The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (9 page)

“Roddam has pulled rank. As soon as you issue an apology you’re back on the job!”

“A what?”

“An apology. A little black mark on your record admitting you were out of order, you made a bad choice of words, an error of judgement the politicians call it. The suit has his little victory but a good cop still keeps his job.”

Ashley looked up.”No disciplinary hearing?” “Just a routine interview.” John Markham was now grinning. He pulled out a sheet of paper from his hip pocket. “Rod dam’s even drafted it out for you. Of course it needs to be in your handwriting but have a read.” Ashley took the A4 sheet of paper and began to read.

It was a familiar name but one he couldn’t place straightaway. She sounded familiar too and, by the tone of her voice, she obviously knew him. And then it clicked.

“Jesus…” he whispered under his breath as the blast from the past came back to him. He’d been in the same class as her son, Tommy Wilkinson. Of course, how could he forget?

Tom had been one of his gang in secondary school. He’d spoken to him only a few months ago when Tom had been travelling. Kate, his mother, had been one of the youngest and, yeah, sexiest mothers at the school gates. She’d had Tom at about fifteen years of age. Ashley figured out the maths: she’d be in her early fifties now.

“Jesus,” Ashley whispered quietly as his hand covered the telephone receiver remembering how good she’d looked all those years ago.

Lost in his thoughts, he became aware of a nervous voice, a sad voice on the other end of the phone. Kate exchanged the usual pleasantries, said she’d heard he was back in Newcastle.

“How’s Tom doing then?”Ashley asked.”What’s he up to these days?”

A split second or two of silence, a sigh, then Kate Wilkinson dropped the bombshell.

“You don’t know, Ashley, do you? Tom’s been missing for nearly two months.”

It was Ashley’s turn to take a deep breath.

“He’s what?”

“Missing, Ashley. He’s bummed around ever since he left school, travelled the world, only ever kept a job long enough to save up enough money for his next jaunt. I’d like you to try and find out what happened to him.”

“He’s missing?”

“Missing, Ashley. The police don’t want to know; quoted some crazy figure about the number of people that disappear each year.”

“But me? Why have you chosen to call me?”An uncomfortable couple of seconds’ delay ensued. It seemed like an eternity.

“Two reasons, Ashley. The first is fairly obvious. You knew Tom, knew him very well. I’d like to think you cared for him, cared enough to want to find him.”

Ashley couldn’t argue with that; he found himself thinking back to the good times Tom Wilkinson and he’d had together, the scrapes they’d got into. He was no angel, a bit of a risk-taker. Ashley had liked that. He answered almost instinctively.

“Sure, Mrs Wilkinson, sure. And the second reason?”

“I’d … heard …. errr, you might have a little time on your hands.”

The sentence hit Ashley like a hammer. He paused… took a deep breath.

“Bad news travels fast. Who spilled the beans?”

“I’d rather not say, Ashley. And one other thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Call me Kate. You’re not fourteen anymore.”

Ashley chuckled.”I suppose it’s habit. I guess I’m thinking back to those days again. You’ll always be Tom’s mother, I suppose.” Tom’s mother, he thought to himself. Jesus, he’d had such a crush on her. Occasionally he’d read stories in the newspapers about frustrated housewives who every now and then took a schoolboy lover, and he’d prayed that Kate Wilkinson, Tom’s mother, would do it to him. Of course, it wasn’t to be. No such bloody luck. And why had the dozy fifteen- and sixteen-year

olds complained or spilled the beans to their parents? Were they crazy? His greatest sexual fantasy of his teenage years: Ashley Clarke and Mrs Wilkinson. Tom’s Ma teaching him the tricks of the trade.

“Can we meet up, Ashley? Soon?”

Ashley couldn’t get the picture of his best pal out of his head. That cheeky grin, the couldn’t-give-a-shit frown, the shrug of the shoulders when things went wrong. His favourite expression,
the sun will still shine tomorrow,
he’d say, whatever kick in the teeth life had dealt him. A girlfriend running off with someone else, sacked from a job, always:
the sun will still shine tomorrow
.

Ashley answered. “I’m sorry, Mrs … sorry, Kate. The thing is you’ve heard wrong. It was a misunderstanding. I’ll be back at work in a few days. I won’t have time.”

Kate Wilkinson resorted to pleading, explained she was in a good position to pay expenses. He could work on his days off, he’d have access to the police computer and records of the disappearance.

“Look, Kate, I can make a few discreet enquiries with whoever it was who investigated the disappearance but that’s it. You’ve been watching too many TV cop shows. That sort of thing doesn’t happen; it’s not allowed.”

Ashley heard his old friend’s mother sobbing now.

“That’s what’s wrong nowadays, Ashley, nothing’s allowed. You’re telling me the police would step in if a copper was trying to find a friend in his own time.”

Ashley couldn’t answer; he wanted to help but thought of the professional consequences. Some bastard would object, that was for sure, and goodness knows what would happen if a police officer was found looking up anything that they weren’t officially working on. It happened in the old days.

An unsolved crime, a copper with a little time on his hands, and a few different questions to a few different individuals and, more often than not, a breakthrough. Ashley found himself defending the system he now realised he hated.

“We just can’t have individuals interfering with every unsolved case. The computer system just couldn’t cope; it would crash.”

Ashley smelt the bullshit as he spoke.

Kate Wilkinson said she understood, said she was sorry for bothering him. Her voice dropped to barely a whisper and she ended the call.

Ashley Clarke had been summonsed for eight thirty on Wednesday morning that week. As he walked into Market Street Station, the first individual to greet him was John Markham.

“Alright, Ash, you got your statement?”

Ashley reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope that contained the written statement his commanding officer had prepared. Ashley hadn’t altered one word, moved one comma, changed one sentence, but the two paragraphs had still taken him the best part of a day to write out.

