Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

Peterson looked sourly across at him. "Think so?" he growled.

"Yes, guy. Don't you?"

"Set of complacent sheepshaggers. Inbred, I wouldn't be surprised.

Need a bloody good kick up the arse."

Wilson smiled as he remembered the look on his boss's face when he'd been asked if Oscar was his real name. "That Inspector Priest is a decent bloke," he announced.

"For a bleeding Freemason," Peterson snarled.

Chief Superintendent Tollis had left early, intending to have a previously arranged round of golf before being joined by Mrs. Tollis for dinner in the clubhouse. Peterson knocked on his door and entered the empty office. As always he was amazed how tidy the desk was. He glanced round, decided there was nothing he wanted to steal or read, and turned to leave. The phone rang.

Peterson put it to the side of his head and said: "Carapace Bonce."

A male voice asked if he was speaking to Chief Superintendent Tollis.

The DI uttered a silent prayer of thanks that it was nobody who knew him and said: "No, sir, I'm afraid Mr. Tollis is unavailable. Who's speaking, please?"

"My name is Alistair McLeod, editor of the UK News. Could you put me through to whoever is in charge of the Ronald Conway murder investigation in his absence."

Peterson cursed at having been caught by the press, and all the familiar platitudes ran through his mind. "This is DI Peterson speaking. I am the investigating officer in the Ronald Conway case.

How can I help you?"

"Ah, good evening, Mr. Peterson. I presume from that that you are the one who does all the work."

"Very astute of you, sir. I can see how you got to where you are today. Did you ring about anything in particular?"

"Well, yes. I've just come across a letter in my mail from someone confessing to killing him, along with a trio of other clerics. I thought you might be interested."

"Ah! A confession, you said?"

"Yes."

"Well, that is good news. Confessions can be a very important part of any investigation, sir. Sometimes they are what we in the business call a Breakthrough. The first question that comes to my razor-sharp detective's mind is… eris it signed?"

"Yes, it is."

"Good. And the second one is, if I can trouble you to look at the end of the aforementioned document, by whom?"

"It's from someone who calls himself… let me see… the Destroying Angel. Do you know him?"

Peterson manoeuvred himself round Tollis's desk until he was able to sit in the Super's big leather chair. "Alistair McLeod, of the News, I believe you said, sir."

"That's right. Is there anything in this I can print, or is it just some crank making mischief? I've looked in the files and the first two deaths were passed off as accidents. There seems to be a link between Conway and the priest called Birr, though."

"Yes. I think you and I had better have a little talk, Alistair."

Half an hour later he left the station to interrupt Chief Superintendent Tollis's round of golf and tell him what he had arranged, or most of it.

From home he rang Trevor Wilson to update him and tell him to do the same with John Rose, before settling down to a relatively early meal of lamb chops, new potatoes and garden peas; with home-made cherry crumble to follow. Over it he discussed the day's developments with Dilys.

After two small whiskies and a cup of cocoa he slept like a carved figure on the lid of a tomb, the night unbroken by any more news of death. But only just.

The Reverend Gordon Ibbotson was in a confused, mixed-up, fed-up, wish-I-were-dead mood as he swung his middle-of-the-range Audi into the vicarage drive. He reached out with his left hand to prevent the Pyrex container on the passenger seat from sliding away and spilling its cargo of home-made samos as on to the carpet.

"Very nice, Gordon," Mrs. Sharmini had told him. "But perhaps just a little more generous with the turmeric next time."

It had been the final night of his Indian cookery class, and had not gone as expected. They had all prepared their speciali ties and enjoyed a boisterous evening sampling each other's fare and entertaining members of the other classes. The rather informal plan was that they would then all repair to the pub and continue the convivialities; after which the Reverend Ibbotson intended offering one of his classmates, whom he knew only as Pauline, a lift home.

When the subject of the pub was raised, however, heads were shaken.

"Sorry, I can't make it," was the common cry. A mysterious person called Ray was coming to collect Pauline from the class, no doubt attracted by the thought of sampling her shakooti rassa. The Reverend placed the lid over his sad-looking samos as and came home.

As the car jerked to a standstill on the drive the five-hundred-watt security light flicked on, dazzling the vicar with its glare and triggering off photosynthesis in his herbaceous borders. In the shadows, darker than a sea-cave, between the garage and a Pyracantha watereri, a claw-like hand tightened its grip on the shotgun.

The figure in the shadows watched the clergyman climb from the car, fumbling with keys and casserole, and unlock his front door. The intention was to wait until he was inside, then gain admittance by ringing the bell for the side entrance.

The vicar reappeared almost immediately. He'd come out again to put the car in the garage. The figure, high on the adrenalin that the role of Destroying Angel generated, withdrew into the darkness, breath held and heart pounding like a desperate prisoner hammering on a cell door.

When the Audi was safely tucked up for the night, the clergyman pulled the garage door down and locked it. He cast a brief glance across his lawn to see if any hedgehogs were foraging for worms or moths that had been scorched flightless by the security light, then pushed his front door open again. The Destroying Angel relaxed and stretched upright.

"ReverendIbbotson! Gordon!"

A middle-aged woman was coming up the drive and calling his name, trotting from the knees down in the way that some women do.

"Mrs. McFadden!" said the vicar, with undisguised enthusiasm.

She was lightly out of breath as she stopped before him. "Oh!" she puffed. "I saw your light come on so I thought I'd bring you your typing. You did say it was urgent." She passed him a pink folder.

"I didn't expect you to do it tonight, Brenda. Tomorrow would have been soon enough, but it's very good of you. Did you have much trouble with my terrible spelling?"

She gave a little giggle. "There were one or two bits that I couldn't understand, but I can soon correct them if I did it wrong."

"I'm sure it will be all right. Well, this is really kind of you. I'm, er, just about to make a coffee. Would you, er, like to join me in a cup?"

"Ooh, that would be nice. Just a quick one, then."

"Lovely. After you. I can offer you a samosa, too. Do you like…"

The door clicked shut, restricting her tastes in oriental cookery to the ears of the Reverend Gordon Ibbotson only.

One and a half hours later, cold and stiff and deep in the depression that often follows euphoria, the Destroying Angel skulked away. A decision had been made. Frustration was dangerous it led to mistakes.

One more would have been perfect, but the risk of discovery was growing every day. The time had come to conclude the preliminaries the next move must be the coup de grace.

DI Peterson found Chief Superintendent Tollis's office not quite as pristine as it had been the evening before. His jacket, neatly draped on a hanger, was behind the door, and a sheet of paper, held down by a monogrammed Sheaffer fountain pen, broke the symmetry of his desk top.

The man himself was absent.

Peterson sat down in the hard visitor's chair and placed a copy of the UK News on his boss's desk. Gurgling noises told him that Tollis was in the adjoining bathroom. Probably polishing his pate, he thought.