by Neal Bircher
“Shit!” He slowed quickly, and was down to about sixty (the limit) by the time they passed the camera. He glanced down at the speedometer.
“Shit! … 99991. Almost forgot … we’ll be there in about ten minutes!”
Gail didn’t react. She looked straight ahead for some minutes, her thoughts drifting around as she returned slowly to a fully awakened state. When eventually she found herself fully back in the land of the living she pressed “play” on the CD player, and then pressed the “random” button.Beautiful Day was the first track up.
“Good track – for such a special day!” Nick pointed out.
Gail knew that he was mocking her, knowing full well that she couldn’t find the occasion of the Celica’s milestone something to get very excited about. She was all the same happy to play along, as she was whenever Nick got into one of his trivia topics, which was probably a good thing.
Nick continued, “I still think this is a strange album for a ‘greatest hits’. Like I said before, where’sThe Fly– possibly their best song, and a number one too? (I’d give it extra merit points too for knocking Brian Adams off number one after sixteen weeks.) AndDiscothequegot to number one, which most of the stuff on here didn’t. Not that being a number one makes a song necessarily worthy, of course. I mean, there are lots of U2 songs that are seen as classics, and that people think of as being number ones that weren’t,Pride, for example, orI still haven’t found what I’m looking for. It’s the same for loads of acts too:American Piedidn’t get to number one for Don McLean, butVincentdid, and his cover of Roy Orbison’sCrying, but everyone knowsAmerican Pie, and I bet most people don’t know either of his number ones. It happens with albums as well: Meat Loaf has had quite few number one albums, butBat out of Hell wasn’t one of them. It might have been on the charts for about ten years – and it really was about ten years – but it didn’t get any higher than number nine.”
Gail continued to nod and feign interest. And if she was honest, what Nick was on about was actually slightly interesting, but if she admitted that then it would take the fun out of their mutual piss-taking around Nick’s interest in music (and other) trivia, and her indifference. All the same, she was actually quite surprised aboutBat out of Hell.
“Is that all it got to, number nine? I would have thought it did better than that.”
“No, just number nine, even though it must have sold bucket-loads, and it kept on selling well for all that time. Ten years, it’s hard to imagine, isn’t it? See, it never had any big hit singles to push up its sales in a short space of time, that’s why it didn’t get any higher in any one week.”
“What aboutBat out of Hell – the song – that must have been a big hit?”
“Not really – number fifteen, and wasn’t on the chart for long either … see, you like this kind of stuff really, don’t you? SHIT! 100,001.3 … we’ve missed it! Shit!”
Nick banged the steering wheel, Bono kept on singing regardless – ontoMysterious Waysnow, and Gail started to laugh her head off. Nick found himself laughing too, and he slapped Gail’s leg. “Stop it, it’s not funny!” But it was, and Gail was still laughing when, no more than a mile later, Nick did what they’d planned to do all along, and stopped at the next settlement after the 100,000th mile was clocked up. That place was a village, straddling what was now a busy A-road, but no longer a dual-carriageway, and one of the first buildings in that village was an old solid-looking grey-stone pub, on the right, called the Queen’s Head. Nick turned the Celica onto the pub’s forecourt, and then followed a sign that took him to the right of the building, and then behind it to a small grey-gravelled car park. Theirs was one of three cars in the car park (there was another car on the forecourt too) and there was room for maybe seven or eight more. A thick plume of wood smoke emanated from a chunky chimney on the pub’s steeply-sloping slate roof. Gail and Nick could smell its inviting and cosy aroma before the car had even stopped. They both climbed out and were surprised at how cold it was. It made the sight of the pub’s wood fire flickering through its lead-lighted windows all the more appealing.
