The Mushroom Man (13 page)

‘They won’t keep a spare set,’ said Jeff Caton,
‘but we could chop the best of what we have, to show just the kids’ faces. Then ask all the teaching staff if they recognise them.’

‘Bang goes confidentiality,’ I stated. ‘They’d soon guess or invent what we were doing.’

‘There’s another objection to that,’ Sparky told us. ‘About three years ago a teacher at the primary school was fined and sacked for dealing in computer porn. Others no doubt escaped.’

‘That’s right, I remember. So what are you saying?’

‘That we’d have to take our own photographs: identify the kids ourselves,’ Sparky replied.

‘You’re assuming the kids are local,’ I stated.

‘We’ve got to start somewhere.’

‘Right!’ I decided. ‘We’ll do it Dave’s way. This one needs hitting with all we’ve got while Lally is still inside. How many schools have you found, Dave?’

‘Four. The two big middle schools and a couple of medium-sized ones. What’s that…oh, about, say, fifteen hundred pupils.’

‘Half boys, though,’ said Nigel. ‘And we might be able to disregard some who are too old or too young.’

‘Mmm. These in the photos might look younger than they are. Let’s try to do them all,’ I replied. Turning to DS Newley I went on: ‘Nigel, round up four photographers, if possible, and four WPCs to
act as their assistants. Then we want photos of all the girls, with the WPCs cataloguing their names and any other characteristics we can come up with. Let’s have a look at the children again.’

Jeff rummaged through the collection of pictures and spread samples on the desk, looking for any that gave good views of the faces. Not many did.

Sparky pointed with a forefinger. ‘They’re both wearing earrings, for a start,’ he said.

One girl had small gold rings in her ears, and a pair of shiny stones glinted in the other girl’s. ‘Would they be allowed to wear those at school?’ I asked. This was foreign territory to me.

‘Probably,’ Sparky told me. ‘Things are different to your day. They’re allowed to write left-handed now. So we want to know which kids have pierced ears.’

‘And look where it’s brought us. Make a note of that, Nigel: pierced ears.’

‘Done, boss.’

‘What else?’

‘This one’s wearing a chain around her neck.’

‘Yep. Look, let’s call them child A and child B and make a list.’

It didn’t take long. Child A had pierced ears, a neck chain and rings on two fingers. B had pierced ears, a neck chain, two bracelets and one ring. We added various facial characteristics and estimates of height and weight. Jeff found photographs that
showed some of the jewellery better and distinguishing marks on the girls’ features.

‘Match that lot and it will be better than fingerprints,’ he declared.

You always feel more cheerful when you are doing something positive. Although Georgina wasn’t involved we all had the feeling that something worthwhile was happening: villains were about to be put behind bars, and kids rescued from a life of hell. If being taken into care could be called rescued.

I told the three of them to visit the four schools first thing in the morning. They would have to stress the seriousness of the offences to the heads and arrange for the photographers to visit in the afternoon, if possible. It would disrupt the school day, and a couple of bolshie teachers could wreck the whole thing. Tact and diplomacy were called for.

‘That’s it for today, then. I’ve had enough. We’ll go home at a reasonable hour for once,’ I said. It was about six thirty.

‘I’ll sort out these pictures first,’ said Jeff.

‘No you won’t,’ I told him. ‘They can wait. Let’s lock them in my drawers and have a full day tomorrow. Are you all right, Dave?’

Sparky was the only one of us with children. He had three. Jeff had one on the way.

‘Yeah, nothing that fourteen pints and kicking the dog won’t cure,’ he replied.

‘C’mon, then. Let’s go.’

It was still drizzling outside and I didn’t have a coat, but it felt pleasant and cleansing after the oppressiveness of the office. Walking across the car park with Nigel, he asked: ‘What will you do tonight, Charlie?’

‘Tonight? Oh, I don’t know. Something to eat, have a shower. Listen to some decent music with a can of beer. Try to get some quality into my life after the daily grime of this job.’ I gathered my thoughts and continued with the theme. ‘I try to shed it, like a miner washing off the coal dust and appearing as a new person. We can’t live two separate lives, one as a policeman and one as a civilian, and none of us would want to, but you’ve got to learn to cultivate a space for yourself. End of sermon. G’night, Nigel.’

