Barking Mad

by Ted Tayler

  “I can see where organised crime fits into this scenario now,” said Gus, “I didn’t realise it was such a lucrative pastime.”

  “The trade has an enormous impact on the health and welfare of the dogs involved,” said Luke. “The internal market gets hit too through unfair competition, tax evasion, consumer rights and public health. An international animal charity called for a conference to tackle the illegal trade where vets, breeders, lawyers, politicians, and representatives from non-profit organisations examined the challenges and thrashed out solutions. The ultimate aim was to convince the Union for appropriate regulation.”

  “Just what we need,” said Lydia, “more red tape from the EU.”

  “The number of dogs smuggled across Europe has rocketed since the turn of the century,” said Luke. “People are demanding certain breeds, more exotic breeds than we used to own. The pet passport system currently in operation doesn’t work. These days it’s so easy to buy or sell a puppy online, and the only winner is the seller. The animals get transported thousands of miles in unsatisfactory conditions. They’re at high risk of transmissible disease, and if they survive, they can become too difficult to manage for the new owner. As a result, they get abandoned.”

  “It sounds like your typical online scam adept at making money out of gullible pet lovers,” said Gus.

  “By 2016, it was the third most profitable organised crime within the EU after drugs and guns, guv,” said Luke.

  “Could this be how that weapon linked to Mark Malone?” asked Lydia, “was he involved in buying litters of certain breeds getting smuggled into the country? Those breeds in highest demand? Do you remember Obama’s Portuguese Water Dogs?”

  “I can’t say they ever registered, Lydia,” said Gus. “They sound like an indie shoegazing band from the 1990s; but carry on, I might hear a name I recognise in time.”

  “People want to own dogs they see celebrities pictured with guv,” said Luke, “the Doberman Pinscher has been a favourite for a while. If you enjoy walking around town carrying your little darling, then the Alaskan Klee Kai or a White Maltese might suit you.”

  “I think not,” said Gus, “I reckon you two might be a better fit for several of these upcoming interviews.”

  “It will be a walk in the park, guv,” said Lydia. Luke groaned.

  Gus’s phone rang. “Saved by the bell,” he said. It was the ACC.

  “Still no confirmation on the identity of our flat fire victim, Freeman. However, I’ve discovered where Culverhouse transferred to last week. He went to Greenwich.”

  “The next borough to Lewisham, and the right side of the river for easy access to Croydon. Culverhouse knew Gardiner better than we did. How far was he from the flat?”

  “Five miles,” said the ACC, “it’s hard to believe he’s capable of murder, but there’s no denying motive and potential opportunity. I could contact Greenwich to check where Culverhouse was on the night in question, to rule him in or out?”

  “Even as a suspended ACC, you can bet he wasn’t walking the beat,” said Gus, “my guess is he finished at five o’clock and stalked Gardiner until closing time. Then he struck when Ricky was most vulnerable. I’d expect the Met surgeon to find blunt-force trauma to the back of Ricky’s skull. Forensics will have found blood at the foot of the stairs to match with Gardiner’s records, and show that the body got dragged upstairs, and was doused in petrol and set alight.”

  “That sounds plausible, but just as with Terry Davis’s murder, we need solid evidence.”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Gus, “and we’re not dealing with an amateur who will make silly mistakes. If it was Culverhouse, as I suspect, then he outwitted Ricky Gardiner. No mean feat, considering the years of experience that man had on the force. We’ve mentioned this already, Gardiner wrote the manual for several of the ‘how to’ operations detectives carry out day-to-day.”

  “I’ve passed this information on to DCI Pinnock at Leek Wootton,” said the ACC. “We must leave things in their capable hands as they liaise with the Met on the flat fire investigation.”

  “I’ll wait to hear from you on the body ID,” said Gus, “I’m off to Bath after lunch for a chat with our victim’s mother.”

  “The Malone case? How does it look? Done and dusted by Friday?”

  “I would have to be barking mad to promise you that, Sir,” said Gus. “We haven’t got a sniff of a motive yet, let alone a list of suspects.”

  “You’ve said that before, Freeman, then like a magician pulling a rabbit out of the hat, you produce the answer.”

  “I admire your confidence, Sir, and I look forward to hearing from you later.”

