Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

"No. It's not him. I can feel it in my wobblies."

"You've told me often enough never to trust hunches."

"That's true. But it's late. I want to go to bed and you're going home. That's an order. Otherwise I'll report you for pimping on the lady next door."

"I think you ought to carry a gun," Sparky said.

"We don't carry guns, remember?"

"You could always book one out for yourself "I'd get the sack."

"Mmm, probably. What about the radio? Do you have one?"

"No."

"Bloody hell, Charlie! What's the matter with you? Some madman's out to kill you, so you keep it to yourself and don't even carry a radio.

Not to mention visiting the main suspect without telling anyone. Do you want him to succeed?"

I sighed. "When you put it like that, it does seem a bit stupid."

"Here." He reached over and grovelled in the glove compartment, producing a personal transmitter receiver "Take mine."

I accepted it and opened the door. "Cheers," I said. "And, er, thanks."

"Bugger you, Charlie," he called across to me before I closed the door again. "I'm looking after that ten-pound bet we have."

I walked the hundred yards home. As I unlocked the door I heard his engine cough into life.

The hospital has fairly liberal visiting hours, and they didn't mind me calling in at any time. I was making toast for a quick breakfast before going there when the phone rang.

"Is that Mr. Priest?" asked a female voice.

"Yes. Who's that, please?"

"It's Sister Williams, on ward B. Will you be able to visit Annabelle this morning, please?"

"Yes, why? What's happened?" My heart was pounding.

"Nothing to panic about, but she's had a restless night and has asked me to call you. She wants to see you and is worrying herself into a state. I don't know what it's about, but she says it's important."

"OK. I'm on my way."

I poured my untouched mug of tea down the sink and grabbed my jacket. I wanted to race there, but I regularly hear of the results of such impatience and went with the traffic flow. I parked in the big car park, stuffed some money in the machine and ran to the hospital.

Annabelle was sitting up. Someone had done her hair and she was wearing one of her own night dresses but her face was lined with worry.

"Oh Charles, I've been so worried about you."

I bent forward to give her a kiss and she flung her arms around my neck, almost pulling me off balance. I extricated myself and sat on the bed, holding her hand.

"Worried about me?" I said. "You're the one everybody is worried about."

She sank back against her pillows. "I've remembered what happened," she said, the words tumbling out. "The man with the gun…"

"Look," I interrupted. "We know all about him. He's a long way away now, so don't you concern yourself about him. He won't come here."

"But I saw him."

"You saw him? When?"

"When he fired. He wasn't shooting at me, Charles. He was shooting at you. It was you he was trying to kill."

I stroked her long fingers. The wedding ring was made of silver wires, twisted together in a local design by some Kenyan silversmith. It looked so simple against her suntanned skin, its elegance representing everything about her that I loved. "Yes, I know," I said. "We have a good idea who he is. He'll be arrested soon."

She shook her head in agitation. "But you don't understand. I saw him. He was wearing a man's hat, a trilby, but I don't think it was a he. I think it was a woman. A woman in men's clothing."

I couldn't hide my incredulity. "Are you sure?" I demanded.

"No, it was just an impression. But that's what I think I saw. Please be careful, Charles."

A nurse came and put a thermometer in Annabelle's mouth. "I will," I said. She couldn't speak, so I told her that I had a bodyguard, that Sparky was following me everywhere I went and armed police were never far away. It wasn't true, but hopefully it eased her mind.

The nurse read the thermometer and entered the result on the chart.

When she'd gone I said: "I understand you're staying with Rachel to recuperate. It's a good idea."

She sighed. "Yes, I said I would. I'm not so sure about it being a good idea, though."

"I thought he was a doctor?"

"He's an osteopath. He manipulates the bank balances of the wealthy.

Qualified by correspondence course with a college in Medicine Hat, Nebraska, or somewhere."

"Gosh. That's worse than Nairobi."

The old smile came back, enslaving all before it. "Not to mention Batley College of Art," she chuckled.

A frond of hair had fallen across her left eye. I brushed it aside and said: "Have you forgiven me for falling asleep on your settee?"

"You really know how to make a woman feel wanted, Charles, but you are forgiven."

"Oh, you're wanted," I stated. "Believe me, you're wanted."

It was a struggle, but I tore myself away. From home I rang the office, but nobody was in, not even Gilbert. I made some fresh toast and a pot of tea, but restlessness blunted my appetite. I carried breakfast through into the front room and placed it on a low table at the side of my favourite easy chair, in front of the gas fire. There was still nobody in the office, so I dialled Control.

"Where is everybody, Arthur?" I asked.

"Hello, Mr. Priest. Out on the job; we had three ram-raids last night. Plus I understand you have a couple off sick."

"Sick? It's not allowed. What's wrong with them?"

"Virus going round. It's called one-day flu."

"So they'll be back tomorrow?"

"No, it takes about a week to get over it."

"Well, why do they call it one-day flu?"

"Don't ask me, that's just its name."

"I see. If anybody comes in, ask them to ring me at home."

"Will do. Do you want me to chase them?"

"Er, no, I don't think so. Bye."

I finished the toast and tea. I was just reaching over to switch on Radio Four when the phone rang.

"Priest!" I snapped.

"Hello, Charlie. It's Gav Smith. I hear you were after me."

"Hi, Gavin. Yes, I was. Thanks for ringing, but I spoke to Mrs…

Petty, was it? She answered my question."

"It's Mrs. Pettit, actually. Yes, she told me, but I've just had a look at the file and she didn't give you the full story."

"Oh, go on."

"She said Purley died of TB and pneumonia, but what she didn't tell you was that they were AIDS-induced. I don't suppose it makes much difference, but Don Purley had full blown AIDS."

"Jesus, thanks. What was he doing injecting?"

"Probably, plus a bit of shirt lifting "Shirtlifting? Bet you didn't put that in your report."

"Not in those words, so don't quote me. Anything else?"

"Yeah. His wife, Rhoda. What happened to her?"

"Still in Heckley, as far as I know."

"We tried her name alongside the electoral roll and she didn't show."

"Oh." He was silent for a few moments before he said: "What name did you try?"

"Well, Rhoda Purley," I answered.

"Hang on a second." I could hear the rustle of sheets as he riffled through the file. "Here it is. Name of spouse or partner Rhoda Flannery. Common-law wife, as we called them in those days. They weren't married."

"Bugger!" I spat the word out. "You've been a little treasure, Gavin.

Give me his release address, please."

"Forty-nine, Attlee Towers."

"Got it. I owe you a pint."

"You're welcome. I know you don't believe it but we are supposed to be on the same side, you know."

I rang Heckley Control and spoke to Arthur again. "Bring up the local electoral roll," I told him, 'and check for a Rhoda Flannery. Then find out what car she drives, please. I'm at home."

He rang me back in a few minutes. She still lived at Attlee Towers and drove a 1988 Ford Fiesta, colour grey. Ah, well, I wasn't far off. He told me the registration number. I grabbed my jacket and picked up Sparky's radio from the hall table, where I'd left it the night before.