Love Sex Work Murder
Page 20
“Get your clothes off; I’ve got something to tell you!”
Gail eyed him quizzically, but quickly complied. Nick too removed his clothes then and slipped into the bed beside her. Holding Gail in his arms, he told her what he had seen at the village shop. Gail didn’t seem particularly surprised. In fact she didn’t say anything, just had a distant look in her eyes, and, Nick thought, the beginnings of tears. He kissed her on the forehead, and she smiled. “What do you think we should do?”
They agreed on a plan of action: They would make sure that they always used false names in public from then on; they would only wear their new clothes; they would use their disguises (hats and sunglasses) as much as practicable; they would never stay more than two nights in the same place; and they would pack and leave Helen’s B&B and drive to Scotland that very morning. One other thing that they decided to do was to avoid reading anything about themselves in the papers. Neither was quite sure exactly why. Ostensibly it was to avoid unnecessary worry, but more than that maybe it added mystery and intrigue to the adventure. It made it all the more “fun”.
Shooting Quiz Granny Disappears
Police are concerned for the whereabouts of two people who had recently been held in police custody. Gail Timson and Nicholas Hale were released on police bail on Monday, October 3rd, after being questioned about the death of Mrs Timson’s husband.
Barry Timson (41) was found dead in a canal near his home in Norling, West London on the morning of Sunday September 18th. Mr Timson was well-known in the area, where he managed local football team, Meadow View Athletic.
Neither Mrs Timson (40) nor Mr Hale (34) has been seen by police or neighbours since the day of their release.
car park
It is not known whether grandmother Mrs Timson (below) and Mr Hale are together, although their cars were left in the car park of the head office of CountrySafe Insurance, where they both work. Another man, Michael Kelly, aged 34, was also arrested in connection with the Mr Timson’s death. He too has been released on police bail, pending further enquiries.
A spokesman said that police were investigating a number of leads. He called on Mrs Timson and Mr Hale, or anybody who knows of their whereabouts to contact the police as soon as possible.
Train Game
SUBJECT: GM 14-03-2011 09:03:58
FROM: Nick Hale NHAL003C
TO: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
Good morning! Hope you enjoyed your weekend. Get up to anything interesting?! X
Nick Hale
Project Manager – Systems Development
SUBJECT: Re: GM 14-03-2011 09:08:02
FROM: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
TO: Nick Hale NHAL003C
Hello! Yes, I had a nice time, thank you, especially Friday evening. XXX###
Gail Timson
Product Merchandising
SUBJECT: Re: GM 14-03-2011 09:25:13
FROM: Nick Hale NHAL003C
TO: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
Sorry if it peaked too early! Anything in particular that you enjoyed about your evening out? XXX
Nick Hale
Project Manager – Systems Development
SUBJECT: Out 14-03-2011 09:32:23
FROM: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
TO: Nick Hale NHAL003C
Yes, I particularly enjoyed the train journey from Paddington. That was most definitely the peak of the weekend! X#
Gail Timson
Product Merchandising
SUBJECT: Train 14-03-2011 09:34:27
FROM: Nick Hale NHAL003C
TO: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
Got good facilities those trains, haven’t they? Nice roomy toilets, and sometimes not all that many people travelling. X
Nick Hale
Project Manager – Systems Development
SUBJECT: Room 14-03-2011 09:38:39
FROM: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
TO: Nick Hale NHAL003C
Yes, enough space for two even – something I haven’t experienced before! ###
Gail Timson
Product Merchandising
SUBJECT: Two 14-03-2011 09:46:36
FROM: Nick Hale NHAL003C
TO: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
Me neither; suspect that might get to do so again before too long though! XXX#
Nick Hale
Project Manager – Systems Development
SUBJECT: Again 14-03-2011 09:49:59
FROM: Gail Timson GTIM001Q
TO: Nick Hale NHAL003C
Mmmmmmmmmmmm, I most certainly hope so! XXXX#####
Gail Timson
Product Merchandising
Tourists
And so the adventure moved on to a new country. True, neither Nick nor Gail noticed that they had crossed the border until some time after they had done so, but the realisation that they were indeed in Scotland was an uplifting experience. Home was even further away, and although jurisdiction might have been all but unchanged, the reach of the long arm of the Metropolitan Police felt just that little bit less of a threat. First stop was Edinburgh and, having found themselves accommodation (a B&B) that met their criteria of being not too expensive, and having its own car park, Gail and Nick set about with relish the business of being tourists. Day one, which started late through the afternoon – once they had checked into the B&B and taken a half-hour bus-ride to the centre of the city – consisted of a visit to the Tourist Information Centre to browse leaflets about museums, theatres, open-top bus rides, and lots of other stuff that they didn’t want to do, followed by an all-evening pub crawl, taxi back to the B&B, and a drunken crash into bed shortly after midnight. Day two started with a late breakfast, followed by a head-clearing brisk walk to the centre, then a whistle-stop tour of the castle, lunch in a pub with a couple of beers, a bit of clothes shopping, a bus ride back towards the B&B, a couple of local beers, a return to the B&B for a bit of a rest and a shared shower, a walk to an Indian Restaurant for late tea, a couple more beers, and then an early night. So that was Edinburgh done, and the next morning they were back on the road.
