The Mushroom Man (6 page)

As he moved on, his foot tangled with something and he sprawled full-length into his barley. His ankle was held fast and hurting. For a second he thought he must have stepped into a gin trap. He rolled over onto his back to see.

It was a bicycle. His left ankle was jammed through the spokes of the front wheel of an old bike.

‘Holy cow!’ he muttered. ‘I’ve found the Father’s bike!’

The vanishing of Father Harcourt was the best piece of gossip to hit the village since the postmistress was prosecuted for growing marijuana. The police had walked all the drainage ditches looking to see if he’d ridden off the road, and a helicopter had scoured much of the local countryside. Then the momentum had waned and it was left to the passing of the seasons or the tides to reveal his whereabouts. PC Donald Watson was sent in response to Farmer Chedgrave’s agitated phone call. He made a positive identification of the bicycle and radioed for further help.

Two hours later Sergeant Morgan Davis deployed his team of two constables in the road adjacent to the barley field.

‘What exactly is it we’re looking for, Sarge?’ asked one of them.

Davis surveyed the antiseptic landscape with distaste. ‘Anything suspicious, boyo,’ he replied. ‘That means that if it’s not grass and it’s not gravel, put it in a bag and label it. I’ll be back at the station, directing operations, so to speak. Radio in if you find anything.’

He climbed into the panda car and drove off. A few seconds down the road his eyes made an habitual flick towards the rear-view mirror. Young Watson was standing in the road waving his arms, trying to attract his attention. The Sergeant stamped on the brakes, slammed into reverse and
rocketed back towards him in a storm of tyre smoke and flying stones.

‘What do you reckon to this, Sarge?’ PC Watson asked.

Davis bent over to see where the constable was pointing. Lying in the grass at the edge of the road was a windscreen wiper arm. He carefully extricated it and held it between his fingertips. Stamped into the metal was the word: VOLVO.

‘This, Donald, is what we more experienced police officers call a clue,’said the Sergeant.

‘A clue, Sarge. I’ll remember that. I’ve got two of them on my car,’ His face glowed so brightly with pride, you could have marked roadworks with it.

‘And will you be looking at this,’ said Davis, pointng at the wiper with his little finger. Plainly visible along one edge were flakes of blue paint. ‘Nearly as good as his name and address, that is.’

‘So we’re looking for the owner of a blue Volvo, eh, Sarge?’

Davis nodded. ‘Carry on at this rate, Donald my boy, and you could be joining the detectives. Now, will you be handing me one of them plastic bags I know you’re carrying.’

Next day the search party brought in from divisional HQ found Father Harcourt’s body, or what the rats and maggots had left of it.

I took Maggie to talk with Wylie, the solicitor, and we put our Mr and Mrs Nasty heads on. We’d let Nigel carry on being Mr Nice. Wylie told us that under the terms of the will left by Janet Dewhurst her husband drew a salary and a percentage of the profits until Georgina was eighteen. The rest was held in trust for her. Then, providing he had remained unmarried, they split the company
fifty-fifty
.

‘Mrs Dewhurst was quite adamant about the marriage clause,’ Wylie told us. ‘She was determined that Georgina would not be brought up by a step-mother.’

He was not so forthcoming when I queried him about Dewhurst’s efforts to raise the ransom money. I gave him the look that said I was thinking about pushing burning matchsticks under his fingernails and he opened up slightly. He confessed that, as trustees, his firm had given Dewhurst
permission to look for a buyer or do some hefty borrowing.

‘Can you do that?’ I asked.

He looked embarrassed and fidgeted with a fountain pen. ‘We consider we are acting in the best interests of our clients,’ he said.

‘Both of them?’ I demanded.

‘Yes, Inspector, both of them. If a life is at risk we feel that we would not be acting as responsible trustees if we did not act to save that life.’

‘In that case I want you to withdraw the permission. We can supply the money.’

