Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

That's why we'd like to meet him, but you can have him after us."

"M-m-murdering people!" stammered Treadwell, immediately assuming that 'people' meant group librarians.

"Well, just one person that we're certain of, and so far it's just a theory we're exploring." Peterson thought that perhaps he had been too blunt with the nervous Mr. Treadwell, but then he glimpsed the family photos and decided that the man was made of sterner stuff. He went on:

"So, is there any way in which I can circulate every library in the country and ask them if they can check their books on fungi for missing pages?"

Treadwell looked perplexed. "No, not from here," he replied. "I could only circulate my group. You'd have to contact every group individually."

"What about head office, sir? There must be a libraries HQ somewhere."

"Well, yes. There's the Library Association."

"The Library Association? Where do they hang out?"

"London, Ridgmount Street."

"Who's in charge there?"

"Er, the chief executive."

"That sounds rather grand. Is he a figurehead or does he work for a living?"

"Oh no," asserted Treadwell. "He's a librarian, come up through the ranks."

"He'll do then. Have you his number, please?"

Treadwell, having a tidy mind, knew exactly where to find it.

"Do you mind if I use your phone, Mr. Treadwell?" asked the Inspector, adding: "You can always invoice us for the charge, if you wish."

Treadwell, fascinated, gave his gushing consent. He didn't mind if they conducted the entire enquiry from his office. What a story he'd have to tell Edwina and the boys when he arrived home.

After several transfers, the Inspector found himself addressing Olga Friedland, Chief Executive of the Library Association. He introduced himself, confessing to being called Oscar, and made a daring joke about their names. Treadwell listened open-mouthed as this coarse copper flirted with someone he'd never spoken to in thirty years of service flHl HI and regarded as remote as royalty.

Peterson told her how helpful Mr. Treadwell had been, but how, unfortunately, his powers were limited. He outlined what he would like to do. Ms Friedland informed him that each of the one hundred and sixty-seven local authorities ran its library service independently.

She could provide him with address labels for all their chief librarians. Alternatively he could have access to the full list of twenty-five thousand members.

Peterson thought for a moment. "This is an enquiry into a very serious crime, Olga," he told her. "I want to act as quickly as possible. If I get a letter to you, would it be possible for you to circulate it to the hundred-and-sixty-odd head librarians and then invoice the police for your costs?" This time he meant it about the charges.

Treadwell attracted his attention. "You can fax it in from here," he hissed.

"Mr. Treadwell has kindly suggested we fax a letter to you from here,"

Peterson said. He listened for a few seconds, then added: "That's very obliging of you, Olga. We'll have it with you as soon as possible."

"What a pleasant woman," he declared, replacing the receiver.

"Er, yes, er, Olga is, er, very pleasant," replied Treadwell, who had never realised that O. Friedland, his chief executive, was, in fact, a woman.

"Right, Mr. Treadwell," said the Inspector. "If you could possibly loan us a pad and put up with us for a few more minutes, we'll draft a letter."

"Yes, yes, right away, be my guests," he replied, producing a brand-new A4 pad from a drawer and handing it to Peterson. The Inspector passed it straight over to DC Wilson and stood up.

"Sit here, Trevor, and earn your keep," he said.

Treadwell realised that he was no longer wanted. "Well, gentlemen," he said. "I've got things to do, so I'll leave you to it, if you don't mind."

"Thanks for your help, sir. We'll only be five minutes," Peterson told him. He was a great believer in charm when he didn't have the authority to kick butts. He sat quietly in the chair vacated by Treadwell while the DC exercised his literary skills, and resisted the temptation to turn the two photographs to the wall.

"How about that, guy?" asked Wilson, after a while, handing the pad back. After the introductions the message read:

Will all librarians check, as soon as possible, any books they hold on the subject of fungi (i.e. mushrooms and toadstools) to see if any pages or photographs have been removed. If you find any such books will you please report this information to Detective Inspector Oscar Peterson at… It finished with the words:

This is an enquiry into a serious crime, so will you therefore treat this and any other information with the utmost confidentiality.

"It'll do," said Peterson, after crossing out the Oscar. He didn't want anybody thinking it was a practical joke. DC Wilson smiled with satisfaction that was the deliberate mistake he'd included.

Treadwell came back and agreed to type it and fax it to Olga. He smiled at the thought of adding a conspiratorial covering note of his own. Peterson said he'd call in tomorrow to pick up a copy, but really he just wanted to make sure it had been forwarded.

When they'd gone, the Group Librarian set to work on the word processor, secretly pleased that the typist had taken the day off. He wasn't happy with the letter and felt that the Inspector should have written it himself, instead of delegating it to a junior officer. That was something he would never have done. He studied the finished document on the screen, but couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong with it.

He ran off a copy and studied it some more. Then he realised where the error was. He tore the sheet into shreds and dropped them into the bin. Turning back to the screen he rattled his fingers expertly over the keyboard for a few seconds and examined the result. After Peterson's address and telephone number he'd added the words: 'or your nearest police station'.

That was better. Now it looked professional. He tapped the keys again and the printer zipped away at another copy.

I awarded myself a weekend off. I'd worked nonstop for nine weeks, averaging over twelve hours per day with no paid overtime. The car had clocked up five thousand miles in that time, for which I would be reimbursed. I called in at the office on the Saturday morning, but I was determined not to stay long.

There were reports to read from the few officers I didn't see regularly. We had people floating about the country, interviewing suspects, informers and the mother-in-law's first cousin, twice removed. We also had search parties out when we could borrow the manpower. Plenty of local groups offered their help, but they needed organisation to do the job properly. Sometimes I caught myself wishing that they'd find a body, and a feeling of revulsion came over me, but I couldn't imagine a plausible alternative.

The house was a dump. A lady came and cleaned it for a while, but her husband needed a lot of attention and she'd had to give me notice. I pleaded with her not to desert me, but to no avail. Eventually she agreed to iron my shirts if I took them round, once a week. I filled the washing machine and set to work with the Hoover.

I made a big impression on the mess, but it left me feeling knackered.

Pub grub is not my first choice, but I couldn't face cooking so that was where I went. The chicken Kiev tasted as if it had walked from there, and the landlady's home-made apple pie was made from tinned apple that she'd opened all by herself. The company was about as interesting as the food, so I downed a couple of pints and went home.

Sunday breakfast was cornflakes and toast. Then I mowed the grass in the front garden. The borders were overgrown and neglected but a couple of hours with the hoe and secateurs made them respectable again.