The Mushroom Man (16 page)

To this day I thank God that she was facing the other way. I widened the slit with my fingers and a mop of dull black hair tumbled out. I’d found Georgina.

Holding the torch again I could see the curve of her cheek, as lifeless as alabaster. I stretched out my reluctant hand and touched it. The skin yielded under my fingers, but didn’t spring back when I removed them. I let my hand fall onto her bony little shoulder and squeezed it. It was like holding a paper bag with a few dry twigs inside. I wanted her to know that not all hands were as evil as the last ones that had held her. Or as callous as the next ones would seem.

Outside, I retraced my steps to the car as best I could and reversed it about fifty yards back down the lane. I leant on the car boot, waiting for Nigel and Sparky to arrive. The water on it soaked through the seat of my pants and the drizzle ran off
my face and down my neck, but I hardly noticed it. I wanted to curse the moon and the heavens and any so-called omnipotent being who lived up there, but I didn’t have the energy. It’s just another body, I told myself. Another kid whose luck ran out. Just another job. And you’re a bloody liar, Charlie Priest, I thought.

For the next day or so only the experts would be allowed anywhere near. We’d hit the scene with every scientific aid known to us. Photographs, plaster casts and samples would be taken, followed by a fingertip search of the blacksmiths’ shop and the approaches to it. Everything found would be labelled, catalogued, analysed, dissected and turned inside out. Then we’d have the results of the
post-mortem
on little Georgina. Somewhere amongst all this there would be, hopefully, a tiny atom of evidence that would lead us to her killer.

The headlights came creeping unsurely down the lane. As they swung round the last turn and shone on me, Nigel switched them to dipped beam and then off. He’s very considerate about things like that. They drew right up to me, stopped and got out.

‘Hi, boss. Find anything?’ Sparky asked.

I gestured behind me with a jerk of the head. ‘She’s in there,’ I told them. They were both stunned to silence.

‘Georgina?’ Nigel asked, very quietly.

I nodded.

‘Poor kid. What’s happened to her?’

‘She’s in a bin-liner. Probably been there since May’

‘Jesus.’

‘You’re soaked to the skin, Charlie,’ Sparky declared. ‘Go sit in our car with the heater on. We’ll do the necessary.’

‘I’m OK. Did you bring the Almanac?’

The Almanac is the Who’s Who of the police force, listing everybody down to the rank of inspector. Strictly speaking we should have let someone know that we were coming into their area. Apologies were due.

‘Right here, boss,’ Nigel replied.

‘Good. Then let’s ruin the Regional DCS’s lodge meeting – tell him we’ve found a body on his patch and he’s going to be on telly in the morning, explaining it to the nation.’

Thirty minutes later the clouds above the colliery were pulsing like the intestines of a living creature, reflecting the blue lights of the police vehicles lined up in the lane. The whole area was cordoned off except for a path leading to the position of the body, and a constable was appointed to log all visitors. When the local detective superintendent was convinced that we weren’t a trio of loonies, he sent for the police surgeon. The doc confirmed
what we already knew and told his favourite pathologist to scrub-up for a rush job.

We were drinking tea at Divisional HQ when the message came that the coroner had given permission for Georgina to be removed to the mortuary at the local teaching hospital, where the PM would take place. I rang Gilbert to bring him up to date, and suggested that Miles Dewhurst be organised to identify his daughter’s body. It was broad daylight outside and the rain had stopped. Looked as if it might be sunny, later.

Nigel agreed to stay behind for the post-mortem, and I let Sparky drive the two of us back in my car. We’d done about fifty miles before I broke the silence.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Consider yourself bollocked,’ I said.

‘Thanks,’ Sparky replied, preoccupied with the driving and his own thoughts. Six miles later he looked across and said: ‘What for?’

‘Insubordination.’

‘Oh.’ Another long silence, then he said: ‘Sorry if I go too far now and again, Charlie. What did I call you this time?’

‘Not me, prat. Oscar Peterson. He’s complained to me about you. Threatened to report you to the Rubber Heel boys.’

