The Mushroom Man dcp-2

by Stuart Pawson

  Some of my best thinking is done alone in the office, with everybody's light off except mine. The building creaks and whispers as it settles down for the night. Outside, a siren warbled as a Traffic car left the yard to witness someone's misery.

  I picked up the phone and tapped the numbers. From memory. I'd remembered Annabelle's number from the very first time I dialled it.

  Not bad for someone who never mastered the Lord's Prayer. Wonder what the wife of a bishop would make of that?

  She answered immediately, repeating the number in her warm, rounded vowels.

  "Oh, hello Annabelle, It's Charlie," I stumbled.

  "Hello, Charles. This is a pleasant surprise."

  "Glad you think so. How are you keeping?"

  "Very well. And you? How is the crime-fighting going?"

  "It's going well. I was wondering, Annabelle… if you are not doing anything, would it be all right if I popped round to see you?"

  "Of course it would. Are you coming now?"

  "If you don't mind. I'm feeling a bit… what's the adjective that means anticiimaxed?"

  "Fed up?"

  "That's it. I wish I had your way with words. I feel a need for some TLC

  "You poor thing. Come and tell Auntie Annabelle all about it."

  "Half an hour?"

  "Fine. Shall I bring a bottle of gin up from the cellar?"

  "A cup of Earl Grey will do."

  "I'll put the kettle on."

  "Bye."

  And now I felt happy. Like Father Christmas must do at the end of his round.

  The batteries in my razor were flat so I retrieved Nigel's toilet bag from his bottom drawer and swapped batteries. His weren't much better but I scraped most of the stubble from my face. My aftershave had congealed to a jelly so I borrowed that from Nigel, too. When I looked at myself in the mirror I wasn't sure that visiting Annabelle was such a good idea. Ah well, what you see is what you get. I rinsed my face and dried it on the roller towel. The aftershave smelt like Culpepper's dustbin.

  Annabelle looked really pleased to see me. "Come through into the kitchen," she said. "The kettle won't take a moment." As she turned away I gazed appreciatively after her. Hungrily and longingly, too.

  She was wearing a white blouse and black trousers, with no jewellery.

  As she filled the kettle I wished I knew her well enough to go up behind her and slip my arms around that waist.

  We sat at opposite sides of the refectory table. I waffled something about her kitchen being nice.

  "Yes," she agreed, "I'm very lucky to live here." She went on: "So, what's the reason for this deflated feeling, or are you not allowed to tell me?"

  I said: "It'll be common knowledge by tomorrow. We've just arrested Miles Dewhurst for the murder of Georgina."

  Her face darkened. "Her father?" she gasped.

  "Yes."

  "But… but that's monstrous. Who on earth would have thought he did it?"

  "Well, I did," I replied.

  After a pause she asked: "How do you know it was him?"

  I said: "I've known right from the beginning. Well, from the second day, when we had the TV appeal."

  "I saw that," said Annabelle. "The poor man looked devastated. I can't believe he was acting."

  "I don't suppose it was all a sham. But just before we went on the air I saw him go to the gents' toilet. I thought I could do with one myself, so I followed him in. He wasn't having a pee, though. He was fixing his hair; running the comb under the tap and inspecting his reflection in the mirror. Hardly the behaviour of a grieving parent.

  When I came out I decided to perform a little experiment with Gilbert.

  Use him as a control group type of thing. I told Gilbert that his hair was sticking up and he ought to go and comb it. He nearly bit my head off. Not exactly enough to convince a jury, but it made me think. We had to wait until we found the body for the proof."

  "I read about that," she said. "Somewhere up in County Durham, wasn't it? What led you to it?"

  "He sent us a note with various instructions. He thought he'd got away with it, and was impatient to tie up the loose ends; put it all in the past and start his new life. I just followed the instructions."

  "You, Charles? Are you saying you found her?"

  I nodded.

  Annabelle reached across the table and put her hand over mine. "Oh Charles, that must have been horrible. That poor little girl," she sighed. She looked across at me, a new determination illuminating her face. "And poor you," she said. "I wouldn't normally have commented, Charles, but you look a wreck. I bet you're not sleeping, are you?"

