by Ted Tayler
For the next hour, Gus and Gareth worked their way through the seven registers.
The door of the detective squad room opened at around twelve-fifteen and in strode Jake Latimer.
“Just in time, Jake,” said Gareth, “we’re almost ready for you.”
“What’s going on?” asked Jake, “when did those extra books appear? I didn’t think Travers would be back yet. He had several addresses to visit in Broadgreen first.”
Gus explained what they had done and why.
“I could have saved myself that legwork if I’d waited to hear the autopsy findings. Sorry, boss.”
“That’s life, Jake,” said Gareth, “it’s good experience. Travers will learn something from this, too. He should walk through that door in a minute. We’ve still got one year to check, and then we can compare results.”
“What can I do to help?” asked Jake.
“The most important piece of the jigsaw,” said Gus, “dig out the murder file for Blake Dixon. Give me the names of the four lads playing on Table 7 that night.”
“What, the ones who got struck dumb when questioned what happened?”
“The very same. I want to see whether those four continued to play at the club after 2013, despite the hassle.”
PCSO Travers returned at half-past twelve and handed Jake the information he had gathered on his Broadgreen walkabout.
“Do you need me for anything else, Sir?” he asked Jake.
“I don’t know. Do I?” Jake asked, looking at Gus and Gareth.
“Travers can collate the information you both gathered on your travels. This afternoon, he can drill through these earlier books to uncover the other potential victims. It’s a chore, but it will help once you’ve isolated a series of names that we can compare with the slip of paper Dr Northwood’s keeping safe.”
“What time are you leaving?” asked Jake.
“How long will it take me to get to Blunsdon?”
“It’s a ten-minute drive to McHugh’s farm if you’re lucky.”
“I’ll stay here for another ninety minutes. Let’s get these annual registers, finalised.”
The three detectives sat around Jake’s desk and compared their results.
“Does this remind you of Happy Families?” asked Jake.
“Not really,” said Gareth.
“I’ll start,” said Gus, “Wayne Stuart joined on January the eleventh in 2012.
“I’ve got him in 2015,” said Jake.
“He rejoined this year,” said Gareth.
“Wayne was twenty in 2012. Right, Jake, where’s that Blake Dixon murder file?”
“I sent Travers to collect it. He won’t be long. Let’s hope it didn’t get lost.”
Gareth and Gus shared a glance. Fingers crossed.
PCSO Travers returned with the 2013 murder file. They could breathe again.
“Travers, make yourself useful,” said Gus. “Dig through the sheets in that file. Find the details of the four lads in the snooker club late that night. Their interviews were brief, but I’m hoping someone remembered to record their names.”
“Shall I give you another name from my 2012 register?” Gus asked Gareth and Jake.
“Found it,” cried young Travers. “Jason Dean, 22; Liam Winter, 23; Rob Coleman, 23; and Wayne Stuart, 21.”
“Bingo!” cried Gus. “Do we have a match every year since gentlemen?”
“We do,” echoed Gareth and Jake.
“Why do you think they’re the killers, guv?” said Jake, turning to Gus.
“Gareth?” asked Gus.
“Don’t look at me. I’m still catching up.”
PCSO Travers spoke next.
“If they were in the club playing snooker from the same age as the young lads I talked to this morning, then they knew what was going on. When Dixon got murdered in the Matchroom, these four were outside in the games room. They must have been scared to death the gang would punish them, but all they got was their table fees waived, a free bottle of Bud, and a verbal warning. For five years they’ve held onto the thought they should have spoken out. Think of the number of youngsters Gary Burnside could have raped in that time. Last Thursday night was the last straw.”
“Neither of those four was in the club on Thursday,” said Jake, checking the register.
“Then it was personal,” said PCSO Travers,
“Go on, Travers, you’ve got it sussed out so far, just tie it up in a neat bow,” said Gus.
“You had already worked it out, hadn’t you?” said Gareth.
