The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (20 page)

“Yes, I do, Mr Sinton.”

“A copper who actually admitted to being a racist and was effectively drummed out the force. It’s the last sort of thing Northumbria Police would want.”

“So they dropped the charges?”

“Bloody right they did, Rafi. I said I’d be calling this Ashley Clarke as a witness. If he’d admitted it in writing there was no reason to suppose he wouldn’t admit it in open court.”

Rafi was speechless. He placed a hand on the shop counter to steady himself. His father looked up from the greetings card display stand. Rafi smiled; he wanted to scream to his father the good news.

“You’re free, Rafi, free as a bird. You’ll receive the letter in the post within the next few days. And my bill, of course.”

And, as he replaced the receiver, he recalled Ashley Clarke’s words from what seemed like an eternity ago.

I’m on your side and you’re not going to prison.

The UPS delivery vehicle collected the well-packaged box with the delivery address of Northumbria Police HQ at around lunchtime. The driver queried why there was no return address on the box but Ashley had explained that the likelihood of no one being around to receive the box was nil.

The driver had huffed and puffed about rules and regulations but a twenty-pound note had helped convince him to lift the box into the back of his van and get on with it. “Rules are for the obedience of fools,” Ashley had muttered as he drove off, “and for the guidance of wise men.” And he smiled as the van containing the box with Billy Graham’s world of illegitimate business dealings disappeared from view.

* * *

The drive to Holy Island took an hour and forty minutes. The traffic had been heavy, perfectly normal for a Friday, especially as a light drizzle had begun to fall from the grey city sky earlier that afternoon.

It always slowed the traffic up, people were suddenly afraid of their cars, hypnotised by the windscreen wipers, unsure how to demist the screens, paying attention to the local radio station advising them to ‘
drive carefully
’. So it’s okay to drive dangerously when it’s dry then? Go on chaps, it’s perfect weather; hammer your foot to the floor.

He’d already confirmed a one-week holiday with the Ship Inn. They explained he’d managed to get the last single room in the hotel. But then they always say that, don’t they?

He’d made his mind up to go when he uncovered yet more evidence that Tom Wilkinson had every intention of going to Holy Island. He’d awoken at four in the morning… the dream was vivid. He had been working on Tom’s computer, on e-mails to be precise. Silly e-mails, the sort of silly things that happen in dreams, but the message was loud and clear.

He’d never even opened up Tom’s computer since Kate had suggested he keep it all those weeks ago. He walked through to the lounge and removed the laptop from the bottom drawer of the television cabinet. He’d powered it up and, as expected, the machine was password-protected.

“Shit.”

He was talking out loud to himself.

“What password would Tom have used? Numbers… letters. Numbers and letters. Jesus, it’s impossible.”

He punched a couple of words into the computer then Tom’s date of birth. They were denied but he breathed a sigh of relief that the computer didn’t limit his attempts.

“Girlfriends’ names.”

He remembered a few and typed them in. All denied. Then
password
and
qwerty
and each time the words
access denied
appearing on the screen.

He wandered through to the kitchen and clicked the kettle on. Perhaps a hot drink would stimulate his brain. He thought about his own passwords over the years: favourite places, Otterburn, Kielder, Ibiza, his nicknames at school.

He took his tea through to the lounge and placed it on the coffee table next to the laptop.

So many places Tom had been to in the world… impossible.

As he took his first mouthful of tea another password came to him. His favourite pet as a youngster: a big soft old boxer dog… Cassius.

“Pets’ names. Tom’s pets.”

His finger hovered over the keyboard before he realised he didn’t know any. He remembered an old tom cat and a mongrel dog that Tom had rescued from a gang that was beating it, but couldn’t remember any of their names.

“Is this some sort of joke, Ash?” Kate replied at the other end of the phone.”It’s five in the morning, for Christ’s sake, and you want to know the name of a pet dog?”

“Yes, Kate, can you tell me your pets’ names... all of them.”

“But, Ash, it’s five o’clock. I was asleep. I–”

“Dogs and cats, not too worried about the goldfish and hamsters, don’t think he’d use their names.”

“Ash, I–”

“Passwords, Kate. I’m trying to access his laptop. I’m hoping he might have e-mailed the hotel about a booking.”

The password was Blackie. Tom’s old Labrador that Kate had bought him as he’d refused to walk away from a pet shop window on Heaton Road. He’d caused a scene outside the shop and, if truth be told, Kate had fallen in love with the pup too.

Tom had promised to walk it every morning before school and again at lunchtimes; Kate took the twilight shift. And he had been as good as his word and bonded in a special way with the dog and quite naturally it was a password he’d never forget.

The computer booted up and Ashley punched a fist into the air. Within a few minutes he was into the e-mail inbox. Halfway down the third page was a reply from The Ship Inn on Holy Island.

Further to your enquiry I am pleased to advise that we have a single room vacancy for the dates you have requested. Please telephone the hotel at your earliest convenience in order that we may arrange to take a deposit.

Claire

Not Clara, Claire.

“Claire. Good old Claire.”

More proof that Tom had been to the island. Ashley looked again at the e-mail. Perhaps not proof that he’d actually been to the island but certainly proof that he intended to go.

He saved the e-mail to his own memory stick, printed it off and telephoned John Markham.

It was late afternoon as Ashley climbed into the car. He drove carefully through the crowded Jesmond streets and headed towards the Great North Road.

Just over an hour later he approached the small hamlet of Beal just off the main A1 dual carriageway between England and Scotland. He peered through the misty evening sky. Taking his foot off the accelerator he almost glided through the village. Small cottages, small windows, the light straining to be seen from deep within. Almost like a Christmas card scene but without the snow. He drove on through and a few minutes later caught his first sight of the causeway. An uncontrollable shiver ran the length of his spine. He took a quick glance in his mirror.

