Barking Mad

by Ted Tayler

  Even though the space was only open to residents bordering the land between those parallel roads, it still helped make urban life more bearable. Another childhood memory surfaced as Ricky looked back down Lowther Hill Road.

  When he was eight years old, he had played with the lads on the estates and that green space was a great attraction. Francis Rossi lived around here then. He would have been nineteen, and Status Quo had taken off. Rossi bought a four-bedroomed house on Lowden Hill, less than a mile from his childhood home. The guitarist’s Mum and Dad couldn’t afford a place of their own before the group scored their first hit, so they lived with young Francis’s grandmother.

  Each of the semi-detached houses on the road had a garden plus access to the communal forest. Ricky used to watch Rossi’s Great Dane bound past him in the woods, nearly knocking him off his feet. That dog loved running outside, Rossi, not so much. Ricky allowed himself a smile at the memory. Blimey, that was fifty years ago—time to head back to Lessing Street and wait for Zena before he got maudlin.

  As soon as she appeared at the end of the street, Ricky could tell his tenant wasn’t happy to see him. He hadn’t called in the unwritten favour during the seven years Zena had rented the two-bedroomed flat. She knew it was always possible, but as time went on, it became less and likely that James Harlow would get in touch. Today, when she spotted him stood on the pavement outside the flat, she swore under her breath.

  “Only two nights, I promise,” said Ricky, “I won’t be any bother. You won’t know I’m there.”

  Zena Gardjy opened the door, and they climbed the stairs to the first floor flat.

  “How was Charing Cross today,” asked Ricky, not that he was interested in her job as a ticket officer.

  “Nothing changes with the public, Mr Harlow.” replied Zena, “always moaning about delays, overcrowding, clapped-out rolling stock, and how much it costs.”

  “How many fare dodgers did you catch?”

  “Eleven,” said Zena, smiling for the first time. “Eight of them hadn’t tapped-on, trying to save the fare on a single journey, three habitual offenders argued their way to an eighty-pound fine. Days like today mean that I collect enough to pay my wages. Look, I wasn’t expecting this. I don’t have any food for you.”

  “You don’t have to feed me, Zena. I just need the use of your shower in the morning after you’ve left for work. Same again on Thursday morning and that’ll be me done. I’ll slam the door of the flat behind me on the way out.”

  Ricky could tell Zena wasn’t happy with the thought of him being there overnight.

  He couldn’t bother to explain why he wasn’t interested. He wouldn’t have jumped into bed beside young Millie, let alone an overweight Polish lady three years older than him.

  “What are you doing later?” asked Zena as she put her shopping in the fridge.

  “I’m off to the pub after I’ve scrounged a coffee from you,” said Ricky, “I’ll get back after you’ve turned in, so I’ll take the spare key.”

  “It’s behind you on the wall, beside the calendar,” said Zena. “I’m taking a shower now. It’s been a long day. I’ve got a lock on the door, so don’t get any ideas.”

  “I’ll make myself a coffee after I dropped my gear in the spare room,” said Ricky.

  Zena watched him go, and then as soon as the bedroom door closed, she called her daughter.

  “Agnieszka? I need to stay over tonight. Is that okay? No, don’t worry, I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  In the spare room, Ricky was listening for the shower running. He had hidden something in the loft space the last time he was here. The net could be closing, and the weapon would come in handy.

  After she’d ended her phone call, Zena went to the bathroom, locked the door, and ran the shower.

  Ricky already stood on a chair accessing the loft space. The pistol and ammunition were still there, safely wrapped in cloth inside a plastic bag. He looked at the gun and then threw the Woolworth’s bag back into the loft and quietly closed the hatch. Ricky hadn’t realised it had been so long since he’d slept here. He’d wondered for a second who Zena was on about until he remembered using the Harlow background story when he was undercover in a people-trafficking gang.

  Zena was moving around in the flat once more. Ricky prayed she was dressed and not wandering around in a gown with a towel over her wet hair. When he rejoined her in the kitchen, Zena was wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt and jeans. She’d made him a cup of coffee.

