Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

"S'long, pillock," Peterson chuckled, and walked out into the night.

Denise Davison wife of Reg, eager-beaver sales manager of Wimbles Agri was watering the plants in the front bay window when the police car pulled into the street. She was filling the saucers under the cyclamen, being very careful not to wet the corms. As she watched the car go by she overflowed on to the windowsill, and as it turned round at the end of the cul-de-sac and began to creep back towards her she irrigated a Capo di Monte figurine of a shepherdess that Reg's parents had given them as a wedding present eighteen years earlier.

The police officer climbed out of the car, looked the front of the house up and down, and opened the gate. Mrs. Davison wiped her hands on the front of her dress and waited for his knock. She opened the door instantly.

"Yes?" she quavered.

"Sorry to trouble you, ma'am. Are you Mrs. Davison?"

"Yes."

"Ah, good." He introduced himself. "Could you tell me if Mr. Davison is at home?"

Her eyes opened wide in her pale face. "No. I mean… you mean …"

"Mean what, Mrs. Davison?"

"I thought… I thought you'd come to tell me… Perhaps you had better come in."

She led the young PC into the obsessively tidy sitting room and gestured towards the settee. He sank into it while she sat on an upright chair opposite him.

"Now, Mrs. Davison," he intoned, 'what is it you want to tell me?"

"Nothing," she whimpered. "I thought you'd come to tell me about Reg … Mr. Davison."

"Tell you what about him?"

"I don't know… That you'd found him…"

"No, Mrs. Davison. I'm just making routine enquiries of all owners of blue Volvos. You may have read about it in the papers. We're trying to trace one that was involved in a hit-and-run accident several weeks ago. I think you'd better start at the beginning. Why should we have found Mr. Davison?"

She looked confused. "He… he didn't come home last night," she stammered.

"I see. Has this ever happened before?"

"No. He often works away, he's a sales manager and has to stay overnight sometimes, but he always lets me know."

"Have you reported him missing?"

Mrs. Davison shook her head. "No. I thought he was doing it to hurt me. Things have been… strained between us these last few weeks."

"Strained? In what way?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "It's hard to say. He's seemed so touchy lately. It's his job; he has a lot of responsibility."

"I see." The PC was enjoying this. He was amazed how compassionate and responsible his own voice sounded, and Mrs. Davison did have rather shapely legs. "When did you last see your husband?" he continued.

"Yesterday morning. Tuesdays I have an evening class in word processing I have a part-time secretarial job but I'd like to try for something a bit more permanent. I left Reg a meal ready to warm in the microwave, like I usually do, but he never came home for it."

"What frame of mind was he in when you saw him last?"

"Annoyed. We were arguing. He stormed out in a mood."

"Right. Well, my guess is that he's just cooling down somewhere and will come back when he's ready. You can formally report him as missing, but I have to tell you that the police will take little action. I'm afraid the law regards it as a person's privilege to go wandering off if they so wish. As there is no suspicion of a crime, our hands are tied."

"I expect you're right," she sniffed.

"I'm sure he'll back soon," he added comfortingly, as he watched her uncross her legs. "Now, about the car. I presume your husband does still own a blue Volvo?"

"Yes, well, it's the company's."

"I see. And he's taken it with him?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Does he normally keep it in the garage?"

"No, out on the drive."

"Right. In that case I will have to call back in a few days to see Mr.

Davison, presuming he returns home." And if he hadn't? Well, in that case she'd need a sympathetic shoulder to cry on, wouldn't she? He'd always fancied older women.

The PC got to his feet and started towards the door. He was hoping that he would be offered a cup of tea, but perhaps the circumstances were too fraught for that. Next time, perhaps. He hesitated, trying to second-guess the sergeant he would have to answer to when he returned to the station after a fruitless mission.

"Have you checked to see if the car is in the garage, Mrs. Davison?" he asked, after a rare burst of inspiration.

"Why, no."

"In that case, do you mind if I have a look now?"

"If you insist, but I can't imagine Reg putting it away and then going off somewhere he drives everywhere." She took a key from a hook just inside the kitchen door and handed it to him. "This fits the side door. Just leave it in the lock when you've finished."

The side door to the garage evidently wasn't used much. It was seized with paint, and some gardening tools were leaning on the inside of it.

He pushed and the tools fell over as the door creaked open and the evening sunlight spilled in.

The blue Volvo was there. So too was Reg Davison. He was hanging from a roof joist by a length of electric flex. It had bitten so deep into his flabby neck that the skin had met around it. There could be no doubting his determination when he'd kicked the buffet from under himself, but he'd soon changed his mind as the wire cut into his throat. The boot of the Volvo bore the scratches his flailing feet had made as he desperately tried to get them back on something solid.

Our valiant PC looked at the grotesque face, like a fermenting pumpkin, and was promptly sick in the corner. It would come to visit him many times in the next few months. He relocked the garage door and walked slowly to his car, wiping his mouth. After radioing for assistance he sat quietly for a few moments, composing himself and a short speech to the long-legged Mrs. Davison, informing her that she was now eligible for a widow's pension.

Inspector Peterson's parents, May and Joe, had been desperate to give their first born a name to remember. Something with style. A few days before the birth they saw Citizen Kane at the Tivoli and decided on Orson. He grew up hating the name. Throughout his school years he was known to children and teachers alike as Orson Cart. In 1962 the musical genius he shared a surname with came to town and someone accidentally called him Oscar. He made no attempt to correct them and it just grew from there. His wife, Dilys, had thought this was his name until two days before their wedding, when he realised that a before-the-altar revelation might be his undoing. Even so, he distinctly heard gasps of surprise from his friends in the pews behind as the vicar addressed him.

None of the detectives he was now deep in a brainstorming session with knew his secret. The warbling of the internal phone interrupted them and a DC answered it.

"Yes, sir." He pulled a face, pointed upwards with his index finger and passed the instrument to Peterson.

"Yes, sir, right now." Peterson put the phone back in its cradle.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but the Screaming Skull wants me to go up and check if his parting's straight."

A minute later he knocked on the door of Chief Superintendent Tollis's office and went in.

"Come in, Peterson, and sit down. This won't take a minute. First of all, any new developments in the Reverend Conway case?"

"No sir, not since our morning meeting."

The morning meeting had concluded less than an hour earlier, so the chances of further revelations were slim.

"Quite. Right then, let me show you what I received in today's mail."

The Superintendent picked up a large manila envelope and drew its contents out on to the top of his desk. There were three large cuttings from newspapers. One described the death of the Reverend Gerry Wilde, who had fallen down his church tower; the next told of the brutal murder of Father Harcourt; and the third was a front-page splash from a tabloid describing the last moments of the Reverend Conway.