Nothing. His was the only car on the road and he pushed gently on the brake pedal as he eased to a stop. The tide had begun to surge in, the noise told him so as each wave crashed against the shore. He looked at his watch, no problem, thirty minutes to go before the official ‘don’t cross’ sign would be posted. He closed the car door and walked up onto the causeway, pulling up his jacket collar to protect himself from the elements.

A faint orange glow glimmered in the distance.

Holy Island.

He stood for a few minutes gazing out to sea and wondered what possessed people to live there. Okay, so it was pretty, quaint the tourists would say, and sure it was different, but why would anyone want to limit their lives to living on a small island that was cut off twice a day. No industry, no real career prospects unless you packed up and headed for the big cities. And yet, as he’d found out from Holy John, the islanders were fiercely proud and protective of their chosen place of residence.

He turned and walked slowly back to the car, scratched at his beard and cursed. He was in disguise again, couldn’t take the chance of being recognized. If there was anything untoward going on up there John Markham would be made about as welcome as Saddam Hussein. No, Ashley would need to do it on his own; his pal could be called in at the last minute if necessary.

Ashley’s hair had grown and the beard had thickened up the previous few weeks and he’d telephoned John Markham and arranged to meet him for a beer. John had seemed keen to see the e-mail from The Ship, said he actually knew the girl and would speak to her soon.

John had asked about Kate, about the inquest. Ash had informed him that Kate had put it behind her, buried her son and was getting on with life. Ashley had said she was a strong determined woman with a successful business to run. While she felt a bit aggrieved at the verdict of the inquest she wasn’t going to let it ruin her life. John’s last remark before the conversation ended was that it was for the best.

Ashley had arranged to meet John Markham in the Queen’s Arms in Shieldfield at eight. He’d chosen the pub on purpose. It would be quiet, the regular punters turning in between nine and ten during the week. The weekend was different, a couple of quick ones in the Queen’s about sevenish, then off to the city centre till closing time.

Ashley sat on a park bench directly opposite the Queen’s. The beard hadn’t quite covered his face yet but it broke the shape of it. Essential undercover practice. His regular three-week haircut was now a month overdue and, bizarrely, he’d used a grey rinse on both his hair and his beard. With a small pair of round silver-rimmed glasses he took on a kind of aging Richard Gere appearance. He wasn’t at all displeased with the look. He’d visited Kate the previous day and she’d commented on how attractive it looked.

John Markham’s car pulled into the car park ten minutes early.

He was speaking on the mobile as he climbed out. He looked directly at Ashley, police observation instinct kicking in. Ash looked up, gave a nod as if saying hello and Markham looked away.

A few minutes later Ashley walked into the bar. John Markham sat at the table they’d shared during Ashley’s drunken session after he’d been suspended. He was sitting nursing a bottle of Budweiser, fiddling with the bottle as if he didn’t want to be there.

Ashley looked over, gave another nod and this time John Markham reciprocated, albeit a bit reluctantly, then looked over towards the door again. Ashley ordered a pint of bitter, felt it kind of went with the disguise. He looked around the bar and noticed two elderly gentlemen deep in conversation about Newcastle United and their latest dismal performance and whether the manager was up to the job. They were the only other two in the bar.

Ashley took a long mouthful of the beer and winced as it hit his taste buds. He was not a real ale man whatever his appearance. John Markham looked at his watch: Ashley Clarke was never late. Ashley stared straight ahead, made small talk with the barmaid and became aware of John Markham staring. Was he studying the Richard Gere lookalike or perhaps the large-chested barmaid?

John Markham rose to his feet, approached the bar where he sat. Ashley tried to retain his composure… he’d been there a dozen times before in some tube station entrance or a seedy pub in Soho. A criminal he’d arrested once upon a time or Mr Big of the drug world approaching him as he was undercover. The adrenalin kicking in as he convinced himself he’d been recognised and, at the very least, a fast trip to hospital.

But it had never happened. He’d always stood firm, always maintained his composure and confidence in his own ability. And again the adrenalin surged through him as his ex-partner directed a question at him.

“Have you got the right time, pal? I think my watch is fast.”

Ashley froze as he made eye contact; surely Markham would see through the disguise from such a short distance. He held his breath, realised he hadn’t even thought about an accent or a disguise for his voice. He was an expert, a natural, the team leader of the Crime Squad had said. Scouse, Cockney, Scots and, of course, Geordie, not to mention a Black Country droll he’d worked on whilst undercover in Wolverhampton several years ago. But he needed time, a little preparation to lose his natural tones. Preparation that he’d not undertaken as he opened his mouth to answer the question.

“Two minutes after eight,” the barmaid replied.

“Thanks,” replied John Markham, and smiled at the barmaid as he proceeded to alter the hands on his watch.

“Meeting a mate in here about now; shouldn’t be too long.”

The barmaid returned his look, a flirtatious smile, not the sort of punter who normally frequented the Queen’s Arms.

Markham checked his watch again, shook his wrist and looked back at Ashley.

“Thanks… enjoy your beer.”

Ashley resumed breathing as Markham sat back down at his table. Two minutes later, without taking another mouthful of beer, Ashley got up and left.

Sherlock Holmes, eat your heart out.

He telephoned John Markham as he walked over the footbridge at Manors Station.

“A puncture, John. Can you bloody believe it?”

“No problem, Ash, do you want any help? Can I come and get you?”

“No, John, no thanks, I’m up to my eyes in shit and tyre rubber and it stinks. Perhaps another time. I’m off back home for a shower.”

“No probs, Ash, perhaps another time.”