‘I’m afraid it may be too late for that, Inspector,’ he replied.

I asked him for a copy of the will and we drove back to the office.

Every morning the Superintendent holds what we call his morning prayer meeting. I informed the gathered brains of Heckley nick of the latest developments.

‘Suddenly it’s all falling into place,’ said Gilbert. ‘Do you think you’ve enough to bring him in? Maybe if we turned his love nest over, leant on his girlfriend…’

‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,’ I answered. ‘He’s been scrupulous so far, I doubt if he’s left any muck in his own kennel. Plus he’s got the press on his side. Arresting the distraught father wouldn’t be
good for my image if it didn’t stick.’

‘You could be right, Charlie. If he doesn’t think he’s a suspect, let’s give him all the line he needs. Mind you, the Acting Chief Constable might not agree when I give him a progress report.’

‘Trevor Partridge,’ I replied. ‘Leave him to me. I got him that job. If Dewhurst is convicted on circumstantial evidence he’ll spend the rest of his life protesting his innocence, writing books and articles in his cell. Three-quarters of the population will believe him. And that’s providing we’d convinced a jury first. Let’s hang on and find some forensic. When he goes down, I want him to have lead in his shoes.’

I was about to add that I didn’t think we’d have long to wait, but I was interrupted by a knock at the door. A uniformed constable poked his head round it.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Mr Priest, Miles Dewhurst is downstairs, asking for you. He looks a wreck.’

Gilbert came with me. Dewhurst was unshaven and untidily dressed, displaying that careful indifference to personal appearance that takes years to cultivate. For a split second I wondered if that was why I disliked him so much. Not because I thought he’d murdered his daughter, but for his vanity. We sat him in an interview room and ordered tea.

‘She wasn’t there,’ he sobbed. ‘He promised she’d be there.’

‘Georgina?’

He nodded.

‘I think you’d better start at the beginning, Mr Dewhurst. I take it you’ve had another approach.’ I glanced at the calendar on the wall behind him. It showed a picture of Fountains Abbey, and told me that this was the thirteenth day since the previous note.

His elbows were on the table, with his hands clenched together, and his thumbs pressed against his lips.

‘Take your time, Mr Dewhurst, and tell us in your own words what happened,’ said Gilbert, soothingly.

He lowered his hands. ‘He rang me. Last night. Asked if I’d got the money. Not all of it, I told him. He asked me how much and I said three hundred and fifty thousand. He said that would do.’

‘Did you have the money at home?’ I asked.

He nodded.

‘What did he say next?’

‘He told me that if I did as I was told I’d have Georgina back by this morning.’ He started sobbing, and apologised for doing so. We waited for him to start talking again. ‘I had to immediately take the Nissan and drive east on the M62, at fifty miles per hour, until he contacted me again.’

‘So he rang you on your mobile?’

‘Yes.’

‘What time, about?’

‘About ten, ten fifteen. I never looked.’

‘Go on.’

‘He called me again, somewhere near the Bradford turnoff, I think. I had to go to the services at the junction with the Al and park well away from everyone else. Then wait.’

He rambled on, pausing to blow his nose and gather his thoughts. It was a convincing performance.

‘How do you feel about doing the journey again?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘I expected you to suggest that.’

‘OK. Have you had any breakfast?’

‘No, I couldn’t eat anything.’

‘You’ve got to have something; a slice of toast at least. Come on, we’ll go to the canteen. That all right with you, Mr Wood?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Gilbert. ‘I’ll sort somebody out to go with you.’

Dave Sparkington was available, joining us in the canteen. We had a toasted teacake and set off in my car to follow the directions Dewhurst had been given over his mobile phone.

As we walked out through the yard, Dewhurst asked if the Nissan would be all right where he’d left it. It was in a space marked HMI.

We weren’t expecting a visit from him, or even her, so I said: ‘Sure, it’ll be OK there,’ quickly adding: ‘Tell you what, let’s leave your keys with the front desk, just in case.’ Sometimes I think so fast I arrive back before I’ve started.

