Love Sex Work Murder

by Neal Bircher

  Neither Mrs Timson nor Mr Hale has been seen since both were released on police bail, on Monday October 3rd.

  cars

  Both Mrs Timson’s and Mr Hale’s cars were left at the car park of CountrySafe Insurance’s head office in Norling, where they both work. Police believe that the pair are likely to be together, and have urged the public to report any sightings of them, or any information as to where they are now, or where they have been since October 3rd.

  appearance

  Mrs Timson (below), whose photograph has widely appeared in the media is described as 5’4”, with shoulder length auburn hair, and of slim build. Mr Hale (also below) is 5’ 11” tall with short light brown hair, and is described as being of average build. Mrs Timson was wearing a dark blue overcoat when last seen.

  hotels

  Detective Inspector Ray Wilson, who is leading the inquiry into the death of Barry Timson, said that he believes that Mrs Timson and Mr Hale are still in the country and has urged anybody – especially staff of hotels and guest houses – to think whether they have seen the pair, and if so, to contact police urgently. The police incident room phone number is 0208-569-1212.

  Another man who was arrested in connection with the Mr Timson’s death, Michael Kelly, aged 34, has also been released on police bail, pending further enquiries.

  Sandy

  Sandy Ellwood slipped on a pair of jeans that had been lying screwed up on her bedroom floor. They felt loose; she’d lost quite a bit of weight since she had last worn them a few weeks before. She took a blouse from her wardrobe, the first one that came to hand. In doing so she was careful not to catch sight of her reflection in the wardrobe’s door mirror. She didn’t need to see it to know what a mess she looked; more than three weeks with all but no sleep had that effect. She put on the blouse, doing up three of its six buttons, and then a pair of trainers – without attempting to tie the laces, before walking through to her sitting room to pick up her winter coat from where it was draped over the sofa. She went out of her front door and stepped unsteadily down the two flights of stairs that led to the front door of the building – a once-grand old Victorian terraced house, now converted into nine little flats, each of the others as grim and decayed as hers. The door jarred as she pulled it, just like it always did. Only this time it took more effort than usual to free it from its frame and then drag it open across the hallway’s dirty lino floor. The day was grey and cloudy, but Sandy blinked at the outside world. It was also cold and windy, and she wrapped her unbuttoned coat tightly around her body. Cars rushed noisily in both directions along the busy street in front of her. A red double-decker bus went by from right to left, and a large Tesco lorry trundled the other way. Sandy scurried down the makeshift driveway – there were no cars on it – and out onto the roadside footpath, where she turned to the right. The place might have been a shit-hole, but at least the shops were nearby. She passed two houses similar to the one in which she was living and then the footpath widened into a lumpy tarmac forecourt that formed the frontage of those shops: the chip shop, the off license, the chemist, and the bookies – everything that Sandy needed on this occasion, and more. After the bookies, the road fed into a larger busier one at a T-junction that was adorned with a painted-on mini roundabout. The Tesco lorry was negotiating a right-hand turn at that roundabout, with some difficulty. Sandy didn’t see it; she had her head down, not wanting to catch anybody’s eye. She made first for the off license, but got as far as touching the door handle before thinking better of it, and going instead to the next door. She composed herself and put on a reasonable act of walking confidently up to the counter. She also made a good act of listening to the pharmacist’s advice on taking sleeping pills.

  In the off license Sandy selected a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry – a large one. She placed it on the counter. The man behind the counter – the shop’s Asian owner – made cheerful small talk as he wrapped the bottle in blue crepe paper. Sandy suddenly darted off, and then came back with another identical bottle. The man – Sandy didn’t know his name, but he was always very friendly – carried on chatting. He was saying something about the weather. She murmured monosyllabic responses.

  “That will be £18.98, please, Madam.”

  Sandy handed over a twenty pound note, and then turned and left. As it always did, a tinkly bell chimed as she opened the door, and again as it closed behind her. She hurried across the forecourt. The wind was really blowing up, and Sandy bowed her head ever lower. The sherry bottles clanked in her carrier bag, a bus accelerated away from the mini-roundabout, and the off-license door opened once more behind her. She didn’t hear any of those sounds.

