by Ted Tayler
He walked through to the lounge to select the right music to accompany his musings. He toyed with a Pink Floyd album, but cast it aside after catching sight of Joyce Pemberton Smythe’s framed letter.
Was there something with a French influence in his collection? Cajun Renaissance with the Lost Bayou Ramblers might fit the bill. He turned up the volume, poured a glass of Malbec and let his mind wander.
Sometimes, things work out the way you plan. Other times you go through each stage, checking every likely response that a suspect or witness might give. Then, something happens that throws everything up in the air.
Gus reached Swindon at ten o’clock. He started the search for Gina Burnside. By twelve, he felt like a kid on the beach who spent hours constructing the perfect sandcastle when somebody runs past, sending sand flying high into the air.
It started with a phone call.
“Jake Latimer,” asked Gus, “Gus Freeman, here. Can you tell me where to find Gina Burnside at this time of day?”
“Gina is rarely on the streets in the mornings, guv,” said Jake, “the light’s too harsh. At sixty-three, Gina relies on her punters not being able to see so well under the dim street lights on dark corners. I can tell you where she might have gone for a pick-me-up, though. That’s a euphemism for a fix. Gina started using years ago, and she’s not a pretty sight. What are you after, anyway?”
“Knowledge, Jake,” said Gus, “where’s this address?”
Jake told Gus the best place to start on his search for Gina. Gus headed into Broadgreen and sought out Gladstone Street. He drove up and down twice before he spotted her. There was no mistaking that she was Grant’s sister. He pulled up ahead of Gina and wound down the passenger-side window. He prayed it would wind up again once she’d left.
“Gina,” he called as she passed him. Gina stopped and turned back. Her straggly blonde hair should have been white by now, but needs must when the needle drives. Her emaciated features told their own story. Gina leaned in the open window.
“Yes, dear, are you looking for something special?”
“Why don’t you get in the car?” said Gus. “We don’t want the neighbours calling the police, do we?”
Gina opened the passenger door and slid into the seat beside him. Gus thought Jake was right. She was wearing a skirt that was way too short for a woman of her age. With the warm, summer sun encouraging Gus to wear a short-sleeved shirt today, Gina persisted in tugging at the sleeves of her long-sleeved cardigan. She wanted to hide her painfully thin arms and the tracks that marked her out as an addict.
“It’s a fiver for the hand and a tenner for a blow,” said Gina, “just drive around the corner, I know a quiet spot, dear.”
“I only want to talk, Gina,” said Gus,
“Talk?” said Gina, “that’ll be twenty quid then. I don’t want to hear about your crap life. I’ve got enough troubles of my own.”
“Look, Gina, I’ll gladly give you twenty quid, provided you promise to spend it on food, and not drink or drugs. My name’s Freeman, by the way, a consultant with Wiltshire Police.”
Gina moved her hand towards the door. Gus moved off from the kerb and drove around Broadgreen.
“Don’t try anything stupid, Gina. I want to ask you about Gary, your nephew.”
“He’s a wrong ‘un,” said Gina. “I told Maggie, but she wouldn’t go against my brother. Grant hit her often enough as it was, without her telling Grant his kid was a sadist.”
“Kerry told me yesterday that you first noticed something when you babysat for Maggie.”
“You spoke to Kerry?” asked Gina.
“We’re speaking to everyone in the family. That’s why I came to see you.”
“You won’t get any sense out of our Glyn. He’s lost his marbles, poor beggar,”
“We needn’t bother Glyn, don’t worry. Gary has a violent temper though, hasn’t he, Gina, and confined spaces can trigger it.”
“At the start they did, yeah, but the other trouble started when he went to prison.”
“What do you mean by the other trouble, Gina?” asked Gus.
“Grant warned his sons to stay tough, show the others you were a hard man if they went inside. If you showed any sign of weakness, they’d be on you, he said. The cells were big enough for Gary to control his fears, but the bars on the windows played on his mind. Several of the real hard men started picking on him. You can guess the rest.”
