The Mushroom Man (14 page)

A murmur ran round the room. Tollis threw himself back against his chair. Peterson continued: ‘We are certain that he was responsible for the last two murders, but the first two are very doubtful. At my request, Mr McLeod kindly agreed to print the story without using the name Destroying Angel, although it did reduce the impact somewhat. I would like to take this opportunity to publicly thank him for his responsible attitude. The purpose of this meeting is to put the facts before the rest of you and to ask you not to describe the killer in the way he describes himself.’

‘Why?’ someone cried.

‘Why? I’ll tell you why. First of all, we don’t want him glamorised. I realise that in this aspect we differ, but glamorisation leads to copycats, and the last thing I want is deranged individuals all over the place bumping off the clergy. To you, no news is bad news, but I prefer the quiet life. Secondly, we
want to catch him. The letter he sent to the
News
is being given every test known to the forensic scientist, but unfortunately it was handled by a hundred people before it reached them. We’d like to frustrate him into writing again, but this time we’ll be ready for it. Sadly, our best chances of apprehending him are when he tries to kill again. With your cooperation, maybe we can goad him into doing something foolish before then. I have a hand-out here which gives details of the deaths and what we would like you to print and not print. Any questions, before I hand you over to Chief Superintendent Tollis?’

Several hands were raised. Peterson gestured to an elderly man whom he knew worked for an agency. He stood up to speak. ‘Thank you,’ he began. ‘Inspector, can I get this clear: there is a serial killer on the loose who describes himself as the Destroying Angel, and you are seriously asking the press not to use it?’

‘Yes, that’s right. You can print the story, but not the name. That’s what I’m asking.’

‘So what do you want us to call him?’

‘Well, the killer, I suppose. You’re the wizards with words.’

‘But he has to have a name. All serial killers have names.’

Peterson looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t know. Call him…how about…call him…’ He was floundering,
but inspiration came from nowhere, welcome as an empty taxi in a blizzard. Call him…the Mushroom Man,’ he said.

A buzz of approval ran through the room; the Mushroom Man it was. He noticed Tollis screwing up his notes, his knuckles standing out like a row of snowy mountain peaks against his suntanned hands. ‘And now,’ Peterson told them, ‘I’d like to introduce Chief Superintendent Tollis, who is the officer in charge of the inquiry I’m sure he will be more than ready to answer your questions, and far more ably than me. Mr Tollis…’

Tollis got to his feet. ‘No, no,’ he told them. ‘I think Inspector Peterson has covered everything. I’ll just remind you how much we value your cooperation and bid you good morning.’

He turned and left. Peterson was alarmed to see a blood vessel on his chief’s head pulsing like a neon sign with a loose connection, and briefly wondered if he’d really done it this time. ‘Thank you…sir,’ he called after him.

Sparky had a problem with the headmistress of the Moorside middle school. ‘Dismissed the idea out of hand, boss,’ he told me on the telephone. ‘Says she can’t possibly authorise us to take the pictures without the say-so of the governors.’

‘Did you tell her that the photos would be destroyed as soon as we’d finished with them?’

‘Yeah. It made no difference. More than her job’s worth, plus a deep distrust of the police. I tried to ring Nigel – thought he might have a better chance of sweet-talking her than me – but he’s not answering.’

It was the first time ever that Sparky had acknowledged Nigel’s talents, so I was pleased with that. He also had a habit of bypassing Nigel whenever possible and coming straight to me. I’d been wondering what to do about it, but now it looked as if the problem had gone away. It meant the team was still a strong one.

I’ll go see her,’ I said. ‘Any ideas how I should play it?’

‘Mmm…branding irons and thumbscrews. If they fail you’ll just have to fall back on your speciality – seduction.’

‘You really know how to hurt a friend,’ I told him.

Electrical impulses were queuing inside the telephone wires, waiting for me to replace the handset and make the connection. It rang again before I’d relaxed my grip. ‘Priest,’ I said.

