The Mushroom Man (2 page)

Reg removed the jack from its resting place and
moved round to the back of the car. He wasn’t relishing what he had to do, but he acted with the purposefulness of the desperate. He opened the boot.

The lid rose smoothly on its hydraulic struts, and as it did, so too did Father Harcourt. He sat up in the boot and clutched imploringly at Reg’s sleeve. His face was a scarlet mess and his eyes were white orbs, the uncoordinated pupils barely visible, one pointing up and one down.

Reg screamed in terror and tried to shake his arm free from the old man’s talons. He wouldn’t let go.

‘Get off! Get off!’ shrieked Reg, but the fingers tightened their grip. Reg was holding the jack in his right hand. His arm rose and fell, and the jack crashed against the parchment skull of the priest. Again and again the jack came down until the
claw-like
grip relaxed and Father Harcourt fell back, to keep his appointment with the Lord.

Reg forced himself not to be sick. He sucked in great lungfuls of air through his open mouth and acted like a robot. With one movement he flung the jack into the boot and grabbed the priest under the armpits. Ten seconds later the body splashed into the shallow water. Reg jumped down after it and, standing astride the ditch and clinging to the bridge, managed to push it with his foot until it was out of sight.

He climbed back up to the road. He’d done it. It
was over. Then, and only then, did he renew his acquaintance with the duck a l’orange.

Traffic was heavy on the A47, but the risk of being pulled over for a driving offence now seemed trivial. Reg knew a car spares shop on the far side of Norwich where he could buy a new headlight. He’d obtained one there a couple of years previously, after a confrontation with a slurry trailer in someone’s yard. He shuddered when he remembered the price of it; thank goodness he had his gold card with him. No, that was no good – he could be traced through that. He’d have to withdraw a hundred quid from a cash dispenser and use real money. He gave a smile of satisfaction – he was thinking well.

It was about six p.m. when he arrived home. This was about his normal time, but much later than he’d planned on this day of days. His wife gave him his meal and he told her about his triumph with the feed contract. She remarked that he looked strained, but Reg explained that he’d had to do some hard negotiating: it hadn’t been as straightforward as he’d expected. Later, he went into the garage and changed the headlight. The refuse collection men were due next morning, so he dropped all the broken glass into the dustbin. Come nine a.m. it would be lost for ever, mixed with the jetsam of a thousand other homes. Then he’d be in the clear.

The bin men came dead on time, as reliable as a quartz watch – the one owned by the manager of the company that had subcontracted their services from the local council. Reg gave them a cheery ‘Good morning’ as the week’s avocado skins, yoghurt pots and murder evidence was tipped into the back of their lorry. Then he climbed into his car to drive to the office, thirty miles away.

First of all he had to give the feed contract to old man Wimbles. Then they had a busy day ahead. All the cash flows, projections, stock control, orders – everything – needed completely rejigging. They were big league now, and the credit was all his – all Reg Davison’s. And there was the little matter of his new car, he’d bring that up, too.

The traffic of the suburbs thinned out, but Reg kept his speed down. Normally, when sober, he drove with the skilled efficiency of the professional driver, but he’d decided that a low profile might be a good idea for a few weeks. The bicycle would be found in late August when the barley was harvested. Presumably they’d find the body soon afterwards. It would be as obvious as a giraffe in a dance band that murder, or at least manslaughter, had been committed, but by whom? The police were good, but not that good. He tuned in to Radio Fenland to see if the vicar had been missed yet.

There was a lorry in front. Normally he would have zoomed past it, but it was doing over fifty, so
he kept his position. A few spots of rain fell on the windscreen. Passing through one of the many small villages on his route he noticed that the road was wet, with big puddles along the edges. They’d had a downpour in the last few minutes.

That should help the barley along, he thought, with, a satisfied smirk. The lorry’s nearside rear wheel bounced along the gutter, sending a shower of muddy spray over Reg’s car. He extended the fingers of his right hand to switch on the windscreen wipers. The glass in front of him cleared, as the wiper swished back and forth, like waves on the beach, ebbing and flowing. He turned left here. The lorry was going straight on, thank goodness. He glanced across as he swung the car round the tight bend. It was difficult to see out of the passenger’s side of the screen. Something wasn’t right. He straightened up and looked across to see what the problem was.

He only had one windscreen wiper. Oh Christ! Oh, Jesusfuckingchrist! The entire left-hand windscreen wiper arm was missing.

