The Mushroom Man dcp-2

by Stuart Pawson

  "Oh! That radio," I said. "It's in the car. Why?"

  "Thank Christ for that. One of the new ones is missing and someone's calling this afternoon to take them back. They're faulty. The buttons aren't waterproof and they stick in if they get wet. You wouldn't like to fetch it, would you?"

  "No, I wouldn't. I'll leave you my keys, though." I fished them out of my pocket and dropped them on the desk. "It looks new and shiny; that's why I chose it."

  "The car?"

  "No, the radio."

  We dragged Lally out of his cell and installed him in an interview room. He didn't kick and scream, fortunately. These days we have to treat people like him as if they were Faberge eggs. I hovered over the twin tape recorders for a few seconds, then switched them on. I droned the words with studied indifference: "Taped interview with Paul Darryl Lally. Also present DS Newley and DI Priest. Mr. Lally, you have been informed that you are entitled to have a solicitor present during any interview. We can arrange a duty solicitor or send for one of your choice. Do you understand?"

  He wasn't much of a specimen. Easy to dislike; that's how I prefer them. He was skinny, but with big, bony shoulders. His hair was long and lank, and a row of tattooed dots ran round his neck. A similar row were visible on his wrist, with a big letter A that was looped at the top. His fingers were decorated with the inevitable LOVE and HATE.

  "Do you understand, Mr. Lally?"

  He stared at me.

  "I take it, Mr. Lally, that you are forgoing your right to have a solicitor present."

  Silence. I felt like a man who was trying to teach a parrot to talk, but didn't realise it was a sparrow hawk in the cage. He just sat there unmoved and unblinking.

  "For the tape, please," I said. He didn't stir, so I added:

  "MrLallynods."

  "I'm saying nowt!" he blurted out.

  "Ah! So you can use your tongue for speaking," I said. "After watching the video we weren't sure if you knew its proper use. Now, let's see how good it is at names, eh?"

  He lounged back in his chair and folded his arms, to demonstrate that he was bored and had no desire to continue.

  I leaned forward, two-thirds of the way across the table. "Names, Lally, of all your customers. But most of all the procurers of the kids. I don't care if you get one year or twenty, but I want those names. Understand?" I paused for a second, before adding: "Mr. Lally nods."

  "I said fuck-all!" he yelled into my face.

  Now I sat back. "Look, Lally," I told him. "At the moment you are charged with allowing your premises to be used for immoral purposes. At the best you're going to cop for taking photographs of under-age children in sexual acts. If I'm feeling benevolent you might get away with having taken part in those acts yourself. Do you follow?"

  "I'm saying nowt!" he said.

  "Let's see, then: there's assault, procuring children of tender age for sexual purposes, unlawful sexual intercourse… the possibilities are endless. But no doubt you know more about it than me."

  He scowled at me as if I'd just popped out of a boil he'd squeezed.

  "OK," I went on, 'play it your way. We'll have the photos printed in a couple of hours. Let's see what they tell us. Meanwhile you might like to know that our forensic people have been having a look at the sheepskin rug from your studio. So far they've found enough sperm on it for a trout farm. I wonder if any of it is yours? Interview terminated. Take him to his cell, Sergeant." I stopped the tapes.

  Nigel came back and paced up and down the interview room, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  "For Christ's sake, sit down," I told him. "This is the cheapest carpet known to mankind. It wears out quicker than a Rottweiler's patience."

  "Grrr!" he said, holding his fists up.

  "Sit down!" I ordered.

  "Didn't you… don't you… didn't you want to smash his fucking head in?" he growled, dragging the chair away from the table and flopping into it.

  "No," I replied.

  "No!"

  "No. He'd probably enjoy it. All you can do is not let him know he's got through to you. Sometimes it's impossible. Do you think he'll talk?"

  Nigel shook his head. "He's rehearsed the situation. Or he's been brainwashed. Say nothing and let them try to prove otherwise, that's the code."