“Gary suffered abuse,” said Gus.
“Two of them pinned him down while the other inmate raped him. They took it in turns. Gary told his Dad he stared at those bars through every second of his ordeal and swore it would never happen again. It didn’t, but it changed something inside his head. He was never the same after that.”
“He hasn’t spent any time in prison since that stretch, has he?” asked Gus.
“If you can’t swim, you keep away from water,” said Gina. “Yet, Gary keeps going to that snooker club. He can’t resist it. As I said, he changed after what happened. He’s paid those inmates back ten times over.”
Gus wasn’t sure what Gina was telling him. Was Gary an abuser? Yesterday Kerry gave a hint that George Burnside had had a dark side.
“Why did you leave home at sixteen, Gina?” he asked.
“I don’t want to talk about that. Where’s my twenty quid? I want you to stop the car now.”
“Your father abused you, didn’t he? How old were you when that started? Twelve? Thirteen? That’s why Grant was so upset when Kerry was born. He feared that his father would rape her too, in time. Kerry was ten when George died, and Maggie told Kerry that it was as if a weight had lifted off Grant’s shoulders, but never explained why.”
“What could I do?” sobbed Gina. “Nobody would believe me. I walked away as soon as I reached sixteen. He ruined me. I left school with no qualifications, and I felt worthless. All I could do was accept I’d never amount to anything and sell the only thing I had that men wanted. After two years in that game, I realised that I could never make a decent life with a man. Any good years I had are behind me now, I barely scrape a living, and most of the money I do make goes in my arm.”
“There are people who can help you, Gina,” said Gus.
It was only a few weeks ago that he and his team had visited this area of Swindon looking into Laura Mallinder’s murder. Theo Hickerton and Jake Latimer had made a point of stressing the excellent work carried out by the local Outreach Project. The area’s reputation had improved back in 2011 when Laura died, but sex workers had returned in larger numbers once more.
“I’ve seen the van,” said Gina, “the younger girls tell me to go, but what’s the point?”
“The project offers practical and emotional support to women involved in street-based sex working, Gina,” said Gus. “Wiltshire Police supplies a simple, unmarked van, and members of my team have seen it in action. The van parks in the same spot every week on Manchester Road and stocked with food donated by a local bakery. It’s not just free food and a hot drink. There are clothes that people have donated and a friendly chat on offer. All of you are vulnerable. We’ve seen the number of attacks on sex workers escalate in the past two years. You’re not alone, Gina. Few of you choose the life that you lead, and you need help to get off the drugs you just bought. Why not think about it?”
Gus handed Gina two twenty-pound notes.
“Remember what I said. Use it wisely.”
“Bless you, dear. I’ve tried to quit,” sobbed Gina, “I have, honest. But getting high, even if it’s only for an hour or two helps get me through another day doing what I have to do. Stop the car, Mr Freeman. Here’s the squat where I’m staying for now. I know you mean well, but I’m beyond help.”
Gus let her go. What more could he do? He watched Gina knock on the door of the boarded-up house, and someone let her inside. At least she had a roof over her head. He drove away from Broadgreen and headed to where Neil told him he would find the snooker club.
The
building looked deserted. Gus didn’t have a clue what time a club such as this opened. He parked outside and tried the door. It was locked. A faded notice in a glass-fronted wooden cabinet on the wall to the left of the door informed him that the club opened from noon until midnight.
According to another notice, there were six snooker tables and six 8-Ball pool tables available. Dress must be smart casual, and strict conditions applied regarding behaviour on the tables and in the social areas. Gus couldn’t see that anyone had a problem with that. Yet Kerry called the club a hellhole, and Gina didn’t have a kind word. So what was the truth?
He checked his watch—only a few minutes to twelve. Gus returned to his car and tried to close the passenger-side window. He should have known it wouldn’t play ball. As another vehicle arrived behind him and parked, he persuaded the window to close. His day was getting better. The club manager had his keys in his hand and was opening the doors.