‘Oh, ‘im. Now he is a prat. The old school. Nobody does things as well as they used to.
Modern methods are a load of hocus-pocus. Do you know, he thinks a DNA test is what you have to pass to get into the National Association for Dyslexia?’

I looked out of the side window, pretending I hadn’t heard. The barley in the fields was ripening well. I said: ‘Just leave him alone, Dave. He’s a lot on his plate.’

‘We’ve a lot on our plates.’

We were turning off the A1 on to the M62 when Dave said: I’ll have a little bet with you, Charlie.’

‘What on?’

‘This Mushroom Man that Peterson’s after.’

‘You mean the Destroying Angel. Did you know that the Book of Revelations has inspired more serial killers than Michael Winner has had free dinners?’

‘Gerraway. OK, you know this Destroying Angel?’

‘What about him?’

‘I bet you a tenner we get him before Peterson does.’

‘A tenner. A tenner we catch the Angel?’

‘Yes.’

‘Heckley CID? We’re not even on the case.’

‘Take the bet, then.’

‘OK, it’s a deal.’

It’s been said a million times but it’s true: the waiting is the hardest part. We had a fruitless chat
with Gilbert at the station, just so he didn’t feel neglected, then went home to bed. The news that Georgina’s body had been found was broadcast on the morning radio and TV news. Saturday it would adorn the tabloids. They’d be annoyed that the story had broken on their slowest day, but no doubt some creative journalism would stretch it through to Monday.

Slowly, bits of information came filtering through to us. If you could call it information. Nigel reported that the preliminary examination found no apparent cause of death; we’d have to wait for analysis of internal organs. There was no sign of sexual interference.

Capstick is in North-East Division. They had agreed that all the forensic stuff could go to the lab at Wetherton, which was more convenient for us. I had a word with Professor Van Rees who is in charge there and told him what we might be looking for – in short, anything. We were grasping at dandelion clocks.

Saturday morning we held a big meeting. We now had, in theory, a couple of reports to work on. The first one told us that Georgina had been given a massive dose of a barbiturate compound prior to her death. According to the pathologist this could possibly have suppressed her respiration sufficiently to kill her on its own, but he’d added a note saying
that he suspected a little manual assistance had been applied. No alien fibres were found in her respiratory passages, so a plastic bag was the likeliest culprit.

The other one was a very preliminary report listing the various samples that had gone to Wetherton. The mud that so generously coated the area was a mixture or clay, coal and industrial lubricants, all stirred together for a hundred years. It was as unique as an English summer, but we had nothing to match it against. The fingertip search had failed to reveal any broken bracelets bearing the owner’s name, or dropped credit cards.

‘In short, gentlemen,’ said Gilbert, ‘we still haven’t a bloody lot to go on. Sod chuffin’ all, in fact.’

I’d been listening with my arms folded and my chair rocked back so I was leaning on the wall. Nobody wanted to speak, so I said: ‘In all my years—’

‘Which is quite a few,’ Sparky interrupted.

I threw him a glare and tried again: ‘In all my considerable years I have never been on a case which has thrown up so little evidence. We haven’t unearthed a single clue pointing us towards the kidnapper. It can’t all be down to luck; he must be very clever. A lot of planning went into this one.’

‘Or else he’s been under our noses all the time,’ Sparky suggested.

‘I think Dave’s right,’ Gilbert said. ‘We’ve plenty of circumstantial against Dewhurst, but it’s hard to imagine what it would require to really put the finger on him. As far as we’re concerned he’s still the girl’s dad, so finding a few fibres linking them together is a waste of time.’

I turned to DC Madison. ‘Maggie, how did Dewhurst react when he ID’d the body?’

She shook her head. ‘Distraught. He was wrecked. We were both in tears. If there was nothing else to go on he’d have convinced me that he didn’t do it.’

‘So what do you think?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe he did it but regrets doing it. It’d be the same emotion.’

