Love Sex Work Murder Page 2

  The title of this tome was simple enough, just the two words: “Michael Kelly”. But it was a weighty volume, carefully compiled by a multitude of authors over the course of more than six years. The read would not be too gripping for Ferriby, as he knew the plot well, and much of the detail by heart. Theft, dishonesty, drunk & disorderly, and ABH, were all terms that appeared with almost tedious frequency; possession of an offensive weapon – a knife – was also there, as were a whole host of drugs and motoring-related felonies: Michael Kelly – a 34-year-old Irishman – was a true regular. He was also well-known to murder squad detective Ferriby, having been a suspect in a fatal stabbing a year earlier. On that occasion forensics had proved him to be innocent. Well, not entirely innocent: he had been a central figure in the mass pub brawl in which the stabbing had occurred, but he hadn’t personally drawn a knife that time, or indeed fought with the victim. He’d spent a fair bit of time in Ferriby’s presence in Hanforth police station’s custody suite due to his unwillingness to give any information that might implicate the actual perpetrator, which meant that he wouldn’t say anything to exonerate himself either. Ferriby remembered it well. It had all been a game to Michael Kelly, who’d seemed to actually enjoy the experience. He had been released on police bail, from which he was freed once forensics identified the real killer, who in time confessed to the crime.

  Ferriby flicked through all the old hat in his file and found the one fresh piece of information that he was looking for, hand-written on a torn-off page of notebook that was slipped in at the back of the folder: “Last known address – Flat 2, 1314 Harlesham Road, West Norling”. There was no telephone number, but the page was dated just three months previously, and so had a reasonable chance of still being current.

  Ferriby and partner Gary Brooks climbed into their well-worn Ford Mondeo. It wasn’t a long drive: the murder investigation team of which they were part was based five miles from Norling, in the drab M25 town that was Hanforth. Brooks drove, but paused first to take a cigarette from one of three packets that lay on the dashboard (the other two were empty) and light it up to add one more microscopic layer to the nicotine veneer that coated the car’s interior. Brooks’ excuse for smoking in his police car, should he have been challenged, would have been that it aided undercover work. But that probably wouldn’t have prevented him from being reprimanded.

  “Filthy fucker!” commented Ferriby. He was a smoker too, but tended not to do so whilst on duty, unless he was feeling particularly miserable or stressed … which was actually quite often.

  The two detective sergeants had spent a long and boring few days speaking to drinkers who were in the two pubs that Barry Timson was known to have visited on the night of his death: the Blue Anchor, known locally as the “Wanker”, and, very late on in the evening, the Haystack. The days were long because there were a lot of people to speak to, and they were boring because most of those people had nothing interesting to say. However, one snippet that had emerged was the fact that Michael Kelly had been present in both pubs during the course of the evening in question, and had probably even played pool against Barry Timson in the Blue Anchor. These things, combined with his failure to come forward as a potential witness, had led to the visit that was about to be paid to his latest known abode.

  Their route took Ferriby and Brooks past the Haystack, where a yellow incident board implored those with information about the shooting of Barry James Timson to share it with the police. Ferriby tried to picture the scene when Barry Timson fell from the canal bridge parapet whilst another man looked on, smoking pistol in hand. Ferriby was unconvinced that a shooting was really Michael Kelly’s sort of thing, but for somebody with his kind of trouble habit it had to be a possibility. It was certainly worth bringing him in for questioning, to at least see what information could be gleaned from him.

  Ferriby shared the view of his boss, Detective Inspector Ray Wilson, that once they’d got a few statements together, a picture would quickly emerge, and the case prove to be an easy murder to solve. “Straightforward domestic one-off,” Wilson had predicted, “probably not even pre-planned. Let’s see if we can get it wrapped up before the week’s out.”

