The Mushroom Man dcp-2

by Stuart Pawson

  "Arseholes?" '… armpits in proper crime. Earning their bread and butter. So go to it!"

  Getting back to normality was difficult. I sent the troops out and settled down to writing thank-you letters to various people. Towards the end of the morning DI Peterson called in to offer his congratulations. He wanted to sit and talk, and had a defeated air about him. The library trail had grown cold so he was retreating back to Trent Division. The Mushroom Man had dropped out of the newspapers, until the next time. As Peterson left, Sparky came in.

  "Morning, sir," said Sparky, holding the door for him.

  "Good morning, Constable," he replied.

  I rocked back on my chair and scratched my head with the blunt end of the ball pen "What was it that Oscar Peterson played?" I asked.

  "Don't ask me," Sparky answered. "I'm useless at sport."

  The best phone call of the day came in the middle of the afternoon.

  "Carmina Burana, Carl Orff," said the voice on the other end.

  "Er, er, let me think… Schubert, The Trout," I answered.

  It was Bill Goodwin, a DI at City HQ. They are based in the town hall, and Bill is my source of concert tickets. He has a standing order with the box office for first refusal on any cancellations, and sometimes lets me know about them, although I hadn't done business with him for a long time.

  "Congratulations, Charlie. I hear you did a good job."

  "Aw shucks, it was nuthin'," I replied.

  "Well done all the same. What about these tickets?"

  "What tickets?"

  "For Carmina Burana."

  "Are you serious?"

  The concert season lasts six months and normally all the tickets go in the first week of sales. For a big showpiece concert like this there would be a waiting list longer than a wet Wakes Week in Morecambe.

  "I'd love them, Bill. When are they for?"

  "Friday."

  "Tomorrow? Someone's left it a bit late."

  "They're mine. Joyce was rushed into hospital yesterday. Appendicitis.

  They operated this morning. The tickets are yours if you want them."

  "Oh. I'm sorry to hear about Joyce. How is she?"

  "The op went off OK, but she's still groggy. I'll go to see her straight from here."

  "Good. Good. Give her my love, Bill, and I hope she's fit and well before too long. Can I ring you back in five minutes about the tickets?"

  Annabelle was at home, fortunately, and Carmina Burana was one of her favourites, although she had never heard a live performance. "It sounds wonderful, Charles. They were sold out months ago. How on earth have you done it?"

  I told her that when I said I needed two seats they promised to kick two students out of theirs. "What's the point in being a fascist if you don't reap the benefits?" I said.

  "Oh, absolutely," she replied.

  I was saying the usual goodbye formula when Annabelle interrupted me.

  "Food," she said. "I expect you intend grabbing a pork pie or a bowl of breakfast cereal, so I'll prepare something for afterwards. We can come back here and eat. All right?"

  "Oh, are you sure? It seems a lot of trouble…"

  "Nonsense. See you tomorrow."

  I rang Bill and accepted his offer. After a few quiet moments I said a little thank you, to no one in particular.

  First thing Friday morning I announced that I would be leaving at five p.m. come fire, flood or assassination. Three nasty muggings were done during the day by a gang of steamers. Two youths make the initial grab while five or six others hover nearby ready to combat any attempt at resistance. They were all Afro-Caribbean, so descriptions were sketchy. "He was black," they say, and expect us to recognise them immediately. I put everybody I had on the streets looking for them.

  Knives are only a grasp away in these cases. Mugging turns to murder as easily as spring snow turns to slush.

  Myself, I went shopping. I thought about a haircut but decided it would look as if I were trying too hard. Besides, it had just reached that indolent bohemian stage; good for my new image. I bought a bottle of Glenfiddich for Jimmy Hoyle he deserved the credit for retrieving the bin-liner from under Dewhurst's car and some aftershave for myself.

  I searched high and fairly low but couldn't find Nigel's anywhere. I settled for some called Charlie. The biddy who served me was wearing enough make-up to grout a shower cubicle.

  On the way home I topped up the petrol tank and bought a bunch of salmon-pink roses. After a quick cup of tea and a slice of toast I set both alarm clocks and grabbed an hour's nap. I was taking no chances.

