Barking Mad

by Ted Tayler

  CHAPTER 6

  A Wednesday evening chez Freeman these days could be fun.

  In the past few months, he’d entertained Vera Jennings and Suzie Ferris, although not on the same evening. He’d returned to find signs of an intruder on one occasion where an Albanian gangster left a threatening message. A warning that led to an incident that wasn’t a barrel of laughs, and he’d been lucky to escape with his life.

  Gus had always imagined that variety had been plentiful during the time he and Tess lived in the bungalow while she was alive. There was something to discuss, places to go, people to see, wasn’t there? Had that been true, though, looking back? Or was it familiarity? Would their lives have become a tedious repetition of the same banal experiences as they grew old together?

  The three years after Tess died sadly lacked any brand of variety or excitement, Gus was on a different treadmill then: - gardening, reading, drinking and sleep. Loneliness was an issue he kept at bay to a degree by gardening, reading, and drinking.

  Which did he prefer? The constant calm waters before Kenneth Truelove’s phone call asking him to return to work, or the hustle and bustle of recent months?

  Gus reckoned that today was a great example of how his life had changed.

  The conversations with Luke Sherman and Jenny Malone touched on areas he’d never faced before. He was an innocent abroad. Sometimes when he spoke with Lydia Logan Barre, he felt totally out of touch with younger people and what they did in their leisure time.

  This afternoon, Jenny Malone called her ex-husband a bigot. Yet when Jenny asked Lydia where she came from, it was clear she wasn’t expecting the answer Lydia gave. To her credit, Lydia didn’t react despite probably having to deal with racial stereotyping every day of her life.

  As Luke said, it takes all sorts.

  On this Wednesday evening, Gus drove through Devizes to Urchfont and straight to the bungalow. He’d ignored his kitchen for too long, and it was time to assess the damage. Gus spent an hour checking the contents of the fridge and his two freezers. He soon had a list of fresh items required from the supermarket, plus a series of menus designed to get rid of the older stocks hidden at the back of shelves and in corners.

  All the while, he thought of Dominic Culverhouse and that preliminary meeting coming up on Friday at Portishead. Did Culverhouse kill Ricky Gardiner? How would he handle Sandra Plunkett’s suicide? Could he turn it to his advantage in any way?

  The phone ringing in the hallway interrupted his thoughts. It was Neil Davis.

  “Hello, Neil,” said Gus, “good to hear your voice again.”

  “You too, guv,” said Neil, “I wanted to tell you I’ll be back at work on Monday.”

  “That’s terrific news, Neil. How are you both?”

  “I’m fine, guv,” said Neil, “there’s been plenty to deal with, not just losing the baby, but dealing with my Dad’s affairs, both here and in Spain. It will take time to complete. My mother’s coping with most of the paperwork. So, I feel ready to get back to work. It will take my mind off everything else that’s happening.”

  “I understand, Neil. How’s Melody?” asked Gus.

  Neil paused.

  “She’s staying at her mother’s next week, guv, rather than be alone in the house while I’m working. Her Mum’s happy to look after her. We had a quiet word after the funeral, and Melody’s mother suggested I got back to normal. She’ll try to bring Melody out of her depressed state without running to the doctor for pills.”

  “I hope things go well with everything, Neil. You’ve had a lot to withstand. Being selfish, I’ll be glad to have you back with the team. I’ve missed your input. Luke will stay with us. I don’t remember how things stood the last time we spoke. Forget that for now. We’ll have a proper catch-up on Monday.”

  “Okay, guv, I’ll see you then.”

  With that, Neil rang off, and Gus returned to the kitchen. Time to try one of those menus.

  As he polished off a mushroom risotto his thoughts, this time about the Mark Malone case, had to wait. The phone rang again.

  “Hi, Gus,” It was Suzie Ferris.

  “Hello, you,” said Gus, “how was your first day?”

  “Half-day,” Suzie corrected him.

  “You can’t kid a kidder, Suzie. I heard that you crept along the corridor towards Geoff’s office well before your official start time.”

  “Kassie Trotter, I presume?” said Suzie.

