The Mushroom Man (9 page)

‘First of all, could we sit down somewhere, sir?’

‘Oh, yes, of course. You’d better come through into my office.’

Treadwell’s office was small but surprisingly lacking in clutter. There were two desks: one obviously for a typist, who wasn’t there, and the other presumably his. On it were two silver frames containing family portraits. Peterson noted that Treadwell was the proud husband of Khrushchev’s widow and father of two gnomes.

Maybe he just has the pictures there to warn him to keep his hands off the typist, he thought, sitting in her chair and swivelling it to face inwards. DC Wilson perched on a corner of her desk and wondered what she looked like.

‘We won’t keep you long, Mr Treadwell,’ Peterson began. ‘First of all, do we call you chief librarian?’

‘Oh, no. I’m a group librarian. I’m head of this group. That’s this library and seven branches.’ He listed several local small towns.

‘I see. Now, we have a problem, and we’re wondering if you will be able to help us with it.’

‘Oh, well, if I possibly can, Inspector.’ He relaxed, now that he knew that they were here to call on his expertise, and not to relay some trouble at home or with the staff. ‘What exactly is it you want to know?’

The Inspector spread the three books on the desk. ‘Somebody,’ he stated, ‘is going round cutting photos of mushrooms from books like these, presumably borrowed from libraries. We need to catch that person, fast. Is there any way we can circulate a message to all librarians?’

‘Goodness gracious, this is good news!’ Treadwell said. ‘You’d never believe the amount of malicious damage that people do to them. I sometimes wonder what the world is coming to. And it’s not just the youngsters, you know. Why, sometimes—’

‘Ah!’ interrupted Peterson. ‘I think I may have misled you. Serious as the vandalising of books might be, that’s not our principal interest in this character. He also has a nice sideline in murdering people. That’s why we’d like to meet him, but you can have him after us.’

‘M-m-murdering people!’ stammered Treadwell, immediately assuming that ‘people’ meant group librarians.

‘Well, just one person that we’re certain of, and so far it’s just a theory we’re exploring.’ Peterson thought that perhaps he had been too blunt with the nervous Mr Treadwell, but then he glimpsed the family photos and decided that the man was made of sterner stuff. He went on: ‘So, is there any way in which I can circulate every library in the country and ask them if they can check their books on fungi for missing pages?’

Treadwell looked perplexed. ‘No, not from here,’ he replied. ‘I could only circulate my group. You’d have to contact every group individually’

‘What about head office, sir? There must be a libraries HQ somewhere.’

‘Well, yes. There’s the Library Association.’

‘The Library Association? Where do they hang out?’

‘London, Ridgmount Street.’

‘Who’s in charge there?’

‘Er, the chief executive.’

‘That sounds rather grand. Is he a figurehead or does he work for a living?’

‘Oh no,’ asserted Treadwell. ‘He’s a librarian, come up through the ranks.’

‘He’ll do then. Have you his number, please?’

Treadwell, having a tidy mind, knew exactly where to find it.

‘Do you mind if I use your phone, Mr Treadwell?’ asked the Inspector, adding: ‘You can always invoice us for the charge, if you wish.’

Treadwell, fascinated, gave his gushing consent. He didn’t mind if they conducted the entire inquiry from his office. What a story he’d have to tell Edwina and the boys when he arrived home.

After several transfers, the Inspector found himself addressing Olga Friedland, Chief Executive of the Library Association. He introduced himself, confessing to being called Oscar, and made a daring joke about their names. Treadwell listened
open-mouthed
as this coarse copper flirted with someone he’d never spoken to in thirty years of service and regarded as remote as royalty.

Peterson told her how helpful Mr Treadwell had been, but how, unfortunately, his powers were limited. He outlined what he would like to do. Ms Friedland informed him that each of the one hundred and sixty-seven local authorities ran its library service independently. She could provide him with address labels for all their chief librarians.
Alternatively he could have access to the full list of twenty-five thousand members.

Peterson thought for a moment. ‘This is an inquiry into a very serious crime, Olga,’ he told her. ‘I want to act as quickly as possible. If I get a letter to you, would it be possible for you to circulate it to the hundred-and-sixty-odd head librarians and then invoice the police for your costs?’ This time he meant it about the charges.

Treadwell attracted his attention. ‘You can fax it in from here,’ he hissed.

‘Mr Treadwell has kindly suggested we fax a letter to you from here,’ Peterson said. He listened for a few seconds, then added: ‘That’s very obliging of you, Olga. We’ll have it with you as soon as possible.’

‘What a pleasant woman,’ he declared, replacing the receiver.

‘Er, yes, er, Olga is, er, very pleasant,’ replied Treadwell, who had never realised that O. Friedland, his chief executive, was, in fact, a woman.

