked Maggie.

‘No. Across the dinner table. He wasn’t dead.’

We all laughed far too much, but it was a special event – Nigel had never made a joke before. He blushed with pride.

The boss always has the last word. ‘Listen,’ I told them. ‘There’s a simple proof that telepathy is bunkum. Think of all those poor page-three girls and big-bosomed film stars. If thoughts could be transmitted they’d never have a moment’s peace. They’d constantly be imagining they were being ravished, by building-site workers and
third-formers
and little men in big rain-coats.’

‘And policemen?’ asked Maggie.

‘And policemen.’

‘It could work the other way round, too, boss,’ she insisted.

‘Well, it’s never happened to me,’ I declared; modestly adding, before anyone else did: ‘Not that that proves much.’

‘C’mon, let’s check the streets.’

I knew what karaoke was, but I’d never seen how it worked. I was fascinated by the technology. The list of songs available contained hundreds that I hadn’t heard of, but there were still plenty of golden oldies from the sixties. Nothing that I felt like singing in public, though.

The pub was crowded, but we managed to get the last two tables, and pushed them together. I bought the first round. When I reached the bar I discovered that the landlady was an old friend. She used to work in the canteen at Heckley nick. It was not long after my divorce, and she was attractive, in a flashy sort of way. Sexy. The restrictions on having affairs with colleagues didn’t extend to the civilian staff, and the possibilities offered by coordinating my flexible hours with her afternoons off made my hormone levels run berserk. We’d almost reached the your-place-or-mine stage when someone tipped me off that her husband played in the scrum for Wigan. It worked better than a cold shower.

‘Hello, Charlie,’ she said warmly. ‘Don’t see you in here very often.’

‘Hello, Karen,’ I replied, with equal delight. ‘No, I’ve not been in for years. Still married to that rugby-playing gorilla?’

‘Ted? Yes, he’s here, somewhere. What about you? Still on your own?’

I’d met Ted and liked him, dammit. It was a struggle to prevent my eyes flicking down towards her cleavage as she wrestled with the pumps. ‘’Fraid so. If he ever leaves you, let me know.’ I didn’t mean it, but might have done, a few years ago.

She smiled at me as she pushed the last pint across and took the money. ‘Want a tray?’ she asked.

‘No, I’ve enough here to carry,’ I replied.

A Tom Jones lookalike was at the microphone. Unfortunately the similarity didn’t extend to the voice. His hips swung in unison with his medallion as he asked Delilah to forgive him because he just couldn’t take Kenny More, whoever he was.

‘Is he serious?’ I asked.

‘Deadly,’ was the answer from the others. Then I joined in with the enthusiastic calls for an encore.

We had a pneumatic Dolly Parton with a
slow-punctured
voice, and a passable Kenny Rogers, although his Yorkshire accent didn’t do anything for the red-necked lyrics. Then it was Luke’s turn.

He grabbed the mike, turned up the corner of his
lip as he waited for his cue, then launched into ‘Jailhouse Rock’. The place was instantly on its feet, dancing along with him. He uh-uh’d and gyrated like he’d invented the style. A final pelvic thrust had everybody cheering, but this time they meant it.

‘I think we just found Elvis,’ said Sparky.

‘We’re not looking for him,’ I stated, draining my glass. ‘Get the beer in.’

Luke was waylaid by a girl with the face of a Disney princess and hocks like a Derby contender. We watched him dismiss her with unmitigated hatred seething inside us.

‘Charlie?’ said Sparky, reaching for my glass.

‘What?’ I replied, passing it to him.

‘If you had your life to live over again, would you do it all the same?’

I watched the girl retreating, her bum pushing the properties of lycra beyond its design limits. ‘Yeah, probably,’ I said.

Luke sat down and I gave him a brothers
handshake
. ‘You should practise that lip-curl,’ I told him. ‘You could be good.’

‘I do,’ he admitted.

Sparky and Jeff returned laden with replenished glasses. ‘There’s an old friend of yours behind the bar, Charlie,’ Sparky told me.

I feigned ignorance. ‘Oh, who’s that?’

‘Karen. Used to work in the canteen. We all thought you had something going with her.’

‘Karen? Karen?’

‘You know. Has a divine right and a heavenly left.’

‘Ah! That Karen!’

‘Yes, that Karen. Rumour was that you and her were having it away.’

I shook my head. ‘Sadly, we were just good friends,’ I confessed.

