Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

The tone of my voice didn't deter him." She had no enemies that you know of? Were her views regarded as controversial within the Church?"

"Of course not!" I snapped. "And could I remind you that she is still alive, if only just."

Gilbert said: "Mr. Peterson, if Mr. Priest had any information that would help this enquiry, don't you think he would have offered it?"

Peterson ignored him. "Did you know," he announced, for it wasn't a question, 'that Mrs. Wilberforce was is — considering ordination?"

"No, I didn't," I hissed, gripping the edges of my chair.

"Well, she is. I had a long talk with the Bishop. He suggested it to her and she said she'd think about it. Apparently her ex-husband was a hell-fire-and-brimstone man."

I took deep breaths while he was talking. When I felt I was under control I sat back in my chair and folded my arms. "Inspector Peterson," I began, 'first of all, Mrs. Wilberforce's husband died after a long illness. He was her late husband, not her ex-husband.

Secondly, he was a traditionalist, not a hell-fire-and-brimstone man, as you put it. And to say that Mrs. Wilberforce agreed to think about ordination is hardly the same as saying she is seriously considering it."

"Mmm. Perhaps." He stood up to leave. There was a knock at the door and Nigel entered, carrying a piece of paper and looking smug.

Peterson said: "This car. I don't suppose you managed a glimpse of the driver?"

I shook my head.

"Or the number?"

"No."

"Of course not. Silly question. Still, I have to ask."

Nigel was holding the door open. Peterson was almost out when he changed his mind. "Oh, nearly forgot," he said. "Nine people have contacted various newspapers confessing to being the gunman eight Mushroom Men and one Destroying Angel. I think we can safely say that a religious nut is on the loose."

When he'd gone, Gilbert said: "We'll have that coffee now, with a drop of lotion in it. Yes, Nigel. What can we do for you?"

He stepped forward, face glowing with enthusiasm. "Message for Char..

er, Mr. Priest. It reads: "Mrs. Wilberforce conscious and breathing without the aid of the ventilator. Taken off critical list."

Message timed fifteen thirty-seven."

My prayers were being answered.

Gilbert had misjudged me when he told Peterson that I would have offered any information I had. They'd put an armed guard on Annabelle in case the attacker came back, but they were guarding the wrong person. The one vital piece of information I had withheld was that Annabelle was not the intended victim. The shot in the town hall doorway was aimed at me, not her. Annabelle had been directly behind me, her hands on my hips. She was hit because I skipped to one side as the trigger was pulled. I wasn't running away or hiding; maybe he'd come back.

I bought chocolates and salmon-pink roses and made myself look smart. I was back in my own car, thank goodness the kids' stickers in Sparky's had been ruining my image. The hospital car park was crowded. I thought about sweet-talking my way into a parking spot inside the grounds but decided not to. It's not my style. I cruised round until a place became vacant and slotted into it, narrowly beating a taxi carrying a family of Asians. Three people were getting out of a top-of-the-range Rover a couple of spaces away. The man was wearing a camel overcoat with an astrakhan collar. The younger of the women was tall and stooped, but the other one was quite small and elderly. They walked towards the hospital as I went to collect a ticket from the machine. The driver of the taxi hadn't the right money, so I changed a pound for him.

First of all I visited Casualty and had a word with the sister, to thank her for their efforts, and gave her the box of chocolates. She told me that Annabelle was still seriously ill, but as strong as a swan's wing. Now she was in Ward 4B, upstairs.

I followed the signs and found the ward. Each patient was in her own little room, with open fronts on to a central corridor. I wandered along, looking in at various stages of suffering, but didn't find Annabelle. As soon as a nurse appeared I asked.

"She's in here, sir," she said, gesturing, 'but no more than two visitors to a patient, please." The three people from the Rover were already in there, which was why I'd walked by twice.

They looked up as I entered. "I, er, didn't know she had visitors," I said. Nobody spoke. "How is she?"

"She's asleep," the man answered. He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows on knees and hands together. The old lady was arranging a bunch of mixed flowers, with her back to me.

I gazed down at Annabelle. She looked peaceful, and all the tubes had been removed except for the drip, but an impressive array of instruments were still flashing and beeping alongside the bed. "Good.

That's good. My name's Priest, by the way. Charlie Priest."

"Newton," said the man, hardly taking the trouble to look at me.

"Right. Well, I'll, er, come back later."

I was drifting aimlessly down the corridor, still carrying the roses, when a voice shouted: "Excuse me!"

I turned to see the younger of the women coming after me, and suddenly realised who she was. Rachel was about ten years older than Annabelle and the bone structure was the same, but a different disposition had moulded her features to the wrong side of plain. Maybe she'd always lived in her kid sister's shadow, always been regarded as the unattractive one. Fate can be cruel.

She didn't introduce herself, just launched straight into what she had to say. "You're the policeman Annabelle was with when this happened," she told me.

"Yes."

"And apparently you didn't see a thing."

"No."

"So meanwhile he walks free while you do nothing."

"We're doing everything we can," I said, feebly.

"Well, it just isn't good enough. First thing tomorrow I'm having words with a friend at Scotland Yard. I'll get something done if you can't."

She turned on her heel and stalked off. I said: "And it's nice to meet you, too, Rachel," to her retreating back and recommenced my wanderings.

I knew which was their car, so I sat in mine and waited for them to return. According to the radio it was the coldest August day for a hundred years, so I used the car heater a couple of times. Drivers kept assuming I was about to go, and queued for my space. I shook my head at them and sank down into the seat. I was there two hours.

When they came back it's fair to say I wasn't in a good mood. I got out and retrieved the roses from the passenger seat. Newton was carefully folding their coats and placing them in the boot. I didn't have one, and it was a long walk to the front entrance. Flurries of rain splattered on the windscreen. The women saw me, and words that I couldn't hear passed between them. The little old lady looked from me to Rachel and back again, before she started towards me. I waited for her, holding the flowers and feeling foolish.

She was very old, with a white face and a little red button of a nose.

I gave her the best smile I was capable of.

"You're… Charles," she stated. "Rachel has just told me who you are. We've… kept you waiting all this… time."

"You've come a long way," I said, as if that excused bad manners.

"Well, yes, I… suppose so. And they… did have to pick me up… in Northampton."

She had difficulties with her breathing, and I had to wait for her words. "Don't get cold," I said, partly because I was shivering myself.

"I'm so… sorry I didn't speak to you… earlier." She held out her frail little hand. I took it between my thumb and fingers as she said. "I'm Mary… Wilberforce."

I blinked and stared at her. "So you're ' "Annabelle's… mother-in-law." ' Peter's mother."

"Yes." A smile lit up her face. "Annabelle told you… about Peter?"