‘Right, Mr Treadwell,’ said the Inspector. ‘If you could possibly loan us a pad and put up with us for a few more minutes, we’ll draft a letter.’

‘Yes, yes, right away, be my guests,’ he replied, producing a brand-new A4 pad from a drawer and handing it to Peterson. The Inspector passed it straight over to DC Wilson and stood up.

‘Sit here, Trevor, and earn your keep,’ he said.

Treadwell realised that he was no longer wanted.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I’ve got things to do, so I’ll leave you to it, if you don’t mind.’

‘Thanks for your help, sir. We’ll only be five minutes,’ Peterson told him. He was a great believer in charm when he didn’t have the authority to kick butts. He sat quietly in the chair vacated by Treadwell while the DC exercised his literary skills, and resisted the temptation to turn the two photographs to the wall.

‘How about that, guv?’ asked Wilson, after a while, handing the pad back. After the introductions the message read:

It finished with the words:

‘It’ll do,’ said Peterson, after crossing out the Oscar. He didn’t want anybody thinking it was a practical joke. DC Wilson smiled with satisfaction – that was
the deliberate mistake he’d included.

Treadwell came back and agreed to type it and fax it to Olga. He smiled at the thought of adding a conspiratorial covering note of his own. Peterson said he’d call in tomorrow to pick up a copy, but really he just wanted to make sure it had been forwarded.

When they’d gone, the Group Librarian set to work on the word processor, secretly pleased that the typist had taken the day off. He wasn’t happy with the letter, and felt that the Inspector should have written it himself, instead of delegating it to a junior officer. That was something he would never have done. He studied the finished document on the screen, but couldn’t quite put his finger on what was wrong with it.

He ran off a copy and studied it some more. Then he realised where the error was. He tore the sheet into shreds and dropped them into the bin. Turning back to the screen he rattled his fingers expertly over the keyboard for a few seconds and examined the result. After Peterson’s address and telephone number he’d added the words: ‘or your nearest police station’.

That was better. Now it looked professional. He tapped the keys again and the printer zipped away at another copy.

I awarded myself a weekend off. I’d worked nonstop for nine weeks, averaging over twelve hours per day with no paid overtime. The car had clocked up five thousand miles in that time, for which I would be reimbursed. I called in at the office on the Saturday morning, but I was determined not to stay long.

There were reports to read from the few officers I didn’t see regularly. We had people floating about the country, interviewing suspects, informers and the mother-in-law’s first cousin, twice removed. We also had search parties out when we could borrow the manpower. Plenty of local groups offered their help, but they needed organisation to do the job properly. Sometimes I caught myself wishing that they’d find a body, and a feeling of revulsion came over me, but I couldn’t imagine a plausible alternative.

The house was a dump. A lady came and cleaned
it for a while, but her husband needed a lot of attention and she’d had to give me notice. I pleaded with her not to desert me, but to no avail. Eventually she agreed to iron my shirts if I took them round, once a week. I filled the washing machine and set to work with the Hoover.

I made a big impression on the mess, but it left me feeling knackered. Pub grub is not my first choice, but I couldn’t face cooking so that was where I went. The chicken Kiev tasted as if it had walked from there, and the landlady’s home-made apple pie was made from tinned apple that she’d opened all by herself. The company was about as interesting as the food, so I downed a couple of pints and went home.

Sunday breakfast was cornflakes and toast. Then I mowed the grass in the front garden. The borders were overgrown and neglected but a couple of hours with the hoe and secateurs made them respectable again. Well, I thought so, although the Best Village judges might disagree. Lunch was a roast beef ready-meal for one. I remembered what Annabelle had said about my eating habits and felt guilty. Happy, but guilty. When I’d cleared up I rang her.

It’s Charlie,’ I said. ‘I’ve done my chores, washed the car, wallpapered the coalhouse and had my dinner. I’m fed up, so I was thinking about having a drive up onto the moors; blow away a few
cobwebs. Any chance of you putting your tapestry down and coming along?’

‘Goodness! You mean you are having a day off?’ she replied.

‘That’s right.’

‘What about the crime wave?’

‘Anarchy will break out all over the nation, but I don’t
care
. Are you free?’

‘I’d love to come, but I have a PCC meeting at seven. I’ll have to be back about six-ish. Is that all right?’

‘No problem. I’ll see you in about forty minutes. And put your walking boots on.’

We went to Blackstone Edge, a rocky outcrop at the scrag end of the Peak District, where the high moors fade into the Aire and Calder valley. I parked in a lay-by, where the local water authority kindly still allow their subjects access to the land, and we followed a track into the moor. The path quickly became narrow and muddy, so I led the way, making diversions at intervals to avoid the worst of it. Soon we were on rocky ground, with no distinct trail, just marker poles at irregular intervals. You clambered across the boulders as best you could.

