Barking Mad

by Ted Tayler

  “You think I drove too fast on the way here then?” said Lydia, “I imagine the A34 will curtail my girlish enthusiasm for speed.”

  “We live in hope,” said Gus, checking his seat belt.

  Gus was right. Lydia drew up outside the terraced property belonging to Julian Drummond at five minutes to one.

  “A modest residence,” said Gus, “for a photographer. I wonder if he has a studio somewhere in town?”

  “I didn’t check what he photographed, guv,” said Lydia, “so, I don’t know about a studio. Did you automatically assume it was people and think he majored in glamour models.”

  “Dogs,” replied Gus.

  “That’s not fair, guv. I expect some are nice young things.”

  “No. Dogs will be what Julian photographs. Either at the dog shows he’s so fond of, or in the owner’s loving arms.”

  “You’re not a dog person, are you?”

  “I’m not an animal person, Lydia. It’s not compulsory, thank goodness. I lost count of the number of criminals I arrested where there was all manner of pets around the home. If you asked why they resorted to theft, the standard reply was that they didn’t have enough money to put food on the table. I tripped over the dogs and cats as I took them out of the living room, kicked the empties in the hallway, and stepped over the cigarette butts on the step outside the door. The penny never dropped that I did it deliberately, trying to make them realise the solution to their economic woes stared them in the face.”

  “I don’t know whether to take you seriously sometimes, guv,” said Lydia, “surely, your heart goes out to a little puppy?”

  Gus turned his head to see what had caught Lydia’s eye. Julian Drummond stood on his front doorstep with a King Charles Spaniel in his arms.

  “The poor thing must have lost the use of its legs,” said Gus. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  Julian took two steps back as Lydia and Gus reached the door.

  “Have you come for me?” he said,

  “We came to talk to you, Mr Drummond,” said Gus. “You haven’t committed an offence, have you?”

  Julian Drummond shook his head vigorously.

  The fashion police might disagree, Lydia thought. The shiny blue suit Julian wore reminded her of a cheesy game show host from the Seventies. Not that Lydia was alive to watch them when they first aired, but it was difficult to stop her mother watching re-runs on one of the satellite TV channels.

  “You want to come in, I suppose,” said Julian, “the front room’s the tidiest place. Mitzi has run wild in the rest of the downstairs rooms, I’m afraid.”

  Gus watched the forty-three-year-old photographer picking his way gingerly through the clutter of furniture in the living room. There was hardly a square foot of carpet anywhere. He’d never been in a place so crammed with furniture and rubbish.

  Old newspapers, magazines, books, and photo albums covered several side tables. Two display cabinets held photos, figurines, and carvings of dogs, plus an assortment of trophies. The layer of dust suggested it was too much hassle to remove items to clean and polish the wooden surfaces.

  “If you can find a seat,” said Julian. He stood in front of the fire-place with Mitzi still staring at Gus from his owner’s armpit.

  Gus and Lydia did their best. Gus fetched a chair from the dining room next door. There was nothing on it, and Gus wondered what it had done to get left out. He sat and nodded to Lydia.

  Lydia explained to Julian, who they both were and reminded him why they were there.

  “I’ll help if I can,” said Julian, “Mark and I had our differences, but they’re not important now.”

  “When was the last time you spoke with Mark?” asked Lydia.

  “Just after eight o’clock on that Saturday evening,” said Julian, stroking Mitzi.

  “You texted Mark ten to fifteen minutes earlier,” said Lydia, looking at her notes. “Should I remind you what you wrote?”

  “I asked Mark if he was going to the West Sussex Paws In The Park at the end of the month.”

  “Did you know he was driving to Newbury for a party?” asked Lydia.

  “We didn’t socialise,” said Julian. “Mark and I didn’t move in the same circles if you follow me.”

  “Are you married or in a relationship?” asked Lydia.

