The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (12 page)

Ashley shook his head.”No reason, Rafi. No reason really.”

He looked over to the counter. Mr Patel was serving two elderly women and was deep in conversation with them. He thought about waiting, to say goodbye. He ambled over to the shop doorway and pulled the door towards him. The buzzer. Mr Patel looked up.

Ashley shouted over. “Mr Patel, Rafi’s a good boy. Don’t you forget it.”

Mr Patel gave a little wave, smiled and Ashley walked out into the bright sunshine.

A phone call to John Markham seemed like a good place to start. John had been good to Ashley as always. Even after his outburst with the Chief Superintendent of West Mercia Police.

He’d let the team down, Markham had said, let Roddam down who’d backed him all the way. But, most of all, the PC brigade had won. Another little victory, Holy John had described it, another good cop off the streets. He’d let Markham down alright, left his partner in the lurch. Ashley hadn’t regretted his decision but just couldn’t shake the guilt where John Markham was concerned.

Holy John had taken him out for a few drinks round Newcastle the night after he’d officially penned his resignation letter. He’d been advised to write this quickly before the suit managed to get back to Birmingham and to start formal proceedings for dismissal.

During their drunken night out ending up in a lap dancing club, Markham had suggested to Ashley that he let the bastards have it in his resignation letter.

“Tell the fuckers how it really is, Ash. Let them have it. Tell them what’s wrong with the force, tell them about the twats at the top. Give them it straight, three or four pages, maybe more, and make sure the letter finds its way to all and sundry in every division you’ve ever been involved with.”

Ashley, who pondered over the letter for most of the night, took it in to Roddam at eight thirty sharp the next day.

Roddam opened it. It read:
‘I resign.’

That was it.

Ashley thanked Roddam for his support, turned and walked out the door leaving behind a speechless superintendent.

“How’s it going, Holy John, still upset with me?” John Markham smiled on the other end of the phone. Of course, Ashley couldn’t see him, but something about the way he sounded told Ashley the man just couldn’t get upset with him; he was smiling, glad to hear his pal’s voice.

“I’m upset with you, you stubborn bastard, ‘cause Northumbria police have lost a good cop. You fancy another night on the tiles?”

“No, Holy John, I’m not sure I can handle another night out with you. What the hell do they wean you buggers on up on Holy Island. Raw alcohol?”

John Markham laughed.”It’s you toonies, man! Think you come from the big hard city and can drink for England. You’re even worse, Ash, ‘cause you’ve been softened up with all those years down south.”

“I can’t argue with that, John. Fancy a beer at dinner time? I’ve got a favour to ask you.”

* * *

Ashley sat in the Monkey Bar on Pilgrim Street. Only it wasn’t called the Monkey Bar. Never had been, never would be. It was just known as the Monkey Bar twenty years ago. John Markham walked in fifteen minutes late. He looked around the bar, spotted Ashley in the corner. Ashley gave a wave. John Markham spotted him, acknowledged the wave and walked over.

“The Monkey Bar, Ash? The fucking Monkey Bar? What century are you in, for Christ’s sake? I’ve been up and down Pilgrim Street four times looking for the bloody Monkey Bar.”

“So you found it, John, what’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem? I had to ring the lads at Market Street in the end, and one of the guys nearing the pension explained

where it is.”

“Sit down, Holy Man; I’ll get you a beer.”

Ashley stood up and wandered over to the bar. He could still hear John Markham muttering about the
fucking Monkey Bar
as he reached the counter.

He returned with a refill for himself and placed a glass on the table beside his ex-partner. John Markham took a long drink, drained half the glass with his first mouthful.

“Thirsty, John?”

“You could say that, Ash, had a shit of a morning. What about you, what you been doing with yourself?”

Ashley took a purposely slow drink of his beer, unsure how to approach the question he’d wanted to ask John Markham ever since he’d left Kate Wilkinson.

