The Mushroom Man (18 page)

Dewhurst kept silent, his face a mask of fear and contempt. Wylie said: ‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Inspector.’

‘I’ll explain, then. This one’ – I indicated with a finger – ‘is a photograph of the black plastic bag in which poor Georgina’s body was found. It’s the type that comes in a continuous roll. You just tear them off at the perforations, as required. This other one’ – I pointed again – ‘is the next bag on that roll. The edges are a perfect match, as you can see. It was removed from under Mr Dewhurst’s Nissan Patrol, wrapped round the spare wheel.’ I turned to Dewhurst: ‘Would you care to explain how it came to be there, sir?’

Dewhurst’s suntan was rapidly losing the struggle to keep some colour in his face. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and an eyelid developed an involuntary twitch. He said: ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

‘It’s called infanticide, Mr Dewhurst. I’m suggesting that you murdered Georgina.’

‘You’re mad.’ He spat the words at me.

I expanded on my accusation: ‘You’d planned the whole thing for a long time. We know all about your financial situation and the love nest in Todmorden. The ransom notes were made well in advance of the deed. To make them you bought envelopes, notepad and glue from Woolworths. What you didn’t use you discarded, probably by simply placing them in a litter bin or skip whilst on your travels. You murdered Georgina on the Sunday night, giving her a massive dose of your mother-in-law’s sleeping tablets and helping them along with a plastic bag
over her head. You carefully opened the roll of
bin-liners
you had previously purchased and tore off the first one. You hid it at Capstick Colliery, with Georgina’s body inside. The rest of the roll was placed between the front seats of the Nissan and you disposed of them sometime on the Monday.’

Wylie was sitting bolt upright, his eyes switching from me to his client and his mouth hanging open.

I pressed on: ‘To give yourself an alibi for Monday morning you faked the puncture. That was when your luck ran out. Mechanics in general have a bad reputation. Unfortunately for you, the one at Ashurst’s is very conscientious. The spare wheel he removed was filthy with dirt from the road. When he put the other wheel back under your vehicle he remembered seeing the roll of bin liners between the front seats. He carefully removed the next bag from the roll and used it to wrap around your spare, replacing the remainder of the roll back where he’d found it. I removed that bag from under your Nissan Patrol four weeks later.’

I turned to Nigel and gave a jerk of the head towards the shattered figure sitting opposite. Nigel said: ‘Miles Jonathan Dewhurst; I am arresting you for the murder of Georgina Alice Dewhurst. Do you wish to say anything? You are not obliged to say anything, but what you do say may be put in writing and given in evidence.’

We should have noticed the warning signs earlier.
Dewhurst hunched his shoulders forward and I briefly saw that his lips had turned blue. Then he clutched the front of his shirt and pitched head first onto the table.

‘He’s having a heart attack,’ I cried, and heard myself ordering an ambulance for the second time in two days. Nigel dashed out while I loosened Dewhurst’s collar and supported his head. Within seconds the room was filled with helpers. The uniformed boys have more experience at this sort of thing than we have, so I let them take over. The tape was still running. I said: ‘Interview terminated at…twelve minutes past five,’ and flicked it off.

The custody sergeant didn’t share our euphoria. He said: ‘Aw, bloody ‘ell, Charlie!’ when I told him that the invalid now on his way to Heckley General had just been arrested for murder, and that I wanted him charged. ‘Do you know what this means?’ he protested.

‘Well, let’s see,’ I replied. ‘He’ll need round-
the-clock
guarding, more for his own protection than anything. Then you’ll have to comply with the requirements of PACE: read him his rights; arrange a solicitor; allow him to phone a named person; give him a copy of the code; ask him his eight favourite records… That’s about all, isn’t it? Should make for a touching bedside scene.’

‘All! All! Where do I get the staff?’

‘Look on the bright side,’ I answered. ‘He
might die.’ I probably meant it.

Walking through the foyer I saw a hunched figure heading towards the doors. I called after him: ‘Mr Wylie?’

He stopped and turned. As I approached he looked to have aged ten years in the last hour. We faced each other in silence for a few moments, then I said: ‘This must have come as a terrible shock to you.’

‘Yes, Inspector, it did.’ His voice trembled as he spoke.

‘There was no other way we could do it,’ I told him. A more clued-up brief would have frustrated my line of questioning. I’d taken advantage of him because he couldn’t believe that his client could do such an evil deed. His only consolation was that he hadn’t impeded justice.

‘You did your job, Mr Priest, and did it well. I, on the other hand, cannot profess to have represented my client to the best of my abilities.’