‘Detective Inspector Priest?’

I didn’t recognise the voice at first. ‘Yes, can I help you?’

‘It’s Frank Marriot, Charlie. I’ve some bad news, I’m afraid.’

DS Marriot was the Pornography Squad sergeant. He sounded out of breath. Lally and his woman friend were appearing at the magistrates’ court this morning, from where they would hopefully be committed for trial at the crown court. Frank was there to oppose any application for bail. We desperately needed them out of circulation for the next few days.

‘Why? What’s happened?’ I asked.

‘I blew it. Lally’s been remanded in custody, but the woman, Fenella Smith, was released on bail. Claimed she was just visiting and knew nothing about his activities.’

‘But her name’s on the electoral roll for that address.’

‘I know, but I wasn’t given the chance to tell the court. Afterwards she was whisked away in a taxi. I had some crazy idea about arresting her again for perjury and went charging out, but I was too slow. I saw the bloke she went with, but didn’t recognise him.’

‘Damn!’ With her on the loose we were wasting our time – we’d only get the small fry. ‘OK. Don’t worry about it, Frank. I’m sure you did your best.’ I brought him up to date with our morning’s activities.

In the corridor I met DI Peterson. ‘Morning, Oscar,’ I said. ‘Settled into your new accommodation yet?’

He had a worried look on his face. ‘Yes, you’ve done all right for us, eventually, but I’d like a word about something else.’

‘Will it wait? I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

‘Aren’t we all? That big DC of yours – I want to complain about him.’

‘Dave Sparkington?’

‘That’s him. He was downright insubordinate to me earlier today; offensive even.’

I sighed inwardly. ‘What’s he done?’ I asked, stopping myself before I added ‘now’. Sparky regarded it as his duty to play the blunt Yorkshireman with anyone from south of Doncaster, especially if they were from another force, moving in
on his patch. Rank was no protection.

‘I passed him in the car park, about eight o’clock. “Good morning,” I said, as you do. He said: “You’ll get your share of it.” Ignorant sod. I warn you, Charlie, I won’t tolerate that attitude from anyone, never mind a DC.’

I tried not to smile but I must have done. Peterson said: ‘It’s not funny, Charlie. If we were in Trent I’d have him on a fizzer.’

‘Sorry, Oscar, I’m not laughing. I think you misunderstood him.’ I was struggling for an explanation. ‘What he, er, really meant was, er, God willing. That’s it. God willing you’ll get your share of the good morning.’

‘Bollocks!’

I was warming to my theme. ‘No, it’s true. It’s just a cultural thing. It’s like…well…if you said to an Englishman: “Look, no hands,” he’d assume you were showing off. But if you said it to a Saudi Arabian he’d come to an entirely different conclusion. Wouldn’t he?’

‘You’re a bullshitter, Charlie.’

‘Maybe you’re right. Leave it with me, Oscar. I’ll have a word with him.’

Moorside school was one of the smaller ones on our list, but the nearest to Lally’s address. It comprises a flat-roofed building, not very old, and a couple of portakabin classrooms to cater for some unforeseen
demographic blip. I tried to remember if we’d done well in the World Cup about ten years ago. We hadn’t – it must have been a power cut.

Everybody was at lunch. I wandered down the corridors looking for the school office and pausing to admire the kids’ paintings that brightened all the walls. Some of them were terrific. I was less enthusiastic about the smell of the place. I hadn’t enjoyed my own schooldays, and the cocktail of sour milk, sweaty bodies and furniture polish brought the memories back.

Mrs Quigley would be back in her office at one thirty, the school secretary told me. I went outside and sat in the car, listening to the news. A cabinet minister had been sacked for having a happy marriage; otherwise it was all depressing. At one thirty-one I rat-tatted on Mrs Quigley’s door with my right hand. In the other I carried a large manila envelope.

