Barking Mad

by Ted Tayler

  “I have not had to get this out too often in the recent past,” he said. Gus and Geoff watched as a tray with half a dozen glasses appeared from the bottom drawer. Cut crystal goblets, Gus realised, not mere glasses. The ACC retrieved an unopened bottle of Scotch from the middle drawer.

  “Is that the Isle of Jura?” asked Gus.

  “It’s always been a favourite of mine,” said the ACC.

  “What are we celebrating?” asked Gus, keeping his fingers crossed it was news from Portishead.

  The ACC poured three generous measures and handed goblets to Gus and Geoff.

  “Time to start using first names, I think, don’t you? Geoff knows this first piece of news already and no doubt you’ll be pleased to hear it too, Gus. I’ve waited a long time for the opportunity to sit in this seat with the powers of Chief Constable, even if only until they appoint a successor to Sandra Plunkett. I spoke with the PCC and explained what I planned to do and why. He had no objections. I called Peter Morgan in to see me this morning and told him we no longer required his services.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Gus, “how did he take it?”

  “As you might expect,” said the ACC, “Morgan wanted to know why. I told him it was because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. We suffered five years of confidential matters leaking from London Road to Terry Davis in Marbella via Monty Jennings. Whoever takes over here as Chief Constable deserves staff at every level held to higher standards, I hope that applies to my replacement too, when the time comes.”

  “Did he threaten to appeal to a higher authority?” asked Gus. “Peter always prided himself on having the ear of the Chief Constable, and I can imagine he would stress that you were just temporary.”

  Kenneth smiled again. He was having fun.

  “I planned this for a while, Gus, give me credit. Young Kassie Trotter complained to me more than once that Peter made inappropriate comments, you know?”

  “Her embonpoint?” asked Gus.

  “Her hearts and love bird tattoos?” asked Geoff.

  “Exactly that,” said the ACC, “and Kassie found several other ladies to offer similar complaints. I told Morgan it would be best if he left at the end of the month without making a fuss. If he persisted, I’d bring the other matters to the PCC’s attention. I received his written resignation this afternoon.”

  “Happy days,” said Geoff.

  “I imagine there’s more to come?” asked Gus.

  “More news, and more whisky,” said Kenneth, getting up to replenish their goblets. “The IOPC chief investigator, Madeleine Lefevre, contacted me an hour ago. The preliminary meeting at Portishead went better than we could have hoped. She has told her superiors that Dominic Culverhouse’s case must proceed to a gross misconduct hearing and that criminal charges should follow in due course.”

  “Fantastic news,” said Gus. “All week I’ve been wondering how that weasel might get himself off the hook. Did the Met uncover new evidence? How did they pin something on him at last?”

  “Ms Lefevre has promised to send me a full report of the meeting. I’ll let you both read it in due course. In summary, Culverhouse looked to have got away with the hit-and-run. Sandra Plunkett’s admission of her past error of judgement gave him the chance to sully her reputation further. Culverhouse blamed everything on her and swore blind he was too drunk to drive. Just the type of low trick you expect from the man.”

  “How did the IOPC connect him to Gardiner, Terry Davis’s murder, Suzie’s kidnapping and so forth?” asked Gus.

  “That was teamwork, Gus, just what we want to see. Detectives in Warwickshire and West Mercia Police found evidence that chipped away at Culverhouse’s insistence that he had no case to answer. All the while, the forensic accountants at the Met peeled back layer upon layer of the mask hiding Gardiner’s financial affairs.”

  “Did Culverhouse kill Ricky Gardiner?” asked Gus.

  “He did,” said the ACC, “whacked him over the head with a hammer, carried him upstairs to the flat, doused him with accelerant, and struck a match as he left. Madeleine told me they had a few holes in the timeline to fill in when Culverhouse cried for a lawyer. Since then the Met Police found an Uber driver who carried Culverhouse from Greenwich to Honor Park at just after ten o’clock. The driver confirmed his passenger carried a backpack. The last thing Ms Lefevre learned was that a CCTV camera outside the General Napier pub caught sight of Culverhouse two hours earlier. He wasn’t wearing a hoodie, nor a backpack, but he was keeping watch at the pub where Gardiner spent his last evening.”

