The Mushroom Man dcp-2

by Stuart Pawson

  Father Birr smiled just enough to convey empathy but not pleasure.

  "Hello," he said. "So glad you made it. I'm Father Birr, but most people call me Declan. Do you want to tell me your name?"

  "Yes," said the figure, almost apologetically. "I'm… the Destroying Angel," and a forefinger tightened around the trigger.

  Declan Birr died instantly, the flash and the roar of the shotgun frozen in his mind for eternity. Behind him the candle flames shivered as the shock wave passed through them, and plumes of pollution streamed heavenwards.

  Chapter 11

  Warning bells were clanging in the head of the detective superintendent who launched the enquiry into the death of Father Birr. "See if you can raise someone in the HOLMES unit," he told his sergeant as soon as he had the opportunity. "Ask them to input church, vicar, shotgun; that sort of stuff. There was another of these about three weeks ago, somewhere near Nottingham."

  The Home Office's purpose-designed major enquiry computer software flicked silently through the millions of bits and bytes that represented the thousands of crimes, mainly murders, that were stored in its implacable brain. It recognised the key words quicker than a man could blow his nose and spewed out the case of Ronald Conway; investigating officer in charge: Chief Superintendent Raymond Tollis.

  Fifteen minutes and four phone calls later Tollis was speaking to Oscar Peterson, asking to be picked up.

  Eighty per cent of murder victims know their assailant, and the majority of cases are solved in the first forty-eight hours. After that time the odds grow longer. Unsolved murders are never taken off the books, they are just pushed to the back of the file, to be forgotten by everyone except the people closest to them. DI Peterson was coming to terms with knowing that he might retire with the killer of Ronald Conway still free. He had decided that he could live with it.

  Tollis's phone call displeased him at first. He did not like the man and wanted to play no part in furthering his ambitions. Then his policeman's instincts took over and his initial dismay was replaced by the familiar urge to be in the thick of the action.

  A few minutes earlier he had donned a pair of old trousers, with the intention of doing an hour's gardening before the light faded. It was part of his self-imposed Training for Retirement programme. Dilys noted the eagerness with which he changed back into his work suit and shoes. She pecked his cheek and told him not to wake her when he returned.

  They went to the church first, having to ask directions from a woman at a bus stop. Peterson abandoned the car about fifty yards from the gate and followed in the Chief Superintendent's wake. Over the wall, in the graveyard, a search party was methodically working its way over the ground in the gathering gloom.

  Tollis ignored the lone reporter from the local radio station as they showed their IDs to the constable at the gate who was logging all visitors. Maybe there would be more when they came out. He'd better prepare some sort of statement, he thought. A short assertion that they were following certain lines of enquiry, combined with an appeal for witnesses. That should do it.

  The young PC at the door glanced at their cards before holding it open for them. Every time it had slammed he felt that some vital clue was destroyed and he was responsible. Tollis strode straight through, but Peterson gave the youth a wink. At the front of the church three heads turned to examine the intruders from another force who might take the enquiry away from them.

  Peterson hung back and let the chief do the talking. He was better at it. He heard himself described as 'my right-hand man', followed by confirmation that Tollis and Andrew, the Sheffield super, had been at Staff College together. No, Andrew hadn't applied to do the Senior Command Course this time. Everybody agreed that the killing was a 'nasty job'.

  "Any minute now they'll arrange a round of golf," the DI muttered to himself.

  The body had gone, but the photographer was still there, in case the SO COs needed him. Peterson wandered to where they were working. A pool of blood, shaped like Australia with a smudged Gulf of Carpentaria, marked the spot where the priest had fallen. He looked in vain for Lake Eyre, but then remembered seeing a TV programme about it drying up.

  Peterson turned to the photographer and jerked a thumb at the red stain. "What was he wearing?" he asked.

  "His long black frock, sir, over a shirt and trousers."

  "It's called a cassock. Did you notice if it had any pockets in it?"

  "Pockets? No, I don't think so, sir. Just slits in the side."