‘You couldn’t have known…’

He stopped me, raising a manicured hand that had never done anything heavier than lift a conveyance. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind. I really don’t mind.’ There was the merest trace of a smile on his face as he turned to the door. He’d lost a case, but he’d be able to sleep at night.

‘Goodnight, Mr Priest.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’

It was hand-shaking, back-slapping time in the office. We interrupted Gilbert’s meeting so that he could break the news to most of the top brass who weren’t at the conference. The press office released a statement giving as little information as possible: a man was helping with enquiries…

Dave Sparkington had gone to Ashurst’s to take Mr Black and the mechanic to their local nick and record their statements. It was after seven when he returned with the tapes. Gilbert arrived while we were playing everything through for the custody sergeant, so we had to play the first one again. They agreed that we had enough to charge him; the only cloud was whether the bin-liner from under the Nissan was admissible. I’d retrieved it without the help of a search warrant.

‘It still proves he did it,’ I claimed, ‘even if he does get off on a technicality.’

‘I doubt if he will,’ Gilbert reassured us, ‘but we’ll let the CPS legal boys worry about that.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I reckon we’ve just about time for a celebratory snifter down at the club, eh?’

Sparky, surprisingly, was the first to object. ‘Not for me, thanks. I said I’d try to be early tonight. Can we make it tomorrow?’

‘It’s, er, a bit awkward for me, too, Mr Wood,’ said Nigel.

Gilbert looked at me. ‘Tomorrow then. Eh, Charlie?’

I said: ‘Yeah. Let’s have him charged first. If he survives. Then we’ll have the full team in the club, tomorrow.’

They drifted away. Dave said: ‘You coming, Charlie?’

‘Not just yet, Dave,’ I replied. ‘You go. I just want to tidy up.’

I watched out of the window as they left. We are on the first floor, the main body of the station being downstairs. One by one their cars paused at the exit before pulling out into the sparse traffic and heading home. The streets were quiet, partly because of the rain, partly because Tuesdays in Heckley have never been a rival to Mardi Gras.

Some of my best thanking is done alone in the office, with everybody’s light off except mine. The building creaks and whispers as it settles down for the night. Outside, a siren warbled as a Traffic car left the yard to witness someone’s misery.

I picked up the phone and tapped the numbers. From memory. I’d remembered Annabelle’s number from the very first time I dialled it. Not bad for someone who never mastered the Lord’s Prayer. Wonder what the wife of a bishop would make of that?

She answered immediately, repeating the number in her warm, rounded vowels.

‘Oh, hello Annabelle, It’s Charlie,’ I stumbled.

‘Hello, Charles. This is a pleasant surprise.’

‘Glad you think so. How are you keeping?’

‘Very well. And you? How is the crime-fighting going?’

‘It’s going well. I was wondering, Annabelle…if you are not doing anything, would it be all right if I popped round to see you?’

‘Of course it would. Are you coming now?’

‘If you don’t mind. I’m feeling a bit…what’s the adjective that means anticlimaxed?’

‘Fed up?’

‘That’s it. I wish I had your way with words. I feel a need for some TLC.’

‘You poor thing. Come and tell Auntie Annabelle all about it.’

‘Half an hour?’

‘Fine. Shall I bring a bottle of gin up from the cellar?’

‘A cup of Earl Grey will do.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘Bye.’

And now I felt happy. Like Father Christmas must do at the end of his round.

The batteries in my razor were flat so I retrieved Nigel’s toilet bag from his bottom drawer and swapped batteries. His weren’t much better but I scraped most of the stubble from my face. My aftershave had congealed to a jelly so I borrowed that from Nigel, too. When I looked at myself in the mirror I wasn’t sure that visiting Annabelle was
such a good idea. Ah well, what you see is what you get. I rinsed my face and dried it on the roller towel. The aftershave smelt like Culpepper’s dustbin.

Annabelle looked really pleased to see me. ‘Come through into the kitchen,’ she said. ‘The kettle won’t take a moment.’ As she turned away I gazed appreciatively after her. Hungrily and longingly, too. She was wearing a white blouse and black trousers, with no jewellery. As she filled the kettle I wished I knew her well enough to go up behind her and slip my arms around that waist.

We sat at opposite sides of the refectory table. I waffled something about her kitchen being nice.

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘I’m very lucky to live here.’ She went on: ‘So, what’s the reason for this deflated feeling, or are you not allowed to tell me?’