  “She doesn’t miss much,” said Gus, “and I’m sorry that you won’t get your chance to watch Ricky Gardiner get jailed for your kidnapping.”

  “There are loads of rumours flying around at London Road,” said Suzie.

  “Tell them to mind their own business,” said Gus.

  “Not you and me, silly. I mean the Chief Constable and ACC Culverhouse for one, and how Ricky Gardiner died for another. You only have to take two days off, and the world turns upside down. Geoff updated me just before lunchtime on Sandra Plunkett and her partner. I can’t forgive Sandra for her part in my kidnapping, but I wouldn’t wish her dead. As for Culverhouse, well we know what a devious swine he was when he worked here. It wasn’t only Terry Davis he dropped in it. As I was coming through the ranks, I heard loads of stories about him. He’s flown too close to the sun for the last time.”

  “Don’t count on him crashing and burning yet, Suzie. He’s devious, all right. Did Geoff Mercer update you on the news from the autopsy on Gardiner?”

  “No, I missed that. What did it show?”

  “It was Gardiner, as we suspected. Someone bashed him over the head before setting the fire. My guess is it was Culverhouse. There has to be evidence somewhere. I hope the Met don’t miss it. Last Friday, the man got suspended from Portishead, pending investigation. On Monday he turns up at Greenwich to work for a buddy of his from Bramshill. How far was his new posting from Ricky Gardiner? Five miles, I ask you. How could anyone not see that was suspicious?”

  “He was entitled to a transfer,” said Suzie. “By the way, are you busy this weekend?”

  “I don’t intend to let work get in the way,” said Gus, “we’ve got several interviews to get through tomorrow and Friday. First up in the morning is one Damian Hartley-Cole, from Newbury, an interior designer by day and a sex party organiser at night.”

  “Really? Listen and learn, Gus. I’m looking forward to the weekend even more now.”

  After Suzie rang off, Gus checked the spare keys were still in his jacket pocket. He placed them on the worktop in the kitchen, next to the cafetiere, just in case.

  There were no more calls. When Gus wandered through from the lounge to the bedroom at ten-thirty, he spotted a note hanging from the letter-box. It must have been there when he got home from work, but he’d missed it.

  Gus didn’t recognise the handwriting.

  ‘Gus, I didn’t see Bert yesterday, nor today at the allotment. I popped round to check if he was ill, but he’d received terrible news from Canada. I’ll call on you tomorrow evening, if I may, to tell you face-to-face. Clemency.’

  Wednesday evenings can be fun, Gus thought. Tonight had been uneventful until now. Poor Bert. What on earth happened?

  Thursday, 7th June 2018

  Gus arrived at the Old Police Station a few minutes before nine o’clock. Lydia’s Mini sat in its usual spot. Good, thought Gus, we might complete a round trip today. A journey that took in the delights of Newbury and Milton Keynes.

  Upstairs in the office, Luke and Lydia were deep in discussion.

  “When you’re ready, Lydia,” said Gus, “I need you to drive today.”

  “Sorry, guv,” she replied, “I was just updating Luke on Alex.”

  “Tell me in the car,” said Gus, “I want to hear how he’s progressing.”

  Lydia grabbed her things and headed for the lift.

  “Luke, I had a call from Neil last night,” said Gus, “he’s returning to work on Monday.”

  “Terrific, guv,” said Luke. “Was there something you
wanted me to find out while you’re gone?”

  “Provided Damian’s interview doesn’t last the day, I’m hoping to get to Milton Keynes to talk to Julian Drummond. Why don’t you drive to Bath for a chat with Patrick Boddington?”

  Luke nodded, although Gus thought he looked less than pleased with his mission.

  Gus lowered himself into Lydia’s car and prepared for a scary ride to Newbury. He risked one eye while they negotiated traffic on the bypass. He opened both eyes and relaxed as they left Chippenham to drive towards the M4. Traffic was steady this morning, not enough to delay them, but sufficient to stop Lydia driving like a madwoman.

  “I told you Alex had started his detox, didn’t I guv?” asked Lydia.

  “I caught the headlines, but not the gory details,” said Gus.