‘I can believe that,’ said Gilbert. He went on: ‘OK, on Monday the Acting Chief Constable’s deadline runs out. I’m not interested in furthering his promotion prospects, and certainly have no intentions of jeopardising an inquiry to do so, but unless anybody comes up with a reasonable argument I’m suggesting we lift Dewhurst and his girlfriend, Parkinson, on Monday morning. Our main weapon will be surprise. Let’s see how Ms Parkinson behaves when the cold light of reality hits her. Any objections?’

There were a few murmured no’s and shaken heads. Gilbert turned to me, inviting my comments. ‘Charlie? I know you’re not keen.’

I pushed off the wall, dropping my chair onto all four legs. I felt weary about the whole job. I didn’t know what we could hope to find that would incriminate him. The kidnapper had already demonstrated how clued-up he was about not leaving forensic evidence, and Dewhurst was hardly likely to break under cross-examination. He’d just play the grieving father and keep his mouth clamped shut. We’d be the villains. The girlfriend might sing to save her skin, if she knew anything. Probably would. And maybe our boffin could dredge something from the recesses of his computer’s memory. There are specialists who can do that sort of thing, even though the information has been erased. It might be worth a try.

‘No objections, boss,’ I said.

‘The ayes have it then. Let’s organise the details now, and then maybe we can all have a day off tomorrow. We’ll meet here six-thirty Monday morning. Now, who do we need and where are we going?’

He made it sound like a democratic process, which it wasn’t. Going home I called in the pub for a sandwich and a couple of pints. I watched sport on television in the afternoon. England were struggling to avoid the follow-on against Gilbert and Ellice Islands. Later I rang Annabelle, but there was no answer.

On Sunday morning I called in the office and
read most of the file on Miles Dewhurst. Then I shopped to restock the freezer and did a few of the more desperate chores around the house and garden. I urgently needed a cleaning lady, a gardener and a window cleaner. An alternative solution would be to move in with someone who either already had these or who managed to complete such menial tasks with consummate ease. I dialled Annabelle’s number again. She still wasn’t there. On a few occasions in the past Annabelle had disappeared for the whole weekend. Ah well, she was a big girl. It was none of my business how she spent her time. I had a shower and a sulk.

Gilbert and Ellice bowled underarm, so England managed to hold on sufficiently to save Monday’s gate receipts. I had Sunday lunch at dinner time, in other words tea time, as is the modern practice. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, peas, carrots, and sprout. Singular. All frozen. For pudding I had blackberry and apple pie from a local bakery. That was the best bit. I was settling down with a large pot of tea and
Biggies Flies
East
when the phone rang. It was Gilbert. My superintendent, that is, not the island.

He said: ‘Hi, Chas. You can go out and get
rat-arsed
tonight. Tomorrow is cancelled.’

‘Great, I hate Mondays. Is this a one-off or will it apply to all of them from now on?’

‘Just this one, sadly. You remember Terry Finnister?’

‘Yes. Lorry driver from near Warrington who somebody fingered to us. Was delivering toilets or something when Georgina vanished.’

‘That’s him, except it was near Workington. Well, on Saturday he was arrested by the local fuzz for showing his own to a bunch of schoolgirls in the park. Apparently they laughed at him and he turned nasty, assaulted one of them.’

‘I should think so, too. What’s this got to do with us?’ I asked.

‘What it’s got to do with us, Charlie boy, is that this afternoon he confessed to the murder of Georgina Dewhurst.’

I’d been standing by the telephone. I slumped into the easy chair alongside the low table and didn’t speak for several seconds. Eventually I said: ‘Is he being taken seriously?’

‘North-West are taking him seriously. Apparently he asked to make a statement and it was all done with the duty solicitor present.’

‘Golly gosh. Do you want me to get over there?’

‘No, he’s not going anywhere, they’ve already charged him. I’ve said we’ll collect him at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I think you and I ought to go. OK? That’ll give them time to have the initial interview transcribed.’

‘OK. Did he say how he killed her?’

‘We might have a problem there,’ Gilbert replied. ‘His story is that when she struggled he put his hands on her throat to quieten her and she just went limp.’

‘Like they always do.’

‘Exactly. We’ll have to check with the pathologist to see if it’s a possibility.’

