Possible unification of the C of E and RC churches raised emotions to a level that were completely beyond Peterson's grasp. He sent a lone officer down this avenue, as he did with the sexual and anti-women theories. The bulk of his team were dedicated to following the hypothesis dictated by the feeling in his bile ducts: that they were looking for a loony; a loony with a mission.
'Take a look at this, guy,' said one of the DCs when Peterson arrived back in his office. He placed a large but slim hardback book in front of the Inspector. It was called Mushrooms and Toadstools, by Jacqueline Seymour. When Peterson had read the title the constable flicked the book open to page five. In a corner was a colour picture identical to one of those sent to Superintendent Tollis.
'See what it's called.' He ran his finger down the text until it was under the name.
'Good God,' muttered Peterson. He riffled through the pages of the book and said: 'Is this yours, Trevor?'
'Yes, guy. Well, my daughter's.'
'Are any of the other pictures in here?'
'No. I've had another look at them and reckon they're three different pictures of the same type of mushroom. Or toadstool, to be precise it's poisonous.'
'Mmmm. I'm not surprised, with a name like that. So he must have cut the pictures from three different books.'
'It looks like it.'
'And where would be the best place to do that?'
'The library?'
'Just what I'm thinking. Get your coat; let's educate ourselves in matters fungoid.'
They intended walking the quarter of a mile to the library, as they knew it would be difficult to park nearby, but it had started to rain.
Fortunately a police car came into the yard at the opportune moment, so Peterson hijacked it and had the driver take them there.
The library was a purpose-designed building, constructed when the town centre was redesigned about fifteen years previously. It was airy and pleasant, and well used by all sections of the community. The Inspector was surprised to see shelves and racks filled with videos and CDs, as well as books. It was a long time since he'd had the time to visit a library.
'First,' he said to DC Trevor Wilson, 'let's just see how many books we can find on fungi.'
They located one each, in the section marked Natural History. A short while later DC Wilson found another on a shelf for books that were oversize the ones filled with glossy photographs and normally described as Coffee Table, because they cost about as much as one. All three were intact no pictures had been cut from them. They asked an assistant if they could see the chief librarian.
She disappeared through a door marked Staff and came back a few seconds later with a tubby little man wearing rimless spectacles and a blue suit.
The two detectives produced their ID cards. 'This is Detective Constable Wilson and I'm Detective Inspector Peterson. You are…?'
'Oh, goodness me. I'm Mr. Treadwell. This is most unusual. Er, what exactly can I do for you, gentlemen?'
'First of all, could we sit down somewhere, sir?'
'Oh, yes, of course. You'd better come through into my office.'
Treadwell's office was small but surprisingly lacking in clutter. There were two desks: one obviously for a typist, who wasn't there, and the other presumably his. On it were two silver frames containing family portraits. Peterson noted that Treadwell was the proud husband of Khrushchev's widow and father of two gnomes.
Maybe he just has the pictures there to warn him to keep his hands off the typist, he thought, sitting in her chair and swivelling it to face inwards. DC Wilson perched on a corner of her desk and wondered what she looked like.
'We won't keep you long, Mr. Treadwell,' Peterson began. 'First of all, do we call you chief librarian?'
'Oh, no. I'm a group librarian. I'm head of this group. That's this library and seven branches.' He listed several local small towns.
'I see. Now, we have a problem, and we're wondering if you will be able to help us with it.'
'Oh, well, if I possibly can, Inspector.' He relaxed, now that he knew that they were here to call on his expertise, and not to relay some trouble at home or with the staff. 'What exactly is it you want to know?'
The Inspector spread the three books on the desk. 'Somebody,' he stated, 'is going round cutting photos of mushrooms from books like these, presumably borrowed from libraries. We need to catch that person, fast. Is there any way we can circulate a message to all librarians?'
'Goodness gracious, this is good news!' Treadwell said. 'You'd never believe the amount of malicious damage that people do to them. I sometimes wonder what the world is coming to. And it's not just the youngsters, you know. Why, sometimes ' 'Ah!' interrupted Peterson. 'I think I may have misled you. Serious as the vandalising of books might be, that's not our principal interest in this character. He also has a nice sideline in murdering people.
That's why we'd like to meet him, but you can have him after us.'
'M-m-murdering people!' stammered Treadwell, immediately assuming that 'people' meant group librarians.
'Well, just one person that we're certain of, and so far it's just a theory we're exploring.' Peterson thought that perhaps he had been too blunt with the nervous Mr. Treadwell, but then he glimpsed the family photos and decided that the man was made of sterner stuff. He went on:
'So, is there any way in which I can circulate every library in the country and ask them if they can check their books on fungi for missing pages?'
Treadwell looked perplexed. 'No, not from here,' he replied. 'I could only circulate my group. You'd have to contact every group individually.'
'What about head office, sir? There must be a libraries HQ somewhere.'
'Well, yes. There's the Library Association.'
'The Library Association? Where do they hang out?'
'London, Ridgmount Street.'
'Who's in charge there?'
'Er, the chief executive.'
'That sounds rather grand. Is he a figurehead or does he work for a living?'
'Oh no,' asserted Treadwell. 'He's a librarian, come up through the ranks.'
'He'll do then. Have you his number, please?'
Treadwell, having a tidy mind, knew exactly where to find it.
'Do you mind if I use your phone, Mr. Treadwell?' asked the Inspector, adding: 'You can always invoice us for the charge, if you wish.'
Treadwell, fascinated, gave his gushing consent. He didn't mind if they conducted the entire enquiry from his office. What a story he'd have to tell Edwina and the boys when he arrived home.
After several transfers, the Inspector found himself addressing Olga Friedland, Chief Executive of the Library Association. He introduced himself, confessing to being called Oscar, and made a daring joke about their names. Treadwell listened open-mouthed as this coarse copper flirted with someone he'd never spoken to in thirty years of service flHl HI and regarded as remote as royalty.
Peterson told her how helpful Mr. Treadwell had been, but how, unfortunately, his powers were limited. He outlined what he would like to do. Ms Friedland informed him that each of the one hundred and sixty-seven local authorities ran its library service independently.
She could provide him with address labels for all their chief librarians. Alternatively he could have access to the full list of twenty-five thousand members.
Peterson thought for a moment. 'This is an enquiry into a very serious crime, Olga,' he told her. 'I want to act as quickly as possible. If I get a letter to you, would it be possible for you to circulate it to the hundred-and-sixty- odd head librarians and then invoice the police for your costs?' This time he meant it about the charges.
Treadwell attracted his attention. 'You can fax it in from here,' he hissed.