What profession makes policemen feel old? Headmistresses who look about twenty-two certainly do. She was brusque and efficient, though, and wore these qualities like armour.

‘Inspector, I have nothing further to add to what I said to your constable this morning. I really don’t see how I can help unless the board of governors sanction it. I’m afraid I cannot allow photographs of my children to be used in a criminal inquiry.’

‘We are talking about very serious offences, Mrs
Quigley, and with your cooperation we could bring the perpetrators to court. All the photographs will be destroyed as soon as—’

‘Yes, yes,’ she interrupted. ‘The constable went through all that.’

I gestured to a spare chair. ‘May I sit down, please?’ I didn’t wait for the answer. ‘Mrs Quigley,’ I went on, ‘yesterday we raided a house and found evidence of a paedophile ring, operating from Heckley. To put it bluntly, someone is having sex with what the law terms children of a tender age. These children must go to school somewhere, and we’d like to find them, protect them from further abuse. I’d have thought that you would, too.’

‘My concern is completely for the children, Inspector. If the school governors give their approval I will cooperate fully, but meanwhile my answer has to be no.’

‘And while we wait for that approval the birds will fly. Right at this moment they are probably destroying the evidence, until they can set up in business again somewhere else. I want to save those kids, even if you aren’t so concerned.’

This wasn’t the way I’d intended to handle it. She turned on me: ‘Save them from what, Inspector?’ she shrieked. ‘At least they have parents. What do you think will happen to them if they go into care? Do you believe they won’t be abused there? Have you asked the children if they want their families destroyed? I’ll
give you the name and address of the chairman of the governors; you can take it from there.’

That was meant to be her last word. I unfolded the flap of the manila envelope, extracted two of the ten-by-eight prints and slid them across to the head-mistress. She looked at the confusion of arms and legs, turned a print round because she thought it was upside down and turned it back when she realised it wasn’t.

‘That’s what I want to save them from,’ I said very quietly.

Mrs Quigley’s eyes scanned rapidly from one picture to the other and her hands began to shake. ‘Oh my God!’ she gasped, and was sick into the wastepaper bin at the side of her desk. Unfortunately it was at the end where I was sitting. School dinners haven’t changed much since my day. They’d had shepherd’s pie, broccoli, and jam sponge pudding.

I grabbed her coffee cup and nipped out to the cloakroom I’d noticed earlier. After giving her a moment to compose herself I went back in with a cup of water. She accepted it gratefully.

‘Mrs Quigley,’ I said. She looked at me. Her face was the colour of an old man’s legs. ‘Please may I send a photographer and a lady police officer round to photograph your children?’

‘I think you’d better,’ she whispered between sips.

It wasn’t as difficult as we’d expected. On some jobs you learn as you go along. When we briefed the WPCs who would be acting as secretaries to the photographers we realised that they would be able to eliminate most of the kids there and then. With luck they might be able to make a positive identification.

I was with Gilbert. ‘Your fortnight’s up, Charlie,’ he told me. ‘Partridge travels to the conference at Bramshill on Monday and wants his moment of glory on Tuesday. Where’s this pornography job taking us?’

‘It’s taking us to court with a bunch of paedophiles, Gilbert, but it’s nothing to do with the Georgina case.’

‘Mmm, pity. So do you think we should spin Dewhurst?’

‘You know I don’t.’

‘Right. Do you still want taking off the case?’

‘You couldn’t manage without me.’

‘Once I couldn’t manage without sugar in my coffee, but I do now. Tell you what, let’s have a cup.’

Gilbert has a secretary, but he brews his own tea and coffee in the office. He doesn’t make a political song and dance about it, just gets on with it. It’s one of the little touches that makes him popular.

He turned round, coffee jar in one hand, spoon in the other. ‘Well, if you’re staying I suppose we’d
better play it your way. The ACC will just have to make do with a smashed paedophile ring to impress the conference. Now then; if I put all the sugar in yours and all the milk in mine they should be somewhere near.’

