The Mushroom Man dcp-2

by Stuart Pawson

  He said: "Hi, Chas. You can go out and get rat-arsed tonight. Tomorrow is cancelled."

  "Great, I hate Mondays. Is this a one-off or will it apply to all of them from now on?"

  "Just this one, sadly. You remember Terry Finnister?"

  "Yes. Lorry driver from near Warrington who somebody fingered to us.

  Was delivering toilets or something when Georgina vanished."

  "That's him, except it was near Workington. Well, on Saturday he was arrested by the local fuzz for showing his own to a bunch of schoolgirls in the park. Apparently they laughed at him and he turned nasty, assaulted one of them."

  "I should think so, too. What's this got to do with us?" I asked.

  "What it's got to do with us, Charlie boy, is that this afternoon he confessed to the murder of Georgina Dewhurst."

  Chapter 16

  I'd been standing by the telephone. I slumped into the easy chair alongside the low table and didn't speak for several seconds.

  Eventually I said: "Is he being taken seriously?"

  "North-West are taking him seriously. Apparently he asked to make a statement and it was all done with the duty solicitor present."

  "Golly gosh. Do you want me to get over there?"

  "No, he's not going anywhere, they've already charged him. I've said we'll collect him at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. I think you and I ought to go. OK? That'll give them time to have the initial interview transcribed."

  "OK. Did he say how he killed her?"

  "We might have a problem there," Gilbert replied. "His story is that when she struggled he put his hands on her throat to quieten her and she just went limp."

  "Like they always do."

  "Exactly. We'll have to check with the pathologist to see if it's a possibility."

  "What about his movements? I don't suppose he went anywhere near Capstick that Monday morning."

  "Suitably vague. He says he hid the body and went back for it one night. We'll find out more tomorrow. The good news is that Partridge gets his arrest to announce at the conference, and Dewhurst will think the pressure is off him."

  "So you're not convinced?"

  "I've an open mind. Are you?"

  "No."

  "Right. See you in the morning."

  It doesn't say much for a person's lifestyle when they want to claim credit for a murder they didn't do. It's a poor reflection on society when, for a few individuals, being a convicted murderer or child molester is a step up the social scale. Terry Finnister was on my mind when I went to sleep that night. He wasn't in my normal library of bed-time reveries. I cursed him and thought about Annabelle, but that only caused me to wonder where she had been all weekend.

  Poor old Gilbert was called in to brief Trevor Partridge, the Acting Chief Constable, so DC Mad Maggie Madison went to Workington with me.

  We set off at eight, dodging the morning meetings. "I'll drive there,"

  I told her. "You can drive home, unless you'd rather sit in the back with lover boy."

  "Why not let him drive home," she suggested. "Then I could sit in the back with you."

  I tut-tutted. "Any more talk like that, Margaret, and I'll have to report you for sexual harassment. You really will have to make an effort to control these animal urges."

  "Why?"

  "Buggered if I know. We could always forget Finnister and book into a seedy boarding house in Blackpool."

  "Sorry, Charlie. It's the Holiday Inn or nothing."

  "No, it's got to be a seedy boarding house, much more romantic. People don't have affairs at the Holiday Inn. They go there for six hours' sleep and fifteen hundred calories of breakfast down 'em. Stay in bed too long and you'll wake up with a Sanitised label round you."

  Maggie said: "Can you imagine the expression on Finnister's face if we said: "Do you mind driving, Terence, old boy, while we have a session on the back seat?"

  "Can you imagine the expression on my face?" I answered.

  It was harmless banter. I'd known Maggie, and her husband, a long time. She was a figure of stability to whom I'd turned once or twice when times were bad; especially when my marriage collapsed. Nothing heavy, just someone to talk to. She was a good cop, and I think she regarded me the same.

  We fell to talking about the job. The latest policy scare that someone had dreamed up was called Tenure of Office. The theory was that we'd all have to rotate jobs every few years. Five years in CID and then it would be back into uniform. Maggie thought I'd have some inside information about it, but I didn't. She said she'd leave if it came about. I didn't know what I'd do. We both agreed it was crazy.

