The Mushroom Man dcp-2

by Stuart Pawson

  "How do you hear something like that unofficially?" asked Gilbert.

  I shook my head.

  "Talk at the golf club," suggested Sparky. "Or at the lodge. They all urinate in the same receptacle."

  "Oh, no," groaned Gilbert. "Not the Freemasons. Don't start Charlie off about them again."

  "That wasn't me. It was Wassock Willis," I protested. Willis was one of my sergeants, now moved on.

  Sparky leaned back in his chair, his face bearing a satisfied grin.

  He'd succeeded in goading Gilbert and myself into bickering. I kicked his shin under the table.

  "Nigel." I turned to him, scratching my ear with my pencil, to create a diversion. "We need to find out what was in Janet Dewhurst's will; who she left the company to. Do you think your Mr. Wylie will tell you?"

  "Don't see why not. Shall I ring him?"

  "Or would you rather see him in person?"

  "No, I'll ring him. I'll use my own phone if you don't mind, the number's in my desk."

  When he'd gone I said: "Nigel has a flair for dealing with people like solicitors. He gets more cooperation from them than I ever can."

  "It's called being polite," said Gilbert. "You let it be known that you don't like them because they're better off than you, so you get their backs up."

  "Thank you for putting me straight," I replied.

  "Any time. What's the shirt and tie for?"

  "Er, I have a luncheon appointment."

  "Anywhere special?"

  I was saved by a knock at the door and Geoff Caton poked his head in.

  "Scuse me, Mr. Wood. It's Van Rees on the phone, boss. Shall I say you'll ring him back?"

  "No, transfer him in here please."

  After a few seconds the phone rang. "Hello, Professor, it's Charlie Priest here. Have you anything for me?"

  "I'm not sure, Inspector. First of all, I've just received these dirt samples from you. We're having a quick look at them and cataloguing them for further reference. Is that all you wanted?"

  "For the time being, Professor. It's just material that we might want to do a comparison with, one day. It's a long shot."

  "I see. Now, this blood sample. It's from a Miles Dewhurst."

  "Yes."

  "Presumably he's something to do with the little girl who vanished."

  "Yes, he's her father."

  "The SOCO brought us samples of hair from her hairbrush when she first went missing."

  "I know."

  "Was she adopted?"

  "I don't think so. No, she wasn't. Definitely not."

  "Well, Inspector, statistically there's a chance that you are her biological father. There's even an extremely remote chance that I am her biological father although I have to confess to having no recollection of the encounter. But this sample proves that Miles Dewhurst is no blood relation to her whatsoever."

  "Well, well," pondered Gilbert when I relayed the message to the others. "Mr. Dewhurst becomes interestinger and interestinger."

  "If he's in the frame I've something to add," stated Sparky.

  "Goon."

  "He has a girlfriend."

  "A girlfriend? How do you know?" I queried.

  "I've been keeping an eye on him. According to her car registration she's called Sarah Louise Parkinson. She's a dark, intense piece.

  Fashionable dresser. Glamorous, if you like that sort of thing. Her address is Oldfield, but they share a love nest in Todmorden. She's chief buyer at Clay's Manchester branch."

  "Thanks for keeping me informed, Dave," I told him somewhat abruptly, throwing my pencil on the table.

  "Sorry, boss. I was about to tell you."

  The door swung open and Nigel bounded in, like a puppy that's just learned to retrieve a stick.

  "Guess what?" he challenged us.

  "What?" I demanded, deflating him with a word.

  "Er, Janet Dewhurst's will. She left most of it in trust for Georgina.

  Miles Dewhurst might call himself managing director, but he's still just a glorified employee."

  Maggie, Sparky, Gilbert and myself sat and stared at him, our jaws drooping at various degrees, like sea lions waiting for the keeper to toss a fish to us. Slowly Nigel's face sank, as if his master had taken the stick from him and used it to beat him.

  "What did I say?" he wondered aloud.

  Raymond Chedgrave could see Miss Jonas's cottage from where he stood.