  In the shower I used the last of the blue jelly stuff that somebody bought me about ten Christmases ago. Choosing which suit to wear wasn't a problem. I mated it with a dark blue shirt and a bold tie in a Picasso design. He's my favourite painter. I considered the socks with little clocks on them but settled for a diamond pattern in the same colours as the tie. I brushed my hair and looked in the mirror.

  Fan-bloody-tastic.

  Annabelle answered the door immediately. I thrust the roses forward.

  "Oh Charles, they're lovely," she said. "They are my favourites; how did you know? Come in, I'll put them in some water."

  I followed her through into the kitchen, where she filled a large plain vase and arranged the flowers in it. She was wearing a suit in an unusual lilac colour, with a very short skirt which I quickly realised was a pair of culottes. The jacket had three-quarter-length sleeves and her blouse was a deep blue in a curious material. It had a bloom to it, like yeast on a grape, that exactly matched the colour of the suit. Her tanned legs were bare and she wore high-heeled shoes.

  Annabelle never tried to disguise her height she rejoiced in it.

  The effect on me was like a kick in the stomach. The pain was physical. I wandered what the other bishops' wives had thought of her.

  And the other bishops.

  I didn't start the engine immediately. Faith might move mountains but compliments work better on people. "You look absolutely wonderful," I told her, shaking my head in disbelief.

  "Oh, just a few rags I threw on," she declared with obvious delight, adding: "You don't look bad yourself."

  We hit the usual Friday-evening traffic but I'd allowed plenty of time.

  "Will you be able to find a parking place?" Annabelle asked.

  "Leave it to Uncle Chas," I reassured her, with a conspiratorial wink.

  At the town hall I drove round the back and through the entrance to the police station private car park. All the top brass were at home, tucking into their quiche, so I pulled up in a spot marked CH. SUP.

  "Tonight," I announced, 'you are in the company of an honorary chief superintendent. I told them it was a special occasion, so they've promoted me. It runs out at midnight, though."

  "Will the car turn into a pumpkin?" she asked.

  "Oh, a pumpkin. A lay-by. It'll turn into something."

  The tickets were at the front desk. During the drive I'd told Annabelle how we'd acquired them. I led her in and pressed the button.

  A WPC appeared.

  "My names's Priest," I told her. "DI Goodwin has left some tickets for me."

  "Yes. Mr. Goodwin is still here. He asked me to let him know when you arrived." She picked up the phone and dialled his number. He was with us in seconds. I introduced him to Annabelle.

  "I'm so sorry to hear about your wife, Bill. How is she?" Annabelle asked.

  She was doing well, so we didn't feel too bad about deriving so much pleasure from her misfortune. Bill was going straight round to the hospital. He handed me the tickets and I slipped him a cheque.

  Annabelle said: "Well, give Joyce our best wishes, and as soon as she's better we will try to repay you by inviting you both round for dinner, won't we, Charles?"

  "Yes, of course," I said. We. I liked the sound of that.

  There's a passage leading from the nick into the main body of the town hall, with a door locked on this side. Prisoners are transferred to the courts tha
t way. I said: "Any chance of using the private entrance, Bill?"

  "Sorry, Charlie," he replied. "No can do. It's a fire door now; emergency use only. If you open it you'll start the sprinkler system.

  That'd make you popular."

  "You mean we've to walk round the outside, with the hoi polloiV I sounded hurt.

  "Fraidso."

  "This is no way to impress a lady. C'mon, Annabelle, let's go."

  They said their farewells. At the door I turned to give Bill a wave of gratitude and he made an approving nod of his head.

  The tickets said Row D. Because of the size of the orchestra and all the choirs involved, rows A, B and C had been removed. We were in the front row.

  "The front row!" Annabelle whispered, incredulously. "We're in the front row!"

  "I don't muck about," I told her. "I just hope the conductor is not too enthusiastic with the baton. I could easily lose an eye."

  "Watch out for the trombones," she warned.

  "Maybe we should have brought an umbrella," I replied.

