Barking Mad

by Ted Tayler

  “Mark must have got mixed up in something awful,” he said, “or you wouldn’t be so interested in that phone three years after he died. What was he doing?”

  “If only we knew,” said Gus, “you thought the dogs were a possibility. We’ve talked to others who breed and show dogs, but there doesn’t appear to be a fortune to gain from breeding. Dogs of popular breeds get smuggled into the UK, and that trade must be profitable because there’s enough money in the enterprise for organised crime gangs to get involved. Perhaps Mark earned money for that BMW by accepting smuggled dogs to sell in his pet shop. That wouldn’t generate large sums of money, because you can be sure the gang took the lion’s share of any profit. If a gang member followed Mark in that black SUV, it suggests Mark owed someone money. We need to find that man and uncover the truth.”

  “Poor Mark,” said Patrick. “Now, what can I tell you about that phone? Well, it wasn’t a smartphone. It didn’t have any fancy apps that I could see, and there were only two names in his contact list. The phone was password-protected, but I’d known Mark for too long. It was Labia Syphre. He’d kept threatening to become a drag queen. That was to be his stage name. Mark thought it hilarious.”

  “Do you remember either of the contact names?” asked Lydia.

  “I remember both. Emir Pompey and Mehmet Barking,” replied Patrick, “they’re not details you forget. One of them killed Mark.”

  “Were they Turkish?” asked Gus.

  “Their names are foreign, but I never met them. I expect Mark did what he usually did,” said Patrick, “and added where they came from, or what they did for a living to their first name. It helped him remember who they were and where he’d met them. He had a long list of names to remember.”

  “We know that from the mobile phone in his car the night he died,” said Lydia. She wondered whether Patrick knew how Mark remembered his best friend.

  “Can you remember any details of the call history?” asked Gus.

  “I don’t know if it’s significant,” said Patrick, “but Mark only ever spoke to them. There were no text messages back and forth.”

  “That was so no record of their conversations existed to be used against them if their phones ever got lost or stolen,” said Lydia.

  Gus nodded.

  “I think we can discount them being legitimate dog owners or breeders. What about the frequency of calls? Can you recall something that might help?”

  “You’ll think I was nosy, but I skipped through to see how long they had been in touch with Mark. The call log dated back to February 2014, when Emir made the first contact. Mehmet didn’t start calling Mark until August. The calls came a month to six weeks apart. On Friday, before Mark died, there were three conversations. On Saturday afternoon, there was just one. Mark left the phone in the flat when he drove to Newbury, and a missed call registered on the phone came from Emir at around half-past seven.”

  “The gang were desperate to get hold of Mark,” said Lydia.

  “He must have told them on Friday where he was going,” said Gus, “perhaps Emir called to check Mark had left home. We’ve got two first names now to match with gang members connected to the murder weapon.”

  “Luke should have reduced the size of our list of names by the time we get back to the office,” said Lydia, “is there anything else, guv?”

  “Nothing, unless Mr Boddington can remember what he removed from Mark’s flat on Sunday morning.”

  “You won’t leave it alone, will you? A few engraved trinkets I’d bought for Mark,” sighed Patrick, “and a Lalique bowl. I told Jenny about that. She was happy for me to have it.”

  “You appear to have potential customers outside, Mr Boddington,” said Gus, “we’ll let you re-open your shop.”

  “Gallery, Mr Freeman, if you please, a shop sounds common, and these are original oil paintings, you know. They might not be by Turner or Rembrandt, but there’s not a print among them.”

  Patrick Boddington turned the ‘Closed’ sign on the glass door to ‘Open’ and Gus savoured the bell’s tinkle for the second time as he and Lydia strode through the open door onto the Abbey courtyard. They had two names. Would these two Turks be the key to solving this case?

  Friday, 8th June 2018 - Portishead

  Chief Constable Guy Templeman was a busy man. He wanted to get out of this building and drive back to West Mercia HQ at Worcester. Guy’s force area covered Hereford, where Dominic Culverhouse lived. Something he would happily alter if he could.

  The longer that morning meeting went on, the less he trusted the man he thought was a friend. Even though Lefevre and her team couldn’t deliver a knockout punch, Guy couldn’t shake the feeling that Dominic lied on more than one occasion.