  We had a comfort stop at the services on the M6. At Junction 36 I said: "Let's take the scenic route," and swung off the motorway. In Windermere I said: "If we're taking the scenic route we might as well do the job properly," and turned on to the Kirkstone Pass road, round the back of Helvellyn.

  The tops were shrouded in the usual mist as we dropped down into Patterdale. "They do good chicken legs in garlic there," I said, gesturing towards the pub.

  "Sorry, Charlie, we haven't time," Maggie replied. She liked to play the mother hen with me. I accepted the roles.

  "Just a thought," I said.

  The proximity of the mountains made me melancholy. Having to drive by them was like leading a small boy past a sweet-shop window. I'd done a lot of fell-walking and a small amount of climbing over the years, but hardly any recently, apart from the brief excursion with Annabelle a fortnight ago.

  "When things quieten down maybe we should resurrect the CID walking club," I suggested.

  "CID boozing club, more like it," Maggie replied. "It was fun, though, maybe we should."

  Thirty minutes later we breezed into the station and identified ourselves to the custody sergeant. "You're late," he told us. "We were expecting you an hour ago."

  "Traffic was bad," I replied.

  The sergeant passed me the detention sheet to sign. I noted that Finnister was in good health and bore no visible signs of bruising or other injury. I scrawled my name and the sergeant handed me a poly bag containing a few possessions. He removed a bunch of keys from a locked drawer.

  "There's a transcript of the interviews for us, too, and I wouldn't mind a word with the detective who interviewed him, if possible," I said.

  "Sorry, they're all out. The interviews are here, though." He retrieved a large manila envelope from another drawer. I could see from the bulge that it also contained a copy of the tape.

  "Right, thanks. Let's go get him, then."

  The sergeant unlocked a door on to a short corridor between the cells.

  "Has he been fed?" I asked.

  "The prisoner ate an 'early breakfast," he answered. "Full English, brought in from the take away next door. Should have set him up for the day." We were outside his cell. The sergeant slid the hatch to one side with such force that it startled me. "Wake up, Mr.

  Finnister," he bellowed. "Your taxi has arrived."

  The door swung open, leading us into a standard eight-by-six room, painted magnolia after extensive research, with a bunk down one side.

  Finnister was invisible, huddled under the blankets. "Wake up, Terry, time to go," the sergeant called out, grabbing a handful of grey blanket and pulling it back.

  The face he revealed was a death mask, little more than skin stretched over a skull. Finnister wore an expression like a snarl turning into a smile, as if, at the last moment, some great puzzle had been solved.

  "Oh my God!" the sergeant mumbled, staggering back. "Oh my God!"

  "Ring for an ambulance," I ordered, bundling him to one side. "Maggie …"

  I yanked the blankets away. From his chest down Finnister was lying in a big black pool of blood. It couldn't soak away because of the polythene sheet covering the mattress, protection against drunks pissing the bed. Maggie put her hand on his throat, feeling for a pulse. I found the slashes in his wrist and tried to hold them closed.

  "Find something to bind these with, Maggie,
" I said.

  She shook her head. "Waste of time, I'm afraid, boss. He hasn't a drop of blood left in him to save."

  It was their baby, so as soon as we decently could, we left them to it.

  I collected the manila envelope and let Maggie drive us back. She drives with all the panache of the unimaginative, right foot hard down on one pedal or the other. Neither of us spoke much. I tried to read the interview notes, but concentration was difficult. Back at Heckley we played the tape in Gilbert's office.

  The interrogation had been done with skill and patience. Finnister had freely volunteered the information that he had killed Georgina. The detective's tone was encouraging, and he had teased as much as he could from the prisoner about the details of the murder. When Finnister realised he was saying too much, he clammed up. Otherwise it didn't tell us anything we didn't already know. Maggie made two coffees, and a tea for me, while we were listening.

  "Thanks, Maggie, you make a good cup pa Gilbert said, taking a sip.

  "That's sexist," I declared.

