The Mushroom Man (21 page)

A microphone was thrust under my nose. ‘Do you love Annabelle?’ the girl holding it asked. She was about nineteen and had an editor to please.

I could imagine the exclusive that would be claimed if I gave the wrong answer. Sparky leant over to lift the catch and I pulled the door open. As I climbed in she poked the mike into the side of my face and repeated the question: ‘Do you love Annabelle?’

I turned so my lips were touching the microphone and said: ‘No.’

I slammed the door. If you tell a lie, might as well make it a whopper. That was the biggest I’d ever tell.

Our press office prepared a statement to get them off my back: we were just good friends; she was still on the critical list; and yes, the shooting was being investigated by the Mushroom Man team. When they realised there was no more, they drifted off.
The headlines weren’t very flattering: ‘Top cop never saw a thing,’ they said.

I had some kip and tried eating Sunday lunch at the local pub, but I didn’t enjoy it. In the evening I went back to the hospital and sat with Annabelle all night. She was just the same, and I left as dawn broke. I asked to be informed of any change in her condition, but I wasn’t next of kin, so they were reluctant.

When I drove into Heckley nick car park later in the day, I half expected Sparky to have commandeered my parking space as well as my car, but he hadn’t. I used the back entrance and ran up the stairs to Gilbert’s office. He was expecting me.

‘Hello, Charlie. I’ll just put the kettle on,’ he said.

‘Not for me, Gilbert, if you don’t mind. I’ll be looking like a pot of tea soon.’

‘Oh. Something stronger?’

I shook my head.

‘Fair enough. So how are you then?’

‘Not bad.’

‘Good. Did we tell you that we’ve traced Annabelle’s sister and her husband? They live in Guildford. She has a brother, too, but he’s somewhere in Africa.’

‘He’s in India,’ I said.

‘India?’

‘Mmm.’

It was Gilbert’s turn to shake his head. ‘Isn’t that
typical of the FO?’ he declared. ‘Scouring the wrong bloody continent.’

‘Friday night,’ I said, ‘when I met Annabelle…’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve been thinking about it, racking my brain. I believe we may have been followed.’

Gilbert’s brow furrowed with interest and he sat back so hard his chair protested. ‘Go on,’ he encouraged.

I picked up his ballpen and turned it over and over in my fingers. ‘When she came to the door she…she looked beautiful…’

‘She’s a lovely lady, Charlie; one in a million. Everyone who knows her is devastated. Take your time.’

‘We were talking. When I drove out of her street into the Top Road I looked in my mirror. There was a car close behind me. I hadn’t seen it when I stopped at the junction, it came from nowhere. Maybe I wasn’t concentrating and hadn’t looked properly. I gave myself a reprimand and took more care. It followed us all the way into town. Now I can’t help wondering if it had been waiting for us.’

Gilbert said: ‘Well done, Charlie. Well done.’ He wasn’t crass enough to ask the obvious, and waited for me to volunteer the information.

‘It was a little car, possibly a Fiesta, although it could easily have been something else. Colour? Possibly one of those insipid beiges that you
wonder why people buy. Sorry, Gilbert, your last Granada was a similar colour, wasn’t it?’

‘They gave me a good discount. It was called catshit. If it was a Fiesta, what mark would you estimate?’

‘I’m not sure, but one of the older, more angular ones.’

Gilbert picked up the phone and dialled. ‘Hello, Maggie. Charlie’s with me. Could someone bring the Ford colour charts up to my office, please.’

Maggie brought them herself. I stood up and she gave me a hug. She said: ‘Oh, Charlie, we’re all so sorry. How is she?’

I gave her an extra squeeze and told her that Annabelle was still unconscious but holding on.

Gilbert waited until we were through before saying: ‘Peterson’s in the building somewhere. Do you mind if he sits in on this?’

I didn’t, so he asked Maggie if she could round him up. When she left he said: ‘I know one thing, Charlie. You certainly have the knack of getting the best out of your WPCs. They never throw their arms around me.’

‘Treat them all the same, Gilbert. That’s the secret.’

‘What about sexual harassment?’

‘I’ve learnt to put up with it.’

Peterson came puffing in, complaining about the number of stairs and how cold it was in this
godforsaken part of the world. He looked embarrassed when he saw me, but didn’t offer any words of sympathy, for which I was grateful.