They had both felt safe in Edinburgh, a city of thousands of people rushing around, generally being friendly, and probably not in the least interested in the story of a couple of people running away from something so far “south of the border”. But they had felt safe in other ways too: safe from the gangs of drunken yobs they passed walking late at night, however dark it was, and however unfamiliar they were with the territory; safe from the traffic as they ran across the busy streets. In fact it was more than safe: In their adventure, their temporary world of make-believe had given them something of a feeling of invincibility. Their shared mood was buoyant as they sang along to the CD player and (in Nick’s case, anyway) intermittently whistledThe Great Escape yet again as they took the Celica away from the city in a vaguely northerly direction, towards some random yet to be determined destination, still further away from Norling, still further away from reality.
Going Home
Being arrested on suspicion of murder made Michael Kelly, who was already quite well-known in certain less salubrious circles of Norling, something of a minor celebrity on the dodgy pub circuit. He could already be counted as a regular in six or seven pubs in the town, and was a frequent visitor to a number of others. And in the weeks following his arrest and subsequent release, he became more regular than usual in all of them. His income was limited largely to benefits from Her Majesty’s government, but his new-found notoriety was good for a couple of pints from well-wishers in each of the places that he chose to frequent, and he milked that opportunity for all that he was worth. What that meant, of course, was that Michael Kelly got drunk – usually very drunk – every night, and usually in the company of a number of audiences, as he flitted from one pub to the next in order to make the most of the generosity that was afforded him. One result of getting drunk every night in front of lots of people every night was that he bragged to lots of people every night, and what he bragged about almost exclusively was the kill
ing of Barry Timson.
He didn’t know just how much his going around shooting his mouth off was annoying Detective Inspector Wilson, but he was well aware that word would be getting back to the police. He was also very much aware of some other groups that were getting riled by his behaviour. First there were those members of his audiences who were not impressed by his notoriety. He could see it in the eyes of some of his late night listeners: a number of them were decidedly unimpressed. He didn’t always have to see it in their eyes either, as some of the more bold / drunk of their number would take issue with him verbally, and that had already led to him getting into three fights. He’d lost a part of a tooth in one of those fights too, which was something that had really pissed him off: he was proud of his big white teeth, and proud of his record of never having visited a dentist in his entire life. Then there was Barry Timson’s brother, apparently called Alan. Michael Kelly had never met him, but he had been hearing plenty; he was hearing it more and more and he didn’t like what he heard. The man was supposedly an animal, and a big one, with quite a name for hospitalising people that he didn’t like. He was also said to have taken to drinking very heavily, and to have sworn to avenge his brother’s death in ways that didn’t bear thinking about. Michael Kelly believed that he was in the clear so far, as this Alan was in pursuit of “the bloke who had been shagging his brother’s missus”, but he was aware that it could only be a matter of time before this psycho got to hear of his own story-telling. And that story-telling led to the final party that Michael Kelly was antagonising through such antics: The person that he was annoying most with his behaviour was himself.