“I still want to see the names on that list that they inserted into Gary Burnside,” said Gus.
“Was it Emilio that proved to be the final straw?” asked Travers.
“If there’s a link between one of our four suspects and Emilio Melillo,” said Gareth Francis. “we’d better find it, and we’ll be ready to bring them in.”
Travers was flicking through his mobile phone.
“It’s Wayne Stuart, Sir. He’s engaged to Maria Melillo. Emilio is her younger brother.”
“Facebook?” asked Gus.
“Instagram,” said Travers.
“Where would we be without social media,” said Gus getting out of his chair and preparing to leave,
“Where are you off to?” asked Gareth.
“I’m off to search for a decent place for a lunchtime snack before I drive out to Blunsdon. The three of you have got most of what you need to prepare a case against your four suspects. Those further tests that Dr Northwood ordered will give you more answers that might lessen the hurt for the Burnside family. That soiled slip of paper will reveal the exact number of Gary Burnside’s victims. I wish you luck with getting those victims to open up and tell you details of their ordeal. Get them any counselling they require. I hadn’t made the connection between the last victim and the group of four, but it explains why Emilio didn’t come forward. They didn’t need to warn him not to say anything. Why would he drop his future brother-in-law in it?”
“The Burnside legacy lives on,” said Jake. “For decades they’ve ruled the roost in town and ruined the lives of dozens of people. Even with Grant and Gary dead, it still goes on. Now we’ve got to arrest four young men in their mid-twenties for murder. That’s something their families will carry with them for decades.”
“I can’t have too much sympathy for them, Jake,” said Gus. “They didn’t speak out when they could have, and frustration and anger at their weakness festered until someone close to them got threatened. Imagine if Kendal Andrews was the better player of the two lads in that club last Thursday.”
With that, Gus Freeman left the detective squad room and headed for the front door. Where was that place he’d bought a snack when he was up here last?
CHAPTER 12
Gus Freeman made his way towards Blunsdon on the A419 after a hearty lunch.
He pondered the wisdom of visiting Fergus McHugh’s farm on a full stomach.
Gus turned off the main road onto the track that led to the farm and spotted Luke’s car ahead. Good, the lads were here, they didn’t have to hang around too long.
“How did it go this morning, guv?” asked Neil.
“As expected, Neil,” Gus replied.
“The boss won’t tell you yet, Neil,” said Luke, “he’ll give you a few scraps of information and hope you piece it together yourself.”
“Let’s get changed into these natty blue suits, gentlemen,” said Gus, “as for the Gary Burnside case, you had better pull your socks up. A wet-behind-the-ears PCSO worked it out before Jake Latimer and Gareth Francis.”
“I can understand Gareth not getting it, guv,” said Neil, slipping on his knee-high wellington boots. “I expected better from Jake Latimer.”
“Where’s Fergus McHugh?” asked Gus, “I thought he’d be at the farmhouse door awaiting your arrival.”
“McHugh’s in the barn already, guv,” said Luke. “we’re to join him inside when we’re ready.”
The elderly farm
er looked up at the three blue figures in the doorway.
“They’re both dead now,” he said.
Gus looked at the steel contraption in front of him.
“Has he just completed another disposal job?”
“No, guv,” said Neil, “I think he wants to come clean.”
“Grant and Gary,” said Fergus, “they’re both dead now. I met Grant in a pub, agreed to do work for him, and I purchased caustic soda from hardware shops. A curious shop owner once asked me why I needed so much. I told the woman that I used it to clean my farmhouse. I didn’t enjoy working for Gary this past four years. He was an objectionable swine. I’d had enough of it.”
“It must have been a disgusting task, Mr McHugh,” said Luke.
“It was routine to me,” said McHugh. “They brought me the packages, and I just got rid of them. I didn’t ask what was inside. I don’t feel I did anything wrong. It was just a service I provided.”
Neil inspected the equipment and the surrounding area. McHugh pointed to the rank of trees on the hillside. “That’s where I lit the fires,” he said. “There’s nothing left now.”