We were both wearing hiking boots and jeans, but Annabelle’s jeans seemed to go on for ever. Her navy coat would have been a donkey jacket on anybody else, but on her it looked straight from a
Paris fashion house. Walking on rough ground is an art, but she had obviously mastered it. She moved effortlessly, her long legs never hesitating or stumbling.

A gang of sheep, about ten of them, raised their sullen heads and watched us pass, like the honest folk in a western town contemplating a couple of outlaws riding down Mainstreet. A bird with pointed wings and down-curved beak flew leisurely by.

‘Curlew,’ I said, pointing. We followed it till it was a speck against the sky.

‘What’s that one then?’ Annabelle asked, as something flew from under our feet, showing a flash of white as it sped away.

‘Er, SBB,’ I told her.

‘SBB?’

‘Small Brown Bird,’ I explained.

‘It was a meadow pipit.’

‘Oh.’

After about twenty minutes we reached the ancient cobbled road. I stood in the middle of it, arms out-stretched, and said, ‘
Voila!
’

Annabelle looked amazed and delighted. ‘I never knew this was here,’ she said. ‘It’s Roman, isn’t it?’

I nodded.

She knelt on the cobbles and ran her hand along the groove that runs down the centre. ‘I’ve seen pictures of it in books, but never knew where it
was. Does anybody know what this is for?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Lots of crackpot theories, like it was made by the keels of Viking ships as they were dragged overland; or maybe by charioteers as they trailed a foot along the ground to try to slow down. Must’ve ruined their sandals. It’s anybody’s guess,’

‘What do you think?’

I shook my head. ‘The truth,’ I replied, ‘would probably be mundane and obvious, once we knew it. It usually is. Far better for it to remain concealed.’

Annabelle stood up, and slowly turned in a full circle, studying the view. I watched the wind ruffle her hair. When she was facing me again she said: ‘You love the moors, don’t you, Charles.’

It was a statement rather than a question, but I replied to it. ‘Yes, I suppose I must.’

‘Why? What is it about them that draws you?’

I’d never tried to put it into words before. ‘I don’t know. They’re beautiful. And mysterious. They have stories to tell that we can only try to imagine. They’re never the same for two days together, or even for ten minutes. They reveal themselves to you in brief glimpses, like a curtain blowing open and then closing again. But all the time there is a constancy about them.’ I shrugged, struggling for the right words. ‘I don’t know, I suppose I just feel at peace when I’m near them.’

Even as I spoke I was wondering if it was my
feelings for the moors I was describing, or for the woman who’d asked the question.

Above us, ragged clouds, the colour of wet slate, were scurrying eastwards. Thirty thousand feet higher, the pale sky was patterned with pink
fish-scales
, through which an invisible jetliner etched its trail, straight as a laser beam. We walked, hand in hand, back up the hill to the outcrop of millstone grit that is Blackstone Edge.

‘Are we in Lancashire or Yorkshire?’ Annabelle asked.

‘Neither,’ I asserted. ‘We’re just about on the border, but history has been rewritten. The Wars of the Roses were now fought between Calderdale and Greater Manchester. It was a close-run thing until Kirklees joined in and tipped the balance.’

When we reached the piled-up boulders of the Edge, I pointed to a smooth one and told Annabelle to sit there. We were both puffing with the exertion. I sat on the ground, leaning back against a rock and facing her, with my legs splayed out in front of me.

‘I want to tell you something,’ I said. ‘About me.’

Her smile was replaced by a look of concern. She sensed from my tone I was being serious, and she was uncertain and possibly worried about what I was about to say. ‘What is it, Charles?’

I picked up a small stone and tossed it at my left boot. It bounced off the toe and rolled into the grass. I followed it with my gaze, as if it were some
juju that might tell me the right words to use.

‘Just over a year ago,’ I began, ‘not long after I first met you, I…I…killed a man.’ There, I’d said it. ‘We were on a raid, and—’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘—he came at me with a… You know?’ I looked up at her face, into those eyes the colour of a bluebell wood in spring.

‘Yes,’ she replied, very softly.

‘How do you know?’

‘I read in the papers that a drug dealer had been shot. It said he fired a shotgun at a policeman, who fired back and killed him. I wondered if you were involved, and when I didn’t hear from you for a long time… Then, one day, I bumped into Gilbert – Superintendent Wood. So I asked him.’

‘You’ve known all the time?’

‘Yes. Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I just wanted to tell you.’

She slid down off her rock and reached out for my hand. Hauling me to my feet she said: ‘Come on, then. Get me to my PCC meeting.’

High above, the vapour trail was breaking up and drifting away. The jet that had made it would be heading out over the Atlantic by now. I was glad I wasn’t on it. I wouldn’t have traded places with the Emperor of China.

We threw our coats on the back seat of the car and I pushed the heater controls to maximum and
started the engine. Annabelle clicked her seatbelt fastened and looked across at me.

