Barking Mad

by Ted Tayler

  Dominic Culverhouse sat further back in his seat. Madeleine opened a folder containing hard copies of CCTV images.

  “You left the office Greenwich allocated you at one minute past six. This image shows you exiting the building wearing the uniform of an ACC with Avon and Somerset Police. Any comment?”

  “No, why should there be. I told you I left at six,” replied Culverhouse.

  “The Guildford Arms is five minutes’ walk from the police station. Here you are entering the gastropub at ten past seven. You are now wearing a black top and dark slacks. Did you pop into a phone box en route? How do you explain the change in clothing?”

  “I returned to the hotel to change. I couldn’t go out for the evening wearing my uniform.”

  “Would you say dark clothing, such as we can see in the image from the gastropub, is typical of what you might wear on a warm summer evening?”

  “I had to leave Hereford in a rush,” said Culverhouse, “I didn’t give my wardrobe much thought. I just grabbed a few spare shirts, a pair of trousers, and clean underwear.”

  “This image shows you leaving the Guildford Arms alone, ninety minutes later.”

  “Do you plan to take me on a whistle-stop tour of Greenwich pubs? I can’t see the purpose of this line of questioning. I’m a single man on a night out. So what?”

  “What tasks were you given at Royal Hill to occupy your days?” asked Steve Nobbs. “I imagine if you get parachuted into a station at a minute’s notice, it must limit your contribution. You don’t know the people you’re working with, and you’re unfamiliar with the locality, or the caseload they’re handling.”

  “An Assistant Chief Constable is well-equipped to adapt,” said Guy Templeman. “Dominic’s wealth of experience in policing would be a welcome addition to any force. His rank equates to a Commander in the Metropolitan Police. I wouldn’t expect Greenwich to have had him performing basic office duties.”

  “So, you attended strategy meetings related to your responsibilities at Portishead. You hold the portfolio for crime in the Avon and Somerset area. Is that correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “We’ll check that workload with your superiors at Royal Hill. You told us earlier that after your meal, you visited several pubs and returned to your hotel by ten o’clock,” said Madeleine Lefevre. “There were discrepancies in your account of the first part of the evening. Would you like to amend anything you mentioned of your whereabouts between twenty minutes to nine and ten o’clock?”

  “No,” said Culverhouse, “but I don’t remember which pubs I visited. There are quite a few, and wherever I went wasn’t more than a mile from the hotel. I suppose you will show me with a pint in my hand in the Dog and Duck? Is this how this goes?”

  “Well, there’s the thing,” said Madeleine. “As a policeman who is well-equipped to handle any eventuality, you know despite over six hundred thousand cameras in the London area, black spots can still exist. The next sighting we have of you shows you in the foyer of Novotel at nine forty-eight. Do you notice anything in this piece of video we recovered?”

  “I’m still wearing the same clothing as I had on in the Guildford Arms. I’m steady on my feet. So, it confirms that I didn’t visit more than two pubs. What am I supposed to be looking for?”

  “We can see three other guests in the foyer at the same time. They pass through without looking directly towards the camera. It would be difficult if we wished to identify them using this camera position. The manager stressed this camera was essential to protect the reception staff. You linger in the vicinity, without approaching the reception desk, and on three occasions your face is in full view. Almost as if you wanted proof you were in the hotel by ten o’clock as you claimed.”

  “I suppose you will tell me I don’t have an alibi for the intervening sixty-eight minutes. Forgive me, but I’ve no clue where, or when, this man Gardiner died. This is ridiculous. I told you I could take you to the pubs where I drank. Someone should remember serving me.”

  “Can you confirm you never left the borough of Greenwich between leaving the Guildford Arms and reaching your hotel?” asked Madeleine.

  “As I keep telling you, I’m not familiar with the district. Where did one borough end and another start? I walked between one watering hole and another, and it took only ten minutes to get back to my hotel when I decided it was time to get to bed.”

  “Let’s leave that unexplained sixty-eight minutes for now,” said Madeleine, “where did you park your car during your stay?”