Neil and Luke drove up to look.
Gus stood and watched with Fergus McHugh.
“What will happen to me now?” asked McHugh.
“This has to be the strangest case I’ve ever investigated,” said Gus. “I got tasked with finding out who killed Grant Burnside. I’ve helped solve several crimes, but not found a clue that’s got me closer to success in that task yet. As for you, and this barn behind me, well, it was used to dispose of at least a dozen dead bodies. You’ve done your work so well that there’s no evidence left here against you. If I was interested in punishing you for your role in that business, the only thing left is Sylvia Kerr’s complaint about the frequent bonfires. I might charge you with creating a public nuisance. That’s not why I came out of retirement. I want to solve cold cases. I wish you luck selling this place, Mr McHugh. When my lads have finished up there on the hillside, we’ll get off your land.”
Tuesday, 26th June 2018
Gus left the bungalow and drove towards Devizes. There was no need to bother Gablecross today. DI Francis and DS Latimer had their hands full, but Gus thought they would cope. In two years they might look over their shoulder at young Travers snapping at their coattails.
Who would have thought he’d get a grip of the essentials so quick? It’s the modern way to use social media to make connections. That was what Geoff Mercer reckoned the much-vaunted Hub was supposed to provide.
They offered nothing useful in this case. In fairness, the team didn’t pose a single question of the Hub’s whiz kids. Could the Hub throw up a name for Grant Burnside’s killer? Gus toyed with the idea of popping into London Road but opted instead to drive straight to the Old Police Station office. There were loose ends to tie up there first.
When he exited the lift, the transformed layout surprised him. After they drove back from Blunsdon yesterday afternoon, he’d gone straight home. Luke and Neil had come here to see what Lydia had coaxed the furniture guys to achieve.
Gus had to admit she’d done an excellent job.
Alex’s desk was unmoved, and Lydia now sat behind him. That seemed fair enough.
Luke’s desk was now where Neil used to be. Neil was behind him next to the restroom door. Blessing Umeh was to sit in the middle of the room, where Lydia used to be. It might help her feel welcome, surrounded by the team instead of getting stuck out on a limb.
Next week would be another new beginning. Gus had never managed a team this big when he was working full time, certainly not for day-to-day matters. Unless they were on a murder case, he was lucky to have two Sergeants reporting to him. Now, he had three, plus a Detective Constable and a university graduate.
It was heady stuff. Gus hadn’t imagined his retirement this way.
Gus heard the lift descend to the ground floor. The others were on their way.
Wrong again. It was Geoff Mercer.
“I thought I should drop by to see where my money went,” said Geoff.
“We’re still waiting on the delivery for the super-fast thingy and the new-fangled doofer,” said Gus.
“Dream on,” said Geoff. “Mine has been on order for months. The factory can’t keep pace with demand.”
“Joking apart, we’re grateful,” said Gus. “This set-up will work for the time being. Luke added two pieces of hardware to the list that we could well use if our workload remains high.”
“Gablecross would have first dibs on that kit, I imagine,” said Geoff. “The work you’ve done off-task in the past week has given them more than enough to handle. I don’t know how you do it, Gus.”
“Good, old-fashioned police work,” said Gus. “Keep asking questions and listen to the answers.”
“We heard from Bridgend yesterday. Rhys Evans will reach us at the end of July.”
“Did the ACC have any joy finding him a place to rest his weary Welsh head?”
“Kenneth did as you suggested,” said Geoff, “he called Monty Jennings. Rhys Evans has a billet in Worton. One hundred yards up the road from Kassie Trotter.”
“Everything comes to she who waits,” said Gus. “I wonder if he likes cake?”
“And hearts and lovebirds,” said Geoff.
The lift was in action once more. This time it was the Three Musketeers who arrived through the lift doors.
“I hope you don’t want something back, Sir,” said Lydia.
“Not likely, Lydia,” grinned Geoff. “I just wanted a chat with your boss.”