  With that, the ACC rang off, and Gus wondered how on earth they would get an answer for next Friday, let alone in the next two days.

  “Back to the grindstone, guv?” asked Lydia.

  “Where were we? Ah yes, the highlights from Malone’s contact list. Give me the last six calls or texts on the night he died.”

  “At six-fifteen pm, Mark texted Damian New, the friend from Newbury he was visiting. Mark rarely identified people in his contact list with their surname. It was a first name plus a location, or a reminder of what they did for a living. Damian New’s full name is Damian Hartley-Cole, thirty-seven, an interior designer. The guy who cleans his shop windows was Paul Chammy.”

  “Moving swiftly on,” said Gus.

  “Sorry, guv,” said Lydia, “the message read ‘Leaving now. Can’t wait to see you xxx.’ Damian received and read the message. At six-fifty pm, Mark received a call from his mother. He had hands-free in his BMW; they spoke for one minute forty seconds.”

  “We’ll ask what they discussed when we see her,” said Gus, “carry on.”

  “At eight o’clock, Mark received a text from Julian Shih Tzu asking whether Mark was showing this year at Paws In The Park. Mark called Julian back at five past. That conversation lasted fifteen seconds.”

  “Details on Julian? Did someone ask whether the answer was yes, or no? Would it matter, I wonder?”

  “Julian Drummond, forty-three years old, is a photographer who lives in Milton Keynes.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t show bulldogs,” said Gus.

  Gus saw Lydia’s puzzled look. The ignorance of youth.

  “There was a long gap then, while Mark was in Newbury at Damian’s party.”

  “Ah, we know that was the reason he travelled to Newbury, do we? Who told us that? It wasn’t in the murder file. It merely stated that Mark had visited friends in Newbury, and I assumed there were at least two people at the property.”

  “Mark’s mother mentioned a party when I called to arrange the interview, guv,” said Luke.

  “OK, that’s something else to follow up on when we see her,” said Gus.

  “The next call came at fifteen minutes to midnight, guv,” said Lydia, “hands-free again, Mark spoke to Patrick Circus for two minutes.”

  “All right, you needn’t explain,” said Gus, “it’s not what he does for a living, Patrick has a flat on The Circus, in Bath.”

  “Yes, guv,” said Lydia, “Patrick Boddington, fifty-five years old, a fine arts dealer with a gallery next to the Abbey. Mark and Patrick often visited fashionable bars and restaurants together; however, the exact nature of their relationship was unclear. Mark called Patrick back at five minutes after midnight.”

  “When Mark had stopped at the JET garage?” asked Gus.

  “The timing fits, guv,” said Luke.

  “How long did that call last?”

  “Seven minutes, guv,” said Lydia.

  “Put Patrick Boddington on the list for first thing tomorrow. I need to know what they spoke about.”

  “That’s it, guv,” said Lydia. “No more texts or phone calls.”

  “Well, that’s a couple of leads to follow,” said Gus, “but still no sign of a link to something criminal. We’ll delve further back into Mark’s call history another time. Luke, can you ring Jenny Malone, please? Tell her
to expect us in forty-five minutes. Lydia, you’re with me for this visit. Are you ready to leave now?”

  “I’ll just nip to the loo, guv. See you downstairs.”

  Lydia disappeared to the restroom.

  “How do you see this case, Luke?” asked Gus. “Can you offer any insight?”

  “If you mean because I’m gay, then, no I can’t, guv. Is that why I’m not coming with you this time? Do you think Mark’s mother will recognise me, or that I’ll remind her of her son?”

  “We are what we are, Luke,” said Gus as Lydia re-emerged in the office. “If you can offer something that will help progress this case, then don’t hold back. We’re a team with different skills and life experiences. I never want you to feel you need to qualify any contribution that you make in our conversations or the reports you include in the Freeman Files. Something you leave out altogether or imply is less important, could be vital. I’m only interested in results, Luke. This team has to solve cases to continue to exist. I’ll have your back one hundred per cent if someone is out of line. That goes for Alex, Neil, Lydia, and anyone else who might work here.”

  “Understood, guv,” said Luke.

  Gus headed for the lift. Lydia followed him.

  “Did I miss something, guv?” she asked as they reached the ground floor.

  “Time will tell Lydia,” said Gus, “let’s talk to Jenny Malone.

