Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

Nigel agreed to stay behind for the post-mortem, and I let Sparky drive the two of us back in my car. We'd done about fifty miles before I broke the silence.

"Oh, I nearly forgot. Consider yourself bollocked," I said.

"Thanks," Sparky replied, preoccupied with the driving and his own thoughts. Six miles later he looked across and said: "What for."

"Insubordination."

"Oh." Another long silence, then he said: "Sorry if I go too far now and again, Charlie. What did I call you this time?"

"Not me, prat. Oscar Peterson. He's complained to me about you.

Threatened to report you to the Rubber Heel boys."

"Oh, 'im. Now he is a prat. The old school. Nobody does things as well as they used to. Modern methods are a load of hocus-pocus. Do you know, he thinks a DNA test is what you have to pass to get into the National Association for Dyslexia?"

I looked out of the side window, pretending I hadn't heard. The barley in the fields was ripening well. I said: "Just leave him alone, Dave.

He's a lot on his plate."

"We've a lot on our plates."

We were turning off the Al on to the M62 when Dave said: "I'll have a little bet with you, Charlie."

"What on?"

"This Mushroom Man that Peterson's after."

"You mean the Destroying Angel. Did you know that the Book of Revelations has inspired more serial killers than Michael Winner has had free dinners?"

"Gerraway. OK, you know this Destroying Angel?"

"What about him?"

"I bet you a tenner we get him before Peterson does."

"A tenner. A tenner we catch the Angel?"

"Yes."

"Heckley CID? We're not even on the case."

"Take the bet, then."

"OK, it's a deal."

It's been said a million times but it' st rue the waiting is the hardest part. We had a fruitless chat with Gilbert at the station, just so he didn't feel neglected, then went home to bed. The news that Georgina's body had been found was broadcast on the morning radio and TV news. Saturday it would adorn the tabloids. They'd be annoyed that the story had broken on their slowest day, but no doubt some creative journalism would stretch it through to Monday.

Slowly, bits of information came filtering through to us. If you could call it information. Nigel reported that the preliminary examination found no apparent cause of death; we'd have to wait for analysis of internal organs. There was no sign of sexual interference.

Capstick is in North-East Division. They had agreed that all the forensic stuff could go to the lab at Wetherton, which was more convenient for us. I had a word with Professor Van Rees who is in charge there and told him what we might be looking for in short, anything. We were grasping at dandelion clocks.

Saturday morning we held a big meeting. We now had, in theory, a couple of reports to work on. The first one told us that Georgina had been given a massive dose of a barbiturate compound prior to her death.

According to the pathologist this could possibly have suppressed her respiration sufficiently to kill her on its own, but he'd added a note saying that he suspected a little manual assistance had been applied.

No alien fibres were found in her respiratory passages, so a plastic bag was the likeliest culprit.

The other one was a very preliminary report listing the various samples that had gone to Wetherton. The mud that so generously coated the area was a mixture or clay, coal and industrial lubricants, all stirred together for a hundred years. It was as unique as an English summer, but we had nothing to match it against. The fingertip search had failed to reveal any broken bracelets bearing the owner's name, or dropped credit cards.

"In short, gentlemen," said Gilbert, 'we still haven't a bloody lot to go on. Sod chuffin' all, in fact."

I'd been listening with my arms folded and my chair rocked back so I was leaning on the wall. Nobody wanted to speak, so I said: "In all my years ' "Which is quite a few," Sparky interrupted.

I threw him a glare and tried again: "In all my considerable years I have never been on a case which has thrown up so little evidence. We haven't unearthed a single clue pointing us towards the kidnapper. It can't all be down to luck; he must be very clever. A lot of planning went into this one."

"Or else he's been under our noses all the time," Sparky suggested.

"I think Dave's right," Gilbert said. "We've plenty of circumstantial against Dewhurst, but it's hard to imagine what it would require to really put the finger on him. As far as we're concerned he's still the girl's dad, so finding a few fibres linking them together is a waste of time."

I turned to DC Madison. "Maggie, how did Dewhurst react when he ID'd the body?"

She shook her head. "Distraught. He was wrecked. We were both in tears. If there was nothing else to go on he'd have convinced me that he didn't do it."

"So what do you think?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe he did it but regrets doing it. It'd be the same emotion."

"I can believe that," said Gilbert. He went on: "OK, on Monday the Acting Chief Constable's deadline runs out. I'm not interested in furthering his promotion prospects, and certainly have no intentions of jeopardising an enquiry to do so, but unless anybody comes up with a reasonable argument I'm suggesting we lift Dewhurst and his girlfriend, Parkinson, on Monday morning. Our main weapon will be surprise. Let's see how Ms Parkinson behaves when the cold light of reality hits her.

Any objections?"

There were a few murmured no's and shaken heads. Gilbert turned to me, inviting my comments. "Charlie? I know you're not keen."

I pushed off the wall, dropping my chair on to all four legs. I felt weary about the whole job. I didn't know what we could hope to find that would incriminate him. The kidnapper had already demonstrated how clued-up he was about not leaving forensic evidence, and Dewhurst was hardly likely to break under cross-examination. He'd just play the grieving father and keep his mouth clamped shut. We'd be the villains.

The girlfriend might sing to save her skin, if she knew anything.

Probably would. And maybe our boffin could dredge something from the recesses of his computer's memory. There are specialists who can do that sort of thing, even though the information has been erased. It might be worth a try.

"No objections, boss," I said.

"The ayes have it then. Let's organise the details now, and then maybe we can all have a day off tomorrow. We'll meet here six-thirty Monday morning. Now, who do we need and where are we going?"

He made it sound like a democratic process, which it wasn't. Going home I called in the pub for a sandwich and a couple of pints. I watched sport on television in the afternoon. England were struggling to avoid the follow-on against Gilbert and Ellice Islands. Later I rang Annabelle, but there was no answer.

On Sunday morning I called in the office and read most of the file on Miles Dewhurst. Then I shopped to restock the freezer and did a few of the more desperate chores around the house and garden. I urgently needed a cleaning lady, a gardener and a window cleaner. An alternative solution would be to move in with someone who either already had these or who managed to complete such menial tasks with consummate ease. I dialled Annabelle's number again. She still wasn't there. On a few occasions in the past Annabelle had disappeared for the whole weekend. Ah well, she was a big girl. It was none of my business how she spent her time. I had a shower and a sulk.

Gilbert and Ellice bowled underarm, so England managed to hold on sufficiently to save Monday's gate receipts. I had Sunday lunch at dinner time, in other words tea time, as is the modern practice. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, peas, carrots, and sprout.

Singular. All frozen. For pudding I had blackberry and apple pie from a local bakery. That was the best bit. I was settling down with a large pot of tea and Biggles Flies East when the phone rang. It was Gilbert. My superintendent, that is, not the island.