Barking Mad

by Ted Tayler

  Ricky preferred to work alone but being alone wasn’t much fun when you didn’t have anyone to tell you what the heck was happening. How could he find out whether Freeman knew more than Culverhouse thought about what happened near Oakley Hall back in 2012?

  Ricky sat in the Blythe Hill Tavern with a pint on the table in front of him. He had an unobstructed view of the door; everyone in the bar was a local. He could relax for an hour while he thought.

  When he followed the Ferris woman into the College car park on Friday morning, she’d talked to another copper. Did he have a photograph of her on his phone? He’d snapped several of Ferris that week. Ricky flicked through his phone. Yes, there she was, looking straight at him sat in the van.

  If Ferris thought someone was following her, why didn’t she take more care? Calls herself a copper. She fits right in with the current thinking. If you’re female, gay or BAME you’re on a fast-track to the top, even quicker if you qualify on all three counts. It doesn’t matter if you’re a natural thief-taker such as Freeman, or a bloody good undercover operator prepared to risk life and limb to nail a criminal. We’re yesterday’s men.

  Ricky started the search on his smartphone. It took him eight minutes to find a name for the face. One good swallow would finish that pint, and he could get outside and give DI Josie Bennett a call.

  Ricky Gardiner remembered a DS stationed at Snow Hill who was near retirement age. That was his first contact.

  “Des, my old mate, how’s things?”

  “Who’s that? Tony Fernandez is that you? Blimey, you’re a blast from the past,” said Des Copson.

  “Is Josie Bennett one of yours?” asked Ricky.

  “She’s here somewhere, mate. Do you want me to give her a shout?”

  “Please, Des. Are you still watching the Villa?”

  “No mate, I stopped putting myself through the agony. After all, I realised they never came to see me when I was rough.”

  Ricky laughed. He’d heard the joke before, but it paid to keep contacts like Des Copson sweet.

  “Hello, who’s speaking?” It was Josie Bennett.

  “Josie, my name’s Tony Fernandez, a mate of Des Copson’s. I worked undercover on a joint operation with your lot with the Met back in the day. We’re hunting a fugitive in my area. He’s wanted for kidnapping.”

  “Oh, you mean the guy who took DI Ferris. I was with her that day.”

  “She’s OK now, I hope?” asked Ricky.

  “She’s fine. Not back to work yet, though. I gave her a ring at the weekend. Just to catch up.”

  “Funny business, that kidnapping,” said Ricky, “I can’t work out the motive behind it. He never touched her, there was no ransom demand, and then he just disappeared, leaving her on her own.”

  “I know, but I thought you would have heard,” said Josie, “two senior officers received notice last Friday that the IOPC was investigating them. Nobody knows what it’s about, but the rumour up here is that one of them died at the weekend.”

  “Dead? How?” asked Ricky. This conversation wasn’t going the way he expected.

  “She killed herself before whatever it was came out.”

  “You mean Plunkett, the Chief Constable in Ferris’s area?”

  “Exactly,” said Josie, “she told Suzie to leave her phone, tablet and laptop at home when she attended the computer course. It made no sense to me. Sandra Plunkett must have been hiding something, and it sounds as if that kidnapping was another attempt to keep a lid on it.”

  “Any idea where the other senior officer came from?” asked Ricky. “Same county, or elsewhere in the country?”

  “He’s from Portishead,” said Josie, “on gardening leave, waiting for the soft-shoe brigade to conclude their investigation. Look, what’s this about, I thought Mike Farrell was on that job, you know, hunting for the kidnapper?”

  “Farrell? He’s from Leek Wootton, isn’t he? I haven’t bumped into him yet. No big surprise though, we’re covering a huge area.”

  “What was the reason for the call, anyway?” asked Josie. “You must have wanted something more than a general chat.”

  “No, I got everything I needed, Josie,” said Ricky and ended the call.

  CHAPTER 3

  DI Mike Farrell sat in an unmarked car near Fordyce Road. Beside him was Deepak Patel.

  “This spot is close to the last known address for Gardiner’s father, isn’t it, guv?” asked Deepak.

