One of Us Is Dead

3 Friday 23 September 2022

‘Trying to improve your culinary skills, Roy, to impress young Cleo? Or have you taken up foraging? Searching for your inner caveman?’

Grace looked up with a start. He’d been concentrating so hard on his computer screen he’d not heard the DI enter his office. He grinned and gave him the bird.

Glenn Branson was wearing an electric-blue suit that would have been more appropriate for a games-show host than a detective inspector in Major Crime, Grace thought, but he said nothing. He’d long given up trying to explain to his best mate — and protégé — that the reason detectives wore conservative suits was to appear respectful when visiting the families of the victims of crimes. But Glenn, being one of life’s natural peacocks, had his own definition of conservative.

And, as for his tie, Grace thought, don’t even go there. It could rank, along with Perth, Australia, as one of the few things that would be identifiable from space. ‘Culinary skills?’ he asked.

Branson nodded at the book lying on Grace’s desk, titled The Complete Mushroom Hunter.

‘Ha!’

The DI gave him a sideways look, turned the book around, opened it and flicked through a few pages, barely glancing at them. ‘Heard the one about the guy who walked into a pub, puts a mushroom down on the bar and orders a pint for it?’

Grace winced. ‘No, but I’m clearly about to.’

‘The landlord asks why he’s brought the mushroom into the pub. And he replies, “Because he’s a real fun guy!” Geddit?’

‘Fungi,’ he said flatly.

‘Good to see you haven’t lost your touch, despite your age.’

Roy Grace had turned forty-five a few weeks ago and Branson, who was thirty-eight, never missed an opportunity to rib him about it.

‘And sad to see, despite your own advancing years, matey, your humour never improves. So can I do anything for you, or have you just come in here to annoy me?’

Branson pulled up one of the two chairs in front of Grace’s desk, turned it around and straddled it with his powerful frame. ‘I wanted to have a chat. Since being promoted to DI I’ve not had a really challenging investigation. Not that I’m wishing anyone dead, but I’d like a real complex murder to get my teeth into — know what I’m saying?’

Grace knew exactly. While every murder was investigated thoroughly and without prejudice, the vast majority of the twenty-five or so annual murders in the counties of Sussex and Surrey were domestics or involved drugs, drunks and petty feuds. There was also the worrying trend of the increasing use of knives — an unwelcome import from gangland London and other cities.

All murders were tragic in their own way, and left devastated loved ones behind who would never get over it. But they were not the cases you were ever going to put in your memoirs. What every homicide detective secretly hoped for — and Grace himself was no exception — was a high-profile and intriguing murder that would challenge their skills and, as a bonus, ultimately impress both their superiors and the media, as well as being part of their legacy.

‘What do you know about mushrooms, Glenn? Apart from rubbish jokes.’

‘I know Paris browns get their name from being grown in the catacombs under Paris, back in the eighteenth century. And they’re one of the few that taste good raw. Love them thinly sliced on a salad.’

‘And normal field mushrooms — the type you can buy in any greengrocer or supermarket?’

Branson nodded. ‘Yeah, I like them too. Delicious on toast with a fried egg.’

‘Ever picked any yourself?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t trust my skills — I wouldn’t know an edible one from a poisonous specimen.’

‘What about the death cap?’ Grace asked.

‘Yeah, a mate of mine who’s into the whole foraging thing warned me about them. Said they look quite like a field mushroom. That’s one of the reasons I wouldn’t trust myself to pick anything.’

‘From what I’m reading on Google, the death cap is not a pleasant death.’

‘Who you planning to despatch?’ Branson quipped.

‘Funny.’ Grace grimaced at his friend. ‘We try not to talk shop at home, but something happened at the mortuary that Cleo thought I should know about. There’s not been a recorded death from mushroom poisoning in the city of Brighton and Hove for over twenty years, if not longer, but she told me over dinner that a fortnight ago they had a thirty-nine-year-old male who died from liver and kidney failure seventy-two hours after eating mushrooms he’d prepared for a dinner party — which he is believed to have bought in a local supermarket. Fortunately for the guests, he had to cancel the dinner party as he was so ill. Then two days ago there was another death from suspected poisoning by death cap mushroom — a man of fifty-nine.’

‘For real?’

‘The victim fell ill within a few hours of eating mushrooms his wife had picked while playing golf. She’s critically ill too, in Intensive Care but expected to survive. The pathologist rang Cleo this morning to say the lab results indicate death cap mushroom poisoning again.’

Branson frowned. ‘Is this a massive coincidence, or is something else going on?’

‘Funny you should say that. I had a call from the coroner earlier this morning, asking exactly the same question. I sent Will Glover off to Brighton Library to see what he could find on poisonous mushrooms and he came back with this book.’

‘None for twenty years and then two in a fortnight?’ Branson ruminated. ‘Not great optics — if the press get hold of that.’

‘And they won’t, will they?’ Roy Grace stared at him levelly. ‘Not until we are ready.’

Branson was married to the senior crime reporter of the local newspaper, the Argus. He smiled, then ran his forefinger and thumb across his lips, zipping them shut.

‘Good man. So here’s your challenge for the day — go see if there’s any link between the two people who died. On behalf of the coroner, we need to rule out foul play — or not.’

‘Mushroom poisoning’s not exactly the multi-layered investigation I’m hoping for.’

‘Well maybe you just need to unearth some mould-breaking clues?’

‘Funny,’ Branson said, then grinned, shaking his head. ‘Don’t give up the day job.’

‘I’m making you my deputy fungi.’