Every morning, quite late in the morning, Michael Kelly woke up with a bad hangover and cursed himself for doing what he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t do, yet again. Each morning he then promised himself again that it wouldn’t happen that night, but of course he knew that it would. So, all of these groups getting angrier, combined with, as it happened, even some of his “fans” losing some of their enthusiasm, and with it their generosity, plus his financial worth being boosted to the tune of seven hundred pounds thanks to his part in a friend’s lucrative house burglary, prompted Michael Kelly’s decision to, as Detective Sergeant Dave Ferriby would subsequently put it, “fuck off back to Ireland”.
He left on a Wednesday morning, with a single holdall that contained just about all of his worldly possessions, and after walking the two miles from his flat to a roundabout that led onto the M40 motorway, spent an anxious hour waiting for his first lift and hoping that nobody in the groups of angry people would recognise him. But they didn’t. Or if they did then they didn’t do anything about it. And just as he was getting cold and bored enough to consider a revised strategy, a Transit van pulled over and the passenger door swung open. After that it was plain sailing. That first ride was a man transporting some furniture to his sister’s house in Milton Keynes. The man dropped Michael Kelly off at a service station on the M1, and after service station pick-ups from two lorries and a photocopier repairman in a Vauxhall Astra, he found himself at a truck stop near Shrewsbury at nine o’clock in the evening.
There he bought himself two bacon rolls and had a look around the place. It was quite similar to his favourite local, the Star, in that it had a lino floor, contained just a handful of grumpy-looking men who weren’t talking to one another, and had no atmosphere. The only real difference was that there was no beer for sale, which was a pity. Michael Kelly looked around at the other customers. None of the grumpy men seemed willing to catch his eye, and he began to have thoughts about this being where he might have to spend the night. It would do: he’d find himself a corner to curl up in; he’d done worse. First though he would have a go at charming one of the grumpy-looking drivers into giving him his next lift. He selected a large man in his mid-fifties who had straggly grey hair and a beard, was wearing a grubby red fleece, and was tucking into a large hotdog whilst reading a very well-used copy of the Sun. He was sitting alone at one of many aged pale blue Formica tables. Michael Kelly pulled out one of three other chairs that surrounded the table. The chairs matched the table: metal-framed and primitive. Michael Kelly scraped his across the dirty lino floor and dropped himself noisily onto it. The lorry driver didn’t look up. Michael Kelly took out a cigarette and placed it behind his ear. He wouldn’t be able to smoke it inside the café, but could still use his need to light it as a conversation starter. He addressed his fellow diner.
“Did you have a light there at all, mate?” he asked chirpily. But as he looked on hopefully, the man took no notice, and turned a page in his paper. Slightly perplexed, Michael Kelly continued to look hopeful as the man immersed himself in a piece about an argument between two neighbours over the height of a privet hedge. Perhaps the old guy was a bit deaf. Michael Kelly coughed, and tried again, only more loudly:
“I say, did y…”
“I’m reading my paper, and I don’t like pikeys. So fuck off and leave me alone!” The man looked up and glared at him with hatred in his eyes.
Unusually, Michael Kelly was stuck for words. The aggressive response took him by surprise, and he had to stop for a few moments and ponder his next move. He wouldn’t normally have pondered under such circumstances. No, he would normally have punched the fat fucker unconscious without a moment’s hesitation. But normally he wasn’t on bail on a murder charge and intent on fleeing the country. So ponder he did, and after doing so he stood up.
“Suit yourself,” he muttered to the top of the man’s head, as the man was again immersed in his paper.
“Fucking pikeys,” came a muttered reply, and for a second Michael Kelly tensed and re-considered his approach. But the moment passed, and, feeling quite proud of his ability to not rise to the bait, he returned to the café’s counter and bought himself yet another bacon roll. This time he sat at a table on his own, and was prepared to enjoy his food in peace and ready himself for the long stay at the café until the lorry traffic got busier in the morning. It was OK, it was another week before he had to check back in at Hanforth police station; nobody would be looking for him. But then his thoughts were disturbed by somebody pulling up a chair at his table: a thin black man of about his own age, in blue denims and a multi-coloured woolly hat. At once the man starting talking at him, fast, with a scouse accent, and with lots of big, shiny-white-toothed smiling. He covered a lot of subjects in quick succession – the quality of the burgers, the price of diesel, the darkness – virtually without soliciting a murmur of response. This was unusual; Michael Kelly wasn’t used to not doing all of the talking. He took the cigarette that he had restored to its storing place, behind his ear, and placed it between his lips, ready to imminently go outside and smoke it. Then he took out his half-full packet of B&H and offered one to his companion. Without a pause in his dialogue, the man declined the offer with a swift, almost camp, kind of wave. Yes, camp, maybe that explained it. Was this bloke gay? Ah, what the fuck: he might well be a ride to the ferry.