“Good morning,” said Gus, “I’m not desperate to play on one of your tables, but I am keen to see inside.”
“If you’re looking to buy the place, make me an offer,” said the younger man. “My name’s Asif. These clubs aren’t as popular as they were. I’ve no idea why. Since Hearn took over World Snooker, there’s been lashings of money in the game. Every sixteen-year-old boy and girl in the UK with a talent for potting a ball should stand outside this door with a cue waiting for me to open up. Five hours of practice and coaching every day and the world’s your oyster. Who needs to slog your guts out at Honda or stack shelves in Tesco? There are tournaments every week of the year. Why not travel the world and play a game that’s never affected by the weather?”
Gus hadn’t realised there was that much money available.
“I’m not looking to buy, I’m afraid, Asif,” said Gus, “My name is Freeman, a consultant with Wiltshire Police. A person of interest comes here regularly, Gary Burnside? Do you expect to see him today?”
Asif stopped in the foyer.
“I wouldn’t feel able to say this to anyone else, Mr Freeman, but if you work with the police, then I’ll risk it. If I could stop that man coming here, I would. His money keeps this club afloat, but he’s a menace.”
“Have you been manager here long?” asked Gus.
“Two years,” said Asif, “my uncle ran the club before me. He was here when that guy got shot.”
“Blake Dixon? Yes, I know about that. Grant and Gary Burnside were here that night. Somehow they literally got away with murder.”
“Gary was here last night when I left,” said Asif. “He booked the Matchroom again.”
“Didn’t you have to see him off the premises at midnight?”
“Have you met Gary Burnside, Mr Freeman? You don’t tell him to leave. I’ve left him in there frequently. Gary slams the door behind him on the way out. It’s a standard Yale lock. There’s not much in here worth stealing once we bring the shutters to ground level around the social area. There are days when I hope that the youngsters around here burn the place to the ground. It might be the only way to get out without losing a fortune.”
Asif led Gus through to the bar area, and he started unlocking the steel shutters.
“If you go straight through the door ahead of you there, you’ll see the Matchroom on your left. We cover the other snooker and pool tables over until the punters arrive. I doubt anyone will drift in here until late-afternoon. Most people when they finish work on a Friday want to head for a noisy bar, not a club for a quiet game of snooker or pool.”
Gus opened the door into the games room. The smell hit him straight away.
“Phone for the police, Asif,” he called. “You’ve had a break-in through the fire-door on the far side, and I don’t like the smell of what’s behind the Matchroom door.”
“What the heck has that animal Burnside done now?” said Asif, getting his mobile phone out of his pocket. Two uniformed officers arrived within ten minutes.
“What’s going on, Asif?” said one of the young officers.
“Mr Freeman and I came inside at noon. We chatted in here and then he wanted to check out the Matchroom.”
“Who are you, then?” asked the other young policeman.
Gus showed him his identification.
“My Crime Review Team is taking a fresh look at Grant Burnside’s murder in 2014,” said Gus, “you were still at school when that happened. We’ve been in constant touch with DS Jake Latimer at your station since we started our investigations, so it might be a good idea to give him a head’s up. Asif and I have touched nothing beyond this inner door. My aim this morning was to understand more about Grant’s son, Gary Burnside. We interviewed Gary earlier in the week, and following conversations with other relatives of his, I wanted to familiarise myself with the layout of this club, and what happens here.”
“What do you reckon is behind that door?”
“What’s your name, son?” asked Gus.
“PCSO Travers, Sir,”
“You need only call me Mr Freeman,” said Gus. “When you’ve found as many dead bodies I have, Travers, you’ll recognise the smell. We need a full team in here in due course, but I’ll fetch my blue paper suit from the boot of my car and gloves for the time being. If you’re happy, I’ll take a quick look. You get on with contacting DS Latimer. He’ll do the necessary.”
The uniformed officer and the Community Support Officer nodded meekly. This wasn’t a simple break-in and a blocked toilet.
Gus returned two minutes later dressed, ready for the fray.