  Harlesham Road was the wide, busy, and very noisy main route linking the town of Harlesham, which was Hanforth’s just-as-drab neighbour, with, eventually, the centre of London. Number 1314 was a member of one of a series of tall run-down red brick Victorian terraces that flanked the Norling section of it. Gary Brooks parked the Mondeo on double-yellow lines outside, and the two detectives waited for their back-up of two Detective Constables who would carry out a search of Michael Kelly’s home whilst Brooks and Ferriby dealt with the man himself. When the DCs pulled up in their own Mondeo, Ferriby stepped out onto a wide and dirty pavement and indicated to them to wait where they were. Brooks joined him and threw down his near-finished cigarette to snuff it out under his shoe. The two of them then instinctively and simultaneously looked up to survey the imposing building in front of them. Ferriby wondered which dirty sash window – if any – their quarry lay behind. He was very familiar with this strip of houses, which were all converted into flats, bed-sits, or dowdy B&B accommodation. It was a haven for what he would call “low-life scum”, and he had called in to pick up its residents on many occasions over the years. Two of the houses were effectively brothels, and at least another two played host to lower-end-of-the-market drug commerce activity. This particular address though was not, as far as he could remember, one that Ferriby had had the pleasure of setting foot in before.

  There were five door bells. Ferriby plunged his thumb aggressively into the one marked “flat 2” and held it there for several seconds. When there was no quick response he rang each of the other bells as well, and then stood back and waited. Textbook professional police officers would have covered any alternative exits before telegraphing their arrival from the front of the building, but Ferriby and Brooks did not. They didn’t, partly because they couldn’t be bothered, but also because in Ferriby’s view Michael Kelly’s style was not to do a runner – he would probably rather face the music and enjoy the sport that came with doing that.

  There was a long pause before an overweight woman in her sixties dragged the door open. She wore a crumpled apron and had a cigarette hanging from her down-turned mouth. She looked on with resigned contempt as the two police officers showed their warrant cards and pushed past her.

  The “flats” were in fact bed-sits, or in other words, rooms. Michael Kelly’s was on the first floor, but the woman didn’t know whether he was in. “It’s none of my business what they get up to.” She didn’t follow the police officers up the stairs.

  Ferriby and Brooks quietly let themselves in through the unlocked door of Michael Kelly’s room, and paused to survey the scene. Before them was a medium sized bedroom that was probably not quite the mess that they had imagined it would be. The weak sunshine had little difficulty penetrating a pair of paper-thin flower-patterned curtains to reveal a little old wardrobe, a chair piled high with an assortment of clothing, a crumpled black suit jacket strewn onto a threadbare brown carpet, and a king-sized bed. A clammy stench of exhaled alcohol fumes and stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. Michael Kelly was there too, his short wiry frame flopped face down on top of the bed, wearing black suit trousers, matching well-polished Gucci shoes, grey braces, and a cream Pierre Cardin shirt.

  Ferriby noisily drew open the curtains and turned to face the bed. Michael Kelly’s face was deathly pale, and very still.

  “Good Afternoon, Michael!” Ferriby boomed unsympathetically. Michael Kelly’s left eyelid flickered and then hesitantly opened to reveal a tired bloodshot eye. It closed again.

  “Hello David,” came a muffled reply from the pillow. Michael Kelly rested for a few more precious moments before raising himself up and turning around to look at his visitors. His thick curly black hair stuck out in all directions, and a multi-coloured few-days-old black eye contrasted with his otherwise grey-white complexio
n. He looked a wreck, and was clearly suffering from a serious hangover.

  Michael Kelly summoned enough energy to croak sarcastically, “Dave … and the ginger fella; how nice of you to drop in.” Then he leaned over the side of the bed to extract a cigarette packet and a throwaway lighter from his jacket pocket. There was only one cigarette left, and he placed it between his lips. “Sorry boys; if you’d let me know you were coming… ” He lit the cigarette, crushed the packet in his hand and then threw it into a copper-coloured bin, where it joined several more packets and an empty vodka bottle.

  “Looking smart, Michael,” complemented Ferriby.

  “Casino, Dave. Jesus, is it only twelve o’clock? I have not been home three hours. Could you boys not come back for me a little later?”

