Love Sex Work Murder Read online

  LOVE

  SEX

  WORK

  MURDER

  Neal Bircher

  Edition 1.1

  Copyright © 2015 Neal Bircher

  All rights reserved.

  Prologue

  Gail slid her fingers slowly from her lover’s neck, up and across the back of his newly-cropped hair. A gorgeous tingling sensation rippled through her whole body.

  Although it was springtime already, huge snowflakes were falling from the night sky, silently casting a pristine white blanket over the village.

  Inside her cottage Gail was cosy and warm.

  Her TV flickered quietly in a corner of the room. Gail had missed the end of the film she’d been watching, lost in better thoughts. She gently kissed her lover’s ear. He turned to kiss her on the lips. The kiss lingered, and Gail knew that they would soon be making love. She shivered with blissful contentment. Life was now so good. In fact, as far as she was concerned, it was perfect.

  She kissed her lover’s forehead, and then kissed his ear again, softly whispering the words “I love you” as she did so.

  1. Death of a Railman

  The Start

  Nick Hale burst through a set of double doors crudely marked “Special Project Team” and embarked upon a chain of events that would spectacularly change the course of his life. He went to the nearest person – an Asian male in his late teens, who was tending to a printer – to ask directions.

  “Her desk’s over there, mate; that’s the top of her head the other side of the partition.”

  There were about forty desks in the open-plan room, each surrounded on three sides by low dividing partitions. There were many tops of heads bobbing around, but the one that Nick had been pointed towards was still, and was some way off, near the far end of the room. He approached slowly; he was always nervous when meeting somebody new at work, especially if he was going to have to act professionally in their presence.

  The chain of events would destroy Nick’s career.

  The people in this office made up the “Special Project Team” referred to on the doors that Nick had come through. They had been brought together to deliver a secret initiative in a stress-inducing unfeasible timescale. Some scurried around with bits of paper in their hands, and in an area to Nick’s right others were partaking in a frenzied meeting.

  Gail Timson’s hands were buried deep in her auburn (dyed) hair as she held her head and stared intently at a table of figures on her computer screen. Nick came around her desk and stood beside her; she hadn’t noticed him approaching. He cleared his throat.

  “Excuse me… Gail Timson?”

  She turned around wearily and at first seemed to struggle to register his presence. And then, as if waking up, she snapped into conversation.

  “… I’m sorry! You must be the man from I.T.”

  She was in her late thirties and wore large teacher-like glasses. Her attire – cream cardigan over mauve top with long black skirt and black heeled shoes – was professional, but not severe. She did though seem to be quite serious.

  “Yes: Nick Hale. Hi!” He held out his hand. “If it’s an inconvenient time …?”

  She shook his hand. “No, no, I could do with a break. Can I get you a coffee?”

  Gail Timson pulled up a chair for Nick from an unoccupied desk and made for a coffee machine through a nearby door. Her movements were hurried but somehow stylish, the long skirt flowing elegantly with her.

  The chain of events would transform Nick’s love life.

  Nick cast an eye around her desk as he waited. There was little character to it, probably due to Gail Timson recently moving from a previous “day job” in a different building. A businesslike calendar was pinned to the partition, a few neat piles of paper adorned the desk itself, and a single pen rested on Gail Timson’s computer keyboard. Under the desk a plastic crate was full of files – further office move evidence. The single real indication of a human presence was a small and rather scruffy (home-made?) teddy bear sitting discretely in a corner, with the words “I love you” sewn onto its chest. It was clearly a gift; Nick wondered who might have given it.

  Gail Timson returned. Nick’s brief was to get to understand her job role in the Special Project Team, and then work out which parts of it could be automated.

  She described what she did clearly whilst he asked questions and took notes. When she pointed out things on her screen she and Nick were necessarily sitting in close proximity. Nick’s mind wandered as he felt physical warmth through her closeness, and he wondered if she noticed it too.

  Gail Timson spoke softly and matter-of-fact – professional, conscientious, but not very interested. Her eyes were dark, deep, and … enchanting. Nick couldn’t help himself holding her gaze for that fraction longer than necessary on two occasions, but he didn’t detect any kind of response.

  It was time to go. Nick thanked Gail Timson for her time and for a second time shook her hand. Her handshake was dainty and warm, but its brevity disappointed him: a lingering extra half a second would have been very nice.

  And then he said something really stupid: “Right then, I’ll see if I can work out how we can automate this… and do you out of a job!” … which he followed with a nervous half-laugh. He tried to stop his mouth saying something so naff as soon as his brain caught up with it, but the words were at his lips and by then the horse had bolted.

  She could have scowled or said something cutting, but Gail Timson didn’t. “Fine by me,” she said, and seemed to mean it. She even followed with a brief, perhaps understanding, smile.

  Nick left feeling better than he could have, but still even less comfortable than when he had arrived. Walking back he thought again about from whom the teddy bear might have come, and he couldn’t help but feel a touch of envy.