“That’s where they came in after midnight last night,” he said, pointing to the fire door.
Gus saw the puzzled faces staring at him.
“Look at where the doors are damaged. Someone used a crowbar outside to gain access. It wasn’t someone trying to get out. You only need to smack the exit handle. You know what a big unit Gary Burnside is. One bloke would not tackle him alone. As for why it had to be after midnight?”
“That’s when I left,” Asif told them.
“Oh, right,” said Travers.
“The public is in safe hands, Asif,” said Gus as he walked towards the Matchroom door.
Gary Burnside lay face up on the snooker table.
Blood saturated the green baize cloth.
Gus stood in the doorway, studying the rest of the room.
Behind him, Gus heard retching.
“Travers? If that’s you, get outside before you contaminate the crime scene.”
Gus heard someone run for the door.
Gus recapped his first impressions. Gary Burnside died in a frenzied attack involving several assailants. What was going on in here when those assailants arrived? Burnside’s designer jeans and underwear were around his knees. Gus moved closer.
Ye Gods! He could see the butt of a snooker cue. Gus checked the racks at the side of the room. A broken cue lay discarded on the floor next to the stand containing a selection of cues and rests.
Gus wondered whether someone had shoved the butt into Gary’s body before or after he died. It had to be significant. The information he’d gathered from Kerry and Gina was falling into place.
The back wall provided the last piece of the jigsaw. Its narrow windows, perhaps a foot from the ceiling, had steel bars to deter intruders. The windows could open outward using a winding mechanism attached to the left-hand wall. Gus could imagine this room was Gary’s worst nightmare.
Gus could hear other people entering the club behind him. The cavalry had arrived.
“By the centre, Gus, what’s been going on in here? Is that Gary Burnside?”
“Good afternoon, Jake, and well spotted,” said Gus. “Who’s SIO on this case?”
“Someone you know, Gus. DI Francis moved here from Devizes last week. For some reason, your ACC thought his talents were needed elsewhere.”
Gus sighed. Gareth Francis wasn’t a lousy copper, but he could be dense. Both Geoff Mercer and Suzie Ferris thought Gus gave him an unwarranted hard time whenever their
paths crossed. Kenneth Truelove was wasting no time ridding London Road of deadwood.
“Hello, hello,” said Gareth Francis, “what are you doing here, Freeman?”
“I found the body, Gareth,” said Gus.
Gareth stood beside Gus, suited, and booted, in the appropriate manner. He was off to a good start, at least.
“Forced entry, side door,” said Gus.
“I beg your pardon?” said Gareth, inspecting Gary Burnside’s body.
“Not in here. Out there, in the games room.”
Gareth swallowed hard and managed to hold onto his early lunch.
“This has the signs of being a gangland killing,” said Gareth, “we’d better round up the usual suspects. Which mob do you think was responsible? Bristol, Reading, or a London gang looking for fresh fields? What made you want to call in here, anyway? Do you play?”
“I don’t,” said Gus, “but I’ve watched the occasional game on TV. I walked around the table just before you arrived and I’m afraid the black ball is missing.”
“Game over,” said Gareth.
“Quite,” said Gus, “I think you should carry on with things now, as you are SIO. I’m not supposed to get involved with live cases. A word in your ear, Gareth, before I go.”
Gareth Francis and Gus Freeman walked out of the Matchroom and returned to the bar area. Gus told him about his meeting that morning with Gina Burnside.
“Gary Burnside got attacked while in prison in 1997. Two men held him while another inmate raped him. The other two then took their turn. Gary told Grant Burnside that he stared at the bars on the cell windows throughout and swore it would never happen again. Gina told me it changed something inside Gary’s head, and he was never the same. Grant wanted his boys to be as hard as him, but I’ve seen Henry and Joseph. They’re not fighters. Gary had the build, but he was a bully, rather than a natural thug. He used Denver Drewett and Vic Hodge to carry out the softening-up process. Gary could only function when his victims were out on their feet.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” said Gareth, “what happened last night?”
