FF 07 Creature Discomforts

by Ted Tayler

  “Sanders sounds like a bloke Gus Freeman enjoys paying a visit,” said Neil.

  “Anything more I can do to help you, Neil?” Jake had asked.

  “Are you sure you can spare the time? Because I remember how useful it was when you took us on a drive around the town to give us a feel for the place last time.”

  “You wouldn’t mind a tour of the murder site, plus the estates where the Burnside family carries out their dirty business. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Is that possible?”

  Jake had looked at his watch, grinned, and grabbed a set of keys for a pool car.

  “The Burnside family lived in Gorse Hill,” said Jake as they drove through the busy streets. “Grant didn’t move far from the house where George and Nessie raised him and the others. Gary’s in a higher-class neighbourhood, as you would expect. Henry, Joseph, and Kerry are his near neighbours. We won’t do a drive-by because this car’s a familiar sight on the streets. Burnside’s people know most of our unmarked cars these days, and the word gets sent up the chain to warn them when we’re on the prowl. On our left is the snooker club where Blake Dixon died back in 2013. That club has been the base for the Burnside gang for three decades.”

  “Who was Dixon?” asked Neil.

  “Blake had been a regular on the nightclub scene ever since he arrived in town. I think he originated from Sheffield, but don’t quote me. Blake had a string of customers across Old Town, and he became the primary source for party drugs in the eighteen months leading up to the night he died. The Burnside gang had made their move. Grant was squeezing out the opposition, one by one. Either they rolled over and started working for him, or they got punished. My way or the highway. Blake Dixon wouldn’t roll over, so they brought him back here late at night. You would get no one to admit it, but there was one table still in use—a group of four lads playing snooker in the far corner from the bar. Nobody knows what happened, but the Burnside heavies must have interrogated Dixon, kicked him in the ribs and hit him in the head, based on the autopsy report. Then someone put the sawn-off against his chest and blasted him.”

  “What, those lads didn’t come forward?” asked Neil.

  “From what I heard, Grant sent the barman over with four bottles of Budweiser and said sorry for the noise, and the drinks were on the house. If anyone breathed a word, they would regret it.”

  “So, Blake Dixon disappeared the same as Howard Todd, I presume?” said Neil.

  “His body never turned up,” said Jake. “Heaven knows where they hide them.”

  “Do the Burnside family socialise together much?” asked Neil.

  “Less now than back in the days when Grant, Glyn and the older brothers were still around,” said Jake. “They used that snooker club most from the late-Eighties through to 2010. Grant saw it as a quiet spot to mete out punishment for people who couldn’t pay their drug debts. Gary and his brothers came to play snooker, drink, and then go out to a nightclub. The attraction of snooker wore off, and in later years they only called in when they had a problem to sort, such as Dixon. I don’t know whether either of the younger brothers has been here since Grant’s murder. Gary was the one who pushed the others into coming. He played pool in prison and won several snooker tournaments after he came out.”

  “Where do they carry out their punishment beatings now then?” asked Neil.

  “Search me,” said Jake, “I wondered whether that warehouse unit in Cheney Manor might have been favourite. It was remote enough that nobody heard their screams if the Burnside crew visited late at night.”

  “Or early on a Sunday morning,” said Neil.

  “No idea, mate, we never had time to look inside while they rented the place.”

  “Drugs are a menace whichever way you look at it, aren’t they,” said Neil.

  “The picture keeps changing,” said Jake, “and it never gets prettier. Cocaine has got dirt cheap, and it’s so strong compared to what it used to be that people are having a cheap night out on it and drinking less. When Grant Burnside first got involved, it was an expensive commodity, and it attracted middle-class professionals and blokes in suits. The stuff is everywhere now, across every demographic, young to middle-aged.”

  “As long as Britain has drugs on its streets then knife crime and street violence will continue to grow,” said Neil. “Since the scourge of county lines gripped the country, it’s fair to say that children are now in the front line in the war on drugs.”

  “I can’t argue with that, Neil,” said Jake, “kids between fifteen and seventeen are the biggest group involved in knife crime. They’re targeted by blokes like Henry Burnside to carry out violent attacks.”