  Madeleine Lefevre had wanted this break as much as he had.

  While Dominic spent the last two hours drinking coffee and complaining he was the victim of character assassination designed to stop him becoming a Chief Constable, Guy wondered whether he’d backed the wrong horse.

  “How much longer do I have to hang around here?” asked Dominic.

  Guy watched him pacing. Culverhouse didn’t fill him with any confidence; he looked nervous and agitated. At the start of the day, Guy thought it only natural to have a few nerves, but now he thought it suspicious.

  “You’ll wear the carpet out if you don’t sit and relax,” said Guy, “we reconvene at two o’clock. Is there anything you need to tell me before we go back inside?”

  “Don’t you start,” shouted Culverhouse, “they’re fishing. The Oakley matter is dead in the water. It’s all very well saying that because Plunkett and Kennedy are dead, it provides me with an alibi. You were there that weekend, as were a dozen others. Have they interrogated them? Yes, they have. Has one person pointed the finger at me to say I drove my car that night? No, they haven’t, and nobody could.”

  “Calm down, Dominic,” said Guy Templeman.

  Even though he had his doubts, Guy realised that by accepting the role of ‘police friend’ at this preliminary meeting, his integrity would get called into question. If things went pear-shaped for Culverhouse, Guy could suffer from the fallout. He had travelled too far in his career to see that happen.

  Steve Nobbs stuck his head around the door of the waiting room.

  “Five minutes, gentlemen. We’re ready for you.”

  “Thank goodness,” said Culverhouse, “let’s wrap up this nonsense and get home.”

  Guy Templeman and Dominic Culverhouse walked along the corridor to the meeting room. Madeleine Lefevre poured herself a glass of water from a carafe on the table. She looked up as the two officers entered.

  Guy Templeman thought Lefevre looked more confident than when they last saw her. What had she learned in the interim?

  “I hope you benefited from the break as much as we did,” said Madeleine, “what is it they say? Everything comes to she who waits. We received information from the detectives investigating the deaths of Sandra Plunkett and Naomi Hall.”

  “I suppose you’re trying to pin that on me too,” said Culverhouse.

  “There’s no question they committed suicide,” said Aysha Prasanna. “What drove them to it is another matter.”

  “Among the items recovered from the home shared by the two women were three mobile phones,” said Madeleine. “They found proof of purchase and original packaging for two of those phones that showed they belonged to Sandra and Naomi. The third phone appeared to be the odd one out. There was no record of it on any of their insurance documents. Nothing in either of their bank statements suggested they bought it. Forensics dusted the phone for prints, and Sandra was the only person to handle it. Why did she need it? Was it issued to her by Wiltshire Police? The Staffordshire detectives checked, and Wiltshire confirmed it was not. What did the phone contain? The contact list held two numbers. Sadly, we can’t ask Sandra why she named them A and B. Contact A’s phone appeared to be out of service. Who knows, perhaps it got destroyed? Contact B’s phone was stil
l in service, and the phone rang and rang without anyone answering. In the past two hours, GPS tracking located that phone. It’s somewhere in Croydon.”

  “What’s the point of this analysis of the Staffordshire Police investigation?” asked Guy Templeman. “How does it relate to ACC Culverhouse?”

  “I’m coming to that,” said Madeleine Lefevre. “I contacted the forensic accountants from the Metropolitan Police trying to unravel the financial dealings of the late Ricky Gardiner. They are interested in Tony Fernandez and James Harlow. These names were used by Gardiner when working undercover. The flat where Gardiner died was rented in Harlow’s name and sublet to Zena Gardjy. She confirmed that her landlord arrived on Tuesday evening and informed her he was staying for two nights. Warwickshire Police wanted Gardiner concerning a kidnapping in Royal Leamington Spa, and Wiltshire Police wanted him for the murder of former DS Terry Davis. Gardiner fled from a property he owned in Leek Wootton on Tuesday the twenty-second of May and made for London. Where did he stay?”

  “Are you asking me?” asked Culverhouse, “I thought we established this morning that I never met the man.”

