by Ted Tayler
The case was a nightmare. It was worse than tackling a jigsaw with a missing piece. Gus didn’t even know how many they needed.
Luke Sherman was first out of the lift at five minutes to nine. He stopped at the board before going to his desk.
“It’s sparse, isn’t it, guv?” he said, “what about the weapon?”
“We know the make and model,” said Gus, “but although I don’t have names for several people on that board, I don’t see anyone that might have owned it.”
“I was thinking of what Lydia suggested,” said Luke, “spreading the net wider. She traced the names of gang members who might have attacked Mark Allison. As she pointed out, one of those men could have inherited the weapon used to kill Mark Malone. What if they were in the black SUV?”
“I’ll take Lydia with me this morning,” said Gus, “when she gets here. That list of names ought to be in her section of the Freeman Files. Check with her before we leave. While we’re in Bath, you can build backgrounds for those gang members. We need to discover where they’ve been since Mark Allison died, and what they’ve been doing. Contact Damian Hartley-Cole and ask him for the exact date of the party near Salisbury where the SUV first surfaced. Damian will try to avoid giving any details of the precise location, but it’s the date that’s important. We can fill in a few of the blanks ourselves. Then, make sure the same criminals, if you’ve got any names left, might have been in Newbury the night Mark Malone died. I do not doubt that the list will get smaller with every step you follow. If a name Lydia identified could be present on every occasion, then we need to get them picked up and interviewed.”
Lydia arrived just as the clock clicked around to nine o’clock.
“The traffic’s terrible, guv,” she said, “are we using my Mini again today?”
Gus smiled.
“I can always rely on you, Lydia,” he said, “no, we’ll take my car today. Have a chat with Luke while I grab my things, then we’ll battle through the traffic to Bath. I can’t wait to meet this Patrick Boddington character.”
Luke Sherman realised Lydia was non-plussed. She was wondering what Gus meant by being able to rely on her. Lydia wouldn’t let him down and not turn up for work without a phone call. Luke had appreciated what their boss meant.
Patrick Boddington dressed in a style one could describe as theatrical and ostentatious. In the company that he kept Patrick never get outshone. There was only space in his world for one peacock.
When Lydia arrived at the art gallery in an hour, poor Patrick would face a challenge like never before.
Lydia’s coppery red hair seemed to have gained additional corkscrews overnight. Her top was pure Jackson Pollock, and the short black leather skirt only emphasised what a magnificent pair of legs she had. Luke couldn’t imagine how she walked anywhere in those four-inch high heels.
Neil Davis had mentioned that Gus told Lydia to tone things down when they interviewed the public. On this occasion, Gus realised that Lydia had pitched the message correctly. Gus wanted Boddington on the back foot from the second they walked through the door. Lydia wouldn’t make Boddington take a step back. The poor chap would be reeling.
“Can you give me the names of the gang members you identified, please, Lydia,” Luke asked. “The ones which might have killed Mark Allison.”
“Is Gus, OK?” asked Lydia, opening the relevant file. “Here you are.”
“Gus’s fine,” said Luke, “thanks, enjoy your morning in Bath.”
Lydia trotted to the lift where Gus stood waiting.
“Ready?” Gus asked.
“What time did Luke tell Mr Boddington to be ready for us, guv?”
“Ten o’clock, why?
“If you’re driving, we’d better get moving.”
Friday, 8th June 2018 - Portishead
Dominic Culverhouse drove into the Avon and Somerset Police HQ in Valley Road, Portishead. He parked in his usual spot and walked towards the main building. Once inside, he asked at Reception for the room where the preliminary meeting would take place. Dominic had arrived with time to spare. He understood what awaited him.
A panel with an Independent Legally Qualified Chair would conduct any future hearing. The other panel members would be an officer of at least the rank of Superintendent and an independent lay person selected from an approved list held by the office of the Police and Crime Commissioner. The panel heard the facts of the case. Witnesses assisted if required, and the panel decided whether the accused had committed gross misconduct.