  “You sent him home on the twenty-second, guv. I persuaded him to get help. Alex had a pre-assessment to determine his individual detox needs. After Terry Davis’s funeral, we went back to his place. The clinic contacted him on Friday morning. He started his detox on Saturday. Alex had to stay at the clinic for six nights. They gradually reduced the dosage day by day and gave him other medication to help with nausea and vomiting. When I see him tomorrow, the detox stage should be complete. Then he goes into the rehab stage. He knows we’ll be there for him, to make sure he doesn’t relapse. Alex told me on the phone last night that he’s aiming for Monday the second of July.”

  “That would be a blessing,” said Gus, “but, we may need to ask Geoff Mercer for additional furniture and more coffee mugs.”

  Lydia had to stop wondering what that meant because Gus then briefed her on which questions he wanted her to ask when they reached Newbury. She found Wood Ridge, on the Andover Road, and they parked her Mini outside the Hartley-Cole residence at ten-thirty three. Gus saw the curtain twitch in the living room.

  “There’s someone at home,” he said.

  “Damian is expecting us,” said Lydia.

  “Good luck, Lydia,” said Gus, “I’ll introduce us, then you’re on your own.”

  Damian Hartley-Cole answered the doorbell.

  Gus had expected something flamboyant, which only emphasised how little he knew. The tall, slender man who stood before them looked, well, ordinary, in a V-neck sweater, shirt, slacks and trainers. He was an interior designer who seemed more a golfer than that camp presenter from Changing Rooms. Gus couldn’t recall the name now. Tess had watched the series avidly, but Gus used the time to catch up on paperwork.

  “Come in,” said Damian, “oh, thank goodness you didn’t turn up in a police car. My neighbours would have an attack of the vapours. Straight through to the kitchen. I can carry on cooking and chat with you. Do you both want a coffee? I’m drinking a glass of wine, but you’re on duty. Sorry, I’m rambling. I’m a bag of nerves, and I did nothing wrong.”

  “I wondered when you would ever take a breath,” said Gus.

  “We both drink our coffee black,” said Lydia, “one sugar in mine.”

  Damian nodded and set to work.

  “There’s nothing to alarm you,” said Gus. “As my colleague explained when he called, we’re taking a fresh look at Mark Malone’s murder. I’m Gus Freeman, a consultant with Wiltshire Police. Lydia Logan Barre is my colleague, and she will tell you what we need to learn about what happened in the hours leading up to Mark’s death.”

  Damian placed two coffees on the kitchen table. He took a generous swig from his large glass of white wine and turned his attention to the pans on the professional-looking hob.

  “Is that a Rangemaster?” asked Lydia.

  “Mmm,” said Damian, “when you entertain as much as I do, darling, you need the best. So, what do you need to know?”

  “How long had you known Mark?” asked Lydia.

  “Two years, maybe three. We met through a mutual friend.”

  “Someone from Bath, perhaps?”

  “No, he came from Brighton, I believe, He’s moved on now. Lives in Tenerife with a Brazilian dancer.”

  “Did you knew Mark well,” asked Lydia.

  “Intimately,” Damian replied, “but we weren’t exclusive.”

  “What can you tell us about the party here that night?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid,” said Damian. “There were five guests. Mark drove here from Bath. The others came from Reading, Tottenham, Esher, and Sittingbourne. That’s all I’m prepared to divulge. My guest list is privileged information. I would lose hundreds of contacts overnight if I disclosed their details. Marriages and relationships could be at stake. Confidentiality is everything.”

  “What time did Mark get here?” asked Lydia.

  “We had agreed to meet at nine,” said Damian, topping up his wine glass.

  “Could you answer the question please, Sir,” said Gus.

  “Mark didn’t get here until half-past.”

  “Did any of your guests drive a 7-Series BMW?” asked Gus.

  “Heavens, no,” said Damian, “I recall a Welsh detective asked me that question. Why on earth they thought that car had anything to do with us, I can’t imagine?”

  “DI Trefor Davies asked you about it, did he?” asked Gus.

  “It may have been someone with that name. I didn’t like the man. He was too judgmental.”

  “When the party ended, did you see whether anyone drove away from the house in the same direction as Mark?” asked Lydia.