It was one of those pubs where Nick had to stoop to avoid banging his head when going in through the door – apparently people were shorter years ago – and inside the low ceiling and big stone pillars made it rather cramped too. Little round tables – about a dozen of them – were scattered around the wing of the pub that was in Gail and Nick’s view, and each was allocated four nicely-polished chairs. Only four of the tables were occupied, but, because of the limited space, the room felt crowded. Nick selected a table that was near to the fire, and he and Gail sat down at ninety degrees to each other, both facing towards that fire. Behind Gail a table was occupied by three smartly (but tweely) dressed middle-aged women. The women were chatting among themselves, not all that loudly, but loudly enough that although Nick couldn’t tell what they were saying, he could identify their English accents. He mouthed “English” to Gail, and she nodded.
There were menus on the table, and Gail and Nick both decided on the home-made vegetable soup. It was duly delivered by a polite but busy lone barman, who was in his thirties and spoke with a local accent. The portions were huge and piping hot, and the very-much home-made soup was accompanied by a hunk of equally home-made brown bread, and pot of butter. It turned out to be delicious. As it was a special occasion, Nick allowed himself a lunch-time drink (a local real ale) to accompany his meal, even though they were en route to their next location – wherever it may be. Gail followed suit with a glass of red wine. They toasted the Celica, and exchanged a brief kiss. Nick then looked into Gail’s eyes and spontaneously suggested that they find somewhere in the village to stay for the night, and then spend the afternoon in bed. Gail smiled one of those smiles that made him want to be in that bed already, and then whispered provocatively “You know you won’t find me turning down that kind of suggestion.”
But they wouldn’t be spending the night, or even the afternoon, in the village – whatever it was called, because the day was about to become a memorable one for another reason than the Celica’s milestone … an unexpected, and rather unwelcome, reason.
They had been in the pub maybe half-an-hour, and the middle-aged English women were still at the table behind Gail. Nick had picked up some snippets of their conversation – unintentionally – and none of it had been at all interesting. But then itdid become interesting. Nick didn’t catch the start of the topic, but something about it drew him in. Two of the women had their backs to him, but the other – mid sixties, big grey hair, glasses, and M&S clothing – was facing him. She had a folded newspaper in front of her, and it was she who was speaking. She had a mild Yorkshire accent.
“… bumped off her husband and run off with her fancy man she has. ‘Granny Gail’ they’re calling her, aren’t they? Looks good for a grandmother, she does. Mind you, I think she’s only about forty or so. …She must have started early.”
Nick was looking at the woman, and his eyes were as wide as saucers. Realising this, he turned his head slightly to look at Gail, maintaining the expression. She had a similar look to him. They both carried on listening, but one of the other women was now talking and had changed the subject. Nick wasn’t sure whether to smile at Gail. He did, and she smiled back. Then she nodded her head towards the door that they had come in through, and Nick nodded back. He took a £20 note from his pocket and put it on the table, and then they both got up. Once outside Nick put his arm through Gail’s, she kissed him on the cheek, and they walked on without speaking.
They got into the Celica (100,003.6 miles on the clock), fastened their seat belts, and Nick drove away. He turned left out of the car park, back north, back where they had come from, back away from England. Once out onto the road he planted his foot to the floor and accelerated as fast as the aging Celica could take them.
“Fucking hell!”
Gail laughed, but then told him, “Shut up! I don’t want to talk about it.”
And she didn’t, not
just yet; she wanted to be alone with her thoughts for a while. Nick sensed that too and did leave her alone, at least for a few minutes.
Gail had mixed feelings about what had just occurred. True, it was quite amusing to find that she had a tabloid nickname, and that strangers were talking about her – she was famous! But she wasn’t famous for something good: she was famous for being a murder suspect. Or more likely, in the eyes and minds of anyone reading about her, she was famous for being a murderer. And it wasn’t just the gravity of being known for something so bad, it was also the shallowness. She had had forty years on the planet, and had only been a murder suspect for a matter of weeks. She wasn’t “Gail Timson, murder suspect”, she was Gail Timson, human being with a family and a lot of interesting qualities and experiences, who happened at the moment to be a murder suspect. So there was anger, no, frustration, in her mixed emotions, but there was something else too, and there was more of it: the emotion of fear. What made her blood run cold was the thought that being known in the media made her (and Nick) more likely to be traced; it brought home to her the reality of her real world; it also brought her current world closer to her brother-in-law, Alan.
