Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

Superintendent Wood's office is up another floor. I knocked and walked in. Two strangers were sitting opposite him, sipping coffee, and the two books from the library were on the desk.

"Come in, Charlie, come in," Gilbert said. Flapping his hand between us he went on: "This is DI Oscar Peterson and DC Trevor Wilson, from Trent Division. DI Charlie Priest."

I shook their hands. I have a bad habit when I shake hands. A few years ago one of my sergeants was convinced that the Freemasons were behind all the major crime in the world. According to him they made the Mafia look like a net ball team at a garden party. In the course of his research he learned the secret handshake.

While shaking hands in the normal manner you place your thumb in the middle of the back of the other person's hand and wriggle it about. If they respond you say something really mundane, like "It's a nice day."

They reply: "Yes, and it will get nicer before it gets worse."

Peterson's thumb wriggled back and he said: "Not very warm out, is it?"

I replied: "No, and it will get cooler before it gets as warm as it is now, again."

Gilbert gave me a funny look. "Oscar's come about those photographs, Charlie. Can you look after him? I've a meeting at Division in an hour." Turning to Peterson he said: "Will you excuse me if I leave you with Charlie?" They shook hands again and Gilbert put on his coat and left us in his office.

The DI from Nottinghamshire wore a bemused expression on his face. "You wouldn't like to swap your super for that bald-headed bastard of ours, would you?" he asked, quickly adding: "You didn't hear that, Trevor."

"Hear what, guy?"

"No thanks," I told him. "Gilbert's one of the best. Mind you, the secret is to treat them right. Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Fire away."

"Is Oscar your real name?" From Trevor's reaction I knew that nobody had ever dared ask this before.

"Yes. My mother was a sucker for clarinet players."

"I thought he played the trumpet."

"Who?"

"Oscar Peterson."

"Did he?"

I made myself a cup of Gilbert's coffee and rejoined them. "Coming down a bit heavy on book vandals, aren't we?" I asked. "Or is there something else at the back of it?"

"Books are expensive," Peterson told me. "And it leads to other things. Now he's killed a couple of people as well."

I sat up. "Really?"

"Yes, he's bagged a brace of vicars. With a shotgun. He left a picture of a toadstool cut from your books at the scenes. He's also claiming two others, but we think they were accidents."

"Crikey. Any theories about the motive?"

"Fraid not. All contributions welcome. The interesting thing is that the first one, which may have been an accident, was in East Anglia.

Gradually they are working this way, to where the pictures originated.

It's as if he's growing tired of driving so far."

"Or can't afford the petrol," I added.

"Possibly."

"So you want to concentrate your efforts up here?"

"That's right. We need an office, telephones, a fax, a HOLMES terminal, all the manpower you can spare. You name it, we want it."

"You'll want Eric's address, too," I said.

"Who's Eric?"

"He's the local vicar-killer. It sounds as if Gilbert didn't tell you about our own little investigation. We've an eight-year-old been kidnapped. I can give you a couple of offices and a DC to be going on with. We'll make him Acting DS. He'll organise the rest for you."

Peterson didn't look pleased. "A rooky DS!" he protested. "We need a bit more weight than that."

"He's got it," I told him. "What about the librarian?"

"We want to see her next."

"OK. C'mon, I'll show you your offices and introduce you to John Rose.

Then he can take you to the library."

I stood up and held the door open for them. Peterson paused in the doorway and said: "Can I ask you a personal question, Charlie?"

"Er, yes. Fire away," I replied.

"Thanks. Tell me this: have you ever shagged a sheep?"

"No," I answered. "But I'm in a long-term relationship with a Swaledale ram who has."

Nigel and most of the others arrived back about two o'clock. I asked him what they'd found.

"About twenty rolls of negatives, plus a part-used one in the camera," he informed me.

"Where are they now?"

"The photographer has taken them to Foto Finish to be printed. He said it would take him a week to do them himself, but they'll put them through this afternoon. He has an arrangement with them. It'll cost us, though."

"Who's with him?" I asked.

"Sparky's gone along to make sure nobody runs off a spare set."

"Well done. You had me worried for a while. What about the video?"

"I replayed the one in the camera. It's just him and her. She's double-jointed. We found another six tapes, though."

"Has that pervert Marriot from the Porn Squad taken them?"

"Yes, boss. They have the set-up to watch them all at the same time.

What a way to spend an afternoon."

"Mmm. Did you look at any of the negatives?"

"Yep. Plenty of arms and legs and writhing bodies. Couldn't tell who was who, though."

"That'll do to be going on with. Let's see what the Lallys have to say for themselves."

We went downstairs. As we walked past the front desk the sergeant called out to me: "Mr. Priest!"

I spun to face him: "Mr. Jenks!"

"Er, Charlie. You wouldn't happen to have a radio, would you?"

"Er, yes, I would just happen to have," I replied.

"Good. Where is it, please?"

"It's next to the sideboard, under the CD player."

"C'mon, Charlie, you know what I mean." He looked exasperated.

"Oh! That radio," I said. "It's in the car. Why?"

"Thank Christ for that. One of the new ones is missing and someone's calling this afternoon to take them back. They're faulty. The buttons aren't waterproof and they stick in if they get wet. You wouldn't like to fetch it, would you?"

"No, I wouldn't. I'll leave you my keys, though." I fished them out of my pocket and dropped them on the desk. "It looks new and shiny; that's why I chose it."

"The car?"

"No, the radio."

We dragged Lally out of his cell and installed him in an interview room. He didn't kick and scream, fortunately. These days we have to treat people like him as if they were Faberge eggs. I hovered over the twin tape recorders for a few seconds, then switched them on. I droned the words with studied indifference: "Taped interview with Paul Darryl Lally. Also present DS Newley and DI Priest. Mr. Lally, you have been informed that you are entitled to have a solicitor present during any interview. We can arrange a duty solicitor or send for one of your choice. Do you understand?"

He wasn't much of a specimen. Easy to dislike; that's how I prefer them. He was skinny, but with big, bony shoulders. His hair was long and lank, and a row of tattooed dots ran round his neck. A similar row were visible on his wrist, with a big letter A that was looped at the top. His fingers were decorated with the inevitable LOVE and HATE.

"Do you understand, Mr. Lally?"

He stared at me.

"I take it, Mr. Lally, that you are forgoing your right to have a solicitor present."

Silence. I felt like a man who was trying to teach a parrot to talk, but didn't realise it was a sparrow hawk in the cage. He just sat there unmoved and unblinking.

"For the tape, please," I said. He didn't stir, so I added:

"MrLallynods."

"I'm saying nowt!" he blurted out.

"Ah! So you can use your tongue for speaking," I said. "After watching the video we weren't sure if you knew its proper use. Now, let's see how good it is at names, eh?"

He lounged back in his chair and folded his arms, to demonstrate that he was bored and had no desire to continue.

I leaned forward, two-thirds of the way across the table. "Names, Lally, of all your customers. But most of all the procurers of the kids. I don't care if you get one year or twenty, but I want those names. Understand?" I paused for a second, before adding: "Mr. Lally nods."