“C’mon, Ash, spit it out. I know when an ex-cop is after a favour. What do you want?”

Ashley laughed.”It’s as obvious as that, is it?”

“‘Fraid so, Toon Boy. ‘Fraid so!”

“Okay, bear with me. I need to tell you a story about a good pal of mine and his gorgeous, gorgeous mother.”

It took Ashley about thirty minutes to explain the facts as Kate Wilkinson had relayed them in her office. He explained why he’d called John Markham and figured that he had a foot in both camps, so to speak. If anyone could find out about a missing man last spotted on Holy Island, surely John Markham, Holy John, could.

“Only he wasn’t spotted, Ash, was he?”

“Well no, but–”

“Just a phone call from the lad telling his mother he was on the island.”

“Okay, I take your point, but why would he want to say he was on Holy island when he wasn’t? It doesn’t make any sense, John.”

John Markham looked up, caught the barmaid’s eye and signified two more drinks in the universal language of the invisible glass in quivering hand as his other hand signalled two… the polite way.

“I don’t know, Ash. I really don’t know. But you’re saying this lady, the lady whose hips you wanna dislocate–”

Ashley held up a hand.”Whoa, John, I didn’t say that. I just said how attractive she was all those years ago.”

“Is, Ash, you said is.”

“Okay, John, I said is… but look, man, we’re getting distracted here.”

It was Holy John’s turn to hold a hand up.

“Sorry, Ash. Sorry. I know, I’m changing the subject.”

John Markham looked at his watch.

“I’ll make some enquiries. Search around a little in the files. See if I can find out about your pal. But from here it looks as if he hasn’t even been to the island. We’ve an emotionally disturbed mother who’s convinced her son telephoned from there. But might he have said he’s going there perhaps? Planning a trip, maybe? Your lady, the one you wanna lay.”

“John… please.”

Another hand raised in the air by way of an apology, a mischievous grin.

“Okay, okay…” Another token sip from his glass then another question. “The islanders, Ash, how come they all said they’d never seen him? It doesn’t make any sense other than…” He paused, drew breath, took a drink from his glass and returned it to the table. Ashley Clarke hung on his words.

“… No sense at all, Ashley. I know those islanders, they’d want to help. My guess is that Tom Wilkinson has never ever been to Holy Island. My guess is that he never ever made it.”

John Markham left the Monkey Bar a little after two thirty. Ashley had convinced him to help. He’d agreed he would poke around a little in the old files of the investigation and even said he’d take a trip up to the island and
nose around
.

Good old Holy John, not many like him these days.

* * *

Three days after the meeting in the Monkey Bar Ashley’s mobile rang and the name
Holy John
flashed on the display.

“Holy John, how’s it going, buddy, how’s life treating those at the top?”

For once John Markham dispensed with all niceties and preambles.

“I’ve some news, Ash.”

“Go on.”

“Not the news you want to hear.”

Silence… for a split second, a hollow empty feeling and a knot beginning to form in the pit of Ashley’s stomach.

“A body’s been washed up on Redcar beach. A young male thirty to forty years of age. I’m sorry, Ashley.”

Ashley held his breath, took a bite at his bottom lip and held it there for a minute not enjoying the silence at the other end of the phone.

“No, John, no. It can’t be Tom. I mean surely, if it was Tom, the body would have been washed up long ago? It must be over two months.”

“It’s not unusual, Ash. The currents of the North Sea don’t really follow a pattern. That body could have been to Norway and back, and at two or three miles an hour how long do you think that would take? Some bodies get pulled out a few hundred yards and then get caught up on an inshore current. They can be washed onto a beach in twenty-four hours.” He sighed.”Some take much, much longer.”

Ashley thought again, he didn’t want to hear this news. He looked for excuses.”Probably just coincidence, Redcar must be a hundred miles away from Holy Island. Surely bodies don’t travel that far. It can’t be Tom. I mean, bodies just can’t float that far and how do you know it’s him? The body must be dropping to bits if it’s been in the sea that long and–”

Markham jumped in. Ashley knew why, his voice mellow, his voice soothing, sympathetic even, prolonging the inevitable.