He’d sat for over an hour before the pen even touched the paper. And he’d cringed as he’d read and copied the statement verbatim. He wanted to tear it to shreds as he read ‘
an error of judgement
’ and he’d wanted to punch the next person he met as he’d handwritten the politically correct garbage word for word.

“Best get it over with, Ash. The suit’s up there too.”

Ashley looked puzzled.

“Yeah, the suit’s there, Ash. Wants his moment of glory. C’mon.”

The suit, the one who had started this debacle, this waste of time and effort, not to mention the good old British taxpayers’ hard-earned cash. Markham took him by the shoulder and steered him in the direction of the door that led to the stairs. DC Rod dam’s office was on the third floor. As they walked up together, Ashley asked a question.

“What are you doing here, John? You’re not coming in, are you?”

“I’m afraid so, mate. I’m your personal representative.”

Ashley shrugged his shoulders, couldn’t believe it. Four police officers off the street.

“The suit, John, what the fuck is he here for?”

“Procedure, Ash. He made the complaint, he reads you the riot act, tells you how you’ve let your colleagues down and what a dirty little dog turd you are, and how lucky you are to keep your job.”

Ashley shook his head. John Markham continued.

“Roddam has a go, too. He’s your superior officer so he ostracises you. Don’t take it personally though. Roddam rang me at the weekend, told me to tell you that.”

They turned into the corridor on the third floor. Rod dam’s office faced them at the far end.

“You and Roddam seem quite close, Holy John.”

Markham smiled. “You could say that. He’s a decent bloke is old Roddam and, like he says, don’t take it personally.”

Markham knocked on the door twice, waited for acknowledgement from within, opened it and walked in.

“Stay there a minute, Ash. I’ll make sure they’re ready for you.”

A minute later, the door opened and Markham beckoned Ashley to move forward. Roddam sat behind the big desk with the suit sitting three or four feet away at the side. Neither smiled. Neither stood up.

Roddam spoke.

“DC Clarke, this is Chief Superintendent Harrison from West Mercia.” Ashley nodded.

“Take a seat.”

Roddam motioned at the seat on the opposite side of the desk. Ashley pulled the seat out, dragged it several feet away from the desk, and sat down. Roddam looked at him with a look of dismay and Chief Superintendent Harrison gave a confident smirk. The look said bow down to me, respect me, do as I ask, I can make or break your career. The suit spoke.

“You know why you are here, DC Clarke. Do you have your written statement?”

He thrust the envelope onto the desk in front of him. It was a rebellious move. Ashley remembered his pal’s favourite saying about the sun still shining. He didn’t want to be here, he shouldn’t be here, this wasn’t happening

Roddam read the statement and passed it across the desk to Chief Superintendent Harrison who studied the text in detail. When he had finished he looked up and nodded to Roddam. Roddam began his verbal assault. Nothing personal, Holy John had said. Just as well really. It lasted a full five minutes but Ashley never heard a word. He was in the mountains, his favourite hill in the Lake District or the highlands of Scotland; it didn’t matter. But he was there. He had always had the ability to beam himself wherever he wanted, Star Trek style and blank out the moment.

And Tom Wilkinson, he was there too. Two pals on a day’s jaunt across the fells then dropping down to an old inn for a traditional meal and half a dozen beers, a toast to Bacchus. A taxi back into town, a nightcap and a near unconscious ten-hour sleep in a local B and B.

The sudden silence brought him back. Chief Superintendent Harrison spoke.

“You don’t seem too concerned about what your superior officer has just said, Mr Clarke.”

Ashley spoke.”I wasn’t listening.”

Three words, but by the look on both superintendents’ faces you’d think a judge had just passed a death sentence on both of them. Chief Superintendent Harrison composed himself first.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I wasn’t listening. I was walking along the edge of Ben Lawyers in the Trossachs.”

The two superintendents looked at each other in amazement…puzzlement… Ashley wasn’t quite sure which. He became aware of a movement behind him. John Markham stepped in.

“Excuse me, sir.” He directed a question to Roddam. “Could we have a five-minute break?”

Roddam pulled at his tie, loosened it a little.”I think that might be a good idea, Markham. I don’t think Mr Clarke realises the seriousness of the situation.”

The suit jumped up.

“That’s not in the rule book, I’m afraid. I want this sorted out now. I haven’t got time to —”

“Yes you have,” interrupted Roddam.”You’re staying overnight. Give the man a break. He’s not thinking straight.” Roddam rose to his feet, nodded at John Markham and flicked a glance towards the door.

John Markham physically lifted Ashley Clarke from the chair and guided him out the room before the suit could lodge another objection.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” he snarled at Ashley once they were outside in the corridor.

“Do you know how much power those two have between them? They could finish you on the spot. Just play the game, Ashley, play the fucking game, man.”

Ashley smiled at John Markham. He paused for a second.

“A game, Holy John. A game, is that what it is? We’re playing a game?”

“Of course it’s a game. The suit wants his victory, wants to go back down South and say to the boys he sorted the Geordie racist out. Made him eat humble pie, stopped his future advancement in the force.”

Markham was whispering now, his voice sounded soft… convincing.

“So what we’re gonna do is go back in there with an apology and play their little game, Ash, because if you don’t they win.”

“They win, John?”

“They win.”

Markham’s breathing had returned to normal, his red face had regained its normal colouring. Ashley Clarke needed the job, needed the money, and needed the buzz on a daily basis. He needed the thrill of dealing with the bad boys. Childhood games, good against evil at its rawest, Cowboys and Indians, Japs and Commandos, the good guys always coming out on top.

And on the other side of the door, Ashley wondered, good guys or bad guys?