  “Well?” enquired Pete Little, the tecky in Nick’s team, who would be making the changes to the system that Gail used.

  “Fine: It was all pretty straightforward. We should be able to knock up a couple of screens easily enough.”

  “Fuck that, Nick! What about the bird?”

  “Oh! No. Nothing special; a bit past it really – pushing forty I reckon.” And for the second time in a matter of minutes Nick felt the wish to eat his words.

  Later, it being Friday, Nick went for after work beers with some workmates in a rough pub called the Pilot that was local to their office, in the downbeat West London suburb of Norling. Nick and his colleagues chose the Pilot largely because late on Friday nights it hosted a karaoke competition: something in which they all partook with relish. Nick’s partner of seven years, Alyson, worked in the city of London, and she too went out on the town with colleagues, albeit to more upmarket establishments. The two of them arrived home at around midnight, shared a half bottle of wine that had been chilling in the fridge since the previous Sunday, before retiring to bed. Their sex was brief and unadventurous, but for Nick it was a change from the usual, as, for possibly the first time ever, he fantasised about a woman who was quite a few years older than himself.

  The chain of events would see four people die.

  Cause of Death

  Barry Timson’s death was not a dignified one, but at least it was over quite quickly. He was still alive – just – at the moment, one wet September Saturday night, that his fourteen stone frame plunged head first into the miserable grey murk of the Grand Union Canal. But he had no chance of survival, and for only a few desperate minutes his fading inner organs grasped at last soggy straws of existence before succumbing to death’s inevitable clutches.

  In less time than he’d taken to consume his final beer, the husband, father, grandfather, amateur football manager, and “41-year-old rail worker” became a cold corpse, h
anging in grubby algae, like some bloated jellyfish. The next morning he was first an inconvenience to a cyclist whose quest for leisurely Sunday exercise his discovery interrupted, and then a source of fascination for a throng that quickly gathered on the canal’s towpath, citing a drunken fall, a heart attack, or “probably a fight”, amongst a range of possible causes of death.

  A more likely culprit than any of these suggestions came to light under the later examination of pathologist, Dr Gordon Blackwell: A single small-calibre bullet had entered Barry Timson’s chest from the front and become lodged in the back of his rib cage, having first passed right through the centre of his heart.

  Unthinkable

  Gail Timson had a quiet night in alone. Well, it wasn’t entirely quiet, and she wasn’t exactly alone, because she had her daughter Catherine’s baby son to keep her company and keep her occupied. Her husband Barry was at the pub, as often on a Friday; her fifteen-year-old son Stephen was out somewhere, as ever; and her daughter Catherine, aged seventeen, was out for the first time since giving birth six weeks before.

  The evening began for Gail, as did almost every night, with a rush home from work to perform her motherly feeding duties for her family. It was though no surprise that only Catherine was waiting for her, or that she didn’t want anything to eat. It was no surprise because it was quite normal, but it was also no problem, because, if the truth be told, Gail was rushing home too through eagerness to spend her first time alone with her grandson, whose name was Ben.

  It took Catherine an age to get ready for her evening out. Then, when her friends eventually called to collect her, a protracted farewell, followed by one more repetition of a verbal “how to look after a baby for three hours” set of instructions that she’d prepared for her mother, almost ended with a change of heart. The friends however were persuasive and, after some more commotion and a few tears, Gail was truly relieved when the front door finally closed and excitable voices faded away on the other side of it.

  That was just short of seven thirty, and it would be some time after pub closing before any adult or adolescent presence returned to the house. Gail took the baby from his cot and laid him down on her lap. He was fast asleep and would be likely to stay that way for much of the evening. Gail gently traced the contours of his little nose with her forefinger. People said that it was her nose. She smiled at the thought, then closed her eyes and rested her head back against the chair, still smiling. Peace ... and rare time with her own thoughts.

  The TV remote was by her side, but there it remained. She thought back to when her own children were so young – yesterday, or so it seemed. She moved on a few years and saw Catherine, aged three, running around on a beach with a floppy sun hat and enormous smile. The image was in black and white and had the flicker of an old cine film; fourteen years was an age, a generation, or no time at all. She thought of the sullen teenager, and how she too was now a mother herself. Gail shook her head to confirm that it wasn’t a dream – or maybe a nightmare, but no, it was real enough, and here was baby Ben to prove it.

  Ben smiled up at her; she smiled back and gazed into his beautiful deep blue eyes. They really were a lovely blue, not seen anywhere else in the family; it must have been inherited from his father. Gail’s stomach knotted and she shuddered at that thought. She was well aware that she might never know the identity of Ben’s father, but it didn’t stop her hurting whenever the thought – as it did so often – crossed her mind. She cursed herself for bringing up the subject, but it didn’t stop her once more delving deeper into the obvious questions that followed: Was he one of Catherine’s group of friends? Could he be one of Steven’s mates ... or maybe Barry’s … even her own?