“Firstly, Ashley, we don’t even know if he’s been to the island, he may have fallen into the sea off Redcar pier, for all we know but, yes, bodies can travel that far. In fact it’s not an unusual

occurrence.”

Ashley spoke.”But, John, it’s–”

John Markham interrupted again.

“I went up to the island. Roddam allowed me a couple of days to investigate, figured if anybody was suited to that job then I was. I found out Jack Shit, Ash. Nobody has ever heard of Tom Wilkinson and there are no records of him staying anywhere on the island. I’ve checked the visitors’ books of every place with a bed on the island, even the hotels and bed and breakfasts and campsites on the mainland. No one called Tom Wilkinson has visited the island or anywhere near it within the last year. No credit card receipts, no restaurant bills, nothing! I checked the gift shops, the post office, even the boats in the harbour doing the pleasure cruises.”

“But he would never leave a credit card receipt, John. He was strictly a cash man, didn’t believe in cards or cheques.”

“But if he stayed over there’d be a record in a guesthouse or a hotel, Ash.”

“Yeah, John, okay but the body, surely you can’t–”

“The body is remarkably well preserved, Ash. The North Sea is a cold place even in August. Sure the fish have had a go at him and I have been told by the Cleveland lads to try and persuade the mother not to take a look. He ain’t a pretty sight.”

“But ID, John, surely the mother will need to ID him?”

The silence at the other end of the phone told Ashley Clarke the answer he was dreading.

Almost a whisper now. John Markham was finding it difficult, he’d been trying to let Ashley down gently.

“Dental records, Ash. I’m sorry. We’ve had a positive ID.”

Another pause and an audible sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone.

“Tom Wilkinson is dead, Ashley. The body in the morgue at Middlesbrough Central is Tom Wilkinson.”

He remembered his old pal’s favourite saying. Ashley composed himself, tried to get practical, fighting the tears and the hurt and a feeling deep in his chest he’d never felt before. Not the separation from Alexis, not the death of his grandfather. His bottom lip quivered, he remembered how hard everyone thought he was, wouldn’t be appropriate for a tough northern copper to shed a tear. He thought of Kate, the feelings deep inside wouldn’t subside.

“Who tells his mother, John? Who breaks the bad news?”

“I hadn’t even thought of that, Ash. Roddam would have my balls if he knew I’d delivered the news to you first. He doesn’t even know. I’m on my way up to his office now, just as soon as I hang up.”

“Can I tell her, John? It would be better coming from me.”

A pause at the other end of the line. John Markham contemplating, John Markham wondering how he could bend the rules just a little more for the benefit of his friend.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, John, thanks. I really appreciate it.”

“I take it you’d rather tell her than a uniform gatecrash wherever it is she works. Does she work, Ashley?”

“Yeah, yeah, an office in Milburn House, Just Flirting, a dating agency. She’s the boss. Try and speak to Roddam, John. Tell him I’ve known the family for thirty odd years. I’ll jump in the car now. I can be with her in less than half an hour.”

John Markham hung up and promised he’d try his best. He’d pushed the risk boat out again for Ashley. The paybacks were building by the day.

* * *

Ashley Clarke made the journey from his apartment in Fenham to Newcastle city centre in less than twenty minutes. He cursed the lack of parking spaces in the city but nevertheless managed to find a space at the bottom of Dean Street and literally ran up the hill in the direction of Milburn House.

As he entered the foyer of the massive building he slowed down. He realised that in actual fact he didn’t really want to get there that quickly after all. The death march, his colleagues in the Met had called it. The worst job in policing. Telling a mother her child was dead. Far worse than being first on the scene of a fatal car crash, a murder or a suicide. Ashley had witnessed some horrific incidents in his police career but none came anywhere near telling a parent about the death of their child.