Read The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow Online

Authors: Ken Scott

Tags: #fiction, #thriller, #horror, #suspense, #action, #adventure, #bourne, #exciting, #page turner, #pageturner

The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (5 page)

BOOK: The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow
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Too much political correctness, too much paperwork, not enough hours ‘real policing’.

He walked out of the old Victorian concourse and into Neville Street and hoped…prayed… that perhaps the Northumbrian Force had somehow managed to escape the winds of change. As he ordered his first beer in the ‘Sour Grapes’, opposite Newcastle Central Station, he resigned himself to the fact that it probably hadn’t.

His new partner introduced himself as DC John Markwell.

“Nice to meet you, Ashley. I get called Johnny down here, sometimes Holy John.”

“Down here? I don’t understand,” replied Ashley. “And why Holy John?”

DC Markham laughed. “I come from Holy Island, up by Berwick upon —”

Ashley held up a hand.

“Don’t worry, Holy John, I know where you come from. St Cuthberts Island, the Holy Island of Lindisfarne. I spent time there as a teenager, a very pleasant evening with a girl called

Marie Cherrie from Dunbar.”

“You don’t say.”

“I took a group of youths on a fifty-three mile walk there in my early twenties; we camped out overnight once we made it. I loved the place, even managed to get back there a couple of times since.”

DC John Markwell beamed.”You did?”

“You sound surprised.”

“It’s just that… oh well, never mind, it’s just that we islanders are quite protective of the place. It seems that someone is always having a go at us, you know, wanting us to embrace change, move on, that sort of thing. It’s just such a special place and even in somewhere as close by as Newcastle people say Holy where?”

Ashley Clarke grinned, already warming to his new colleague.

“What do you expect, John? I mean, you buggers cut yourself off from the outside world twice every day.”

DC John Markwell smiled.”Yeah, I’m afraid we do. Nothing we can do about nature and the big man in the sky, I’m afraid. But there again, it goes to make the place a little different, a little special.”

Ashley dropped his Nike sports bag on DC John Markwell’s desk.

“So where do I make my pitch, Holy John? What side of the desk do I take?”

DC John Markwell looked a little sheepish.

“I’m afraid you don’t. We don’t have a personal desk in Northumbria Police, just a locker in the basement. You can use this desk any time you want, the phone, and of course the computer. But then again, so can another twelve DCs.”

Ashley shook his head.

“But we’ll get by, Ashley, don’t you worry about—”

“Ash! I’d prefer if you called me Ash. Let’s start off on the right foot.”

“Ash it is then.”

The two newly acquainted partners shook hands warmly, John Markwell placing his left hand on the back of Ashley’s right and squeezing gently as if they were long-lost buddies from way back.

“I’m sure we’re gonna get along just fine, Ash… just fine.”

They kicked off their first shift at six the following morning. DC Markwell had suggested an
intelligence day
taking Ashley through the police computer files and offloading the information held (and the hearsay) on the local villains.

Newcastle, like other big inner cities, was trying to stem the tide of drugs and control several warring factions vying to rule the roost. It was a never-ending battle, one the Northumbria Force seemed to be losing.

“There was a bit of a shoot-out two weeks ago, Ash. Sixteen of the fuckers met up in Leazes Park in broad daylight. It was supposed to be a battle of the hard men. But, as per usual, the side that were losing at the time pulled out some shooters. The other side responded and two of the poor bastards ended up in the morgue.”

Ashley shook his head. “I thought that only happened in The Smoke, occasionally on Moss Side in Manchester or Croxteth in Liverpool.”

DC Markwell drained the last of his coffee dregs.

“‘Fraid not, Ash, it’s happening here on Tyneside these days; five times last year, in fact. I can’t say I lost too much sleep over the bastards on the slab but I was sorry to say there’d be another two to replace them by the end of the same week.”

It was true.

