by Ted Tayler
“I take it that nobody is in any doubt that Grant Burnside was Kerry’s father?” said Neil.
“Exactly, she’s built like a brick outhouse and an ugly one at that. Funny how things even themselves out though, isn’t it? Kerry was behind the door when looks got handed out, but she’s got more brains than the rest of them stacked together. Kerry controls the money side of the operation. Grant must have been proud that another female member of the family became an expert at washing and cleaning. That’s what he thought women were any good for, apart from the usual. Kerry’s money laundering skills are epic.”
“Did someone tear pages out of the telephone directory Grant Burnside owned?” asked Neil. “Because they skipped a letter.”
“Come on, Neil. There’s no ‘I’ in team. Grant was thick, but even he worked out there wasn’t an ‘I’ in gang either.”
Neil groaned.
“Right, that’s the family tree sorted out. Are there any important names on the lower branches?”
“Gary uses two old school friends for muscle,” said Jake. “Denver Drewett and Vic Hodge. They’ve got the same pedigree. Both have been in trouble from the age of nine and haven’t learned that crime doesn’t pay thirty years later. Vic’s inside and Denver’s on his toes. We’ll track him in time with the help of our European colleagues.”
“This file doesn’t look very thick, considering the number of faces you must have needed to interview,” said Neil.
“One thing you need to remember, Neil,” said Jake. “Whether it was DCI Sanders, who was gaffer back then, or DI Hickerton asking the questions whenever they sat opposite a member of the Burnside family, Patrick Iverson was always present.”
“Patrick Iverson, who was he, their brief?” asked Neil.
“He’s pushing seventy now, but Iverson’s been the family solicitor for fifty years. Over that time he developed a set of standard responses for the family to use.”
“No comment?” asked Neil.
“That term gets used often,” agreed Jake. “Iverson has a sense of humour, though, and he was perfectly happy to sit and listen to Grant, Gary, or one of the other brothers use another two-word term.”
“The second word being ‘off’, I imagine?”
“Exactly,” said Jake. “As for victims who suffered at the hands of the Burnsides, or innocent bystanders who might have been potential witnesses, all we got from them was a wall of silence. Nobody dares to speak out against them. A couple have tried, and they disappear, never to be seen again.”
“Have you got names?” asked Neil. “Perhaps Gus will want to interview their relatives. Time changes people’s attitudes. Grant died in 2014. Someone might be ready now to give us details of people who wanted him dead.”
“I can give you two names for people who wanted Grant out of the picture,” said Jake. “Grant made enemies as he clawed his way up from the gutter. He was the top dog here in Swindon and nobody who opposed his meteoric rise survived. However, a gang headed by Grenville Edwards based in St Pauls in Bristol, and another led by Manny Franchetti centred on Trafford Street in Reading, weren’t best pleased when Grant shut them out of Swindon. We’re talking of the days before county lines, and several outfits supplied various enclaves on the bigger housing estates. Grant Burnside put a stop to that. Regarding the brutal methods used by the gang as they took control, we interviewed people in their hospital beds after Grant’s people attacked them. The same phrase cropped up repeatedly. It’s my way or the highway. I told you, Grant wasn’t very imaginative. He might have had a limited vocabulary, but it worked. Grant would never settle for a slice of the pie. He wanted the lot, so he took it.”
Neil noted the names.
“Grant’s been dead four years. Are Edwards and Franchetti still active?”
“Definitely,” said Jake, “they were youngsters back then. Both Grenville and Manny are ten years younger than Gary.”
“You mentioned people that disappeared,” said Neil. “What can you tell me about them?”
“The closest example to the day Grant died was a dealer called Howard Todd. He was a chancer. My bet is he skimmed a percentage off the top, and Burnside found out.”
“How did Grant handle people that crossed him?” asked Neil.
“We’ve never been able to find any of them to ask, Neil,” said Jake Latimer.
CHAPTER 5
When DS Neil Davis was signing in at Reception at Gablecross, Gus Freeman and Lydia Logan Barre were leaving the Old Police Station to head for their interview with Maggie Burnside.