  “Who told you the party ended? Mark was late arriving and left early. We were still going until the sun came up, darling. Nobody followed Mark from here. Unless someone was waiting for him out on Andover Road.”

  “Mark texted you when he was leaving Bath,” said Lydia, “were you surprised that he left home as early as a quarter past six?”

  “Mark was Mark,” said Damian, “why was he late, why did he leave early? Who knows? When he was in a good mood which was often, he was the life and soul of any occasion. That night he had something on his mind.”

  “Did he talk about it?” asked Lydia. “You were close, Damian, would he have shared something with you, if it troubled him?”

  “Two years earlier, when we first met, maybe. Not towards the end. We saw each other less frequently over the twelve months before Mark died. He always had an invitation to my parties, and he attended others across the south of the country where we met up for a gossip. Mark hadn’t fallen out of favour with anyone we both knew, as far as I was aware.”

  “Are you implying Mark fell out with someone, but you only found out after he died?” asked Lydia.

  “I don’t tell tales,” said Damian, “if this gets back to the person involved, it could cause problems.”

  “A young man died,” said Gus, “in case you need reminding. If you have any information that will help us find Mark’s killer, then I suggest you tell us everything you know.”

  “I told you that the only way anyone could have followed Mark to that JET garage outside Marlborough was if someone was waiting on the main road. One of our circle of friends lives in a village outside Salisbury. There is only one road through the village. A few months before Mark died, there was a party at our friend’s house. Well, it’s more of a mansion than a house, surrounded by eleven acres of country park. A six-feet high wall surrounds the estate. It must have kept the dry-stone walling brigade in work for months back in the eighteenth century when they built it. The gates are closed after you enter, so anyone parked outside in the narrow lane is in full view of every nosy villager. A black SUV stayed outside from dusk to dawn. Can you believe it? Our friend received a dozen or more complaints from the locals. Our host asked us if that SUV had anything to do with us. Everyone denied it. After Mark’s death, our Salisbury friend confided in me he’d crossed Mark’s name off his contact list. One of his neighbours had told him the SUV only drove away once a BMW with tinted windows came through the gates.”

  Lydia glanced towards Gus. Was that significant? Who could have been driving the black SUV?

  “We might need
to contact you again, Mr Hartley-Cole,” said Gus. “If you’ve omitted to tell us something useful for our investigation, then call us. I know you wish to protect confidentiality over events that happen here behind closed doors, but our job is to solve murders. I’ve never shrunk from ruffling a few feathers to get the answers I want.”

  “You know best,” said Damian, “but honestly, I don’t think anyone here that night had a hand in Mark’s murder.”

  Gus and Lydia made their way outside to the Mini. Damian closed the front door behind them.

  “What was your impression?” asked Gus.

  “A lovely kitchen,” said Lydia, “but he made sure we didn’t see inside any of the other rooms, didn’t he?”

  “None of our business, Lydia,” said Gus, “they’re all consenting adults. Who are we to pass judgement? Do you think Damian was right that the murder had nothing to do with the party?”

  “Yes, guv,” said Lydia. “The earlier party in Salisbury was the clincher for me. Whoever was in that black SUV waited for Mark to appear. Whether he was supposed to leave the party earlier from Damian’s, we can’t say, but whatever the people in that SUV wanted, it was important enough to wait for ten hours until they could follow him. Damian was adamant that nobody drove the 7-Series BMW to any of their parties. Was the argument with the driver of the BMW a spot of road rage that occurred between Newbury and the Beckhampton roundabout, as someone suggested at the time? What if Mark was trying to get away from the black SUV and cut up the BMW?”

  “We don’t have any proof there was ever a black SUV on that road, Lydia,” said Gus, “yours is not a fanciful idea, but it is conjecture. If only we had more eyewitness accounts, CCTV evidence, something to show there were other vehicles at the scene driven by people who knew Mark Malone.”

  “Shall I drive us to Milton Keynes now, guv? To meet Julian Shih Tzu?”

  “What time is it now? Half-past eleven. We’ll go via Oxford to avoid the boredom of motorway driving. You should still get us there by one o’clock.