  “Cheers, Zena,” he said, “hot and strong, just how I take it.”

  Zena took no notice, sat on her black leather sofa watching TV. It was the only comfortable chair in the flat. Ah well, he was going out for a few pints any way. Thirty minutes later, he picked up the spare front door key and headed for the General Napier.

  Zena didn’t look up when he left. Ricky thought it must have been a soap he never watched. He couldn’t see the attraction. When Ricky was outside on the pavement, Zena watched him cross the road and disappear along Gabriel Street. She could go to her daughter’s now.

  Agnieszka and her three children lived in a flat a ten-minute walk away. Thank goodness it was in the opposite direction.

  Ricky Gardiner had forgotten Zena already. He was two minutes from the Napier and looking forward to his first pint. As he walked up Bovill Road, he tried to decide what takeaway he fancied on his way back to the flat. First things first, get inside the pub and order a cold beer.

  He took his usual precautions, checking there were no dodgy cars parked in the street or people who looked conspicuous. Coppers on surveillance thought they were invisible, but Ricky prided himself on being able to spot every one bar the highly experienced ones. He paused on the step before pushing the door open—just his luck. Tuesday night was a quiz night. Ah well, it could be worse, it could be bingo.

  Ricky found a quiet corner and settled in for the long haul. The landlord seemed a decent sort, and the quiz included a round on the Blitz. Ricky was too young to remember it, but his parents lived through it as had lots of old-timers who frequented the pubs in the borough. Ricky reckoned he would have scored well on those questions if he’d bothered to join in.

  There’s a common misconception that Londoners dashed to the underground stations or the air-raid shelters whenever the Luftwaffe visited the East End. Sixty per cent of them slept at home, sometimes for good. St Saviour’s, the church he passed earlier took a hit, and in 1941 there was a spate of fires in the centre of Forest Hill. You had a job to see the scars now, but most streets around the General Napier suffered damage to a degree.

  Ricky nudged the guy on his left when a question came up about the potential target during the Baby Blitz attacks of March 1944. There were five hundred fires in south-east London that night. Ricky whispered the answer. “They would have loved to have hit the Bell Green Gasworks.”

  “Are you sure, mate?”

  “I’m sure,” said Ricky, “he’s on the ball is your landlord. It’s a topical question because there’s a move by the company that owns the site to demolish those iconic gasholders. They’ve survived two World Wars and should get preserved.”

  Ricky carried on drinking and chatting with the locals. He’d stopped checking for unfamiliar faces by ten o’clock. The quiz crowd left as soon as they learned the results and Ricky saw that by a quarter past ten less than a dozen people were keeping him company.

  He decided it was time to get across to the fried chicken place up the road. Zena would be in bed already as she needed to be out of the flat by seven to start work at eight at Charing Cross.

  The landlord nodded as he returned his empty glass to the bar.

  “Bingo tomorrow night if you’re interested,” he said, “poker night on Thursday.”

  “I’ll give tomorrow a miss,” said Ricky as he left the Napier.

  He had to wait for a few minutes to get served in the takeaway. By the time he negotiated Bovill Road and turned into Gabriel Street he was regretting n
ot visiting the Gents before leaving the pub.

  Ricky hurried along Lessing Street and got the keys from his pocket. Zena hadn’t left on the outside light. He searched for the lock. Success, the door flew open, and he almost fell inside. The stairway was pitch black. Ricky ran his hand over the wall to his left and then to his right, searching for the light switch. It was no good. He needed to pee and turned to go back outside. He wondered where he’d seen the closest dark alleyway. Needs must when the bladder drives.

  A dark shadow filled the doorway. Ricky looked up and saw a raised hand.

  It was the last thing he saw.

  In Croydon, Chris and Danny remained in the unmarked car waiting for Fernandez to appear. One street over, Mike and Deepak waited in an ARV with a six-man crew.

  “Eleven o’clock, guv,” said Chris, “the pubs are chucking out now. If Gardiner’s sleeping here tonight, it won’t be long before he shows.”