I said: ‘It’ll be common knowledge by tomorrow. We’ve just arrested Miles Dewhurst for the murder of Georgina.’

Her face darkened. ‘Her father?’ she gasped.

‘Yes.’

‘But…but that’s monstrous. Who on earth would have thought he did it?’

‘Well, I did,’ I replied.

After a pause she asked: ‘How do you know it was him?’

I said: ‘I’ve known right from the beginning. Well, from the second day, when we had the TV appeal.’

‘I saw that,’ said Annabelle. ‘The poor man looked devastated. I can’t believe he was acting.’

‘I don’t suppose it was all a sham. But just before we went on the air I saw him go to the gents’ toilet. I thought I could do with one myself, so I followed him in. He wasn’t having a pee, though. He was fixing his hair; running the comb under the tap and inspecting his reflection in the mirror. Hardly the behaviour of a grieving parent. When I came out I decided to perform a little experiment with Gilbert. Use him as a control group type of thing. I told Gilbert that his hair was sticking up and he ought to go and comb it. He nearly bit my head off. Not exactly enough to convince a jury, but it made me think. We had to wait until we found the body for the proof.’

‘I read about that,’ she said. ‘Somewhere up in County Durham, wasn’t it? What led you to it?’

‘He sent us a note with various instructions. He thought he’d got away with it, and was impatient to tie up the loose ends; put it all in the past and start his new life. I just followed the instructions.’

‘
You
, Charles? Are you saying
you
found her?’

I nodded.

Annabelle reached across the table and put her hand over mine. ‘Oh Charles, that must have been horrible. That poor little girl,’ she sighed. She looked across at me, a new determination illuminating her face. ‘And poor you,’ she said. ‘I
wouldn’t normally have commented, Charles, but you look a wreck. I bet you’re not sleeping, are you?’

‘I don’t need much sleep.’

She studied my crumpled shirt and realisation struck her. ‘Have you come here straight from the office?’ she demanded.

Another nod.

‘Without eating?’

Nod.

She jumped to her feet. ‘Charles, you can’t go on like this. It’s bad for you. What would you like? It won’t take a moment to rustle something up.’

‘Sit down, Annabelle. A cup of tea and a biscuit will be fine. Most of all I just want some pleasant company. I feel as if I’ve been living in a sewer lately.’

She sat down again. ‘It’s all getting to you, isn’t it?’ she said, quietly.

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I think it is. It must be something to do with growing older. Or else I’m getting sensitive. Either way, I think the time is coming for the police force and Charlie Priest to part company.’

‘Maybe it’s something to do with being a human being,’ she replied, adding quite firmly: ‘There is some home-made soup in the freezer and I am going to heat a bowl for you. Understood?’

I smiled and said: ‘A bowl of your home-made soup would be extremely welcome.’

She rummaged in the deep freeze for a few moments before emerging with two plastic containers. She frowned as she looked for labels on them, her nose wrinkling with concentration. ‘This one,’ she pronounced, ‘is
soup du jour
. This one is
soup de la maison
. Any preference?’

It was chunky vegetable with lamb and a few secret ingredients. The alternative had been carrot and orange with coriander. They both sounded delicious. Annabelle cut me a huge chunk of bread and gave me a cup of tea for support while the soup defrosted in the microwave. I nibbled the bread and had a sip of tea.

I said: Is this bread home-made?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s wonderful. Can I order two loaves per week, please.’ Now I felt ravenous. I could easily have eaten the whole loaf.

Annabelle said: ‘The soup will be about ten minutes. I wish you would let me make you something more substantial.’

I shook my head. After a few moments of silence I said, right out of the blue: ‘Tell me about Peter.’

She looked taken aback for a second, and I wondered if I’d dropped a big one, but she said: ‘Peter? What would you like to know?’

I decided I wasn’t walking on broken glass after all. ‘Everything,’ I said.

‘Where shall I begin?’

‘Where else? How did you meet? No, before that. First of all tell me about yourself. Dispel the mystery that surrounds this beautiful lady I know as Annabelle Wilberforce, while I…finish this bread.’

She blushed and settled back in her chair. After inspecting her fingernails for a few seconds she took a deep breath and it all spilt out: ‘I was born in a little village in Oxfordshire. Father – Daddy, as we called him – was something in the City. I can’t be more specific than that. I have an older sister and a younger brother, Hugh. He’s an engineer, somewhere in India I believe. We don’t have much contact. My sister, Rachel, is married to a Harley Street charlatan. I have no contact with her at all. At first, things were idyllic, although you don’t realise it at the time, do you?’