  “In the Novotel car park. I had the offer of a parking space at Royal Hill, but I left my car at the hotel and walked to work each day. It’s only a five minutes’ walk.”

  “Does the hotel have CCTV coverage of the car park?”

  “I should sincerely hope so,” said Culverhouse.

  “We requested the records from six pm Tuesday to six am Wednesday. We noted several bursts of activity, with guests arriving and leaving the car park in the first few hours. At five minutes past ten, we have a figure, on foot, in dark clothing, slipping out of the car park entrance.”

  “That could be anybody,” said Guy Templeman. “the hotel has over one hundred and fifty guest rooms, plus conference facilities, and many staff members. That person is wearing a dark-coloured hooded jacket and carrying a backpack. The face is obscured. I think it is impossible to identify them.”

  “I was in my room reading,” said Culverhouse.

  “Might I suggest we take a break?” asked Guy Templeman. “Dominic has answered your questions relating to the Oakley affair, which was the main substance of the complaint made against him. There was no mention of another investigation into the death of the mystery man, Ricky Gardiner. I’m at a loss to understand the proof of any connection between Dominic and Gardiner. As Dominic suggested, you’re joining the dots between two sets of unrelated events and attempting to show what? That Dominic had a reason to kill Gardiner? The man died in a fire. Where was this, and at what time? Just because Dominic was five miles up the road doesn’t mean he’s culpable. How many crimes got reported on Tuesday evening within a five-mile radius of where Dominic stayed? Twenty? Fifty? Why not charge him with all of them? I think it’s simpler to check every pub between the Guildford Arms and the hotel. That removes any possibility of Dominic being anywhere other than Greenwich. If you can offer definitive proof of a connection between Gardiner and Dominic, then produce it when we reconvene. If not, then I support Dominic’s desire to walk out. This witch hunt should have concluded once he’d explained the Oakley matter.”

  Madeleine Lefevre accepted she was getting nowhere. If only they had found that elusive connection or confirmed the money trail—just something to wipe the smile of Culverhouse’s face.

  “I agree,” she said, “we need a break.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Friday, 8th June 2018 - Bath

  “Head for Manvers Street car park,” said Lydia, “that’s closest to the Abbey, isn’t it?”

  “It’s never a hardship walking through Bath,” said Gus, “it’s a beautiful city.”

  “Whenever I visit, it’s raining when I arrive, or it starts just as I’m heading home.”

  “Not today,” said Gus, “there’s hardly a cloud in the sky. Right, do you have any change? I appear to have come out without my wallet.”

  “How many hours will we need?” asked Lydia, searching through her purse.

  “Oh, only two,” said Gus, “I don’t intend to suffer another life story.”

  “Touché,” said Lydia, “it won’t happen again, guv.”

  Gus and Lydia strode towards North Parade.

  “Which is the quickest route from here?” asked Gus.

  Lydia led him through a maze of side streets and alleyways until they emerged in the Abbey Courtyard. The wide, open space was full of people, mostly tourists.

  “Where Boddington’s gallery?” asked Lydia.

  “Dead ahead,” said Gus, “between the café and
the bookshop. Try not to knock over any pedestrians or street performers on the way.”

  Gus heard the Abbey clock in the Tower to his right gather itself for a peal of bells. Ten o’clock. They’d made it on time, despite Lydia’s concerns over his driving.

  Gus and Lydia reached the safety of the covered entrance to the gallery. The door was set back six feet from the paved courtyard. Behind the glass windows surrounding them, they could see a selection of oil paintings featuring views of the city. There were plenty from which to choose.

  “You go first, Lydia,” said Gus. “make the introductions. I want a few seconds to get the measure of the man.”

  “You want me to take the lead?” asked Lydia. “I wish I’d worn something newer, rather than throw on this old thing. What are you like?”

  Gus shook his head. You can’t win them all.

  Lydia pushed open the door. Gus heard a delicate tinkle above him and looked back at the bell on the back of the door. He’d not seen that design for half a century.