  “Just remember the plan,” replied Mike via his radio mike, “we apprehend Gardiner before he gets inside the property. The Met advised me thirty minutes ago that they believe a Bangladeshi family of five are inside the flat. Mum, Dad, and their two kids, plus the guy’s seventy-five-year-old mother.”

  “OK, guv,” said Chris, “no lights on in the property now. All tucked up in bed.”

  “That must be cosy,” said Danny, “with only two bedrooms.”

  “Hold on,” said Chris, “is that movement I can see on the street corner?”

  “Stand by,” said Mike.

  “False alarm, it’s an urban fox on his late-night prowl.”

  “Okay, quieten down,” said Mike when he heard groans from the ARU crew. They were itching for action.

  “It’s midnight now, guv,” said Deepak, “should we stand down? We can get a team to relieve Chris and Danny. They can sit on the flat until morning, and we can try tomorrow night.”

  “This place felt right, didn’t it?” said Mike, “we’ll give it an hour, in case Gardiner’s found a club to visit. That will give me time to find a relief team. There’s more action six miles north of here. I just heard a report of a flat fire in Honor Oak keeping London Fire Brigade busy.”

  “Odds-on, it’s an old bloke who dropped off to sleep with a fag in his hand,” said Deepak.

  “At this time of night, it’s more likely to be a chip pan fire,” said Chris. “Someone getting home from the pub and fancying a chip butty but nodding off on the sofa.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed there was nobody home,” said Mike.

  “Do we have an address, guv?” asked Deepak.

  “I think I heard Lessing Street mentioned,” said Mike.

  “Well, that’s not one we identified as a Tony Fernandez flat,” said Danny. “A pity, Gardiner could have done us a favour and burned himself to death.”

  “Hold on,” said Chris, “there was a name I put a question mark by when I was checking a listing earlier today. A James Harlow, I’d seen it on another letting firm’s listing and wondered whether it could be one of Ricky’s undercover personas. I meant to check with the Met. That Lessing Street address rings a bell.”

  “I wouldn’t mind getting over there to check,” said Mike Farrell.

  “Why don’t we drive over with Chris, guv?” asked Deepak. “The Armed Response Unit can keep the flat under surveillance, and if Gardiner shows, which looks unlikely, they can arrest him.”

  “We’ll come to you, Chris,” said Mike, “sit tight. Be with you in two minutes.”

  After they joined Chris and Danny, they set off on the A212 for Honor Oak.

  “Only a short trip, guv,” said Danny, “we’ll pass Crystal Palace’s football ground in a minute. Other than that, it’s a decent bit of road. At this time of night, we should be there in twenty minutes, tops.”

  Chris found Lessing Street with no bother. There were more lights than on a Christmas tree. Two fire crews were attending, and uniformed police and paramedics milled around on the pavements. The roof of the flat was well ablaze and threatening to spread to the adjoining terraced properties.

  “Who’s in charge here?” Mike Farrell wondered.

  “See that bloke with the red and white chequered tabard?” said Danny. “He’s a sub-officer from the Command Unit. Check if it’s a fully involved fire, which it looks like it is. He’ll know whether persons are reported too.”

  Mike Farrell headed towards the guy with Command Support on his tabard.

  Deepak tried to find the most senior police officer in the street. Chris and Danny waited in the car and watched the flames turning to black and grey billowing smoke as the two high-powered hoses did their stuff from the aerial appliances.

  Mike and Deepak returned to the parked car. Chris and Danny got out and stood beside them on the opposite side of the road from the fire.

  “Was there a report of people inside the flat?” asked Chris.

  “The first floor is where the fire started,” said Deepak. “It’s occupied by a single female, Zena Gardjy, who hoped to celebrate her sixtieth birthday in October.”

  “Craig, the sub-officer called it a Class B fire,” said Mike Farrell, “which suggests flammable liquids. It’s far too early to speculate, but when I suggested the word accelerant, he didn’t tell me not to be stupid. He used the term fully involved, Danny, you were right.”

  “There’s a uniformed Sergeant around somewhere,” Deepak added “making sure the public keep out of harm’s way. The paramedics can’t do a thing until they’ve got this fire under control. Although, unless a fireman injures himself, they’re wasting their time.”

