by Neal Bircher
She was kind of looking forward to telling Nick the news, but then she was also apprehensive. It certainly wasn’t something that was planned, but having had so much sex over the course of more than two months while the twenty-four condoms that she and Nick had bought between them remained unopened in their packets, meant that it was hardly a surprise to her, and she rather hoped it shouldn’t be to Nick either!
The car door was flung open, and in came a rush of cold mountain air, bringing with it a fair bit of fresh rainwater, followed by a buoyant Nick.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
Gail smiled. “Nothing.”
The Volkswagen campervan fired up, and edged its way noisily to the road.
“Perhaps we should have got one of those. It would have saved on hotel bills,” Gail suggested.
“Maybe next time,” said Nick, and Gail gave another smile, but only a weak one.
Nick kissed her, and then started the engine. He reversed, turning sharply to the right, so that the Celica was perpendicular to the edge of the loch. He paused for a moment to look over at his two discarded number plates that were drifting around a few feet out from the shore. He wasn’t really sure why he had thrown them in, but it seemed somehow symbolic. Then he did up his seat belt, pulled back onto the road, and put his foot down hard for the start of the long drive “home”.
Collaboration
It was Saturday morning and Dave Ferriby was alone in the office. He was talking on his desk phone. He held the receiver in his left hand and a ballpoint pen in his right, which was poised above a lined notepad.
“Are you a hundred percent sure that it’s him?” he asked. He nodded as he listened to the reply, and made a scrawling note on the pad.
“And when was that?” More scrawling, followed by some listening.
“Yes, I’ll be there. How far is the airport from you?” He made one final note, nodding slowly again as he listened.
“OK, I look forward to meeting you. Thanks again for this, Craig – we really do appreciate your efforts.”
The call ended with a brief exchange of farewells. Then Ferriby sat back in his chair and punched the air. “YES!”
He tore the page of notes from his pad, grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, and practically sprinted from the room.
What I’m Looking For?
The Celica was eating up the miles on the journey south, as Gail and Nick had chosen only to stop once, for a brief “comfort break” – with coffee and doughnuts, at a motorway service station in Cumbria. They were now passing quickly through Derbyshire, and also through steady rain, as they had been for most of the day. For the most part there was little discussion between them as each was alone with their respective thoughts.
Gail wondered if she would be able to go back to work. She hoped so. Her manager had told her to “take as much time off as you need” after Barry’s death, although he probably hadn’t quite anticipated the turn of events that had occurred since making that offer. Yes, she wanted to get back to “normal” if she possibly could.
But there were other barriers to be overcome first: those things that she’d been keeping to the back of her mind, apart from the occasional slip, for the previous two months. There was the police, of course. But there were also her own relatives: She was dreading facing up to her mother for a start, but that dread paled in comparison to her fear of what Alan might have in store for her … and for Nick. And she felt physically sick at the thought that he might have an accomplice in her son, Stephen. She found herself questioning whether it had all been worth it, and the awful thought lurked that her life in the future might actually be even worse than it had been before. It didn’t do for Gail to think too much. She stared expressionlessly through the windscreen, fighting to hold back the growing sense of depression, and desperately hoping that Nick wouldn’t look at her.
Nick meanwhile was thinking about money. Having plenty of cash to spend and a carefree attitude to doing so had been enjoyably liberating. But now that the cash was gone, and along with it the freedom that it had brought, he felt quite deflated. He would have felt the same regardless of his and Gail’s “discovery” by the dreadful Billy, and the lack of funds would have had to bring the adventure to a close before long, without Billy’s intervention. He thought about what he would do for money when he got back. Going back to work was not an option as far as he was concerned, whether or not CountrySafe would have him. No, that career – that part of his life – was behind him for good – in both senses of the word. It was all just so unimportant. He would have Alyson’s thirty grand, to keep him going, and he could sell off his cars – all three of them – and get something more sensible, like a more modern Toyota than the Celica. He would find something to do with his life; there were always jobs behind bars if necessary. He smirked at the double-meaning of that phrase. Yes, he’d be OK. And as he thought on he realised that he was still liberated after all, and even began to feel enthused about the possibilities that his future had to offer. He put his foot down to propel the Celica faster towards the new life that he wanted to get on with.
Then he broke the silence between himself and Gail. “We’re going to have to work out where we’re going to live, aren’t we?”
Gail’s response was spontaneous, “Yes, we are,” she said, characteristically softly, and nodding her head as she did so.
“Don’t look at me!” she demanded of Nick, but he did, and he was smiling as much as she was.
Both of their smiles broadened when Nick continued, “I’ll see if there are any cottages going for rent in Arlesworth. If there are then we could probably get something sorted for soon after Christmas.”
Later, Nick put the U2 CD on once again, quite quietly. He cranked up the volume forI Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For, but he switched it off after that as he and Gail both returned to thoughtful silence.
Sorted!