  Once up the stairs and at her own front door, Sandy fumbled with her keys. Footsteps were coming down the uncarpeted wooden stairs from one of the flats above, but she managed to open her door before their owner could see her. She closed the door, threw her coat over an armchair, and placed the carrier bag on her sofa. The sleeping pills were in her jeans pocket. She went to her kitchen. She didn’t have a medicine cabinet, but she did have a drawer with some first aid items in it. She opened the drawer and took out a pack of sleeping pills similar to the one she had just bought. It was almost full. There were some paracetamols too, and lots of other pills and tablets. She took them all out, and then took a glass from her draining board. Her hands were shaking. She stopped for a moment to compose herself. And then she carried on. She emptied each and every pill one at a time into the glass. The glass was nearly half-full. She took it with her and sat on her sofa. She placed it on the arm of the sofa, and then took the first sherry bottle from her carrier bag. She pulled out the cork and took a look at the large blue bottle. Then she took a long swig of the sherry – no need for etiquette here – and then took another, very long, look at the bottle in her hands. She loved the deep blue of the glass, and she loved the rich syrupy taste of the sherry. It gave her a warm cosy feeling inside; it evoked memories – of Christmases, of log fires, of family, of being loved … of a long, long time ago. The sherry deserved a glass after all. She poured her pill collection carefully into her lap, and then filled its glass with sherry. She gazed into the glass, and for the first time in a long time, Sandy smiled.

  Phoenix

  Jason Barker’s mobile gave out a loud blipping sound, audible not only to himself, Martin, and Nick, but also to just about everybody else drinking in the Angel. He whipped it from his jacket pocket, with as much noise and drama as could be extracted from such an action, his mannerisms somehow managing to convey the “Someone’s just sent me a text, and I’d better get to it quickly, because I am of course very important” message, as he intended. Martin rolled his eyes at Nick, and Nick shook his head gently and grinned knowingly. But Jason’s eyes lit up as he saw that the text was from Tony Clarke … the boss! “Ah, Tony!” he exclaimed, meaning “Tony Clarke is my mate, and he’s got my mobile number, and of course he’s in my directory, and he sends me texts all the time, because I am that important.” His joy was short-lived though when he read the message: “sorry, cant mk pub this eve. tony clarke.” Which could be translated as: “I accepted your invitation out of politeness, but realise that I really do have better things to do with my life, and this is the easiest way of getting out of it. I’d better put my full name as well, because as I rarely, if ever, contact you by mobile, you may well not have my number in your phone book.”

  “Bastard! He’s cried off!” Jason informed the pub. “I’ll give him a bell; find out what his excuse is. Bastard! I’ll see if I can get him to pop in for a quick one.” He dialled Tony Clarke’s number. “Tony! Hi, mate, it’s…” He tailed off and looked at his phone with a frown. “It’s gone to voicemail; he must be talking to someone.” He put his phone away sheepishly. Nick and Martin were both giggling into their pints.

  “What?” asked Jason, attempting to laugh with them but unable to disguise his overwhelming disappointment that the attendance of Tony Clarke – his only reason for arranging t
hese little get-togethers – wasn’t going to happen.

  Nick felt a little guilty taking the piss, but couldn’t help himself. “Your mate can’t make it then?”

  “He’s not my mate, the wanker. I only asked him along because it would have been rude not to. More beer for the rest of us, that’s what I say. And anyway if Tone’s not here we can talkabouthim, better than talkingto him!”

  Nick pounced! “Tone?Tone? Since when has anybody called him that?”

  And once Martin had finished choking and coughing up his beer with laughter he added his contribution, “You and Tone reallymust be best of mates!”

  Jason, unable to come up with a suitable riposte, stood for a moment attempting to look superior (to such immature behaviour), but succeeded only in looking hurt. He pondered how to recover some dignity for a moment. “My shout, isn’t it? Stella all round, guys?”