  “That was what you claimed, yes,” said Steve Nobbs, “perhaps we can jog your memory. The Met traced the properties rented by James Harlow and Tony Fernandez to Honor Oak Park and Croydon. Fingerprints collected from the Croydon flat belonged to Ricky Gardiner. The Met believes that empty flat was where Gardiner spent up to five nights after first reaching London. He left behind items of clothing and a mobile phone.”

  “A forensic officer was checking that phone when it rang,” said Aysha Prasanna. “Imagine the surprise in Stafford when at the third attempt to discover the identity of Contact B they spoke to Iris Collins.”

  “Iris told them that the phone she held belonged to Tony Fernandez, aka Ricky Gardiner,” said Madeleine Lefevre. “So, Staffordshire now had two-thirds of the puzzle. Sandra Plunkett and Ricky Gardiner.”

  “I told you Sandra could have known him,” said Culverhouse. “The more I learn of that woman, the dirtier she looks. Who would have thought it?”

  “What about the third person, Contact A?”

  “Don’t look at me! I never met Gardiner, and you can’t prove I did.”

  “We’ll park that subject for a while,” said Madeleine. “We’re waiting for further updates relating to the burner phones. I want to return to the hotel where you stayed. We re-examined CCTV images from the day you checked in. Your car entered the Novotel car park, and although we don’t know the exact parking bay you chose, it’s clear you selected a quiet corner not covered by the cameras. You said you sincerely hoped the car park CCTV was in operation. Strange, that you picked such a vulnerable spot. Maybe you wanted to get something from the car before leaving the car park late on Tuesday evening?”

  “Rubbish,” said Culverhouse.

  “We can’t prove where you were in that missing hour yet, but getting back to the hotel when you did was important, wasn’t it? The concierge went off duty at eleven o’clock. I suggest you went to your room, read for a while, and dressed in the clothes we saw on the CCTV recording. You then slipped out to the car park via the rear door and collected the backpack from your car. Nobody would have seen you because it was pitch black. You crept along the far wall and darted through the entrance. We can guess what was in the backpack. We told you Gardiner died in a flat fire, but that didn’t tell the complete story. Despite the fire damage, the autopsy showed he suffered blunt-force trauma to the back of the head. His attacker poured accelerants on the kitchen floor next to the body and set it alight as they left.”

  “You can’t connect me to any of this,” Culverhouse sneered. “You’re making it up as you go along. I was in bed by eleven. Where’s my motive? Why on earth would I want to murder a stranger?”

  There was a knock at the door, and an IOPC officer entered with two folders. She handed them to Madeleine Lefevre.

  “Bear with me for a second while I read this,” she said.

  Dominic Culverhouse tutted.

  “Marcus White in Croydon; Jeff Gayle in Pinner; Bobby Beresford in Walthamstow. That may not be the complete list, but Gardiner used these names while working undercover. Using these false identities, he rented flats and sublet them. Some transactions from their bank accounts go back fifteen years. The forensic accountants have been working overtime. Ricky’s father George died in 2001. Nobody queried what happened to his estate. Angie Gardiner didn’t care. The evidence I see from Leek Wootton shows she was a wealthy woman. Ricky Gardiner inherited everything and was eagerly awaiting the sale of two expensive properties. However, George left his son a modest sum too, and Ricky transferred that money into a business account at another bank under the name GG Holdings. Tenants that rented flats from Fernandez, Harlow and the others paid their monthly rent to GG Holdings. The rent money moved to Ricky’s account twenty-four hours before the rent was due to pass to his real landlords. Nobody asked George or Ricky Gardiner about the constant credits and debits, which left the balance hovering around the eight hundred pounds balance showing when GG Holdings started trading in 2001.”

  “All very interesting,” yawned Culverhouse, “how does any of this affect me?”

  “Perhaps the second folder will shed light?” Madeleine replied with a smile. “This is my update on the burner phones.”

  Guy Templeman reckoned his concerns were justified. Dominic Culverhouse was as white as a sheet. Gus could see the cogs in his brain spinning, trying to fashion a way out of the vice-like grip by which Madeleine Lefevre held him.