It was Saturday afternoon and a buoyant Dave Ferriby was in a pub playing pool with Gary Brooks. They were on their second pint, and Brooks was winning two frames to nil. Ferriby was not fully into the swing of the game yet; he reckoned four pints to be his optimum pool-playing level.
“You see,” he explained to Brooks, whilst lining up a long shot to the far left pocket, “you can’t travel anywhere nowadays without being captured on CCTV.”
He fired off the hard shot. The cue ball travelled three quarters of the length of the table before cracking into his target red ball which rattled in the jaws of the pocket and then rolled lazily out to the middle of the table. Ferriby rolled his eyes and passed the cue to Brooks; they were sharing the cue as it was the only one in the pub that was anywhere close to being any good.
Brooks took the cue and eyed up a couple of possible shots. “Do you think it’s game on then?” he asked, stepping back and chalking the cue as he did so.
“Yep, pretty much so. They got a positive id on him, and they reckon he’s been staying in a pub there with a woman. Sounds very promising.”
Brooks potted one of the three remaining yellows and lined himself up nicely for the next one.
“When are you going?” He leaned over the table, lowering his chin onto the cue to blast the yellow into a corner pocket, and then screw back for the next one.
“Flying up there first thing in the morning,” Ferriby replied between sups of his lager.
Brooks eyed up his next shot. The pot would be easy enough but he’d have to come off three cushions to get onto the black. “Do you think the locals will be friendly?”
Ferriby took another swig. He could do with a fag.
“Dunno. The bobbies have been really helpful; done a great job with the id. Should be OK. The biggest problem with them fuckers is understanding the bloody accent!”
Brooks potted the yellow, but the cue ball finished straight in line with the black, giving him no angle to play with. He rolled into the black, leaving it safe, a couple of inches off the top cushion. “Well, best
of luck,” he said, with sincerity, meaning with the investigation, not the game.
Ferriby had two reds left. “We’re nearly there, mate,” he returned, before breaking off from the conversation to concentrate on the reds, both of which he banged in with a flourish. Then he stood back from the table to chalk his cue.
“Nearly there, mate. Get this one in the bag, then Wilson retires and I’m up for Inspector.” He took another sup of lager before adding “Easy!” with a large slice of irony.
“Sorted!” added Brooks.
“And if I don’t get it, then fuck ’em! I’ll go and find something better to do with my life.” He didn’t catch Brooks’ eye. He stared down the length of the cue; he was going for a long double on the black: an all or nothing shot.
“Fuck ’em! This time next year, Rodders …” He smacked the cue ball with venom; it powered the black hard into the far cushion, doubling it the length of the table straight into the near pocket to his left, just as he had planned. Except that the cue ball was still moving. It spun off the far cushion, arching back along the table and then seeming to pause agonisingly on the edge of a middle pocket, before spitefully dropping in.”
“We’ll call that three-nil then,” Brooks smirked, struggling to suppress outright laughter.
Ferriby glared at him in mock anger. “Yes, we will, you fucking jammy fucking bastard! Get me a beer before you get to find out what that fucking cue ball tastes like.”
13. Revelation
The Haystack
Having walked Gail to her home, or at least within sight of it, Nick turned and began the long trek back to his own house. He was well used to the near to three mile trip, and although it was always a bit of a drag at the end of a night, he still almost never took a cab.
The rain had intensified, which Nick rather enjoyed. He was getting near to Dray’s Bridge, and he smiled at the thought of himself and Gail on the canal bank only minutes earlier. There were three people coming towards him. It was one of the downsides of this walk: although he didn’t meet many people, when he did they were usually unsavoury-looking, and in dark places. These three were: a tarty-looking woman, whom he presumed to be a stripper from the Haystack, a muscular bald-headed man, who was probably one of their meat-headed bouncers, and an older man, most likely a Haystack customer. His guesses were likely to be right, but he also mused that they might instead be prostitute, pimp, and client. They all looked severe and miserable, and each hurried along with head down battling the rain. Nick did likewise, and passed them all without making any eye contact.