Luke, Neil, and Lydia set to work. They knew the score. Gus hadn’t given the word yet, but everything they collected on the Burnside family last week should get collated and forwarded to detectives at Gablecross.
They started work on that on Friday afternoon, despite the mess the furniture crew was clearing up around them. Soon, that element of the case would leave them and the Freeman Files needed updating. Sadly, there was little of what they had entered that related to Grant Burnside’s murder.
Perhaps, once DS Mercer left for London Road, Gus could give them a new direction to follow.
“You wanted a chat, and to check that we hadn’t pinched an extra chair?”
“I was thinking of Grant Burnside,” said Geoff. “The ACC mentioned that you reckoned a red-haired man in his thirties might have been the sniper. He doesn’t ring any bells with me. Do you remember that chat in the Bear before you started working here? I mentioned the inter-gang slaughter that took place in this town. What, seventeen years ago now? There were similarities with the Burnside affair.”
“In what way?” asked Gus.
“The leaders and senior figures of both gangs died that night. We believed that with the head of the snake gone, we would make significant progress in mopping up the low-level criminals floundering without leadership.”
“I remember you saying that they soon lost the initiative because of the weak direction from our masters.”
“There was always a suspicion that it wasn’t the two gangs striking out at one another. The ACC wondered whether Burnside was another example. Why did we find no clues? If one of the other known gangs involved in drugs in Swindon did it, why didn’t we find the connection?”
“I had an interesting conversation with Jack Sanders the other morning,” said Gus. “He came at it a different way. Jack’s niggle was a case in 2012 where four leaders of a grooming gang vanished. Was it another example of someone removing the head of the snake? The whole sordid business collapsed within days of those fours’ disappearance.”
“What’s your take on it?” asked Geoff.
“Luke had the right question to answer,” said Gus. “Who could know where Grant would be that morning? I’d be a fool to say that phones didn’t get tapped, and listening devices get installed in cars, homes, and offices, but who would be responsible?”
“It sounds far-fetched to me,” said Geoff, “I’d better get back to London Roa
d. Vera Butler is back at work, by the way. She’s feeling better.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Gus, “before you go, can I ask a favour?”
“Sure,” said Geoff.
“Can I let the team have time off this week? There might be fewer opportunities after our newbies join us. We’ll wrap up the last bits of the different Burnside matters today. I’ll drop in to see you and the ACC with my recommendations relating to Grant’s murder. It might warrant another look at a later date unless we can work out how our mystery man learned so much about Grant Burnside’s itinerary.”
“There’s no shortage of cases for you to handle, Gus. Perhaps the Hub can start search routines for you. Give them a few weeks to identify possible names for your sniper and then pick the case up again. You’ll have several pairs of hands to keep occupied from next week. You know how to juggle, don’t you?”
“You’re all heart, Geoff,” said Gus, “but it makes sense. I don’t like quitting on a case.”
“Don’t worry about the ACC,” said Geoff, “you got enough unexpected results from this cold case review for Gablecross to be eternally grateful. There are still plenty of green ticks against the CRT’s name. I’ll see you in the morning. Goodbye, all.”
With that, Geoff Mercer left the building.
“Do we have any more loose ends to tidy up, guv?” asked Luke.
“I’ll run through the Freeman Files and see what you three have added since Friday,” said Gus. “I haven’t caught up with everything yet. I’ll add my reports and pass the relevant bits onto Gablecross. The ball is in their court now.”
Gus stepped through the digital record of what happened since the ACC handed him the Grant Burnside murder file.
His first interview had been with Maggie, Grant’s widow. What a sorry state she would be in now.
Her father-in-law, George, wanted his legacy to be a Burnside dynasty, based on a solid family base, where everyone stuck together, no matter what.
Did George’s wife, Nessie, know what happened between George and Gina? Maybe not, but Maggie knew because Grant expressed relief when George died. Grant feared for the safety of Kerry, his only daughter.
