Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

"Morning, sir," said Sparky, holding the door for him.

"Good morning, Constable," he replied.

I rocked back on my chair and scratched my head with the blunt end of the ball pen "What was it that Oscar Peterson played?" I asked.

"Don't ask me," Sparky answered. "I'm useless at sport."

The best phone call of the day came in the middle of the afternoon.

"Carmina Burana, Carl Orff," said the voice on the other end.

"Er, er, let me think… Schubert, The Trout," I answered.

It was Bill Goodwin, a DI at City HQ. They are based in the town hall, and Bill is my source of concert tickets. He has a standing order with the box office for first refusal on any cancellations, and sometimes lets me know about them, although I hadn't done business with him for a long time.

"Congratulations, Charlie. I hear you did a good job."

"Aw shucks, it was nuthin'," I replied.

"Well done all the same. What about these tickets?"

"What tickets?"

"For Carmina Burana."

"Are you serious?"

The concert season lasts six months and normally all the tickets go in the first week of sales. For a big showpiece concert like this there would be a waiting list longer than a wet Wakes Week in Morecambe.

"I'd love them, Bill. When are they for?"

"Friday."

"Tomorrow? Someone's left it a bit late."

"They're mine. Joyce was rushed into hospital yesterday. Appendicitis.

They operated this morning. The tickets are yours if you want them."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear about Joyce. How is she?"

"The op went off OK, but she's still groggy. I'll go to see her straight from here."

"Good. Good. Give her my love, Bill, and I hope she's fit and well before too long. Can I ring you back in five minutes about the tickets?"

Annabelle was at home, fortunately, and Carmina Burana was one of her favourites, although she had never heard a live performance. "It sounds wonderful, Charles. They were sold out months ago. How on earth have you done it?"

I told her that when I said I needed two seats they promised to kick two students out of theirs. "What's the point in being a fascist if you don't reap the benefits?" I said.

"Oh, absolutely," she replied.

I was saying the usual goodbye formula when Annabelle interrupted me.

"Food," she said. "I expect you intend grabbing a pork pie or a bowl of breakfast cereal, so I'll prepare something for afterwards. We can come back here and eat. All right?"

"Oh, are you sure? It seems a lot of trouble…"

"Nonsense. See you tomorrow."

I rang Bill and accepted his offer. After a few quiet moments I said a little thank you, to no one in particular.

First thing Friday morning I announced that I would be leaving at five p.m. come fire, flood or assassination. Three nasty muggings were done during the day by a gang of steamers. Two youths make the initial grab while five or six others hover nearby ready to combat any attempt at resistance. They were all Afro-Caribbean, so descriptions were sketchy. "He was black," they say, and expect us to recognise them immediately. I put everybody I had on the streets looking for them.

Knives are only a grasp away in these cases. Mugging turns to murder as easily as spring snow turns to slush.

Myself, I went shopping. I thought about a haircut but decided it would look as if I were trying too hard. Besides, it had just reached that indolent bohemian stage; good for my new image. I bought a bottle of Glenfiddich for Jimmy Hoyle he deserved the credit for retrieving the bin-liner from under Dewhurst's car and some aftershave for myself.

I searched high and fairly low but couldn't find Nigel's anywhere. I settled for some called Charlie. The biddy who served me was wearing enough make-up to grout a shower cubicle.

On the way home I topped up the petrol tank and bought a bunch of salmon-pink roses. After a quick cup of tea and a slice of toast I set both alarm clocks and grabbed an hour's nap. I was taking no chances.

In the shower I used the last of the blue jelly stuff that somebody bought me about ten Christmases ago. Choosing which suit to wear wasn't a problem. I mated it with a dark blue shirt and a bold tie in a Picasso design. He's my favourite painter. I considered the socks with little clocks on them but settled for a diamond pattern in the same colours as the tie. I brushed my hair and looked in the mirror.

Fan-bloody-tastic.

Annabelle answered the door immediately. I thrust the roses forward.

"Oh Charles, they're lovely," she said. "They are my favourites; how did you know? Come in, I'll put them in some water."

I followed her through into the kitchen, where she filled a large plain vase and arranged the flowers in it. She was wearing a suit in an unusual lilac colour, with a very short skirt which I quickly realised was a pair of culottes. The jacket had three-quarter-length sleeves and her blouse was a deep blue in a curious material. It had a bloom to it, like yeast on a grape, that exactly matched the colour of the suit. Her tanned legs were bare and she wore high-heeled shoes.

Annabelle never tried to disguise her height she rejoiced in it.

The effect on me was like a kick in the stomach. The pain was physical. I wandered what the other bishops' wives had thought of her.

And the other bishops.

I didn't start the engine immediately. Faith might move mountains but compliments work better on people. "You look absolutely wonderful," I told her, shaking my head in disbelief.

"Oh, just a few rags I threw on," she declared with obvious delight, adding: "You don't look bad yourself."

We hit the usual Friday-evening traffic but I'd allowed plenty of time.

"Will you be able to find a parking place?" Annabelle asked.

"Leave it to Uncle Chas," I reassured her, with a conspiratorial wink.

At the town hall I drove round the back and through the entrance to the police station private car park. All the top brass were at home, tucking into their quiche, so I pulled up in a spot marked CH. SUP.

"Tonight," I announced, 'you are in the company of an honorary chief superintendent. I told them it was a special occasion, so they've promoted me. It runs out at midnight, though."

"Will the car turn into a pumpkin?" she asked.

"Oh, a pumpkin. A lay-by. It'll turn into something."

The tickets were at the front desk. During the drive I'd told Annabelle how we'd acquired them. I led her in and pressed the button.

A WPC appeared.

"My names's Priest," I told her. "DI Goodwin has left some tickets for me."

"Yes. Mr. Goodwin is still here. He asked me to let him know when you arrived." She picked up the phone and dialled his number. He was with us in seconds. I introduced him to Annabelle.

"I'm so sorry to hear about your wife, Bill. How is she?" Annabelle asked.

She was doing well, so we didn't feel too bad about deriving so much pleasure from her misfortune. Bill was going straight round to the hospital. He handed me the tickets and I slipped him a cheque.

Annabelle said: "Well, give Joyce our best wishes, and as soon as she's better we will try to repay you by inviting you both round for dinner, won't we, Charles?"

"Yes, of course," I said. We. I liked the sound of that.

There's a passage leading from the nick into the main body of the town hall, with a door locked on this side. Prisoners are transferred to the courts that way. I said: "Any chance of using the private entrance, Bill?"

"Sorry, Charlie," he replied. "No can do. It's a fire door now; emergency use only. If you open it you'll start the sprinkler system.

That'd make you popular."

"You mean we've to walk round the outside, with the hoi polloiV I sounded hurt.

"Fraidso."

"This is no way to impress a lady. C'mon, Annabelle, let's go."