While Gail was having those thoughts Nick was thinking too. First of all he wondered where to drive to. His instinct had been to turn back away from England, away from “danger”, but where to now, exactly? He and Gail had covered much of Scotland in the course of the last six weeks, and had started to become a bit lax on their practice of one or two nights’ stay and then moving on to somewhere new. Those one or two nights were becoming two or three, and they had started to re-visit some of their favourite places, albeit stopping short so far of returning to the actual same hotels or guest houses. So far Nick was just re-tracing their route back to Maloch, the place they had left straight after breakfast. He resolved to carry on for half an hour or so, then take the next big turning north-east (Maloch was north-west), and then stop at the first “new” town that they came to after three o’clock. That had become pretty much his and Gail’s normal close-to-random method of choosing a next location. He would share the idea with Gail once he’d given her time to think, but she was unlikely not to go along with his suggestion. That settled, he turned his own thoughts back to what had happened back at the Queen’s Head. And what had happened he actually found quite exciting. Having successfully avoided reading newspapers, watching news on the TV, or reading news web sites ever since first seeing Gail’s photo in a tabloid back in the Lake District, he had had no knowledge as to whether the outside world was any longer interested in his and Gail’s plight. His only exposures to what was happening in the world were his glimpses atYahoo! Newsmain headlines – in which he and Gail had not featured, and the emails from his brother, James. And James had done as he was asked, which was to avoid any mention of the two of them as a news story. Now that Nick knew that they still were news – well Gail was for sure – it added spice to the adventure. They were famous, well, after a fashion. They were also at higher risk of being caught, which to him was a turn on. The adventure angle had subsided a little of late: the longer stays in towns combined with a reduction in his and Gail’s outdoor sex activity, were signs. He’d also noticed Gail phoning Catherine more often, and had pondered as to what that might mean for her. Was she starting to tire of the adventure? He could have asked her but he hadn’t. This could be the spark to kick off a next phase though. Nick felt motivated, and he drove fast – the next stop, in no more than a couple of hours, meant celebratory beers, and Gail in a nice big bed. In his head he started to singThe Last of the Famous International Playboys, but he didn’t do so out loud, and not just because Gail couldn’t stand Morrissey.
He laughed: “‘Granny Gail!’ Ha!”
Gail hit him but then she laughed too. The pensive silence was over and the optimism was back, but Gail and Nick had been exposed to something a world away, and difficult to comprehend, a bit like their “old” lives. And once they had got over the initial shock they would both be thinking more about how – and how soon – their “adventure” might come to an end.
Granny Gail “Sightings” Soar
Runaway grandmother, “Granny” Gail Timson has been spotted in locations far and wide since disappearing six weeks ago, according to eagle-eyed members of the public. Mrs Timson (40) was released on police bail on Monday September 21st along with her friend Nick Hale (34) after both were questioned about the death of Mrs Timson’s football manager husband, Barry (41). Mr Timson’s body was found in a canal near the home he shared with his wife, two teenage children, and young grandson, on Sunday 18th September. He had been shot in the chest.
Arrested
Mrs Timson and Mr Hale were arrested on October 1st, but were both released after two days of questioning. Neither has been seen since, and police have launched a national appeal for information. Another man, Michael Kelly, 34, who had been arrested in connection Barry Timson’s death, was also released on police bail.
Sydney
Since police released Mrs Timson’s photograph, reported sightings of her have flooded in from members of the public from all parts of the UK, as well as a number of locations in Europe, and even as far away as Sydney, Australia. However, none of the sightings has been confirmed, and so far police admit they are no nearer to finding Mrs Timson or Mr Hale.
Detective Inspector Ray Wilson, who is leading the inquiry said that he appreciates the interest of the general public, and he asked people to continue their vigilance. His team, he says, are pursuing a number of lines of inquiry.
relationship
D.I. Wilson stated that police did not know for sure whether Mrs Timson and Mr Hale were together, but that he thought it likely. He would also not comment on the speculation that the two, who were work colleagues at CountrySafe Insurance, were involved in an extra-marital relationship prior to Mr Timson’s death.
information
Anybody with information is urged to contact police on 0208-569-1212.
