The Mushroom Man dcp-2

by Stuart Pawson

  "She's in here, sir," she said, gesturing, 'but no more than two visitors to a patient, please." The three people from the Rover were already in there, which was why I'd walked by twice.

  They looked up as I entered. "I, er, didn't know she had visitors," I said. Nobody spoke. "How is she?"

  "She's asleep," the man answered. He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows on knees and hands together. The old lady was arranging a bunch of mixed flowers, with her back to me.

  I gazed down at Annabelle. She looked peaceful, and all the tubes had been removed except for the drip, but an impressive array of instruments were still flashing and beeping alongside the bed. "Good.

  That's good. My name's Priest, by the way. Charlie Priest."

  "Newton," said the man, hardly taking the trouble to look at me.

  "Right. Well, I'll, er, come back later."

  I was drifting aimlessly down the corridor, still carrying the roses, when a voice shouted: "Excuse me!"

  I turned to see the younger of the women coming after me, and suddenly realised who she was. Rachel was about ten years older than Annabelle and the bone structure was the same, but a different disposition had moulded her features to the wrong side of plain. Maybe she'd always lived in her kid sister's shadow, always been regarded as the unattractive one. Fate can be cruel.

  She didn't introduce herself, just launched straight into what she had to say. "You're the policeman Annabelle was with when this happened," she told me.

  "Yes."

  "And apparently you didn't see a thing."

  "No."

  "So meanwhile he walks free while you do nothing."

  "We're doing everything we can," I said, feebly.

  "Well, it just isn't good enough. First thing tomorrow I'm having words with a friend at Scotland Yard. I'll get something done if you can't."

  She turned on her heel and stalked off. I said: "And it's nice to meet you, too, Rachel," to her retreating back and recommenced my wanderings.

  I knew which was their car, so I sat in mine and waited for them to return. According to the radio it was the coldest August day for a hundred years, so I used the car heater a couple of times. Drivers kept assuming I was about to go, and queued for my space. I shook my head at them and sank down into the seat. I was there two hours.

  When they came back it's fair to say I wasn't in a good mood. I got out and retrieved the roses from the passenger seat. Newton was carefully folding their coats and placing them in the boot. I didn't have one, and it was a long walk to the front entrance. Flurries of rain splattered on the windscreen. The women saw me, and words that I couldn't hear passed between them. The little old lady looked from me to Rachel and back again, before she started towards me. I waited for her, holding the flowers and feeling foolish.

  She was very old, with a white face and a little red button of a nose.

  I gave her the best smile I was capable of.

  "You're… Charles," she stated. "Rachel has just told me who you are. We've… kept you waiting all this… time."

  "You've come a long way," I said, as if that excused bad manners.

  "Well, yes, I… suppose so. And they… did have to pick me up… in Northampton."

  She had difficulties with her breathing, and I had to wait for her words. "Don't get cold," I said, partly because I was shivering myself.

  "I'm so… sorry I didn't speak to you… earlier." She held out her frail little hand. I took it between my thumb and fingers as she said. "I'm Mary… Wilberforce."

  I blinked and stared at her. "So you're ' "Annabelle's… mother-in-law." ' Peter's mother."

  "Yes." A smile lit up her face. "Annabelle told you… about Peter?"

  A gust of wind, straight from the Arctic icecap, blew across the car park, cutting through my jacket. I moved round and bent over her, to shelter her from it. "Yes, she did. I don't think I ever saw her happier than when she was telling me about Peter and their time in Kenya," I said.

  "That's lovely… of you… to say so." Her eyes were watery, perhaps with the dust blowing about, perhaps with memories of a son who rose to be a bishop but died before his time. She gripped my hand in both or hers, "And now I'd like… to tell you something." She paused and took a deep breath. "Annabelle… comes to stay the weekend… every few weeks. She came… two weeks ago. I thought she had… something on her… mind, so I asked her. She… told me that she would always… love Peter; that he would always be… special to her. But now she had met someone else who was… special. She wanted to know if I… if I minded."

