by Neal Bircher
So Michael Kelly had a new home town, a new set of pubs in which to be a regular, and a new job. He even found someone to sleep with – a barmaid and drinker in one of his pubs, the Mermaid. She was called Margaret McVie, was about 45, divorced, and she lived above the pub. A couple of times Michael Kelly was the last customer at the end of the night, and after a few shared drinks accompanied her up the stairs to her little flat. A couple of other times he hoped to do so, but was shown the door to the cold Fermanagh winter outside.
For the first two weeks of his employment Michael Kelly remained at Mrs O’Malley’s B&B, enjoying her hearty cooked breakfasts, although not particularly enjoying paying for the relative luxury. But then a conversation with Mr McBride during a tea break led to an offer of accommodation on the McBride family farm. There was an old caravan parked up in one of the outbuildings, and Pat McBride was prepared to let Michael Kelly stay in it for nothing, in return for him helping out around the farm with a few odd jobs from time to time when he wasn’t doing his day job. It was an arrangement that suited Michael Kelly, and over the next month or so it worked out rather well.
The farm wasn’t a working farm as such; there were a few horses in a big sloping field beyond the farm house, some chickens clucking around the yard and outbuildings, and the McBrides had a big Alsatian dog. That was it though as far as animals were concerned, and other than some vegetables in a little garden that Mrs McBride tended, there were no crops either. So Michael Kelly’s odd jobs were limited – helping Pat McBride to put up a wire fence or to fix his Land Rover, that kind of thing. In return he got his caravan to sleep in. It was a bit dilapidated and would probably have leaked rainwater had it not been inside a building. He also got the use of an outside toilet, and the freedom to roam around the surrounding land at his leisure. And that was something that he found surprisingly enjoyable. On the days that he wasn’t doing the labouring job – essentially the weekends – Michael Kelly tended to rise later than usual, something in the region of ten o’clock, fry himself some egg and bacon on the caravan’s little gas stove, and more often than not head off up the sloping horse field and into the woods beyond, where he’d wander aimlessly alone with just his thoughts, stopping to sit and smoke, sometimes in the middle of the woods, sometimes looking back over the view of the farm and Enniskillen beyond, sometimes looking out across County Fermanagh to distant mountains, over towns and villages, he knew not where. He could spend hours in those woods, more of it smoking than walking, but also thinking, and what he thought about most was how he had landed on his feet, and how he was going to do better with his life this time around. The woods went far beyond the bounds of Pat McBride’s land, and he had no idea whose land he was on, but he never saw another soul, only wildlife: the usual birds, quite a few squirrels and rabbits – if he’d had a gun he could have shot himself a nice meal, also the occasional fox, and, once, a badger.
Michael Kelly was happy, but he wasn’t Michael Kelly, not to anybody in his new life. No, he was Shaun Ryan. That name had no special significance; he’d thought it up on the ferry from Holyhead; “Shaun” and “Ryan” were just two names that he liked. Yes, he had to be Shaun Ryan, as Michael Kelly was wanted by the police. He didn’t have any documentation in the name of Shaun Ryan of course, but he did have a passport in his own name.
And on one of those Saturday afternoon jaunts he wrapped up that passport with other identifiable items, such as the key to his bed-sit in Norling, and buried them deep in the ground by a tree on the farm side of the woods. Unless Michael Kelly chose to dig them up again, nobody else could possibly ever come across them. When he finished the burying he had sat down for his customary smoke, looking out over the farm, where the McBride daughters were saddling up their two horses to go riding around the field below him. They were pretty young girls, those two, aged 13 and 14; they would have no shortage of men to choose from over coming years. Pat McBride was a lucky man, but Michael Kelly didn’t envy him, he admired him, and he enjoyed for the time being – almost – being a part of his family. He’d eaten his evening meal with the family a couple of times, upon Pat McBride’s invitation, but both times he’d felt that Mrs McBride (her name was Carol, apparently, although she was still “Mrs McBride” to him) was wary of him, as indeed she was most of the time; probably something to do with those teenage girls. Anyway, both of those invites had been during his first week on the farm, and they hadn’t been repeated since.