The phone and the kettle started making the appropriate noises at the same instant. I grabbed the phone. ‘Superintendent Wood’s office.’

‘Is that Mr Priest?’

‘Yes.’ It was me they wanted. I listened. And listened.

Gilbert appeared at my elbow with two steaming mugs. ‘They’ve positively identified one of the little girls in the photographs,’ I whispered to him. I pulled his writing pad towards me. ‘Give me the address again.’ It was a block of flats, but one of the more respectable ones. They are not all disaster areas. ‘What time does school finish?’

‘A quarter to four.’

‘OK, that gives us…just over an hour. That’s enough. You carry on there, I’ll organise a posse and see if her dad is at home. Well done.’

I put the phone down and told Gilbert the details. ‘A little girl called Anne-Marie Briggs matches the fair girl in the photographs. She has pierced ears and identical jewellery, plus a mole over her eye in exactly the right place. The WPC says she appears shy and withdrawn. She’d have picked her out as a contender without a description. Sorry about the
coffee, Gilbert, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep; and miles to go before I sleep.’

‘Stuff the coffee, I’m coming with you.’

We rang the Child Protection Unit at Divisional HQ and arranged to meet one of their specialists near the flats. I also alerted Social Services.

The flats were not as tidy as I remembered them. The downward spiral that started with general neglect and went through graffiti to vandalism and ultimately abandonment was well underway. Gilbert knocked so hard he nearly broke the window.

The door was answered by a woman wearing tiger-striped leggings and a top that said Armani across the front, although I think Georgio would have sued for defamation had he seen the state it was in. Her hair was the colour of dead cabbage leaves, and a look of fear flashed across her face as she surveyed us.

‘Superintendent Wood,’ said Gilbert, ‘and this is Acting DCI Priest and WPC Rawcliffe. May we come in?’

I’d forgotten I was supposed to be an Acting Chief! We didn’t wait for an answer and marched straight past her.

“Ere, what’s going on?’ said a voice in the dismal recesses of the flat, and a skinny figure appeared from one of the rooms.

‘It’s the police,’ the woman told him.

‘What the ’ell do you want?’ His T-shirt advertised the Dallas Cowboys and the gold chain round his neck could have anchored a respectable liner. His hair was cropped short on top but was long at the back.

‘Mr Briggs?’ I asked.

‘What of it?’

‘We’d like to ask you a few questions, and have a look around.’

‘You got a warrant?’

‘No, but I could have one in fifteen minutes. I’d prefer not to wait until Anne-Marie comes home from school, though.’

Mrs Briggs sank onto the sofa and her putty complexion moved several little squares towards the pale end of the colour chart.

‘Questions about what?’ she murmured, dreading the answer.

‘Child abuse,’ I said, confirming her fears.

We didn’t find anything. The flat was cheaply furnished but clean and tidy. It was nearly four o’clock and our search had not been particularly thorough, but the little girl would be coming in through the door any moment. Gilbert and WPC Rawcliffe were uncertain, but I wasn’t.

‘Paul Briggs, I’m arresting you on suspicion of being involved in paedophilia. 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 against you. Do you understand?’

He didn’t reply. Back at the station he wasn’t any more talkative. We tried an interview but it was a waste of time. It was like talking to a donkey with ear muffs on. I told him that we’d keep him in police custody overnight and have him in front of a nice, upstanding lady magistrate next morning, to be remanded. All we had, though, was a collection of photos, some bearing a likeness to him, others to his daughter. It wasn’t an impressive case.

‘Put him in number four,’ the custody officer told me when all the paperwork was completed and Briggs had been informed of his rights.

I grabbed him under the arm and lifted him off his chair. ‘This way,’ I said, propelling him forwards. He tried to shrug off my grip but I didn’t let him. WPC Rawcliffe was hovering nearby, about to go back to Division, or, more likely, her husband and kids. I caught her eye and signalled for her to follow me.