  And off he went to the bar to leave Nick and Martin to further laugh at his expense. They were in agreement that it had been a very bad idea to go along with Jason’s latest “get together”, especially having sworn never to do so again after the previous time. But they were also in agreement that witnessing Jason’s disappointment at being stood up by Tony Clarke made it all worthwhile. All the same, both privately decided that Jason had suffered enough for the evening, and that they wouldn’t go out of their way to make fun of him any further.

  Jason returned, and placed three Stellas on the table, accompanied by three shots. He was trying to buy friends with alcohol. The slightly guilty-feeling duo of Martin and Nick expressed suitable gratitude, even though Nick didn’t really drink shorts, and then all three began supping at their lagers.

  “So, then,” Jason took up the conversation-lead position, “how’s Phoenix coming along, Nick?”

  Nick’s heart sank. Phoenix was the project that he was currently working on. His heart sank primarily because he knew that a very boring conversation was just being launched in which Jason would try to score points off him in an arena which was of no interest to him whatsoever. It also sank a little because it always did at the mention of the project’s name: “Phoenix”, the most common, clichéd, and utterly unimaginative name for a project ever. It was so-named, like every other of the many thousands of Phoenixes going on in the world at any one time because it rose from the ashes of something that had come to grief before it. Yawn!

  “It’s fine; the plan’s pretty much on target,” replied Nick, flatly.

  “On target to do what – deliver a clunky great system that’ll be out-of-date before you’ve even implemented it? I still think it was madness to go bespoke for that kind of function, when there are so many suitable package solutions on the market, and I’ve told Tony so too. Just buy a package off the shelf, get in a couple of consultants to install it; plug in, and play. What could be simpler? And total cost of ownership so much less in the long-term. No offence to you, mate: I know it wasn’t your decision.”

  No, of course it wasn’t Nick’s decision. Why would anyone consult him for a view on a subject far too tedious for him to ever muster up enough enthusiasm to have an opinion on in a million years? Jason might well have been playing a game of “my project’s better than yours”, but more than that, he was probably actually interested in the subject matter. Martin mumbled his excuses and shuffled off to the juke box, whilst Jason carried opining on at pace, his monologue punctuated only by the odd monosyllabic response from Nick. And on he went, for many very long minutes, whilst Martin managed to find plenty of reading to occupy him on the Angel’s limited-selection juke box. Once more Nick questioned why he ever came along to these things, and yet again he promised himself that he wouldn’t do it again. This time though he really did believe that he really did mean it. His thoughts went deeper than just avoiding such dull get-togethers. It wasn’t just the inane behaviour that wasn’t for him; it was also what he did for a living. Like a lot of people, Nick had drifted into IT because it paid well, and then he’d progressed through the ranks by doing a reasonable job of whatever was put in front of him, whilst at the same time doing his best to get along with and be respectful to everybody that he encountered along the way. So he’d done OK, but at what cost? Jason was still prattling on. Nick had always known that he couldn’t do what he was doing for the rest of his working days. He struggled to work out why he was still doing it now, but he struggled still more, as he always had done, to know what he was going to do instead. All that he did know this time, for the first time for certain, was that something really was going to have to change, and that that change would probably not be too far in the future. Maybe the change would be to more than just his career direction … he thought fleetingly of Gail, and felt anxious, so he quickly hid that thought away. He was then aware that Jason was asking him a question. Jason’s face was close to his with a look that was questioning, along with a little hurt at the realisation that Nick hadn’t been listening to his profound observations.

  Nick gave Jason a genuine smile. “Look, to be honest mate, I’m not really into all of this stuff. I know you are, and that’s fair enough, but I’m afraid it just isn’t for me.” He was pleased with his own honesty, and refreshing departure from trying to say whatever Jason, or anyone else, wanted to hear, rather than risk offending them. Jason on the other hand merely looked confused, and Nick was thankful to be saved from having to get more philosophical, by the return of Martin.