  "No it's not. It's appreciation. So what do you think?"

  I took my time before replying. Then I said: "We were late. I decided to take the picturesque route, through Patterdale. I think that if we'd been on time we'd have a prisoner in the cells now."

  "In which case," he replied, "Finnister would probably have topped himself on our premises, and we'd be taking all the flak."

  "If he'd had the means. We might have looked after him better."

  Gilbert said: "If you'd been on time. If we'd found whatever he used to cut himself. If your aunt had balls she'd be your uncle. It's not our fault, Charlie. It's not anybody's fault but his own. He'd have done it sometime, somewhere, however hard we'd tried to look after him."

  "OK, you're right," I said. "But I don't think we've done him any favours over the years. It would only have been common courtesy to have been on time."

  "No it wouldn't. He probably hadn't been told what time you were supposed to be there. Anyway, I have no qualms about not extending common courtesy to self-confessed child killers."

  "Nor have I, but I don't think he did it."

  Gilbert tapped the rim of his cup with a fingernail. "No, I thought you didn't. So why did he confess?"

  "It's common enough. Why do we do anything? Why did I join the police?"

  "What about you, Maggie?" "I'm not sure, sir, but I have my doubts."

  "Mmm. So the book stays open." Maggie and I nodded.

  "That'll please the Acting Chief Constable," he said, with the slightest hint of a smile.

  Maggie volunteered to tell Dewhurst the latest developments. Just the bare facts, before he read about it in the papers. Down in my own office I rang Sam Evans, the police surgeon, to tell him I'd swished my hands round in someone else's blood. I'd washed them thoroughly immediately afterwards, and had no cuts or contusions, so he was able to reassure me. Normally we try to wear gloves in situations like that. I knew I wouldn't feel comfortable until I'd had at least one hot shower.

  "Thanks, Sam," I said. "Try to keep out of paintbrush shops."

  It was a private joke. I'd met Sam about ten years previously after I'd fallen down a fire escape. When I admired the watercolours on the walls of his surgery he told me that his wife, Yvonne, had painted them. Unfortunately she'd suffered a slight stroke, leaving her with a tremor in her left hand, which was doubly sad because she was left-handed, and could therefore paint no more.

  The pictures were typical of an amateur, tightly done and over brushed but the talent was obviously there. "Why doesn't she paint right-handed, then?" I asked.

  "I've suggested that, but she says she can't."

  "Would you like me to show her how? I'd be glad to."

  "Are you a painter, too?" Sam enquired.

  "Well, I went to art school."

  "Great! That would be splendid. When will it be convenient?"

  I went round a couple of nights later armed with a large sheet of rag paper and the biggest sable brush available, purchased at massive discount during my student days. One of the secrets of watercolours is to use only the finest materials. I showed Yvonne how her pictures could be improved using a much looser, big-brush technique, and suggested she start by repainting all her old works. Using the wrong hand was a good way of enforcing this new discipline. Now she makes a steady income from art club exhibitions. I told Sam to buy her a size 12 pure sable brush, and specified the make. Poor old Sam breezed into the artists' suppliers and asked for one. He nearly had a cardiac arrest when the assistant said: "That will be ninety-five quid, sir.

  Shall I wrap it?"

  Our gossiping was interrupted by the other phone ringing. I said goodbye to Sam and hello to the new caller.

  "It's Van Rees here, is that Inspector Priest?" said the voice on the line.

  "Hello, Professor. Charlie Priest speaking. What can I do for you?"

  "It's more what I can do for you. Could you possibly get over here, quickly as possible? I've found something that you'll be interested in."

  It was going-home time; I was tired and hungry and he was fifty miles away. "Can't you tell me over the phone?" I asked.

  "It's something I want to show you. Put your coat on, Inspector, and point your car in this direction. You know I wouldn't call you out for nothing."

  "I'm on my way. In fact… that's me knocking on your door right now."

  I hit all the rush-hour traffic, so it was an hour and a half later that I knocked on his door.

  "Come in, Inspector Priest. Sit down, please. Coffee?"