“Do you want me to drive, guv?” asked Lydia.
“Better not take your car,” said Gus, “my old Focus won’t attract any admirers. I’d hate to come out of Maggie’s place to find your lovely Mini on bricks.”
“Is Gorse Hill a dangerous place to visit then, guv?”
“Dangerous is too strong a word, Lydia,” said Gus, “let’s just say several of the poorest areas in the town are within a stone’s throw of where the Burnside family lived. Life expectancy can be ten years lower on the estates we’re visiting compared to places in neighbouring districts. Maggie Burnside is sixty-three, remember that when we meet her.”
Gus drove through Royal Wootton Bassett to Gorse Hill. There was no rush. The forty-five-minute drive gave him time to think, and he parked outside Maggie’s house at five to ten. Five minutes before the appointed time.
“Only one car on the drive, guv,” said Lydia, “do you reckon that’s Maggie’s?”
Gus shook his head. He’d checked to see whether Maggie had a driving licence. It hadn’t come as a shock to learn that she didn’t. The Kia Rio GT that stood on Maggie’s drive wasn’t something Patrick Iverson would favour. Gus reckoned he guessed right. Kirstin Burnside was indoors waiting for them to arrive.
Gus stood on the doorstep and rang the bell. Lydia lagged a few feet behind her boss and watched for the net curtains to twitch at the neighbouring houses. Lydia wasn’t disappointed.
“You had better come in,” said the attractive woman who answered the door.
Kirstin matched the description they had in the murder file. Thirty-nine and beautiful. Any money that husband Gary permitted his wife to spend went on smart clothes, shoes, make-up, and jewellery. Her ash-blonde hair, fake-tanned body, and immaculate nails suggested that Kirstin did everything she could to keep herself looking good for her husband.
Kirstin ushered the pair into the front room of the house. Gus imagined that Maggie spent most of her day in the kitchen-diner he spotted at the end of the hallway. The focus of this small room was the wide-screen TV suspended on the outside wall.
Maggie Burnside sat hunched over in a chair by the window. Lydia understood what Gus meant now. The tiny, wizened figure with a cigarette dangling from her lips looked at least ten years older than Gus. The ashtray on the arm of the chair was overflowing—the room stank of cigarette smoke.
“Mrs Burnside,” said Gus, “we’re from Wiltshire Police. My name is Freeman, and I’m a consultant working with a Crime Review Team at Devizes. My colleague here is Ms Logan Barre. We’re taking another look into the death of your husband, Grant. Four years have passed, and I’m sure the family still finds it hard. However, we will do everything we can to discover who shot your husband and bring them before the courts.”
“Why now?” asked Maggie Burnside. Her voice sounded weak and husky. She stubbed out the cigarette and lit another. Lydia noticed that Maggie’s eyes never moved from her while Gus was speaking.
“We always do our utmost to find the killer in any murder case,” said Gus, “but sometimes resources need to switch elsewhere before we are successful. That’s where my team comes in. We can review the details of a case that’s gone cold, and jog a few memories, prick a conscience here and there. We don’t have another case to consider until we’ve exhausted every avenue or solved this one. Do you know what throws up more new clues than anything else?”
“How would I know?” shrugged Maggie.
�
��Asking questions that didn’t get asked at the time. Sometimes, I ask relatives of the deceased, like yourself, if there was something the detectives didn’t ask that you were eager to tell them. But they didn’t seem interested, so you kept quiet.”
“Maggie was at home that morning,” said Kirstin, “there’s no point trying to trick her into remembering something that didn’t happen. She was asleep when Grant got out of bed. I spoke to her when I called her late morning. The next time I saw her was to tell her Grant was dead. Maggie never left the house.”
“You called to tell her to get ready? That’s the correct term, I believe,” said Gus, “Grant had decided to go out for lunch. Was that something you did often?”
Maggie shook her head and took a long drag on her cigarette.
“Once in a blue moon.”
“Were you looking forward to it?” asked Lydia.
“Oh, you speak English then,” said Maggie. “I wondered what use you were to the police unless you were interviewing foreigners.”