‘What about his movements? I don’t suppose he went anywhere near Capstick that Monday morning.’

‘Suitably vague. He says he hid the body and went back for it one night. We’ll find out more tomorrow. The good news is that Partridge gets his arrest to announce at the conference, and Dewhurst will think the pressure is off him.’

‘So you’re not convinced?’

‘I’ve an open mind. Are you?’

‘No.’

‘Right. See you in the morning.’

It doesn’t say much for a person’s lifestyle when they want to claim credit for a murder they didn’t do. It’s a poor reflection on society when, for a few individuals, being a convicted murderer or child molester is a step up the social scale. Terry Finnister was on my mind when I went to sleep that night. He wasn’t in my normal library of bed-time reveries. I cursed him and thought about Annabelle, but that only caused me to wonder where she had been all weekend.

Poor old Gilbert was called in to brief Trevor Partridge, the Acting Chief Constable, so DC Mad Maggie Madison went to Workington with me. We set off at eight, dodging the morning meetings. I’ll
drive there,’ I told her. ‘You can drive home, unless you’d rather sit in the back with lover boy.’

‘Why not let him drive home,’ she suggested. ‘Then I could sit in the back with you.’

I tut-tutted. ‘Any more talk like that, Margaret, and I’ll have to report you for sexual harassment. You really will have to make an effort to control these animal urges.’

‘Why?’

‘Buggered if I know. We could always forget Finnister and book into a seedy boarding house in Blackpool.’

‘Sorry, Charlie. It’s the Holiday Inn or nothing.’

‘No, it’s got to be a seedy boarding house, much more romantic. People don’t have affairs at the Holiday Inn. They go there for six hours’ sleep and fifteen hundred calories of breakfast down ’em. Stay in bed too long and you’ll wake up with a
Sanitised
label round you.’

Maggie said: ‘Can you imagine the expression on Finnister’s face if we said: “Do you mind driving, Terence, old boy, while we have a session on the back seat?”’

‘Can you imagine the expression on my face?’ I answered.

It was harmless banter. I’d known Maggie, and her husband, a long time. She was a figure of stability to whom I’d turned once or twice when times were bad; especially when my marriage
collapsed. Nothing heavy, just someone to talk to. She was a good cop, and I think she regarded me the same.

We fell to talking about the job. The latest policy scare that someone had dreamt up was called Tenure of Office. The theory was that we’d all have to rotate jobs every few years. Five years in CID and then it would be back into uniform. Maggie thought I’d have some inside information about it, but I didn’t. She said she’d leave if it came about. I didn’t know what I’d do. We both agreed it was crazy.

We had a comfort stop at the services on the M6. At Junction 36 I said: ‘Let’s take the scenic route,’ and swung off the motorway. In Windermere I said: ‘If we’re taking the scenic route we might as well do the job properly,’ and turned on to the Kirkstone Pass road, round the back of Helvellyn.

The tops were shrouded in the usual mist as we dropped down into Patterdale. ‘They do good chicken legs in garlic there,’ I said, gesturing towards the pub.

‘Sorry, Charlie, we haven’t time,’ Maggie replied. She liked to play the mother hen with me. I accepted the roles.

‘Just a thought,’ I said.

The proximity of the mountains made me melancholy. Having to drive by them was like leading a small boy past a sweet-shop window. I’d
done a lot of fell-walking and a small amount of climbing over the years, but hardly any recently, apart from the brief excursion with Annabelle a fortnight ago.

‘When things quieten down maybe we should resurrect the CID walking club,’ I suggested.

‘CID boozing club, more like it,’Maggie replied. ‘It was fun, though, maybe we should.’

Thirty minutes later we breezed into the station and identified ourselves to the custody sergeant. ‘You’re late,’ he told us. ‘We were expecting you an hour ago.’

‘Traffic was bad,’ I replied.

The sergeant passed me the detention sheet to sign. I noted that Finnister was in good health and bore no visible signs of bruising or other injury. I scrawled my name and the sergeant handed me a poly bag containing a few possessions. He removed a bunch of keys from a locked drawer.

