Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

I turned to Nigel and gave a jerk of the head towards the shattered figure sitting opposite. Nigel said: "Miles Jonathan Dewhurst; I am arresting you for the murder of Georgina Alice Dewhurst. Do you wish to say anything? You are not obliged to say anything, but what you do may be put in writing and given in evidence."

We should have noticed the warning signs earlier. Dewhurst hunched his shoulders forward and I briefly saw that his lips had turned blue. Then he clutched the front of his shirt and pitched head first on to the table.

"He's having a heart attack," I cried, and heard myself ordering an ambulance for the second time in two days. Nigel dashed out while I loosened Dewhurst's collar and supported his head. Within seconds the room was filled with helpers. The uniformed boys have more experience at this sort of thing than we have, so I let them take over. The tape was still running. I said: "Interview terminated at… twelve minutes past five," and flicked it off.

The custody sergeant didn't share our euphoria. He said: "Aw, bloody 'ell, Charlie!" when I told him that the invalid now on his way to Heckley General had just been arrested for murder and that I wanted him charged. "Do you know what this means?" he protested.

"Well, let's see," I replied. "He'll need round-the-clock guarding, more for his own protection than anything. Then you'll have to comply with the requirements of PACE: read him his rights; arrange a solicitor; allow him to phone a named person; give him a copy of the code; ask him his eight favourite records… That's about all, isn't it? Should make for a touching bedside scene."

"All! All! Where do I get the staff?"

"Look on the bright side," I answered. "He might die." I probably meant it.

Walking through the foyer I saw a hunched figure heading towards the doors. I called after him: "Mr. Wylie?"

He stopped and turned. As I approached he looked to have aged ten years in the last hour. We faced each other in silence for a few moments, then I said: "This must have come as a terrible shock to you."

"Yes, Inspector, it did." His voice trembled as he spoke.

"There was no other way we could do it," I told him. A more clued-up brief would have frustrated my line of questioning. I'd taken advantage of him because he couldn't believe that his client could do such an evil deed. His only consolation was that he hadn't impeded justice.

"You did your job, Mr. Priest, and did it well. I, on the other hand, cannot profess to have represented my client to the best of my abilities."

"You couldn't have known…"

He stopped me, raising a manicured hand that had never done anything heavier than lift a conveyance. "It's all right," he said. "I don't mind. I really don't mind." There was the merest trace of a smile on his face as he turned to the door. He'd lost a case, but he'd be able to sleep at night.

"Goodnight, Mr. Priest." "Goodnight, sir."

It was hand-shaking, back-slapping time in the office. We interrupted Gilbert's meeting so that he could break the news to most of the top brass who weren't at the conference. The press office released a statement giving as little information as possible: a man was helping with enquiries… Dave Sparkington had gone to Ashurst's to take Mr.

Black and the mechanic to their local nick and record their statements.

It was after seven when he returned with the tapes. Gilbert arrived while we were playing everything through for the custody sergeant, so we had to play the first one again. They agreed that we had enough to charge him; the only cloud was whether the bin-liner from under the Nissan was admissible. I'd retrieved it without the help of a search warrant.

"It still proves he did it," I claimed, 'even if he does get off on a technicality."

"I doubt if he will," Gilbert reassured us, 'but we'll let the CPS legal boys worry about that." He looked at his watch. "I reckon we've just about time for a celebratory snifter down at the club, eh?"

Sparky, surprisingly, was the first to object. "Not for me, thanks. I said I'd try to be early tonight. Can we make it tomorrow?"

"It's, era bit awkward for me, too, Mr. Wood," said Nigel.

Gilbert looked at me. "Tomorrow then. Eh, Charlie?"

I said: "Yeah. Let's have him charged first. If he survives. Then we'll have the full team in the club, tomorrow."

They drifted away. Dave said: "You coming, Charlie?"

"Not just yet, Dave," I replied. "You go. I just want to tidy up."

I watched out of the window as they left. We are on the first floor, the main body of the station being downstairs. One by one their cars paused at the exit before pulling out into the sparse traffic and heading home. The streets were quiet, partly because of the rain, partly because Tuesdays in Heckley have never been a rival to Mardi Gras.

Some of my best thinking is done alone in the office, with everybody's light off except mine. The building creaks and whispers as it settles down for the night. Outside, a siren warbled as a Traffic car left the yard to witness someone's misery.

I picked up the phone and tapped the numbers. From memory. I'd remembered Annabelle's number from the very first time I dialled it.

Not bad for someone who never mastered the Lord's Prayer. Wonder what the wife of a bishop would make of that?

She answered immediately, repeating the number in her warm, rounded vowels.

"Oh, hello Annabelle, It's Charlie," I stumbled.

"Hello, Charles. This is a pleasant surprise."

"Glad you think so. How are you keeping?"

"Very well. And you? How is the crime-fighting going?"

"It's going well. I was wondering, Annabelle… if you are not doing anything, would it be all right if I popped round to see you?"

"Of course it would. Are you coming now?"

"If you don't mind. I'm feeling a bit… what's the adjective that means anticiimaxed?"

"Fed up?"

"That's it. I wish I had your way with words. I feel a need for some TLC

"You poor thing. Come and tell Auntie Annabelle all about it."

"Half an hour?"

"Fine. Shall I bring a bottle of gin up from the cellar?"

"A cup of Earl Grey will do."

"I'll put the kettle on."

"Bye."

And now I felt happy. Like Father Christmas must do at the end of his round.

The batteries in my razor were flat so I retrieved Nigel's toilet bag from his bottom drawer and swapped batteries. His weren't much better but I scraped most of the stubble from my face. My aftershave had congealed to a jelly so I borrowed that from Nigel, too. When I looked at myself in the mirror I wasn't sure that visiting Annabelle was such a good idea. Ah well, what you see is what you get. I rinsed my face and dried it on the roller towel. The aftershave smelt like Culpepper's dustbin.

Annabelle looked really pleased to see me. "Come through into the kitchen," she said. "The kettle won't take a moment." As she turned away I gazed appreciatively after her. Hungrily and longingly, too.

She was wearing a white blouse and black trousers, with no jewellery.

As she filled the kettle I wished I knew her well enough to go up behind her and slip my arms around that waist.

We sat at opposite sides of the refectory table. I waffled something about her kitchen being nice.

"Yes," she agreed, "I'm very lucky to live here." She went on: "So, what's the reason for this deflated feeling, or are you not allowed to tell me?"

I said: "It'll be common knowledge by tomorrow. We've just arrested Miles Dewhurst for the murder of Georgina."

Her face darkened. "Her father?" she gasped.

"Yes."

"But… but that's monstrous. Who on earth would have thought he did it?"

"Well, I did," I replied.

After a pause she asked: "How do you know it was him?"

I said: "I've known right from the beginning. Well, from the second day, when we had the TV appeal."