The Mushroom Man dcp-2

by Stuart Pawson

  He appeared quite eager. "Well, yes, there is. It just so happened that he had a puncture in our yard. Very embarrassing for him he drives one of those macho off-road vehicles. Something had gone through one of his sidewalls; ruined the tyre. Our mechanic took it round to ATS Tyres and had a new one fitted."

  "Took the wheel there or the whole vehicle?"

  "The vehicle. He put the spare on and drove it there. Miles stayed in here with me. Only took half an hour. We put it on our account, so it's in the books, somewhere."

  "Good. Thank you. When it's convenient would you mind making a recorded statement in a local police station — everything you've just told me?"

  "No, not at all' "I'll fix something up, then. Now, could I possibly have a word with the mechanic who took Dewhurst's car to the tyre depot?"

  Nigel and Sparky were in deep conversation when I entered the office.

  Nigel was saying: "So why was Prince Charles wearing this ginger hat with the tail down the back?"

  Sparky rolled his eyes in a so-help-me gesture.

  "Because," he said, emphasising with a stab of the finger, 'because the Queen said: "Where are you going, Charles?" and he replied:

  "Heckmondwike," and she said: "Wear the fox hat."

  "Don't let Mr. Wood hear you telling royalist jokes, David," I said, endeavouring to keep a straight face.

  "No, boss, it's not a joke. It's a true story."

  "So what's a fox hat got to do with Heckmondwike?" Nigel asked.

  "Never mind that," I interrupted. "Where is Mr. Wood?"

  "Summoned to Division," said Sparky. "Apparently we've overspent on handcuffs."

  "So that means…" I stretched my arms wide, 'that I'm in charge. OK, boys and girls, gather round and Uncle Charlie will tell you a story."

  When I'd finished, there were smiles all round. I slid my diary, open at a list of phone numbers, across to Nigel and pointed at the phone.

  "C'mon, Nigel, do your stuff," I said.

  He drummed his fingers on the handset for a moment, gathering his wits, then picked it up and dialled. After a few seconds he gave us a nod and settled back in his chair.

  "Mr. Dewhurst?" he asked. "Oh, good. It's DS Newley here, from Heckley CID. Is it convenient for you to speak? You're not doing eighty on the motorway, are you?… Fine, fine. You've heard the latest developments, I presume? Yes… we've mixed feelings here, too."

  Nigel placed a hand over the mouthpiece. "He's at home," he hissed. He resumed the conversation; "The fact is, Mr. Dewhurst, we'd like to do a formal interview with you here at the station. As you know, it's a sad fact that in a case like this the closest members of the family always fall under a certain amount of suspicion. We need a taped interview describing your movements on the weekend in question; tie up a few loose ends, so to speak… Yes… Yes, I suppose it does seem rather pointless to you… How does four thirty, here, sound?… Oh, good. We'll see you then, Mr. Dewhurst. Thank you for your cooperation. Oh, there's just one other thing. It's normal procedure for a solicitor to be present. Would you like me to arrange the duty solicitor or will you bring your own?"

  Nigel replaced the phone and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "He's bringing his own solicitor," he sighed.

  Nigel had managed to squeeze all the key words into the conversation: under suspicion; taped interview; solicitor present. I said: "Well done. Now, let's go to the pub and discuss tactics over a Steinberg's pork pie. I'm famished."

  These days we can't afford to have anybody manning the front desk. The public are expected to ring the bell for attention. We were looking out for Dewhurst, though. He arrived fifteen minutes late, in the Toyota, accompanied by Mr. Wylie, his solicitor. The arrogant sod parked in the spot marked HMI again. They were shown into interview room number one, my lucky room.

  Nigel and I joined them immediately. We noticed that Dewhurst's concession to grief was a black tie and matching cufflinks. His designer stubble was as well groomed as ever, but he looked gaunt under his tan. Or was it worried?

  "Thanks for coming," I said briskly. "This shouldn't take long."

  When we were seated, us on one side of the table, them on the other, Nigel said: "This is a taped interview with Mr. Miles Dewhurst." He gave the time and date and went on: "Could I ask those present to identify themselves. I'm Detective Sergeant Newley…" He pointed to each of us in turn.