  "Mmm, that's what I'd have thought."

  The DI ran his expert gaze over the vicinity of the murder, for there was no doubt that it was murder and he was certain that this was at least the second in the series. He scanned the altar the holy of holies; the pulpit from which Father Birr would never again dispense his gentle wisdom; and the notice boards with the numbers of last week's hymns.

  It looked so innocuous, another person might have missed it. Lying on the front right-hand pew where the bridegroom usually sits was a piece of paper, with a prayer book resting on top so it could not blow away.

  Peterson walked across and bent over it. Without moving the book he could recognise the coloured illustration of a toadstool.

  "Overhere, please," he said, catching the SOCO's attention. He stood well back, with his hands in his pockets, so as not to contaminate the evidence. "That's his trademark," he told the officer, 'so give it everything you've got. I want to know his blood group, his skin, hair and eye colour' he counted them off on his fingers 'his DNA profile, his sperm count, fingerprints, chromosomes, what he had for breakfast, oh, and his telephone number." He stepped back in modest triumph to let them do their work.

  "What is it?" asked the local super as the little group joined him.

  "Picture of a toadstool, sir," explained Peterson.

  "A toadstool? ' "Actually, Andrew," interjected Chief Superintendent Tollis, anxious to assert his authority, 'it's called a destroying angel. Amonita vi rosa Well spotted, Oscar."

  Get stuffed, Baldy! thought Peterson.

  "A destroying angel? Does that have any significance?" asked Andrew.

  "Well, yes," expanded Tollis. "Our culprit uses that as his nom de plume. It would appear that the man we are looking for is some sort of religious fanatic' "Holy Moses!" exclaimed Andrew.

  "Quite possibly, sir," said Peterson.

  They were all back at Don Valley nick when DC Trevor Wilson finally made telephone contact with Peterson.

  "Hi, guy, how's it going?"

  "OK. What do you want?" the DI asked.

  "Is it another one?"

  "Looks like it."

  "Why didn't you send for me?"

  Peterson glanced up to see who was in earshot. "Because I'm just the bloody chauffeur," he hissed. "Did you want something, or is this all part of your campaign to drive me out of office?"

  "We've had a reply," stated the DC.

  "To what?"

  "The mail shot to libraries. A DI in Heckley left a message this afternoon saying his local librarian has found two books with pictures cut out."

  "Brilliant! Where's Heckley?"

  "Yorkshire, not far from Halifax." Do you want me to go there?"

  "When?"

  "Now."

  "Is it an all-night library?"

  "Er, no, I don't suppose it is."

  "Then the morning will do. Big meeting first, seven o'clock. Then we'll drive up to Eeh-By-Heckley together. And Trevor "What, guy?"

  "Just think of all those sheep!"

  We hit Paul Darryl Lally's house at seven a.m. on Wednesday morning.

  The seven o'clock knock on the door doesn't have the same police-state overtones that the two o'clock one does, but it catches the suspect in the same degree of unawareness. He's usually snug beneath his smelly sheets, and expecting to be there for at least another five hours. The criminal classes have no timetable imposed on them, so they invent their own. Their day starts at nightfall daylight is for sleeping through.

  I
didn't go in with the raiding party, but Nigel is still talking about the expressions on Mr. and Mrs. Lally's faces when he shook them out of their sleep and cautioned them.

  They hadn't heard the front door being sledge hammered having indulged themselves in an evening of bondage and supermarket red wine, plus an odd snort of sherbet. First I saw of them was when they were led, bewildered and bleary-eyed, to the waiting police car. She was wearing an anorak over her nightdress, fluffy slippers and an air of disbelief.

  They looked as if they'd just escaped a direct hit on their home by a Scud missile.

  Nigel watched them leave as if he were seeing his parents off on their holidays, then gestured me inside. He was grinning like a eunuch in a hurdle race.

  "Come and see the bed, boss," he said, leading me upstairs. Best offer I'd had in years. He opened a door and stood back. "How about that!" he declared.

  In another room I could see Jeff Caton and the others. He saw me pass and said: "Come and look at this, boss."