Dominic hoped today’s meeting prevented any of that from happening. He prepared as well for this as he had for any promotion board. As the subject of allegations, he could choose to be accompanied or represented in the proceedings by a police friend.
The wily Assistant Chief Constable knew it was essential to pick his friend with care. When you set your sights on the top of the mountain, it’s inevitable you clamber over others less able and committed as yourself. Culverhouse had no regrets making dozens of enemies as he rose through the ranks.
His fellow travellers from the Masons were staunch supporters, and he knew things about several of them they wished to protect. None of them would ever go as far as him to preserve their status, but in his hour of need, Dominic believed he had selected just the right person to sit beside him in this preliminary meeting.
As he paced the floor outside the meeting room with the clock ticking closer to the appointed start time, Culverhouse felt the first seeds of doubt. Was Guy Templeman going to fail him? Had the implied threat of disclosure of the West Mercia Chief Constable’s extra-marital affair been a mistake? Was Guy prepared to walk away from his thirty-year marriage to live with the thirty-six-year-old headteacher from his son’s academy?
Culverhouse needn’t have worried.
“Sorry to cut it fine, Dominic,” said Guy, as he scurried along the corridor to greet him. The handshake was firm and familiar. All doubts soon got dispelled. The two senior officers strode towards the door of the meeting room.
The IOPC Operations Team Leader brought the meeting to order on the dot of ten o’clock. Two Lead Investigators, Aysha Prasanna and Steve Nobbs, made up the IOPC team.
Madeleine Lefevre asked if the officer concerned received written notification of the details of the investigation. Dominic Culverhouse nodded his agreement. She then asked if they explained his rights to him. The right to seek advice from his staff association. The right to have a police friend to accompany and represent him. The right to legal representation. Madeleine stressed that this meeting determined whether there was a case to answer. If so, Dominic Culverhouse would hear within five days and be required to return to Valley Road for a full hearing.
Dominic Culverhouse said he understood and waived his rights for legal representation and advice from his staff association. He introduced his police friend, the Chief Constable for West Mercia, Guy Templeman.
The IOPC Team Leader set out the procedure the meeting was to follow, and Guy Templeman confirmed that the process was in line with regulations. The meeting was ready to begin.
“This investigation centres around the events of the twenty-second and twenty-third of September 2012,” began Madeleine Lefevre. “Jason Whitworth, a twenty-two-year-old hotel worker from Basingstoke, was cycling home in driving rain on the B3400 Andover Road. A vehicle that failed to stop struck him and a passing motorist found Jason’s bicycle and body in a ditch by the side of the road the following morning. Can you tell us where you were on the dates in question?”
“I was attending the tenth annual class reunion for course attendees from Bramshill Police College,” replied Culverhouse. “We stayed in Oakley or Basingstoke and met for a celebratory meal at Oakley Hall. There were sixteen senior officers in total.”
“How did you arrive at Oakley Hall?”
“I drove from my home near Hereford on Saturday afternoon and booked into the Red Lion hotel for one night.”
“Do you recall the car you drove?”
“A Porsche Boxster. Look, I had no idea what this hit-and-run had to do with me when I got contacted. I’m beginning to see how the misunderstanding occurred.”
“How did you get to Oakley Hall on Saturday evening?”
