by Ted Tayler
“During the interviews we’ve had this week, the same thing crops up. Gary was the one who used this place regularly. Especially after his jail term. My guess is you won’t find a gangland connection. You need to speak with Asif, the manager, and perhaps his uncle, who ran the club at the time Blake Dixon died here.”
DI Francis was making notes of everything Gus suggested. Gus smiled to himself.
“What you’re looking for are the names of young lads who have been members of this club,” said Gus. “I doubt if they still come here. Concentrate on those fourteen to sixteen at the time they joined. Asif told me this club is nowhere near as busy as it was several years ago, so you might only check on thirty or forty young men.”
“How many of those young men do you think were here last night?” asked Gareth.
“I can’t do all the work for you, Gareth,” said Gus, “I’m supposed to be finding Grant Burnside’s killer, not Gary’s. I’ll tell you what, have a chat with Geoff Mercer at the weekend. Get him to lean on the Acting Chief Constable to see whether they’ll release me from my straitjacket. I think I know who killed Gary, but there’s work for forensics and the Police Surgeon to do before I can be sure. Is this the first murder for you as Senior Investigation Officer?”
“Is it that obvious?” asked Gareth.
“We all had to start somewhere. The Police Surgeon will tell you to wait until he’s completed his long list of tasks but ask him to let you see the black ball as soon as possible.”
“I’m not sure I want to,” said Gareth with a shudder.
“After he’s removed it, Gareth.”
“Oh, right. Got it.”
Gus took one last look around the snooker club. Asif saw him and wandered over.
“I’ve locked up for the afternoon,” he said, “we won’t make any money, anyway.”
“Look on the bright side, Asif,” said Gus, “the Burnside gang won’t be using this place any more. Members that Grant and Gary scared off might return as soon as they hear the news.”
“I was looking at the plans while you were in there with those detectives,” said Asif. “If I have the interior walls removed, get rid of the Matchroom altogether, I can fit in two 9-ball American pool tables.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Gus.
“Will you come back to see how it looks?” asked Asif.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Gus. “As if.”
“If you change your mind, you know,” the younger man said.
The wide grin told Gus that Asif forgave him. Perhaps he would call back one day.
Gus drove back towards Devizes, wondering if he should call into London Road to report to the ACC on their progress this week. On balance he decided he should let Gareth Francis argue his case for Gus’s help, rather than forewarn him that he would get a call.
He arrived back at the Old Police Station to find it was a hive of activity. The office furniture had arrived. The CRT car park contained three cars and a large van. There didn’t appear to be any vacant spaces in the remainder of the municipal car park. Gus drove back out and headed for the main street. He wasn’t a great lover of the Crown, but they did a good cup of coffee. He called Neil Davis.
“Neil,” said Gus, “are you and Luke free to talk?”
“It’s a madhouse up here, guv. I don’t think the speakerphone is the answer.”
“Apologise to Lydia. Get yourselves to the Crown. I’ll only be in the way up there. Lydia will cope. We needn’t waste the afternoon. I have news for you.”
Neil and Luke joined him in the bar.
“I ordered coffees for you two,” said Gus. “We’re all driving later.”
“No worries, guv,” said Neil, “what news did you bring us?”
“Someone murdered Gary Burnside last night,” said Gus.
“Blimey,” said Neil. “I thought you were in Broadgreen chatting with Gina. When did you learn about Gary?”
“I found the body in the snooker club,” said Gus, and updated them on the events of the morning.
“I think I’m following your thought processes now, guv,” said Luke. “You reckon that instead of looking for revenge against the men who raped him, Gary switched his anger to young lads who frequented the snooker club. The Matchroom is significant in that respect. Gary flashed his money around in the club, booking the private room night after night. He was the best player in there, so he approached a victim, told him he showed the potential to be a top player and took him into the Matchroom for one-to-one coaching. The settings are different, but in prison, Gary got pinned down with his head forced into the bedding, staring at the barred windows. In the Matchroom, Gary could show his dominance as his victims stared at the bars above them.”
