Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

When I wasn't in anybody's way I held Annabelle's hand and tried to talk to her. I whispered in her ear that she had to get better. She just lay there, as if in the deepest sleep, breathing with the rhythm of the machinery. Her face was pale, with dark smudges under her eyes, but she still looked hauntingly beautiful, like some aristocratic lady who'd fallen under a spell.

I heard voices outside the door and looked up. Through the porthole window I could see Nigel remonstrating with the armed policeman and showing him his ID card. I went out to them.

"What's happening?" I said.

"Sorry, Mr. Priest," said the uniformed PC, "I didn't know who he was."

"That's OK. Nigel?"

"Morning, boss. How is she?"

"No change. It's a bit early for you, isn't it?"

"It certainly is. I didn't know it was light at this hour.

Unfortunately the press have found out about you. It's all over the Sunday papers. They've been camped outside Dave's all night, but now they're here, at the hospital. We've come to get you out, when you're ready."

"Thanks, just give me a minute." I had a word with the nurse and a last look at Annabelle. I squeezed her hand and told her I'd be back later.

Nigel radioed Dave, telling him to bring the car to the entrance. The other uniformed policeman walked out with us. The press were gathered in the foyer, like jackals at a kill, waiting for any scraps that they could make a meal out of. Nigel and the PC positioned themselves on either side of me and we headed purposefully towards the door.

Cameras flashed. A whizz-kid newshound with eyes in his backside and a huge video camera hiding his face cleared a path for us without once looking where he was going. Several microphones were poked towards me, their owners firing questions simultaneously:

"Was this another Mushroom Man shooting?"

"Are you and Annabelle lovers?"

Nigel tried to parry the questions. "You've been given a statement," he told them. "We've nothing to add."

"Is it true you didn't see anything, Inspector?"

"Are you expecting him to strike again?"

A tired hack at the back of the group shouted: "Apart from that, what did you think of the concert?"

I clenched my fists and swung towards him, but the big PC's fingers clamped around my arm and propelled me through the door.

They trotted after us towards the car, their sound men running behind like poodles on leads. Sparky hadn't unlocked the passenger door so I couldn't get in. My car doesn't run to centralised locking.

A microphone was thrust under my nose. "Do you love Annabelle?" the girl holding it asked. She was about nineteen and had an editor to please.

I could imagine the exclusive that would be claimed if I gave the wrong answer. Sparky leaned over to lift the catch and I pulled the door open. As I climbed in she poked the mike into the side of my face and repeated the question: "Do you love Annabelle?"

I turned so my lips were touching the microphone and said: "No."

I slammed the door. If you tell a lie, might as well make it a whopper. That was the biggest I'd ever tell.

Our press office prepared a statement to get them off my back: we were just good friends; she was still on the critical list; and yes, the shooting was being investigated by the Mushroom Man team. When they realised there was no more, they drifted off. The headlines weren't very flattering: "Top cop never saw a thing," they said.

I had some kip and tried eating Sunday lunch at the local pub, but I didn't enjoy it. In the evening I went back to the hospital and sat with Annabelle all night. She was just the same, and I left as dawn broke. I asked to be informed of any change in her condition, but I wasn't next of kin, so they were reluctant.

When I drove into Heckley nick car park later in the day, I half expected Sparky to have commandeered my parking space as well as my car, but he hadn't. I used the back entrance and ran up the stairs to Gilbert's office. He was expecting me.

"Hello, Charlie. I'll just put the kettle on," he said.

"Not for me, Gilbert, if you don't mind. I'll be looking like a pot of tea soon."

"Oh. Something stronger?"

I shook my head.

"Fair enough. So how are you then?"

"Not bad."

"Good. Did we tell you that we've traced Annabelle's sister and her husband? They live in Guildford. She has a brother, too, but he's somewhere in Africa."

"He's in India," I said.

"India?"

"Mmm."

It was Gilbert's turn to shake his head. "Isn't that typical of the FO?" he declared. "Scouring the wrong bloody continent."

"Friday night," I said, 'when I met Annabelle…"

"Yes?"

"I've been thinking about it, racking ny brain. I believe we may have been followed."

Gilbert's brow furrowed with interest and he sat back so hard his chair protested. "Go on," he encouraged.

I picked up his ball pen and turned it over and over in my fingers.

"When she came to the door she… she looked beautiful…"

"She's a lovely lady, Charlie; one in a million. Everyone who knows her is devastated. Take your time."

"We were talking. When I drove out of her street into the Top Road I looked in my mirror. There was a car close behind me. I hadn't seen it when I stopped at the junction, it came from nowhere. Maybe I wasn't concentrating and hadn't looked properly. I gave myself a reprimand and took more care. It followed us all the way into town.

Now I can't help wondering if it had been waiting for us."

Gilbert said: "Well done, Charlie. Well done." He wasn't crass enough to ask the obvious, and waited for me to volunteer the information.

"It was a little car, possibly a Fiesta, although it could easily have been something else. Colour? Possibly one of those insipid beiges that you wonder why people buy. Sorry, Gilbert, your last Granada was a similar colour, wasn't it?"

"They gave me a good discount. It was called cat shit If it was a Fiesta, what mark would you estimate?"

"I'm not sure, but one of the older, more angular ones."

Gilbert picked up the phone and dialled. "Hello, Maggie. Charlie's with me. Could someone bring the Ford colour charts up to my office, please."

Maggie brought them herself. I stood up and she gave me a hug. She said: "Oh, Charlie, we're all so sorry. How is she?"

I gave her an extra squeeze and told her that Annabelle was still unconscious but holding on.

Gilbert waited until we were through before saying: "Peterson's in the building somewhere. Do you mind if he sits in on this?"

I didn't, so he asked Maggie if she could round him up. When she left he said: "I know one thing, Charlie. You certainly have the knack of getting the best out of your WPCs. They never throw their arms around me."

"Treat them all the same, Gilbert. That's the secret."

"What about sexual harassment?"

"I've learned to put up with it."

Peterson came puffing in, complaining about the number of stairs and how cold it was in this godforsaken part of the world. He looked embarrassed when he saw me, but didn't offer any words of sympathy, for which I was grateful.

Gilbert told him about the car and we examined the colour charts. There was coral beige, sierra beige, cordoba beige, nevada beige, Sahara beige and tuscan beige, and I only thought it might be beige. Peterson wasn't impressed by the standard of my evidence, and I offered a silent apology to all the useless witnesses I'd cursed over the years.

He pretended I'd given him the big breakthrough he was waiting for.

After a few transparent nods of approval he said: "What can you tell me about Mrs. Wilberforce?"

"Nothing," I declared. "Nothing relevant." Nothing that was any business of his. I didn't want to discuss her with him. The little I had was precious to me, not for writing in notebooks before going on to the computer, to be picked over by hard men looking for a murderer. Let them read someone else's entrails.