had met around it. There could be no doubting his determination when he’d kicked the buffet from under himself, but he’d soon changed his mind as the wire cut into his throat. The boot of the Volvo bore the scratches his flailing feet had made as he desperately tried to get them back on something solid.
Our valiant PC looked at the grotesque face, like a fermenting pumpkin, and was promptly sick in the corner. It would come to visit him many times in the next few months. He relocked the garage door and walked slowly to his car, wiping his mouth. After radioing for assistance he sat quietlyfor a few moments, composing himself and a short speech to the long-legged Mrs Davison, informing her that she was now eligible for a widow’s pension.
Inspector Peterson’s parents, May and Joe, had been desperate to give their first born a name to remember. Something with style. A few days before the birth they saw Citizen Kane at the Tivoli and decided on Orson. He grew up hating the name. Throughout his school years he was known to children and teachers alike as Orson Cart. In 1962 the musical genius he shared a surname with came to town and someone accidentally called him Oscar. He made no attempt to correct them and it just grew from there. His wife, Dilys, had thought this was his name until two days before their wedding, when he realised that a before-the-altar revelation might be his undoing. Even so, he distinctly heard gasps of surprise from his friends in the pews behind as the vicar addressed him.
None of the detectives he was now deep in a brain- storming session with knew his secret. The warbling of the internal phone interrupted them and a DC answered it.
‘Yes, sir.’ He pulled a face, pointed upwards with his index finger and passed the instrument to Peterson.
‘Yes, sir, right now.’ Peterson put the phone backin its cradle. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but the Screaming Skull wants me to go up and check if his parting’s straight.’
A minute later he knocked on the door of Chief Superintendent Tollis’s office and went in.
‘Come in, Peterson, and sit down. This won’t take a minute. First of all, any new developments in the Reverend Conway case?’
‘No sir, not since our morning meeting.’
The morning meeting had concluded less than an hour earlier, so the chances of further revelations were slim.
‘Quite. Right then, let me show you what I received in today’s mail.’
The Superintendent picked up a large manila envelope and drew its contents out onto the top of his desk. There were three large cuttings from newspapers. One described the death of the Reverend Gerry Wilde, who had fallen down his church tower; the next told of the brutal murder of Father Harcourt; and the third was a front-page splash from a tabloid describing the last moments of the Reverend Conway.
‘Obviously some crank, cashing in on other people’s misfortunes,’ stated the Superintendent. ‘Can’t think why he’s sent them to me, though.’
Maybe it’s because you’ve let all the press know that you’re the officer in charge, thought Peterson. He didn’t dwell on the thought. He would havebeen delighted to hand over this investigation to anybody who wanted it. He could see his retirement date slipping away, like a pair of tail lights receding into the motorway fog. This was going to be a big one, and he needed it like the Super needed a comb.
He sat there, transfixed by the three cuttings. Neatly pinned in the top left-hand corner of each was a picture of a mushroom, similar to the one found in the Reverend Conway’s top pocket.
‘No, sir,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s not a crank. We’ve got a fuckin’ loony on the loose.’
Up to then the investigation into the murder of Ronald Conway had been a parochial affair. Everybody who’d known him was in the process of being interviewed. Detectives were knocking on doors, working outwards from the vicarage in an ever-widening circle. Questions were
Our valiant PC looked at the grotesque face, like a fermenting pumpkin, and was promptly sick in the corner. It would come to visit him many times in the next few months. He relocked the garage door and walked slowly to his car, wiping his mouth. After radioing for assistance he sat quietlyfor a few moments, composing himself and a short speech to the long-legged Mrs Davison, informing her that she was now eligible for a widow’s pension.
Inspector Peterson’s parents, May and Joe, had been desperate to give their first born a name to remember. Something with style. A few days before the birth they saw Citizen Kane at the Tivoli and decided on Orson. He grew up hating the name. Throughout his school years he was known to children and teachers alike as Orson Cart. In 1962 the musical genius he shared a surname with came to town and someone accidentally called him Oscar. He made no attempt to correct them and it just grew from there. His wife, Dilys, had thought this was his name until two days before their wedding, when he realised that a before-the-altar revelation might be his undoing. Even so, he distinctly heard gasps of surprise from his friends in the pews behind as the vicar addressed him.
None of the detectives he was now deep in a brain- storming session with knew his secret. The warbling of the internal phone interrupted them and a DC answered it.
‘Yes, sir.’ He pulled a face, pointed upwards with his index finger and passed the instrument to Peterson.
‘Yes, sir, right now.’ Peterson put the phone backin its cradle. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but the Screaming Skull wants me to go up and check if his parting’s straight.’
A minute later he knocked on the door of Chief Superintendent Tollis’s office and went in.
‘Come in, Peterson, and sit down. This won’t take a minute. First of all, any new developments in the Reverend Conway case?’
‘No sir, not since our morning meeting.’
The morning meeting had concluded less than an hour earlier, so the chances of further revelations were slim.
‘Quite. Right then, let me show you what I received in today’s mail.’
The Superintendent picked up a large manila envelope and drew its contents out onto the top of his desk. There were three large cuttings from newspapers. One described the death of the Reverend Gerry Wilde, who had fallen down his church tower; the next told of the brutal murder of Father Harcourt; and the third was a front-page splash from a tabloid describing the last moments of the Reverend Conway.
‘Obviously some crank, cashing in on other people’s misfortunes,’ stated the Superintendent. ‘Can’t think why he’s sent them to me, though.’
Maybe it’s because you’ve let all the press know that you’re the officer in charge, thought Peterson. He didn’t dwell on the thought. He would havebeen delighted to hand over this investigation to anybody who wanted it. He could see his retirement date slipping away, like a pair of tail lights receding into the motorway fog. This was going to be a big one, and he needed it like the Super needed a comb.
He sat there, transfixed by the three cuttings. Neatly pinned in the top left-hand corner of each was a picture of a mushroom, similar to the one found in the Reverend Conway’s top pocket.
‘No, sir,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s not a crank. We’ve got a fuckin’ loony on the loose.’
Up to then the investigation into the murder of Ronald Conway had been a parochial affair. Everybody who’d known him was in the process of being interviewed. Detectives were knocking on doors, working outwards from the vicarage in an ever-widening circle. Questions were
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