“Burnside was one sick puppy,” said Neil.
“DI Francis will have his work cut out reducing the number of junior club members to identify those Gary abused,” said Luke. “Many of them will be too ashamed to admit it.”
“True,” said Gus, “but Gareth should try his best. Those lads deserve nothing less.”
“Why has nobody ever come forward?” asked Luke.
“That’s easy,” said Neil, “everyone in Swindon knows you don’t go up against a Burnside. One word out of line and you’re for the high jump.”
“Or the pig farm,” said Luke.
“So, Gary attacked these kids and threatened them, and possibly their families, with what would happen if they ever breathed a word.”
“Burnside strutted about in that club as if he owned the place. It’s easy to imagine the previous owner letting Gary know the names and details of any kids he favoured.”
“I know where you live, you mean?” said Neil. “Yeah, that sounds right. What a swine.”
The three men sat quietly, drinking their coffees.
“We’re missing something,” said Neil, “The boss has that look in his eye.”
“It will keep until Monday,” said Gus, “we’re hunting another killer. Tell me about young Simeon and Andy Wilkinson.”
“It’s Simeon Young, guv,” said Neil, “and he’s eighteen and a half. He did work for Henry, but he’s out of the game now. Simeon’s working for that engineer bloke who revolutionised the vacuum cleaner. Simeon told us when he was growing up, his best friend, Frankie, died after getting stabbed. Frankie was thirteen. And Simeon realised what the world was about for people such as him, and he started carrying a knife for protection. One day, in Pinehurst, Simeon got into a scuffle on the streets, and these lads wanted to escalate the situation. He could only remember falling to the ground. One of them stabbed him. Simeon said he couldn’t believe it when his entire life flashed before his eyes. He was lying on the ground, and a girl held his hand. Simeon thought of the things he still wanted to achieve, like becoming a professional footballer. Instead of sticking at that, he’d thought it better to hang out with his mates selling drugs on the streets for Henry Burnside. Now, look where it got him, he thought. An ambulance arrived and took him to the hospital, and the doctors told Simeon he would not die. It hurt like hell, and it was a hard road before he could play football again. Simeon changed his life after he came out of that hospital. He realised the knife he carried didn’t protect him, and it didn’t make him a better person. That’s when he stopped taking a knife when he went out. If you did, he said, you were more likely to get injured or murdered. He was more likely to end up in jail. Simeon understood that now. It took eleven stitches in his side to make him wake up.
“I asked him what happened to the girl who held his hand,” said Luke.
“Simeon told us he never saw her again,” said Neil, “she was the girlfriend of the guy who stabbed him. Funny old world, isn't it, guv?”
“Tugs at the heartstrings, doesn’t it?” said Gus, “Let’s hope someone at Gablecross can utilise that to motivate a few dozen more kids to follow in Simeon’s footsteps. Knife crime is out of control. I wondered whether that lad might prove more useful. Maybe Kerry took a shi
ne to him. Never mind, let’s move on to Cheney Manor Industrial Estate.”
“We found Andy Wilkinson tinkering with an Alfa Romeo guv,” said Luke.
“You can forget taking your Ford Focus to him for a health check,” said Neil. “Our Andy’s moved up in the world in the past four years. Classic motors only.”
Gus was going to claim that his Focus was a classic, but then he remembered the window problem he’d had this morning.
“Moving on,” he muttered, “what did he tell you about the morning Grant Burnside died?”
“Wilkinson remembered it alright, guv,” said Neil, “It’s been the only bit of excitement since he’s worked there. He arrived on the dot of nine that morning and started work on the Saab. Andy told the police he was underneath the car when the Burnside’s arrived. We pressed him on that because he seemed edgy.”
“He admitted that he watched them leaving, guv. He was taking a break and pouring a cuppa from his flask. Grant and his son were in the van. Wilkinson watched them turn onto the road that leads to McHugh’s farm. As he finished his drink, Wilkinson glanced towards the back of the lot. The roller doors were open, and he saw two men inside. He couldn’t identify them from that distance.”