“I drove, of course, and Sandra Plunkett hitched a lift because she was staying at the same hotel. It made sense, as we’d met on the course back in 2002. It was a long time ago, but Sandra travelled by train in 2012. On previous reunions, she’d driven from wherever she was working. Look, I appreciate you want to stick to your procedure, but there’s a simple, if unfortunate, answer to this mess. Sandra offered to drive back to Basingstoke so that I could have a drink. I’m sure you’ve checked with other people who attended. Guy Templeman was there and has provided a statement before this meeting. Sandra had two or three drinks. Whether she was fit to drive when we left Oakley Hall, I was in no fit state to tell you. I accept my conduct was less than it should have been. As police officers, we’re supposed to act with honesty and integrity at all times, both on and off duty. Sandra must have helped me to the car and strapped me in. I passed out. I remember nothing of the journey back to the Red Lion. When I awoke on Sunday morning, I realised that I wasn’t able to drive to Hereford until after lunch. I stayed in my room for as long as possible and then mooched around the hotel drinking black coffee. Sandra left for the train station before I was well enough to get out of bed. I didn’t get the chance to thank her for looking after me. How would I know anything untoward had happened? I still didn’t think along the lines of a hit-and-run even when I ventured into the car park. The front nearside wing of my Boxster was damaged. I cursed Sandra at that point, thinking she’d hit the industrial-sized waste bin when she parked. I couldn’t believe she hadn’t waited to tell me. The car was only two years old. Perhaps Sandra had more to drink than I thought. I called her on Monday morning, but she said she hadn’t noticed, and there was no cause for her to look at my car the next morning. She was intent on packing her bags and not missing the Birmingham train.”
“Were you surprised to learn your Porsche Boxster was still on the road?”
“Why?” asked Culverhouse. “The damage wasn’t severe. I drove the car to Hereford later in the day. I just felt I had to get rid of it.”
“Why?” asked Madeleine Lefevre.
“I loved that car,” said Culverhouse, “but it would always bear the scars of that incident in the car park. Well, that’s how I viewed it. I did not understand what caused the damage until I received notification of this investigation. With hindsight, I can see what must have happened. Sandra Plunkett hit the cyclist while driving an unfamiliar car in driving rain. You can’t ask now whether she knew she had hit him, or whether she was unfit to drive. Sandra parked my car by the waste bins to hide, or disguise the damage and walked upstairs to bed, How I got to my room I don’t recall. I was fully clothed when I awoke. I’ve been in contact with the other fourteen officers over the past six years, and there was never a suspicion that a dreadful accident occurred while we celebrated our tenth reunion. How Sandra lived with herself, I’ve no idea. Well, now the truth was coming out, she couldn’t live with herself. She took her own life and that of her partner, an innocent in this. You think you know someone…”
“We have found no one to support your story that Sandra Plunkett drove the car that night, nor that she was drunk. How do you explain that?”
“May I say something?” asked Guy Templeman.
“We have your statement, Chief Constable, do you wish to add something to that?”
“It’s time to come clean, just like Dominic,” he said, “a good number of us were very drunk that night. I stayed the night at Oakley Hall, and the same as Dominic, I’m not sure how I reached my room. I’m not surprised anybody confirmed who drove the Porsche on the return journey. Only a handful of people were in the car park outside the Hall. As for determining whether poor Sandra was fit to drive, there was only one sober man among us. At the time he was a Chief Superintendent in the Surrey force based in Guildford. Maurice Kennedy died of pancreatic cancer in 2016. Even if he was still alive, there’s no guarantee he hadn’t driven off with his three passengers before Sandra got Dominic to the car. None of those who spent the night at Oakley was aware of what happened after the reunion party ended.”
Madeleine Lefevre sat back in her chair. She glanced left and right. Where did they go next? Her two lead investigators, Aysha Prasanna and Steve Nobbs sat stony-faced. Madeleine wasn’t getting much help from their direction.
When the IOPC first received the files outlining offences committed by the officers concerned, things looked promising. Wiltshire Police had done an excellent job. Who could have foreseen that so many people involved in the case would be dead before proceedings got underway?
Maurice Kennedy, the only sober man among the revellers, according to Guy Templeman, died two years ago. Sandra Plunkett, accused of the crime in 2012, committed suicide days ago. It was very convenient for the man seated opposite. Madeleine studied the smug bastard. She had never met Dominic Culverhouse, but as soon as he walked into the room this morning, she took an instant dislike to him.
Culverhouse considered the meeting was beneath him, and he wanted everyone on her side of the table to know it. If only there were more than a slap on the wrist for conduct unbecoming to throw at the man.
