Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

"They'd find us," Lee concluded.

So, for the second time that day, he voluntarily walked into a building that he would normally have avoided like a crocodile avoids sticky toffee. They went to the police station and reported finding a body.

Detective Inspector "Oscar' Peterson had seen it all before. He didn't like churches and the last thing he'd been hoping for was another murder. Especially one like this. A nice juicy domestic would have been OK, but the murder of a vicar didn't fall into the normal pattern of crime. It jarred, like a satellite dish on a Georgian terrace.

Peterson could have retired on full pension three months ago; so he was now working, as he constantly reminded anyone who'd listen, for one-third pay. He needed this like Salman Rushdie needs a season ticket at Bradford Park Avenue.

He was standing in the doorway of the vestry, trying to build a mental picture of what had happened. He'd already set the wheels of a murder enquiry into motion, and was waiting for the SOCO and the superintendent from regional HQ to appear. At his elbow was the young PC who had made the initial response to the report.

"One thing I did notice, sir," said the PC, eager to please, 'was the smell. It was quite strong then, but you can still smell it." He sniffed audibly, as if to suggest how.

DI Peterson inhaled through his nicotine-wrecked nasal passages. What lingered of the heady mixture of gun smoke, sex and Vicky's cheap perfume stirred his few remaining receptors into life. He looked thoughtful.

The PC sniffed again. "Mean anything to you, sir?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Peterson. "Shithouse on a French destroyer."

It was nearly midnight when the coroner gave his permission for the body to be removed to the Princess Royal Hospital for a post-mortem. DI Peterson had done all he could at this late hour organised his team, set up an incident room and taken steps to protect the scene of the offence so he went home. He wanted to know the results of the PM as soon as they were available, but he'd no desire to witness the whole gory spectacle. He'd sat through plenty and knew he wouldn't faint or be sick, but didn't feel the need to prove it.

His wife, Dilys, was waiting up for him. The DI said he would be going out again and she made him a sandwich. He told her all about the murder at the vicarage.

They had a good marriage, based on love and, above all, an enduring friendship. Unlike most policemen he always told her about all his cases, especially the difficult or more spectacular ones. The Job was the only thing he could talk about. That was what worried him. Could their happiness survive twenty-four hours per day of each other's company if he retired? Could he survive it? Three months was supposedly the average pension-drawing span of ex-police officers. He shuddered at the thought.

Professor Alan Tuke, the pathologist, raised his head from his grisly work as Peterson entered the mortuary lab. He winked at the DI and mischievously said: "DI Peterson enters room at… two ten a.m." for the benefit of the video sound recorder. Peterson picked up a swivel stool and took it to the furthest corner of the lab, where he could hear but not see. The Professor was nearing the end of his immediate investigation. He was removing various organs and putting them in glass jars for later analysis. Not that it would be necessary the cause of death had been fairly obvious. Nobody poisons a victim, then cuts them in half with a shotgun to hide the evidence. The DI listened to him intoning his progress into the microphone and admired his thoroughness.

The final act was to stitch up the cadaver and make it reasonably presentable for the grieving widow to mourn over. Tuke allowed his assistant to do this. He peeled off his gloves, discarded his plastic apron and white overall and was immediately transformed from slaughterhouse worker into university professor. After he'd scrubbed his hands up to his elbows he walked over to Peterson and offered him something.

"Little present for your Black Museum, Oscar. Don't deny it; I know you have one somewhere in that desirable residence of yours." He dropped a shotgun pellet into the DI's palm. "I haven't recovered them all," he went on, 'but I'd say it was one barrel from a twelve-bore, at a range of one metre to four feet."

"Side by side, over and under, or single-barrelled?"

"Almost certainly. Ruptured his aorta, amongst other things. Must have pumped all his blood over the floor before he died. Bit like when the pipe comes off the washing machine."

"Do you have to be so bloody graphic?" protested the DI.

"Sorry. Interesting case, though. His arteries were in a shocking state. Somebody wasted a shotgun cartridge on him; he was heading for a massive heart attack in the next few months."

"Fascinating. Time of death?"

"Oh, between six and seven last night."

"Thank you, Alan. Is there anything else you can tell me, or will it all be on my desk in your report by ten a.m.?"

"No chance," replied the Professor. "There was one odd thing though.

Don't go away."

He left the DI and went over to the trolley that stood alongside the operating table. He returned holding a small piece of paper.

"What's this?" asked Peterson, taking it.

"Found it when we went through his clothing. It was just stuffed into the breast pocket of his jacket. Does it mean anything?"

The DI held it by the corner between two fingers, as if holding a cigarette. "It's just a picture of a mushroom," he stated.

"Not necessarily," replied Tuke. "It could be a death cap, they're very similar. Odd thing to cut out and put in your pocket, though, don't you think?"

Peterson shrugged. "Don't make it complicated, Alan, this is reality.

Maybe he was a fungi… something-or-other."

"Fortunately, that's your problem. Come on. I'll treat you to a bacon sandwich in the canteen."

Peterson got to his feet and they walked out of the lab. He was as near to being shocked as he'd been for many years.

"A bacon sandwich!" he protested. "After that!" He gestured with a nod of his head back to where the violated body lay.

"Got to look after the inner man, Oscar."

"I'd have thought you'd seen enough of the inner man for an hour or two. And what about his stuffed-up arteries?" Peterson worried about arteries.

"I'm hungry. PMs are hard work. All that sawing and pulling gives you an appetite."

They were approaching the big glass doors that led out on to the street.

"I'm worried about you, Alan. You're turning into a bloody ghoul,"

Peterson said. He went on: "What moves you? When was the last time you had tears in your eyes? Watching a Lassie video on Christmas Day, I expect."

"They're dead when I get them, Oscar. You have to deal with the living. I'd find that hard."

They'd reached the doors. The Professor paused with his hand on the handle. "Trent Bridge," he said. "About five years ago."

"What was?"

"Last time I wept. You asked me, remember?"

"Cricket?" queried the DI.

"That's right. I'll never forget it." A faraway look came over his face and his eyes fixed on a spot high on the wall. "David Gower was batting. He'd been pinned down on ninety-eight for about fifteen minutes. It was the last over and they brought on Curtly Ambrose to try to shift him. He was bowling out of the sun, and he unleashed one that went down like a ballistic missile. Gower stepped forward and drove it into the crowd for six. You could have heard the cheers at Headingley."

When he was certain the Professor had stopped, Peterson said: "So what did it? Gower's elegance? His courage? Or was it just his boyish good looks?"

"No, none of those," replied the Professor, pulling the door open. "It hit me on the kneecap. I was walking with a stick for a week. Ciao, Oscar."