The Mushroom Man by Stuart Pawson

when we went through his clothing. It was just stuffed into the breast pocket of his jacket. Does it mean anything?’
    The DI held it by the corner between two fingers, as if holding a cigarette. ‘It’s just a picture of a mushroom,’ he stated.
    ‘Not necessarily,’ replied Tuke. ‘It could be a death cap, they’re very similar. Odd thing to cut out and put in your pocket, though, don’t you think?’
    Peterson shrugged. ‘Don’t make it complicated, Alan, this is reality. Maybe he was a fungi…something-or-other.’
    ‘Fortunately, that’s your problem. Come on. I’ll treat you to a bacon sandwich in the canteen.’
    Peterson got to his feet and they walked out of the lab. He was as near to being shocked as he’d been for many years.
    ‘A bacon sandwich!’ he protested. ‘After that!’ He gestured with a nod of his head back to where the violated body lay.
    ‘Got to look after the inner man, Oscar.’
    ‘I’d have thought you’d seen enough of the inner man for an hour or two. And what about his stuffed-up arteries?’ Peterson worried about arteries.
    ‘I’m hungry. PMs are hard work. All that sawing and pulling gives you an appetite.’
    They were approaching the big glass doors that led out onto the street.
    ‘I’m worried about you, Alan. You’re turning into a bloody ghoul,’ Peterson said. He went on: ‘What moves you? When was the last time you had tears in your eyes? Watching a Lassie video on Christmas Day, I expect.’
    ‘They’re dead when I get them, Oscar. You have to deal with the living. I’d find that hard.’
    They’d reached the doors. The Professor paused with his hand on the handle. ‘Trent Bridge,’ he said. ‘About five years ago.’
    ‘What was?’
    ‘Last time I wept. You asked me, remember?’
    ‘Cricket?’ queried the DI.
    ‘That’s right. I’ll never forget it.’ A faraway look came over his face and his eyes fixed on a spot high on the wall. ‘David Gower was batting. He’d been pinned down on ninety-eight for about fifteen minutes. It was the last over, and they brought on Curtly Ambrose to try to shift him. He was bowling out of the sun, and he unleashed one that went down like a ballistic missile. Gower stepped forward and drove it into the crowd for six. You could have heard the cheers at Headingley.’
    When he was certain the Professor had stopped, Peterson said: ‘So what did it? Gower’s elegance?His courage? Or was it just his boyish good looks?’
    ‘No, none of those,’ replied the Professor, pulling the door open. ‘It hit me on the kneecap. I was walking with a stick for a week. Ciao , Oscar.’
    ‘S’long, pillock,’ Peterson chuckled, and walked out into the night.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Denise Davison – wife of Reg, eager-beaver sales manager of Wimbles Agri – was watering the plants in the front bay window when the police car pulled into the street. She was filling the saucers under the cyclamen, being very careful not to wet the corms. As she watched the car go by she overflowed onto the windowsill, and as it turned round at the end of the cul-de-sac and began to creep back towards her she irrigated a Capo di Monte figurine of a shepherdess that Reg’s parents had given them as a wedding present eighteen years earlier.
    The police officer climbed out of the car, looked the front of the house up and down, and opened the gate. Mrs Davison wiped her hands on the front of her dress and waited for his knock. She opened the door instantly.
    ‘Yes?’ she quavered.
    ‘Sorry to trouble you, ma’am. Are you Mrs Davison?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Ah, good.’ He introduced himself. ‘Could you tell me if Mr Davison is at home?’
    Her eyes opened wide in her pale face. ‘No. I mean…you mean…’
    ‘Mean what, Mrs Davison?’
    ‘I thought…I thought you’d come to tell me… Perhaps you had better come in.’
    She led the young PC into the obsessively tidy sitting room and gestured towards the settee. He sank into it while she sat