by Ted Tayler
“It was my birthday yesterday, but Alex and I were too busy to bake a cake,” Lydia replied.
“Oh, you never mentioned that on Friday night,” said Neil. “Happy Birthday.”
“Ditto,” said Luke, “let me see. You were twenty-five, am I right?”
“Yeah, another milepost on the road to thirty,” Lydia said with a grimace.
“You make thirty sound as if it’s the start of old age,” said Gus.
“Being in your sixties hasn’t harmed your chances, guv,” said Neil.
“Steady on, DS Davis, there’s a time and place you know.”
“Sorry, guv,” said Neil.
Gus’s phone rang. The bell saved him.
“Freeman speaking. How may I help?”
It was Kenneth Truelove, with the usual Monday morning request for his attendance at a meeting.
“I’ll be with you in forty-five minutes, Sir,” Gus said.
Lydia could hear the ACC continuing to chunter on as Gus replaced the phone.
“He was still speaking, guv,”
“He thought I should be able to drive to London Road in thirty minutes. That man does not understand how bad the roads are in this county. He needs to stop staring out of his window and get out more.”
“What do we need to do for you, guv?” asked Luke.
“Make ready for a fresh case,” said Gus. “Most of the groundwork’s complete. We transferred the Freeman Files for the Malone case last Friday, so we should be set to dive straight in to whatever he’s chosen for us.”
Gus kept his Bourbon treat for later. Kassie Trotter might have a sticky bun to offer him at London Road. Gus carried the black coffee to the lift and waved a silent cheerio to his team.
Every traffic light was in his favour on the return trip to Devizes. Even the red light at the roadworks on the other side of Seend obliged by turning green once he got within ten yards of the ‘Wait Here’ sign. Admittedly, it couldn’t last.
As the Ford Focus puffed its way up Caen Hill, Gus remembered that he’d seen the industrial-sized waste bins out in force as he drove through the town centre earlier. After a busy weekend’s trading, they would overflow with waste and need emptying.
When your luck’s in, the bin lorry is on the other side of the road. As soon as Gus crossed over the canal, the stop and start dance began. Traffic leaving town was nose-to-tail, even at a few minutes to ten o’clock, and the workers struggled to position the big waste bins to discharge their contents.
After you’ve sat behind a large waste lorry watching the process once, you understand it. Gus watched and listened as hundreds of empty bottles cascaded into the giant maw at the rear of the truck. Then he followed the vehicle another thirty yards for the process to begin again. This time it was mostly cardboard and other packaging materials in the bin. There was less noise, but the process was the same. Gus wondered why householders bothered to sort it.
After the third public house, and the second fast-food takeaway, Gus sat with his head on the steering wheel in despair. The traffic lights changed up ahead at the brewery, and Gus studied the lorry’s indicators. Please don’t turn left. Please don’t. Yes, you beauty! The truck trundled over the mini-roundabout into the Market Square, and he could make progress towards London Road at last.
CHAPTER 3
Not for the first time. Gus found the last vacant parking space in front of the main Headquarters building on London Road. Making his way past Reception was never an issue these days. He met smiling faces rather than puzzled looks when he signed in at the desk.
Gus took the stairs two at a time. It seemed only fair to convince the ACC that he cared about arriving at the appointed hour. He knew overflowing waste bins wouldn’t be a valid excuse any more than leaves on the line could explain the late arrival of the six-forty-five to Paddington.
“Late on parade again, Mr Freeman?” asked Kassie Trotter.
“I’m close enough,” said Gus, “is he waiting for me?”
“Geoff Mercer hasn’t finished his video conference yet,” said Vera Butler, “so you’re okay for a while.”
“Good morning, Vera,” said Gus, “did you have a good weekend?”
Kassie scowled at him.
The young girl hadn’t entirely forgiven Gus for re-defining the couple’s relationship. Kassie had high hopes of buying a hat to wear at their wedding. Gus and Vera had enjoyed being together and had become more than friends. But sometimes fate takes a hand. As far as Gus was concerned, the pair were happier as good friends.