‘Er, Angela’s coming round tonight, to cook a Chinese meal. It’d be no problem to put an extra portion in. You’re welcome to join us, if you want.’

It sounded a cosy arrangement. I wondered if it ought to be me asking advice from him. ‘Angela? The WPC from Halifax?’

He blushed and nodded.

‘It’s good of you to ask,’ I told him, ‘but I’d be in the way’. I’d reached my car and fumbled in my pockets for the keys. ‘Enjoy your meal,’ I said, adding with a stab of the finger: ‘And treat her properly. That’s an order.’

I’d lost my keys. Then I remembered that I’d left them at the front desk. It would have been easier, and drier, to have fetched the duff radio myself. So much for being assertive.

Acting DS John Rose took DI Peterson and DC Wilson to Heckley Town Library, where they interviewed Mrs Chadwick, the chief librarian. John was pleased at the sideways move into this new investigation. The Georgina case had given him a taste for high-profile work, but it was bogged down now that most avenues of inquiry had petered out.

Mrs Chadwick went through her story again and demonstrated the library’s computer to them. They came away with the names and addresses of the last twenty people to withdraw the mutilated books. Peterson fell for the chief librarian’s charms and twice managed to boast of his friendship with Olga Friedland, Chief Executive of the Library Association. He added ‘library’ to his list of retirement activities.

‘Be nice if he took the books home before he cut the pages out,’ DC Wilson stated, in the car on their way back to Heckley nick.

‘True, but sadly, he didn’t,’ Peterson told him, passing the printout across. ‘Nobody appears on both lists, but maybe he took just one of them home. He must know something about fungi, he can’t have dreamt it all up.’

‘We have plenty of Travellers and New Agers around these parts,’ ADS Rose said. ‘They know all about mushrooms: which ones are good to eat, which are poisonous and which give a good trip. I’d be looking for a connection there, for a start.’

‘Do many of them carry library cards?’ Peterson asked with undisguised sarcasm.

‘No, but they could still go in. Plenty of them are educated – university dropouts and such,’ John answered.

‘Fine. So tomorrow you two can ask Mrs Chadwick about any traveller types coming in for a read and a warm, then start going through the list of names.’

At the station Peterson sniffed round his allotted accommodation and gave John a list of requirements to organise, before starting back to Trent Division. In the car, driving down the Ml, DC Wilson said: ‘They seem a friendly bunch, don’t you think?’

Peterson looked sourly across at him. ‘Think so?’ he growled.

‘Yes, guv. Don’t you?’

‘Set of complacent sheepshaggers. Inbred, I
wouldn’t be surprised. Need a bloody good kick up the arse.’

Wilson smiled as he remembered the look on his boss’s face when he’d been asked if Oscar was his real name. ‘That Inspector Priest is a decent bloke,’ he announced.

‘For a bleeding Freemason,’ Peterson snarled.

Chief Superintendent Tollis had left early, intending to have a previously arranged round of golf before being joined by Mrs Tollis for dinner in the clubhouse. Peterson knocked on his door and entered the empty office. As always he was amazed how tidy the desk was. He glanced round, decided there was nothing he wanted to steal or read, and turned to leave. The phone rang.

Peterson put it to the side of his head and said: ‘Carapace Bonce.’

A male voice asked if he was speaking to Chief Superintendent Tollis. The DI uttered a silent prayer of thanks that it was nobody who knew him and said: ‘No, sir, I’m afraid Mr Tollis is unavailable. Who’s speaking, please?’

‘My name is Alistair McLeod, editor of the
UK News
. Could you put me through to whoever is in charge of the Ronald Conway murder investigation in his absence.’

Peterson cursed at having been caught by the press, and all the familiar platitudes ran through his
mind. ‘This is DI Peterson speaking. I am the investigating officer in the Ronald Conway case. How can I help you?’

‘Ah, good evening, Mr Peterson. I presume from that that you are the one who does all the work.’

‘Very astute of you, sir. I can see how you got to where you are today. Did you ring about anything in particular?’

‘Well, yes. I’ve just come across a letter in my mail from someone confessing to killing him, along with a trio of other clerics. I thought you might be interested.’