And a ride to the ferry he did indeed turn out to be. The man’s name was Derek, he was driving a flat-bed truck with a large marine engine strapped onto it, and for the hour it took to get to Holyhead he kept Michael Kelly “entertained” with opinions and stories on just about every subject under the sun. Whether he was gay or not was still open to question, but the two men didn’t particularly bond on their brief journey and once on the Ireland-bound passenger ferry they went their separate ways. Michael Kelly started at the bar, where he sat alone, daydreaming and people-watching, and he made two pints (of bitter, not Guinness; he didn’t want to look like a tourist) last more than two hours.
A benefit of booking onto the ferry as the occupant of a lorry was that he was afforded access to truckers’ café, where bacon butties were cheap, and there was freedom from screaming children. That was where Michael Kelly headed next. He made his purchases and took a seat in the trucker-filled room that was much the same as the one where he had met Derek, just smaller, and moving up an
d down a fair bit. It was also a lot busier. As he usually did, Michael Kelly scanned his surroundings. There was not much to see, and there were certainly no girls to look at. There was a familiar face though: the grumpy fat bloke who had called him a pikey was sitting just a couple of tables away. His red fleece was hung over the back of his chair, and he was slumped forward with head on his folded arms, fast asleep. Opposite him were two other fat middle-aged bearded men, both in stereotype big-check shirts, and both looking lifeless, although still just about awake.
Michael Kelly was not one to pass on such an inviting opportunity. He slipped himself into the spare chair next to his grumpy acquaintance from earlier, nodding an acknowledgement to the other two fat men opposite. Much like in the earlier café, he took his cigarettes from his pocket, placed one behind his ear, and then returned the packet to his jacket, without offering any around. Then he sat back, took the cigarette in his fingers, and blew imaginary smoke rings into the air. In the good old days it would have been real ones, floating over the fat men before merging into the murk of greasy air hanging below the café’s ceiling. After a few minutes he was ready for a real smoke: outside, in the fresh air. So he placed his cigarette between his lips, left the table, and made his way up to a deserted and windswept open top deck. At the top of a steep set of iron stairs that led to the deck he pushed open a heavy metal door that led outside, and was met by a blast of ice-cold spray-filled air that almost threw him back down the steps. Maybe he wouldn’t be lighting that fag after all. He took it from his lips, shoved it into his pocket and, holding his big coat closed with his arms, and bowing his head into the wind, he made his way past eerie hanging lifeboats and coils of rope until the deck opened out to his right, and only a metal barrier separated him from the dark night beyond his ship, and the still darker Irish channel water below. Michael Kelly buttoned up his coat and leaned over the barrier. The sea was a beautiful sight way down there crashing against the side of the ship and sending white spray high into the rushing night air. Water splashed over his face and into his freezing ears, a mixture of torrential rain and hard salty spray. He looked to his left over the bow of the ship, and the lights of Dublin looked beautiful too. They weren’t far away; the ship would be docking in no more than half an hour. A shiver went through Michael Kelly, but he smiled a warm smile, not so much because he was going home, more at the thrill of whatever adventure would befall him when he got there. Turning back to face the barrier he took the grumpy lorry driver’s wallet out of his coat pocket. It was a nice wallet, nothing fancy, just a square brown leather thing, but it was good thick leather – fairly old and worn, but with a patina that only came to a thing of both age and quality. Michael Kelly liked it for that reason, but he liked it more for being fat. He opened it up, and there were lots of notes in there. He slipped them into his coat pocket on top of his waiting cigarette. There was plenty of other stuff left in the wallet: credit cards, membership cards, a family photo, other bits and scraps of paper, some lose change, a front door key, and even a small pen. Michael Kelly didn’t look at any of them, he just let the wallet slip from his hands and watched it flash silently by the side of the ship and then disappear into the frothing spray of the Irish Sea.