‘She’s looking her age now,’ he went on. ‘Bags under her eyes. Looks tired.’

‘I’m not surprised, running a place like this,’ said Jeff. ‘It must be an eighteen-hour day, seven days a week. It’d give anyone bags under the eyes.’

I licked the froth off my top lip. ‘There could be another reason for them,’ I said, brightly. ‘Maybe there is something in this telepathy, after all…’

It looked suspicious, the way he stood up and followed me into the gents’ toilet. If he’d been over five foot four and under sixty-five I’d have been worried. He was just a little old man, though. Definitely not my type. Probably one of the old regulars who still came into the pub even though it had been overtaken by the youth boom. He hovered behind me as I did what I’d come in to do. I was drying my hands under the blower when he spoke:

‘Er, it’s Inspector Priest, isn’t it?’

I didn’t answer, waiting for him to continue.

‘You’re, er, in charge of looking for that little girl,
aren’t you? Can I have a word?’

I cast a glance at the cubicles. Both doors were closed. I nodded and pointed at the exit.

Instead of returning to the big room where the music was, I turned left, into the old-fashioned taproom. This was where the men did the serious drinking while their wives, one night per week, sipped a milk stout or a port and lemon.

The room was almost empty on a Monday evening, hence the karaoke. I led the little man to a quiet table in a corner and we sat down.

‘I saw your picture in the paper, and on the telly. I, er, hope you don’t mind me talking to you in here; when you’re, er, trying to relax, like.’

Not so far, I thought, but I’m getting close. He shuffled nervously and fidgeted with a beer mat.

‘My daughter,’ he continued. ‘She said I should have a word with you. I don’t want to waste your time, though. You’ve plenty on your plate already.’

Well, it didn’t sound as if he wanted my autograph. He fumbled with the beer mat and it fell from his fingers. I reached across and placed my hand over it.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Er, my name? It’s Toft, Norman Toft.’

‘Right, Norman. Start at the beginning and tell it in your own words. First of all, where do you live?’

‘Er, Crowfields Road. Number twenty-six.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, I first noticed it two weeks ago…’ He licked his lips and glanced towards the bar, but I ignored the gesture. ‘Saturday night. I’d been in ’ere for a couple of pints, like I usually do. I was looking out of the back window, just before I went to bed. I have a back garden, then there’s a dirt road, and then there’s the gardens of the ‘ouses on Crowfields Street. They’re a rum lot live on the street. Problem families, gipsies, that sort. It used to be a good neighbourhood before they started bringing them in from…’

Now
I
was beginning to feel thirsty. He’d get a drink out of me by attrition if he didn’t come to the point soon. ‘Just tell me what you saw, Norman,’ I interrupted.

‘Right. Flashes.’

Oh no! Not Unidentified Flashing Objects!

‘Flashes?’ I echoed.

‘Yes, well, not at first. There was a car parked in the lane. I turned the light out and watched it for a while, er, through my binoculars.’

He must have noticed my change of expression, and looked embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t pimping!’ he protested. ‘We get all sorts of carrying-on in that lane. Last year I had a row of cabbages stolen. And all next door’s runner beans went.’

‘That’s OK, Norman. You were being a good citizen. So what did you see?’

‘Well, I’ve worked it out. If I’m number
twenty-six
, the ’ouse behind me is probably number
twenty-five, so next door to him will be
twenty-seven
. That’s where I saw the flashes. Number twenty-seven, Crowfield Street.’

‘Where were these flashes?’

‘In a bedroom window. The curtains were closed but I could still see ’em.’

‘And what were they like?’

‘Like from a photographer.’

You work on a case for months, sometimes years, searching for evidence, sifting meaningless facts and observations, waiting for the breakthrough to come. And you pray that when it does come you will recognise it, because it is never quite what you expected. I thought about it until I realised my teeth were nearly meeting through my bottom lip. ‘Maybe he’s a keen amateur photographer,’ I suggested.

Norman shook his head. ‘Not on Crowfield Street. Dog fighting and pigeons is the only ’obbies they ’ave.’

‘So how many flashes were there?’

‘Dozens. ‘Undreds. Went on for best part of an hour.’

‘OK. Anything else?’

‘Yes. I saw them leave. They got in the car and drove away.’

‘Can you describe them?’

‘Yes. There was a man, a woman, and a little girl.’

I had a salty taste in my mouth. I wiped my lower lip with my finger. It was bleeding. ‘Let me get this straight,’ I said. ‘You told me it started two weeks ago. So when did you see what you’ve just described?’