  “No, Michael, I’m afraid we can’t, and it’s ‘Detective Sergeant Ferriby’ to you. Did you win anything?”

  “Did I fuck!”

  Ferriby was happy to enter into the cheery chat of Michael Kelly’s sort; it certainly beat the more popular aggressive style of the kind of meat-headed thug that he encountered all-too-often in his line of duty. But underneath he despised Kelly as much as he did any criminal … probably more than most. You see, Michael Kelly would be termed by many to be a “loveable rogue”, and Ferriby’s view of loveable rogues was that they were anything but loveable. They were all well and good – sometimes even quite amusing – from a safe distance, but quite repulsive to anybody who became one of their victims. And in Ferriby’s experience these types were at least as likely to thieve from – or in any other way shit on – their so-called mates as would any other type of crook. In short, to him Michael Kelly was scum – and scum of a pretty low order.

  Ferriby cut the chit-chat, and, with a degree of relish, informed Michael Kelly that he was being arrested on suspicion of the murder of Barry James Timson. Michael Kelly showed no surprise, and listened patiently whilst Ferriby cautioned him.

  “… anything that you do say may be given in evidence.”

  Michael Kelly shrugged. He appeared completely relaxed, and was more than happy to accompany the two officers to the police station. His confidence was born not through cleverness or necessarily any knowledge of innocence, but through a level of arrogance that meant that he really didn’t care.

  Michael Kelly threw on his crumpled suit jacket and the three men made their way downstairs.

  “Sorry for the intrusion, Mrs Scrase, but I’ll be away with me two friends for maybe a day or so.”

  “Well it’s none of my business what you get up to, Michael, but just you mind your rent gets paid up or you’ll find yourself out on the street again.”

  “Thanks, Mrs Scrase. Thank you; that’ll be no problem at all.” And then under his breath: “Ye sour-faced ald fucking witch!”

  As the party exited the house the two detective constables from the second Mondeo pushed past a further resigned Mrs Scrase to go in and commence their work. Michael Kelly took his time getting into Ferriby and Brooks’ car. He looked around the street and up at the house, hoping to be seen being ushered into the back of a police car. But if anybody was looking then they were not making themselves visible.

  As the car pulled away Michael Kelly looked back at the house once more with a “might be the last time I see that place for a while” look on his face. But Ferriby knew that that wouldn’t be the case. Kelly would not ask for a solicitor, but he would be as awkward as he possibly could, and would more than likely eventually come up with an apparently cast-iron alibi. He was a compulsive liar, and so would in all probability make up a story regardless of whether or not he was guilty. But he would make it realistic enough that it would need to be looked into. There would not be sufficient evidence to hold him while the story was being checked out, meaning that he would be back at his local whilst Ferriby and some other poor honest sods worked all hours to find out whether he was telling them porkies.

  Brooks chose the route again that took them past the Haystack and its associated incident board.

  “Nasty business that, eh, Dave? Don’t know what this ald town’s coming to!” Ferriby ignored Kelly, lit himself a cigarette, and took a long deep drag. He blew out a stream of smoke and thought of the crap day that lay ahead of him. Also, as so often, he asked himself what the fuck was he still doing in his misery of an occupation.

  Party

  It was the morning after yet another late night party for Nick, and he awoke reluctantly and wearily focussed on his alarm clock. It was seven o’clock – indecently early for anyone suffering a raging hangover – and he cursed his luck for not sleeping in any later. One saving grace was that it was Saturday – so no work, and another was that Alyson was away for the weekend and thus unable to torture him further with something horrific like a clothes shopping trip.

  He laid his pounding head back on the pillow and closed his aching eyes. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, but he was equally sure that he didn’t want to get up. He had little recollection of the previous evening, but he had a horrible suspicion that it might have been one of those nights that would result in him having to apologise to somebody. He had no specific reason for thinking this, just a gut feeling that so often accompanied a hangover of such scale. With some trepidation he tried to think back through those flashes that had managed to remain in his memory.