  "Yes, you're right; he's been on the course. It's going to get tougher, y'know. We've all the photos to look at, for a start. Once we've ascertained that little Georgina isn't involved, we could hand the whole thing over to the Porn Squad, if we wanted."

  "No, boss. Let's go through with it. It's just that… well… I wonder how everybody else handles something like this?"

  "Not very well, Nigel. Mainly through booze and taking it out on the wife."

  "What if you haven't a wife?" he asked, looking straight at me. He obviously didn't want the ten cents answer.

  I twisted my chair sideways away from the table and stretched my legs out. "Various ways," I said. "We all find our own. We even run seminars on it, I believe. Maybe we should all go on one. That won't help today, though."

  "What do you do, Charlie?"

  Nigel, the paragon of politeness, had never called me Charlie before.

  "What do I do? Oh, I make a joke of it; look on the bright side. I try not to see victims; just people who are involved. Maybe I pretend that some are even willing victims. It just happens that someone has done something that is against the law, and that's where I come in. We employ social workers to pick up the debris. It's not so much handling the situation as ignoring it. Maybe I'm storing trouble for the future, but it seems to work for me."

  It was a lie. It had worked for me in the past, but last year's future is today. "It's a depressing job, Nigel, but what would happen if we didn't do it? Go fetch the other one; let's see what she has to say for herself."

  To hell with political correctness Fenella Smith, common-law wife of Paul Lally, was a slag. I wouldn't have shagged her with the ragman's trumpet. Her skin was the colour of curdled milk, and in spite of being dragged out of bed at seven in the morning she had more black around her eyes than a steam tug has around its funnel, except that most of it was no longer around her eyes.

  She'd taken the same correspondence course on frustrating the law as her paramour, but she was better at it. I couldn't goad her into uttering a word. I made the same deal and told Nigel to take her away.

  While he was gone I ejected the tapes and placed them in envelopes, as per proper police procedure, although they said more about me than about the prisoners.

  Dave Sparkington was back, with the photographs. A quick glance through them told me they were what we'd expected. I suppose it was a relief- if they'd been somebody's holiday snaps, would I have been disappointed? I don't know.

  Maggie was on her way to City HQ with a photo of Georgina to compare with anything on the videos. I gazed at the pictures of her on the wall, as if to fix her face in my mind, although it wasn't necessary.

  She was already there for all time. One photo, taken at school, was the overriding image that had appeared in all the papers and in all the publicity briefings. It showed a cheeky eight-year-old, with wire-framed spectacles and a gap in her teeth. A plain Jane so far, but bubbling with life and hovering on the brink of who-could-tell-what. She'd be very easy to love.

  "OK," I said, without enthusiasm, 'you know what we're looking for.

  Let's get on with it."

  There were four of us: me, Sparky, Nigel and Jeff Caton. We each grabbed a handful of photos and started working our way through them.

  After a few initial gasps we fell silent, with just the steady flick of the turning prints indicating our progress.

  "Jeez!" I heard Jeff mumble under his breath. I glanced his way and he held one up for my inspection.

  "I know. I've already had a couple like that," I said.

  Sparky stood up and went into the corridor for some fresh air. Nigel plodded on in silence, like a quality-control robot, devoid of expression. I looked out of the
window; it was raining again.

  "Lally!" exclaimed Jeff after about half an hour. We gathered round him to study the evidence. It was almost certainly him, doing bestial things to a little blonde girl. We found a few others of him. In one he was staring straight at the camera with her sitting on his knee. You wouldn't have sent it to grandma to put on the sideboard, though.

  "How about this?" said Sparky, sliding a print across to me. A male was having relatively normal sex with an adult woman. The interesting bit was the tattoo on his arse. It depicted a Union Jack, with the number 18 in the middle.

  Nigel leaned across to look. "Eighteen? What does that signify?" he asked.

  Sparky took the photo back and placed it on his facedown pile. "Nazis," he explained. "One is for the letter A, eight is for H. AH Adolf Hitler. I don't suppose the ones in Virginia Water wear tattoos."

  "No!" retorted Nigel. "And they don't keep pigeons and whippets, either."