My phone was ringing. Two pairs of beady eyes fixed on me, anticipating the boss making a fool of himself. It was the moment of truth that could be delayed no longer. After a couple more rings I grabbed the hand-set, clamped it to the side of my head and spoke:

‘Awake! For morning in the bowl of night,

Has rum ti-tum ti-tum the stars to flight.’

‘That’s no good!’ protested Detective Constable David Sparkington, owner of the beadier pair of eyes.

‘No, it’s not. It has to be original,’ concurred Detective Sergeant Nigel Newley, possessor of the other pair.

The female voice on the line lacked their assurance: ‘Um, could I please speak to Inspector Priest?’ she asked.

I was reasonably certain it was Maggie Madison, the office practical joker. I said:

‘Charlie Priest is my name, feeling collars is my game.’

‘That’s more like it,’ confirmed the beady-eyed ones.

Is that you, Charles?’ asked the voice, hesitantly. Oh God! It wasn’t Mad Maggie, it was Annabelle, Annabelle Wilberforce. Now it was my turn to go to pieces.

‘Oh, er, hello. Is that you, Annabelle?’ I stuttered.

Across the office the pair of them did an impression of the Wise Monkeys, without the silent one, after a successful raid on a banana plantation.

‘Are you all right, Charles? What’s happening?’ she asked.

I dredged up what was left of my composure. ‘Yes, thanks. How are you?’ It wasn’t the best opening gambit I’d ever made.

Annabelle laughed: ‘It sounds like a madhouse in there. What are you all doing?’

I gave them two fingers and swivelled my chair so that my back was towards them. ‘Oh, it’s just a silly game we’re playing.’

‘A game? I thought you were busy fighting crime.’

‘We are. It’s for charity – the Baby James Appeal at the General Hospital. Every time you start a conversation you have to speak in verse. If you don’t it costs you a pound.’

‘Goodness, that could be expensive. How much has it cost you so far?’

‘Nothing yet. There’s a maximum of ten pounds, so I suppose we’ll all end up paying a tenner. Hearing from you is a pleasant surprise. I’m sorry about the concert last month; did you enjoy it?’

‘It was wonderful – you missed a lovely evening. It’s a shame you had to work, but I know how busy you are. I was wondering if you are free tonight. I’m afraid it’s rather short notice.’

Free? Well, there was the washing-up; cook a meal; wash the car; do some weeding; mow the grass; clean the windows; iron a shirt. It would be a sacrifice, but I suppose they could all wait. ‘That’s OK. Providing nobody robs the NatWest I should be available,’ I told her.

‘Only the NatWest?’ she asked.

‘Only that one. I bank there,’ I answered.

She didn’t laugh. That’s the trouble with women who have a sense of humour – they’re hard to please. ‘Fine. In that case you are invited to supper. A couple of friends I knew in Kenya have dropped in unexpectedly for a day or two, so I thought I’d practise my culinary skills – do something special. Will that be all right?’

‘It sounds super. I’m already doing my impression of Spot.’

‘Spot?’

‘Pavlov’s dog.’ Still not funny – I was trying too hard.

‘I see. Good. Seven thirty for eight, shall we say? Oh, by the way, they are both “Church”, but you’d never know it.’

‘No problem, I’m looking forward to meeting them.’ And to the meal. And you. Most of all, you.

We said our farewells and I replaced the phone. I sat gazing at it for a few moments. It was a simple collection of electrical components and plastic, but it could change a person’s world in a few seconds. For some it brought tragedy, for others, more rarely, happiness.

I’d met Annabelle over a year ago, but my pursuit of her would have disgraced a Galapagos Island tortoise. I made Chi-Chi the giant panda look like Young Lochinvar. The fact that her late husband had been a bishop didn’t help. Sometimes I wished that she wasn’t so attractive. She frightened me. I was scared that, by chasing her, I’d lose her. In twelve months I’d taken her out four times: one meal, two concerts and one visit to the theatre. On three other occasions I’d had to cancel at the last minute because of the job. My wife, Vanessa, left me, she said, because of the loneliness. I don’t think I could take that again.

I spun my chair round to face the others, and with an expansive gesture towards the window, said:

‘The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea.

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

And hopes it’s not…brown bread again for tea.’

‘Isn’t love wonderful?’ Sparky sighed, looking at Nigel.

