Barking Mad

by Ted Tayler

  Jenny Malone shook her head.

  “How long after the accident were you notified?” asked Gus.

  “I was in bed by eleven o’clock that night. I’d taken something to help me sleep. The first time I heard the doorbell chime was at around a quarter past two. When they wouldn’t go away, I went downstairs and answered the door. I couldn’t take in what they were telling me; it made no sense. A car accident, maybe, Mark drove faster than he should have more than once. The police insisted I should go with them to Swindon. We left here at ten past three and arrived in the corridor outside the emergency room in A&E at five to four. Nobody was working. The doctors and nurses just stared at the instrument monitors above Mark and one another. Then a nurse looked towards the door. Nobody needed to tell me. I saw it in her face. Mark was dead. Time of death, Three fifty-five a.m.”

  “I’m sorry you had to relive that dreadful experience,” said Lydia, moving closer to the older woman.

  “If I hadn’t taken that sleeping tablet, I might have held his hand before he died. I could have told him how much I loved him. The thought of him being alone in that car as the firemen struggled to release him, knowing his life was ebbing away, haunts me every day.”

  Jenny Malone clung to Lydia as her tears flowed. Gus Freeman sat and watched as Lydia led Jenny Malone back to her chair.

  “I’ll make us a cup of tea,” said Lydia and headed to the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry to be such a mess. Heaven knows what you think of me. Three years, and it’s still as raw as it was that first night.”

  “My wife, Tess, died just over three years ago from a brain aneurysm,” said Gus. “She was never ill. I was in court giving evidence and found her when I got home late in the evening. There was nothing anyone could have done. But that doesn’t stop me thinking of her every single day. Mark didn’t get taken from you by a sudden heart attack or an accident. That attack was deliberate. So far, we’ve gone with the idea that Mark argued with someone in that second BMW and they chased and killed him. I speculated a few minutes ago that there was someone else who wanted Mark dead. Someone who knew him well enough to learn he was driving home via Devizes, and roughly at what time.”

  Lydia returned from the kitchen carrying a tray with three cups, saucers, and spoons: plus a teapot, milk and sugar. Gus watched as Lydia placed the silver tray on the side table. He paused the conversation while she served the tea. How the other half lived.

  “I asked myself who could have hated Mark so much that they killed him, Mr Freeman,” said Jenny Malone. “The police visited me frequently. I couldn’t help them identify the people at the garage. I don’t think Damian could help them either. His party was invitation-only, so he knew everyone who attended. Mark might not have met them before that night. I don’t know whether any of them drove west to get to their homes. The motive was a mystery. It was unimaginable. After a few weeks struggling to comprehend it, I decided the detective who suggested Mark was mistaken for someone connected to a gang from the London area was right. It was a case of mistaken identity. It was the only logical explanation.”

  “I was a detective for many years before I retired four years ago, Mrs Malone,” said Gus. “There were always questions that didn’t get asked or didn’t get answered during an investigation. Sometimes those unresolved queries weren’t relevant. Knowing the answer wouldn’t have helped me find the culprit. As soon as I read the file on this case, there was a question that stuck in my mind. It’s kept nagging at me. I don’t know whether detectives ever asked it. Why not use the M4?”

  “I don’t follow,” said Jenny Malone.

  “How did you reach the Great Western Hospital, in Marlborough Road in around forty-five minutes that night?”

  “I wasn’t aware of where I was half the time, but yes, I remember we drove into the city and then out towards Bathampton. Instead of taking the road to Chippenham, we turned left and made for the motorway. It was blue-lights all the way to Swindon.”

  “It’s forty miles, give or take, from this house to the hospital,” said Gus, “even at three in the morning it would take you twenty minutes longer via Chippenham, possibly thirty. Mark owned a powerful car, and as you said yourself, broke the speed limit occasionally. He took the scenic route in both directions that night. Why? Nobody asked that question three years ago. I want to know why someone with a high-performance car didn’t use the motorway. The sixty-mile journey would have taken seventy minutes maximum. Quicker on the return trip with the foot to the floor. The route Mark chose was five miles shorter, a distance that’s neither here nor there. But the roads aren’t conducive to high speeds, so he would be lucky to make the outward journey in less than ninety minutes.”

