Free The Mushroom Man by Stuart Pawson Page B

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 turnoff, 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 teacake 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 dualcarriageway. About 1965. The voice on the phone had ordered Dewhurst to go there. We did the same.
    ‘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 thana 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 nonferrous from this one.
    ‘It’s an old