  “Yeah, George Gardiner lived two streets over, but that was years ago. We’ve got people watching each of the addresses that his former employers had on file for our man,” said Mike. “The problem is Ricky spent so much time undercover with little or no contact with his handler; they aren’t sure how many other places he might frequent.”

  “Needle and haystack,” said Deepak.

  “Tell me about it. There’s enough CCTV coverage in the capital to find Lord Lucan, but Ricky Gardiner knows his way around. All we’ve had so far is three unconfirmed sightings. One of those was in Pinner two days ago. Our guys never found a trace of him there. The other two were so far out in the suburbs they felt wrong. My guess is he’ll stick to the heart of this city he knew so well.”

  “Where to now, guv?” asked Deepak.

  “Let’s try a drive around,” said Mike, “Crofton Park, Honor Oak and Forest Hill. We’ll give it an hour and then return to base. We need the Met to dig deeper into Ricky’s undercover identities. They must have names he used that link to a flat or property around here somewhere. He’s not sleeping rough or in his car. There’s been no sighting of that car since we got here. At least we traced the garage where he bought the cheap Audi. It travelled into London around the same time as we knocked on the door of 186, Woodman Lane. After that, it disappeared.”

  “He’s ditched it, guv,” said Deepak. “Should we get local cops going from yard to yard hunting for a crushed Audi?”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Mike. “Even if we confined the search to the streets where he used to operate, it would take us until Christmas.”

  Deepak started the car and plotted a route on his sat-nav to start them on a loop that brought them back to where they now sat. Mike’s phone rang.

  “Mike, it’s DI Josie Bennett, from Snow Hill. I had a call from a copper called Tony Fernandez earlier. He said he was working with you in the search for Gardiner. I only spoke with him because Des Copson reckoned he was a good sort. They worked together years ago on an undercover drugs operation.”

  “Tony Fernandez? I’ve never heard of him. What rank is he?”

  “He never said. He was more interested in the fallout from the Suzie Ferris kidnapping. I’m afraid I told him about Sandra Plunkett. He knew nothing about it. That seemed odd if he was on the search team you’re running.”

  “He must have used the name Fernandez while he was working undercover in the Midlands,” said Mike. “That explains why Des Copson thought it was a genuine call. I reckon you spoke to Ricky Gardiner, Josie.”

  “Sorry, Mike. I should learn to keep my big mouth shut.”

  “You could have done us a favour, Josie. I’ve got a name now to match with local properties. Gardiner must have a flat somewhere that the Met doesn’t know about; otherwise, we would have caught up with him by now. Thanks for the call.”

  “Do we keep going on this loop, guv?” asked Deepak.

  “No, head back to base, and we’ll gather the troops. Someone must know where Tony Fernandez lays his head at night.”

  Deepak returned to Lewisham Police Station. Mike radioed the other teams to meet them there. The room the Met Police had set aside struggled to accommodate the ten officers that joined Mike Farrell and Deepak Patel. Once everyone squeezed inside, Mike updated them with the news from Snow Hill.

  “DI Josie Bennett received a call around noon today from a Tony Fernandez. He reckoned he was part of the team hunting Ricky Gardiner. We know that’s bullshit. Five of you are local lads teamed with people I brought with
me. Deepak stayed with me because he was born in the borough. So, I believe it was Ricky Gardiner checking where we’re at with the case.”

  “Was Tony Fernandez an alter ego?” asked a voice at the back of the room.

  “Danny, is it?” asked Mike.

  “Yes, guv,” came the reply.

  “We have to remember that Gardiner worked undercover with the Met for twenty years. He’s on civvy street now, but everything he learned during that time is coming into play. I reckon we should start looking for Tony Fernandez. Does he own a property within a ten-mile radius of this building? Does he rent a flat or an apartment? I’ll grab as many local uniforms as the chiefs here can free up to go door to door. I want them in bars, betting shops, and nightclubs asking for anyone who’s heard of a guy called Tony Fernandez. We’ve got his description and an excellent photograph. We need to get it circulated to as many people as possible. Someone must know him.”