  He wondered for a moment if the rumours about her and Father Harcourt were true, then turned back to his barley. He cast his expert eye over the expanse of it and smiled with satisfaction. This was the most widely grown crop in Britain. Some went for feed and some was destined for the brewing industry, but the best the fattest, purest grain was held back to use as seed for next year's crop. It fetched the highest price, and Raymond Chedgrave had over a thousand acres of it.

  Before being accepted as seed it would be rigorously tested to verify that it was uncontaminated with wild oats or any other weed.

  Generations of what was regarded as good husbandry had banished the poppy and corn cockle from these fields, but the wild oat was a common intruder, brought in by impure seed. It was easy to detect, standing a foot taller than the barley, but the sterile brome was much more difficult to tackle. That was what Chedgrave was looking for this morning.

  He'd started walking the fields as soon as the rising sun had burned off the dew, up and down the waving waist-high rows. The corn was as clean as a weasel's molars. He'd knock off now, he decided, and go back to Home Farm for a bite to eat. Maybe he'd have another couple of hours tomorrow; the weather looked like holding. He made a mental note of where he'd reached, then started working his way back to the Land Rover.

  A covey of red-legged partridge suddenly whirred and clattered into the air from almost under his feet. Farmer Chedgrave was startled for a second, but he recovered immediately and raised his arms as if holding an imaginary gun and followed the path of the fleeing birds.

  "P-chow!" he cried, and the pretend shotgun kicked upwards with the recoil. He didn't do much shooting, but the season had started and a brace of partridge would make a pleasant change of menu. He'd bring a proper gun tomorrow.

  As he moved on, his foot tangled with something and he sprawled full-length into his barley. His ankle was held fast and hurting. For a second he thought he must have stepped into a gin trap. He rolled over on to his back to see.

  It was a bicycle. His left ankle was jammed through the spokes of the front wheel of an old bike.

  "Holy cow!" he muttered. "I've found the Father's bike!"

  The vanishing of Father Harcourt was the best piece of gossip to hit the village since the post mistress was prosecuted for growing marijuana. The police had walked all the drainage ditches looking to see if he'd ridden off the road, and a helicopter had scoured much of the local countryside. Then the momentum had waned and it was left to the passing of the seasons or the tides to reveal his whereabouts. PC Donald Watson was sent in response to Farmer Chedgrave's agitated phone call. He made a positive identification of the bicycle and radioed for further help.

  Two hours later Sergeant Morgan Davis deployed his team of two constables in the road adjacent to the barley field.

  "What exactly is it we're looking for, Sarge?" asked one of them.

  Davis surveyed the antiseptic landscape with distaste. "Anything suspicious, boyo," he replied. "That means that if it's not grass and it's not gravel, put it in a bag and label it. I'll be back at the station, directing operations, so to speak. Radio in if you find anything."

  He climbed into the panda car and drove off. A few seconds down the road his eyes made an habitual flick towards the rear-view mirror.

  Young Watson was standing in the road waving his arms, trying to attract his attention. The Sergeant stamped on the brakes, slammed into reverse and rocketed back towards him in a storm of tyre smoke and flying stones.

  "What do you reckon to this, Sarge?" PC Watson asked.

  Davis
bent over to see where the constable was pointing. Lying in the grass at the edge or the road was a windscreen wiper arm. He carefully extricated it and held it between his fingertips. Stamped into the metal was the word: VOLVO.

  "This, Donald, is what we more experienced police officers call a clue," said the Sergeant.

  "A clue, Sarge. I'll remember that. I've got two of them on my car."

  His face glowed so brightly with pride, you could have marked a roadworks with it.

  "And will you be looking at this," said Davis, pointing at the wiper with his little finger. Plainly visible along one edge were flakes of blue paint. "Nearly as good as his name and address, that is."

  "So we're looking for the owner of a blue Volvo, eh, Sarge?"

  Davis nodded. "Carry on at this rate, Donald my boy, and you could be joining the detectives. Now, will you be handing me one of them plastic bags I know you're carrying."

  Next day the search party brought in from divisional HQ found Father Harcourt's body, or what the rats and maggots had left of it.

