by Neal Bircher
There was actually not too much to look at: a scattering of round tables with chairs of red velvet and dark cherry wood, a dark red patterned carpet, an unsightly fruit machine, and a fair bit of wood panelling and brass fittings; in short, a very normal pub. To the right of the bar – which was much like any other – a spiralling maroon-carpeted staircase led down to the toilets, and up to … well, Ferriby decided to take a look where it led to. He half-jogged up the stairs to the next (and only other) level. Once there he paused and was, as often, concerned that the exertion had left him out of breath. He resolved, as he did most days, to get a bit fitter. He was only a little overweight, but lack of any real exercise – the occasional need to run in his job, and the even-more-occasional-of-late sexual encounter was about the extent of his exercise regime – made him conscious that his body was under-performing given that it had only had thirty-six years of use. Yes, he had better do something: a bit more walking maybe, or perhaps some cycling, maybe even cut down on fags … but nothing extreme, like joining a gym or take up jogging; any thoughts of that kind were just not realistic. He snapped back to the matter in hand, and cast his eye around the room in which he was standing … and breathing, very heavily. The upstairs of the Wolf appeared to be just that: just like the downstairs, but twenty stairs higher. There were the same tables and chairs, the same polished wooden bits, and the same brass fixtures. There were though some differences: The windows – three, all on one side of the room overlooking the Soho street scene below – were much smaller than the downstairs windows; there was no bar; there were at the time no customers; and there was a coat stand … a coat stand with some coats on it. Not for the first time that day, Ferriby’s heart leapt, andhealmost leapt too, as if getting there half a second quicker would make any difference. There were in fact three items on the coat stand, all of which could be described as jackets. One was brown and leather, quite lightweight and inexpensive-looking, but all the same, surprising to be left lying around unattended. Another was a beige fleece-type-thing that Ferriby thought probably belonged to a woman. Both of these had a limp look about them, as if they had been hanging there for a long time. The third jacket was black and, well, Ferriby didn’t know much about different types of fabric, but it was probably kind of cotton based, and was essentially an exact fit with what he was looking for. He excitedly, but gently, removed this one from the stand and gave it a look over. There was no name in it, there was nothing in any of the pockets, and – disappointingly – no signs or smells of gunfire having occurred in its near vicinity. Ferriby though was convinced that it was the jacket that he was looking for, and he returned jubilantly and quickly to the helpful barmen downstairs. They told him exactly what he thought that they would. Yes, the coat stand did indeed hold items that customers had left behind, and no, they had no idea how long the black jacket had been there, or to whom it might belong. They were though able to provide a big enough carrier bag to contain the jacket as well as his burgeoning collection of DVDs. He bade the barmen a friendly farewell, and headed for the Bakerloo line, via Piccadilly Circus, with a spring in his step once more.
But that spring in step, brought about by the feeling of positivity that his apparent progress produced was short-lived. Ferriby’s Tube journey and subsequent seat on the mainline from Paddington both gave him opportunity to reflect on the ups and downs of his day. And there had indeed been ups and downs aplenty. Firstly, the trip into London had set him up in a good mood, as it was a change of scene from Norling, and it offered the prospect of a few pub visits in Soho as part of his paid work. The Good Doctor then had been something of a let-down, with its plastic atmosphere, nonchalant staff, and lack of any useful information. Next came the Admiral Nelson, and although it didn’t throw up anything useful from a work point of view, its traditional English pub ambience, and traditional English landlord more than compensated. The trip to the City came next, and that started well, with the prospect of getting something from a new witness plus the further interest of being off his usual beaten track, not just geographically but culturally as well. Once there, then Ingemann Harper’s reception hall gave him brief feelings of inadequacy, cancelled quickly through the power of the warrant card. And it continued to get better from that moment. First there was Andy Hilton. It was a sad thing that meeting with a decent honest person was such a rare thing for Ferriby that it gave him a warm feeling when it happened. Honesty should be the default, with criminality the exception, but in Ferriby’s world that was not the case. He hadn’t entered the police force (and it still was the “force” when he joined, not a namby-pamby “service”) with a hatred of criminals, but eighteen years of association with so many of them had bred contempt for the selfish leeches that to him almost all of them were. Hence, meeting Andy Hilton was such an uplifting experience … and gleaning useful information from him all the more so. Next came the Wolf, which, with its ambience, helpful barmen, and, most importantly, its big piece of evidence, took the positives to yet another level. So, heading back to base on the train Ferriby should have been buzzing that the preceding topsy-turvy four or five hours had turned out so very well. But before long he wasn’t buzzing at all, because the time to reflect quickly became time to be angry at how naïve he had been. It was all too easy. Nick Hale was clever, and, unlike Andy Hilton or Michael Kelly, or practically everybody else that he’d ever come across in the last eighteen years, Ferriby was none the wiser as to whether he was a cynical murderer, completely innocent, or something somewhere in between. What was for sure though was that if he had committed a serious crime then Nick would not be daft enough to leave a great big piece of evidence somewhere where the police were bound to find it.