“Well, Mrs Burnside,” said Gus, “that’s an unpleasant attitude you have there, I’m surprised you haven’t become accustomed to different faces and languages in Swindon, having lived here all your life. At the last count, there were around forty different nationalities in the town. Time to accept it as normal, I should think.”
“Whatever. I might accept it. It doesn’t mean I have to like it,” said Maggie. “I didn’t mind going out to eat that day. It saved me cooking,”
“Where did you and Grant first meet?” asked Gus, changing tack.
“Just up the road in the park,” replied Maggie. “A gang of us estate kids played together from when I was old enough to be outside on my own.”
“How old were you when you went out with him?”
“Fourteen,” said Maggie.
“Grant was twenty, is that right?” asked Lydia.
“Easy to work it out, wasn’t it?” said Maggie, “Gary’s forty-eight. I got pregnant at fifteen, never finished school, and we married when I was sixteen. I was expecting Henry when we went to the registry office. Grant never had any photos done.”
“Would you say it was a happy marriage?” asked Lydia. “Considering the times when you had to cope with raising the children alone when Grant was in prison.”
“You don’t have a clue, do you?” sneered Maggie Burnside, “whether he was in prison or at home, it made no difference.”
“It’s alright, Maggie,” said Kirstin, stroking her mother-in-law’s arm, “don’t let them get to you.”
“Grant was a violent man,” said Gus, “isn’t that true, Mrs Burnside?”
“Grant kept me in my place. I knew better than to speak out of turn. He took after George, his father. People did as he said, or they felt the weight of his hand.”
“That must have made you wish things were different,” said Lydia. “Did you ever think how much better your life might be if Grant was no longer in it?”
“Walk out on him with the kids, do you mean?”
“Not necessarily,” said Lydia.
“I never had him killed,” screamed Maggie, getting up out of her chair.
“Don’t, Maggie. She’s not worth it,” said Kirstin, grabbing Maggie’s arm and sitting her back in the chair.
Kirstin turned on Gus Freeman.
“You can’t come here accusing people like that. You said you were going to solve Grant’s murder. Gary’s tried, don’t think he hasn’t. He’s tried to find out who did it every day for the past four years and got nowhere.”
“So, despite Gary’s best efforts, he couldn’t discover who had Grant killed. Who did the detectives think was responsible in 2014 when they investigated his case for the first time?”
“People living in Reading and Bristol, men jealous of how Grant’s business was growing,” said Kirstin.
Gus smiled.
“Look, we’re adults here, Kirstin. Everyone in this room knows that Grant was a convicted criminal. He made a living from thieving and drug-dealing. His father, George, was a thief and a thug. Your husband, Gary, has been in trouble with the law since he was in his early teens. There had to be a list as long as your arm of people who wanted Grant dead. The police traced as many as they could in 2014, but nothing connected any of them to the shooting. Gary has taken the law into his own hands and examined several other possibilities in the past four years. Yet he still hasn’t been able to put a name to his father’s killer.”
“We needed to press you on the possibility of it being an inside job, Maggie,” said Lydia. “I didn’t want to upset you, but we had to be sure you didn’t play a part in it.”
“I laid awake nights, wondering,” said Maggie, lighting another cigarette. “Kirstin will tell you. These past four years have been the longest I’ve gone since I was fourteen without being covered in cuts and bruises.”
Gus looked at Kirstin.
“Like father, like son?”
“We have our arguments, what couple doesn’t? Gary’s great with me and the kids. Whatever he gets up to when he’s working, he doesn’t bring it home.”
“Let’s go over that Sunday morning one last time, Maggie,” said Gus, “why was Grant up so early?”
“He never said, he just moaned that he had to clear up a mess Gary should have sorted.”
“I wonder what mess that was,” said Gus.
“I knew better than to ask,” said Maggie.
“Kirstin told us earlier that she called you late that morning to say your husbands wanted to take you to Sunday lunch. What were you doing that morning?”
“I hoovered downstairs and got the ironing up together. I opened windows to let in fresh air. Anything that would give Grant a fit if he’d been here.”
