Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

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 turn-off, 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 tea cake 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 carriage way 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 non-ferrous 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.