This might yet be another “clue” that would lead to nothing at all. There had been a similar sense of elation in the team when analysis of footprints on the muddy canal towpath had identified that first Michael Kelly, and a little later, Nick Hale and Gail Timson together, and at some time, Barry Timson, had walked along it to Dray’s Bridge on the night of the murder. But in the end that evidence proved nothing else but that: that they had each walked along the towpath. And none of their three suspects were denying that fact. Michael Kelly’s typically cocky response in particular stuck in Ferriby’s mind:
“Sure, Dave: I finished off me game of pool in the Wanker, and headed off to the Stack. I thought there might be more women there. Didn’t see a soul on the canal though. Is that any use to yous at all, Dave?”
So, although it had been a joyous Dave Ferriby who had left the Wolf in the afternoon, it was a very much more subdued one that took his place alongside Nigel Simms to start sifting through their hefty collection of grainy CCTV footage two hours later.
Holiday
Alyson was pissed off because skiing had turned out to be crap. Making a fool of herself in front of a bunch of strangers and getting covered in bruises in the process was not her idea of fun.
Nick was pissed off because Alyson had, as ever, chosen the most expensive restaurant in town. It wasn’t particularly the cost of such places that he objected to, it was more that, to him, the more expensive a restaurant, the less pleasurable the experience. To Nick, expensive restaurants were synonymous with small portions, obscure weird food, tedious poseur customers, snooty waiters, and slow service.
Alyson was pissed off with Nick moaning about how long the main course was taking to arrive.
Nick was pissed off that Alyson had ordered a really expensive bottle of wine … as if either of them could tell the difference between that one and the cheapest one on the menu. Just who was she trying to impress exactly?
Alyson was pissed off that Nick had ordered a pint of lager in addition to the nice bottle of wine that she had selected. It was as if he was deliberately trying to show her up at times.
Nick was pissed off because the menu was in French. He didn’t have a problem with the restaurant writing their menus in French – they were in France after all, but it did make the selection and ordering
process that little bit more painful. And, more importantly, whilst he was keen for his food to arrive, he still wasn’t completely sure of just what he was going to be getting.
Alyson was really pissed off that Nick had been arguing with the waiter. It was hard to imagine anything more embarrassing … other than perhaps trying to learn how to ski in front of a bunch of strangers.
Nick was really really pissed off that the waiter had come back with a message from the chef telling him that he should reconsider his request to have his steak “well done”. He was the customer, wasn’t he? And he knew more than some head-up-his-own-arse French cook how he liked his own food. Fucking cheek!
Alyson was livid that Nick had made a suggestion that she’d put on a bit of weight of late. That was the last thing she wanted to hear at any time, least of all whilst trying to enjoy a meal in a nice restaurant. She’d had half a mind to walk out and leave him to it, but chose not to give him the satisfaction. Yes, she was aware that she’d put a couple of pounds on her hips, but it wasn’t as if she was fat, and she would soon lose it again, she always did. But of course if she went on a diet it would be her breasts that would lose it before her bum; it always was. Life was unfair like that. Nick was such a shit.
Nick’s phone beeped, and he looked at it.
“Who’s texting you at this time of night?”
“Martin.”
“Hasn’t he got anything better to do?”
“It seems not.”
The text was from Gail.
I hope you are enjoying your romantic long weekend.
Rarely had so much bitterness been portrayed in such an apparently benign collection of words. Nick now had two stressed women on his hands.
Well, the skiing was pretty good. X
It occurred to Nick that a normal Saturday night in the local would have been so much more enjoyable … and would have only cost about thirty quid! A normal Saturday night ended up too with eitherMatch of the Day or a shag … or possibly even both. He wasn’t going to be getting either of those here. All the same, the trip had its good aspects: the scenery, the party atmosphere, the clean air … and the skiing itself was fantastic. After just one day of ski school he wasn’t yet any good at it, and quite possibly never would be, but the falling and larking around with a multi-national bunch of strangers was one of the biggest laughs he’d ever had. Yes, he would be back for more of that, but probably with the boys next time – not with Alyson, or indeed with any other woman.
GNX
8. Comfort Zone
New Things
Nick awoke looking straight up at an unfamiliar ceiling, and, confused in that way that sleeping briefly at an odd time of day after consuming a bottle of wine brings about, took a few seconds to work out where he was. Those few seconds over though, he relaxed unmoving and allowed himself to smile at the fact that he was lying naked in a nice big bed, with an equally naked, and very attractive, woman sleeping at his side. There were two empty red wine bottles on a round table, and a large extinguished candle on each of two little bedside tables. A television was mounted on a bracket on the wall facing him, and a clock on it told him that the time was nearly eleven o’clock. He leaned forward and gently kissed Gail’s sleeping head. Hotel visits had become an occasional feature of his and Gail’s relationship, and had fallen into something of a formula of booze, sex, sleep, more sex, and then slipping off into the night in a rush to catch the last train home. It was always a shame not to be able to stay for the whole night, but then the time limitation did add an excitement of its own to the occasions. An additional benefit of confining most of their evening to a hotel room was the fact that they were out of public view. For, whilst she didn’t talk about it much, Nick was aware that Gail was getting increasingly wary of being found out by her husband. It wasn’t a prospect that Nick particularly relished either. Contrastingly, some of the other places that they made love – cars, trees, park benches, alleyways, etc. – were generally becoming ever more risky. He pondered what the next challenge might be. He stroked Gail’s hair and neck and she sighed contentedly as she awoke. She kissed his arm, and although he couldn’t see her face, he could sense that she was smiling.