‘Ah! A confession, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that is good news. Confessions can be a very important part of any investigation, sir. Sometimes they are what we in the business call a Breakthrough. The first question that comes to my razor-sharp detective’s mind is…er…is it signed?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Good. And the second one is, if I can trouble you to look at the end of the aforementioned document, by whom?’

‘It’s from someone who calls himself…let me see…the Destroying Angel. Do you know him?’

Peterson manoeuvred himself round Tollis’s desk until he was able to sit in the Super’s big leather chair. ‘Alistair McLeod, of the
News
, I believe you said, sir.’

‘That’s right. Is there anything in this I can print, or is it just some crank making mischief? I’ve looked in the files and the first two deaths were passed off as accidents. There seems to be a link between Conway and the priest called Birr, though.’

‘Yes. I think you and I had better have a little talk, Alistair.’

Half an hour later he left the station to interrupt Chief Superintendent Tollis’s round of golf and tell him what he had arranged, or most of it.

From home he rang Trevor Wilson to update him and tell him to do the same with John Rose, before settling down to a relatively early meal of lamb chops, new potatoes and garden peas; with
home-made
cherry crumble to follow. Over it he discussed the day’s developments with Dilys. After two small whiskies and a cup of cocoa he slept like a carved figure on the lid of a tomb, the night unbroken by any more news of death. But only just.

The Reverend Gordon Ibbotson was in a confused, mixed-up, fed-up, wish-I-were-dead mood as he swung his middle-of-the-range Audi into the vicarage drive. He reached out with his left hand to prevent the Pyrex container on the passenger seat from sliding away and spilling its cargo of
home-made
samosas onto the carpet.

‘Very nice, Gordon,’ Mrs Sharmini had told him.
‘But perhaps just a little more generous with the turmeric next time.’

It had been the final night of his Indian cookery class, and had not gone as expected. They had all prepared their specialities and enjoyed a boisterous evening sampling each other’s fare and entertaining members of the other classes. The rather informal plan was that they would then all repair to the pub and continue the convivialities; after which the Reverend Ibbotson intended offering one of his classmates, whom he knew only as Pauline, a lift home.

When the subject of the pub was raised, however, heads were shaken. ‘Sorry, I can’t make it,’ was the common cry. A mysterious person called Ray was coming to collect Pauline from the class, no doubt attracted by the thought of sampling her shakooti rassa. The Reverend placed the lid over his
sad-looking
samosas and came home.

As the car jerked to a standstill on the drive the five-hundred-watt security light flicked on, dazzling the vicar with its glare and triggering off photosynthesis in his herbaceous borders. In the shadows, darker than a sea-cave, between the garage and a
Pyracantha watered
, a claw-like hand tightened its grip on the shotgun.

The figure in the shadows watched the clergyman climb from the car, fumbling with keys and casserole, and unlock his front door. The
intention was to wait until he was inside, then gain admittance by ringing the bell for the side entrance.

The vicar reappeared almost immediately. He’d come out again to put the car in the garage. The figure, high on the adrenalin that the role of Destroying Angel generated, withdrew into the darkness, breath held and heart pounding like a desperate prisoner hammering on a cell door.

When the Audi was safely tucked up for the night, the clergyman pulled the garage door down and locked it. He cast a brief glance across his lawn to see if any hedgehogs were foraging for worms or moths that had been scorched flightless by the security light, then pushed his front door open again. The Destroying Angel relaxed and stretched upright.

‘Reverend Ibbotson! Gordon!’

A middle-aged woman was coming up the drive and calling his name, trotting from the knees down in the way that some women do.

‘Mrs McFadden!’ said the vicar, with undisguised enthusiasm.

She was slightly out of breath as she stopped before him. ‘Oh!’ she puffed. ‘I saw your light come on so I thought I’d bring you your typing. You did say it was urgent.’ She passed him a pink folder.

‘I didn’t expect you to do it tonight, Brenda. Tomorrow would have been soon enough, but it’s
very good of you. Did you have much trouble with my terrible spelling?’

She gave a little giggle. ‘There were one or two bits that I couldn’t understand, but I can soon correct them if I did it wrong.’

‘I’m sure it will be all right. Well, this is really kind of you. I’m, er, just about to make a coffee. Would you, er, like to join me in a cup?’

‘Ooh, that would be nice. Just a quick one, then.’