  The warm-up piece was a Stockhausen. The orchestra pl inked and clanged through it with concentrated enthusiasm that wasn't matched by its reception from the audience. A few know-alls cheered and everybody took too many bows. Then the removal men came on and reorganised everything. When the stage was set for the new piece the orchestra began to filter back. The percussionists tuned the big timpani, hinting at what was to come. Line after line of choristers filed on, recruited from every choral society in the North, plus a couple of school choirs. Slowly the huge stage filled and everybody coughed and tuned instruments and fidgeted for the last time. Then, as if to a signal from the back of the hall, a hush came over the auditorium.

  I winked at the cello player. He winked back.

  Annabelle leaned towards me. "I think the cello player fancies me," she whispered.

  "No. He fancies me. I fancy you," I hissed, taking her hand.

  The leader entered and bowed and was applauded. Then the conductor. He was popular. Not everyone had my view of him. His shirt looked as if he'd worn it all week and his suit needed cleaning. He turned to the stage, raised his baton, and, a few seconds later, the first crashing chords of Orff s greatest hit shook the fabric of the building.

  I'm a lowbrow when it comes to music. Decent melodies and plenty of biff-bash are what I like. Sitting there, next to the most beautiful woman in the place, I'd probably still have been as happy as a sparrow on a chimney if they'd just tuned up for the next hour, but the music engulfed me. Carmina Burana is based around a collection of medieval verses written mainly in Latin. Some are sacred, others profane. It could have been written for us, I thought. All too soon the orchestra began the relentless build-up to what must be the longest finale in the repertoire. At the end every pair of lungs on stage was at full extent, fiddlers' elbows were going like mating rabbits and the drummers were flailing their arms as if attempting flight. And then it was over.

  After a moment's breathless silence some courageous soul shouted:

  "Bravo!" and we erupted into applause. I turned to Annabelle and she was as delighted as a schoolgirl. The leader and conductor had more bows than the Royal Navy and she clapped every one.

  We joined the throng shuffling up the aisle, the rhythms and tunes and wa-wump! of the big drums still pulsing through our bodies. "That was wonderful," Annabelle told me. "It's so nice to have an influential friend." She took my left arm in both of hers and rested her head on my shoulder. I buried a kiss in her hair.

  In the foyer we merged with a sea of excited, smiling faces and were borne slowly towards the exit, which is a revolving door, flanked on each side by a swing door. Coming from the centre aisle we were in the stream of people heading towards the revolving door.

  I remember wondering what etiquette demanded in such situations, but it was out of my control. When it was our turn the pressure of bodies propelled me in first and Annabelle squeezed behind me. We shuffled forwards, and she placed her hands on my hips. It didn't feel right I ought to be following her. I made a few movements with my feet, as if doing a party dance, and felt her echo my steps.

  We moved round in a semi-circle and slowly a gap appeared and enlarged.

  Eager to make amends for my slip of manners, I stepped briskly out and skipped to one side, raising my arm in an extravagant gesture, like a bullfighter making a pass.

  Both barrels of the shotgun roared simultaneously.

  The blast passed between my body and my arm, taking bits of my jacket with it, and I felt the heat of the muzzle-flash on the side of my face. Glass shattered and Annabelle jerked backwards against the panel of the door behind her, before flopping to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs, like a discarded marionette, after the curtain has fallen.

  Chapter 19

  I tried to get to her, but the people in the segment behind were screaming and yelling and trying to get back into the building. I heard a voice, my own, shouting "No! No!" somewhere outside my head.

  When the people behind were safely in the foyer I attempted to pull the door open but Annabelle's body was jamming it. Eventually I made a gap and squeezed through to her. I grasped her under the shoulders and reversed out on to the town hall steps, her long legs unfolding as I retreated and broken glass crunching under my feet. I sat there on the top step, with Annabelle cradled in my arms, trying to stem the blood, until the ambulance came and they took her from me.

  They lifted her on to a stretcher with infinite gentleness and wrapped her in a bright blue blanket. The stretcher fitted on to a trolley which was exactly the same height as the back of the ambulance. It slid straight in and the wheels folded up. The paramedic closed the door and swung the handle to fasten it. I watched the ambulance slip away into the night, lights flashing, as sirens and other blue lights converged on the town hall.