Gilbert told him about the car and we examined the colour charts. There was coral beige, sierra beige, cordoba beige, nevada beige, Sahara beige and tuscan beige, and I only thought it might be beige. Peterson wasn’t impressed by the standard of my evidence, and I offered a silent apology to all the useless witnesses I’d cursed over the years.

He pretended I’d given him the big breakthrough he was waiting for. After a few transparent nods of approval he said: ‘What can you tell me about Mrs Wilberforce?’

‘Nothing,’ I declared. ‘Nothing relevant.’ Nothing that was any business of his. I didn’t want to discuss her with him. The little I had was precious to me, not for writing in notebooks before going on to the computer, to be picked over by hard men looking for a murderer. Let them read someone else’s entrails.

The tone of my voice didn’t deter him. ‘She had no enemies that you know of? Were her views regarded as controversial within the Church?’

‘Of course not!’ I snapped. ‘And could I remind you that she is still alive, if only just.’

Gilbert said: ‘Mr Peterson, if Mr Priest had any information that would help this inquiry, don’t you think he would have offered it?’

Peterson ignored him. ‘Did you know,’ he announced, for it wasn’t a question, ‘that Mrs Wilberforce was…
is
considering ordination?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ I hissed, gripping the edges of my chair.

‘Well, she is. I had a long talk with the Bishop. He suggested it to her and she said she’d think about it. Apparently her ex-husband was a hell-
fire-and
-brimstone man.’

I took deep breaths while he was talking. When I felt I was under control I sat back in my chair and folded my arms. ‘Inspector Peterson,’ I began, ‘first of all, Mrs Wilberforce’s husband died after a long illness. He was her late husband, not her
ex-husband
. Secondly, he was a traditionalist, not a hell-fire-and-brimstone man, as you put it. And to say that Mrs Wilberforce agreed to think about ordination is hardly the same as saying she is seriously considering it.’

‘Mmm. Perhaps.’ He stood up to leave. There was a knock at the door and Nigel entered, carrying a piece of paper and looking smug.

Peterson said: This car. I don’t suppose you managed a glimpse of the driver?’

I shook my head.

‘Or the number?’

‘No.’

‘Of course not. Silly question. Still, I have to ask.’

Nigel was holding the door open. Peterson was
almost out when he changed his mind. ‘Oh, nearly forgot,’ he said. ‘Nine people have contacted various newspapers confessing to being the gunman – eight Mushroom Men and one Destroying Angel. I think we can safely say that a religious nut is on the loose.’

When he’d gone, Gilbert said: ‘We’ll have that coffee now, with a drop of lotion in it. Yes, Nigel. What can we do for you?’

He stepped forward, face glowing with enthusiasm. ‘Message for Char…er, Mr Priest. It reads: “Mrs Wilberforce conscious and breathing without the aid of the ventilator. Taken off critical list.” Message timed fifteen thirty-seven.’

My prayers were being answered.

Gilbert had misjudged me when he told Peterson that I would have offered any information I had. They’d put an armed guard on Annabelle in case the attacker came back, but they were guarding the wrong person. The one vital piece of information I had withheld was that Annabelle was not the intended victim. The shot in the town hall doorway was aimed at me, not her. Annabelle had been directly behind me, her hands on my hips. She was hit because I skipped to one side as the trigger was pulled. I wasn’t running away or hiding; maybe he’d come back.

I bought chocolates and salmon-pink roses and made myself look smart. I was back in my own car, thank goodness – the kids’ stickers in Sparky’s had been ruining my image. The hospital car park was crowded. I thought about sweet-talking my way into a parking spot inside the grounds but decided not to. It’s not my style. I cruised round until a place
became vacant and slotted into it, narrowly beating a taxi carrying a family of Asians. Three people were getting out of a top-of-the-range Rover a couple of spaces away. The man was wearing a camel overcoat with an astrakhan collar. The younger of the women was tall and stooped, but the other one was quite small and elderly. They walked towards the hospital as I went to collect a ticket from the machine. The driver of the taxi hadn’t the right money, so I changed a pound for him.

First of all I visited Casualty and had a word with the sister, to thank her for their efforts, and gave her the box of chocolates. She told me that Annabelle was still seriously ill, but as strong as a swan’s wing. Now she was in Ward 4B, upstairs.

I followed the signs and found the ward. Each patient was in her own little room, with open fronts on to a central corridor. I wandered along, looking in at various stages of suffering, but didn’t find Annabelle. As soon as a nurse appeared I asked.

‘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 of 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:

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, nightdresses, 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.