Dewhurst sat in the front of my car and Sparky in the back, taking notes. First stop was the Ferrybridge Services, where the Al intersects the M62. We ignored the fifty miles per hour instruction and drove there as fast as I was able.

‘Where did you park?’ I asked.

‘In that far corner,’ Dewhurst said, pointing. I stopped in the same square he’d used.

‘Was it very busy?’

‘Fairly. There’d be about half as many vehicles as there are now, or maybe a few less.’

‘You didn’t notice anyone in particular?’

‘No.’

‘How long did you wait?’

‘Nearly an hour.’

‘And then he rang again.’

‘Yes.’

If was like trying to extract the pips from a pebble. ‘Would you care to tell us what the next instruction was, please, Mr Dewhurst?’ I asked.

Eight miles down the Al, in a lay-by just past the Burghwallis turn-off, is a construction known as Little John’s Well. It’s very old, dating from when they made the Great North Road into a dual
carriageway. About 1965. The voice on the phone had ordered Dewhurst to go there. We did the same.

‘In the well was a flattened Coke tin with the end cut off. There was a message inside, with a diagram.’

‘What happened to it?’

‘I still have it.’

‘Let’s have a look, then.’

It had been done on a computer. It depicted the roundabout at the Blythe services, further down the Al, with precise instructions on where to leave the money.

I passed it back to Dave. ‘Read ’em out, Dave,’ I instructed.

Fifteen minutes later we were nearly there.

‘First left and left again,’ Sparky told me. ‘And left again in a mile and a half.’ We were in
coal-mining
country, or what remained of it. ‘Left again in a quarter of a mile.’

It was a narrow lane, made of concrete. Probably an old British Coal access road. The remains of a gate marked the entrance. Now it bore signs of habitation by the less welcome members of the travelling fraternity, and several years’ use as an illegal tip. It ended abruptly in a small wood after a few hundred yards.

‘Is this where you came?’

‘Yes.’

Before us stood a derelict building no bigger than
a domestic garage. It was one of those mysterious, windowless places that have electricity poles bringing cables into them, and lightning conductors sticking towards the sky. Except that the copper fairies had already removed everything nonferrous from this one.

‘It’s an old Coal Board substation,’ Sparky explained.

‘Where did you leave the money?’ I asked.

‘Inside. There’s a pit in the floor, with the old door across it. I had to leave the money in the pit.’

‘OK. You two wait here; I’ll have a look.’

I picked my way through the wet grass to the gaping doorway of the building. A pair of magpies flew up and crashed noisily through the branches of the surrounding silver birches. Inside was a rotting jumble of domestic garbage. Liberally strewn about were screwed-up pieces of pink toilet tissue.

Yuk! I thought, wishing I’d asked Sparky to do the dirty work.

The big door that had once protected the entrance now lay inside, on the floor. It was reinforced with a steel sheet, but fortunately had a large handle to grasp hold of.

I tugged at it. It was heavier than I’d expected. Slowly a hole underneath was revealed. I pulled some more and exposed the secret of the substation. There was a Nike sports bag down there. I lifted it out and wrenched back the zip. It’s hard to judge
these things, but at a rough guess I’d say it contained about three hundred and fifty thousand smackeroos.

We tipped the money into the boot of my car and put the bag, with a few stones inside, back down the hole.

‘You didn’t tell me it was a public convenience,’ Sparky complained as he helped me push the door back over the hole.

‘Just watch where you put your feet,’ I told him. ‘And wipe them before you get in the car.’

We phoned the local CID and a sergeant arrived a few minutes later. He was sceptical at first, but I lifted my boot lid and showed him some real money. It convinced him.

‘Fuckinell! I wish I’d known that was in there. How long do you want us to watch for?’ he said.