  Mike went in search of reinforcements. They needed extra feet on the ground. He knew it wouldn’t be possible to get anything other than Police Community Support Officers, but at least they knew the right people to ask. It was better than nothing.

  Ricky Gardiner had made his way from Blythe Hill Tavern to the Railway Telegraph on Stansted Road. He took his time, making sure nobody followed him, keeping in the shadows, away from any street cameras. Before he opened the door to go inside, he scanned the bar. There was nobody suspicious. Ricky was hungry, and this place served decent grub throughout the day. The Railway Telegraph was an excellent place to spend the afternoon. He’d wander up to Lessing Street at around six this evening to catch the person renting his flat when she got home from work. If his memory wasn’t failing him, Zena Gardjy worked for London Transport. Ricky planned to spend two nights in her spare bedroom unless trouble came calling.

  Over in Lewisham, Mike Farrell had got four bodies happy to work on for two hours after their shift ended. It wasn’t enough, but he told them where to go and what questions to ask. Mike had to hope they could carry out a simple task even though they were tired and ready for their beds.

  Mike got the other five teams looking for Tony Fernandez on the books of the local landlords. That was a thankless task. So many properties these days were multiple occupancies, and few landlords could tell you hand on heart the names of everyone behind every locked door. Mike appreciated that the half a million illegals had to sleep somewhere. While Gardiner was at large, that wasn’t his concern. His only focus was getting Gardiner into custody. The teams reconvened at four o’clock as arranged.

  “What have you got?” asked Mike.

  “We might have just found something, guv,” said Jammy, a member of Mike Farrell’s Armed Response Unit. “There’s a flat in Croydon rented to a Tony Fernandez who fits Gardiner’s description. The letting agent I spoke with reckoned he was a long-term client. Good as gold, never been behind with the rent. Fernandez had contacted them, maybe three times in fifteen years for running repairs to the place. The agent wished the rest of his clientele were as pleasant.”

  “Have we got someone sitting on this place now?” asked Mike.

  “Chris is in an unmarked car with Danny,” said Jammy, “they’re keeping watch on the place. If Gardiner shows, then they’ll call for back-up. They won’t move until you give the nod.”

  “Good. We can’t assume Gardiner is unarmed,” said Mike. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements. We’ll get armed support to Chris as soon as possible. If Gardiner is inside the property when we arrive, we’ll wait until he comes out again. I don’t want to break down the door and find there’s a potential hostage in the flat. He’ll be easier to arrest when he’s back on the street. Whatever happens though, it’s his last hideout.”

  “Is a hostage a possibility then, guv?”

  “Think about it,” said Mike, “we know Gardiner’s got more than one hidey-hole. Is he made of money? Can he afford to keep several rented properties and never fall behind with the rent? Maybe he takes in lodgers. I don’t know, perhaps he moves a family in and makes them pay over the odds while he doesn’t need the place. It doesn’t feel right that he has vacant properties, just lying around across London.”

  “The best situation would be for him to turn up tonight when we’ve got everything in position,” said Jammy.

  “My experience of Gardiner so far suggests he won’t make things that easy. Let’s hope it’s the right address to start with,” said Mike. “Did anyone else find a Tony Fernandez on a letting listing anywhere?”

  There was a chorus of negative replies.

  “To be fair, they haven’t finished checking every letting agent yet, guv,” said Deepak, “I propose we carry on the search. The ARU personnel can leave as soon as you’ve got the green light from the Met. The rest of our teams can keep looking.”

  “I agree,” said Mike Farrell. “Well done, Jammy, make sure you get the bank details from this letting agent for Fernandez. That monthly Direct Debit is coming from somewhere, and it needs to get linked to Ricky Gardiner. Make more copies of that photograph available. The letting agents you’ve contacted could provide us with several aliases of Ricky Gardiner to add to the list of money trails we need to follow.”

  Mike Farrell felt pleased with the progress they’d made today. The address Jammy uncovered in Croydon sounded promising. Could they get access to equipment that told if it was empty or occupied by a family?

  He started making calls to his Met colleagues to get clearance for an Armed Response Unit to go to work on the streets of London. The more they knew of what lay behind the front door, the better. Even better if Gardiner did as Jammy said and stayed in a pub until closing time, then walked into their waiting arms.