By their admission, Culverhouse and Templeman were at Oakley, a place where members of the public and staff watched while more than a dozen officers got so drunk they could barely stand. Madeleine imagined her superiors wanting to sweep the affair under the carpet. Why bother with a minor misdemeanour from six years earlier? The big prize was off the table. The IOPC didn’t want to leave themselves open to criticism that they only pursued soft targets.
“Can we wrap up this charade now?” asked Culverhouse. “I think you have wasted enough of our time. I’ve explained what must have happened. It’s the only logical explanation.”
Madeleine played her last card.
“When did you first meet Ricky Gardiner?”
“I’m not sure I’ve heard the name,” replied Culverhouse, “who is he; what does he do?”
“He worked for the Metropolitan Police for thirty years, much of that time he spent undercover, mixing with the worst kind of criminal. He was successful at what he did, but his handlers lost touch with him so often they could never decide whether he was working for them, or against them. When he left the Met, he offered his services as a fixer. Someone who got the job done, no questions asked, for a fee. Gardiner worked on both sides of the law, something it’s suspected he had done for many years.”
“He sounds a fascinating character,” said Culverhouse, “but not in tune with modern policing. How is he relevant to this conversation?”
“Ricky Gardiner died in a fire in London earlier this week,” said Madeleine. “Can you tell me where you were on Tuesday between the hours of six and midnight?”
“I finished work at six. After that, I visited a restaurant, ate a meal, had a drink in two pubs on the way back to my hotel, and then spent the rest of the evening reading. I was in bed by around ten-thirty.”
“Where was this?” asked Aysha Prasanna.
“Greenwich,” said Culverhouse.
“You’ve chosen to work during your suspension rather than take gardening leave, is that correct?” asked Aysha.
“That’s correct,”
“Can you give us the names of the places you visited during the evening, and the name of the hotel where you stayed?” asked Steve Nobbs.
“I could take you there, but I’m not familiar with the district. I can tell you the name of the hotel before I leave.”
“How did you pay for your meal and drinks?” asked Steve.
“Cash. Look, where is this going? Are you on another fishing expedition? I said I hadn’t met this Gardiner fellow. Do you have any proof we ever met? How does he connect to the Oakley business? Sandra Plunkett might have known him. Unless
you have something concrete to put before me, I’ll be on my way. Your superiors will hear from me. This pantomime has gone on long enough.”
Madeleine Lefevre sensed a pinch of panic in Dominic Culverhouse’s latest outburst.
If only they had more concrete evidence.
“I can’t understand why you’re in such a rush to leave,” she said. “Your suspension will stay in place until the IOPC is satisfied with your answers. You haven’t convinced me you were blameless in matters that occurred at Oakley. However, a series of unfortunate events may have provided you with an unshakeable alibi, for now. Within hours of receiving notice of your suspension, you contacted a close friend and transferred to Greenwich. I hate coincidences, and Ricky Gardiner died the day after you moved there. That worries me. I found it significant you chose to work in the neighbouring borough to where Gardiner slept on the night of Tuesday the fifth of June.”
“I’d never heard of Gardiner before you mentioned him,” said Culverhouse, “how could I know where he might live?”
“As a senior police officer, you have access to many methods of gaining information. That wasn’t where he lived. It was merely a flat at which he arranged the option to stay. Gardiner was a complicated character. Some might say devious. It would take someone with a similar skill set to find him.”
“I’ve explained that I played no part in the hit-and-run scandal,” said Culverhouse. “Now you’re making wild assumptions just because I stayed in London at the same time as someone I’d never met. Do you see how ludicrous that sounds? Guy, you can appreciate now why I said former colleagues with Wiltshire Police are hellbent on revenge. The truth they can’t accept is that I progressed, and they didn’t. It’s so petty; it’s laughable.”
“When you’re ready,” said Madeleine, “we’ll continue. We asked Greenwich to supply CCTV images from Tuesday evening, tracking your movements from the time you left Royal Hill, Greenwich until you arrived at Novotel on Greenwich High Road. Do you wish to reconsider what you’ve told us?”