‘There’s a transcript of the interviews for us, too, and I wouldn’t mind a word with the detective who interviewed him, if possible,’ I said.

‘Sorry, they’re all out. The interviews are here, though.’ He retrieved a large manila envelope from another drawer. I could see from the bulge that it also contained a copy of the tape.

‘Right, thanks. Let’s go get him, then.’

The sergeant unlocked a door on to a short corridor between the cells. ‘Has he been fed?’ I asked.

‘The prisoner ate an ’earty breakfast,’ he answered. ‘Full English, brought in from the takeaway next door. Should have set him up for the day.’ We were outside his cell. The sergeant slid the hatch to one side with such force that it startled me. ‘Wake up, Mr Finnister,’ he bellowed. ‘Your taxi has arrived.’

The door swung open, leading us into a standard eight-by-six room, painted magnolia after extensive research, with a bunk down one side. Finnister was invisible, huddled under the blankets. ‘Wake up, Terry, time to go,’ the sergeant called out, grabbing a handful of grey blanket and pulling it back.

The face he revealed was a death mask, little more than skin stretched over a skull. Finnister wore an expression like a snarl turning into a smile, as if, at the last moment, some great puzzle had been solved.

‘Oh my God!’ the sergeant mumbled, staggering back. ‘Oh my God!’

‘Ring for an ambulance,’ I ordered, bundling him to one side. ‘Maggie…’

I yanked the blankets away. From his chest down Finnister was lying in a big black pool of blood. It couldn’t soak away because of the polythene sheet covering the mattress, protection against drunks pissing the bed. Maggie put her hand on his throat, feeling for a pulse. I found the slashes in his wrist and tried to hold them closed.

‘Find something to bind these with, Maggie,’ I said.

She shook her head. ‘Waste of time, I’m afraid, boss. He hasn’t a drop of blood left in him to save.’

It was their baby, so as soon as we decently could, we left them to it. I collected the manila, envelope and let Maggie drive us back. She drives with all the panache of the unimaginative, right foot hard down on one pedal or the other. Neither of us spoke much. I tried to read the interview notes, but concentration was difficult. Back at Heckley we played the tape in Gilbert’s office.

The interrogation had been done with skill and patience. Finnister had freely volunteered the information that he had killed Georgina. The detective’s tone was encouraging, and he had teased as much as he could from the prisoner about the details of the murder. When Finnister realised he was saying too much, he clammed up. Otherwise it didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know. Maggie made two coffees, and a tea for me, while we were listening.

‘Thanks, Maggie, you make a good cuppa,’ Gilbert said, taking a sip.

‘That’s sexist,’ I declared.

‘No it’s not. It’s appreciation. So what do you think?’

I took my time before replying. Then I said: ‘We
were late. I decided to take the picturesque route, through Patterdale. I think that if we’d been on time we’d have a prisoner in the cells now.’

‘In which case,’ he replied, ‘Finnister would probably have topped himself on our premises, and we’d be taking all the flak.’

‘If he’d had the means. We might have looked after him better.’

Gilbert said: ‘
If
you’d been on time.
If
we’d found whatever he used to cut himself. If your aunt had balls she’d be your uncle. It’s not our fault, Charlie. It’s not anybody’s fault but his own. He’d have done it sometime, somewhere, however hard we’d tried to look after him.’

‘OK, you’re right,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think we’ve done him any favours over the years. It would only have been common courtesy to have been on time.’

‘No it wouldn’t. He probably hadn’t been told what time you were supposed to be there. Anyway, I have no qualms about not extending common courtesy to self-confessed child killers.’

‘Nor have I, but I don’t think he did it.’

Gilbert tapped the rim of his cup with a fingernail. ‘No, I thought you didn’t. So why did he confess?’

‘It’s common enough. Why do we do anything? Why did I join the police?’

‘What about you, Maggie?’

‘Im not sure, sir, but I have my doubts.’

‘Mmm. So the book stays open.’

Maggie and I nodded.