  “Would you agree that the drugs trade contributes to the mental health epidemic affecting young people in the UK?”

  “Stands to reason, Neil,” said Jake. “I know cocaine can cause paranoia, depression, and suicidal thoughts, but think of the problems those kids face from the intimidation and violence they witness every day. It wasn’t like that when we were kids, thank goodness.”

  Jake turned the unmarked police car into the Cheney Manor Industrial Estate and headed towards the back of the lot. The unit looked nondescript. There was no signage to show who traded from the building.

  “Are you sure the Burnsides’ moved out?” asked Neil.

  “Definitely,” said Neil, “there’s a firm of wholesalers renting this place now. They supply the Indian restaurants across Wiltshire and Oxfordshire. Their vans will be out making deliveries now.”

  “It looks peaceful out here today,” said Neil.

  “Well, that was where Grant Burnside died,” said Jake, pointing straight ahead. “The sniper was on the rooftop opposite. Directly above the unit where that reclamation firm is trading. A metal ladder’s attached to the wall in the far corner on the left-hand side of the building.”

  “Not an easy climb,” said Neil.

  “You wouldn’t catch me doing it, even with a harness,” said Jake.

  “If he reached there unseen, he could have arrived overnight,” said Neil.

  “He deserves a medal if he made that ascent in the bloody dark,”

  “Forensics found nothing up there?”

  “He was a professional. He didn’t leave a thing. I read the report rather than climb up to check for myself.”

  “How did he get onto the site with no one seeing his vehicle? CCTV was active in some parts of the site, wasn’t it?”

  “He never appeared on CCTV, either in a vehicle or on foot. My guess is he came across the rough ground by the old pit. There’s an angling club over there, but apart from that, it’s never used much. A professional hitman would get in and out without attracting attention. He didn’t wander in the front gate for everyone to see, that’s for sure.”

  “You still believe it was a contract killer?”

  “I remember that was the initial thought,” said Jake. “But we could never link the hit back to anyone on our radar. Nor could we find a connection to the many suspects for ordering the hit. But if it was random, would it have been so clean?”

  “It’s a puzzle, isn’t it? Far more likely, a random hit would have been two shots from a handgun outside his house. Don’t you ever wonder what it was all about?”

  Jake turned the car around and headed for the exit.

  “I need not tell you how many cases I’ve worked on since, Neil,” said Jake. “If possible, when I finish working on a case, I file everything away for good. I don’t lie awake at night thinking of burglaries that we never solved, or a rapist we caught but who never reached court, or who killed Cock Robin. That way is madness.”

  “I’ll mention it to Gus Freeman when I see him,” said Neil, “you might have got something there. Who wants to make such a clean hit apart from a contract killer?”

  “I’d better get back to Gablecross,” said Jake, “the lads will be getting back from the aftermath of the early morning raids. You can drive back to base and put in your report. I
hope you’ve got a better idea of how the land was lying back in 2014. We’ve moved on since then. Cocaine use has doubled, and violence is rife. The only thing that’s stayed the same is that the Burnside family are right at the heart of it.”

  “How do they keep out of prison?”

  “Iverson helps with that,” said Jake, “plus the wall of silence they’ve established. Over the decades, they’ve manufactured an image of respectability with this so-called import-export business. We try to catch them at it, but they’re one step ahead all the time. Take the county lines thing. We have people at the railway station watching for kids arriving from London. They know how many people are tied up there, plus the sniffer dog, and throw us the odd crumb. They sacrifice a pawn while the king gets protected at all costs. Meanwhile, they get the drugs onto the streets via another route. We can’t be everywhere at once.”

  The two Detective Sergeants spent the rest of the ten-minute drive to Gablecross Police Station in quiet reflection. Jake parked the pool car and got out.

  “I’ll get going, Jake,” said Neil, “my car is just there in the visitor’s car park. Thanks for the background, and the drive around the patch. It was great to catch up. Best of luck with Lina. I hope it continues to go well.”