  In the CRT office, Luke Sherman was making a phone call.

  “Nicky? Sorry to call you at work. Patrick Boddington? What can you tell me?”

  CHAPTER 5

  The drive to Combe Down took thirty minutes. Gus pulled up outside an elegant-looking detached property built in the 1930s.

  “I wonder when they added the double garage extension?” asked Lydia. “Ten years ago, do you think?”

  “The planners in historical cities such as Bath demand that any alteration to buildings should be in keeping with their surroundings. Sympathetic is a word that often crops up. In the Royal Crescent, owners have a minimal palette to choose from for the colour of their front door. You won’t find a triple-glazed window within a mile. It’s the original Georgian sash-window or nothing.”

  “It appears the planners are less strict up here on the hill.”

  “Bath is all hills, Lydia,” said Gus, “the Romans built Aqua Sulis here because seven hills surround the city in the valley. It reminded them of home.”

  “It looks a beautiful place to live, guv,” said Lydia, “even if Jenny Malone lives alone.”

  Gus rang the doorbell. The chimes echoed along the hallway. He saw the owner walking through from the kitchen through the glass-panelled front door.

  “You must be the police? Come into the lounge.”

  Gus and Lydia stepped into the hallway and followed Jenny Malone through the door to the right. Lydia closed the front door behind them.

  Mark’s mother was as elegant as the fixtures and fittings that adorned her living room. Jenny Malone was tall, immaculately dressed, and with her hair cut stylishly short. Lydia didn’t doubt for a second that the string of pearls around her neck would cost her a month’s wages.

  Jenny Malone sat in a chair by the mock-Regency fireplace and waited for Gus to speak.

  “Mrs Malone,” said Gus, “thank you for agreeing to speak with us. My name is Freeman, a consultant with Wiltshire Police. My Crime Review Team is taking a second look at the murder of your son, Mark, back in May 2015. It wasn’t possible to determine who killed Mark at the time, nor was an acceptable motive established. We hope to do better this time. My colleague here is Ms Logan Barre.”

  “What a lovely name,” said Jenny Malone, “where do you come from, my dear?”

  “Aberdeen,” replied Lydia.

  “I see,” said Jenny Malone.

  “It must be painful for you to go through this again, Mrs Malone,” said Gus, “three years is no time after losing someone close to you.”

  “My only son and I weren’t as close as I would have liked, Mr Freeman. Mark moved into a place of his own when he was twenty. His father had left within a month of Mark coming out on his eighteenth birthday. Gerry was a bigot, and I knew that when I married him, but it didn’t seem important. Gerry and I met at the Rec during the rugby season and got married the following Spring. I was twenty, Gerry was thirty-two. Mark arrived ten months later, a honeymoon baby, and Gerry couldn’t have been happier. He was desperate for a son, someone who would follow Bath Rugby as he did. Perhaps play for the club in years to come. Before Mark became a teenager, Gerry realised his son was different. He tried hard to change him, to mould him into the budding sportsperson he craved. Mark disappointed him, so Gerry ignored him and me. My ex-husband threw himself into his work as an architect with a local firm. His working days grew longer and longer, and the inevitable happened. One month after Mark sat us both down to tell us he was gay, Gerry calmly announced he was leaving me for another woman. Her name was irrelevant. She was the latest in a long line of girls with whom he’d cheated. Gerry took no responsibility himself for how he behaved, nor did he say that I drove him to it. Everything was Mark’s fault. Gerry couldn’t accept that he’d fathered someone so effeminate. Gerry sat in that chair where you are Mr Freeman and asked, how did I think it made him look. As if people thought less of him because his son was gay. I was happy to see the back of him. Gerry didn’t even come to Mark’s funeral.”

  “I appreciate you filling in background for us,” said Gus. “When we pick up an unsolved case from several years earlier, we don’t always have the full story in our records. There may be questions, at a later time, relating to the period between his eighteenth birthday and the weeks before his death. Can we concentrate for now on the night in question? For instance, Mark’s phone records show that you rang him while he travelled between Bath and Newbury. A call that you made at around ten minutes to seven. Do you remember what you spoke about?”