“What were you up to, Kirstin?” asked Gus.
“Looking after the kids, bathing them, and playing in the garden.”
“You didn’t leave the house at any time, to drive to the shops, perhaps?”
“No, Maggie and I did the shopping together on Saturday afternoon.”
“What were you going to do with the children?” asked Lydia. “If the tragic news hadn’t come through from Gary, would Grant have wanted your young children in the pub while you had lunch?”
“Not likely,” said Kirstin, “I popped next door to my neighbour, Dawn, and she agreed to look after them for two hours. She still had them while I came here to comfort Maggie.”
“Did Gary give any sign how long he was going to be before he left home, Kirstin? What time was that?”
“A little after six. Gary never said why they were meeting. It was work. I knew better than to stick my nose in.”
“You said ‘they’ were meeting,” said Gus, “that would be Denver and Vic wouldn’t it?”
Kirstin nodded. She knew she’d made a schoolgirl error.
Gus was on a roll.
“So, Gary was meeting Denver and Vic, two enforcers who worked for the family business. Maggie reckons Grant’s unusually early start was to sort out a mess that Gary should have been able to handle. It sounds dodgy, doesn’t it?”
Gus glanced at both Kirstin and Maggie.
Blank faces stared back.
“No comment?” said Gus.
“Honest to God, we don’t know what they were up to, Mr Freeman,” said Kirstin, “and we didn’t want to know.”
“That’s it for now, Mrs Burnside,” said Gus, “I don’t think we’ll bother you again with questions. Rest assured, we’ll get in touch if we discover who was responsible for Grant’s murder.”
Maggie Burnside didn’t move from her chair. Gus and Lydia headed into the hallway with Kirstin.
“Thank you both for meeting with us today,” said Gus. “We may have further questions for you, Kirstin. It rather depends on what we learn from our interview with your husband. No doubt you’ll be in touch with him. Perhaps you’ll jog his memory, and he can tell us what was behind that Sunday morning trip. Whether it relates to what happened later out at Cheney
Manor is anyone’s guess for now. Good morning.”
Kirstin closed the door behind them without a word.
“It’s a pity that I couldn’t stay there for an hour, guv,” said Lydia, “and encourage Kirstin to brew the three of us a coffee, You could have sprung that question on Gary then. Now she’ll warn him, and Iverson will have time to prepare a response.”
“Who says I’m going to ask Gary what bit of business they had?” said Gus, “that question might be better aimed at Vic Hodge. He’s in jail. Will Iverson be present, guiding his answers? Vic Hodge isn’t the sharpest knife in the box. He might slip up, or he might be prepared to give evidence as a quid pro quo. No, on the whole, I’m happy with the outcome. Let’s get back to the Old Police Station and get ourselves a brew. That will give me time to think about how to uncover more hidden gems from Gary Burnside this afternoon.”
“Thanks for having my back in there, guv,” said Lydia. “I knew I was in for trouble when Maggie gave me the stare while you went through your spiel in the first minute we were indoors.”
“No problem, Lydia. What did you make of the place, anyway? If you could see across the room thanks to Maggie’s chain-smoking.”
“I know, I need a shower and a change of clothes,” said Lydia. “Maggie’s got a nice house, hasn’t she? Crime does pay, after all. Family pictures everywhere and expensive ornaments. Her creature comforts surround her like a security blanket.”
While Gus and Lydia drove back through Royal Wootton Bassett, Neil Davis was thinking of lunch. He’d had a busy morning. After Jake had filled in the background of the Grant Burnside case, he’d wanted to pursue two further leads.
“How do I get in touch with this DCI Sanders?” he’d asked.
“Jack lives out at Haydon Wick, Neil, to the north of the town. It’s pleasant enough up there, thousands of new houses, but a tad soulless. A perfect spot for a retiree. I’ll look out his address and phone number.”
“Thanks, I reckon we’ll get a better reception from Sanders than if we asked Theo Hickerton to speak with us.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Jake. “The Colonel is happy to talk to anyone, Neil. Jack’s a widower, lives alone, and enjoys gardening.”