  “That report sounds fascinating reading,” said Gus, “As a rule, I don’t concern myself with the follow-up to a case, but this time I’ll make an exception. Are you sure you don’t have any juicy tidbits you can let me have?”

  “Are you offering a quid pro quo?” asked the ACC.

  “I assume you want to hear how we’re doing with the Malone case? I warned you not to expect an easy ride on that one. Although I can offer something in return.”

  “Her Ladyship naively kept the phone she used when speaking with Culverhouse and Gardiner. Sandra also paid for a guaranteed cash delivery with funds from her bank account. Culverhouse made several mistakes when forced to make split-second decisions in the final few days. He paid cash for tools he took with him on the night he killed Gardiner, but the B&Q employee remembered the police uniform. It might surprise you to learn that Culverhouse visited 186 Woodman Lane the day before DI Ferris reached there. He reckoned without Gardiner’s aptitude for self-preservation. Culverhouse put the blood money in a jiffy bag to pay Gardiner for his services. Gardiner left that jiffy bag covered in Culverhouse’s prints in full view for the Warwickshire detectives to find.”

  Gus finished the last mouthful of his amber nectar.

  “The perfect companion to celebrate a long-awaited successful outcome,” he said.

  “Over to you,” said Kenneth Truelove, “what have you got?”

  “A gang of Turkish Cypriots from Stratford smuggled dogs into the country through Portsmouth,” said Gus. “We believe the gang recruited Malone and others at dog shows across the South. Luke Sherman’s identified three gang members so far. All three were at the JET garage on the A4 at midnight on the night of the murder. Malone drove towards Devizes, chased by both the grey 7-Series BMW and a black SUV. The man who shot Malone was a passenger in the SUV.”

  “Excellent,” said Kenneth, “when can I expect an arrest?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Gus, “I still don’t know what’s so profitable about smuggling a few hundred puppies. Even if they’re an exotic breed Beyoncé once owned, it’s a niche market, and organised crime gangs don’t get involved in fads. They want things that deliver a steady income stream.”

  “Anything else?” asked the ACC.

  “Malone’s mother swears her son loved animals. Why get involved in a trade where the death rate for the smuggled dogs is high? It does not compute, Captain.”

  “You’ll sort it, Gus,” said Geoff, “if you want my opinion, the only thing those thugs would deal in were narcotics, not exotics.”

  “We’ll start again with fresh minds on Monday,” said Gus, “Neil Davis returns to work, so we’ll have an extra pair of hands. We’re missing something. I’ll give it thought over the weekend, and then we’ll go again.”

  “I’ll let you know when the IOPC report is available, Gus,” said the ACC. “I promise not to call you here on Monday morning. You need to get another success under your belt as soon as possible. Every feather in my cap when they appoint our next Chief Constable increases my chance of securing that early retirement.”

  “We think you’re doing a cracking job in your temporary position, Sir,” said Geoff Mercer, “Gus and I should start getting a petition together. Either you get the job, or they persuade you to stay on as the new Chief’s right-hand man for two years. Just to let them find their feet. This force needs stability.”

  “I knew it was a colossal mistake gi
ving you a drink, Mercer,” said Kenneth Truelove, “the last thing my wife wants to hear is a postponement of my retirement.”

  “Unlock the door, Geoff,” said Gus, “I’m going home. Phone Christine, I’m sure she’ll collect you if she wants you home at a reasonable hour. Kenneth here is fine for two or three hours. He can decide whether to call a taxi or brew himself a strong pot of coffee. Your wife is at her Pilates class tonight, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, Gus, you’re right. I’ll opt for coffee. See you sometime next week. Have a pleasant weekend.”

  “Thanks,” said Gus, “well, there’s one thing we can guarantee.”

  “What’s that?” asked Geoff.

  “Even if we have a lousy weekend, it will be better than Dominic Culverhouse’s.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Saturday, 9th June 2018

  “Are you getting out of bed today?” asked Suzie.

