Free The Mushroom Man by Stuart Pawson

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-chowl ’ 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 onto 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 postmistress 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 androcketed 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 of 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 roadworks with it.
    ‘And will you be looking at this,’ said Davis, pointng 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 SIX
    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