  “Don’t leave it so long next time, mate. I hope Melody gets better soon too, Neil. I’ve no idea whether we’ll ever be thinking of starting a family, but I pray nothing so horrible happens if we do—anyway, good luck with the case. You’ve got your work cut out. Say hello to Gus Freeman for me, will you?”

  With that, Jake disappeared inside the Gablecross labyrinth, and Neil crossed the car park to his car. If the traffic was light, he could get back to the office inside the hour. He checked his watch. Gus and Luke would be interviewing Gary Burnside now. Neil hoped he could get away early tonight. He needed to sort out his personal life.

  “What was your thinking behind choosing this place for the interview, guv?” asked Luke.

  “I wanted a place that felt like neutral territory for both parties,” said Gus, “but was official enough to make Gary Burnside uncomfortable.”

  Gus and Luke sat outside Marlborough Police Station. Gus had called DI Trefor Davies to ask if an interview room could be available for an hour this afternoon. Trefor owed them a favour and was happy to oblige.

  “Don’t leave it in a mess,” he said.

  “We’ll be on our best behaviour,” Gus promised.

  Once inside the building they soon found Trefor, and he showed them into the room.

  “I’ll leave you to get yourselves set up,” he said. “Your guests should arrive in five minutes. I’ll get one of my civilian staff to bring them through. It might help lull this Burnside character into a false sense of security.”

  “With Patrick Iverson on hand, there’s only a tiny chance of that, Trefor,” said Gus, “but I live in hope.”

  Five minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and a middle-aged back-office clerk showed Iverson and Burnside into the room.

  The solicitor was tall and thin, wearing a dark suit, pale blue shirt, and a tie. It belonged to a solicitor’s society whose members Gus had met in the past.

  Gary Burnside hadn’t bothered to dress for the occasion. This meeting with the police only warranted a short-sleeved polo shirt and designer jeans. Gus corrected himself. Gary had gone to the trouble of adding bling. Three gold chains around his neck, plus the large gold watch on his right wrist.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Gus, “please be seated. Thanks for coming this afternoon. This room was halfway between the two of us and seemed to set the right mood. My name is Freeman, a consultant with Wiltshire Police. DS Sherman works for me with a Crime Review Team. It’s over four years now since your father’s murder, Gary, and we believe it’s time to take another crack at finding his killer. Kirstin tells me you’ve had no joy using whatever sources you made available.”

  “Whatever methods Mr Burnside used, they were perfectly legal,” said Patrick Iverson, “I hope you’re not insinuating otherwise?”

  “It surprised us to find you here this afternoon, Mr Iverson,” said Gus. “After all, this is an informal chat, in which we wanted to assure your client we were coming to this cold case review with an open mind. There’s no use going over the same ground my colleagues covered back in 2014. This is a fresh start. I’m surprised you’re trying to suggest that your client is squeaky clean. I have his criminal record here in front of me. It makes for interesting reading. At this stage, I’m not concerned with the tools and techniques Gary and his staff utilised while trying to discover who killed his father. That’s not my concern. My job is to review the circumstances of the day of the murder, and by the end of this get-together, I wish to achieve three objectives.”

  “My client will co-operate in any way he can, Mr Freeman,” said Iverson, “but, if at any time I feel the questioning strays from your narrow brief, then I will advise my client not to answer.”

  “Because he might incriminate himself, do you mean?” asked Luke.

  “Certainly not,” said Iverson, “on the grounds it might not be in his interest to answer.”

  “What three things do you want to know?” asked Gary Burnside.

  “Your wife, Kirstin, told us this morning that you left home a few minutes after six on the day of the murder. What time did you arrive at Cheney Manor Industrial Estate?”

  “Around twenty past eleven, give or take two minutes,”

  “Denver Drewett and Vic Hodge were with you when you visited your warehouse. Your father drove the four of you to the site. You were inside the building, opening the roller doors when you heard the single gunshot.”

  “We didn’t know it was a gunshot. We thought it was a car backfiring.”