‘Two Saturdays ago. And then again this Saturday’

‘What time?’

‘Oh, about…just before midnight to one o’clock.’

‘Same thing? Same people?’

‘Yes.’

‘And now you’re reporting it to me?’

‘Er, yes.’

I thought: You stupid, doddering old fool! You idiotic apology of a human being! I didn’t say it, though. Instead I stood up and nodded towards the bar. ‘What’ll it be, Norman? Pint of bitter?’

The girl on the switchboard told me that my contact had been made redundant at the last reorganisation, so I needed to cultivate a new one. I explained who I was and the nature of the investigation I was involved in, and they were very cooperative. People usually are. That was how, nine o’clock Tuesday morning, Sparky and I came to be dressed in green overalls and driving a gas board van towards Crowfield Street.

Paedophilia and child pornography must be at the sick end of the league table of offences. It’s all around us all the time, but mostly it is spread so thinly it remains unnoticed and undetected. It’s kept within the family, and the victims suffer in silence, repressed by fear, guilt and an ignorance of what is normality. Nobody ever complains, and without a complainant we have no crime.

We stumble across the evidence, and prosecute for possession of indecent material. In the various
raids during the Georgina investigation we’d found more than we expected. All the owners claimed they had bought it mail-order from abroad, but our vice people were confident it was being produced locally.

There is a mythology around the subject, created in the dreams of the evil genie who lives inside all of us. For some, the genie takes over, and when we catch them we judge and vilify, then whisper a little prayer of thanks that it didn’t happen to us. We hear the horror stories and dismiss them as fantasy. But we can’t be sure.

Sparky parked the van and we walked along Crowfield Road, noting the house numbers. I was armed with a clipboard and the relevant page from the electoral roll.

‘This looks like one of ours,’ he said, standing over a manhole cover.

I read the legend cast into the metal. ‘That’s the water board,’ I told him. ‘We’re gas.’

‘Are we?’ He looked back at the van. ‘Oh aye.’

Number twenty-six had the neatest garden in the street. Norman was mainly a roses man, and the borders round the shaven lawn were a blaze of colour. It was like finding a smiling face at a disciplinary hearing. A gorgeous Nelly Moser was climbing up the wall round his front door.

‘That looks gorgeous,’ I said.

‘It’s a Nelly Moser,’ Sparky replied. That’s how I
know. I wrote it on my board as he rang the bell.

Mr Toft looked surprisingly dapper for the hour. We flashed our IDs and I made the introductions. Eventually recognition dawned on him like the sun rising out of Filey Bay on a balmy bank holiday and he invited us in.

‘Cup of tea, lads?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Yes please.’

‘Go on, then.’

I followed him into the kitchen. ‘The garden looks a treat, Norman,’ I said. ‘It’s a credit to you.’ Through the back window I could see rows of vegetables stretching down to the lane he’d told me about. Now I could understand his concern about thieves and vandals.

‘Aye. It’s all I’ve got to do, these days. Biscuits?’

I shook my head. ‘No thanks, a cuppa will be fine. How long have you been on your own?’

‘Fifteen months. Do you both take milk?’

‘I don’t. It must be hard for you.’

‘I get by. Can you carry them through?’

I picked up the mugs and sugar bowl and we went back into the front room. A wizened little terrier was curled in a basket near the fireplace.

I sipped my tea and stared at the dog. The problem with drinking it black is that it comes boiling. I was still blowing and sipping when Sparky put his empty mug down and said: ‘Could
you show us where you were when you saw the flashing, Mr Toft?’

We trooped upstairs to the spare bedroom at the back of the house. It was as neat as expected, used to store a few spare pieces of furniture. The wallpaper pattern looked like a huge dissected kidney, repeated in great diagonals across all four walls.

Through the window we could see the backs of the houses on Crowfield Street, about a hundred and twenty yards away. I picked up the pair of
ten-by
-fifty binoculars that were lying on the windowsill and looked through them. I was transported straight into the bedroom of the house opposite. The alarm clock was ten minutes fast and something black and lacy was dangling across the bedside cabinet. I could almost smell the bodies. You dirty old sod, I thought, as I fumbled with the focus control.

I handed the binocs to Sparky. ‘Which house was it?’ I asked Norman.

He pointed. ‘That one, to the left, with the curtains closed.’

‘Are the bedroom curtains ever open?’

‘No.’