  Chapter 6

  I took Maggie to talk with Wylie, the solicitor, and we put our Mr. and Mrs. Nasty heads on. We'd let Nigel carry on being Mr. Nice. Wylie told us that under the terms of the will left by Janet Dewhurst her husband drew a salary and a percentage of the profits until Georgina was eighteen. The rest was held in trust for her. Then, providing he had remained unmarried, they split the company fifty-fifty.

  "Mrs. Dewhurst was quite adamant about the marriage clause," Wylie told us. "She was determined that Georgina would not be brought up by a stepmother."

  He was not so forthcoming when I queried him about Dewhurst's efforts to raise the ransom money. I gave him the look that said I was thinking about pushing burning matchsticks under his fingernails and he opened up slightly. He confessed that, as trustees, his firm had given Dewhurst permission to look for a buyer or do some hefty borrowing.

  "Can you do that?" I asked.

  He looked embarrassed and fidgeted with a fountain pen. "We consider we are acting in the best interests of our clients," he said.

  "Both of them?" I demanded.

  "Yes, Inspector, both of them. If a life is at risk we feel that we would not be acting as responsible trustees if we did not act to save that life."

  "In that case I want you to withdraw the permission. We can supply the money."

  "I'm afraid it may be too late for that, Inspector," he replied.

  I asked him for a copy of the will and we drove back to the office.

  Every morning the Superintendent holds what we call his morning prayer meeting. I informed the gathered brains of Heckley nick of the latest developments.

  "Suddenly it's all falling into place," said Gilbert "Do you think you've enough to bring him in? Maybe if we turned his love nest over, leaned on his girlfriend."

  "I'd rather not, if you don't mind," I answered. "He's been scrupulous so far, I doubt if he's left any muck in his own kennel. Plus he's got the press on his side. Arresting the distraught father wouldn't be good for my image if it didn't stick."

  "You could be right, Charlie. If he doesn't think he's a suspect, let's give him all the line he needs. Mind you, the Acting Chief Constable might not agree when I give him a progress report."

  "Trevor Partridge," I replied. "Leave him to me. I got him that job.

  If Dewhurst is convicted on circumstantial evidence he'll spend the rest of his life protesting his innocence writing books and articles in his cell. Three-quarters of the population will believe him. And that's providing we'd convinced a jury first. Let's hang on and find some forensic When he goes down, I want him to have lead in his shoes '

  I was about to add that I didn't think we'd have long' to wait, but I was interrupted by a knock at the door. A uniformed constable poked his head round it.

  "Excuse me, gentlemen," he said. "Mr. Priest, Miles Dewhurst is downstairs, asking for you. He looks a wreck."

  Gilbert came with me. Dewhurst was unshaven and untidily dressed, displaying that careful indifference to personal appearance that takes years to cultivate. For a split second I Wondered if that was why I disliked him so much. Not because I thought he'd murdered his daughter, but for his vanity. We sat him in an interview room and ordered tea.

  "She wasn't there," he sobbed. "He promised she'd be there."

  "Georgina?"

  He nodded.

  "I think you'd better start at the beginning, Mr. Dewhurst. I take it you've had another approach." I glanced at the calendar on the wall behind him. It showed a picture of Fountains Abbey, and told me that this was the thirteenth day since the previous note.

  His elbows were on the table, with his hands clenched together and his thumbs pressed against his lips.

  "Take your time, Mr. Dewhurst, and tell us in your own Words what happened," said Gilbert, soothingly.

  He lowered his hands. He rang me. Last night. Asked if I'd got the money. Not all of it, I told him. He asked me how much and I said three hundred and fifty thousand. He said that would do."

  "Did you have the money at home?" I asked.

  He nodded.

  "What did he say next?"

  "He told me that if I did as I was told I'd have Georgina back by this morning." He started sobbing, and apologised for doing so. We waited for him to start talking again. "I had to immediately take the Nissan and drive east on the M62, at fifty miles per hour, until he contacted me again."

  "So he rang you on your mobile?"