  “My head’s spinning with these numbers, Mr Freeman,” said Jenny Malone, “why does it matter which way he drove?”

  “It matters,” said Gus, “because of what we read on Mark’s phone.”

  Lydia Logan Barre gasped. The last six records Gus had asked her to read out before they drove to Combe Down.

  “Mark texted Damian at six-fifteen to say he was leaving his home in Marlborough Lane, guv,” said Lydia. “Jenny, you called him at ten to seven to ask about Sunday lunch, you chatted for a minute as he was driving. Correct?”

  “Yes, he was still in the car,” said Jenny.

  “Mark should have been in Newbury by seven forty-five,” said Gus, “and yet he received a text from Julian Drummond at eight about Paws In The Park.”

  “That’s the one in West Sussex in May,” said Jenny, “there’s another one later in the year in Kent.”

  “Julian wanted to know if Mark was going to West Sussex,” said Lydia.

  “I told you that was how they behaved,” said Jenny, “did Mark reply?”

  “Not for at least five minutes,” said Gus, “and then he called back. Mark spoke to him, direct for fifteen seconds. We don’t know what they said.”

  “We’ll check Mark’s arrival time with Damian when we interview him tomorrow,” said Gus, “but something doesn’t add up.”

  “It doesn’t,” agreed Jenny Malone, “it’s frowned upon to use your phone to call or text someone when you’re at one of Damian’s parties. Mark just wouldn’t have done it. He would risk not getting invited again.”

  “We need to speak to Damian in Newbury, to be sure,” said Gus, “But where might Mark have been at eight o’clock, fifteen minutes after he should have reached the party? To answer phone calls using hands-free systems is one thing. To read a text message is both illegal and dangerous. Mark read Julian’s text within seconds of getting it, which suggests he had stopped somewhere.”

  “What was Mark doing that meant he could not reply for six or seven minutes?” asked Lydia.

  “Why did he bother speaking with Julian?” asked Jenny, “they spent most of their time trying to avoid one another.”

  “Well, we’ve achieved something positive this afternoon, Mrs Malone,” said Gus. “We know why Mark didn’t use the M4 to travel to and from Newbury. He was meeting someone both before the party somewhere along the route. What we have to do now is find them. I believe you can discount the mistaken identity theory, Mrs Malone. Mark knew his killer. Why Mark met that person that night, and for what reason will explain why he died. One more thing, Mrs Malone, before we go. I never thought of pet shop managers as being top earners. Did you help your son with money? His BMW with the blacked-out windows must have set him back a tidy sum. Was it on finance, perhaps?”

  “Mark never asked me for a penny towards the car. I would have given it to him gladly. When I asked if he could afford to run such an expensive car, he said not to worry. He told me you just had to know the right people.”

  “What do you think he meant by that?” asked Gus.

  “I didn’t have a clue, but I wondered if it was from the breeding business. I know nothing about it, but I’ve read how much the retired racehorse Frankel charges per occasion.”

  “I’ve heard the name,” said Gus
, “he was successful, wasn’t he? What would the owner of a mare need to pay for a visit?”

  “One hundred and fifty thousand pounds,” said Jenny Malone.

  “We’re in the wrong line of business,” said Gus. He stood and walked towards Jenny Malone, who remained seated.

  “Thank you for your patience, Mrs Malone. I apologise if our questions made you uncomfortable. Be assured that my team and I will do everything in our power to bring Mark’s killer to justice. We opened a new line of enquiry today. That might well prove vital. We couldn’t have done that without your help.”

  Jenny Malone walked with Gus to the front door. Lydia returned the tray to the kitchen and then joined her boss in the hallway.