  "DI Priest," I said.

  "Miles Dewhurst," in an irritated tone.

  "Oh, er, I'm Mr. Wylie, senior partner with Dean and Mason, Mr.

  Dewhurst's solicitor."

  I said: "Thank you, gentlemen. Mr. Dewhurst, you are no doubt aware that you have been under a certain amount of suspicion. I have to tell you that in spite of recent developments that suspicion still exists.

  It is my duty to inform you that you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you do say may be put in writing and given in evidence. Do you understand what I am saying, Mr.

  Dewhurst?"

  His indignation was on the verge of boiling over. He gathered himself together, considering whether to appear affronted or cooperative. Mr.

  Wylie's hand reached out and fell on his arm. "It's all right, Miles," he said. "Mr. Priest is just doing it by the book."

  I repeated the question: "Do you understand the caution, sir?"

  He nodded.

  "For the tape, sir."

  "Yes. I understand."

  "Thank you."

  Nigel took it up, as per the game plan. "Mr. Dewhurst, could you briefly describe your movements on the Friday before Georgina's disappearance?"

  He shuffled and cleared his throat. "Er, I had some appointments through the day. I'd have to look in my diary to be precise."

  "That's good enough. And in the evening?"

  "Well, after work I picked Georgina up from the child minder's and we went to fetch Mrs. Eaglin, her grandma. She'd prepared a meal for us.

  Afterwards we all come back toHeckley."

  He was talking. That was what we wanted. I said: "And what did you do Saturday?"

  He sat back in his chair, making himself more comfortable. These were easy questions; no problem.

  "Saturday morning I worked. Paperwork in the office."

  "At the factory or an office at home?"

  "The factory. I went straight from there to the golf club. Had a sandwich and a round of golf."

  "Where do you play, sir?"

  "Brandersthorpe."

  Best in the area. You could buy a small car with the membership fee. I said: "And in the evening?"

  "Watched a kids' video with Georgina. Watched grownup TV and had a couple of beers after she'd gone to bed."

  He was relaxing. Now it was Nigel's turn again. "And on Sunday?" he said.

  Dewhurst stretched his arms forward on to the table and interlocked his fingers. He stared at his hands as he spoke:

  "Golf in the morning. Home for lunch. In the afternoon I watched sport on the box. Mrs. Eaglin and Georgina went to the park to feed the ducks. Afterwards we took Mrs. Eaglin home. Georgina and I left there at about seven and went for a pizza. It's… it was her favourite."

  "Which brings us to Monday morning," I said.

  Dewhurst pushed himself upright. "For heaven's sake, Inspector. We've been through this a dozen times…"

  He was getting cocky. He thought he'd survived the worst we had to offer. "We'd like it down on tape, if you don't mind, sir. And you are still under caution, of course." No harm in reminding him.

  He folded his arms and addressed the table, speaking in short sentences as if addressing an idiot. "I dropped Georgina off at the bus station.

  I bought a paper. I didn't see Georgina on to the bus because I was double-parked. Then I did my day's work. I came home to find you in my house." He looked up and our eyes met briefly. I felt like Rikki-tikki-tavi, nailing Nag the cobra.

  "Thank you. Could you expand on your movements after you left the bus station, please?"


  "If you insist, Inspector."

  I did, I most certainly did.

  He went on: "I drove round the one-way system and headed out on the Manchester Road. I had an appointment at a company called Ashurst's, in Stockport, at nine o'clock. It was about ten past when I arrived. I had a puncture in their yard and had to cancel my next appointment.

  After that I think I went to Heaton's in Kidsgrove, but again I'd have to check my diary to be sure."

  "A puncture?" I said, raising an eyebrow like a bad thespian. "That was unfortunate. Were you in the Toyota?"

  "No, the Patrol."

  "So who repaired it for you?" I asked.

  "Really, Inspector. Is all this necessary? It's my daughter's murder you're supposed to be investigating; not who repaired a puncture for me!"

  "OK, let me put it another way. Were you anywhere near Capstick Colliery on that Monday morning?"

  "No. Most certainly not!"