  She seemed impervious to the cold. I pulled the front of my jacket together as she continued: "I told her to… snap you up, before someone else… did."

  I wanted to tell her how much her words meant to me, but my teeth were chattering and nothing intelligible came out.

  "And now, when Annabelle is… better, you'll both be able… to visit me."

  I nodded. "I'd like that'

  A nurse admired the roses and placed them in a vase beside Annabelle's bed, relegating the other bunch to the windowsill. Annabelle was still sleeping. Once or twice she stirred restlessly and shook her head from side to side. I jumped to my feet, ready to fetch help, but she settled down again within a few seconds. The drip bag was nearly empty and I hoped that someone would come to change it soon.

  All I could do was sit beside her bed and stroke her long fingers. She still wore a wedding ring, a thin silver band, possibly the best they could afford on their meagre African incomes. I wasn't jealous of Peter for being married to her, but I wished I'd met her when we were both broke, so we could have built something together. I envied him for that.

  "You look tired," she whispered, very softly.

  I looked up from her hand, into those eyes. She smiled, and her nose crinkled in the way that cuts the legs from under me and paralyses my tongue. I squeezed her hand, and when the power returned to me I said:

  "Welcome back."

  She tried to speak again, but her throat was obviously sore from all the tubes that had been poked down it. I put my finger to my lips and shushed her. "Don't talk," I said. "There'll be plenty of time for that. Just get better first."

  She sank back for a few moments, but was not content. "Charles?" Her voice was a faint croak.

  "Sssh."

  "We were… at a concert."

  "Sssh."

  "Did I have an accident?"

  "Yes, something like that. But you're safe now, and you'll soon be well again. Then, if you'll let me, I'm going to look after you better than you've ever been looked after before. That's a promise."

  She squeezed my hand. "Do I look a mess?" she asked.

  "As if you've been dragged through a hedge. Longways. But that's still lovely."

  Her mouth opened; but before any words came out I raised a finger in disapproval and said: "Ah! If you don't stop talking I shall leave.

  I'm only staying if you promise to be quiet."

  She clamped her lips together in an exaggerated grimace and sank back against the pillow. I poured some fruit juice and held it while she drank. She silently mouthed the words: "Thank you," and gave me a smile so warm the central heating switched off. She was going to make it, and so, God willing, was I. There was still a round-the-clock guard at the hospital, but they were protecting the wrong person. It was reassuring, though, to know that Annabelle was safe. Peterson was convinced that the so-called Mushroom Man, or Destroying Angel, was responsible, but I couldn't see it. The Angel name could easily have leaked out. It was just some lunatic with a gun having a go at Charlie Priest. I have plenty of enemies. I found a new writing pad and fibre-tip and settled down in front of the fire with a mug of tea and a packet of custard creams. An hour later I had a list of ten possibles, with stars in double circles against the first three. The winners were, in order of preference:

  Don Purley

  ABC (Bradshaw and Wheatley)

  Eddie Grant I had a bowl of cornflakes, to save time in the morning, and went
to bed. As I closed the curtains I noticed a car about a hundred yards up the road. It was out of place. I sneaked into the spare bedroom in the darkness, and took a longer look at it. While I was watching its lights came on. It made a U-turn and drove away. It was nearly one a.m." and for once I slept like a doorstep.

  "Mornin', troops!" I hollered as I breezed into the office at about ten o'clock, chirpy as a barrow wheel.

  "Morning," grumbled assorted voices.

  "God, you look rough, Dave," I said to Sparky, reaching across his desk and giving him a chuck under the chin.

  He swiped at my hand as I pulled it back. "It's this lot," he complained, waving at the paperwork. "Back to TWOCs and burglaries.

  Nobody told them to behave themselves while we were otherwise engaged.

  I thought Doc Evans had given you a sick note."

  "He has. This is a private visit. What's happening with Dewhurst?"

  "Not much. Nigel set up a bedside interview in Bentley, but he refused to speak. He's going for the sympathy vote."

  "That won't do him any good."

  Maggie wandered over. "How's Annabelle?" she asked.

