Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

A gust of wind, straight from the Arctic icecap, blew across the car park, cutting through my jacket. I moved round and bent over her, to shelter her from it. "Yes, she did. I don't think I ever saw her happier than when she was telling me about Peter and their time in Kenya," I said.

"That's lovely… of you… to say so." Her eyes were watery, perhaps with the dust blowing about, perhaps with memories of a son who rose to be a bishop but died before his time. She gripped my hand in both or hers, "And now I'd like… to tell you something." She paused and took a deep breath. "Annabelle… comes to stay the weekend… every few weeks. She came… two weeks ago. I thought she had… something on her… mind, so I asked her. She… told me that she would always… love Peter; that he would always be… special to her. But now she had met someone else who was… special. She wanted to know if I… if I minded."

She seemed impervious to the cold. I pulled the front of my jacket together as she continued: "I told her to… snap you up, before someone else… did."

I wanted to tell her how much her words meant to me, but my teeth were chattering and nothing intelligible came out.

"And now, when Annabelle is… better, you'll both be able… to visit me."

I nodded. "I'd like that'

A nurse admired the roses and placed them in a vase beside Annabelle's bed, relegating the other bunch to the windowsill. Annabelle was still sleeping. Once or twice she stirred restlessly and shook her head from side to side. I jumped to my feet, ready to fetch help, but she settled down again within a few seconds. The drip bag was nearly empty and I hoped that someone would come to change it soon.

All I could do was sit beside her bed and stroke her long fingers. She still wore a wedding ring, a thin silver band, possibly the best they could afford on their meagre African incomes. I wasn't jealous of Peter for being married to her, but I wished I'd met her when we were both broke, so we could have built something together. I envied him for that.

"You look tired," she whispered, very softly.

I looked up from her hand, into those eyes. She smiled, and her nose crinkled in the way that cuts the legs from under me and paralyses my tongue. I squeezed her hand, and when the power returned to me I said:

"Welcome back."

She tried to speak again, but her throat was obviously sore from all the tubes that had been poked down it. I put my finger to my lips and shushed her. "Don't talk," I said. "There'll be plenty of time for that. Just get better first."

She sank back for a few moments, but was not content. "Charles?" Her voice was a faint croak.

"Sssh."

"We were… at a concert."

"Sssh."

"Did I have an accident?"

"Yes, something like that. But you're safe now, and you'll soon be well again. Then, if you'll let me, I'm going to look after you better than you've ever been looked after before. That's a promise."

She squeezed my hand. "Do I look a mess?" she asked.

"As if you've been dragged through a hedge. Longways. But that's still lovely."

Her mouth opened; but before any words came out I raised a finger in disapproval and said: "Ah! If you don't stop talking I shall leave.

I'm only staying if you promise to be quiet."

She clamped her lips together in an exaggerated grimace and sank back against the pillow. I poured some fruit juice and held it while she drank. She silently mouthed the words: "Thank you," and gave me a smile so warm the central heating switched off. She was going to make it, and so, God willing, was I. There was still a round-the-clock guard at the hospital, but they were protecting the wrong person. It was reassuring, though, to know that Annabelle was safe. Peterson was convinced that the so-called Mushroom Man, or Destroying Angel, was responsible, but I couldn't see it. The Angel name could easily have leaked out. It was just some lunatic with a gun having a go at Charlie Priest. I have plenty of enemies. I found a new writing pad and fibre-tip and settled down in front of the fire with a mug of tea and a packet of custard creams. An hour later I had a list of ten possibles, with stars in double circles against the first three. The winners were, in order of preference:

Don Purley

ABC (Bradshaw and Wheatley)

Eddie Grant I had a bowl of cornflakes, to save time in the morning, and went to bed. As I closed the curtains I noticed a car about a hundred yards up the road. It was out of place. I sneaked into the spare bedroom in the darkness, and took a longer look at it. While I was watching its lights came on. It made a U-turn and drove away. It was nearly one a.m." and for once I slept like a doorstep.

"Mornin', troops!" I hollered as I breezed into the office at about ten o'clock, chirpy as a barrow wheel.

"Morning," grumbled assorted voices.

"God, you look rough, Dave," I said to Sparky, reaching across his desk and giving him a chuck under the chin.

He swiped at my hand as I pulled it back. "It's this lot," he complained, waving at the paperwork. "Back to TWOCs and burglaries.

Nobody told them to behave themselves while we were otherwise engaged.

I thought Doc Evans had given you a sick note."

"He has. This is a private visit. What's happening with Dewhurst?"

"Not much. Nigel set up a bedside interview in Bentley, but he refused to speak. He's going for the sympathy vote."

"That won't do him any good."

Maggie wandered over. "How's Annabelle?" she asked.

"Loads better, thanks. I called in briefly this morning and they'd had her out of bed for a few minutes. Far too soon, in my opinion. She's still in a lot of pain. Actually, I've something to ask you. Come into the office."

When we were out of earshot of the others I said: "Annabelle's asked me to take her some clothes from home. I haven't a clue what she needs.

You wouldn't do the necessary for me, would you?"

"If I can. What have you in mind?"

"Well, if I take you to her house, could you fill a suitcase with stuff? Underwear, night dresses you know."

Maggie started laughing. She snorts when she laughs, making it impossible not to join in. "You're the limit, Charlie," she giggled.

"Well, I'd be embarrassed, rummaging through her underwear."

"But you'd like to, wouldn't you?"

"Er, yes, I suppose I would. I'd just prefer her to be there at the time."

"You're blushing!"

"No I'm not!"

"Yes you are!"

"It's one of my endearing traits."

She blew her nose and shook her head. "When do you want to go?"

"To suit you. I'm not working."

"Neither am I the boss is off sick. Are you going to be here a while?"

"Probably."

"Give me the key and her address and I'll go now."

"I've got friends I haven't used yet," I said, fishing the key for the Old Vicarage from my pocket.

Don Purley was a mean hombre. I put him away for life, with a fifteen-year tariff. Last night I couldn't remember the name of his wife, but as soon as I looked at the list again it came back to me.

Rhoda. I wrote it next to his. They were a weird couple into body-building and martial arts. She was only five foot two, but had striking red hair and bigger muscles on her nipples than I had on my arms. They ran a health club just outside Heckley. He was my favourite for bearing a grudge, but he still had three or four years to serve there's no remission on the judge's tariff. Unless he'd escaped, of course.

Purley murdered the Ho twins, Michael and David. They were Hong Kong Chinese, who'd come over here with a suitcase that rattled and a kilogram of heroin strapped to their bodies. Something had panicked them, and they'd dumped the drugs down the plane toilet. That left them in a strange land with no source of income. Being as enterprising as most of their countrymen, they were soon in business again. They cashed in on the fearsome reputation of the Triads and started a protection racket. We were watching them, but not closely enough. I was called to their flat and found one of them strangled and the other one's head kicked to a pulp.