Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

"Hello, Charlie," she said warmly. "Don't see you in here very often."

"Hello, Karen," I replied, with equal delight. "No, I've not been in for years. Still married to that rugby-playing gorilla?"

"Ted? Yes, he's here, somewhere. What about you? Still on your own?"

I'd met Ted and liked him, dammit. It was a struggle to prevent my eyes flicking down towards her cleavage as she wrestled with the pumps." "Fraid so. If he ever leaves you, let me know." I didn't mean it, but might have done, a few years ago.

She smiled at me as she pushed the last pint across and took the money.

"Want a tray?" she asked.

"No, I've enough here to carry," I replied.

A Tom Jones lookalike was at the microphone. Unfortunately the similarity didn't extend to the voice. His hips swung in unison with his medallion as he asked Delilah to forgive him because he just couldn't take Kenny More, whoever he was.

"Is he serious?" I asked.

"Deadly," was the answer from the others. Then I joined in with the enthusiastic calls for an encore.

We had a pneumatic Dolly Parton with a slow-punctured voice, and a passable Kenny Rogers, although his Yorkshire accent didn't do anything for the red-necked lyrics. Then it was Luke's turn.

He grabbed the mike, turned up the corner of his lip as he waited for his cue, then launched into "Jailhouse Rock'. The place was instantly on its feet, dancing along with him. He uh-uh'd and gyrated like he'd invented the style. A final pelvic thrust had everybody cheering, but this time they meant it.

"I think we just found Elvis," said Sparky.

"We're not looking for him," I stated, draining my glass. "Get the beer in."

Luke was waylaid by a girl with the face of a Disney princess and hocks like a Derby contender. We watched him dismiss her with unmitigated hatred seething inside us.

"Charlie?" said Sparky, reaching for my glass.

"What?" I replied, passing it to him.

"If you had your life to live over again, would you do it all the same?"

I watched the girl retreating, her bum pushing the properties of lycra beyond its design limits. "Yeah, probably," I said.

Luke sat down and I gave him a brothers handshake. "You should practise that lip-curl," I told him. "You could be good."

"I do," he admitted.

Sparky and Jeff returned laden with replenished glasses. "There's an old friend of yours behind the bar, Charlie," Sparky told me.

I feigned ignorance. "Oh, who's that?"

"Karen. Used to work in the canteen. We all thought you had something going with her."

"Karen? Karen?"

"You know. Has a divine right and a heavenly left."

"Ah! That Karen!"

"Yes, that Karen. Rumour was that you and her were having it away."

I shook my head. "Sadly, we were just good friends," I confessed.

"She's looking her age now," he went on. "Bags under her eyes. Looks tired."

"I'm not surprised, running a place like this," said Jeff. "It must be an eighteen-hour day, seven days a week. It'd give anyone bags under the eyes."

I licked the froth off my top lip. "There could be another reason for them," I said, brightly. "Maybe there is something in this telepathy, after all…"

It looked suspicious, the way he stood up and followed me into the gents' toilet. If he'd been over five foot four and under sixty-five I'd have been worried. He was just a little old man, though.

Definitely not my type. Probably one of the old regulars who still came into the pub even though it had been overtaken by the youth boom.

He hovered behind me as I did what I'd come in to do. I was drying my hands under the blower when he spoke:

"Er, it's Inspector Priest, isn't it?"

I didn't answer, waiting for him to continue.

"You're, erin charge of looking for that little girl, aren't you? Can I have a word?"

I cast a glance at the cubicles. Both doors were closed. I nodded and pointed at the exit.

Instead of returning to the big room where the music was, I turned left, into the old-fashioned taproom. This was where the men did the serious drinking while their wives, one night per week, sipped a milk stout or a port and lemon.

The room was almost empty on a Monday evening, hence the karaoke. I led the little man to a quiet table in a corner and we sat down.

"I saw your picture in the paper and on the telly. I, er, hope you don't mind me talking to you in here; when you're, er, trying to relax, like."

Not so far, I thought, but I'm getting close. He shuffled nervously and fidgeted with a beer mat.

"My daughter," he continued. "She said I should have a word with you.

I don't want to waste your time, though. You've plenty on your plate already."

Well, it didn't sound as if he wanted my autograph. He fumbled with the beer mat and it fell from his fingers. I reached across and placed my hand over it.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Er, ny name? It's Toft, Norman Toft."

"Right, Norman. Start at the beginning and tell it in your own words.

First of all, where do you live?"

"Er, Crowfields Road. Number twenty-six."

"Go on."

"Well, I first noticed it two weeks ago…" He licked his lips and glanced towards the bar, but I ignored the gesture. "Saturday night.

I'd been in 'ere for a couple of pints, like I usually do. I was looking out of the back window, just before I went to bed. I have a back garden, then there's a dirt road, and then there's the gardens of the 'ouses on Crowfields Street. They're a rum lot live on the street.

Problem families, gipsies, that sort. It used to be a good neighbourhood before they started bringing them in from…"

Now I was beginning to feel thirsty. He'd get a drink out of me by attrition if he didn't come to the point soon. "Just tell me what you saw, Norman," I interrupted.

"Right. Flashes."

Oh no! Not Unidentified Flashing Objects!

"Flashes?" I echoed.

"Yes, well, not at first. There was a car parked in the lane. I turned the light out and watched it for a while, er, through my binoculars."

He must have noticed my change of expression, and looked embarrassed.

"I wasn't pimping!" he protested. "We get all sorts of carrying-on in that lane. Last year I had a row of cabbages stolen. And all next door's runner beans went."

"That's OK, Norman. You were being a good citizen. So what did you see?"

"Well, I've worked it out. If I'm number twenty-six, the 'ouse behind me is probably number twenty-five, so next door to him will be twenty-seven. That's where I saw the flashes. Number twenty-seven, Crowfield Street."

"Where were these flashes?"

"In a bedroom window. The curtains were closed but I could still see 'em."

"And what were they like?"

"Like from a photographer."

You work on a case for months, sometimes years, searching for evidence, sifting meaningless facts and observations, waiting for the breakthrough to come. And you pray that when it does come you will recognise it, because it is never quite what you expected. I thought about it until I realised my teeth were nearly meeting through my bottom lip. "Maybe he's a keen amateur photographer," I suggested.

Norman shook his head. "Not on Crowfield Street. Dog fighting and pigeons is the only 'obbies they 'ave."

"So how many flashes were there?"

"Dozens. "Undreds. Went on for best part of an hour."

"OK. Anything else?"

"Yes. I saw them leave. They got in the car and drove away."

"Can you describe them?"

"Yes. There was a man, a woman, and a little girl."

I had a salty taste in my mouth. I wiped my lower lip with my finger.

It was bleeding. "Let me get this straight," I said. "You told me it started two weeks ago. So when did you see what you've just described?"

"Two Saturdays ago. And then again this Saturday."