  Inside the station everyone was running around like ants on a pan lid.

  An exasperated sergeant kept asking me for a description of the gunman, and couldn't believe that I hadn't seen anything. I sat hunched on a hard chair in an interview room, feeling like a figure of ridicule, while officers ran in and out, shouted instructions and cursed. Bill Goodwin appeared and rescued me from further harassment by taking me to his office. He found a West Yorkshire Police sweater and I swapped it for my jacket and shirt.

  "I should have gone with her," I said.

  "No, you'd only have been in the way. You did the right thing."

  I picked up the phone to ring the hospital, but he put his hand over it. "Give them a few more minutes, Charlie, then I'll ring. They won't know anything yet." He asked a constable to make us two teas, but I didn't touch mine.

  Gilbert arrived, closely followed by Sam Evans. "Are you all right, Charlie?" Sam asked.

  "I'm OK, but I wish I'd gone with the ambulance. Will they know how she is yet?"

  "Have you tried ringing?"

  "No," Bill replied. "I thought we'd give them a bit longer."

  "They might tell me," said Sam, picking up the phone.

  He asked for the sister in Casualty and introduced himself. He listened and nodded and looked grave. We heard him ask: "Could you let me know as soon as there's any further news?"

  I sat up; that meant she was still alive.

  "They're taking her to surgery, they'll let us know."

  "I'm getting over there," I told them, jumping to my feet.

  "I'll take you," Gilbert said. "You're in no fit state to drive."

  Sam came with us. A police car was parked outside the hospital entrance, its lights switched off. Gilbert and I recognised it as an ARV.

  Sam led us expertly down various dimly illuminated corridors until we were in the casualty department. It was rush hour. The place was filled with Friday-night boozers, suffering stab wounds, broken arms and sundry minor injuries. Somebody in a cubicle made gurgling noises as a pipe was passed into his stomach to drain its alcoholic contents.

  A youth with a Mohican haircut and gold rings in
his nose and eyebrows was complaining that his girlfriend was having a bad trip.

  The sister had no further information for us. I supplied her with Annabelle's name and address for the admission forms, but wasn't much help with next of kin. When she asked me my relationship to her I just said: "Friend."

  A policeman from the ARV, wearing a bulletproof vest over his shirt, was sitting on a chair in the middle of the corridor that led to the operating theatres. He nursed a Heckler and Koch automatic in the crook of his arm. Another cop stood surveying the scene in the waiting room, arms folded, legs apart; as implacable as the Colossus of Rhodes.

  Gilbert approached him cautiously and showed his ID. They talked and nodded, and Gilbert pointed to me, obviously telling him who I was.

  When he rejoined us I said: "Look, I'm staying here for as long as it takes, but you two might as well go home. I'm grateful to you both for coming."

  It made sense, so they left. The sister suggested I use the staff canteen, but I declined. She let me wait in her office, and a male nurse brought me a coffee.

  Every thirty or forty minutes I stretched my legs in the waiting room.

  New faces replaced the ones who were either patched up and sent home or admitted into a ward. The place grew slightly more quiet as the night passed. The occasional boisterous drunk fell silent when he saw the police presence. Several clients appeared to be regulars. A down-and-out who said he had blue spiders crawling all over him was dealt with patiently and then propelled out through the door. Everybody called him George. I wandered down a corridor, between the cubicles, and found myself in the resuscitation room, where the ambulances bring the serious cases. Annabelle would have passed through here. The victim of a hit-and-run was being attended to. Through a gap in the curtains I saw the doctor pull the blanket over the man's head, then wipe the sleep and the sweat from his own eyes.

  I went to the bathroom. The walls were covered in graffiti and most of the taps had been left running. When I washed my hands flakes of dried blood from under my fingernails went down the plug hole Back in the sister's office I watched the sky growing grey over the chimney pots and high-rise flats. A porter on the next shift arrived, and left his newspaper on the desk. I glanced at the folded bundle today was the first day of the new football season.