  "Thanks. I could murder a cup of tea."

  "Ah, murder. How we devalue the wickedness of the deed by everyday use of the word. Milk and sugar?"

  "Just sugar, please. Do you ever go home, Professor?"

  "Yes, of course, when I have to. But what could I find at home as fascinating as all this?" He gestured with the hand holding the teaspoon, splashing brown drops on to the papers on his desk.

  I gave an inclination of the head, as if agreeing with him. He wasn't the type to be interested in football on the telly or to have a kind-hearted au pair.

  I had a few sips from the mug he'd pushed across to me. It was coffee, with milk but no sugar. "Mmm, just what I needed," I lied. "Now, what do you want to show me?"

  He produced two ten-by-eight photographs from a folder. They were black at the bottom and white at the top, with a jagged line between like a badly sharpened saw-blade.

  "What do you think of those?" he said, triumphantly.

  I studied them for a few seconds, then said: "You've taken up minimalist photography and want my opinion. Is that it?"

  He peered over the tops of the pictures. "You're holding that one upside down," he replied.

  I asked him to explain. When he'd finished I borrowed his sugar and put four spoonfuls in the coffee champagne would have been more appropriate, but this would do.

  "Well done, Prof," I said, trying to hide the hotchpotch of emotions that was bubbling over inside me. "Well done!"

  I used his phone to ring Luke's home number. He was about to go out, as soon as he'd decided which earrings to wear.

  "Luke, how long would it take to run off copies of all my reports of interviews with Miles Dewhurst?"

  "Oh, about five minutes."

  "Good. Any chance of you calling in at the station and doing it, please?"

  "What, now?"

  "Mmm."

  "Er, yeah. No problem, Charlie."

  "Thanks. Leave them on my desk, I'll collect them in a couple of hours."

  On the way back I saw a fish and chip shop and swung into a vacant parking place. I was about to order when I remembered where my hands had been earlier in the day, and didn't feel hungry any more.

  "Er, I'veer changed my mind," I said to the bewildered lady, and left empty-handed.

  The reports were on my desk, as arranged. I took them home to read in bed, but not before I'd had a hot shower and a bowl of cornflakes, consecutively.r />
  Ashurst Construction have premises on a bustling new trading estate in Stockport, Greater Manchester. Mr. Black, their managing director and chief designer, welcomed me into his office at nine o'clock on Tuesday Morning. I'd made the appointment earlier by ringing him at home.

  "Sit down, Inspector. Can I order you a coffee?" he said.

  "No thanks, Mr. Black, I'd rather get straight on with it and I'm sure you're very busy."

  "Busy's the word. Still, it's preferable to the alternative. How can I help you?"

  "First of all, could you tell me in a sentence what you do here and how well you know a company called Eagle Electrical."

  The genial expression slipped from his face. "Ah, yes," he said. "The little girl. I read that you'd found her body. Dreadful. Dreadful."

  "Eagle Electrical…" I prompted.

  "Yes, well, to answer your question, we are in the business of renovating property. Trading estates like this one, nursing homes, blocks of flats. We do a lot of work for local authorities. Eagle Electrical have supplied us with materials, and sometimes we've found it more expedient to subcontract the labour to them, too. Smaller jobs, though; we have our own teams of craftsmen. We use Eagle and others in preference to losing a contract."

  "So how well do you know Mr. Dewhurst?" I asked.

  "Miles Dewhurst?" He pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. "I … know him, that's all. He comes in here about once a month looking for business. They haven't had a substantial order from us for quite a while. We try to put some stuff their way, to keep them floating. It's not in our interests for them to go under."

  "You think it might have come to that?"

  "I really don't know. We're OK, but a lot of smaller firms are still failing in spite of all the talk of a recovery."

  "Could you tell me when you last saw Miles Dewhurst, Mr. Black?" I asked.

  "Yes. The morning his daughter disappeared. I'd presumed that was why you were here."

  "It is, but I need to hear it from your mouth. Is there any documentary proof that he was here that morning? You know what we say, sir: to eliminate him from our enquiries."