He askedherwhat she thought should be their next new “adventure”.
Gail thought for a moment. She was wary of being too adventurous, ever fearful of the consequences – primarily for Nick – if Barry ever found out about them. She had explained away the “SP” thing, but knew that he was (rightly) unconvinced of the existence of her fictitious colleague, “Sarah Phillips”. All the same, adventure was exciting. “How about one of those long stretched limos that you can hire?” she offered, sighing again as Nick kissed the back of her neck.
He broke off for a second. “Could do, but a bit pricey … and very naff!”
Gail laughed and agreed. “What about a train then?”
Nick liked the idea. “Mmmmmm, sounds like a challenge,” he said.
Then Gail rolled towards him and onto her back.
Nick kissed her on the lips and continued, “But in the meantime we’ll just have to make do with this great big warm comfortable bed, won’t we?”
News
The Lake District had been good. Gail and Nick had spent four nights at Helen’s B&B. The first had pretty much set the template for the rest: pub, then bed, followed by a late breakfast. A pattern emerged for the daytime too, as each day they drove to a different part of the county to indulge in morning coffees, quaint pub lunches, cream teas, rowing boats, walks in the hills, and when the opportunity arose, alfresco love-making in the grass. In four days they had eaten, rowed, walked, and shagged their way around just about every corner of the county. So, yes, the Lake District had been good. It had been fun, and had provided perfect escapism from the reality of whatever was going on back in the old world of Norling, and the Metropolitan Police Service. But any illusion of security was suddenly shattered on the Saturday morning.
After breakfast Gail returned to their room, whilst Nick walked to the village shop to get a newspaper and provisions for the day’s activities. The shop was on the other side of the road from Rose Cottage, past a row of terraced houses, and a patch of waste ground that doubled up as Helen’s car park. (Nick was glad of that off-road parking, given his tax disc / number plate mismatch situation). The tiny shop was little bigger than the front room of one of its neighbouring terraced houses, but the elderly lady owner somehow managed to cram in a range of groceries and greengroceries, a supply of all the main national papers – as well as some local ones, and a fair few magazines. It was the kind of shop whose contents, in the right circumstances, would sprawl out onto the footpath. Here though the narrowness of the path, and hence the proximity of the busy road beyond, limited any sprawl to a rack holding a few copies of each of the daily papers that were stocked inside. And it was this rack of newspapers that prevented Nick from getting as far as going in through the shop door. The rack wasn’t physically in the way; it was leaning against the shop’s front wall in its usual position. No, what stopped Nick in his tracks was one of the newspapers, or more specifically a picture on the front of one of the newspapers … a picture of Gail!
Nick ran back across the road, dangerously close to a fast-moving Ford Focus, whose driver angrily blasted his horn. Nick took no notice, neither responding aggressively nor apologetically. He was quickly through Helen’s front door, and bounding up the steep stairs towards his and Gail’s room. He hadn’t bought the newspaper; he hadn’t picked it up; he hadn’t even taken in which one it was. He had however picked up a few words in his shocked state. Those words were “fugitive”, “grandmother”, and his own name: “Nicholas Hale”. In the seconds that it took him to get to the top of the stairs, a lot of things swirled around in his mind. He wondered why he and Gail were important enough to feature on the front of a national paper; he wondered what his parents would think, should they get to hear of it; he wondered whether Helen, or anyone else in the village, had recognised t
hem; he wondered whether the police already knew where they were. He wondered what exactly he should tell Gail, and how she might react. His heart was pounding when he got to the door of the room, both from the physical exertion of the run up the stairs, and from the panic state that he was inducing with his thoughts. As he grabbed at the door handle, one mitigating thought did enter his head: the tabloids would use any excuse to get a photo of a good-looking woman on their front page. It didn’t help much, but it did at least slightly lessen the worry that he and Gail really were big news. As he opened the door too the thought developed: he was with a woman who was attractive enough for a national newspaper to want to show her image on its front page! That was a warm thought, and combined with the sight of Gail, lying cross-legged on their bed (reading a magazine), and wearing skin-hugging grey Levi 501s, conspired to significantly lessen his state of near-panic. He shut the door behind him and hesitated. Gail looked up from her magazine with a smile that suggested she didn’t have a care in the world. Nick was unsure how to put it to her. He stood there for a full ten seconds before the right words came to him.