She was lightly out of breath as she stopped before him. 'Oh!' she puffed. 'I saw your light come on so I thought I'd bring you your typing. You did say it was urgent.' She passed him a pink folder.
'I didn't expect you to do it tonight, Brenda. Tomorrow would have been soon enough, but it's very good of you. Did you have much trouble with my terrible spelling?'
She gave a little giggle. 'There were one or two bits that I couldn't understand, but I can soon correct them if I did it wrong.'
'I'm sure it will be all right. Well, this is really kind of you. I'm, er, just about to make a coffee. Would you, er, like to join me in a cup?'
'Ooh, that would be nice. Just a quick one, then.'
'Lovely. After you. I can offer you a samosa, too. Do you like…'
The door clicked shut, restricting her tastes in oriental cookery to the ears of the Reverend Gordon Ibbotson only.
One and a half hours later, cold and stiff and deep in the depression that often follows euphoria, the Destroying Angel skulked away. A decision had been made. Frustration was dangerous it led to mistakes.
One more would have been perfect, but the risk of discovery was growing every day. The time had come to conclude the preliminaries the next move must be the coup de grace.
DI Peterson found Chief Superintendent Tollis's office not quite as pristine as it had been the evening before. His jacket, neatly draped on a hanger, was behind the door, and a sheet of paper, held down by a monogrammed Sheaffer fountain pen, broke the symmetry of his desk top.
The man himself was absent.
Peterson sat down in the hard visitor's chair and placed a copy of the UK News on his boss's desk. Gurgling noises told him that Tollis was in the adjoining bathroom. Probably polishing his pate, he thought.
There were a few words written on the sheet of paper. The DI leaned forward to read them. They were upside down to him, but bus conductors and detectives are trained to read upside-down writing. They said:
THE DESTROYING ANGEL REVELATIONS ABADDON a.k.a. APOLLYON THE SATANIC ANGEL OF THE BOTTOMLESS PIT
They were the Chief Superintendent's notes for the little talk he thought he was about to give. Stone the bleeding crows, thought Peterson, whistling through his teeth at the same time. Over my dead body, he added, as an afterthought.
From the bathroom came the sound of a toilet being flushed. Peterson grabbed the newspaper again and jumped towards the door that led in from the corridor. He stood with it ajar, firmly grasping the handle, and counted to five. As the Chief Superintendent emerged from his ablutions he saw his DI apparently just entering.
'Ah, good morning, sir! Timed to perfection,' said Peterson, closing the door for the second time.
Tollis, after sitting down, carefully folded the sheet of paper and placed it in his inside pocket. 'Er, yes, good morning, Peterson. Is that the, er, the UK News, did you say?'
Yes, sir. A later edition.' He passed it across the desk, headline uppermost. 'Hope you managed to salvage the rest of your golf last night, sir.'
'Yes, thank you. You did the right thing, bringing me news of a development like this.' Actually he'd rather enjoyed the interruption, in front of several of the club worthies, and it had given him a suitable excuse to explain his collapse over the last fifteen holes. He turned the page. 'They don't get much on a sheet, do they?'
Peterson practised his upside-down reading skills on the naked bimbo his chief had exposed. 'No, sir. They do tend to come to a point rather quickly. I've arranged the press conference for nine o'clock, and the hand-out should be ready before it ends.'
'Oh! I was hoping to see it first. Any chance of an advance copy?'
'Sorry about that, Mr. Tollis. Problems with the photocopier. I'll see what I can do.'
'Nine o'clock. Right. Well, I suggest you make the introductions and hand over to me. That fine by you, Peterson?'
'No problem, sir. Just what I'd planned myself.'
The press conference was deliberately convened in the smaller of the conference rooms, which was Tollis's first disappointment of the morning. No television was invited, which was his second. The room rapidly filled with representatives from all the local papers, many of whom doubled for the nationals, local radio, and people from the agencies. Peterson hid himself in the toilet, with the handouts he had carefully composed, and smoked several cigarettes.
At five past the hour he called the meeting to order. 'Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for being here so promptly. First of all I have to say that you are in a nonsmoking area. Violators will be drenched by the automatic sprinkler system.' Individuals in his audience groaned their disapproval. 'Filthy habit,' he told them. 'Do you good to be without for half an hour.' To his left he sensed Chief Superintendent Tollis throwing him a get- on-with-it look. 'But we didn't bring you here to lecture you on the evils of the weed. No doubt you have all read today's UK News. It's probably your compulsive reading as you devour your morning muesli. And no doubt you also noticed that they are claiming an exclusive story, concerning the murders of two men of the Church, namely the Reverend Ronald Conway and Father Declan Birr.'
He briefly outlined the two cases, stressing the similarities and the discoveries of the pictures of fungi. He also told them about the deaths of the other two priests. From the corner of his eye he could see Tollis impatiently smoothing his notes.
'Last night,' he went on, 'there was a development; and this is where we are asking for your cooperation. Mr. Alistair McLeod, editor of the News, received a confession from someone claiming to be the murderer of all four deceased. This person called himself… wait for it… the Destroying Angel.'
A murmur ran round the room. Tollis threw himself back against his chair. Peterson continued: 'We are certain that he was responsible for the last two murders, but the first two are very doubtful. At my request, Mr. McLeod kindly agreed to print the story without using the name Destroying Angel, although it did reduce the impact somewhat. I would like to take this opportunity to publicly thank him for his responsible attitude. The purpose of this meeting is to put the facts before the rest of you and to ask you not to describe the killer in the way he describes himself.'
'Why?' someone cried.
'Why? I'll tell you why. First of all, we don't want him glamorised.
I realise that in this aspect we differ, but glamorisation leads to copycats, and the last thing I want is deranged individuals all over the place bumping off the clergy. To you, no news is bad news, but I prefer the quiet life. Secondly, we want to catch him. The letter he sent to the News is being given every test known to the forensic scientist, but unfortunately it was handled by a hundred people before it reached them. We'd like to frustrate him into writing again, but this time we'll be ready for it. Sadly, our best chances of apprehending him are when he tries to kill again. With your cooperation, maybe we can goad him into doing something foolish before then. I have a hand-out here which gives details of the deaths and what we would like you to print and not print. Any questions, before I hand you over to Chief Superintendent Tollis?'
Several hands were raised. Peterson gestured to an elderly man whom he knew worked for an agency. He stood up to speak. 'Thank you,' he began. 'Inspector, can I get this clear: there is a serial killer on the loose who describes himself as the Destroying Angel, and you are seriously asking the press not to use it?'
'Yes, that's right. You can print the story, but not the name. That's what I'm asking.'
'So what do you want us to call him?'
'Well, the killer, I suppose. You're the wizards with words.'
'But he has to have a name. All serial killers have names.'
Peterson looked thoughtful. 'I don't know. Call him… how about… call him…' He was floundering, but inspiration came from nowhere, welcome as an empty taxi in a blizzard. Call him… the Mushroom Man,' he said.
A buzz of approval ran through the room; the Mushroom Man it was. He noticed Tollis screwing up his notes, his knuckles standing out like a row of snowy mountain peaks against his suntanned hands. 'And now,'
Peterson told them, 'I'd like to introduce Chief Superintendent Tollis, who is officer in charge of the enquiry. I'm sure he will be more than ready to answer your questions, and far more ably than me. Mr.
Tollis…'
Tollis got to his feet. 'No, no,' he told them. 'I think Inspector Peterson has covered everything. I'll just