  “I blame Kenneth Truelove,” said Gus, “and I plead the fifth.”

  “The fifth what?”

  “Tumbler of whisky I drank last night. The ACC kicked things off at five o’clock with his Isle of Jura. I drove home after the second at six o’clock.”

  “You shouldn’t have. All you needed to do was call me. I would have collected you from London Road and got you home.”

  Even with a thick head, Gus didn’t miss that one. Suzie called it home, not back here, or something impersonal. Gus tried to recall where he’d put those spare keys for safe-keeping.

  “If you can drag yourself to the shower, I’ll cook breakfast,” said Suzie.

  Gus watched her walk to the bedroom door.

  “There’s a shirt in the wardrobe,” he said. “The postman often arrives early on a Saturday, and the sausages I bought last week spit more than the other brand. I’m only thinking of your delicate skin.”

  Suzie looked in the wardrobe.

  “Are blue and white the only colour options in your shirts?”

  “I’m a man. How many more do I need? If you look at the extreme left-hand side, you’ll find shirts Tess bought me. I had to wear them once to be polite. You can use those with impunity. I don’t mind if they get spattered with hot fat.”

  “Get in that shower, Freeman,” said Suzie, grabbing a corner of the duvet and whipping it off the bed.

  Gus opened one eye to see Suzie wearing the pink shirt he’d worn for his consultant interview. It looked better on Suzie.

  “I’m going,” said Gus, “remind me again why I let you in when you turned up on my doorstep at nine last night?”

  “If I do, you’ll never get in that shower,” said Suzie. “You must be hungry after that exercise. We both need a hearty breakfast. Once I’ve got you feeling human again, I’m driving back to the farm to go riding. You can prepare us lunch, and we’ll spend the afternoon on the allotment.”

  “I planned to work through the Malone case to see if I can pinpoint what we’ve missed.”

  “I understand that darling,” said Suzie, “but you have to remember, I’ve only been back at work since Wednesday. They wouldn’t let me do more than half-days, and my brain needs extra stimulation. Believe it or not, I’m a detective. I might provide a lightbulb moment.”

  Gus strolled into the en suite bathroom and turned on the shower. Two heads were better than one. If he could get his head to stop thumping, the Freeman Ferris combination might prove a winner.

  After breakfast, Suzie showered and dressed. Gus sat with his second cup of coffee and waited for her to emerge from the bedroom.

  “What time will you be back?” he asked.

  “If I say two o’clock, can you prepare us something to eat at the allotment? The sooner you review this case, the better. We’ll have a working lunch.”

  “I thought you’d sit and watch me work with the file on your lap,” said Gus.

  “You are dense sometimes, Gus,” laughed Suzie, “I grew up on a farm. My father might farm livestock, but my mother grew the fruit and vegetables that we needed. My brother and I were handling a rake and a hoe before we went to school. I know my onions.”

  Gus groaned and followed Suzie to her car.

  “We’ve got a grand day for it,” she said.

  They shared a long kiss before Suzie got behind the wheel of her GTI.

  “Was that for my benefit or the neighbours?” asked Gus.

  “Bugger the neighbours, that was for me. I’ve got three hours before I see you again.”

  Gus stood on the doorstep and watched Suzie perform a speedy three-point turn in his neat driveway. With a defiant bark, the GTI surged towards the entrance and disappeared up the lane towards Worton.

  Gus forgot to wave Suzie on her way. He was assessing the work needed to put all the small stones scattered in her wake back in their rightful place. The exuberance of youth,

  The third cup of coffee did the trick, and Gus felt human enough to cross jobs from his to-do list. He loaded the breakfast things into the dishwasher and wandered through to the lounge. The Greg Allman album was still on the turntable. Suzie brought it with her last night. Gus returned it to its precious sleeve and left it on the stack of favourites he rarely went a week without playing. Gus knew better than to leave it in the hallway so Suzie could take it home again when she left.