  "Loads better, thanks. I called in briefly this morning and they'd had her out of bed for a few minutes. Far too soon, in my opinion. She's still in a lot of pain. Actually, I've something to ask you. Come into the office."

  When we were out of earshot of the others I said: "Annabelle's asked me to take her some clothes from home. I haven't a clue what she needs.

  You wouldn't do the necessary for me, would you?"

  "If I can. What have you in mind?"

  "Well, if I take you to her house, could you fill a suitcase with stuff? Underwear, night dresses you know."

  Maggie started laughing. She snorts when she laughs, making it impossible not to join in. "You're the limit, Charlie," she giggled.

  "Well, I'd be embarrassed, rummaging through her underwear."

  "But you'd like to, wouldn't you?"

  "Er, yes, I suppose I would. I'd just prefer her to be there at the time."

  "You're blushing!"

  "No I'm not!"

  "Yes you are!"

  "It's one of my endearing traits."

  She blew her nose and shook her head. "When do you want to go?"

  "To suit you. I'm not working."

  "Neither am I the boss is off sick. Are you going to be here a while?"

  "Probably."

  "Give me the key and her address and I'll go now."

  "I've got friends I haven't used yet," I said, fishing the key for the Old Vicarage from my pocket.

  Don Purley was a mean hombre. I put him away for life, with a fifteen-year tariff. Last night I couldn't remember the name of his wife, but as soon as I looked at the list again it came back to me.

  Rhoda. I wrote it next to his. They were a weird couple into body-building and martial arts. She was only five foot two, but had striking red hair and bigger muscles on her nipples than I had on my arms. They ran a health club just outside Heckley. He was my favourite for bearing a grudge, but he still had three or four years to serve there's no remission on the judge's tariff. Unless he'd escaped, of course.

  Purley murdered the Ho twins, Michael and David. They were Hong Kong Chinese, who'd come over here with a suitcase that rattled and a kilogram of heroin strapped to their bodies. Something had panicked them, and they'd dumped the drugs down the plane toilet. That left them in a strange land with no source of income. Being as enterprising as most of their countrymen, they were soon in business again. They cashed in on the fearsome reputation of the Triads and started a protection racket. We were watching them, but not closely enough. I was called to their flat and found one of them strangled and the other one's head kicked to a pulp.

  The doctor who attended the scene pointed to a crescent-shaped imprint behind the Adam's apple of the strangled one, who happened to be David.

  He'd been killed by a karate grip to the throat. It's easy enough you just strike out and grab the other fellow's windpipe. He stands there, arms and legs free, but so paralysed with pain he can't do a thing about it. An agonising death follows if you don't release him. David's bulging eyes and lolling tongue were testimony to the effectiveness of the hold.

  "That's where his thumbnail dug in," the doctor said, pointing at the scarlet arc. Ever since then my first glimpse of the new moon had resurrected the ghost of David Ho.

  "In that case," I declared, 'there's a thumbprint just behind it."

  The doctor looked at me as if he were examining the contents of a bedpan. "Skin on skin," he sniffed. "You're wasting your time."

  When the SOCO and the photographer arrived I gave strict instructions that nobody else was to enter the room. We'd just started using super glue in fingerprint work. Something in the fumes given off by the glue reacts with the constituents of the dab to leave a white deposit. It's called polymerisation, but I don't think anybody fully understands why it works. The SOCO shook his head but agreed to give it a try. Trouble was, you're supposed to place the object in question, usually a knife or a gun, in a fume cabinet. We were talking about a human head, still attached to the body. I took the biggest plastic bag we had and pulled it over David's head. The SOCO put the glue inside and I sealed the bag as best I could with Sellotape. It wasn't pleasant work. The photographer stood by with his array of fluorescent lights. Images often show up better under ultra violet.

  We waited and watched, half expecting the bag to steam up with the products of respiration, but it didn't. Across the room a bluebottle buzzed around the bloody head of Michael Ho.