They didn’t look like curtains. There were no folds or drapes. My guess was it was just a piece of material pinned over the window.

In my mind I was juggling with the various ways
of handling this. First intention had been to set up twenty-four hour surveillance of the house opposite, but now I was having second thoughts. It would have been satisfying to catch them in the act, but we had the welfare of the kid to consider.

I was satisfied that the little girl that Norman had seen leaving the house wasn’t Georgina. He’d said she had long fair hair, whereas Georgina’s was dark and short. There was probably no connection, but we couldn’t be sure. We’d heard stories about the evils that these people perpetrated, and what one person is capable of imagining, another might be motivated to act out.

I turned to the old man. ‘Norman, would you mind leaving us alone for a few minutes?’ I asked.

He looked crestfallen. ‘Oh, er, OK. I’ll be downstairs if you want me.’

When I’d heard him reach the bottom of the stairs I asked Sparky what he thought of things.

He lowered the binoculars and examined them. ‘He’d be better off with a pair of eight-by-thirties,’ he replied.

‘Or a tripod,’ I suggested.

‘Mmm, a tripod. Definitely.’

‘Is the dog stuffed?’

‘No, I saw it flick an ear.’

‘Thank God for that. We’ve got four options,’ I said. ‘One – we move in soon as pos.; two – we wait till the flashing starts and move in; three – we wait
till the flashing finishes and move in.’

‘Number two, the little girl will be in the middle of things,’ said Sparky. ‘For three, we’ll have put her through it all again, while we sit outside. I couldn’t go along with that.’

‘I agree. And today’s only Tuesday. They might not come back until Saturday, if then.’

‘What about option four?’

‘I haven’t thought of it yet.’

‘Me neither.’

‘There’s bound to be one.’

‘Quite. And there might be a simple explanation.’

‘Quite.’

‘Shall we have a ride round and read his meter, then?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Let’s not bother. We can do it in the morning, nice and early. C’mon, let’s get back and arrange the paperwork.’

We drove slowly round the block in the gas board’s van and had a good look at number twenty-seven. A naked lightbulb glowed in the kitchen. We were both itching to knock at the door, but resisted the temptation. The garden was converted into a dog compound, and a smart caravan stood in it. A two-year-old Mitsubishi Shogun was parked in the road, registered to one Paul Darryl Lally, which was also the name shown on the electoral roll. The other name on the list was Fenella Smith.

As we reached the gas board depot, CRO were coming back to me with Lally’s criminal record. It was longer and more depressing than a Moscow bread queue. Mainly petty theft and receiving. Nothing heroic.

‘He drives a better car than me,’ stated Sparky.

‘And me,’ I replied.

‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’

‘No way,’ I concurred.

I didn’t really have time for lunch, but the night before’s excesses were growing more apparent as the day wore on. I fetched a cheese sandwich from the canteen and ate it in the office, with a couple of aspirin for dessert. Tea is always in plentiful supply. If any of the team were ever suffering from overindulgence I’d lean on them all the more, so I wasn’t pleased with myself.

Sparky went to find a magistrate, preferably female, to sign a search warrant; I filled the Superintendent in on the story so far. Gilbert agreed with how we’d decided to play it, but suggested we ask for expert help from the Regional Pornography Squad. They immediately attempted to take over the inquiry. I made it clear that they were only invited along to assist. Six thirty a.m., our place. Take it or leave it.

It’s fair to say that when the front desk rang to say that Julia LeStrang and a journalist were
downstairs demanding an audience, I wasn’t in a receptive mood.

‘Where’s Caton?’ I growled.

‘They insist on seeing you, sir.’

‘We decide who they see. Where is he?’ ‘Bentley Prison, talking to Section forty-three offenders. Won’t be back today’

‘Oh aye. OK, stick ’em in an interview room and tell them I’ll be ten minutes.’

I drank my tea and finished bringing the daily reports up to date, managing to spin the time out to nearly twenty minutes. Then I went downstairs.

Madame LeStrang was a riot of colour, dressed in chiffon and leopard-skin from the Oxfam rejects box. Her hair looked like it was crafted from fibreglass. The wind tunnel at Farnborough wouldn’t have ruffled it. The man could have stepped straight out of Home’s window. They both jumped to their feet as I entered, but it wasn’t out of politeness.

‘Inspector Priest! We’ve been waiting—’

‘I’m sorry. I’m very busy. What can I do for you?’