“My weekend was hectic,” said Vera, “but I understand you were busy too? My spies tell me you were in the Waggon & Horses on Friday night.”
“Does that mean your spies weren’t in the Fox & Hounds yesterday lunchtime?” asked Gus, “they’re slipping. I was there too. Yes, the team wanted a night out on Friday to celebrate the successful conclusion of another case.”
“We heard that Amelia went along,” whispered Kassie, “she’s a minx, isn’t she?”
“So I’ve been told,” said Gus. “Were you out on the town at the weekend, Kassie?”
Kassie looked forlorn. Her lovebird tattoos looked ready to drop off the perch. Gus wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Another Netflix box-set marathon, Mr Freeman,” sighed Kassie.
The ACC’s door opened. Kenneth Truelove beckoned Gus inside. As soon as he crossed the threshold, an out-of-breath Geoff Mercer hurried along the corridor from his office.
“Ah, Mercer, you decided to join us,” said the Acting Chief Constable.
“Administration will be the death of me,” said Geoff, “it seems our replacement Police Surgeon is taking time to obtain his release from South Wales Police.”
Kenneth Truelove wasn’t interested in the mundane vagaries of administration.
“Time to get the Crime Review Team started on another puzzle,” he said, handing Gus the murder file.
“As you will see when you read this, Freeman, Grant Burnside was a much-feared criminal who twice walked free on murder charges. Someone gunned him down outside a warehouse unit that his family rented on the Cheney Manor Industrial Estate in Swindon. His eldest son, Gary, was inside the building with two employees. They had just arrived after driving from the Gorse Hill part of town. The killing took place on the morning of Sunday, the twenty-fifth of May back in 2014.”
“No rest for the wicked,” said Gus, “they can’t even take Sunday off.”
“No doubt they were up to no good,” said the Acting Chief Constable, “but there was a dead body to deal with first, and that took priority.”
“So, whoever ran this investigation didn’t check whether what they were doing inside related to what happened outside.”
Geoff Mercer couldn’t resist a slight smile.
“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” said the ACC. “Look, you need to read the file before you pass judgement on the way Gablecross handled the investigation.”
“What was behind the killing?” asked Gus.
“Detectives believed it was a gangland execution. Burnside, sixty-five when he died, had built his criminal enterprise on drug deals and robbery. He died from a single shot to the head fired by a lone gunman. Gablecross officers heard rumours via confidential informants that Burnside was the target of a ten thousand pounds contract. That amount would have attracted several hitmen who operate in the county. Still, despite many hours of enquiries, they were unable to discover who ordered the shooting, let alone who carried it out. They identified two potential suspects for issuing the contract, Grenville Edwards, and Manny Franchetti. Those two men headed gangs in Bristol and Reading, respectively.”
“One of those two wanted Swindon on their portfolio,” said Gus. “So, initial thoughts were that it was the opening shot in a drugs war. No pun intended.”
“Both gang leaders had solid alibis for the time in question,” said Kenneth Truelove, “but that doesn’t mean one of them didn’t sanction the hit. Detectives found
no evidence suggesting a known contract killer received payment from either suspect.”
“Not that you would expect to find a trail of breadcrumbs leading to the killer’s door,” said Geoff Mercer.
“Police and paramedics arrived at the Industrial Estate at eleven thirty-eight,” continued the ACC. “Burnside was in the driver’s seat of the gang’s Mercedes van. Four other men stood beside the van, waiting for the authorities to arrive. The paramedics had a wasted trip. The bullet that drilled through the front window of the van had obliterated half of Burnside’s skull. Death was instantaneous. Officers found vomit on the floor by the passenger door. Gary Burnside confirmed that he threw up as soon as he opened the door to jump up into the cab. Gary told officers they had arrived only minutes earlier, and he was opening the roller door to allow his men to carry out work inside when he heard a bang.”
“Did they ask what work was so urgent it needed tackling on a Sunday morning?” asked Gus.
“They didn’t get the chance,” said the ACC.
That made Gus sit up.