  The occasion had been a joint leaving do for three former graduate trainees who had each been with the company a couple of years, and the main event was a party at one of their student-style houses. Graduate trainees at CountrySafe Insurance tended, as anywhere else, to lead active social lives, and that, combined with their exposure to different parts of the company, as well as their reputations for hosting quality piss-ups and having lots of young and attractive friends, led to such events being very well attended.

  The night had started early for Nick at a pub called the Red Lion, where he had met up with, among others, Pete Little. He recalled a growing throng of colleagues and associates gradually taking over the pub’s floor space whilst he (and, no doubt, most of the others) slipped comfortably through ever increasing stages of drunkenness until it was time to move en masse and transfer to the party house. That part (the pub) was reasonably clear, but beyond that he struggled for any recollection, until … yes … he could see himself falling clumsily out of a car – presumably a taxi. And a taxi was an unusual thing for him, unless … unless he was sharing with someone … which of course he had been. It was that woman from Marketing, wasn’t it? Gail Timmings, or something. He’d only met her once before, and that had been some months before when he’d had to speak to her about her work. “Timson”, that was it!

  And then some more images began to return. He saw Gail Timson about to exit the taxi and then himself stopping her to kiss her goodnight. Her reaction he was unable to recall, but her hurrying up to her front door and going inside without glancing back, he was. So there for a start was one potentially embarrassing next encounter – his gut feeling had, as usual, been correct. His hangover felt like it was taking a turn for the even worse, but yet further glimpses of the evening that had brought it about started coming into focus.

  He had arrived at the party house to find it thronging with people, and somebody had guided him to a bowl of lurid punch ... He was talking to Pete Little a fair bit and for the most part of the evening had cans of strong lager in his hand; a vision of a bin full of the things, surrounded by melting ice cubes, came floating back … He was in the main room and, as ever, only females were dancing to the music; he and Pete Little looked on and drank like sad blokes at a nightclub ... The company babe – 21-year-old Emily Noakes – was there, and Pete was drooling. Nick’s eye though was drawn to a much more stylish and sensuous dancer with her: one Gail Timson.

  He was talking to people, lots of people. He had an earnest conversation with Gail Timson, but he’d no idea of the subject matter, or for how long the conversation had gone on.

  “Nice arse, your frien
d,” said Pete Little. “Not bad for an old one. Probably the best bum in the office.”

  Nick couldn’t disagree with the sentiment, but chose to ignore the cringe-worthy comment.

  Things went rather blurred from then until the point of Gail Timson’s departure from the taxi. There had been two other people in it but they had got out earlier. He hadn’t a clue who they were.

  Nick squeezed his eyes shut and swore at himself. He was never going to drink again, and he most certainly didn’t want to bump into Gail Timson for a long time. But he knew of course that he’d be breaking that first conviction, probably before the day was out, and he wasn’t so sure that he really meant the second one either.

  Cab Drivers

  One of the many frustrations of Dave Ferriby’s occupation was that people who thought that they were being helpful could bring as much grief to his life as those who were actually trying to do so. Well-meaning members of the public (or “stupid plebs” in Ferriby’s parlance) were hopelessly unreliable, and their inconsistencies, exaggerations, excitability, and general all-round dithery natures made them at times the most irritating creatures to deal with. He didn’t generally take too much notice of what they had to say, but as there was often little else to go on, listening to plebs was a necessary inconvenience of the job. An essential acquired skill therefore of the successful detective was the ability to sieve wheat from chaff (the plebs themselves as well as what they had to say).

  Much of the early part of any inquiry involved a lot of such sifting, and the bigger the profile of the inquiry, the greater the number and the enthusiasm of plebs spewing forth mountains of irrelevance. And the “Dray’s Bridge murder” was just the sort that had them queuing around the block.

  Having chosen to begin with the customers of the two pubs of Barry Timson’s last night, Ferriby and Brooks had since moved onto a smaller, but potentially more productive, group – the local population of minicab drivers. And this group itself broke down into two sub-groups: there were the drivers for the local firms, all of whom had been traced and contacted, and there were those from slightly further afield that had come forward to volunteer information.