  "Yes."

  "What time, about?"

  "About ten, ten fifteen. I never looked."

  "Go on."

  "He called me again, somewhere near the Bradford turn-off, I think. I had to go to the services at the junction with the Al and park well away from everyone else. Then wait."

  He rambled on, pausing to blow his nose and gather his thoughts. It was a convincing performance.

  "How do you feel about doing the journey again?" I asked.

  He nodded. "I expected you to suggest that."

  "OK. Have you had any breakfast?"

  "No, I couldn't eat anything."

  "You've got to have something; a slice of toast at least. Come on, we'll go to the canteen. That all right with you, Mr. Wood?"

  "Yes, of course," said Gilbert. "I'll sort somebody out to go with you."

  Dave Sparkington was available, joining us in the canteen. We had a toasted tea cake and set off in my car to follow the directions Dewhurst had been given over his mobile phone.

  As we walked out through the yard, Dewhurst asked if the Nissan would be all right where he'd left it. It was in a space marked HMI.

  We weren't expecting a visit from him, or even her, so I said: "Sure, it'll be OK there," quickly adding: "Tell you what, let's leave your keys with the front desk, just in case." Sometimes I think so fast I arrive back before I've started.

  Dewhurst sat in the front of my car and Sparky in the back, taking notes. First stop was the Ferrybridge Services, where the Al intersects the M62. We ignored the fifty miles per hour instruction and drove there as fast as I was able.

  "Where did you park?" I asked.

  "In that far corner," Dewhurst said, pointing. I stopped in the same square he'd used.

  "Was it very busy?"

  "Fairly. There'd be about half as many vehicles as there are now, or maybe a few less."

  "You didn't notice anyone in particular?"

  "No."

  "How long did you wait?"

  "Nearly an hour."

  "And then he rang again."

  "Yes."

  If was like trying to extract the pips from a pebble. "Would you care to tell us what the next instruction was, please, Mr. Dewhurst?" I asked.

  Eight miles down the Al, in a lay-by just past the Burghwallis turn-off, is a construction known as Little John's Well. It's very old, dating from when they made the Great North Road into a dual carriage way About 1965. The voice on the phone had ordered Dewhurst to go there. We did the sam
e.

  "In the well was a flattened Coke tin with the end cut off. There was a message inside, with a diagram."

  "What happened to it?"

  "I still have it."

  "Let's have a look, then."

  It had been done on a computer. It depicted the roundabout at the Blythe services, further down the Al, with precise instructions on where to leave the money.

  I passed it back to Dave. "Read 'em out, Dave," I instructed.

  Fifteen minutes later we were nearly there.

  "First left and left again," Sparky told me. "And left again in a mile and a half." We were in coal-mining country, or what remained of it.

  "Left again in a quarter of a mile."

  It was a narrow lane, made of concrete. Probably an old British Coal access road. The remains of a gate marked the entrance. Now it bore signs of habitation by the less welcome members of the travelling fraternity, and several years' use as an illegal tip. It ended abruptly in a small wood after a few hundred yards.

  "Is this where you came?"

  "Yes."

  Before us stood a derelict building no bigger than a domestic garage.

  It was one of those mysterious, windowless places that have electricity poles bringing cables into them, and lightning conductors sticking towards the sky. Except that the copper fairies had already removed everything non-ferrous from this one.

  "It's an old Coal Board substation," Sparky explained.

  "Where did you leave the money?" I asked.

  "Inside. There's a pit in the floor, with the old door across it. I had to leave the money in the pit."

  "OK. You two wait here; I'll have a look."

  I picked my way through the wet grass to the gaping doorway of the building. A pair of magpies flew up and crashed noisily through the branches of the surrounding silver birches. Inside was a rotting jumble of domestic garbage. Liberally strewn about were screwed-up pieces of pink toilet tissue.

  Yuk! I thought, wishing I'd asked Sparky to do the dirty work.

  The big door that had once protected the entrance now lay inside, on the floor. It was reinforced with a steel sheet, but fortunately had a large handle to grasp hold of.