  “Sorry, Gary, that wasn’t a question. I’m merely piecing together the sequence of events after reading the murder file prepared by the detectives at Gablecross. There’s no dispute that the sound was a gunshot. The crime scene photos confirm that your father died from a single shot from a sniper lying on the rooftop of an adjacent unit. I’m more interested in the time.”

  “It’s simple enough, isn’t it?” said Gary, “Dad drove into the Industrial Estate, parked outside our unit, and I unlocked the side door. Denver and Vic followed me inside, and I started to open the roller doors.”

  “When we spoke to your mother, Maggie, this morning, she confirmed that Grant left home after seven o’clock. She didn’t know where he went, or who he was going to meet. When Kirstin called at around a quarter past eleven, it was to tell Maggie about a hastily arranged family lunch. Maggie never expected Grant to arrive home at any particular time. She just knew she needed to be ready to jump, to do whatever her master required.”

  “Is this leading anywhere,” asked Patrick Iverson, “I thought you wanted answers to three questions?”

  “Forgive me if I appear to ramble, Mr Iverson. I retired four years ago now, and sometimes events in a case as complicated as this only make sense when I step through them one at a time. I hope to hear an explanation of the confusing parts from those who were there, people like Gary. The words on the page in the murder file don’t always give the full picture. Do you have anything to offer, Gary? To help me understand what life was like growing up with Grant Burnside, knowing what he did for a living, and how people feared him?”

  “I listened to him reminiscing with his older brothers about things their father George used to do,” said Gary. “When you’re a Burnside, you know what it means to be poor and to have to fight your way to the top. Nobody gives you a chance. You have to take it.”

  “So, the lesson you learned at your father’s knee,” said Luke, “was that the only way to make it in this world was to steal from others. Did he explain the downside to the career path he set you on?”

  Gus watched Patrick Iverson stiffen in his chair. He was wary of the way this was going, but Gary Burnside looked more relaxed than he had been five minutes earlier.

/>   Gus thought his tactics might have borne fruit. Gary couldn’t resist telling them how good things were when you were a member of the Burnside family. Softly, softly, as another policeman used to say.

  CHAPTER 6

  Gus sat back and let the story unfold.

  “It’s a ladder you have to climb,” said Gary Burnside, “according to my Dad. He started with shoplifting, then moved up a rung to small retail outlets. Places that they used to call shops when there were High Streets in every town. He reckoned it was five to ten years before he was proficient enough at his work to attempt a building society or a bank.”

  “The further you climb, the more likely you’ll get caught. When you slip up, you can expect to do serious time,” said Gus.

  “Dad always told us that if we got nicked, we should resign ourselves to it straight off and quit messing. He reckoned it wasn’t difficult to survive inside when you’re a hard man. The other prisoners leave you to get on with it, and you can learn a bunch of new tricks while you’re inside. Tricks of the trade that stand you in good stead when you get out. So he suggested that we spent hours in the gym, preparing for any jobs we might do when we got out.”

  “You must understand that this is hypothetical, Mr Freeman,” said Iverson, “not an admission of guilt. My client merely recalls things his late father suggested they did to stay safe if they ever found themselves in prison.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I meant,” said Gary, “we run a legitimate import and export business these days.”

  “I recall you got nicked first when you were twenty-seven,” said Luke. “I imagine you did your time standing on your head. What new tricks did you learn while inside?”

  “I studied computers,” said Gary, somehow keeping a straight face.

  “What age are you now, Gary, forty-eight?” asked Luke. “when did you move up the ladder and get involved in drugs?”

  “I’ve served my time,” said Gary Burnside, “you can’t connect me to any of that caper these days. Things have changed since Dad’s generation. Youngsters today don’t bother with that ladder anymore. Why tackle a security van when you can make more money dealing drugs? When I was in my thirties, firms on this side of the English Channel were the big noises in the European black market. Drugs were what mattered most. Nobody bothered sweating the small stuff. They sold pills and weed at school and then moved onto the hard drugs in their teens. Nothing else matched the return on investment of time and money. It still doesn’t, so I’ve heard. I’m best out of it.”