‘A couple of days should be enough. I’ll make it right with your super. Now, do you mind if we leave you and continue with our treasure hunt?’

He didn’t mind. As we drove away he was radioing for assistance. ‘Back to the roundabout and take the Blythe road,’ instructed Sparky. I did as I was told.

‘Quarter of a mile, left on a dirt road.’

It was marked Private, owned by the local council and leading to a storage area for their vehicles and various materials like lampposts and road grit. After a while a narrow bridge took us
over the Al and the road petered out. We were in a wood again.

‘Next instructions, please,’ I asked.

‘I had to park here, leaving the car unlocked, then walk through the trees to the services. They’re about a quarter of a mile away. After an hour I was to come back. Georgina should have been in the car.’

‘I see. OK, you and DS Sparkington retrace your steps to the services. I’ll guard the money. See how long it takes you, Dave.’

‘Right, boss.’

My bladder was complaining of neglect. As soon as they were out of sight I watered the grass beneath an oak tree. Then I telephoned Heckley CID.

‘Heckley CID. DS Newley speaking. Can I help you?’

I had to admit it: Nigel would make a brilliant telephonist. ‘Hi, Nigel. It’s Charlie.’

‘Hello, boss. Where are you?’

‘Somewhere in deepest South Yorkshire. Listen, I want you to do a little job for me.’

‘Fire away. I’m all ears.’

‘In the car park is a Nissan Patrol. It belongs to Miles Dewhurst.’

‘Yes, I’ve seen it,”

‘Good. The keys are at the front desk. Raise a friendly SOCO and have him go over it with his sticky tape. Just take a few samples for the file.’

‘Will do. Anything in particular?’

‘Not really. A few fibres from a pink toilet roll might be interesting. Check his driving gloves, if he has any. Take some prints from them. You’ve got about…oh, two hours, no more.’

Villains assume they are safe if they wear gloves, not realising that we have a secret weapon. These days we can take gloveprints.

We had another cuppa at the services and returned to Heckley at a leisurely pace. Sparky and I could have eaten a mangy gnu between us, but Dewhurst said he wasn’t hungry and it seemed unsympathetic to tuck into anything in his presence.

Gilbert gave Dewhurst a bollocking, or as close to one as I’ve ever heard him deliver. Gilbert’s reprimands are normally of such well-honed subtlety that you come away thinking you’ve been praised until you reflect on it afterwards. I almost felt sorry for Dewhurst as he loaded the money into the Nissan and drove back to The Firs, Edgely Lane, via his bank. No, I didn’t.

‘So?’ Gilbert said, after we’d settled down in his office with a coffee each.

‘Got any biscuits?’ I asked.

‘Sorry, no. How’d it go?’

‘Complete waste of time. It was a good scheme, could have worked. Don’t believe a word of it, though.’

‘It was a bit risky, leaving the money, don’t you think?’

‘A bit, but not much. The place was full of toilet paper. You didn’t feel like doing much nosing around in there. I think it was a ploy to keep people away.’

‘We could always send Scenes of Crime to give it a good going-over,’ Gilbert suggested with a wicked smile. ‘Why didn’t he just steal the money and make it look as if it had been picked up?’ he added.

‘Then he’d have his own money, but illegally. And we’d be more suspicious.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Let’s keep playing him along, Gilbert. Things are building up – we’ll get a breakthrough soon.’

Gilbert looked grave. ‘I’m afraid you might not have the chance,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘Acting Chief Constable Partridge has been on to me. He wants us to spin Dewhurst’s premises. I let him know your feelings, so he said you can have a fortnight.’

I stared at Gilbert in disbelief. ‘A fortnight?’ I repeated. ‘Why a fortnight? What difference does it make if it takes a month? Or a year?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘He’s mad. We’ll blow it. Everything we’ve got is circumstantial. You’ve seen Dewhurst perform; he’ll twist a jury round his Filofax. We’ll be the baddies; or I will be.’