Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

The reports were on my desk, as arranged. I took them home to read in bed, but not before I'd had a hot shower and a bowl of cornflakes, consecutively.

Ashurst Construction have premises on a bustling new trading estate in Stockport, Greater Manchester. Mr. Black, their managing director and chief designer, welcomed me into his office at nine o'clock on Tuesday Morning. I'd made the appointment earlier by ringing him at home.

"Sit down, Inspector. Can I order you a coffee?" he said.

"No thanks, Mr. Black, I'd rather get straight on with it and I'm sure you're very busy."

"Busy's the word. Still, it's preferable to the alternative. How can I help you?"

"First of all, could you tell me in a sentence what you do here and how well you know a company called Eagle Electrical."

The genial expression slipped from his face. "Ah, yes," he said. "The little girl. I read that you'd found her body. Dreadful. Dreadful."

"Eagle Electrical…" I prompted.

"Yes, well, to answer your question, we are in the business of renovating property. Trading estates like this one, nursing homes, blocks of flats. We do a lot of work for local authorities. Eagle Electrical have supplied us with materials, and sometimes we've found it more expedient to subcontract the labour to them, too. Smaller jobs, though; we have our own teams of craftsmen. We use Eagle and others in preference to losing a contract."

"So how well do you know Mr. Dewhurst?" I asked.

"Miles Dewhurst?" He pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. "I … know him, that's all. He comes in here about once a month looking for business. They haven't had a substantial order from us for quite a while. We try to put some stuff their way, to keep them floating. It's not in our interests for them to go under."

"You think it might have come to that?"

"I really don't know. We're OK, but a lot of smaller firms are still failing in spite of all the talk of a recovery."

"Could you tell me when you last saw Miles Dewhurst, Mr. Black?" I asked.

"Yes. The morning his daughter disappeared. I'd presumed that was why you were here."

"It is, but I need to hear it from your mouth. Is there any documentary proof that he was here that morning? You know what we say, sir: to eliminate him from our enquiries."

He appeared quite eager. "Well, yes, there is. It just so happened that he had a puncture in our yard. Very embarrassing for him he drives one of those macho off-road vehicles. Something had gone through one of his sidewalls; ruined the tyre. Our mechanic took it round to ATS Tyres and had a new one fitted."

"Took the wheel there or the whole vehicle?"

"The vehicle. He put the spare on and drove it there. Miles stayed in here with me. Only took half an hour. We put it on our account, so it's in the books, somewhere."

"Good. Thank you. When it's convenient would you mind making a recorded statement in a local police station — everything you've just told me?"

"No, not at all' "I'll fix something up, then. Now, could I possibly have a word with the mechanic who took Dewhurst's car to the tyre depot?"

Nigel and Sparky were in deep conversation when I entered the office.

Nigel was saying: "So why was Prince Charles wearing this ginger hat with the tail down the back?"

Sparky rolled his eyes in a so-help-me gesture.

"Because," he said, emphasising with a stab of the finger, 'because the Queen said: "Where are you going, Charles?" and he replied:

"Heckmondwike," and she said: "Wear the fox hat."

"Don't let Mr. Wood hear you telling royalist jokes, David," I said, endeavouring to keep a straight face.

"No, boss, it's not a joke. It's a true story."

"So what's a fox hat got to do with Heckmondwike?" Nigel asked.

"Never mind that," I interrupted. "Where is Mr. Wood?"

"Summoned to Division," said Sparky. "Apparently we've overspent on handcuffs."

"So that means…" I stretched my arms wide, 'that I'm in charge. OK, boys and girls, gather round and Uncle Charlie will tell you a story."

When I'd finished, there were smiles all round. I slid my diary, open at a list of phone numbers, across to Nigel and pointed at the phone.

"C'mon, Nigel, do your stuff," I said.

He drummed his fingers on the handset for a moment, gathering his wits, then picked it up and dialled. After a few seconds he gave us a nod and settled back in his chair.

"Mr. Dewhurst?" he asked. "Oh, good. It's DS Newley here, from Heckley CID. Is it convenient for you to speak? You're not doing eighty on the motorway, are you?… Fine, fine. You've heard the latest developments, I presume? Yes… we've mixed feelings here, too."

Nigel placed a hand over the mouthpiece. "He's at home," he hissed. He resumed the conversation; "The fact is, Mr. Dewhurst, we'd like to do a formal interview with you here at the station. As you know, it's a sad fact that in a case like this the closest members of the family always fall under a certain amount of suspicion. We need a taped interview describing your movements on the weekend in question; tie up a few loose ends, so to speak… Yes… Yes, I suppose it does seem rather pointless to you… How does four thirty, here, sound?… Oh, good. We'll see you then, Mr. Dewhurst. Thank you for your cooperation. Oh, there's just one other thing. It's normal procedure for a solicitor to be present. Would you like me to arrange the duty solicitor or will you bring your own?"

Nigel replaced the phone and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "He's bringing his own solicitor," he sighed.

Nigel had managed to squeeze all the key words into the conversation: under suspicion; taped interview; solicitor present. I said: "Well done. Now, let's go to the pub and discuss tactics over a Steinberg's pork pie. I'm famished."

These days we can't afford to have anybody manning the front desk. The public are expected to ring the bell for attention. We were looking out for Dewhurst, though. He arrived fifteen minutes late, in the Toyota, accompanied by Mr. Wylie, his solicitor. The arrogant sod parked in the spot marked HMI again. They were shown into interview room number one, my lucky room.

Nigel and I joined them immediately. We noticed that Dewhurst's concession to grief was a black tie and matching cufflinks. His designer stubble was as well groomed as ever, but he looked gaunt under his tan. Or was it worried?

"Thanks for coming," I said briskly. "This shouldn't take long."

When we were seated, us on one side of the table, them on the other, Nigel said: "This is a taped interview with Mr. Miles Dewhurst." He gave the time and date and went on: "Could I ask those present to identify themselves. I'm Detective Sergeant Newley…" He pointed to each of us in turn.

"DI Priest," I said.

"Miles Dewhurst," in an irritated tone.

"Oh, er, I'm Mr. Wylie, senior partner with Dean and Mason, Mr.

Dewhurst's solicitor."

I said: "Thank you, gentlemen. Mr. Dewhurst, you are no doubt aware that you have been under a certain amount of suspicion. I have to tell you that in spite of recent developments that suspicion still exists.

It is my duty to inform you that you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you do say may be put in writing and given in evidence. Do you understand what I am saying, Mr.

Dewhurst?"

His indignation was on the verge of boiling over. He gathered himself together, considering whether to appear affronted or cooperative. Mr.

Wylie's hand reached out and fell on his arm. "It's all right, Miles," he said. "Mr. Priest is just doing it by the book."

I repeated the question: "Do you understand the caution, sir?"

He nodded.

"For the tape, sir."

"Yes. I understand."

"Thank you."

Nigel took it up, as per the game plan. "Mr. Dewhurst, could you briefly describe your movements on the Friday before Georgina's disappearance?"