  “Do you think a woman would want to live here? No, my life has always centred around my dogs. My parents got me interested in the business from a young age. Dog owners and people interested in dogs go to events for many reasons. Some go to learn about unique dog breeds, and others go to show off their dog’s talents in competitions. They took me to different dog events across the country, from small local events to huge shows attracting thousands of people. My father died when I was fourteen, in the front bedroom, directly above us. He was fifty-two. My mother got up in the morning to make a cup of tea and took it upstairs with the morning paper. I was watching the paperboy smoking a crafty fag as he cycled up the street. The next thing I heard was the cup hitting the floor and Mum screaming.”

  Gus tried to remember whether this was a question he’d had on the list he suggested Lydia used. It wasn’t getting them closer to finding Mark’s killer.

  “When did you lose your mother?” asked Gus.

  “Two years ago,” said Julian. Mitzi wriggled in his arms and stretched up to lick her master’s cheek.

  “How did Mark reply to your text message and what did he say?” asked Gus.

  “He called me to say he was giving the show a miss that year,” said Julian.

  “I imagine you were relieved,” said Lydia, “less competition for you.”

  “It’s not all about winning, you know. Mark thought so. But for many of us, it’s meeting other dog owners and learning more of canine behaviour. The dogs enjoy the events too. It helps them keep well socialised.”

  “Was it usual for Mark to call you, or did you keep in contact by text or email?” asked Gus.

  Julian thought for a moment.

  “Do you know, I think that was one of only a handful of occasions when we spoke on the phone. I’d known Mark for ten years, I suppose, and we bumped into one another during at least ten shows each year.”

  “Why didn’t he ignore your text or reply in kind?” asked Gus.

  “How do I know?” replied Julian.

  “Mark was heading for Newbury that evening,” said Lydia, “but when your text arrived, he must have stopped somewhere. Do you have any idea who he might visit on the road between Bath and Newbury?”

  “I didn’t know any of Mark’s gay friends,” said Julian, “but there could be dozens of dog owners and breeders along that route. I can’t think of anyone who Mark knew especially well, off the top of my head. I could check details of the local shows to see if a name rings a bell. They could have been discussing a breeding partnership. I wouldn’t have a clue. Why is it important?”

  “We don’t know that it is, Sir,” said Gus. “Mark Malone took over three hours to reach the party in Newbury. Anyone could cover that distance in ninety minutes without busting a gut, which suggests he stopped for a considerable length of time.”

  “While he was wherever he was,” said Lydia, “doing whatever he was doing, he read your text, waited six or seven minutes, and then called you.”

  Julian and Mitzi both stared at Lydia open-mouthed.

  “I think what my colleague wanted to say was, can you remember the exact words Mark used during that call?” said Gus.

  “I’ll be giving it a miss this year, darling. Ring me on Monday,” said Julian.

  “Didn’t that seem out of character, Sir?” asked Gus. “You were at each other’s throats most of the time, according to Mark’s mother. You just told us the phone call was one of only a handful in the ten years you’d known one another.”

  “I thought it odd for Mark to ask me to call him. It certainly wasn’t normal.”

  “You didn’t mention this phone call during the original investigation?” a
sked Gus.

  “I don’t think anyone asked me to repeat it, word for word. I only said that Mark told me he wasn’t going to Paws In The Park that May. Nobody followed up on the conversation after that.”

  “What car do you drive, Sir?” asked Gus.

  “I have a VW camper van from the Seventies,” said Julian. “I need the space for the dogs and the camera equipment. It’s expensive to spend a weekend away. I sleep in the van to save money.”

  “There’s not much money in the dog show business then?” asked Gus.

  “Crufts is the biggest dog show in the world, so every year we plan our build-up to the main event. Everyone wants to receive the ultimate prize, but it’s the prestige, not the two hundred pounds that’s important.”

  “Two hundred quid, for the top dog?” asked Gus, “how did Mark Malone get to drive around in a fancy car? Did that money come from breeding? How much a year could you earn from your Shih Tzu’s?”

  Julian Drummond looked puzzled.

