Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

A fresh-faced DC popped his head round the door. "Would you like a sandwich fetching, Mr. Priest?" he asked.

"Yes please."

"What sort?"

"Prawn and avocado, in granary bread."

"From the canteen!" he gasped.

"Oh. In that case make it two sausage rolls and a custard."

The ABC on my list referred to a business empire run by a man called Cakebread. He had organised the theft of a few Old Masters and traded them for about fifty million quid's worth of heroin. He'd been killed trying to escape, but a couple of his colleagues had only received short sentences, and we'd only touched the tip or the iceberg. There'd been a police involvement, too, which was never fully resolved. The more I thought about it, the more sinister it looked.

I rang Oldfield CID, in Lancashire, where the investigation had been centred, and asked to speak to the inspector who'd helped me with the enquiry. He promised to ring me back in a few minutes. A mug of tea arrived with my sausage rolls, so I put my feet on the radiator and lunched. The radiator was warm. The cold spell must have induced someone to have the central heating restored a few weeks early.

Unnecessarily, because the wind had swung to the south, and the pundits were now forecasting an Indian summer. The custard looked like last week's. Its filling had dried and shrivelled and come away from the pastry, like a cow pat in a plastic bucket.

The DI rang me just as I was wrestling with a mouthful of it. I mumbled a greeting. First of all he wanted to know more about the shooting. I answered his questions and told him that I wasn't on the case, but was looking into the possibilities of someone bearing a grudge, namely Bradshaw and Wheatley, or other, unknown, members of the gang.

"See your point," he said, 'but I doubt if it's either of those two.

They were given eighteen months and two years, but they're both out now. As you know, they also received hefty fines, courtesy of the Drug Trafficking Act, and were virtually stripped of everything they possessed."

"As you said, I know all that."

"Sorry, I'm just building up to the big finish. Cakebread was never charged, so his fortune remained intact, but now in the name of Eunice, his wife."

"So?"

"So Bradshaw, the pilot, has moved in with Eunice. A nice little catch for him, if you don't mind mascara all over your breakfast. Brian Wheatley is back in his old business, property development, courtesy of sponsorship by the other two. We're watching them like shitehawks, but they're keeping squeaky clean. I don't think it's them, Charlie.

They're probably quite happy with the way things turned out."

"I see what you mean. I'd be grateful if you could give some thought to what I've said, though."

"Will do. Good hunting."

"Cheers."

Maggie came in, humping a large Samsonite suitcase and grinning like a Cheshire dog. That's very similar to a Cheshire cat, but more politically correct.

"Charlie!" she gushed, eyes wide. "She's some gorgeous things."

"I know, she always dresses well."

"Wowee! I wish I had her wardrobe. And her taste. I think that's everything she'll need. I put some make-up in, too."

"Oh, God!" I said, putting my hand to my head. "I forgot to mention make-up."

"I felt like trying on some of her suits, but sadly' she patted her hips "I'm two sizes too large. Here's the key. Everything is safe and secure."

"Thanks, Maggie. What would I do without you?"

"Probably send Nigel," she laughed.

I drew a question mark next to ABC on my list and memorised Eddie Grant's address. The case weighed a ton. Lugging it down the stairs, three people asked me if I was going on my holidays. I wished I'd told Maggie to meet me in the car park.

I showed my ID to the gate man at the hospital and asked if he'd look after the case while I parked. It would save me carrying it about quarter of a mile. He suggested I park inside the grounds, so for once I abused the privileges of power.

Annabelle was propped up by pillows. "Twice in one day," she croaked.

"I am honoured."

I kissed her forehead. "Is your throat still sore?"

She nodded.

"Well, don't try to speak." I refilled her glass with juice and passed it to her. I nodded towards the case. "I asked Margaret Madison, one of my WPCs, to help me with the clothes. I think she'd like to borrow some of your outfits."

"She's welcome…"

I interrupted her: "Unfortunately she's slightly broader across the beam than you are."

It was more comfortable for both of us if I sat on the edge of the bed.

I could see her and she didn't have to crane sideways to watch me. She took my hand and said: "Charles?"

A puzzled expression was on her face.

I put my other hand over hers. "What is it, love?"

"I… I was shot, wasn't I?"

I nodded. "Yes, you were."

"Who did it, Charles?"

"We don't know. There's a maniac loose; some sort of religious fanatic' "Will he come back?" She sounded frightened.

I squeezed her hand. "No, he won't come back. There's a guard in the corridor, but he won't come back. I know how his mind works, and I promise he's not after you any more. You're completely safe here."

She relaxed, and I stayed with her until she fell asleep. The sister told me that she was tired, after being out of bed for a couple of short spells, but was making good progress. She estimated another three weeks in hospital if there were no setbacks. Apparently Rachel had suggested that Annabelle stay with them to convalesce. I reluctantly accepted that it might be for the best.

Eddie Grant lived at 23, Chesterton Court, in the Towncroft district of Leeds. I plotted my route in the A to Z and set off. There was a hold-up in the tunnel section of the inner ring road, so traffic was heavy. Away to the right the sun was shining on the massive bulk of the NHS building, but it only illuminated its ugliness. I wondered if the architect had ever heard of the Parthenon. Stalin would have loved it.

Towncroft isn't one of the areas of the city that civic visitors are shown around. Unemployment, drugs and lethargy have taken their toll.

I stopped on one corner, looking down a hill, and wished I had my camera. The street was littered with broken bricks and a burnt-out car sat at the edge of the road. The detached house facing me had recently been one of a pair of semis. Its partner had been demolished, or blown up, leaving a jagged line where the join had been. It was like a scene from Bosnia, and I was Kate Adie.

I trickled along in second gear, reading the street names, steering round the litter and scavenging dogs. Dickens Avenue. Kipling Drive.

Tolstoy Grove. Tolstoy? How did he get in here?

There it was Chesterton Court. Number 23 was marginally better than the average: the gate worked, the windows were made of glass and grass managed to exist in the garden. A few broken kids' toys were scattered about.

A heavily pregnant girl answered the door. I said: "Is Eddie in?"

She looked scared. "I dunno, I'll see," she said, starting to close the door.

"Are you Marie?" I asked.

"Er, yeah. Who are you?"

"Inspector Priest. I arrested Eddie six years ago. Met you then. Let me in, love."

Eddie was slumped in an armchair, watching a black American woman tell her shrieking audience about the time she was date-raped by the spiritual leader of the Mississippi Morons. A little girl aged about six was sitting next to him. He looked up as I entered.

"Hello, Eddie. Charlie Priest. Nice place you have here." It was reasonably tidy inside.

"What do you want?" he grumbled morosely.

"Mind if I sit down? Just a little chat. Could we have the telly off, please?"

Marie followed me in and sat protectively alongside him, as if she were his mother. When I'd first seen her she was sixteen, and looked like an angel. She could have gone in any direction she chose, had she known the options. But she didn't, and fell into the same one as all her friends: get married to the first yob you meet with a prick bigger than his IQ and have kids, not necessarily in that order. Now she was twenty-two, pushing fifty, and lumbered with a short-arsed layabout who had all the personality of a used tyre. It depressed me. Given another chance, I think I would dedicate my life towards steering sixteen-year-old girls away from idiots like him and towards a loftier lifestyle. The sugar daddy could have an important role to play in society; he should be sponsored by the community tax. I didn't understand what it was, but maybe I was also a little jealous of the attraction Eddie held for her.