  “We’ll be in touch if there’s anything further we need,” said Gus.

  “I work from home, so I’m always here. Just give me a little warning that you’re on your way.”

  Gus and Lydia returned to the car and drove into Bath.

  “Follow the money,” said Gus, “that’s always the first thing to do in cases like this.”

  “I understand the economics behind obtaining a foal sired by Frankel,” said Lydia. “But there can’t possibly be the same sums of money available for a litter of puppies. There must be another explanation.”

  “Sadly, I think that’s true,” said Gus.

  Enigmatic as always, thought Lydia. I wonder what he’s thinking.

  When they reached the Old Police Station office, Luke was eager to pass on a message.

  “DS Mercer called while you were out, guv. He asked if you could call as soon as you returned.”

  “This could be news from Honor Oak Park,” said Gus, dialling Geoff’s number, “Gus Freeman here, what’s the latest?”

  “The body in the flat fire was Ricky Gardiner,” said Geoff. “The autopsy showed Gardiner suffered blunt-force trauma to the back of the head. Impossible to say whether he was dead, or just unconscious when the fire started.”

  “Ouch,” said Gus, “anything else?”

  “Mike Farrell and his crew have returned to Leek Wootton. DCI Pinnock has re-assigned them to more important operations in their region.”

  “Understandable,” said Gus, “there was nothing to gain once they learned Suzie’s kidnapper was dead. They’ll get the paperwork wrapped up and move on. Has the ACC, or should I say Acting Chief Constable Truelove, asked the Met to put their house in order? The buggers might listen to him now. The Met should have far better control of their undercover operatives. Whoever was Gardiner’s handler wants shooting. The man had half a dozen properties on the go where he was happy to lose a few quid in rent, provided his tenants turned a blind eye to him staying the night whenever he asked. I want his bank accounts seized and his records frozen. Their forensic accountants can have a field day tracking Gardiner’s dodgy receipts. Fingers crossed, Culverhouse and Plunkett will have made an error, and we’ll be able to prove they paid Ricky to work for them.”

  “I’ll chase the ACC on that,” said Geoff, “you have mentioned it before. He won’t have forgotten. Since his temporary promotion came through, he’s been busy.”

  “You mean he’s had less time to stare out of the window,” said Gus.

  “Did he ask you when you might close the Malone case?” asked Geoff.

  “He did, and we’re no further forward than when he asked less than four hours ago,” said Gus, crossing his fingers. It was only a little white lie. They needed to check with Damian Hartley-Cole first to learn when Mark arrived at the party. If Gus was right, then the money for the customised BMW held the clue to his murder.

  “I’ll let you get on,” said Geoff. “I’m not sure yet what he’s up to, but our temporary Chief Constable is meeting Peter Morgan first thing tomorrow morning. I’m to forget our regular ten o’clock meeting. Still, it gives me a chance to catch up on other matters. DC Blessing Umeh, for instance. I’m in negotiations with DI Andy Carlton to agree on a date for her transfer. If he sees things my way, Blessing will join you on Monday the second of July.”

  “We might have finished this Malone case by then,” said Gus. “But if the Met are still dragging their heels following the Gardiner money, then the young lady will find I’m on my allotment in Urchfont enjoying a proper retirement.”

  Geoff Mercer laughed.

  “You love it too much to walk away, Gus,” he said, “Kenneth has got four more cold cases that need your expert attention. If he puts his mind to it, now he’s gained a boost to his ego, Kenneth might squeeze a couple more unsolved murders into your stay with the CRT before he retires. We can’t disappoint him.”

  “You’re all heart,” said Gus, “right, this Malone case won’t solve itself. Cheers.”

  When Gus ended the call, Luke Sherman walked across to Gus’s desk and sat beside him.

  “Yes, Luke? This looks serious.”

  “I need to tell you something, guv. I called Nicky as soon as you left for Combe Down with Lydia. Nicky and I have been together for six years. I mentioned on Monday that he’s older than me. Nicky was twenty-four when we met, and he’d been out for five years.”