  "Thank you. In that case is there any way in which you can verify your whereabouts?"

  He gave a big sigh and sank back in his chair, saying: "I'm sorry, Inspector. I didn't realise what you were getting at. The mechanic at Ashurst's put the spare on, then took the Patrol to the local tyre depot, ATS Tyres, and had a new one fitted. Mr. Black, MD at Ashurst's, kindly offered to put it on their account. It should all be in their books, somewhere. I wasn't given any of the paperwork."

  Wylie, the solicitor, decided to earn his fee. He smiled and said: "I must say, Inspector, you had me wondering where your questions were leading, but I'm sure my client has given a satisfactory account of his movements. Both Ashurst's and the tyre depot will have details of the transaction."

  "No doubt," I agreed. "So let's get this clear, and I would remind you that you are still under caution. You went to Ashurst's and had a puncture. Their mechanic took the Patrol to ATS Tyres and had a new one fitted. When it was returned to you it had five good tyres with the spare in its proper place under the back of the vehicle. Is that what happened?"

  "Yes."

  "You're certain of that?"

  "Well, yes."

  "Have you or anybody else removed or touched the spare since then?"

  "No."

  "Has the vehicle been in for a service?"

  "No."

  "Good." When I'd entered the interview room I was carrying a folder.

  So that it didn't cause a distraction, I'd placed it on the floor, leaning against the leg of my chair. Now I reached down and retrieved it. "In which case," I said, 'perhaps you could explain this." I removed the two black and white prints that Van Rees had given me and shoved them across the table.

  Wylie leaned forward, interested. Dewhurst looked scared. "I… d-don't understand," he stuttered.

  "Let me make it easier for you then, Mr. Dewhurst." I had a pair of scissors in the folder. I used them to cut across one of the prints, as close as possible to the jagged saw-teeth. I placed the cut-down print over the first one.

  Dewhurst kept silent, his face a mask of fear and contempt. Wylie said: "I'm afraid you've lost me, Inspector."

  "I'll explain, then. This one' — I indicated with a finger' is a photograph of the black plastic bag in which poor Georgina's body was found. It's the type that comes in a continuous roll. You just tear them off at the perforations, as required. This other one' — I pointed again 'is the next bag on that roll. The edges are a perfect match, as you can see. It was removed from under Mr. Dewhurst's Nissan Patrol, wrapped round the spare wheel." I turned to Dewhurst: "Would you care to explain how it came to be there, sir?"

  Chapter 17

  Dewhurst's suntan was rapidly losing the struggle to keep some colour in his face. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and an eyelid developed an involuntary twitch. He said: "I don't know what you are talking about."

  "It's called infanticide, Mr. Dewhurst. I'm suggesting that you murdered Georgina."

  "You're mad." He spat the words at me.

  I expanded on my accusation: "You'd planned the whole thing for a long time. We know all about your financial situation and the love nest in Todmorden. The ransom notes were made well in advance of the deed. To make them you bought envelopes, notepad and glue from Woolworths. What you didn't use you discarded, probably by simply placing them in a litter bin or skip whilst on your travels. You murdered Georgina on the Sunday night, giving her a massive dose of your mother-in-law's sleeping tablets and helping them along with a plastic bag over her head. You carefully opened the roll of bin-liners you had previously purchased and tore off the first one. You hid it at Capstick Colliery, with Georgina's body inside. The rest of the roll was placed between the front seats of the Nissan and you disposed of them sometime on the Monday."

  Wylie was sitting bolt upright, his eyes switching from me to his client and his mouth hanging open.

  I pressed on: "To give yourself an alibi for Monday morning you faked the puncture. That was when your luck ran out. Mechanics in general have a bad reputation. Unfortunately for you, the one at Ashurst's is very conscientious. The spare wheel he removed was filthy with dirt from the road. When he put the other wheel back under your vehicle he remembered seeing the roll of bin liners between the front seats. He carefully removed the next bag from the roll and used it to wrap around your spare, replacing the remainder of the roll back where he'd found it. I removed that bag from under your Nissan Patrol four weeks later."