  “Crap jukebox! I couldn’t find anything to put on.”

  Nick mentally kicked himself. He’d still been too nice to Jason, and he’d not had the balls to come up with such a blatant excuse to get out of the conversation as Martin had. Something really did have to change.

  Jason shifted along his seat to make room for Martin’s return, lifting Nick’s jacket that was slung over the back of it. “Blimey,” he said, acting as if the jacket was unrealistically heavy. What have you got in there, a wallet full gold coins or something?”

  “Fuck off, Jason; stop being such a twat!” Nick snapped, grabbing the jacket from Jason’s hands.

  The three young men then looked at one another as an uncomfortable silence quickly descended. Nick slowly downed the remainder of his pint, watched over by his bewildered colleagues.

  By the time he placed his empty glass down on the table he had calmed, and he decided to re-assure Jason and Martin with an offer:

  “Are you guys up for a curry? It’s my round; I’ll get them in.”

  Coffee Break

  Karen Maguire stared into her screen, scarcely able to believe the article that she was re-reading. She wracked her brains: “Gail”, yes Nick had talked about a woman called Gail a few times, but he didn’t give any indication of a relationship. And surely Nick wouldn’t have been involved in a murder … would he? She was in shock. She didn’t know what to do. On top of everything else this just made her want to cry. There was a soft knock on her open office door. It was her P.A., Debbie, with her usual mid-morning cappuccino. Karen took out a handkerchief to dab her eyes, and beckoned Debbie to come on in.

  Debbie looked concerned. She placed the cappuccino down on Karen’s desk. “Are you OK?” she asked.

  “Yes, fine, thanks,” lied Karen. “I’ve just had a bit of bad news, that’s all.”

  “No, your eye … Is that a black eye you’ve got there?”

  “Er, no. Well, yes it is. Does it really show? I slipped in the shower.”

  “Oh dear, that sounds awful. No, it doesn’t really show up too much. Was Damien around?”

  “No. I mean, well, he was in the house, but you know, I don’t like to make a fuss.”

  “Well, if there’s anything I can do …”

  “Yes, thanks Debbie.”

  Karen was then distracted by something behind Debbie. The glass front of her little office overlooked an atrium with a walkway around the top. On the side of the atrium that was perpendicular to hers and to her right was the company board room, which was essentially a just a big meeting room. Four people w
ere going into the room: her boss – the company chairman, Trevor Wiseman; her colleague Brendan Shawcross; and two other men, one of whom she thought she recognised.

  “Debbie, is that Howard Armstrong with Trevor and Brendan?” Howard Armstrong was the owner of one of the company’s largest clients, a very successful building contractor.

  “Yes, it is. They’ve come in for some kind of strategy meeting.”

  “I see. Are you sure I’m not supposed to be in it?”

  Debbie always knew what meetings Karen was scheduled for, and she never got any wrong.

  “I didn’t think so; I’ll go and double-check your diary.”

  Karen shook her head. “No, don’t worry – I’m sure I’m not.”

  And shewas sure. She never seemed to get invited to anything anymore, but Brendan had his nose poking in everywhere. The situation filled her with anger and frustration on a daily basis, but today she had other things to worry about.

  Debbie left, and Karen began composing a text to Nick, but then she stopped and thought better of it. She turned back to her computer, and typed the words “Nicholas Hale” into Google … once again.

  Big Jag

  Alan Timson’s Saturday was subscribing to a tried and tested formula. It had started with a trip to the bookies at around eleven thirty, where he’d placed a range of football and racing bets, spending a total of two hundred and fifty pounds. From there he went to the pub to enjoy his usual leisurely weekend liquid lunch of seven or eight pints – alternating Carling and Guinness, whilst playing pool, and watching whatever sport was showing on the pub’s big screen – rugby, on this occasion. Come five o’clock, all the football results were in and it was time to make his way home, stopping off at the bookies to pick up any money that he had to come back. It was only a mile home to his flat, and he would phone up his local Chinese en route to arrange for a takeaway to be delivered soon after he got home.