  "Cut it out, you two!" I demanded. "His haircut looks familiar, I've had a few with him on." He was a skinhead, with just the last bit at the back allowed to grow long.

  "With luck, I'll be running my fingers through it in the next couple of days," Sparky muttered grimly.

  "Just how sick can one person be?" Nigel wondered.

  Georgina wasn't in any of the photographs.

  When we'd finished we discussed our findings. "It looks to me," I said, 'as if we are dealing with four adult males, two adult females and two children." The others agreed. "OK. So did anyone recognise any of the adults?"

  Only Lally

  "Right, so how do we get to them?"

  "Circulate descriptions."

  "Yep. So we need decent mug shots of them all. To start with maybe we should sort the pictures according to the adults on them, then do some cross-referencing. Jeff, could you have a think about that, please?"

  "Will do, boss."

  "Then what?" I asked.

  "See what Forensic come up with."

  "Yes. A few sets of dabs would help cut some corners. We can't afford to sit around waiting, though."

  "How about trying to identify the children, Charlie," Sparky suggested.

  "CPU might have them on their at-risk file. And we know where they all are between nine and four, most days."

  CPU was the Child Protection Unit. We'd have to call them in as soon as any kids were involved. I told Jeff to give them pictures of the girls. Sparky wandered over to the big map on the wall and started attacking it with a highlighter pen.

  "What are they, Dave?" I asked.

  "Schools."

  "What are you thinking?"

  "School photographs, Charlie. We can't rely on just rolling up and flashing pictures before the headmistress's eyes; but if we could obtain pictures of all the kids we could do a practical comparison."

  "They won't keep a spare set," said Jeff Caton, 'but we could chop the best of what we have, to show just the kids' faces. Then ask all the teaching staff if they recognise them."

  "Bang goes confidentiality," I stated. "They'd soon guess or invent what we were doing."

  "There's another objection to that," Sparky told us. "About three years ago a teacher at the primary school was fined and sacked for dealing in computer porn. Others no doubt escaped."

  "That's right, I remember. So what are you saying?"

  "That we'd have to take our own photographs: identify the kids ourselves," Sparky replied.

  "You're assuming the kids are local," I stated.

  "We've got to start somewhere."

  "Right!" I decided. "We'll do it Dave's way. This one needs hitting with all we've got while Lally is still inside. How many schools have you found, Dave?"

  "Four. The two big middle schools and a couple of medium-sized ones.

  What's that… oh, about, say, fifteen hundred pupils."

  "Half boys, though," said Nigel. "And we might be able to disregard some who are too old or too young."

  "Mmm. These in the photos might look younger than they are. Let's try to do them all," I replied. Turning to DS Newley I went on: "Nigel, round up four photographers, if possible, and four WPCs to act as their assistants. Then we want photos of all the girls, with the WPCs cataloguing their names and any other characteristics we can come up with. Let's have a look at the children again."

  Jeff rummaged through the collection of pictures and spread samples on the desk, looking for any that gave good views of the faces. Not many did.

  Sparky pointed with a forefinger. "They're both wearing earrings, for a start," he said.

  One girl had small gold rings in her ears, and a pair of shiny stones glinted in the other girl's. "Would they be allowed to wear those at school?" I asked. This was foreign territory to me.

  "Probably," Sparky told me. "Things are different to your day. They're allowed to write left-handed now. So we want to know which kids have pierced ears."

  "And look where it's brought us. Make a note of that, Nigel: pierced ears."

  "Done, boss."

  "What else?"

  "This one's wearing a chain around her neck."

  "Yep. Look, let's call them child A and child B and make a list."

  It didn't take long. Child A had pierced ears, a neck chain and rings on two fingers. B had pierced ears, a neck chain, two bracelets and one ring. We added various facial characteristics and estimates of height and weight. Jeff found photographs that showed some of the jewellery better and distinguishing marks on the girls' features.

  "Match that lot and it will be better than fingerprints," he declared.

  You always feel more cheerful when you are doing something positive.