Back Home
It was just before eight o’clock in the evening when Nick pulled up the Celica outside Gail’s house. As they had agreed on the journey, Gail kissed him briefly, got out of the car, retrieved her suitcase from the boot, and headed to her front door. Nick re-started the Celica’s engine and waited to see Catherine answer the door and throw her arms around Gail. He then pulled slowly away. He was aware that he was about to be apart from Gail for a while, and he wasn’t particularly comfortable with that thought. He drove the short distance to the familiar territory of CountrySafe’s multi-story car park. He dug out his pass from his wallet and was surprised to find that it still opened the car park’s gate. He drove up the ramps to where he had left his van on the fifth floor. The old familiar tyre squeal made him feel as if he’d never been away. The van was exactly where he had left it – another mild surprise. Gail’s car was on the same floor too, along with six or seven others. He parked the Celica in a space away from any others and walked over to his van. A loud clanking sound echoing around the building indicated that someone had just walked in through the car park’s pedestrian gate, four floors below. Nick stopped to listen; there would still be some people working late … but also it was of course possible that the police had arranged that they would know if he used his pass. Whichever it was, he didn’t particularly want to talk to the person. He heard the doors to one of the car park’s two pedestrian lifts groan open, and then groan closed. Then followed some more groaning and creaking – he’d never noticed how noisy the lifts were before – as the lift made its ascent. It stopped, and footsteps echoed around from somebody walking across the floor below him. Then came the sound of a car starting, and seconds after that of its tyres screeching their way down the ramp. All clear again, for the time being. Nick glanced over at the floor’s CCTV camera, and then got into the van, which showed no signs of having been touched by anyone else while he was away. The old Reliant engine turned over slowly at first, but then fired up after a couple of attempts, and its little puff of blue oil smoke and cheery exhaust note brought a smile to Nick’s face. He patted the steering wheel and then took the van for a quick spin around floor five. But he wasn’t going to take it home: after spending most of the day driving, and most of the bits that weren’t driving sitting in service stations, he rather fancied the walk. So he parked the van back in its same space and headed out of the car park on foot. He was anxious about whom he might bump into on the CountrySafe premises, and he half ran up to the busy road in front of the site, which he then crossed to start the walk that he had covered thousands of times over the previous eight years. He knew exactly how long it would take – thirty-four minutes; in just over half an hour he would be back at his house to face whatever he might have to face. He had butterflies in his stomach about what that might be, but he’d done enough thinking in the car to put it to one side and move on for now. So he embarked upon his latest little journey with a spring in his step. The sights, the sounds, and the smells of each step of the familiar walk would be greeted by his senses as old friends, pleased to see him back.
He half ran again up the dark narrow lane that took him to a bridge over the railway, and then continued apace across that bridge, past the Carpenter’s Arms, scene of many a good beer-after-work night, and opposite that Meadow Park, scene of so many after-drink liaisons with Gail, opened up on his left. He smiled at the thoughts of those memories, and actually did jog the next few hundred yards. But then he returned to a walk as the Haystack loomed into view. Getting to the bridge over the canal before the pub he was half-expecting to see the yellow incident board still in place, still chained to its lamppost, still displaying its same message, and no doubt battered through bouts of beer-fuelled kicking practice. But he was pleased to see that it wasn’t there. He didn’t want to read it again; he knew what the words said.
At the middle of the now-infamous Dray’s Bridge he paused and, placing both hands on its low red brick wall, looked over into the dark murky water of the Grand Union canal below. He stared for a few seconds, then shivered, and moved quickly on; it wasn’t somewhere he wanted anybody to see him. He walked on, subdued for a while, but he quickly perked himself up again and reverted to his brisk pace and mood of anticipation. He passed just two other walkers on the rest of the route, both men in their forties, neither of whom he knew, and neither of whom showed any sign of recognising him.
The house was in darkness, and when he stepped through the front door a pile of post and an ice-cold room temperature indicated that nobody had been there for a while. The little red light on the base of the phone flickered to tell him that he had voicemails. Absentmindedly he pressed the button to play them; then he sat back on the blue sofa to listen. There were a lot of messages, most were blank, but there were real ones from, among others, his boss, his brother, a couple of journalists, and DI Wilson. All were asking questions; none of them telling him anything interesting. Only his brother, James, would get a call back, and even him, not just yet. There was also a message from Alyson, informing him that “Simon is prepared to give you five thousand pounds for your Porsche”.
“Fuck Simon!” Nick pulled the phone cable out of its socket.
He turned his attention to the big pile of post, and carried it through to his kitchen table. He couldn’t be bothered to look at it just yet though. He opened the fridge. It was almost empty, but, pleasingly, it did contain two cans of Stella Artoi
s. Slumping back down on the blue sofa, he switched on the TV and did a bit of channel-hopping. He hopped for a few minutes without finding anything of interest, and so turned his attention to stuff that he had recorded. He settled on football: Manchester United against someone foreign in the Champions’ League. He didn’t recall recording it, but must have done so, quite likely after a few beers, sometime before going away. Not having seen any news for two months he was completely out of touch with what was going on in football, and he didn’t really follow the Champion’s League anyway. Football was another nice little familiarity to come home to though and, like a lot of football supporters, much as he disliked Manchester United, and their miserable, nasty, gum-chewing manager in particular, he did rather enjoy watching them play. The two cans of Stella didn’t last too long, and he was feeling pretty hungry, so he stopped the TV, got up, and walked the five minutes to the parade of shops on Harlesham Road that could provide for his every need. First he stopped off at the grocery store / off-license on the corner, called “Savealot”. There were a few customers milling around as he pulled two four-packs of Stella from the fridge, but nobody that he knew. Even the man behind the counter was not the Indian owner, nor any of the members of staff that he knew well enough to talk to. He left with an odd mix of relief and disappointment that nobody seemed to have recognised him as the notorious local runaway murder suspect.