Michael Kelly (Shaun Ryan) though didn’t need the company of the McBride family. He went into town most nights, enjoyed a serious skinfull with some fellow drinkers, and then trudged the mile or so back along the country roads by the light of the moon, before turning up the long drive up to Willow farm, then crashing out on his caravan bed, trying, often unsuccessfully, not to disturb the dog – which roamed freely around the farmyard day and night – in the process. He actually enjoyed the walk home: it was invigorating, and he felt good about getting some healthy exercise after an evening of not so healthy drinking. He even attempted (albeit with limited success) not to smoke too much during the walk.
Michael Kelly was happy with his lot, and at ease with himself, more than any time that he could remember. He raised an imaginary glass, and spoke out loud, “To Shaun Ryan … long may it all continue!”
Another Driver
It was a Friday morning, and, on Detective Inspector Wilson’s insistence, Dave Ferriby had driven to Wales with his car packed with a few days’ worth of casual clothing, and all of his fishing gear. He’d been putting in some long hours in the more than two months since the investigation had begun, and hadn’t taken a single day off. Wilson told him that he was looking tired and that he needed some time away from the case to revitalise. After first resisting, and indeed pointing out to Wilson that he himself was putting at least as much time into his own work – something that was met with an expression that told him not to pursue that line of discussion – he relented, largely because it was clear that Wilson’s suggestion was in fact a directive. Hence Ferriby’s westward trip on the M4, and hence Wilson speaking to their latest witness himself, without accompaniment.
That witness was Peter Croxton, a 54-year-old minicab driver, who, as he was to tell DI Wilson, had been driving cabs for five years, since being made redundant when the company that he had worked at as a mechanical engineer from the age of sixteen went out of business. The minicab firm that now employed him was based some way away from Norling, in Watford, which was why he hadn’t already been interviewed, and why he himself hadn’t realised that he might have some information to offer until he’d read about Barry Timson’s murder some weeks after it had occurred.
Wilson greeted Peter Croxton, and was impressed with his firm and confident handshake. He led him to an interview room, and furnished him with a plastic cup of the horrible instant machine coffee to which he himself was practically addicted.
Sitting opposite Croxton, Wilson could see from the man’s eyes that he was one of the more intelligent witnesses that he had met on the case. It gave him cause for optimism.
Croxton spoke in the measured tones of a mechanical engineer. He talked through what he had seen in a methodical way, giving just about the right level of information, and without the rambling pointless deviations of so many others. He kept records of all of his pick-ups, and his notes showed that at twelve minutes past twelve on the night of Barry Timson’s killing he had collected a couple from a house party just about two minutes beyond the Haystack to take them back to their home in Watford. That placed him at the scene of the murder at pretty much the time that it occurred, making him probably the closest thing to an actual witness to the killing that Wilson was likely to meet.
Peter Croxton had seen two men in discussion on the bridge – two men, and on the bridge; nobody else; no woman; and nobody outside the pub. He knew the pub, as he dropped off fares there occasionally, and he described how he often saw it, with people – including bouncers – tending to be milling around
the front door. That description gave greater credibility to his assertion that that was not the scene at 12.10 on the morning of September 18th. Wilson was intrigued, and had a warm feeling that this was real and useful information. He had taken a liking to Peter Croxton; the man was honest and decent, just a little older than himself, and probably similarly careworn by what life had thrown at him over the decades. Wilson almost wanted to invite him along to the local for a pint.
“Go on,” he said, “tell me about these two men, Peter.”
