Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

"I saw that," said Annabelle. "The poor man looked devastated. I can't believe he was acting."

"I don't suppose it was all a sham. But just before we went on the air I saw him go to the gents' toilet. I thought I could do with one myself, so I followed him in. He wasn't having a pee, though. He was fixing his hair; running the comb under the tap and inspecting his reflection in the mirror. Hardly the behaviour of a grieving parent.

When I came out I decided to perform a little experiment with Gilbert.

Use him as a control group type of thing. I told Gilbert that his hair was sticking up and he ought to go and comb it. He nearly bit my head off. Not exactly enough to convince a jury, but it made me think. We had to wait until we found the body for the proof."

"I read about that," she said. "Somewhere up in County Durham, wasn't it? What led you to it?"

"He sent us a note with various instructions. He thought he'd got away with it, and was impatient to tie up the loose ends; put it all in the past and start his new life. I just followed the instructions."

"You, Charles? Are you saying you found her?"

I nodded.

Annabelle reached across the table and put her hand over mine. "Oh Charles, that must have been horrible. That poor little girl," she sighed. She looked across at me, a new determination illuminating her face. "And poor you," she said. "I wouldn't normally have commented, Charles, but you look a wreck. I bet you're not sleeping, are you?"

"I don't need much sleep."

She studied my crumpled shirt and realisation struck her. "Have you come here straight from the office?" she demanded.

Another nod.

"Without eating?"

Nod.

She jumped to her feet. "Charles, you can't go on like this. It's bad for you. What would you like? It won't take a moment to rustle something up."

"Sit down, Annabelle. A cup of tea and a biscuit will be fine. Most of all I just want some pleasant company. I feel as if I've been living in a sewer lately."

She sat down again. "It's all getting to you, isn't it?" she said, quietly.

"Yes," I replied, "I think it is. It must be something to do with growing older. Or else I'm getting sensitive. Either way, I think the time is coming for the police force and Charlie Priest to part company."

"Maybe it's something to do with being a human being," she replied, adding quite firmly: "There is some home-made soup in the freezer and I am going to heat a bowl for you. Understood?"

I smiled and said: "A bowl of your home-made soup would be extremely welcome."

She rummaged in the deep freeze for a few moments before emerging with two plastic containers. She frowned as she looked for labels on them, her nose wrinkling with concentration. "This one," she pronounced, 'is soup dujour. This one is soup de la mais on Any preference?"

It was chunky vegetable with lamb and a few secret ingredients. The alternative had been carrot and orange with coriander. They both sounded delicious. Annabelle cut me a huge chunk of bread and gave me a cup of tea for support while the soup defrosted in the microwave. I nibbled the bread and had a sip of tea.

I said: "Is this bread home-made?"

"Yes."

"It's wonderful. Can I order two loaves per week, please." Now I felt ravenous. I could easily have eaten the whole loaf.

Annabelle said: "The soup will be about ten minutes. I wish you would let me make you something more substantial."

I shook my head. After a few moments of silence I said, right out of the blue: "Tell me about Peter."

She looked taken aback for a second, and I wondered if I'd dropped a big one, but she said: "Peter? What would you like to know?"

I decided I wasn't walking on broken glass after all. "Everything," I said.

"Where shall I begin?"

"Where else? How did you meet? No, before that. First of all tell me about yourself. Dispel the mystery that surrounds this beautiful lady I know as Annabelle Wilberforce, while I… finish this bread."

She blushed and settled back in her chair. After inspecting her fingernails for a few seconds she took a deep breath and it all spilled out: "I was born in a little village in Oxfordshire. Father Daddy, as we called him was something in the City. I can't be more specific than that. I have an older sister and a younger brother, Hugh. He's an engineer, somewhere in India I believe. We don't have much contact. My sister, Rachel, is married to a Harley Street charlatan. I have no contact with her at all. At first, things were idyllic, although you don't realise it at the time, do you?"

Now her gaze was fixed on the top right-hand corner of the ceiling. She went on: "Then, when I was about eight, it all turned sour. Daddy vanished. Years later I learned that he ran off with a female colleague. First the pony had to go. I changed schools and we moved to a smaller house. Mummy hit the bottle. We'd come home from school and find her drunk, with the house like a refuse heap. The day after I passed my eleven-plus she took an overdose of painkillers and died."

I'd been nibbling the bread. Now I pushed the plate away and listened.

"The three of us were spread amongst relatives. I went to live with Aunt Grace, in Cheltenham. At first it was much better there, and I was sent away to school, which I enjoyed. Then one Christmas I came home to find that Aunt Grace had married again. He was called Alec.

Uncle Alec. He seemed to take a shine to me. He… took me for walks, to the pictures, bought me special treats. I thought he was wonderful." She paused. I saw her swallow before she took up the story again: "One night, in the dormitory, the girls were talking. The older girls were telling us about… well… about sex. I suppose it was all invented, the product of girlish imaginations, but suddenly I realised that Uncle Alec's affection wasn't as innocent as I had believed."

Annabelle had drawn up her knees and was embracing them with her arms, still staring at the ceiling. She continued: "After that it was horrible. Once he realised that I knew what he was after and had not told Grace, he became crude and persistent. I hated going home for the holidays. I would make excuses and stay behind for an extra week, and always went back for the new term a few days early. Half-term holidays I stayed at school. I visited as many friends as I could. I became quite a proficient little liar, I'm afraid."

"Understandably," I said.

She put her feet back on the floor and looked at me. "The net result was that I did well at school. I was determined to, so I could get away from them as soon as possible. I was accepted for Lady Margaret Hall when I was seventeen. They suggested I do a year's voluntary work, so I packed my rucksack and went to Biafra. It was quite a shock to a little girl from the Home Counties. But Peter was there to help me. He was thirteen years my senior and I fell hopelessly in love with him. I thought he'd hardly noticed me, but towards the end of the year he was transferred to Kenya and asked me to go with him."

The microwave beeped four times. Annabelle jumped up and served the soup. "Would you like some more bread?" she asked.

I shook my head. "No thanks, but I'd like you to continue the story."

After serving the soup she resumed her seat and began again. "Kenya was wonderful. You must go, sometime. Peter insisted I continue my education, so my degree certificate says Nairobi University. Not as prestigious as Oxford, but more colourful."

"Mine says Batley College of Art," I admitted between mouthfuls.

"We married when I was nineteen and stayed in Kenya for another eight years. I've been back a couple of times." She was smiling now, a faraway look in her eyes. "I miss Kenya. Those were probably the happiest days of my life."

"So why did you leave?"

"Peter was taken ill. Malaria, a particularly persistent strain. He regarded it as God's will and we came back to England. He threw himself into his ministry and the rest, as they say, is history."