Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

"Find something to bind these with, Maggie," I said.

She shook her head. "Waste of time, I'm afraid, boss. He hasn't a drop of blood left in him to save."

It was their baby, so as soon as we decently could, we left them to it.

I collected the manila envelope and let Maggie drive us back. She drives with all the panache of the unimaginative, right foot hard down on one pedal or the other. Neither of us spoke much. I tried to read the interview notes, but concentration was difficult. Back at Heckley we played the tape in Gilbert's office.

The interrogation had been done with skill and patience. Finnister had freely volunteered the information that he had killed Georgina. The detective's tone was encouraging, and he had teased as much as he could from the prisoner about the details of the murder. When Finnister realised he was saying too much, he clammed up. Otherwise it didn't tell us anything we didn't already know. Maggie made two coffees, and a tea for me, while we were listening.

"Thanks, Maggie, you make a good cup pa Gilbert said, taking a sip.

"That's sexist," I declared.

"No it's not. It's appreciation. So what do you think?"

I took my time before replying. Then I said: "We were late. I decided to take the picturesque route, through Patterdale. I think that if we'd been on time we'd have a prisoner in the cells now."

"In which case," he replied, "Finnister would probably have topped himself on our premises, and we'd be taking all the flak."

"If he'd had the means. We might have looked after him better."

Gilbert said: "If you'd been on time. If we'd found whatever he used to cut himself. If your aunt had balls she'd be your uncle. It's not our fault, Charlie. It's not anybody's fault but his own. He'd have done it sometime, somewhere, however hard we'd tried to look after him."

"OK, you're right," I said. "But I don't think we've done him any favours over the years. It would only have been common courtesy to have been on time."

"No it wouldn't. He probably hadn't been told what time you were supposed to be there. Anyway, I have no qualms about not extending common courtesy to self-confessed child killers."

"Nor have I, but I don't think he did it."

Gilbert tapped the rim of his cup with a fingernail. "No, I thought you didn't. So why did he confess?"

"It's common enough. Why do we do anything? Why did I join the police?"

"What about you, Maggie?" "I'm not sure, sir, but I have my doubts."

"Mmm. So the book stays open." Maggie and I nodded.

"That'll please the Acting Chief Constable," he said, with the slightest hint of a smile.

Maggie volunteered to tell Dewhurst the latest developments. Just the bare facts, before he read about it in the papers. Down in my own office I rang Sam Evans, the police surgeon, to tell him I'd swished my hands round in someone else's blood. I'd washed them thoroughly immediately afterwards, and had no cuts or contusions, so he was able to reassure me. Normally we try to wear gloves in situations like that. I knew I wouldn't feel comfortable until I'd had at least one hot shower.

"Thanks, Sam," I said. "Try to keep out of paintbrush shops."

It was a private joke. I'd met Sam about ten years previously after I'd fallen down a fire escape. When I admired the watercolours on the walls of his surgery he told me that his wife, Yvonne, had painted them. Unfortunately she'd suffered a slight stroke, leaving her with a tremor in her left hand, which was doubly sad because she was left-handed, and could therefore paint no more.

The pictures were typical of an amateur, tightly done and over brushed but the talent was obviously there. "Why doesn't she paint right-handed, then?" I asked.

"I've suggested that, but she says she can't."

"Would you like me to show her how? I'd be glad to."

"Are you a painter, too?" Sam enquired.

"Well, I went to art school."

"Great! That would be splendid. When will it be convenient?"

I went round a couple of nights later armed with a large sheet of rag paper and the biggest sable brush available, purchased at massive discount during my student days. One of the secrets of watercolours is to use only the finest materials. I showed Yvonne how her pictures could be improved using a much looser, big-brush technique, and suggested she start by repainting all her old works. Using the wrong hand was a good way of enforcing this new discipline. Now she makes a steady income from art club exhibitions. I told Sam to buy her a size 12 pure sable brush, and specified the make. Poor old Sam breezed into the artists' suppliers and asked for one. He nearly had a cardiac arrest when the assistant said: "That will be ninety-five quid, sir.

Shall I wrap it?"

Our gossiping was interrupted by the other phone ringing. I said goodbye to Sam and hello to the new caller.

"It's Van Rees here, is that Inspector Priest?" said the voice on the line.

"Hello, Professor. Charlie Priest speaking. What can I do for you?"

"It's more what I can do for you. Could you possibly get over here, quickly as possible? I've found something that you'll be interested in."

It was going-home time; I was tired and hungry and he was fifty miles away. "Can't you tell me over the phone?" I asked.

"It's something I want to show you. Put your coat on, Inspector, and point your car in this direction. You know I wouldn't call you out for nothing."

"I'm on my way. In fact… that's me knocking on your door right now."

I hit all the rush-hour traffic, so it was an hour and a half later that I knocked on his door.

"Come in, Inspector Priest. Sit down, please. Coffee?"

"Thanks. I could murder a cup of tea."

"Ah, murder. How we devalue the wickedness of the deed by everyday use of the word. Milk and sugar?"

"Just sugar, please. Do you ever go home, Professor?"

"Yes, of course, when I have to. But what could I find at home as fascinating as all this?" He gestured with the hand holding the teaspoon, splashing brown drops on to the papers on his desk.

I gave an inclination of the head, as if agreeing with him. He wasn't the type to be interested in football on the telly or to have a kind-hearted au pair.

I had a few sips from the mug he'd pushed across to me. It was coffee, with milk but no sugar. "Mmm, just what I needed," I lied. "Now, what do you want to show me?"

He produced two ten-by-eight photographs from a folder. They were black at the bottom and white at the top, with a jagged line between like a badly sharpened saw-blade.

"What do you think of those?" he said, triumphantly.

I studied them for a few seconds, then said: "You've taken up minimalist photography and want my opinion. Is that it?"

He peered over the tops of the pictures. "You're holding that one upside down," he replied.

I asked him to explain. When he'd finished I borrowed his sugar and put four spoonfuls in the coffee champagne would have been more appropriate, but this would do.

"Well done, Prof," I said, trying to hide the hotchpotch of emotions that was bubbling over inside me. "Well done!"

I used his phone to ring Luke's home number. He was about to go out, as soon as he'd decided which earrings to wear.

"Luke, how long would it take to run off copies of all my reports of interviews with Miles Dewhurst?"

"Oh, about five minutes."

"Good. Any chance of you calling in at the station and doing it, please?"

"What, now?"

"Mmm."

"Er, yeah. No problem, Charlie."

"Thanks. Leave them on my desk, I'll collect them in a couple of hours."

On the way back I saw a fish and chip shop and swung into a vacant parking place. I was about to order when I remembered where my hands had been earlier in the day, and didn't feel hungry any more.

"Er, I'veer changed my mind," I said to the bewildered lady, and left empty-handed.