And so Peter Croxton told him. He told them about their body language and posture. He told him why he had remembered them so clearly: it was because it looked like they were having a stand-off (his words). The men were both tense, and facing up to one another, each looking straight into the other’s eyes. He remembered too that it was raining hard, and that both men were dressed in dark clothing. He apologised for the fact that he couldn’t recall any more detail than that. Wilson told him not to apologise, and saw him out of the door with a warm thank-you and a smile on his face.
It might not have been a lot more information, but it was one more piece of the jigsaw, and it could be a significant piece. It wasn’t so much that it was very different from anything that had come before, it was more that it was so much more credible. For the first time during the investigation, Wilson felt with a high degree of confidence that it was not Gail Timson and Nick Hale on the bridge with Barry Timson at the time of his shooting.
Revenge
Liam Northcott crouched alongside Alan Timson’s Jag. His heart was pounding rather more than he had expected it to. He’d put a lot of preparation into this activity, but he was fighting to stop himself having second thoughts. He eyed the block of flats in front of him for any signs of movement. Alan Timson’s flat was one of those, on the second of three floors. He wasn’t completely sure which one, but he knew more or less. It didn’t matter though as there were no lights on in any of them, and there were no signs of life. In any case it was gone 2 a.m. on a Saturday night, so Alan Timson was in all probability deep in all-day-drink-binge-induced slumber. Liam Northcott liked to think so anyway; it beat the alternative of Alan Timson being about to turn up pissed out of his face and spoiling for a fight.
The heavy rain bounced off the Jag’s big bonnet. He’d waited for a rainy night – rain is noisy, and keeps people off the streets; it was just a happy coincidence that it happened also to be a Saturday night. The Jag looked rather good in the rain with its green paintwork glinting under the light of the car park’s sodium street lamp. Liam Northcott had noticed a couple of days before that Alan Timson had had the car cleaned up and polished inside and out. The thought of that now put a smug smile on his face.
The Jag’s front and its right-hand side faced Alan Timson’s block of flats. Liam Northcott was crouching by its left-hand front door. He was wearing black all over, from his cheap baseball cap to his even cheaper trainers. All of his outer garments had been purchased specially, from a mixture of charity shops and Primark, none located within ten miles of his home. All had been purchased for cash, whilst wearing a pair of shades and a floppy hat, both of which had since been destroyed. In his hand was a large hammer, bought in the same way from a discount shop fifteen miles way, and only ever handled whilst wearing his new Primark black gloves. He was aware of how much he looked like a burglar, but then that didn’t matter, as he hadn’t committed any crime – not so far anyway.
There was still no movement. It was now or never. Behind him, and hence behind the Jag, ran a large bushy hedge, beyond which was an alleyway. To his left an area of grass and sporadic trees stretched about a hundred yards to another block of flats like Alan Timson’s. Its windowless side wall faced him. He should have enough time and start on anyone to run away, and he could outrun most people … he was especially sure that he could outrun beer-gutted piss-head, Alan Timson. Yes, he felt he would be fine, just as long as whoever approached him didn’t take him by surprise, or wasn’t two people approaching from different directions, or wasn’t the police. He snapped himself out of those thoughts, and stood up. He had pins and needles in his feet. He glanced around once more. His heartbeat sped up that little bit more. Then he stepped back a couple of paces, and swung his hammer hard against the window of the Jag’s back door.
Bang! The impact was loud enough, but the window didn’t break. Anxiety levels rose once more, and Liam Northcott’s eyes darted around the scene. A big part of him wanted to run off, but “No!” he shouted in his mind, and he swung the hammer again, this time even harder. The window made a satisfying crashing sound as it shattered into a thousand pieces and spread itself over the Jag’s chunky leather back seat and newly-hoovered deep carpet. Liam Northcott’s plan had a decision point at this stage: If car has alarm that goes off, then run! If not, then carry on. No alarm went off. He crouched back down and watched and listened, as his plan dictated. The watching part was fine, but the only thing he could listen to was his own heartbeat, which to his ears was drowning out even the torrential rain. He waited a full two minutes. A fox trotted by the far block of flats, oblivious to his presence. Nothing else seemed to move.