  Although Georgina wasn't involved we all had the feeling that something worthwhile was happening: villains were about to be put behind bars, and kids rescued from a life of hell. If being taken into care could be called rescued.

  I told the three of them to visit the four schools first thing in the morning. They would have to stress the seriousness of the of fences to the heads and arrange for the photographers to visit in the afternoon, if possible. It would disrupt the school day, and a couple of bolshie teachers could wreck the whole thing. Tact and diplomacy were called for.

  "That's it for today, then. I've had enough. We'll go home at a reasonable hour for once," I said. It was about six thirty.

  "I'll sort out these pictures first," said Jeff.

  "No you won't," I told him. "They can wait. Let's lock them in my drawers and have a full day tomorrow. Are you all right, Dave?"

  Sparky was the only one of us with children. He had three. Jeff had one on the way.

  "Yeah, nothing that fourteen pints and kicking the dog won't cure," he replied.

  "C'mon, then. Let's go."

  It was still drizzling outside and I didn't have a coat, but it felt pleasant and cleansing after the oppressiveness of the office. Walking across the car park with Nigel, he asked: "What will you do tonight, Charlie?"

  "Tonight? Oh, I don't know. Something to eat, have a shower. Listen to some decent music with a can of beer. Try to get some quality into my life after the daily grime of this job." I gathered my thoughts and continued with the theme. "I try to shed it, like a miner washing off the coal dust and appearing as a new person. We can't live two separate lives, one as a policeman and one as a civilian, and none of us would want to, but you've got to learn to cultivate a space for yourself. End of sermon. G'night, Nigel."

  "Er, Angela's coming round tonight, to cook a Chinese meal. It'd be no problem to put an extra portion in. You're welcome to join us, if you want."

  It sounded a cosy arrangement. I wondered if it ought to be me asking advice from him. "Angela? The WPC from Halifax?"

  He blushed and nodded.

  "It's good of you to ask," I told him, 'but I'd be in the way." I'd reached my car and fumbled in my pockets for the keys. "Enjoy your meal," I said, adding with a stab of the finger: "And treat her properly. That's an order."

  I'd lost my keys. Then I rem
embered that I'd left them at the front desk. It would have been easier and drier, to have fetched the duff radio myself. So much for being assertive.

  Chapter 12

  Acting DS John Rose took DI Peterson and DC Wilson to Heckley Town Library, where they interviewed Mrs. Chadwick, the chief librarian.

  John was pleased at the sideways move into this new investigation. The Georgina case had given him a taste for high-profile work, but it was bogged down now that most avenues of enquiry had petered out.

  Mrs. Chadwick went through her story again and demonstrated the library's computer to them. They came away with the names and addresses of the last twenty people to withdraw the mutilated books.

  Peterson fell for the chief librarian's charms and twice managed to boast of his friendship with Olga Friedland, Chief Executive of the Library Association. He added 'library' to his list of retirement activities.

  "Be nice if he took the books home before he cut the pages out," DC Wilson stated, in the car on their way back to Heckley nick.

  "True, but sadly, he didn't," Peterson told him, passing the printout across. "Nobody appears on both lists, but maybe he took just one of them home. He must know something about fungi, he can't have dreamed it all up."

  "We have plenty of Travellers and New Agers around these parts," ADS Rose said. "They know all about mushrooms: which ones are good to eat, which are poisonous and which give a good trip. I'd be looking for a connection there, for a start."

  "Do many of them carry library cards?" Peterson asked with undisguised sarcasm.

  "No, but they could still go in. Plenty of them are educated university dropouts and such," John answered.

  "Fine. So tomorrow you two can ask Mrs. Chadwick about any traveller types coming in for a read and a warm, then start going through the list of names."

  At the station Peterson sniffed round his allotted accommodation and gave John a list of requirements to organise, before starting back to Trent Division. In the car, driving down the M1, DC Wilson said: "They seem a friendly bunch, don't you think?"

  Peterson looked sourly across at him. "Think so?" he growled.

  "Yes, guy. Don't you?"