Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

It's a good area for a young, ambitious policeman to work in. The wool and cotton barons left a legacy of fine houses, mills and remote farms, built like castles from the local stone. Property prices are low, and the attractions for today's highly mobile criminals are tempting.

There's a lot more to the area than that, though. Something in the water, or the air, reacts with the genes of a few susceptible people to produce villains who break all the rules of the game.

This valley spawns serial killers.

Everybody knows their names. They were splashed over the front pages of the tabloids, feeding the egos that created them. Even Haigh and Christie, who did their foul work in London, were born near here.

Then there are the ones who worked within the law — brutish, inarticulate men who were driven by something within to write misspelt letters to the Home Office, volunteering to become the Public Executioner. And the Government, glad to find the final cog in the mechanism that started in Westminster and ended in the lime pit, accepted them. Six hangmen, including three Pierrepoints, were born in the valley. Between them they despatched, with varying degrees of incompetence, over a thousand of their fellow men and women.

I was having a restless night. All of these things, plus a few faces from the past, came to disturb my sleep. Twelve years ago I caught a double killer. In the heat of the moment I could cheerfully have pulled the trap myself; but now, and in the quiet of the night, I'm glad he didn't hang. He's still inside, and will be for a long time. That's good enough for me. I can live with knowing I put him there. The memory of those two kids in that blood-splattered room easily dispels any doubts that may arise.

Once the birds started singing I knew that any chance of sleep was gone. I rose ridiculously early, shaved and showered, and drove to work; pausing only to put on some clothes, of course.

We always made a point of having a full team conference on a Monday morning, although 'conference' was putting it a bit grandly, these days. Due to my change in routine I hadn't seen a Sunday paper, but I was quickly brought up to date. Georgina's disappearance had attracted the attention of a good number of cranks. Unsolved crimes, especially murders or potential murders, always do. Some were sincere, some were mischievous, all were time-wasters. Now one of them had hit the headlines.

Madame Julia LeSt rang medium and psychic healer, said she could find Georgina. The Sunday News believed her and the police's reluctance to cooperate amounted to sheer incompetence.

I tossed the paper I'd been given to read straight into the bin. "You had finished with that, hadn't you?" I asked Sparky, who'd brought it in.

"Yes, boss. Texture's no good for me."

"Mmm, it is a bit coarse. Jeff, you've handled most of the crank calls. How many times has Madame LeSt rang been in?"

"I've seen her three times in the last month. She wants access to something personal from Georgina. Then she claims she can find her using a pendulum. She's already receiving messages from the ether, or somewhere."

"More like her bank manager. What did you tell her?"

"Er, well, I suggested she pissed off, with varying degrees of emphasis."

"Good," I said. "So let's get down to worki'

I broke the news about the deadline that the Acting Chief Constable had given us. It didn't go down well. The three main types of evidence are Witnesses, Confessional and Forensic. We had none of these. Motive and Opportunity are worth less in a court of law than a dipsomaniac's vows of abstinence, and they were all we could offer. The entire investigation would rely on us discovering something damning if we searched Dewhurst's premises. Short of finding a body under the floorboards, it was hard to imagine what that might be.

We reviewed the current situation, pooled our findings and shared out the various lines of enquiry to be followed. I sensed that morale was waning, so before the team dispersed I suggested that we all have a jar or three in the pub that evening. The proposal was received with enthusiasm. After much argument a decision was made that we'd meet at the Golden Lion. Monday was karaoke night. I wished I'd kept my mouth shut.

"Somebody remember to invite Luke along," were my parting words.

One of the best parts of being a detective is that you work with a partner. When you are the boss you can choose your own. I had suppressed all personal or emotional signals and worked with DC Dave "Sparky' Sparkington. It was the most objective decision I ever made.

We joined the force within a year of each other, but Sparky had never chased promotion. Thief-taker was the only recognition he ever aspired to. Many policemen say that sergeant is the most satisfying rank, but all Sparky ever wanted to be was a DC, and he was the best I'd known.

We went down to the canteen for some breakfast.

Nigel and Mad Maggie joined us for a mug of tea and a toasted currant tea cake "I have the impression that you're not a believer in the supernatural, boss," stated Maggie.

"Correct," I replied through a mouthful of toast.

"There's a woman in Heckley who has a terrific reputation for fortune-telling," she said. "I've spoken to several people who've visited her and they've been told things about themselves that have really shaken them. I don't believe in it, but she's very clever."

"You've said it all there, Maggie," Sparky confirmed. "They're clever.

Shirley once went to a spiritualist with a neighbour. She came home full of it. This chap had the audience hanging on his every word.

Claimed he was receiving messages from some poor woman's dead husband.

I had to put my foot down to stop her from going again."

"You?" I said. "Put your foot down with Shirley? Pull the other one."

"My grandmother held regular conversations with my grandfather," Nigel added. "Went on for years. Mother said it used to drive her potty."

"Through a spiritualist?" asked Maggie.

"No. Across the dinner table. He wasn't dead."

We all laughed far too much, but it was a special event — Nigel had never made a joke before. He blushed with pride.

The boss always has the last word. "Listen," I told them. "There's a simple proof that telepathy is bunkum. Think of all those poor page-three girls and big-bosomed film stars. If thoughts could be transmitted they'd never have a moment's peace. They'd constantly be imagining they were being ravished, by building-site workers and third-formers and little men in big raincoats."

"And policemen?" asked Maggie.

"And policemen."

"It could work the other way round, too, boss," she insisted.

"Well, it's never happened to me," I declared; modestly adding, before anyone else did: "Not that that proves much. "C'mon, let's check the streets."

I knew what karaoke was, but I'd never seen how it worked. I was fascinated by the technology. The list of songs available contained hundreds that I hadn't heard of, but there were still plenty of golden oldies from the sixties. Nothing that I felt like singing in public, though.

The pub was crowded, but we managed to get the last two tables, and pushed them together. I bought the first round. When I reached the bar I discovered that the landlady was an old friend. She used to work in the canteen at Heckley nick. It was not long after my divorce, and she was attractive, in a flashy sort of way. Sexy. The restrictions on having affairs with colleagues didn't extend to the civilian staff, and the possibilities offered by coordinating my flexible hours with her afternoons off made my hormone levels run berserk. We'd almost reached the your-place-or-mine stage when someone tipped me off that her husband played in the sc rum for Wigan. It worked better than a cold shower.