“All he’s doing is confirming what we already knew,” said Gus. “I don’t care if he waved at the Mercedes when it passed his place on the way back. Did he see the gunman?”
“Wilkinson didn’t see a soul near his row of buildings that morning, guv,” said Luke, “he was adamant about that. He said that if he’d seen a bloke dressed in camouflage gear, with a rifle and telescopic sight, he’d remember.”
“Damn it,” said Gus, “another dead end.”
“He saw a minivan with a logo on the side two weeks earlier, guv,” said Neil. “It drove around the site for twenty minutes and then left without stopping.”
“Did he get a registration?” asked Gus.
Neil shook his head. “He clocked the driver, though. A rugged-looking bloke in his thirties with ginger hair.”
“Any idea of the company he represented? What type of logo it was?”
“It’s been four years, guv,” said Luke. “Wilkinson didn’t remember any specifics. However, the red-haired man made a second appearance on the Friday afternoon before the murder.”
“At last, we’re getting somewhere,” said Gus.
“Andy had driven a car out of his unit to park it ready for the client to collect,” said Neil. “He saw someone at the far end of his row of units looking up at the roof. When the bloke spotted Andy looking at him, he disappeared around the end of the building.”
“That’s the end with the steel ladder he used to climb onto the roof,” said Gus, “and where he lay in wait for Grant Burnside on Sunday morning. If only we had CCTV images to look at.”
“That’s not the sticking point for me,” said Luke. “Okay, we triggered a memory of the gunman, but how did the red-haired man know where to be and when? I can’t get my head around that.”
Gus had to agree. That was a project for next week.
CHAPTER 11
Saturday, 23rd June 2018
Suzie had arrived yesterday evening, and they had eaten at home, talked through their working week, and fallen asleep in each other’s arms after making love. When Suzie disappeared to Worton for her morning ride, Gus started on his long list of chores. He pottered in the bungalow’s garden and raked the driveway gravel for the umpteenth time. After an hour, he strolled along the lane to the allotment.
Gus waved to several familiar faces on the far side of the field, but his neighbours, Bert Penman and Clemency Bentham were not around. He had the quiet he needed to mull over the events of the past five days. When Suzie joined him at two o’clock, it surprised her to see how much he’d achieved.
“Did you not stop for lunch?” Suzie asked. Gus shook his head.
“I worked steadily on those things I’d left far too long,” he said. “Because I got lost in this blessed case of ours, I didn’t give time, or food, a thought.”
Suzie offered to prepare lunch and returned to the bungalow. Gus worked on for another thirty minutes and then closed up his shed and walked home.
“You missed a call,” she said, as he kicked off his gardening shoes on the step outside the front door.
“Who from?” he replied, hoping it was good news from Kenneth Truelove.
“Patrick Iverson. I noted his number for you.”
Gus groaned.
“I had better call back.”
Gus stood in the hallway in his socks and dialled.
“Iverson here,”
“You wanted to speak with me,” said Gus.
“A nasty business, Mr Freeman,” said Iverson.
“Are you referring to what the Burnside family is engaged in, or your senior client’s murder?”
“Freeman, I know you don’t like me, nor the family I represent, but I got trapped like many others that fell into the Burnsides’ clutches. Their employees find it difficult to walk away, as you have learned. I got in touch with Kerry later on Thursday to mend fences. Kerry told me of her plans and how much she had shared with you.”
“How does this relate to what I discovered yesterday at the snooker club?”
“Kerry gave you an insight into Gary’s marriage to Kirstin. She mentioned that you might have spoken with Gina.”
“I visited Gina yesterday morning,” said Gus, “I know what happened when Gary was in prison. He wasn’t brave enough to tackle the men who attacked him, so he assaulted many teenage boys at the snooker club. Someone found the nerve to fight back.”