‘Yes,’ replied Nigel, ‘but that will cost you a pound.’

We made it through the day, although Good didn’t score any victories in the war against Evil. Several other members of the public were not impressed with their encounters with poetic policemen, but we raised a couple of hundred pounds for the appeal. I hit the ten-pound limit well before lunch, but kept on with the vile verse just for the hell of it. It was fun. About four o’clock the phone was ringing yet again.

‘If you’re having any trouble, we’ll be with you at the double,’ I said into it.

It was the Control Room.

‘Then grab your pencil and your book,

And you might just catch a crook,’ growled the Sergeant.

Our busiest time is late afternoon, early evening. Kids come home from school, grown-ups from work, and find that their home has been turned over during their absence. This one fitted the pattern.

‘I’m all ears, Arthur. Give us the details.’

‘It’s The Firs, Edgely Lane, off Penistone Road. A couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses rang in. They went up the drive to sell their tracts, or whatever, and the door was smashed in. They ran to the next house and phoned us because they felt someone might still be inside. We’ve a car there, but the birds have flown. Place has been well and truly ransacked. Problem is, the owner’s not home yet.’

‘They did it!’ I declared. ‘Chuck ’em in a cell and we’ll talk to them in the morning.’

‘Can I leave it with you?’

‘Oh, OK then, Arthur. We’ll look into it.’

‘It’s the very last house. Will you arrange Scenes of Crime, Charlie?’

‘Will do. Thanks.’

I glanced round the office at the gallant body of men I call The Troops. One or two had drifted away, but Dave Sparkington, Nigel and a couple of others were still here. I waved the sheet of paper at Sparky and he came over.

‘If that’s what I think,

I’ve just gone for a drink,’ he said.

I’d worked with Sparky for years. As far as I was concerned he was the best DC in the force. ‘It’s a burglary,’ I told him. ‘Do you want me to send someone else?’

‘No, it’s only saddle of lamb in red currant sauce for tea; nothing special. Besides, I thrive on work.
Let’s have a look.’ He grabbed the paper and I told him the little I knew.

Nigel had wandered across and was listening. ‘I’ll go, if you want. I’ve nothing on tonight,’ he volunteered.

‘In that case, both of you go,’ I suggested. ‘It’s a posh address and you might recover some of the credibility we’ve squandered through the day. And take a SOCO with you, they don’t know about it, yet.’

Sparky tilted his head on one side for a few moments, then said:

‘Away with the SOCO and my trusty Sarge,

We’ll catch the burglars but he’ll get the credit ’cos he’s in charge.’

‘It doesn’t scan,’ said Nigel, testily.

‘Well that’s what we’re collecting for, isn’t it?’ responded Sparky.

‘What?’

‘A scanner.’

I couldn’t help wondering how well they would work together. Sparky was a local lad, and always claimed he’d worn clogs as a kid, but nobody believed that. After twenty-odd years in the force, he’d developed a carefully refined brusqueness with strangers that he loved to display when least expected. Nigel was university-educated and from deepest Berkshire. After three years he outranked Sparky. Another three and he could outrank me.
He’d never hold the title of the longest-serving inspector the force had ever had, though. That was mine, and mine alone.

On the way home I bought a modest bunch of flowers and an extravagant bottle of claret. I had a short nap, interspersed with pleasant daydreams, while the water heated, and then showered. I whistled a few tunes and rubbed great dollops of some smelly blue jelly over myself. Life was good. God was in his heaven. All it had taken was a phone call.

I was ready to leave, resplendent in decent suit and gaudy tie, when the phone rang again. It was Dave Sparkington. ‘Sorry about this, Charlie’ he said, ‘but I think we need you.’

‘Why, what’s happened?’

‘We’re still at The Firs. The householder – he’s a Mr Dewhurst – arrived home about thirty minutes ago. Apparently his daughter is missing. We’ve made the obvious enquiries, but we’ve drawn a blank. It’s looking bad.’

If Dave said it was looking bad, then it was. ‘How old is she?’ I asked.

‘Eight.’

‘Oh dear. OK,’I told him, I’m on my way. Tell me again what the road’s called.’

It could be a false alarm. If we found her in the next hour I could still make it to Annabelle’s. On my way out to the car I took off the tie and stuffed it into my pocket.