  “I don’t know where you got the impression I was interested in breeds other than King Charles Spaniels,” he replied. “That was what Mum and Dad always had. I carried on with the same breed, in their memory. As for making money from breeding, I break even at best.”

  “So, the competition money is minimal, and breeding is more for the love of the animals than for profit,” said Gus, trying to make sense of things.

  “Exactly,” said Julian.

  “Do you have a full-time job, Sir?” asked Gus.

  “How do I earn a living?” asked Julian. “Through my photography, of course. I attend dozens of shows. Take the Heart of England show in Daventry, for instance, which has eighteen novelties and four pedigree classes. Everyone wants their dog’s photo taken. There’s even a photo competition. I don’t drink, or smoke, and as you can see, I live alone. My only extravagance is the clothing I wear to shows. The old suit I’m wearing is one I’ve relegated to day-to-day wear. I have a wardrobe full of them in different colours. It’s how customers pick me out in the crowds when they want their photo taken.”

  “Thank you for your time today, Mr Drummond,” said Gus. “If you could provide that list of possible dog owners or breeders that Mark Malone might have visited on the night he died, we’d be very pleased to receive it.”

  “I’ll start work on it straight away, Mr Freeman,” said Julian, “good afternoon to you both.”

  Lydia and Gus walked to the car. Julian raised a hand, and Mitzi gave a little bark as the front door closed.

  “That was awkward,” said Lydia, “we thought the Julian Shih Tzu in Mark’s contact list referred to the dogs he bred and showed.”

  “Mark Malone had a wicked sense of humour, Lydia,” said Gus, “but his spelling wasn’t great.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Lydia pulled away from the kerb, and they were soon heading towards the motorway in her Mini.

  “If I get to the nearest M4 junction, we should arrive back at the Old Police Station in two hours, give or take, guv,” she said.

  “There’s no rush, young lady,” said Gus, “Luke has gone to Bath to search out Patrick Boddington. If he learns as much from him as we did from our two witnesses, then it will have been a decent day. We can run through what we’ve learned and then come back fresh in the morning.”

  “What did you make of the phone call, guv,” asked Lydia, “I could see you took more interest in matters when Julian gave us the exact wording.”

  “Well, you asked questions that gave him free rein to tell us his life story. I could have done without that.”

  “Sorry, guv. I wanted to get Julian to relax. I sensed he was nervous. It was Mitzi I felt sorry for because Julian was hanging onto her for grim death.”

  “That phone call from Mark was out of character,” said Gus. “So, what lay behind the words he used?”

  “Ah, I see what you’re driving at, guv. Wherever Mark was, he couldn’t speak openly. He tried to pass Julian a message because he was in danger. Mark referred to Julian as darling, and asked him to ring on Monday, which he would never do.”

  “Julian didn’t realise Mark was trying to tell him he was in trouble. What Julian could have done; I don’t know. But Mark must have stopped at someone’s house on the way to Newbury. Either that, or he got stopped by someone and taken to a house. If only we could identify the town or the address.”

  “Let’s hope Julian can think of the right owners and breeders, guv,” said Lydia, “we could have a lot of people to trace and interview.”

  “If that’s where the culprit lies. I might run through the detailed phone records you got from the Hub,” said Gus. “We gleaned useful information from only a handful of calls and messages. Let’s hope the key to this murder lies in those records somewhere.”

  “You need to analyse any name tags carefully, guv,” said Lydia. “If there was a Doug Butcher among Mark’s friends, he could be a serial killer, not the guy who got Mark his lamb shanks.”

  “Very droll. If Mark were more sensible, Doug Butcher would be a real person,” said Gus. “Maybe people need to disguise their contacts from their partners; I wouldn’t know. Do you keep your mobile phone out of Alex’s reach? Do you have a password to restrict access if you lose it?”

  “You only do things like that if you have something to hide, guv, surely?” said Lydia. “OK, I would worry if I lost my phone because even though I lock it, a hacker could get into it in seconds. With Alex, I leave it lying around without fretting that he might sneak a quick look to see who I’ve been calling. You must have trust in a relationship.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of you and Alex in particular, Lydia,” said Gus. “I suppose the parties Mark attended made me wonder how valuable the information on his phone could be.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” said Lydia.