  "I don't need much sleep."

  She studied my crumpled shirt and realisation struck her. "Have you come here straight from the office?" she demanded.

  Another nod.

  "Without eating?"

  Nod.

  She jumped to her feet. "Charles, you can't go on like this. It's bad for you. What would you like? It won't take a moment to rustle something up."

  "Sit down, Annabelle. A cup of tea and a biscuit will be fine. Most of all I just want some pleasant company. I feel as if I've been living in a sewer lately."

  She sat down again. "It's all getting to you, isn't it?" she said, quietly.

  "Yes," I replied, "I think it is. It must be something to do with growing older. Or else I'm getting sensitive. Either way, I think the time is coming for the police force and Charlie Priest to part company."

  "Maybe it's something to do with being a human being," she replied, adding quite firmly: "There is some home-made soup in the freezer and I am going to heat a bowl for you. Understood?"

  I smiled and said: "A bowl of your home-made soup would be extremely welcome."

  She rummaged in the deep freeze for a few moments before emerging with two plastic containers. She frowned as she looked for labels on them, her nose wrinkling with concentration. "This one," she pronounced, 'is soup dujour. This one is soup de la mais on Any preference?"

  It was chunky vegetable with lamb and a few secret ingredients. The alternative had been carrot and orange with coriander. They both sounded delicious. Annabelle cut me a huge chunk of bread and gave me a cup of tea for support while the soup defrosted in the microwave. I nibbled the bread and had a sip of tea.

  I said: "Is this bread home-made?"

  "Yes."

  "It's wonderful. Can I order two loaves per week, please." Now I felt ravenous. I could easily have eaten the whole loaf.

  Annabelle said: "The soup will be about ten minutes. I wish you would let me make you something more substantial."

  I shook my head. After a few moments of silence I said, right out of the blue: "Tell me about Peter."

  She looked taken aback for a second, and I wondered if I'd dropped a big one, but she said: "Peter? What would you like to know?"

  I decided I wasn't walking on broken glass after all. "Everything," I said.

  "Where shall I begin?"

  "Where else? How did you meet? No, before that. First of all tell me about yourself. Dispel the mystery that surrounds this beautiful lady I know as Annabelle Wilberforce, while I… finish this bread."

  She blushed and settled back in her chair. After inspecting her fingernails for a few seconds she took a deep breath and it all spilled out: "I was born in a little village in Oxfordshire. Father Daddy, as we called him was something in the City. I can't be more specific than that. I have an older sister and a younger brother, Hugh. He's an engineer, somewhere in India I believe. We don't have much contact. My sister, Rachel, is married to a Harley Street charlatan. I have no contact with her at all. At first, things were idyllic, although you don't realise it at the time, do you?"

  Now her gaze was fixed on the top right-hand corner of the ceiling. She went on: "Then, when I was about eight, it all turned sour. Daddy vanished. Years later I learned that he ran off with a female colleague. First the pony had to go. I changed schools and we moved to a smaller house. Mummy hit the bottle. We'd come
home from school and find her drunk, with the house like a refuse heap. The day after I passed my eleven-plus she took an overdose of painkillers and died."

  I'd been nibbling the bread. Now I pushed the plate away and listened.

  "The three of us were spread amongst relatives. I went to live with Aunt Grace, in Cheltenham. At first it was much better there, and I was sent away to school, which I enjoyed. Then one Christmas I came home to find that Aunt Grace had married again. He was called Alec.

  Uncle Alec. He seemed to take a shine to me. He… took me for walks, to the pictures, bought me special treats. I thought he was wonderful." She paused. I saw her swallow before she took up the story again: "One night, in the dormitory, the girls were talking. The older girls were telling us about… well… about sex. I suppose it was all invented, the product of girlish imaginations, but suddenly I realised that Uncle Alec's affection wasn't as innocent as I had believed."