  “I can see you find this difficult, Luke,” said Gus, “don’t worry. Just cut to the chase. You told me you didn’t know Mark Malone. Did Nicky meet Mark before you got together?”

  “No, guv,” said Luke, “it was Patrick Boddington. Nicky looked on Patrick as a mentor when he first started visiting bars and clubs in Bath. Nicky became besotted with him. He laughs about it now and realises that although he learned a lot, it meant nothing to Patrick. Nicky changed jobs and lived in Salisbury for a year after they split up. When Nicky returned to Bath one weekend, he spotted Patrick in a bar with someone who looked suspiciously young. The next time he looked across, the pair had disappeared. Two years later, we met, and it’s always been a monogamous relationship since that night.”

  “Thank you for being honest,” said Gus, “do you think Boddington could have anything to do with Malone’s death?”

  “What about the phone calls either side of midnight, guv?” said Luke. “Boddington could have been the last person to speak to Mark before he died. We can’t ignore that. Should I stand aside from the case, guv?”

  “Not a chance, Luke,” said Gus, “I’ll take Lydia with me tomorrow to speak with Damian Hartley-Cole, but before I go, what can you tell me about these parties Damian held? Jenny Malone said I would never have attended one like it. I just nodded, as if I knew what the heck she was talking about.”

  “We haven’t talked to Damian yet, but we can assume it was a sex party. All parties are different. The murder file indicated that there were no more than six people in the house that night. When the emergency services released Mark Malone from the car, he was wearing street clothes. There was a record of items in a drawstring bag in the boot.”

  “Anything I would recognise?” asked Gus.

  “A jockstrap and harness, lube, condoms, bottled water. A change of clothes and trainers. No party drugs of any kind.”

  “Jenny Malone told us that Mark was a passionate young man who lived life to the full. When I was your age, I drank three beers before going to the local dance and if there was a bar, had another beer to pluck up enough courage to ask a girl to dance. You must think that very tame by comparison. Oh, and if I got an invitation to a party, there was always cake with candles, and if the grown-ups left us alone for thirty minutes a game of spin the bottle. A kiss without tongues was a real result. Taking even one condom would have been reckless in the extreme.”

  Luke couldn’t help laughing.

  “Look, not every gay man is the same as Mark. The same as not everyone who attended parties after the war went home only having snogged someone.”

  “Hang on, what do you mean, after the war? My first party that included games in the dark with girls was in 1970.”

  “Almost fifty years ago then, guv. At the start of the decade that fashion forgot.”

  “I can’t argue with that remark, Luke. A
nyway, I’m better prepared for tomorrow’s interview now. I’ll brief Lydia on the answers we need and let her take the lead. I don’t want to show my ignorance any more than necessary.”

  “I know you’ll want to update the Freeman Files with the conversation you had with Jenny Malone,” said Luke, “but can you share the highlights?”

  “The timeline of the journey and the phone records don’t appear to match,” said Gus, “Mark should have arrived in Newbury well before eight o’clock. Unless Damian shoots my theory out of the water in the morning, then Mark stopped somewhere between Bath and Newbury. I told Lydia we needed to follow the money. It’s often the simplest way. Mark had loads of cash to buy his BMW without asking his mother, Jenny, for a handout. Where did he get that money? Mark may have planned to stop on the way home too, which explains the route he chose.”

  “Do you think it was drugs, guv?” asked Luke, “Mark carried no drugs in the car, and he was clean according to the autopsy report.”

  “The best way to make money from drugs is to avoid sampling the product, Luke,” said Gus, “I fear we still have more to learn about the late Mark Malone. Sadly, his mother is a lovely lady and whatever we discover is likely to shatter the image she had of her only child. Sometimes, I hate this job.”

  Luke returned to his desk. Lydia continued to update her copy of the Freeman Files. Gus looked at the clock. Time to get home. Tomorrow was another day.