  “Damian was a friend,” said Gus, “and although Damian invited those other four men from the Home Counties, there’s no suggestion Mark had ever met any of them. I imagine the thrill of sex with strangers attracted Mark and the others in the first place. Luke told me the drawstring bag in the boot was significant. The bag contained clothing and other essentials. Once the party was in full swing, it also provided a semi-secure place for items they didn’t want to be carrying around, such as a phone, or an expensive watch. If I was in a similar situation, I might leave my valuables somewhere safe in the car, or not take them with me, in case they got nicked. One of Damian’s friends could be a blackmailer, using data from the phone to extract sums of money for Mark’s silence.”

  “Do you think that might have happened at another party, guv?” asked Lydia, “someone got hold of Mark’s phone, and they drove the black SUV. That person put the squeeze on Mark for money.”

  “It’s another theory with no supporting evidence, I’m afraid,” said Gus.

  “There is another reason for Mark to keep a phone handy, guv,” said Lydia, “what if something went wrong at a party, and he needed to call for help?”

  “Things could get awkward, I guess,” said Gus.

  “No risk, no reward, I suppose,” said Lydia.

  They sat in silence for the next minute as Lydia eased her way from the outside lane as the Chippenham junction loomed. When she was in position, she continued -

  “I don’t believe anything in Mark’s phone gave him cause for concern. Remember the breakdown I read out to you—forty per cent of his contacts aligned with the pet shop business. Twenty per cent were people similar to Julian Drummond, on the dog show circuit. The rest was family and friends, every one of whom knew Mark was gay. There was little scope for a blackmailer.”

  “I think you might have unwittingly stumbled onto something,” said Gus.

  “Mark had a burner phone, you mean,” said Lydia.

  “How long have you been sitting on that idea?”

  “I had a lightbulb moment when you mentioned how you might behave if you were at one of Damian’s parties. Before Mark got to Wood Ridge, something or so
meone scared him. You asked me to read out the last half-dozen messages on the night Mark died. I scanned the page out of interest and saw nothing unusual. Pet food suppliers, advertising for the Bath Chronicle, birthday greetings for a friend called Sacha. If Mark got involved in criminal activity, then there was no sign of it on his phone.”

  “So, we need to dig deeper, to find out what happened to his other phone. Was it in the car the night he died? Did his killer retrieve it before fleeing the scene?”

  “Was it essential Mark had it with him that night, guv?” asked Lydia, “Could he have pre-arranged the eight o’clock meeting with the mysterious SUV driver? If he didn’t want to risk losing his phone at the party, he might have left it at home. Did the police find one when they searched his flat in Marlborough Lane?”

  “There was no mention of it in the murder file,” said Gus, “I wish we had followed this line of thinking earlier. I would have told Luke to ask Patrick Boddington if he still had a key to Mark’s apartment.”

  “They weren’t an item any longer, guv. Jenny Malone told us the relationship was purely platonic these days.”

  “Mark didn’t confide in his mother too often. I would describe their relationship as being at arm’s length. I doubt if she had access to his apartment. Mark viewed Patrick as a mentor, and they still met up for a meal occasionally. We’ll see evidence of that in Mark’s phone, plus, we could check his bank accounts. That’s a job for Luke tomorrow. He can follow the money, to see when and where the money for this BMW started appearing. With our luck that will be as elusive as proving Ricky Gardiner got paid to kill Terry Davis.”

  “If it came from a criminal enterprise, it would more likely have been cash though, guv, wouldn’t it?” asked Lydia.

  “Either cash or a complicated spider’s web of transactions designed to make an accountant’s head spin.”

  Lydia waited for Gus to continue, but he was deep in thought. She wondered if he’d notice a slight increase in speed as they rattled along towards Junction 17. Twenty minutes later she pulled into the car park below the Old Police Station office. Luke’s car wasn’t there yet.