Edgely Lane is about two hundred yards long. The houses, all rather magnificent and extremely detached, are down one side only. The other side is open country, the view broken by a row of huge beech trees. The lane ends at a farm track, which leads out into the Penistone Road further along. I parked so that I was blocking off the track. Sparky’s, the SOCO’s and the squad car were all in the road. A fourwheel-drive Nissan Patrol stood on the drive to The Firs. The house probably derived its name from the fifty-foot-tall leylandii that flanked the grounds on three sides. I’m a founder member of the Society for the Abolishment of Leylandii in Suburban Gardens.

I had a quick look round the exterior, then went in. It was easy to see how entry had been gained: the door at the side had been jemmied. Someone had made quite a mess or it. Mr Dewhurst was sitting in the kitchen talking to Sparky, an untouched mug of tea in front of him. The kitchen was large and well equipped, but untidy and not very clean. A bit like mine. Sparky introduced me. Dewhurst surprised me by offering a limp handshake. He was about six feet tall, with
short-cropped
dark hair and designer stubble. My immediate impression was that he couldn’t decide which era he belonged in.

‘Where’s DS Newley?’ I asked Sparky.

‘Talking to the neighbours, sir.’

‘Good. Where are we so far?’

‘According to a little girl a few doors away who goes to the same school, she didn’t attend today.’

I turned to address Mr Dewhurst. ‘And should she have done?’ I asked.

He nodded a yes. This was bad news.

‘I see you’ve already provided DC Sparkington with a photograph.’ It was lying on the table between them. ‘Do you mind if we borrow it for a short while, sir?’

He shook his head. ‘No, of course not,’ he mumbled.

It was a school photograph, enlarged and in a decent frame. It showed a dark-haired little girl, wearing spectacles. ‘Thanks. Dave, send whoever we’ve got to City HQ with it to have it copied. We need to get moving before the light goes. And rustle up some extra help.’

Sparky went out with the picture and I sat down opposite Mr Dewhurst. ‘First of all, sir, what is your daughter called?’

‘Georgina.’

‘Nice name. And she is eight years old?’

‘Yes.’

‘I know you’ve been through it all with my sergeant, but I’d like you to tell me everything that’s happened today. First of all, when did you last see Georgina?’

‘This morning.’

‘Go on,’ I invited.

He looked at the tea, realised it was cold and pushed it away. I didn’t suggest making another pot – I wanted to move fast. ‘Do you think you’ll find her?’ he asked. ‘There’s so many madmen about. The papers are full of…’

‘It’s a bit early to be thinking like that, Mr Dewhurst. At the moment we’re hoping that there’s a simple explanation. She’s probably at a friend’s house, drinking cocoa and watching TV. If you’ll just answer a few questions we might know where to look. Tell me about this morning.’

He stared down at the table as he spoke: ‘I took her to the bus station in Heckley, like I do every morning. She catches the school bus there.’

‘Which school does she attend?’

‘KGP.’

King George Preparatory. Fee-paying. ‘Pardon me asking, sir, but is there a Mrs Dewhurst?’

He shook his head. ‘No, she died over two years ago. Leukaemia.’

‘Oh, I am sorry. Can we go back to this morning, please. What time did you drop Georgina at the bus station?’

‘About five past eight.’

‘And what time does her bus leave?’

‘Eight fifteen.’

‘Did you see her onto the bus?’

‘No. I usually do, but…there was nowhere to
park. I was in a hurry. I never thought…never expected…’

‘Don’t blame yourself. You weren’t to know…’

Nigel came into the kitchen. ‘Anything from the neighbours?’ I asked him.

‘No, sir, except that it appears she didn’t go to school today.’

‘So I heard, but we can’t rely on the word of a neighbour’s child. Have someone check with the school. Do you know the name of Georgina’s teacher, Mr Dewhurst?’

‘Yes, it’s Miss Aitken.’

Nigel went off to deploy someone to track down Miss Aitken. As he left I asked him to arrange for the farm track to be taped off. There were some good tyre marks on it.

‘Is your daughter happy at school, Mr Dewhurst? Can you think of any reason why she might have played truant?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘No. She doesn’t like school very much, but neither did I. She does fairly well. I don’t think she’s being bullied or anything.’

‘OK. Have you a sheet of paper?’ He produced a shopping-list pad out of a drawer. One of those with a pencil attached that looks like a good idea but never gets used.

‘Right, sir. I want you to spend the next few minutes making me a list of all these names.’ I started writing on the pad.