Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

"Obviously some crank, cashing in on other people's misfortunes," stated the Superintendent. "Can't think why he's sent them to me, though."

Maybe it's because you've let all the press know that you're the officer in charge, thought Peterson. He didn't dwell on the thought.

He would have been delighted to hand over this investigation to anybody who wanted it. He could see his retirement date slipping away, like a pair of taillights receding into the motorway fog. This was going to be a big one, and he needed it like the Super needed a comb.

He sat there, transfixed by the three cuttings. Neatly pinned in the top left-hand corner of each was a picture of a mushroom, similar to the one found in the Reverend Conway's top pocket.

"No, sir," he said eventually. "It's not a crank. We've got a fuckin' loony on the loose."

Up to then the investigation into the murder of Ronald Conway had been a parochial affair. Everybody who'd known him was in the process of being interviewed. Detectives were knocking on doors, working outwards from the vicarage in an ever-widening circle. Questions were being asked and people encouraged to gossip. There was plenty of gossip about Reverend Conway.

Enquiries with Criminal Records showed that he'd received a caution for an unspecified sexual assault when he was seventeen.

"I don't believe any of the dirt that's coming up about him," asserted DI Peterson in one of the morning meetings. "It's all hearsay. OK, so maybe he flashed in the park when he was a kid. That doesn't mean anything. From then on it's been handed down, following him around like a starving dog. If he'd been a member of some paedophile group, or into SM, we'd have found out about it by now. All the evidence is that he was a decent, devout, happily married bloke. It's not the angle we're looking for."

"I'm not so sure, Peterson," stated the Superintendent. "The leopard can't change its spots. That sexual offence must show what type of man he is."

"With respect, sir, there are only two types of men."

Eight pairs of eyebrows shot up. The Super's went so high they'd have vanished into his hairline, if he'd had one.

"Wankers and liars," the DI explained.

Now the murder was linked with the other deaths the scope of the enquiry widened. Peterson visited Norfolk and obtained the relevant files. The evidence that Father Harcourt was knocked off his bike by Reg Davison was fairly conclusive. The jack in his car boot had almost certainly been used to finish the priest off. To Reg, the archetypal salesman, appearance was everything. He'd topped himself because the hopelessness of his situation, and the disgrace that would follow, were more than he could bear. Gerry Wilde could have fallen down his tower accidentally, but he could have been pushed. It didn't make sense, but murder often doesn't.

There was still a mood of discontent in certain branches of the Church of England over the ordination of women priests, but they hadn't resorted to terrorism yet. And investigations showed that Conway was in favour of them, Wilde almost certainly against. Any Roman Catholic movements in that direction were invariably aborted immediately after conception.

Possible unification of the C of E and RC churches raised emotions to a level that were completely beyond Peterson's grasp. He sent a lone officer down this avenue, as he did with the sexual and anti-women theories. The bulk of his team were dedicated to following the hypothesis dictated by the feeling in his bile ducts: that they were looking for a loony; a loony with a mission.

"Take a look at this, guy," said one of the DCs when Peterson arrived back in his office. He placed a large but slim hardback book in front of the Inspector. It was called Mushrooms and Toadstools, by Jacqueline Seymour. When Peterson had read the title the constable flicked the book open to page five. In a corner was a colour picture identical to one of those sent to Superintendent Tollis.

"See what it's called." He ran his finger down the text until it was under the name.

"Good God," muttered Peterson. He riffled through the pages of the book and said: "Is this yours, Trevor?"

"Yes, guy. Well, my daughter's."

"Are any of the other pictures in here?"

"No. I've had another look at them and reckon they're three different pictures of the same type of mushroom. Or toadstool, to be precise it's poisonous."

"Mmmm. I'm not surprised, with a name like that. So he must have cut the pictures from three different books."

"It looks like it."

"And where would be the best place to do that?"

"The library?"

"Just what I'm thinking. Get your coat; let's educate ourselves in matters fungoid."

They intended walking the quarter of a mile to the library, as they knew it would be difficult to park nearby, but it had started to rain.

Fortunately a police car came into the yard at the opportune moment, so Peterson hijacked it and had the driver take them there.

The library was a purpose-designed building, constructed when the town centre was redesigned about fifteen years previously. It was airy and pleasant, and well used by all sections of the community. The Inspector was surprised to see shelves and racks filled with videos and CDs, as well as books. It was a long time since he'd had the time to visit a library.

"First," he said to DC Trevor Wilson, 'let's just see how many books we can find on fungi."

They located one each, in the section marked Natural History. A short while later DC Wilson found another on a shelf for books that were oversize the ones filled with glossy photographs and normally described as Coffee Table, because they cost about as much as one. All three were intact no pictures had been cut from them. They asked an assistant if they could see the chief librarian.

She disappeared through a door marked Staff and came back a few seconds later with a tubby little man wearing rimless spectacles and a blue suit.

The two detectives produced their ID cards. "This is Detective Constable Wilson and I'm Detective Inspector Peterson. You are…?"

"Oh, goodness me. I'm Mr. Treadwell. This is most unusual. Er, what exactly can I do for you, gentlemen?"

"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.