Liam Northcott edged around to the back of the Jag, and crawled into the undergrowth at the bottom of the big hedge. Over the course of the previous fortnight he had stashed four containers there. He knew that they were still there; he’d checked half an hour before. He brought them out and lined them up at the side of the Jag. Then, still keeping out a wary eye for any signs of people, he gingerly opened the Jag’s back door. The interior light came on. That was unwanted, but expected. He leaned in and switched it off. Next he took the first container, unscrewed its lid, and then climbed into the car to pour all of its contents over the driving seat. His heart had calmed a little, but its beat now returned to full speed. He was sweating as much as he ever did at the gym. The container took an age to empty, and he felt vulnerable inside the car. He contemplated stopping at one container, but then steeled himself once more and took the second one, which he emptied over the passenger seat. He poured the contents of the third one all over the back seat, and then decided that that really was enough, and hurled the last container back into the hedge.
His plan dictated that the next thing he did was crouch down again and observe. The plan hadn’t accounted for the thumping heartbeat and drenching in sweat, but was otherwise working out to good effect. The former contents of Liam Northcott’s containers emitted a strong smell from inside the Jag – the foul pungent smell of stale milk! He had originally thought about soaking the car in petrol, and setting it alight, but as he thought that idea through it seemed too risky, both to him, and potentially to other people. Also, the using up of fire brigade time and resources troubled his conscience. No, the milk plan was much better: so much more subtle, and, in all probability, so much more embarrassing for Alan Timson. Getting his car torched might, in his head, have had an element of kudos about it, but getting it milked?! And in the unlikely event of Alan Timson ever using the car again, then that repulsive stench would be all but impossible to ever get rid of. Liam Northcott knew; he’d accidentally done the same thing to his dad’s Morris Ital, twenty years before.
He returned the now-empty milk cartons (each of which had been purchased with the same precautions as had his items of clothing) to the undergrowth, and waited his customary two minutes. Then he stood up and smashed the front door’s window with his hammer. No second attempt needed this time; he was getting the hang of it.
Then he waited – waited for nothing to happen, as ever. But something did happen. A light came on in one of the flats, one that might well have been Alan Timson’s. Liam Northcott crouched. But he didn’t wait his the two minutes this time. No– fuck it!– he went around to the back of the car and slammed his hammer into the rear window. Big satisfying jagged cracks spiderred all over it.Ha!Another light came on in the flats, right next to the previous one. Probably just someone going to the toilet. The Jag’s rear lights were ne
xt. He took a swing with the hammer.Crack! But it only seemed to make small hole. He had another go. Another loud crack, and this time the light shattered into shards of red plastic.
“Oi!”
The voice was booming and coarse. Was it from the flats? Was it nearer? Was it Alan Timson … or somebody else? Liam Northcott didn’t wait to find out. He sprinted towards the far block of flats, and then, as planned, passed through a gap in the hedge that preceded them. He had his whole route home mapped out, and had walked it in the dark in preparation. The planned route took him quickly to a bridge over a stream where he would ditch the hammer. But he didn’t go that way now; he just took the most direct route home. He slung the hammer into a bush in somebody’s garden. He then regretted leaving himself devoid of a weapon. It would take him twenty minutes to get home … twenty very long minutes. He felt stupid; he felt cheap that he’d stooped so low; he felt guilty; he felt fear. He ran like his life depended on it.
Farewell
The honking of a horn signalled that Noddy’s cab had arrived. Taxis were a rare luxury for him, but it was a hot day, and his one large suitcase, crammed with just about everything that he owned, would have taken some lugging through Leicester’s unforgiving jungle of concrete and tarmac. So he had allowed himself such an indulgence. He shook the hands of FT, Pompey, and Herbie in turn. Each said that they would stay in touch, but Noddy knew that he would almost certainly never see any of them again.