She opened her mouth, but he spoke first. ‘Madame LeStrang is convinced she can be of use to you in the Georgina Dewhurst inquiry. She believes—’

‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch your name,’ I interrupted.

‘Er, Bond, Quentin Bond. Madame Le—’

‘And what is your involvement in this, sir?’

He gave me a look that could warp a formica table. She stood there puffing and glowering like ridiculous old bags do. ‘I’m acting on behalf of Madame LeStrang,’ he stated.

‘As her agent?’

‘I suppose you could say that.’

‘But you’re a journalist.’

‘Yes.’

‘Freelance?’

‘I don’t see the relevance of these questions,’ he spluttered.

‘OK.’ I turned to her. ‘Right. Mrs LeStrang, what do you have to tell me?’

She was lost for words for a moment, but the fluency soon came back. ‘When little Georgina disappeared the stars were propitious for a monumental event in her short life. She was born with the Moon in the third—’

I cut her short. ‘I’m not interested in the stars just facts. How can you help us?’

‘I’m trying to help you, Inspector. I need something of Georgina’s. A lock of—’

‘No. We’ll be grateful for any practical help you or anybody else has to offer. We are not interested in mumbo jumbo or witchcraft. If you’ve nothing else—’

Bond made a desperate attempt to rescue his investment. ‘Inspector Priest,’ he began, with forced
moderation, ‘Madame LeStrang is a well-respected expert in the art of dowsing. There is overwhelming evidence from similar cases on the Continent and in America that—’

I shook my head and opened the door. ‘Good afternoon,’ I said.

Her face reddened, like high-speed photography of a ripening tomato. ‘I’ve never been treated like this in my life!’ she spluttered, clutching a huge handbag to her bosom.

I pointed the way with my forefinger.

‘You’ll regret this, Inspector,’ she promised. ‘I would remind you that the root of the word divine is from the—’

‘No, Mrs LeStrang, let me remind you of something.’ I pulled the door shut and shepherded them down the corridor. ‘Let me remind you of just how good we are. If you as much as blink, sweat or break wind we can tell if you have been there, so don’t dream of planting or tampering with any evidence. I won’t ask you for any samples just yet, but I might do in the near future. Mind you, looking at the trail of dandruff your pet leech is leaving behind we probably have enough already.’

‘Well, I’ve never—’ she protested.

‘No, you don’t look as if you have,’ I continued. ‘Listen carefully, because I’ll say this once, and once only: we are conducting an investigation into a very serious offence. If I ever have any reason to suspect
that you have interfered with this inquiry, or with any evidence, we’ll drop on you so hard you won’t know if the Moon is in Jupiter or protruding from one of your more intimate bodily orifices. I hope I make myself clear.’

I yanked open the outer door to let them out. If looks could kill, the RSPCA would now be able to afford a new flea collar with my modest bequest.

‘They didn’t stay long,’ observed the sergeant as I walked past the front desk.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Something cropped up.’

I took the stairs two at a time and hummed the kids’ tune that was currently driving everyone crazy: ‘Ramty tamty diddle, ramty di de doo. If I could play this fiddle would you take me to the zoo?’

It wasn’t often I gave anybody a bollocking. I hated unpleasantness, unless it was with someone really unpleasant. If a member of the team made a mistake, I was content that they knew it. If I didn’t trust them, they didn’t make the team. I deluded myself that it was good management, but maybe it was just cowardice. Slagging off a defenceless old lady had proved surprisingly enjoyable. I’d have to do it more often.

The kettle had hardly boiled when the front desk was back on the phone. ‘It’s a lady, sir, with some information. Do you mind seeing her?’

‘What does this one do? Read entrails?’ I asked.

‘No, boss. Books.’

‘Books?’

‘That’s right, books. Mrs Chadwick is a librarian. She’s come in in response to a letter sent out by Trent Division. Doesn’t mean anything to me. Something about mushrooms.’

‘Mushrooms?’ I was beginning to sound like an echo. ‘Are you having me on, Arthur?’

‘No, boss. Shall I send her up?’

‘If you’re not sending me up then you’d better. I’ll look out for her.’

I stood at the office door as Mrs Carol Chadwick came round the top of the stairs. She was the type of woman who makes me think that growing older is not too bad after all. Perhaps just a touch wide at the hips, but lately I’ve revised my standards in that area. Her hair was grey, but she had a warm, slightly bemused smile, probably engendered by a lifetime surrounded by fine literature. Unless she sniffed coke.