Ashley Clarke had seen the same thing happen all too often in London. Two families, sometimes three, occasionally four, all wanting to be top dog… king of the castle. Reputation was all-important, the fear factor reigned supreme. It had been going on for centuries, glorified by the Krays and the Richardsons, portrayed on the silver screen as a glamorous occupation.

And that’s how they viewed it. An occupation.

The Newcastle villains were no different. They viewed themselves as businessmen and couldn’t really see what it was they were doing wrong. Protection, drugs and prostitution were their mainstay and it was certainly very lucrative. They turned a blind eye to the misery and heartache they caused threatening violence and death to anyone and everyone who stood in their way. They never wanted to notice the suicide of a failed businessman paying exorbitant fees for
protection
whose loans to the bank and tax payments could no longer be met. They never noticed the premature ageing of the teenage girls and boys they offered up for prostitution or the junkies they created at the drop of a hat.

Only last night, the front page of the Evening Chronicle had announced yet another drugged up twenty-year-old and a teenager murdered for a five quid wrap. They just turned the other cheek: the villains, the gangsters, the hard men.

Their ill-gotten gains from the seedier side of their work fronted up legitimate shops, garages and fast food restaurants and any other business they could buy into for a knock-down price.

It was DCs Clarke’s and Markwell’s responsibility to infiltrate those businesses and prove that they were there solely for the purpose of money laundering: turning dirty money into clean.

A month into the job and there was a breakthrough: the two partners had been tipped off. One of the city firms had been offering up crack cocaine at a quid a go. Worse still, it was being offered outside an East End school to the pupils.

The economics were straightforward; it was what was known as a ‘loss-leader’. The villains were prepared to forego the immediate profit on the sale at this early stage. They were creating an unlimited supply of future addicts who would stop at nothing to get future fixes. Crack cocaine is one of the most addictive drugs on the market, creating an incredibly intense high. The faster the absorption, the more intense the high. The effects are short-lived and, once the drug has left the brain, the user experiences a coke ‘crash’, generally depression, irritability and an overpowering urge to get the next fix as quickly as possible.

Ashley Clarke had seen it destroy whole communities all around London. It was an evil tide he was determined to turn away from Newcastle.

The villain at the top, Billy Graham, ran a fleet of legitimate, supposedly successful businesses but anybody and everybody knew they were being propped up by the income from drugs. Ashley had been briefed about him, given chapter and verse over the course of the last few weeks.

The two partners had been undercover for just over a week. Ashley had been placed on the street outside the school disguised as a roadsweeper. He’d taken the role to heart and hadn’t washed or shaved for a fortnight prior. He wore an old baseball cap that could literally walk home of its own accord and the standard issue orange overalls from Cityworks.

And he’d swept the two-mile long road from top to bottom for nine days now, so much so that it almost shined. DC Markwell had the slightly more pleasant job of sales assistant in the newsagent across the street that offered up a perfect view of the front of the school.

It also allowed a skilful listener to take in the conversations of the children coming and going several times a day. DC Markwell had heard enough of the dialogue to know that his intelligence reports were good. Nine days with a hard, cold-handled brush and DC Ashley Clarke wasn’t so convinced.

He whispered yet another car number plate into the handle of his brush that contained the microphone, back to the temporary operation room situated in a disused third-storey flat a hundred yards from the school. And he received the same reply he had heard for nine days: “It’s clean, Ash, belongs to a Mark Pickering from Longbenton. Outstanding parking fine and D & D in his youth.”

Ashley sighed, scratched furiously at his facial stubble, and wondered why the hell any man actually grew a beard. It was one of life’s unanswered questions, he thought.

He turned around at the top of the street to begin yet another long walk back towards the school. His feet ached now, as well as his hands, and his back cried out for mercy.

The black BMW X5 slowly came to a halt outside Four Lane Ends Metro Station. A thickset gorilla climbed from the passenger side, walked around the front of the car as if holding two imaginary medicine balls under each arm and began a conversation with the driver.