  While Mike Farrell made his preparations, Ricky Gardiner was still in the Railway Telegraph. He’d enjoyed a proper London pub lunch and kept his alcohol intake to a minimum. Ricky spent the afternoon watching the world go by, both inside the bar and out on the streets. He saw nothing that caused him to worry.

  “Finished with this glass, darling?” asked Millie, the young barmaid.

  There was a lull in trade in the late afternoon, and Millie’s boss told her to clear the decks before the next rush when the offices shut. She collected the empty glasses and wiped clean the tabletops. The few remaining stragglers in the bar were people with nothing to live for according to her boss.

  “I’ll have a coffee,” said Ricky, “you can manage that, can you?”

  “Alright, keep your hair on. I’ve only got one pair of hands.”

  Millie wiped the top of Ricky’s table with a wet rag.

  “Careful,” shouted Ricky, “stop splashing me with dirty water.”

  “Sorry, I’m sure,” said Millie, who then flounced behind the bar to fetch him a coffee.

  “Two pounds fifty,” she said when she returned.

  Millie leaned across the table with her hand out, waiting for the money. Ricky knew her game. When she went behind the bar, Millie undid another button on her blouse. If he put the coins in her hand now, he couldn’t avoid appearing to be looking at her breasts. She would call him a pervert or a dirty old man, any excuse to get back at him for shouting at her. Ricky slid the coins across the damp tabletop.

  “No tip?” asked Millie.

  “Yeah,” said Ricky, “don’t ask two-fifty for something you give away free.”

  Millie took the money to the till. Ricky risked a sip from the cup of coffee. Not bad. He wondered how long before the penny dropped. He didn’t have long to wait,

  “You bastard,” shouted Millie.

  Her boss came out of his office.

  “What’s up, did someone run off without paying?”

  Millie shook her head; Ricky finished his coffee and headed for the toilets. The landlord hadn’t finished with his young barmaid.

  “Do them buttons up, Millie, people come in here for a quiet drink, not a strip show.”

  Five minutes later, Ricky Gardiner stood outside the Railway Telegr
aph. Five o’clock.

  He had time for a stroll along memory lane for a spot of sightseeing before making it back to Lessing Street to meet with Zena Gardjy. It had been a while since Ricky had checked out his old stamping-ground. No doubt it had altered beyond recognition; and not for the better.

  Ricky had already walked quite a few of the main thoroughfares in the borough, making sure he kept a low profile. Forest Hill was crisscrossed with a variety of different streets, smaller off-shoots, often parallel roads. The majority offered a new and often unusual sight somewhere along their length. The weather was perfect for an early evening stroll.

  Ricky made for Beadnell Road which gave access to the Garthorne Nature Reserve. He’d often thought it would be a decent spot to bury a body. Ricky spent a few minutes admiring the unspoilt nature of the Reserve and wondered how the endangered stag beetles were coping these days. Funny how random thoughts sprang into your head. He must be soft in his old age.

  Ricky made his way back towards civilisation via Bovill Road and out onto Brockley Rise. The traffic was manic this time of day. Ricky made a note of a different place to visit tonight as he wasn’t returning to the Railway Telegraph. The change of venue had nothing to do with that little tart, Millie; it just wasn’t wise to use the same pub more than once.

  Ricky passed the General Napier after he crossed the road. A genuine neighbourhood watering-hole he’d visited while undercover. He didn’t have a clue whose name it carried, but that pub would be where he spent his evening.

  As he passed St Saviour’s Church, he wondered how many churches there were around here now so many had closed. A mosque had opened to make up the numbers every time he returned. He hadn’t been inside a church since they buried his father, and that was the first time since his parents dragged him kicking and screaming to get christened when he was a toddler.

  Ricky was closing in on the target for his ramble. He’d played here as a boy. Two roads, Lowther Hill and Duncombe Hill ran parallel, either side of a private park and lead up to Brockley View. When he reached the top of the hill, he looked back towards the enclosed space that was the most attractive spot in the borough. Brockley Hill Park was a sizeable green space and a prime site that a developer would love.