‘Thank you for showing me the Roman road,’ she said.

I winked at her and said: ‘You’re welcome, ma’am.’

‘Does it have a name?’

‘A name?’

‘Yes, like Watling Street, or the Fosse Way’

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ I replied, thinking fast.

‘No, you haven’t mentioned it.’

‘Sorry about that. It’s called the M…let me see…the M…LXII.’

She chuckled and smiled. It was an indulgent smile, tolerant, and, I thought, affectionate. We arrived at her gate well before six. I politely declined the offer of a quick cup of tea and drove home.

The Peak District is chopped off the bottom of the Pennines by what Yorkshire geography teachers call the Aire Gap, although their Lancastrian colleagues may have a different name for it. The Gap acts as a funnel for migrating birds, working their way from one coast to the other. It’s also a major transport route between the conurbations of Manchester and Leeds, especially since the coming of the motorway.

It’s a good area for a young, ambitious policeman to work in. The wool and cotton barons left a
legacy of fine houses, mills and remote farms, built like castles from the local stone. Property prices are low, and the attractions for today’s highly mobile criminals are tempting.

There’s a lot more to the area than that, though. Something in the water, or the air, reacts with the genes of a few susceptible people to produce villains who break all the rules of the game.

This valley spawns serial killers.

Everybody knows their names. They were splashed over the front pages of the tabloids, feeding the egos that created them. Even Haigh and Christie, who did their foul work in London, were born near here.

Then there are the ones who worked within the law – brutish, inarticulate men who were driven by something within to write misspelt letters to the Home Office, volunteering to become the Public Executioner. And the Government, glad to find the final cog in the mechanism that started in Westminster and ended in the lime pit, accepted them. Six hangmen, including three Pierrepoints, were born in the valley. Between them they despatched, with varying degrees of incompetence, over a thousand of their fellow men and women.

I was having a restless night. All of these things, plus a few faces from the past, came to disturb my sleep. Twelve years ago I caught a double killer. In the heat of the moment I could cheerfully have
pulled the trap myself; but now, and in the quiet of the night, I’m glad he didn’t hang. He’s still inside, and will be for a long time. That’s good enough for me. I can live with knowing I put him there. The memory of those two kids in that
blood-splattered
room easily dispels any doubts that may arise.

Once the birds started singing I knew that any chance of sleep was gone. I rose ridiculously early, shaved and showered, and drove to work; pausing only to put on some clothes, of course.

We always made a point of having a full team conference on a Monday morning, although ‘conference’ was putting it a bit grandly, these days. Due to my change in routine I hadn’t seen a Sunday paper, but I was quickly brought up to date. Georgina’s disappearance had attracted the attention of a good number of cranks. Unsolved crimes, especially murders or potential murders, always do. Some were sincere, some were mischievous, all were time-wasters. Now one of them had hit the headlines.

Madame Julia LeStrang, medium and psychic healer, said she could find Georgina. The
Sunday News
believed her, and the police’s reluctance to cooperate amounted to sheer incompetence.

I tossed the paper I’d been given to read straight into the bin. ‘You had finished with that, hadn’t you?’ I asked Sparky, who’d brought it in.

‘Yes, boss. Texture’s no good for me.’

‘Mmm, it is a bit coarse. Jeff, you’ve handled most of the crank calls. How many times has Madame LeStrang been in?’

‘I’ve seen her three times in the last month. She wants access to something personal from Georgina. Then she claims she can find her using a pendulum. She’s already receiving messages from the ether, or somewhere.’

‘More like her bank manager. What did you tell her?’

‘Er, well, I suggested she pissed off, with varying degrees of emphasis.’

‘Good,’I said. ‘So let’s get down to work.’

I broke the news about the deadline that the Acting Chief Constable had given us. It didn’t go down well. The three main types of evidence are Witnesses, Confessional and Forensic. We had none of these. Motive and Opportunity are worth less in a court of law than a dipsomaniac’s vows of abstinence, and they were all we could offer. The entire investigation would rely on us discovering something damning if we searched Dewhurst’s premises. Short of finding a body under the floorboards, it was hard to imagine what that might be.

We reviewed the current situation, pooled our findings and shared out the various lines of inquiry to be followed. I sensed that morale was waning, so
before the team dispersed I suggested that we all have a jar or three in the pub that evening. The proposal was received with enthusiasm. After much argument a decision was made that we’d meet at the Golden Lion. Monday was karaoke night. I wished I’d kept my mouth shut.

‘Somebody remember to invite Luke along,’ were my parting words.

One of the best parts of being a detective is that you work with a partner. When you are the boss you can choose your own. I had suppressed all personal or emotional signals and worked with DC Dave ‘Sparky’ Sparkington. It was the most objective decision I ever made.