  "In a moment, Jeff."

  I walked past Nigel into the master bedroom. The bed was a magnificent brass job, all gleaming black enamel and gold. It nearly filled the room. The duvet cover was black satin, as were the pillows. The ceiling was mirrored and fitted with several spotlights. Nigel flicked them on and off. Dangling from each corner of the bed was a silken rope, made from red, black and white strands plaited together. A video camera stood on a tripod at the foot of the bed.

  I looked across at Nigel with my best attempt at a bored expression on my face. "So what's special?" I asked.

  We hadn't gone in heavy-handed, but we'd taken a few experts with us someone to take care of the dog; a sergeant, Frank Marriot, from the Porn Squad, and a photographer to make sure we didn't muck up any unprocessed material. Jeff was in a room converted into a studio, with the photographer.

  "Cartier-Bresson, I presume," I said as I joined him. All the walls were painted white and there was a white sheepskin rug on the floor. A thirty-five-millimetre Minolta fixed to another tripod was pointing down at it.

  "Forensic," I said, indicating the rug. The photographer was inspecting the camera. "Any good?" I asked.

  "Nothing special. Good enough, though."

  A voice in another room shouted, "Tell Charlie to come and look at this lot." I followed the sound into the third bedroom.

  A loft ladder was in the lowered position and a pair of legs were visible at the top. "What lot?" I asked.

  Sparky withdrew from the aperture and looked down at me. "Hi, boss.

  It's his dark room. There's a light switch, but maybe we'd better let Lord Lichfield have the first look. Don't want to spoil anything."

  Nigel wandered in to join us. "It's a water bed!" he announced.

  "I'm going back to the office," I told them. "You know what to do. And Dave…"

  "What, boss?"

  "Lock up when you've finished, but don't let Nigel have the key. We don't want him bringing that red-haired WPC from Halifax round and showing her the evidence. She might get seasick."

  Colour rose up Nigel's neck like beetroot juice spreading across a napkin. "Who… how… who told you about her?" he stammered.

  I winked at him and tapped the side of my nose with a forefinger.

  "Is she a genuine redhead?" asked Sparky.

  "Er, I'm not sure. I suppose so," he replied.

  "Yes, she is," I surmised, and fled down the stairs.

  The custody officer had put Lally and his wife in separate cells. His face lit up when I walked in and asked him where they were. "Did they really have straps on the bed?" he asked. "Not straps silken ropes.

  I'll talk to them later let them stew for a few hours. Have they asked for a phone call?"

  "Didn't want one. She claims her name is Fenella. Did you get a look at her?"

  "No, not really," I told him.

  "If I were guessing, I'd say she had to tie him to the bed."

  I went upstairs. As I walked into the office two voices cried: "Boss wants you." I did a stiff U-turn and walked straight out again.

  Superintendent Wood's office is up another floor. I knocked and walked in. Two strangers were sitting opposite him, sipping coffee, and the two books from the library were on the desk.

  "Come in, Charlie, come in," Gilbert said. Flapping his hand between us he went on: "This is DI Oscar Peterson and DC Trevor Wilson, from Trent Division. DI Charlie Priest."

  I shook their hands. I have a bad habit when I shake hands. A few years ago one of my sergeants was convinced that the Freemasons were behind all the major crime in the world. According to him they made the Mafia look like a net ball team at a garden party. In the course of his research he learned the secret handshake.

  While shaking hands in the normal manner you place your thumb in the middle of the back of the other person's hand and wriggle it about. If they respond you say something really mundane, like "It's a nice day."

  They reply: "Yes, and it will get nicer before it gets worse."

  Peterson's thumb wriggled back and he said: "Not very warm out, is it?"

  I replied: "No, and it will get cooler before it gets as warm as it is now, again."

  Gilbert gave me a funny look. "Oscar's come about those photographs, Charlie. Can you look after him? I've a meeting at Division in an hour." Turning to Peterson he said: "Will you excuse me if I leave you with Charlie?" They shook hands again and Gilbert put on his coat and left us in his office.