  “Staffordshire had no problem getting into the phone they recovered from Sandra Plunkett’s home, as you know,” said Madeleine. “Besides making calls to determine who the others were in the triangle; they checked the call logs. When were the phones used and for how long? I agree with them that the most important call took place on Tuesday, the twenty-second of May between two thirty-eight and two forty-eight in the afternoon. Sandra Plunkett shared a conference call with Ricky Gardiner and the mysterious Contact A for six minutes, at which point Gardiner left the conversation. Sandra continued to talk to Contact A for four minutes. Can you remember what you discussed?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” snapped Culverhouse.

  “Shall I tell you what I think?” asked Madeleine. “The kidnapping took place on the previous Friday afternoon. Gardiner fled the house where he held DI Ferris within one hour of leaving that conference call. The three of you argued. Sandra worried that she played a part in facilitating the kidnapping. Statements from Devizes and Leek Wootton confirm her Chief Constable instructed DI Ferris to leave phones and laptops at home when she attended the course at Ryton-on-Dunsmore. Gardiner ducked out of the conference call after six minutes, leaving you and Sandra to work out how to cover your tracks.”

  “You have a vivid imagination,” said Culverhouse, “but no proof.”

  “I told you the initial allegations from Devizes convinced my superiors they were worth pursuing. We don’t chase rainbows any more than you. Like you, we pick the cases with the highest chance of success. We would be foolish to do otherwise. Ricky Gardiner was a fixer. He committed crimes for cash, and those eager beavers in the forensic accounting department of the Met came up trumps again. This case has proved a magnificent example of co-operation between police forces scattered across the country. When the Staffordshire people searched for evidence to prove who bought that third phone, they found two cash withdrawals totalling five thousand pounds from Sandra’s bank account. The first was on Friday the eleventh of May, and the second was on Wednesday the sixteenth.”

  “I shouldn’t need to tell you how much a Chief Constable gets paid,” said Culverhouse. “That sum wouldn’t make a dent in her bank balance. There are dozens of reasons why Sandra might withdraw those amounts.”

  “Ricky Gardiner killed Terry Davis at around midnight on Sunday the thirteenth of May,” said Madeleine. “Half the money upfront and the remainder on completion. I believe t
hat’s the way these things go, isn’t it? I wonder whether we might find similar transactions on your bank account. Ten thousand pounds seems a low figure for the murder of a policeman.”

  “When you get a search warrant, you can check,” said Culverhouse, “I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “What you mean is, you believe you’ve covered your tracks sufficiently well that we won’t find a money trail. We might not need it.”

  “If your financial demons from the Met had found anything in Gardiner’s accounts with my name on it, you would have charged me by now. You’re still fishing.”

  “Our next clue came from Sandra Plunkett’s bank account, as it happens,” said Steve Nobbs, “there were two payments to Royal Mail for Special Delivery. Those payments guaranteed delivery of the cash by one pm the following day. On the twelfth of May, Ricky Gardiner was in Devizes. The money arrived at his hotel, and he signed for it. On Thursday, the seventeenth, Gardiner was in the Midlands stalking DI Ferris. The following day he kidnapped Suzie Ferris and took her to his late mother’s home in Leek Wootton. I expect you can guess what happened mid-morning on Thursday. No comment? Ricky Gardiner signed for a second amount of two thousand five hundred pounds. Royal Mail provided us with copies of the signed documents. Proof positive that Sandra Plunkett knew Ricky Gardiner and paid him five thousand pounds for services rendered.”

  “Unless you go through a medium,” said Culverhouse, “you can’t ask Sandra whether she was repaying a debt or paying Gardiner to do something illegal on her behalf. I’m tired of repeating myself, but I didn’t know Gardiner. I wasn’t speaking with Sandra and Gardiner at any point.”

  “We can keep going if you wish,” said Madeleine Lefevre. “I can’t believe you imagine that you’ll walk away from this unscathed.”

  Dominic Culverhouse shrugged his shoulders.

  “Gardiner travelled back to London by train soon after he completed the first half of the job you and Sandra Plunkett agreed,” said Aysha Prasanna. “However, he needed to make sure the Leek Wootton property was ready for a guest. His late mother, Angie, hadn’t lived there for years and the place was in a poor state of repair. You can attest to that, can’t you?”