‘That’ll please the Acting Chief Constable,’ he said, with the slightest hint of a smile.

Maggie volunteered to tell Dewhurst the latest developments. Just the bare facts, before he read about it in the papers. Down in my own office I rang Sam Evans, the police surgeon, to tell him I’d swished my hands round in someone else’s blood. I’d washed them thoroughly immediately afterwards, and had no cuts or contusions, so he was able to reassure me. Normally we try to wear gloves in situations like that. I knew I wouldn’t feel comfortable until I’d had at least one hot shower.

‘Thanks, Sam,’ I said. ‘Try to keep out of paintbrush shops.’

It was a private joke. I’d met Sam about ten years previously after I’d fallen down a fire escape. When I admired the watercolours on the walls of his surgery he told me that his wife, Yvonne, had painted them. Unfortunately she’d suffered a slight stroke, leaving her with a tremor in her left hand, which was doubly sad because she was left-handed, and could therefore paint no more.

The pictures were typical of an amateur, tightly done and overbrushed, but the talent was obviously there. ‘Why doesn’t she paint right-handed, then?’ I asked.

‘I’ve suggested that, but she says she can’t.’

‘Would you like me to show her how? I’d be glad to.’

‘Are you a painter, too?’ Sam enquired.

‘Well, I went to art school.’

‘Great! That would be splendid. When will it be convenient?’

I went round a couple of nights later, armed with a large sheet of rag paper and the biggest sable brush available, purchased at massive discount during my student days. One of the secrets of watercolours is to use only the finest materials. I showed Yvonne how her pictures could be improved using a much looser, big-brush technique, and suggested she start by repainting all her old works. Using the wrong hand was a good way of enforcing this new discipline. Now she makes a steady income from art club exhibitions. I told Sam to buy her a size 12 pure sable brush, and specified the make. Poor old Sam breezed into the artists’ suppliers and asked for one. He nearly had a cardiac arrest when the assistant said: ‘That will be ninety-five quid, sir. Shall I wrap it?’

Our gossiping was interrupted by the other phone ringing. I said goodbye to Sam and hello to the new caller.

‘It’s Van Rees here, is that Inspector Priest?’ said the voice on the line.

‘Hello, Professor. Charlie Priest speaking. What can I do for you?’

‘It’s more what I can do for you. Could you possibly get over here, quickly as possible? I’ve found something that you’ll be interested in.’

It was going-home time; I was tired and hungry and he was fifty miles away. ‘Can’t you tell me over the phone?’ I asked.

‘It’s something I want to show you. Put your coat on, Inspector, and point your car in this direction. You know I wouldn’t call you out for nothing.’

‘I’m on my way. In fact…that’s me knocking on your door right now.’

I hit all the rush-hour traffic, so it was an hour and a half later that I knocked on his door.

‘Come in, Inspector Priest. Sit down, please. Coffee?’

‘Thanks. I could murder a cup of tea.’

‘Ah, murder. How we devalue the wickedness of the deed by everyday use of the word. Milk and sugar?’

‘Just sugar, please. Do you ever go home, Professor?’

‘Yes, of course, when I have to. But what could I find at home as fascinating as all this?’ He gestured with the hand holding the teaspoon, splashing brown drops onto the papers on his desk.

I gave an inclination of the head, as if agreeing with him. He wasn’t the type to be interested in
football on the telly or to have a kind-hearted au pair.

I had a few sips from the mug he’d pushed across to me. It was coffee, with milk but no sugar. ‘Mmm, just what I needed,’ I lied. ‘Now, what do you want to show me?’

He produced two ten-by-eight photographs from a folder. They were black at the bottom and white at the top, with a jagged line between like a badly sharpened saw-blade.

‘What do you think of those?’ he said, triumphantly.

I studied them for a few seconds, then said: ‘You’ve taken up minimalist photography and want my opinion. Is that it?’

He peered over the tops of the pictures. ‘You’re holding that one upside down,’ he replied.

I asked him to explain. When he’d finished I borrowed his sugar and put four spoonfuls in the coffee – champagne would have been more appropriate, but this would do.