  I turned to Nigel and gave a jerk of the head towards the shattered figure sitting opposite. Nigel said: "Miles Jonathan Dewhurst; I am arresting you for the murder of Georgina Alice Dewhurst. Do you wish to say anything? You are not obliged to say anything, but what you do may be put in writing and given in evidence."

  We should have noticed the warning signs earlier. Dewhurst hunched his shoulders forward and I briefly saw that his lips had turned blue. Then he clutched the front of his shirt and pitched head first on to the table.

  "He's having a heart attack," I cried, and heard myself ordering an ambulance for the second time in two days. Nigel dashed out while I loosened Dewhurst's collar and supported his head. Within seconds the room was filled with helpers. The uniformed boys have more experience at this sort of thing than we have, so I let them take over. The tape was still running. I said: "Interview terminated at… twelve minutes past five," and flicked it off.

  The custody sergeant didn't share our euphoria. He said: "Aw, bloody 'ell, Charlie!" when I told him that the invalid now on his way to Heckley General had just been arrested for murder and that I wanted him charged. "Do you know what this means?" he protested.

  "Well, let's see," I replied. "He'll need round-the-clock guarding, more for his own protection than anything. Then you'll have to comply with the requirements of PACE: read him his rights; arrange a solicitor; allow him to phone a named person; give him a copy of the code; ask him his eight favourite records… That's about all, isn't it? Should make for a touching bedside scene."

  "All! All! Where do I get the staff?"

  "Look on the bright side," I answered. "He might die." I probably meant it.

  Walking through the foyer I saw a hunched figure heading towards the doors. I called after him: "Mr. Wylie?"

  He stopped and turned. As I approached he looked to have aged ten years in the last hour. We faced each other in silence for a few moments, then I said: "This must have come as a terrible shock to you."

  "Yes, Inspector, it did." His voice trembled as he spoke.

  "There was no other way we could do it," I told him. A more clued-up brief would have frustrated my line of questioning. I'd taken advantage of him because he couldn't believe that his client could do such an evil deed. His only consolation was that he hadn't impeded justice.

  "You did your job, Mr. Priest, and did it well. I, on the other hand, cannot profess to have represented my client to the best of my abilities."

  "You couldn't have known…"

  He stopped me, raising a manicured hand that had never done anything heavier than
lift a conveyance. "It's all right," he said. "I don't mind. I really don't mind." There was the merest trace of a smile on his face as he turned to the door. He'd lost a case, but he'd be able to sleep at night.

  "Goodnight, Mr. Priest." "Goodnight, sir."

  It was hand-shaking, back-slapping time in the office. We interrupted Gilbert's meeting so that he could break the news to most of the top brass who weren't at the conference. The press office released a statement giving as little information as possible: a man was helping with enquiries… Dave Sparkington had gone to Ashurst's to take Mr.

  Black and the mechanic to their local nick and record their statements.

  It was after seven when he returned with the tapes. Gilbert arrived while we were playing everything through for the custody sergeant, so we had to play the first one again. They agreed that we had enough to charge him; the only cloud was whether the bin-liner from under the Nissan was admissible. I'd retrieved it without the help of a search warrant.

  "It still proves he did it," I claimed, 'even if he does get off on a technicality."

  "I doubt if he will," Gilbert reassured us, 'but we'll let the CPS legal boys worry about that." He looked at his watch. "I reckon we've just about time for a celebratory snifter down at the club, eh?"

  Sparky, surprisingly, was the first to object. "Not for me, thanks. I said I'd try to be early tonight. Can we make it tomorrow?"

  "It's, era bit awkward for me, too, Mr. Wood," said Nigel.

  Gilbert looked at me. "Tomorrow then. Eh, Charlie?"

  I said: "Yeah. Let's have him charged first. If he survives. Then we'll have the full team in the club, tomorrow."

  They drifted away. Dave said: "You coming, Charlie?"

  "Not just yet, Dave," I replied. "You go. I just want to tidy up."

  I watched out of the window as they left. We are on the first floor, the main body of the station being downstairs. One by one their cars paused at the exit before pulling out into the sparse traffic and heading home. The streets were quiet, partly because of the rain, partly because Tuesdays in Heckley have never been a rival to Mardi Gras.