  “It was the last time I spoke to Mark, Mr Freeman,” said Jenny Malone, “I’m hardly likely to forget. I asked if he was coming to dinner on Sunday. I didn’t ask him every week because Mark had turned me down too often. On this occasion, he said, yes, unless he got a better offer. I was grateful that he didn’t dismiss the invitation out of hand and looked forward to it. I told Mark I loved him and hoped he had a great time at the party.”

  “This would be a party in Newbury, at the home of Damian Hartley-Cole, is that correct?” asked Gus.

  “That’s right,” said Jenny, “how much do you know about parties, Mr Freeman?”

  “It’s been a long time since I went to one,” said Gus.

  “I doubt you’ve ever been to one like that,” said Jenny.

  “Mark liked to play, Mrs Malone, is that what you’re saying?” asked Lydia.

  Jenny Malone nodded.

  “I worried about him keeping healthy, but Mark always told me not to fuss. He said he could look after himself. I begged him to settle down, find himself a partner. When he first came out, he spent time with Patrick, but it was never loving, just lust.”

  “Patrick? That would be Patrick Boddington; I take it?” asked Gus.

  “Yes, Patrick likes younger men. He had lots of money, and an impressionable beginner can soon fall under his spell. He makes them feel special. Mark looked on Patrick as a teacher, and although they still met up for a meal, there was no sex any more. Mark was too old.”

  “When did Mark leave school?” asked Gus, “I mean full-time education, did he leave at sixteen, or eighteen?”

  “Oh, Mark was an intelligent lad. He passed three A-Levels with grades good enough to get him into university, but he was already working in the pet shop at weekends and holidays. Mark adored all domestic animals, not just dogs. When he left King Edward’s school, he announced he was starting full time as an Assistant Manager. Nothing I said persuaded him otherwise. Mark took over the running of the shop around six years later.”

  “When did Mark start showing dogs in competitions?” asked Lydia.
“Which specialist breeds was he showing?”

  “The previous manager of the pet shop was the experienced breeder. She encouraged Mark to follow in her footsteps. You would need to talk to someone else about that side of his life. I’m not a dog lover. Is it important? I can’t imagine his killer being someone jealous of Mark’s dog being reserve champion in one of the obscure classifications at Crufts.”

  “Could we speak to the previous manager of the pet shop?” asked Gus.

  “Through a medium,” said Jenny Malone. “There’s an alternative therapy business on the premises now. Tamsin Sheridan owned and managed the shop for years. Tamsin retired when she was confident Mark could run the place single-handed. When Mark died, she wasn’t well enough to pick up the reins again. The shop stayed closed for a while, then Tamsin died, and that was that.”

  “Maybe we should talk to another dog show participant,” said Gus, “have you ever met Julian Drummond?”

  “Mark mentioned him. They were great rivals and avoided one another like the plague. Anyone who is anyone attends Crufts, but several smaller shows take place around the country. If Mark entered a competition, then Julian gave that show a miss altogether or found a category to enter where the competition wasn’t as fierce. It was comical at times.”

  “Did you ever suspect anyone of being responsible for your son’s death?” asked Lydia.

  “It was a case of mistaken identity,” said Jenny Malone, “it had to be. Mark wouldn’t hurt a fly. I knew my son. In certain areas of his life, he could be ruthlessly competitive; in others, he was a passionate person who lived life to the full. The idea Mark provoked someone to the extent they chased him halfway home to fire six bullets at him is beyond belief.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t,” said Gus.

  “What on earth do you mean?” asked Jenny, standing up from her chair.

  “I was thinking out loud; I beg your pardon. Because of the incident at the JET petrol station, the police assumed that the two cars raced along Beckhampton straight at one hundred miles per hour. The 7-Series BMW then overtook Mark’s car, and the attack took place as Mark slowed to enter the built-up area. The killer’s car drove away after Mark lost control of his BMW and collided with parked cars. There was no CCTV evidence after the garage. There were no eye-witnesses that saw the high-speed pursuit. The other BMW may never have followed Mark towards Devizes. The argument that several people witnessed could have started and finished on the forecourt. It was the gunfire, followed by the sound of Mark’s BMW hitting the other cars that alerted people in the nearby properties. The only car they saw when they came outside was the stricken 5-Series BMW in the garden of a semi-detached house. Mark lay trapped inside and died later in the hospital in Swindon. Did you get there in time, Mrs Malone?”