Discovering Sandy
Detective Inspector Wilson was sitting at his desk sifting morosely through a pile of paperwork when Dave Ferriby bustled in through the office door. Ferriby had taken it upon himself to extend the questioning of pub staff and customers about the death of Barry Timson further afield than had been covered so far, and in one pub, the King’s Arms, on the outskirts of Norling, three or four miles from the murder scene, the landlord revealed that Barry Timson had been having a relationship with one of the barmaids.
“Excellent!” beamed Wilson. “Good work. Who is she?” Excellent…another big clue.
“Her name’s Sandra Ellwood, 47, divorced, lives in Henklewood.”
“Have you spoken to her yet?”
“No. She phoned in sick the day after we found Barry Timson, and then a week later called to say she wasn’t coming back. The landlord – he’s called Graham Tomlinson – hasn’t heard from her since.”
“Interesting. You going up there now?”
It was midday on Saturday and Ferriby was intending to go to the football – Brentford – with his brother and a couple of mates. He felt obliged to (reluctantly) change his plan.
“Yes, thought I might. Good chance she’ll be at home.”
“Good stuff. I’ll come with you. Your car?”
Henklewood was seven miles away, seven long miles through a drab maze of over-congested London suburban streets. It was also, in Ferriby’s terminology, “a fucking shit-hole”. Ferriby took the opportunity during the arduous drive to fill in his boss on some of the other information he had gleaned at the King’s Arms. The landlord had apparently not connected the “Dray’s Bridge murder” with the bloke who was seeing his barmaid, Sandy, until Ferriby had shown him Barry Timson’s photograph. He also didn’t know much about Barry Timson, only that he would come and visit Sandy regularly at the pub, usually staying for an hour or two, during which Sandy would join him at a table for a drink or slip outside with him for any number of “fag breaks” – a habit
that had continued long after Sandy had given up smoking. He had suspected that Barry and Sandy were having a secret affair, and he’d got the impression that it had been going on for a long time; he guessed at maybe three or four years.
Wilson wondered whether Gail Timson had known about Sandy.
“You not going to see Brentford today?” He asked Ferriby.
Wilson wasn’t looking at Ferriby, and so didn’t see him grimace.
“Probably not. Will see how it goes here. This must be it, somewhere just along here. Can you see any numbers? It’s number 29.”
They did see some numbers, and then Ferriby pulled the car up onto the tarmac joint forecourt of Sandy’s local shops. He locked the car and the two of them walked off past numbers 33 and 31, and then turned into the driveway of number 29. They were watched curiously all the way by the off licensee and by a couple of dodgy-looking customers smoking roll-ups outside the bookies. Ferriby rang the bell for flat 2. There was no name by it, and there was no reply. The next move would have been to ring the bells of some of the other flats until they got somebody to open the main door for them. But that didn’t become necessary as the door was opened anyway, and out scuttled a thin, pasty, and spotty man of about 20 with a straggle of light brown hair, who was wearing a well-worn grey Schott jacket with jeans and trainers all of which Oxfam would have rejected. He cast the two men a nervous glance. They both thought “druggie”, whilst he thought “coppers”. No words were exchanged and the man was quickly across the road, through a broken fence, and into a bleak field that passed as a public park that was beyond it. Wilson and Ferriby looked at one another without need for words or expression to convey their shared lack of respect for the person they had just encountered. They went inside. At the foot of the stairs were five grey metal post boxes with locked doors, which looked a bit like the ancient filing cabinets in Wilson’s office at the station. Wilson had a peer through the slot of the box for flat 2. He could see that there was some post in there, but the box was quite large, making it difficult to tell just how much stuff was in it. Other than the post boxes, the hall contained a dilapidated men’s bicycle, and a lot of dust. Just one flat door was on the ground floor, and it had a large number ‘1’ felt-tipped onto its grubby paintwork.