“What do you mean?”
“I told you four men were waiting for the emergency crews to arrive. Gary Burnside, two of the family’s employees and Patrick Iverson, the family solicitor.”
“How did he get there so fast?” asked Gus.
“Iverson said that he received a call seconds after Burnside rang 999 and just happened to be motoring on the A419 towards Cricklade.”
“That raises interesting possibilities,” said Gus, “we might enjoy taking a closer look at this case.”
“Iverson’s a tricky customer,” said Geoff Mercer. “He would have warned officers that they shouldn’t press his clients to answer questions due to the traumatic experience they’d suffered.”
“When did you read this report, Mercer?” asked the ACC.
“I didn’t, sir,” replied Geoff.
“Well, that’s almost word-for-word what was in the senior officer’s notebook concerning the conversation. Whether there was something untoward to discover we’ll never know. A significant time elapsed before anyone from Gablecross revisited the Industrial Estate. They had found no cause to search the premises, and when they returned, they discovered that young Burnside no longer rented the unit. He told the site owner that the area at the front of the building would always bear the image of his dead father’s brains splattered over the back of the van’s cab.”
“What were they carrying in the van?” asked Gus. “If the Burnside gang majored in drugs and robbery, surely the van had to contain something incriminating?”
“Iverson allowed police to open the back of the van,” said the ACC, “but it was empty. The senior officer noted that there was a slight whiff of cleaning products. However, Iverson argued that a business that kept its vehicles clean, taxed and insured shouldn’t automatically attract suspicion.”
“If they weren’t delivering, then perhaps they were collecting,” said Gus. “Was there no CCTV on these premises back in 2014?”
“You’ll need to check the murder file,” said the ACC, “I can’t recall the precise details.”
“From what Geoff says about this guy Patrick Iverson, I can guess they didn’t make much headway on Sunday morning. Did forensics find anything useful when they got there to do their bit?”
“Not a thing,” said Kenneth Truelove, “it’s in the file. Detectives also carried out door-to-door enquiries in the vicinity of the Industrial Estate, but nobody heard or saw a thing. Of the occupied units on the Estate, only a car repairer was open near the entrance. Andy Wilkinson was working overtime that day and told detectives he was on his back under a Saab for most of the morning, with his radio tuned to Heart FM. A bomb could have gone off at the back of the site where the Burnside’s unit was, and he wouldn’t have heard it.”
“That isn’t very helpful, is it?” moaned Gus.
“What do you expect,” laughed Geoff, “if it were easy, Gablecross would have solved it four years ago.”
“What time did Wilkinson arrive? Did he see or hear the Burnside’s truck turn up? When did the solicitor arrive? Why did young Burnside think they might need his help? There are questions we need to find answers to, and so far I’m not hearing that those beggars from Gablecross ever pursued those lines of enquiry. What led to the rumours of the contract killing anyhow? Was there a turf war in existence, or had Burnside’s family done something more to offend them?”
“Each of the gang leaders held a grudge against Grant Burnside,” said the ACC. “A member of Grenville Edwards’s family in St Pauls, in Bristol, got beaten up and hospitalised by two of Gary Burnside’s colleagues. Denver Drewett and Vic Hodge were allegedly the attackers, and those names appeared again in the report of the events on the Industrial Estate when Grant died.”
“Surprise, surprise,” said Gus. “If those two were enforcers for Burnside, that should have raised the alarm. Instead, the detectives swallowed the claim that they’d just arrived to carry out unspecified tasks. You couldn’t make it up.”
“Edwards had a solid alibi for the Sunday morning,” said the ACC.
Gus was unimpressed.
“Apart from family members recuperating from a severe injury, how many other people does Edwards have on his books? Perhaps one of them drove up from St Pauls and shot Burnside. They should have checked a darn sight more alibis.”
“There might be a ‘why’, Freeman,” said the ACC, “but it was the ‘why then’ that stumped the investigation team. How long would a lone sniper lie in wait on the roof of a building on the off-chance Grant Burnside appeared? Whoever drove to Cheney Manor that Sunday morning knew Grant would be there.”