  Gail had studied them all, looking for a sign. What sign she didn’t know – pride maybe? She’d looked hard for it for a long time, but without success. Now that Ben was born though she had other clues to look for too: deep blue eyes, for example.

  She wondered again whether anybody else knew who the father was, and she desperately hoped that if Catherine hadn’t told her then she wouldn’t have told anybody else either. She wondered if the father himself knew, and was unsure if she wanted it to be the case. She even wondered if Catherine knew, and she winced at the thought that she might not.

  In time the subject would become less painful. However, like the death of a loved one, or the break-up of a relationship, it had to be confronted, and it had to be allowed to shock until it wasn’t so shocking anymore. Then it could be parked in a corner of her mind like some ugly heirloom in the attic, hidden well away with all her other painful memories, but, like the others, there to be dusted off from time to time just to remind of its existence.

  Then, against her sensible will, Gail allowed her mind to wander through that dusty attic, browsing those undesirable artefacts. There were of course deaths: her eight-year-old class-mate, Peter Swan, whom she had witnessed being run down by a school bus … and then there was her own father, only six years later. She winced again and quickly put those two back to rest. But there were other more recent additions. The child that never was … she moved on quicker still, to Barry and … no! She wasn’t going to go there; and then to her own health problems. She sat back and instructed her mind to change the subject matter.

  But if Gail tried to think of something else there was nothing to think about. Surely there should be? She wondered what other people thought about when on their own for a night, and she asked herself what was missing from her life. It was a heavy question, and not one to which she had much of an answer. She wondered why she had never really asked the same question before, but then she realised that she had done, many times … just not quite so consciously. And when she had asked before she’d come up with some answers, which on reflection maybe weren’t answers at all. She’d found things to fill the void, but without knowing what was missing from the void in the first place. Her Open University degree – completed only a year before, after five years of effort – was an achievement, but to what end, and who cared? There was football: she’d played for the first time at the age of thirty-two and quickly became something of a fanatic, but that enthusiasm had faded away some years ago now. And then of course there was the gun club. Whatever, she asked herself, was that all about?

  Gail felt empty and anxious, frightened even, and certainly miserable, but without really knowing why.

  Ben gave a gurgle and then burst into cry mode. Gail expertly rocked him until the crying died down and in time was replaced by another smile. She smiled back again, and was genuinely happy, for the moment. She leant forward and kissed Ben’s forehead; his happy smile could make up for anything else ...almost.

  The evening wore on and Gail tired, drifting in and out of a mild sleep, alternating between dreaming for real, and daydreaming of how her future might be. One person who didn’t feature in any of her dreams that night was the man who’d come to visit her from I.T.

  Local Football Manager Dies in Shooting

  Police have launched a murder inquiry after the body of a local man was found in the Grand Union canal in Norling.

  Barry Timson (41), was discovered at around 10.30 on Sunday morning, near “Dray’s Bridge”, where Harlesdon Road crosses the canal. He had been shot in the chest, and is believed to have died sometime between midnight and 1 am.

  appeal

  Shocked local resident Glenda Keel said, “I was walking my dog along the tow-path, as I do every Sunday morning, and there were all these police and what have you. It’s just not what you expect in your local neighbourhood.”

  Police are yet to establish a motive for Mr Timson’s killing, and are appealing for witnesses to come forward. “This is a very sad case, particularly for Mr Timson’s family,” said Detective Inspector Ray Wilson, who is leading the police investigation. “We are pursuing a number of lines of inquiry, but as yet do not know who killed Barry Timson, or why anybody might have wanted to. I would ask anybody who was in the area of Dray’s Bridge or the nearby Haystack
pub on Saturday night, and who might have seen or heard something suspicious, to please come forward.”

  Mrs Keel said that this is a sign of the times. “I certainly won’t be walking my dog along the canal anymore,” she commented.

  popular

  Mr Timson, who was the manager of local amateur football club Meadow View Athletic, lived with his wife and two teenage children in Carmarthen Road, Norling.

  Chairman of Meadow View Athletic, Keith Powell, said that the whole club was in shock, and that Barry Timson was a very popular football man who will be sadly missed by everyone.

  fear

  Detective Inspector Wilson denied that Norling’s roads and footpaths were becoming “streets of fear”, despite this being the third murder in the area in less than a year. “People should always be vigilant, especially when walking alone at night,” he said. “However, there is no cause for alarm.”

  Anyone with information should contact the police incident room on 020-8569-1212.

  Michael Kelly

  The low late-September sun tried gamely to shine through a grimy window pane and cast light on Dave Ferriby’s cluttered desktop. Most of the pale rays that did succeed in getting through ended their long earthbound journey on one of a collection of over-stuffed dust-gathering cardboard files that were stacked haphazardly around the big desk’s coffee-stained surface. A small cloud arose when Ferriby threw another file down to join the gathering. He placed his plastic coffee cup next to it and drew a chair into place ready to sit down and “enjoy” a good read.