  Gus remembered visits to a sweet shop in Salisbury, with his mother, at five years old. He didn’t imagine Patrick Boddington stocked sherbet dabs or gobstoppers, and there wasn’t an old master among his paintings either. In the shadow of the Abbey, Patrick Boddington surrendered pretensions to fine art years ago. He chased the tourist trade these days.

  Gus wondered whether tourists wanted a large oil painting of the Royal Crescent or the Roman Baths to add to hand luggage on their return journey. You could capture everything of historical importance on a phone’s camera these days.

  Most people preferred to include themselves in such well-known images with the aid of a selfie; in case their friends hadn’t realised where they’d gone on holiday.

  Gus studied a picture of Jane Austen’s house and thought it looked better without two grinning Japanese tourists extending their selfie sticks. Although at three hundred and fifty pounds that painting would never find itself on a wall in his Urchfont bungalow.

  Patrick Boddington appeared from behind a pair of heavy drapes separating his office from the gallery.

  Lydia expected something theatrical. Appearing on stage like a latter-day Sir John Gielgud was more than she imagined.

  “We’re quiet this morning,” he said, “I’ll turn the sign around to deter any customers. They browse the books next door, then have a look at everything I have to offer. It’s because the café is so popular that they have to queue for a table. As soon as someone’s bum lifts off a seat next door, they’re out of here. Well, you can’t both be from the constabulary. You two make as an unlikely a pair as Sonny and Cher.”

  “My name is Ms Barre. I work in the Crime Review Team from Wiltshire Police. My boss, Mr Freeman, wants to follow up on the questions you answered yesterday.”

  Gus studied Boddington while Lydia made the introductions. The gallery owner stood five feet, six inches tall and weighed nine stones wringing wet. Patrick’s Sixties style suit was in maroon velvet, his shirt was navy blue, as was the keffiyeh laid around his shoulders. He had no bouffant hairstyle or comb-over. Patrick opted for the polished shaved head look. His half-moon spectacles with navy blue frames completed the ensemble.

  Luke Sherman said Boddington reminded him of Quentin Crisp. Gus had done his homework last night as he devoured his chicken curry. One of Crisp’s quotes floated into his head: - Exhibitionism is like a drug. Be yourself no matter what they say.

  As he looked at Patrick and Lydia, it was hard to find fault with that observation.

  “I thought I’d satisfied your colleague,” said Patrick, “what do you need now?”

  “It’s quite straight forward,” said Gus, “we know from Mark Malone’s phone records that you spoke to one another twice on the night he died.”

  “Poor Mark. I think of him often,” said Patrick.

  “You called him at a quarter to twelve,” said Lydia, “and spoke for two minutes.”

  “Did I? Well, if you say I did, then I suppose I must have. It’s so long ago.”

  “I’ll remind you for the last time that we’re investigating a murder enquiry, Mr Boddington,” said Gus. “I’m not here for the fun of it. You and Mark had been lovers. When we spoke to Jenny Malone, she told us you and Mark remained firm friends. You saw one another regularly and often dined together.”

  “That’s true. We never fell out. The physical side of our relationship died.”

  “Right, back to the night in question. Did you know where Mark went that night? Had he told you he was partying in Newbury? Was there a prior arrangement for you to call?”

  “I knew where Mark was going,” said Patrick, playing with the tassels on his keffiyeh. “He asked me to call him. Mark wanted an excuse to get away from the party. My call should have been earlier, but I was with someone. When I remembered to call, he was already on his way home to Bath. Mark was short with me.”

  “Why did he call back after midnight?” asked Lydia, “it must have been important. You spoke for seven minutes.”

  “Mark thought someone followed him,” said Patrick, “I urged him to phone the police, but Mark said he couldn’t.”

  “Did he say where he was?” asked Gus.

  “Mark stopped at a garage because there were bright lights and other people around. He felt safer. Mark was talking to me, and I suddenly heard a noise. Mark said a man was banging on the window and shouting at him.”

  “Did he recognise the man?” asked Gus.