  “We’re playing the waiting game again, just as in Croydon,” said Mike. “How can we confirm that Harlow owned this flat, and link it to Gardiner?”

  “Mrs Gardjy has a daughter, according to one of her neighbours, guv,” said Deepak. “the neighbour’s stood over there in the black nightdress, with a fireman’s jacket around her shoulders.”

  “I’ll go,” said Danny, “we need a name, address and telephone number if possible, am I right, guv?”

  “For Mrs Gardjy’s daughter, yes, Danny,”

  “Of course, guv, that’s what I meant, but you can’t blame a bloke for trying.”

  Danny ran back two minutes later.

  “Agnieszka is the daughter, guv. She lives up the road. I’ve asked the uniformed Sergeant to send someone round. Keely reckons the daughter has young kids.”

  “Keely? That’s the girl with the nightdress, is it?” asked Deepak.

  “Yeah, she’s gone with the coppers. Keely offered to sit with the kids.”

  “Good neighbours,” said Mike, “you can’t beat them.”

  “True,” said Danny, “but Keely was getting chilly over there, even with that jacket around her shoulders. Like organ stops they were. I didn’t know where to look.”

  Mike Farrell walked across to the Command Support officer for an update.

  Activity on the aerial appliances was reducing. There was zero chance of entering the property tonight, but the danger of the fire spreading appeared over.

  “Who’s this arriving now, guv?” asked Chris.

  Two women got out of a police car and stopped and stared at what remained of the first-floor flat across the road.

  Mike Farrell led his team across to talk to them.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “I’m Detective Inspector Farrell. Are you Mrs Gardjy?”

  The older lady in the Iron Maiden t-shirt and jeans nodded.

  “What’s happened here?” she said, clutching her daughter’s arm.

  “Neighbours thought you were inside. Thank God, it appears the flat was empty.”

  “Where’s Mr Harlow?” asked Zena Gardjy. “He was sleeping here tonight. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him in the seven years I’ve rented the place, and he turned up tonight and said he was staying for two nights.”

  “Mr James Harlow?” asked Mike. Zena Gardjy nodded.

  “Is this the gentleman, Mrs Gardjy?” asked Deepa
k Patel, showing her a photograph.

  “That’s him,” she said, “he was going to the pub and had the spare key.”

  Zena had just identified Ricky Gardiner as her landlord.

  The Command Support officer trotted up to join them.

  “The firefighter on the left-hand aerial appliance reported a body in the kitchen, Mike.”

  “Thanks, Craig.”

  Curiouser and curiouser, thought Mike.

  It would be morning before he could confirm the identity of the person inside, but it appeared they’d caught up with Ricky Gardiner at last.

  Someone wanted him dead and had spread highly flammable material around the kitchen to destroy as much evidence as possible.

  CHAPTER 4

  Wednesday, 6th June 2018

  Gus hoped today was a better day than yesterday. As he left the driveway of his bungalow, the signs looked promising. The cloud and drizzle that dogged the county over the past twenty-four hours had gone. Bright sunshine prevailed, and temperatures were climbing into the low twenties Centigrade.

  A quick piece of mental arithmetic confirmed that even in Fahrenheit that meant it was warm enough to leave his jacket in the wardrobe. At least there was still space on the rail for his coats. How long that continued was still an unknown. Suzie started back to work half days from today.

  Another unknown was who killed Mark Malone. The team worked long hours yesterday identifying witnesses to contact for an interview. Gus knew he hadn’t given the cold case his entire concentration while other matters were unresolved.

  When he left the Old Police Station office at five o’clock yesterday, there had been no whisper about progress by Mike Farrell and his crew in the hunt for Ricky Gardiner. They had scoured London since the middle of last week and apart from the odd spurious sighting they’d failed to catch him.

  The lack of news on Gardiner didn’t help Gus’s mood. The events of last weekend already troubled him. Culverhouse and Plunkett received official notification first thing on Friday morning of their suspension pending an IOPC investigation into serious misconduct. The officers involved reacted in different ways.