  When he drank whisky as he had last night, there were artists he listened to that seemed to fit the music and his mood. Suzie had reckoned John Lee Hooker wasn’t the right background track for two lovers who hadn’t seen one another for a week. So, One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer was the last tune for the late bluesman. They settled on the sofa together, and Gus let her choice of southern rock music flow over him. If he tired of the old-style blues in his later years, then Allman would be a worthy companion.

  Suzie had left London Road soon after five yesterday afternoon, and they’d missed one another on the steps by a few minutes. Gus told her the news about Dominic Culverhouse. It elated Suzie. That entire episode could get forgotten in time.

  As for Peter Morgan getting the elbow, Suzie thought it long overdue.

  “Morgan was a creep,” she said, “with an exceedingly high opinion of himself. He tried it on with me once, but I gave him short shrift. Vera was his favourite, though. He couldn’t believe it when you arrived from nowhere and stole her from under his nose.”

  “Was that the way he saw it?” Gus had asked. “I didn’t realise.”

  Not long after that, they’d stopped talking.

  Gus’s reveries ended, and he remembered that if he were preparing a picnic lunch, he’d need supplies. When did he last go shopping? He couldn’t remember. A swift inventory of the kitchen told him a supermarket trip was well overdue. The driveway would have to keep looking as if a bomb had hit it. Gus grabbed his car keys and headed for the front door.

  Before he left, he darted back into the bedroom and rooted through his jacket pockets without luck. In time Gus found the spare set of keys behind the cafetiere and placed them on the hall table. He didn’t want to appear to be taking too much for granted, so he left them half-hidden behind a vase of dried flowers.

  Gus sat in the old Focus and thought of what he had done. It was no good. He got out, opened the front door and grabbed the dried flowers. Gus threw them in the green recycling bin when he got outside again. He made a mental note to add fresh flowers to the list of things to buy from the supermarket.

  It was noon before he returned to the bungalow. Saturday morning shopping was never sensible; too many others had the same bright idea. With everything stored away in the fridge, the chest freezer or the wine rack, Gus was ready to get lunch.

  The flowers in the hallway were an imaginative touch. They caught your eye when you came through the door.

  Gus began work with renewed energy. Suzie drove through the gateway at a quarter to two. Gus waited in the kitchen with his handiwork. If he’d forgotten anything, Suzie would soon spot it and fine-tune the menu. The allotment could wait fifteen minutes for things to be perfect.

 
“Have you missed me?” she asked, kissing Gus on the cheek.

  “Far too busy,” said Gus, “did you enjoy your ride?”

  “It always cheers me up, and make me hungry,” said Suzie, “this food looks terrific. Are you ready to go? We’ll walk along the lane to the allotment. It’s too nice a day to sit in a stuffy car.”

  Gus couldn’t agree more. He collected his case notes and joined Suzie in the hallway. She had stowed their lunch in a bag for life and was itching to leave.

  Gus glanced towards the vase of flowers. They looked great and gave off a pleasant aroma.

  The spare keys still peeked out from behind the vase. Too soon, perhaps?

  “Where is everyone?” asked Suzie when they reached the allotments. “I thought this place would be a hive of activity today.”

  “Maybe they’ve done the hard graft and decided the weather was too good to miss,” said Gus.

  “Where’s your old friend, Bert? He’s always here.”

  Gus opened the garden shed and brought out the chair for Suzie. An upturned seed tray would suffice for the odd moments when he stopped work.

  “Make yourself as comfortable as you can,” he said, “I’ll bring you up to speed on what’s happened since last weekend.”

  Gus told Suzie about the dreadful accident in Saskatoon. He wanted to see Bert back on the patch of land next door too. But these things follow an uncertain course. Bert Penman might turn up later this afternoon and carry on with his weeding and thinning, or he may never recover from the blow. Gus remembered how hard Tess’s death hit him when he was the best part of twenty-five years younger than Bert.

  “Do you think the Reverend is with him?” asked Suzie.

  “That’s a possibility,” said Gus, “Although, I’ve seen her arrive here later on a Saturday. The church still gets the occasional wedding, and sermons don’t write themselves. Once Clemency’s ready for her busiest day of the week, she often appears out of the blue and potters on her plot for an hour. She finds it therapeutic.”