“Why did the team waste time thinking it was a contract killing then?” asked Gus, shaking his head. “Just to square the circle, what did this Franchetti character have against Burnside?”
“Oh, that feud went way back,” said Kenneth Truelove. “Grant slashed Franchetti in the showers while they were both in Winchester jail in the late-Nineties. Nobody saw a thing, of course, but the crudely fashioned blade opened Manny’s cheek from under his left ear to his top lip.”
“So, Franchetti waited for over fifteen years and then paid someone to shoot Burnside from a distance. Mmm, that does not make sense. It’s too clean. With such a personal injury, Manny would want Burnside to know it was him that was responsible for his death. He’d either use a blade on him face-to-face or stand and watch as one of his crew hacked him to bits with a machete. No, we need to dig deeper. There has to be another explanation. The killer knew where Grant Burnside was going that morning. Who knew? That’s the first thing I want my Crime Review Team to find out.”
“Good luck finding many people prepared to speak out,” said Geoff Mercer. “The Burnside family are still the dominant force in Swindon. Gary assumed control after his father’s death. There’s an atmosphere of fear and intimidation in every quarter of the town, and the housing estates are rife with drug dealing and violence. In the past four years, the picture has changed for the worse. Drugs, knives, and guns are everywhere.”
“So far, all I’m hearing is how solid this family unit is,” said Gus. “Criminals don’t publicise their activities for obvious reasons, which limits the number of people who knew Grant Burnside’s movements. Was everything as tight-knit as it seemed? Why didn’t anyone suspect that it might have been an inside job? A power struggle between father and son? What of the other siblings? You mentioned that Grant was sixty-five when he died, Sir. Did he have any brothers or sisters anxious to see a change of face at the helm of the enterprise?”
“Grant was the youngest of five children,” replied the ACC. “George Burnside started the ball rolling as far as the clan’s violent reputation was concerned. Crime was simpler back in his day. He tried to make a living by thieving, and if someone wouldn’t hand over the goods, he wasn’t shy about taking them by force. George used his fists in local pubs too, and on Nessie, his wife, at home. He brought his sons up
to follow in his footsteps. I don’t think drugs ever interested him. George was a racist and blamed the immigrants for bringing ‘that muck’ over with them.”
“He didn’t dissuade his sons from making their living from dealing the stuff,” said Gus.
“No, but the older members of the family never followed that route,” said the ACC. “It was Grant that thought it was easy money. Anyway, two of Grant’s older brothers were dead by 2014, and the other one, Glyn, seventy at that time, suffers from dementia. After he left prison ten years earlier, Glyn was never the same, and he faded into the background. Glyn’s still around, but he’s in a home, and barely able to recognise his sister-in-law, Maggie when she visits by all accounts.”
“I might take a closer look at Maggie,” said Gus. “If Grant was handy with his fists like his father, then Maggie could have had a motive to have her husband killed.”
“Stranger things have happened,” said Geoff Mercer, “although I doubt that Maggie Burnside had access to ten grand without Grant or Gary knowing about it. Blokes like Grant Burnside keep their wives in a short leash.”
“Are you sure you’re allowed to say that?” asked Gus.
Geoff Mercer looked uncomfortable but realised Gus had his tongue firmly in his cheek.
“I understood what you meant, Geoff, and I agree. I check every throwaway comment for phrases that might trip me up with the PC brigade—times change. My late father referred to my mother as ‘the ball and chain’, and nobody batted an eyelid. Dad would never have raised a hand to her. He worshipped the ground Mum walked on. I’ll get Luke Sherman to check whether Maggie Burnside had a bank or building society account in her name. Or whether everything went through a joint bank account with Gus needing to sanction every transaction.”
“The other surviving child born to George and Nessie is Gina Burnside, who was born three years after Grant. Gina left home at sixteen and has spent most of her life as a prostitute. Gina was a regular in the Manchester Road and Broadgreen locality. After she left home, she never associated with the family again.”