‘Lovely. After you. I can offer you a samosa, too. Do you like…’ The door clicked shut, restricting her tastes in oriental cookery to the ears of the Reverend Gordon Ibbotson only.

One and a half hours later, cold and stiff and deep in the depression that often follows euphoria, the Destroying Angel skulked away. A decision had been made. Frustration was dangerous – it led to mistakes. One more would have been perfect, but the risk of discovery was growing everyday. The time had come to conclude the preliminaries – the next move must be the
coup de grâce.

DI Peterson found Chief Superintendent Tollis’s office not quite as pristine as it had been the evening before. His jacket, neatly draped on a hanger, was behind the door, and a sheet of paper, held down by a monogrammed Sheaffer fountain pen, broke the symmetry of his desk top. The man himself was absent.

Peterson sat down in the hard visitor’s chair and placed a copy of the
UK News
on his boss’s desk. Gurgling noises told him that Tollis was in the adjoining bathroom. Probably polishing his pate, he thought.

There were a few words written on the sheet of paper. The DI leant forward to read them. They were upside down to him, but bus conductors and detectives are trained to read upside-down writing. They said:

They were the Chief Superintendent’s notes for the little talk he thought he was about to give. Stone the bleeding crows, thought Peterson, whistling through his teeth at the same time. Over my dead body, he added, as an afterthought.

From the bathroom came the sound of a toilet being flushed. Peterson grabbed the newspaper again and jumped towards the door that led in from the corridor. He stood with it ajar, firmly grasping the handle, and counted to five. As the Chief Superintendent emerged from his ablutions he saw his DI apparently just entering.

‘Ah, good morning, sir! Timed to perfection,’ said Peterson, closing the door for the second time.

Tollis, after sitting down, carefully folded the sheet of paper and placed it in his inside pocket. ‘Er, yes, good morning, Peterson. Is that the, er, the
UK
News
, did you say?’

‘Yes, sir. A later edition.’ He passed it across the desk, headline uppermost. ‘Hope you managed to salvage the rest of your golf last night, sir.’

‘Yes, thank you. You did the right thing, bringing me news of a development like this.’ Actually he’d rather enjoyed the interruption, in front of several of the club worthies, and it had given him a suitable excuse to explain his collapse over the last fifteen holes. He turned the page. ‘They don’t get much on a sheet, do they?’

Peterson practised his upside-down reading skills on the naked bimbo his chief had exposed. ‘No, sir. They do tend to come to a point rather quickly. I’ve arranged the press conference for nine o’clock, and the hand-out should be ready before it ends.’

‘Oh! I was hoping to see it first. Any chance of an advance copy?’

‘Sorry about that, Mr Tollis. Problems with the photocopier. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Nine o’clock. Right. Well, I suggest you make the introductions and hand over to me. That fine by you, Peterson?’

‘No problem, sir. Just what I’d planned myself.’

The press conference was deliberately convened in the smaller of the conference rooms, which was Tollis’s first disappointment of the morning. No television was invited, which was his second. The room rapidly filled with representatives from all the local papers, many of whom doubled for the nationals, local radio, and people from the agencies. Peterson hid himself in the toilet, with the handouts he had carefully composed, and smoked several cigarettes.

At five past the hour he called the meeting to order. ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for being here so promptly. First of all I have to say that you are in a non-smoking area. Violators will be drenched by the automatic sprinkler system,’ Individuals in his audience groaned their disapproval. ‘Filthy habit,’ he told them. ‘Do you good to be without for half an hour.’ To his left he sensed Chief Superintendent Tollis throwing him a get-on-with-it look. ‘But we didn’t bring you here to lecture you on the evils of the weed. No doubt you have all read today’s
UK News
. It’s probably your compulsive reading as you devour your morning muesli. And no doubt you also noticed that they are claiming an exclusive story, concerning the murders of two men of the Church, namely the Reverend Ronald Conway and Father Declan Birr.’

He briefly outlined the two cases, stressing the similarities and the discoveries of the pictures of
fungi. He also told them about the deaths of the other two priests. From the corner of his eye he could see Tollis impatiently smoothing his notes.

‘Last night,’ he went on, ‘there was a development; and this is where we are asking for your cooperation. Mr Alistair McLeod, editor of the
UK News
, received a confession from someone claiming to be the murderer of all four deceased. This person called himself…wait for it, the Destroying Angel.’