  Annabelle had drawn up her knees and was embracing them with her arms, still staring at the ceiling. She continued: "After that it was horrible. Once he realised that I knew what he was after and had not told Grace, he became crude and persistent. I hated going home for the holidays. I would make excuses and stay behind for an extra week, and always went back for the new term a few days early. Half-term holidays I stayed at school. I visited as many friends as I could. I became quite a proficient little liar, I'm afraid."

  "Understandably," I said.

  She put her feet back on the floor and looked at me. "The net result was that I did well at school. I was determined to, so I could get away from them as soon as possible. I was accepted for Lady Margaret Hall when I was seventeen. They suggested I do a year's voluntary work, so I packed my rucksack and went to Biafra. It was quite a shock to a little girl from the Home Counties. But Peter was there to help me. He was thirteen years my senior and I fell hopelessly in love with him. I thought he'd hardly noticed me, but towards the end of the year he was transferred to Kenya and asked me to go with him."

  The microwave beeped four times. Annabelle jumped up and served the soup. "Would you like some more bread?" she asked.

  I shook my head. "No thanks, but I'd like you to continue the story."

  After serving the soup she resumed her seat and began again. "Kenya was wonderful. You must go, sometime. Peter insisted I continue my education, so my degree certificate says Nairobi University. Not as prestigious as Oxford, but more colourful."

  "Mine says Batley College of Art," I admitted between mouthfuls.

  "We married when I was nineteen and stayed in Kenya for another eight years. I've been back a couple of times." She was smiling now, a faraway look in her eyes. "I miss Kenya. Those were probably the happiest days of my life."

  "So why did you leave?"

  "Peter was taken ill. Malaria, a particularly persistent strain. He regarded it as God's will and we came back to England. He threw himself into his ministry and the rest, as they say, is history."

  "You never had children?"

  The clouds came back. "No. It wasn't to be. Something else that Peter put down to God's will. Understanding what is willed by God and what isn't is a science known only to a few."

  For the first time I detected that things had not always been sunshine and roses between the bishop and his lady. "What happened to him?" I asked.

  "Cancer. He wouldn't see the doctor because he thought it was the malaria and it would just run its course. When he did go for tests it was too late. It took him two painful years to die." She fixed me with her blue eyes. "My faith was never as strong as his, Charles.

  What I experienced in Biafra saw to that. But I'll never forget how brave Peter was; right to the end. If faith can do that I wish I had more."

  It was my turn to reach out and place my hand over hers. She turned her hand over so that our fingers intertwined. I couldn't help comparing her childhood with my own: an only child of doting parents who took exaggerated pride in my modest achievements. "You've had some rough times," I said. "It hasn't all been bedtime cocoa and Winnie the Pooh, has it?"

  "No. Did you think it had?"

  "Yes," I confessed. "I probably did."

  "C'mon," she said, rising to her feet. "Let's go where it is more comfortable."

  We went through into her sitting room. It was a tasteful amalgam of the modern and the traditional; bold prints and lots of dark wood. I sank into the settee while Annabelle searched for a CD.

  "Any requests?" she asked.

  "Something light and breezy," I suggested.

  "Vivaldi?"

  "Perfect."

  She came to sit alongside me and we waited for the first crystal notes to fill the room.

  It wasn't really a Zen experience. Exactly the opposite, I suppose, but the feeling was similar. All of my senses were switched off except my hearing, as if I were floating in a bath of liquid so perfect that I couldn't feel its presence. Maybe my eyes were closed, or perhaps they were open but there was a complete absence of light to trigger the optic nerve. This was the state of grace that drug-takers and religious fanatics crave. The music was Mozart.

  I appreciated him as I had never done before. Perfection. Maybe he was the master after all. But why Mozart? I thought. Where am I?

  Ought I to be going somewhere? Has the alarm gone of? Surely it was Vivaldi a minute ago.

  Oh Carruthers! I remembered where I was. It's at unguarded times like this that the real inner you expresses itself. I sat up and blurted out: "I fell asleep!" Not very bright but it could have been a lot worse.

  Annabelle clutched her sides with laughter. She was sitting in one of the easy chairs. I held my head in my hands and said: "Oh God, what must you think of me?"

  "I think you must have been exhausted," she said, still giggling at my discomfort.