  Periodically SOCO looked inside and renewed the glue. The photographer tried his various lights and took some 'before' pictures. We were breaking every rule in the Health and Safety at Work handbook. We should have been wearing protective goggles, breathing apparatus, and diving suits. I closed my eyes when he used the ultra violet.

  It didn't work.

  I said: "There's a print behind that mark, and I want it. What can we try next?"

  "Ninhydrin?"

  "OK. Give him a squirt."

  "It'll turn him pink."

  "He won't mind."

  "What will the pathologist think?"

  "Scarlet fever? Give him a squirt."

  Ninhydrin comes in an aerosol, and reacts with blood as well as the amino acids and proteins found in fingerprints. The SOCO sprayed some on David's neck. Splatter from the aerosol fell on to his unblinking eyeball. I turned away.

  SOCO said it would work better if it was warmer, so we switched on the three-kilowatt electric fire that the room boasted. As the temperature rose, so too did the smell of blood. He was wrong about the colour it turned the body purple.

  We were looking for a transitional stage. Hopefully the spray would react with the prints before it reacted with the skin of the deceased.

  It seemed a long shot. The photographer took some more 'before' pictures.

  "There's something there!" SOCO gasped, offering me his magnifying glass.

  I shook my head. "Just get it on film."

  We were locked in that obscene room for over two hours, but next morning I had on my desk a picture of a fragment of a fingerprint.

  Others didn't believe it, but I was convinced. The skin of the fingers and hands is characterised by the ridges that create prints, but the rest of our skin is relatively smooth. I highlighted the lines with my pencil, producing what I suppose was an artist's impression. In fingerprint jargon it was only part of a whorl, with a fork and a lake nearby, but it was a start.

  I drew a quarter-mile-radius circle around the Hos' flat and we listed every small business within it. Everyone, that is, who might be a victim of their protection racket. We checked criminal records and fingerprinted those who had stayed clear of the law. We found plenty of whorls, forks and lakes, but none were in exactly the same relationship as those we were looking for. It would never be enough to make a conviction, but it could point us in the right direction.

 
I expanded the circle. And again. And again. At two miles it encompassed six sheep farms, ten derelict mills, a Yorkshire Water reservoir and the Fighting Fit Health Club, owned by a certain Donald Purley. He had a criminal record for dealing in drugs, mainly steroids, and the print of his right thumb matched our picture.

  We raided his flat and club at seven a.m. one Wednesday morning. A pair of trousers were newly dry-cleaned, but still had blood in the fibres. In a wardrobe was a pair of snazzy shoes with brass tips on the toes and heels. They shone like a choirboy's face, but a stick-on sole was coming away slightly at the toe, and under it we found a hair that had once grown on Michael Ho's head. Later, two people ID'd him as coming down the stairs from the flat at the time of the killings. We had him.

  On tape and in court he protested his innocence. Off the record, when I was alone with him, he swaggered and bragged that we'd never make it stick. We did, for fifteen years.

  But he should still be in jail. I dialled the number for Bentley prison and asked to be put through to records. I didn't know which prison he was in, but they were computerised. A convict keeps his number throughout his sentence, and it moves around with him.

  "Do you know his date of birth, sir?" asked the female warder.

  "No, I'm afraid not. He's not a teenager, though." I gave her a rough guess.

  "Sorry, sir. We don't have a Donald Purley at all."

  "You must have. He was a lifer. Should have about four years still to go. Maybe he died."

  "Let me check."

  Another phone was ringing in the background as I waited.

  "Found him, sir. Donald Purley, DOB seven, nine, fifty-three."

  "That sounds like him. Where is he?"

  "He was released, sir, nearly three years ago."

  "Released! Does it say why?"

  "Compassionate grounds. Presumably he was terminally ill."

  "Oh. Is there a release address?"

  "No. It just says: "Released into the supervision of Heckley Probation Service."

  "Right. Thanks. I'll contact them. Could you give me another release address, please?"

  "We'll try. What name?"

  "Eddie Grant."

  He'd moved to Leeds. I wrote the address next to his name on my list and rang Heckley Probation Office.