He flicked a casual glance at the streets around the concourse and Ashley whispered the details of the car number plate back to base.

The battered old Walkman earphone crackled into life.

“Villain, Ash. Big time.”

“Who?” he asked as he dragged his hand slowly across the bottom of his nose wiping away the not so imaginary snot and grime.

“The BMW belongs to Bulldog Billy Graham, recognised Godfather of the North Side. Two convictions for armed robbery, four for GBH. Served a total of sixteen years inside. He’s more astute these days and richer. Doesn’t get his hands dirty anymore.”

An interruption and Ashley recognised his partner’s dulcet tones.

“Ash, it’s me, John. Where is the car, can you describe the driver, what do the occupants look like? What —”

“Whoa, John. Steady on, one question at a time.”

“Sorry, Ash, probably not Bulldog driving anyway. If they really are about to do some dealing he wouldn’t be that stupid to get involved. A car’s on its way.”

Ashley spoke.”A gorilla is opening the back door, three youths have jumped out, two white guys and an Asian.”

Ashley manoeuvred the dustcart around, checked on the position of the video camera inside, and pressed record. Another voice interrupted his train of thought through his earpiece.

“Positive ID. We see him. I don’t believe it. What’s he playing at? It’s Bulldog.”

“You’re kidding me?” The hairs rose on the back of Ashley’s neck. He could almost smell the tension from his new partner in the newsagent’s and the back-up squad in the flat. Ashley remembered his Met training, took a deep breath.

“The youths are talking to the driver now. It’s three twenty-five. The school will be out in five minutes.”

The silence in the patrol room deafened Ashley as he continued.

“The BMW is pulling away. Driver only. Gorilla walking over to the Metro entrance and the three youths are walking in the direction of the school.”

Ashley’s earpiece crackled into life.

“Positive ID on the gorilla, team. Steve Macintosh, goes by the name of Mad Mac. Known as Bulldog’s right-hand man and has a reputation in a scrap to chew flesh if he isn’t getting his own way. He bit off a rugby player’s nose on Gosforth High Street a few years ago. He got away with it. Bulldog pulled six witnesses from the street, claimed the rugby player attacked Macintosh first.”

Then an instruction Ashley Clarke didn’t want to hear.

“You stick to him, DC Clarke. We’ve a car following Bulldog and a team on the youths. As soon as they start and deal we’ll let you know. That’s your cue to take Mad Mac. For Christ’s sake, don’t let him get on that Metro.”

Thanks a fucking bunch,
Ash thought to himself,
don’t I get any help?

Ashley reluctantly pushed his cart over towards the Metro and studied the small screen hidden deep within. He applied the brake and waited. More information through his earpiece told him the youths were all under video surveillance.

The BMW had been pulled over by the traffic police, the driver informed he’d strayed four miles over the speed limit, the two cops instructed to make him wait.

Ashley checked his watch and looked on as a few stray pupils walked up to the Metro. Four agonising minutes passed and then the command he was waiting for.

“Two youths dealing, Asian youth approaching a pupil as we speak. Go, team, go,” came the command from the excited team leader.

“DC Clarke, arrest Macintosh. Squad car 47, assist traffic police at Haddricks Mill Road immediately.”

Ashley Clarke took a deep breath and walked towards the gorilla leaning against the advertising hoarding at the entrance of the Four Lane Ends Metro. It was as if he’d sensed the scruffy specimen standing staring at him wasn’t really the man he pretended to be.

“What the fuck are you looking at, you dirty cunt?”

Ashley composed himself, took a deep breath and willed himself to be just that little bit more intimidating.

It often worked: a confident demeanour and aggressive speak generally caused an opponent to back down, but this time he wasn’t so sure it would.

“I never really believed the rumours that Mad Stevey Mac was that ugly but, sure enough, it’s true.”

BOOK: The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow
7.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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