  “I don’t know,” said Patrick.

  “Why would someone follow him?” asked Lydia.

  “It had something to do with the dogs.”

  “Did Mark get involved in something criminal?” asked Gus.

  “He wouldn’t have confided in me if he did,” said Patrick.

  “You knew one another for a long time,” said Gus, “what did you think when Mark started driving around in a top-of-the-range BMW?”

  “I loved cruising around Bath in that car with Mark. It felt so decadent. You could do all sorts of things behind those tinted windows. How on earth he afforded it, I don’t know.”

  “Mark didn’t ask you for money?” asked Gus.

  “Heaven’s, no, I’ve hardly got two pennies to rub together these days. The gallery barely gives me enough to scrape by. Any extravagances are paid for by my companions.”

  “What happened to Mark’s apartment in Marlborough Lane?” asked Lydia.

  “Mark rented it, my dear, he didn’t own it. The landlady changed the locks, refreshed the paintwork, and moved a young couple in two months after Mark died. The police kept going backwards and forwards to no avail before that.”

  “I suppose you threw your key away?” asked Gus.

  “Well, I didn’t have any further use for it, did I?” said Patrick.

  “The conversation you described at the garage didn’t occupy the whole seven minutes,” said Gus. “So, what else did you discuss?”

  “Whatever prompted the banging on the window died down,” said Patrick, “and Mark drove away from the garage forecourt. He told me the car that scared him had reappeared two hundred yards behind. He’d been waiting further up the road.”

  “What did you do?” asked Gus.

  “I begged him to call the police. Or to let me call them.”

  “Did he tell you what car it was?” asked Lydia.

  “Mark said it was a black SUV,” said Patrick.

  “So, Mark was being followed to Devizes by a black SUV, and he felt in danger. Was that the end of the conversation?”

  Patrick looked at the wall behind Gus’s head. He avoided eye contact.

  “Remember what I said earlier,” said Gus.

  “Mark asked me to get rid of something from the flat if something happened to him.”

  “How did you know where to look if Mark never confided in you about his dodgy dealings?”

  “I didn’t know a thing, I swear,” said Patrick, “Mark had a mobile phone he didn’t want the police to discover. I pro
mised him I’d find it.”

  “When did you learn of Mark’s death?” asked Lydia.

  “Jenny called me after she returned from the hospital. She was distraught, but I was still the first person she contacted, for which I was grateful. I walked to the flat within minutes of her call. The police didn’t arrive with their vans and blue-and-white tape until lunchtime; I watched them from across the road. I’d popped in to visit an old friend after shutting the flat door for the last time. He made us several Irish coffees to see me through the worst.”

  “Was there anything other than the mobile phone worth having?” asked Gus.

  “What sort of person do you think I am?” asked Patrick.

  “When did the police come to interview you?” asked Lydia.

  “They didn’t. Someone from Manvers Street phoned me two days after the murder. I went to the police station to make a statement. I told them I spoke to Mark and that someone had shouted at him when he stopped at the garage. They wanted to know about our relationship, not that it was any of their business. I had witnesses to say I never left Bath that night, and that we were still friends. The police were happy enough with that. The last time anyone spoke with me, they intimated that road rage was the probable cause for Mark getting shot. I’m eternally glad I never learned to drive.”

  “You omitted to mention the black SUV and the mobile phone to the police,” said Gus, “why was that?”

  “I promised Mark I wouldn’t let the police get hold of the phone. I didn’t understand why it was significant, but I didn’t want his reputation blackened when he wasn’t able to defend himself. As for the SUV, I thought the police knew about it. They had CCTV coverage of the garage and knew the man shouting at Mark drove another BMW. The police officer at Manvers Street mentioned it.”

  “Where’s that phone now?” asked Gus.

  “In landfill somewhere,” said Patrick. “it was no use to me. Why would I need another phone? I got rid of it at the earliest opportunity.”

  “Did you open it?” asked Lydia, “was it password protected?”

  Patrick looked at Gus.