“You understand part of what happened, Mr Freeman,” said Iverson. “Did you ever wonder about the timing of the attack on Gary?”
“Go on,” said Gus, “I’m listening.”
“Grant attacked Manny Franchetti in Winchester prison in 1997. Gary’s spell inside began early the following year. Everyone was watching Grant and Manny for the Reading gangster to take his revenge. Franchetti sent word to his gang members on the outside to call in a few favours. The three men who attacked Gary belonged to three separate gangs based in Bristol, Cardiff, and Birmingham. The authorities never made the connection.”
“That explains why the attacks happened,” said Gus, “but why did Gary respond in the way he did?”
“Gary was a bully and a coward,” said Iverson, “who had urges that he had to hide from his father. There was no way Grant Burnside would ever accept Gary coming out. So, Gary buried his true feelings, married a beautiful woman, had a family, and acted tough whenever needed. Those prison rapes led to violent outbursts that ended in at least twelve men getting killed, including Spencer Curtis, Blake Dixon, and Howard Todd.”
“You don’t have to defend them anymore, do you?” said Gus. “Grant and Gary were killers in tandem. While Hodge and Drewett only battered people and cleared up their employers’ mess. Grant and Gary are both dead. I suppose the remaining family members won’t object to you standing aside. Your life is no longer in danger.”
“I hope you’re right. As you say, Henry, Joseph, and Kerry are not violent people. They will need a talented lawyer when the time comes. Perhaps they will keep my services until that’s over. When it is, it will be time for me to retire. I never knew what sort of man George Burnside was, Mr Freeman. I hope you believe me. Kerry told me on Thursday evening about the way he treated Gina. Until then, I thought that all he was guilty of was hurting Nessie whenever he got drunk. I realised that Grant treated Maggie in the same manner. I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes, and I’m ashamed to admit, I ignored it. Gary’s temper caused a different outcome. The children and Kirstin never suffered, thank goodness. He took his frustration and anger out on defenceless teenage boys.”
“While you’re in the mood to spill the beans, Iverson,” said Gus, “do you have any information on who killed Grant?”
“You know the answer to that. If I had discovered anything, I would have passed that knowledg
e on to Gary. No, neither of us found Grant’s killer. If Gary learned who shot his father, they would have died by now.”
“What about Gary? Who was responsible for that?”
“Well, that might take you a while, Mr Freeman, because even with Gary dead, the Burnside reputation will make victims very wary of coming forward.”
“I’m not investigating his murder,” said Gus, “my consultancy role is purely for cold cases. Despite the lack of progress so far, I’m still hopeful we can find Grant’s killer. We’re not giving up yet.”
“I wish you luck.”
Gus thought Iverson had gone, but after a long pause, he was back.
“Do you have an address for Gina Burnside that I can pass to Kerry, Mr Freeman? Kerry thinks it’s time to offer a helping hand.”
“It might not be too late,” said Gus, “and with the three main tormentors now out of the picture, she might just stand a chance of life.”
Gus told Patrick Iverson the street name and what he could remember of the boarded-up building.
Iverson ended the call.
“Are you ready for your lunch now,” asked Suzie.
“I’d like to shower first if I may. I want to wash the Burnside family out of my system.”
Gus and Suzie travelled to the Waggon & Horses that evening for a meal. There was a band in the Stable Bar, and Suzie dragged Gus onto the small dance floor. It was fun for a while, but the gardening had tired him more than he cared to admit.
“You’ll sleep well tonight,” said Suzie as she drove them home.
“There’s more work to do tomorrow,” he replied.
Sunday proved to be a washout. Heavy showers prevented Gus from gardening and Suzie persuaded him that an afternoon in bed was preferable to wandering in the rain just for the exercise.
“I’m hungry,” said Gus at seven in the evening.
“Well, you worked up an appetite,” said Suzie, “I was most impressed.”
“I know. I heard you. Now, shall I cook, or do you want to go out again?”