  I looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight. "I'm sorry, Annabelle.

  You must think I'm dreadful company. I just felt so relaxed and…"

  "Don't worry about it, Charles." She'd regained her composure. "You were tired. Actually, it was quite nice to have a man snoring on the settee again." The giggling erupted once more.

  "I didn't snore!" I exclaimed in horror, adding: "Did I?"

  "Mmm just a little."

  "Oh no! It gets worse." I slipped my shoes back on, not remembering having taken them off, and rubbed the fur from my teeth with my tongue.

  "Would you like a drink before you go?" She was in full control again.

  "No thanks, Annabelle. I've already overstayed my welcome. It's been a lovely evening for me, if not for you." I retrieved my jacket from the kitchen and we walked towards the front door. I said: "Annabelle, I'd like to see you at the weekend. There's a few loose ends to sort out in the office, then I want to change my priorities; sort out my life. May I see you?"

  "Yes, Charles. I'd like that."

  "Saturday? I'll book a table somewhere."

  She shook her head. "No. I'll cook us something. You bring the wine."

  "That sounds nice," I said. It was my entry for the Understatement of the Millennium competition. We were at the door. "Thanks for putting up with me."

  "It should be me thanking you, Charles."

  "For what?"

  "For asking about Peter."

  She'd opened the door slightly, allowing a blast of cold air into the hallway. I pushed it shut again and took her in my arms. I could feel the heat of her body as it moulded to mine. She was so slim my arms easily encircled he rand her ribs were a gentle ripple beneath my hands. Her lips were strong and mobile… and she took them away far too quickly.

  "You smell nice," she whispered. "What is it?"

  "Oh, it's er, called… Nigel's," I croaked, tracing her spine with my fingertips. "Nigel's aftershave."

  "I think you ought to go, Charles," she sighed.

  "Me too," I lied, adding: "Saturday," as I gave her a farewell peck on the cheek.

  The rain had stopped. Or maybe a blizzard was raging — I forget. I drove away from the
Old Vicarage as quietly as I could. At the end of the street I mixed up the gears and stalled the engine. Then I switched on the wipers when I tried to indicate.

  The wind and rain had scrubbed the air clean, so you could see for ever. All the lights of the valley were stretched out below, prickly bright against the blackness of the night. Just above the horizon, barely broken free from the earth, was the slenderest arc of a new moon I had ever seen. It was red, like the imprint of a thumbnail dipped in blood. The thumbnail had belonged to a madman called Purley, the blood to the late Michael Ho. Bad memories came pressing in, trying to dislodge the good ones, but I didn't let them.

  Chapter 18

  Dewhurst didn't die. He was charged with murder and transferred to the hospital wing at Bentley Prison. CPS didn't envisage any problems with my evidence. We have some good friends in the Chinese community, so instead of going to the police social club and getting rat-arsed I suggested we have a speciality banquet at the Bamboo Curtain. To my surprise, everyone agreed.

  It was a memorable meal. Ten of us sat round the table and the dishes kept coming until we could eat no more. Sparky earned our displeasure by snaffling all the won tons He said he liked junk food. Nobody laughed. Then we went to the social club and got rat-arsed.

  Houses were still being burgled in Heckley. Old ladies were having their pensions snatched and cars were being taken from unconsenting owners. Three tortoises had been stolen from different addresses.

  "Tut tut," I said. "We can't have this, can we? Three tortoises purloined. What has the world come to while I've been busy? We'd better send a posse out." We were in the Super's morning meeting and I was looking at the print-out of of fences "Don't mock," rebuked Gilbert. "They're an endangered species and mean a lot to their owners. Ask the pet shops to look out for them.

  Apparently it's an offence to sell one these days."

  "Yes sir!"

  "I've heard it said," Sparky informed us, his face a mask of solemnity, 'that some members of our immigrant population like to gamble huge sums of money on tortoise fights."

  Gilbert removed his spectacles. "Listen, you cocky sods," he said.

  "While you've been swarming around at vast expense to the force looking for a murderer who was under your noses all the time, everybody else has been up to their ar… ar… ar…"