  The DI from Nottinghamshire wore a bemused expression on his face. "You wouldn't like to swap your super for that bald-headed bastard of ours, would you?" he asked, quickly adding: "You didn't hear that, Trevor."

  "Hear what, guy?"

  "No thanks," I told him. "Gilbert's one of the best. Mind you, the secret is to treat them right. Can I ask you a personal question?"

  "Fire away."

  "Is Oscar your real name?" From Trevor's reaction I knew that nobody had ever dared ask this before.

  "Yes. My mother was a sucker for clarinet players."

  "I thought he played the trumpet."

  "Who?"

  "Oscar Peterson."

  "Did he?"

  I made myself a cup of Gilbert's coffee and rejoined them. "Coming down a bit heavy on book vandals, aren't we?" I asked. "Or is there something else at the back of it?"

  "Books are expensive," Peterson told me. "And it leads to other things. Now he's killed a couple of people as well."

  I sat up. "Really?"

  "Yes, he's bagged a brace of vicars. With a shotgun. He left a picture of a toadstool cut from your books at the scenes. He's also claiming two others, but we think they were accidents."

  "Crikey. Any theories about the motive?"

  "Fraid not. All contributions welcome. The interesting thing is that the first one, which may have been an accident, was in East Anglia.

  Gradually they are working this way, to where the pictures originated.

  It's as if he's growing tired of driving so far."

  "Or can't afford the petrol," I added.

  "Possibly."

  "So you want to concentrate your efforts up here?"

  "That's right. We need an office, telephones, a fax, a HOLMES terminal, all the manpower you can spare. You name it, we want it."

  "You'll want Eric's address, too," I said.

  "Who's Eric?"

  "He's the local vicar-killer. It sounds as if Gilbert didn't tell you about our own little investigation. We've an eight-year-old been kidnapped. I can give you a couple of offices and a DC to be going on with. We'll make him Acting DS. He'll organise the rest for you."

  Peterson didn't look pleased. "A rooky DS!" he protested. "We need a bit more weight than that."

  "He's got it," I told him. "What about the librarian?"

  "We want to see her next."

  "OK. C'mon, I'll show you your offices and introduce you to John Rose.

  Then he can take you to the library."

  I stood up and held the door
open for them. Peterson paused in the doorway and said: "Can I ask you a personal question, Charlie?"

  "Er, yes. Fire away," I replied.

  "Thanks. Tell me this: have you ever shagged a sheep?"

  "No," I answered. "But I'm in a long-term relationship with a Swaledale ram who has."

  Nigel and most of the others arrived back about two o'clock. I asked him what they'd found.

  "About twenty rolls of negatives, plus a part-used one in the camera," he informed me.

  "Where are they now?"

  "The photographer has taken them to Foto Finish to be printed. He said it would take him a week to do them himself, but they'll put them through this afternoon. He has an arrangement with them. It'll cost us, though."

  "Who's with him?" I asked.

  "Sparky's gone along to make sure nobody runs off a spare set."

  "Well done. You had me worried for a while. What about the video?"

  "I replayed the one in the camera. It's just him and her. She's double-jointed. We found another six tapes, though."

  "Has that pervert Marriot from the Porn Squad taken them?"

  "Yes, boss. They have the set-up to watch them all at the same time.

  What a way to spend an afternoon."

  "Mmm. Did you look at any of the negatives?"

  "Yep. Plenty of arms and legs and writhing bodies. Couldn't tell who was who, though."

  "That'll do to be going on with. Let's see what the Lallys have to say for themselves."

  We went downstairs. As we walked past the front desk the sergeant called out to me: "Mr. Priest!"

  I spun to face him: "Mr. Jenks!"

  "Er, Charlie. You wouldn't happen to have a radio, would you?"

  "Er, yes, I would just happen to have," I replied.

  "Good. Where is it, please?"

  "It's next to the sideboard, under the CD player."

  "C'mon, Charlie, you know what I mean." He looked exasperated.