The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (28 page)

Ashley managed to crawl through and pull the policeman off the unconscious youth but not before he’d fractured his skull, right tibia, both forearms, a collar bone and several ribs.

The two policemen sat side by side in the kitchen, breathing heavily. Ashley reached for his radio.

“I suppose we’d better phone the poor twat an ambulance.”

“You too, Ash, I think you need those ribs looked at.” Jordan grinned.”And me too, I’ll need a visit to the hospital.”

Ashley looked him up and down.”You look okay to me, haggis man, not a mark on you.”

Jordan Cameron rose to his feet, held out two hands and Ashley reached out for them. He winced as the pain shot through his chest as Cameron carefully eased him to his feet.

“Yeah, I look great, don’t I? You’ll need to do something about it.”

The two ambulance men arrived within eight minutes. It was just enough time. They attended to the old lady first at the insistence of Officer Clarke. She would live… just. She would survive, maybe a week in hospital, though she would never spend another relaxed, trouble-free day for the remainder of her days.

Ashley insisted he was fine, a broken rib or two, that’s all. He pointed at the video recorder on the floor and explained the story. He took the two paramedics through to the kitchen.

“Officer Jordan Cameron.” Ashley pointed at the officer in the corner.

“He’s taken a bit of a beating, I’m afraid, but I think he’s okay.”

He gave a little wave. “Okay, fellas… come to patch me up, have you?”

Jordan Cameron sat hunched in the corner, his face a bloodied mess. Both eyes were closed and blackening by the second. A large flap of skin hung from the corner of his mouth and the freshly pressed white shirt he’d ironed pre-shift was stained scarlet.

Ashley picked up the phone, keyed in the number and waited. A female civilian answered politely. The phone call was directed through to DCI Cameron’s mobile after Ashley explained he’d worked with him in the Met.

“Haggis man, how are you hanging?”

“Clarkey… is that you, long time no hear. You must be after a favour.”

Ashley sighed. Cameron was right, they’d been good friends, why was it that nobody made the effort to pick up the phone, maybe arrange a long weekend, a reunion even. It just didn’t ever happen.

Ashley outlined his problem, explained how Cameron could help him though conveniently left out details of his undercover operation. He wanted to share the information with another policeman but at this very moment in time felt the need to be economical with the truth. Was it a trust thing? Just who could he confide in?

“Holy Island you say, Clarkey. I’m down in Galashiels tomorrow, interviewing a suspect in hospital. Holy Island can’t be more than an hour away. Why don’t we meet up.”

Ashley couldn’t believe his luck.

“Great, Jordan, great. But not on Holy Island. I’ll explain tomorrow. Let’s meet halfway. I’ll check the tides and get back to you, okay?”

Jordan Cameron and Ashley Clarke met in the Red Lion public house on the main thoroughfare through Melrose.

They’d spent a pleasant lunch together, caught up on old times and Ashley had delivered his request. The victim from Glasgow was well-known to Jordan Cameron, or rather his family was well-known. They were the hard men of the city, gangsters, they specialised in counterfeit goods, soft and hard drugs, and were suspected of running a few brothels on Glasgow’s east side. And of course they were all thieves. The victim, Gordon or Gordy as he was known, was the youngest son of the head of the family Tam Dalgleish. Gordon Dalgleish worked with stolen credit cards. That was his speciality. He had fourteen previous convictions.

Ashley’s request was a simple one. He wanted to talk to Tam Dalgleish. Jordan pressed a little as to why but when Ashley wasn’t forthcoming he took a step backwards. Good old haggis.

Four hours later Ashley Clarke walked into the Nag’s Head in Drumchapel, Glasgow. As instructed he asked behind the bar for ‘Big Tam’ as he was known. The nervous-looking barman pointed over to the far side of the bar where an over large gentleman sat with similarly built friends in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

It seemed the Scottish smoking ban hadn’t reached this particular area of Glasgow. Ashley introduced himself as a private detective. Why not? That was his occupation now.

“Were you a copper then, son?” Big Tam asked.

He called me son… good start. Ashley thought about lying, looked around the bar at the men, big men, dangerous men with scarred faces, shaved heads and squashed noses, and felt just a little bit intimidated.

“The Met, nearly twenty years.”

“And where did you get ma number?”

Ashley searched for a lie, found none.

“Strathclyde Police, I have a contact there.” Ashley smiled. “It seems you’re quite well-known to them.”

The big man’s friends grinned, one of them laughed.

Tam Dalgleish scowled at them then at Ashley. “And wae would that be then?”

“I’m not telling you.”

The silent atmosphere could have been cut with a knife. Big Tam took a long deliberate pull on his cigarette and announced loudly, “Get him a drink. I hate to see a man without a drink.”

Without being asked what he wanted, an associate of the big man quickly went to the bar. The barman had already started pouring the pint and it was unceremoniously dumped in front of Ashley, together with a whisky chaser. Tam looked around the table at the collection of misfits surrounding him.

Hangers-on, scroungers, the benefit brigade, men on his payroll.

Collectors and enforcers. And as soon as he paid them their dues, they’d piss it against the wall. No planning, no foresight, a little left over for wifey perhaps, as she emptied the pockets each evening.

Not Tam. He’d worked all his life, prided himself that he’d never pulled a penny from the Social and he’d sunk his investments into legitimate ventures. Well, half legitimate at least.

“Fuck off, the lot o ye!” He drained half a pint in one swallow. “This man has some information aboot Gordy.”

Ashley took a mouthful from the pint glass, winced as it danced on his taste buds but nevertheless was glad of the calming effect it gave him.

“Speak,” the big man announced as the last of the drifters disappeared.

Speak, that’s a laugh, Ashley thought to himself. He was hoping Gordon’s father would be the one doing the talking, but saying he had some news about Gordy was the only way the big man would agree to a meet. Oh well, in for a penny. Just be a bit tactful, Ashley thought to himself.

“I have reason to believe your son was murdered.”

Ashley waited for the table to be turned over. He waited for a punch or a kick or an attacker to hit him from behind. He waited for a reaction from the man who sat in front of him. The man who sat calmly, as if he hadn’t even heard Ashley’s dramatic statement.

Ashley arrived back on the island a little before nine o’clock. He walked back into the bar of The Ship Inn and set eyes on Claire Macbeth. Before they could strike up a conversation the door flew open and Stephen Kyle stood panting and sweating in the doorway. He peered through the gloom, caught the familiar shape of the barmaid.

“Claire… it’s Frank.”

The rain had soaked his cheeks. Claire took his hands.

“What is it, Steve? Slow down… tell me what’s wrong.”

He wiped a tear from his eye, moved his hand down and wiped the snot from his nose.

“It’s Frank Short, Claire… he’s dead. He’s topped himself.”

* * *

Ashley Clarke spent yet another evening on Holy Island unable to sleep, albeit the cause slightly different to the night before. The sight of Frank Short swinging from his own bedroom window with his own white linen bedsheets taut around his broken neck had unnerved him. If he’d wanted to kill himself surely he could have found a more dignified, private way.

And the wind.

The wind itself had played a part in the macabre spectacle as the body swung slowly as if playing a tune on the breeze. He’d run up the street with Claire and Stephen Kyle but before they’d got there a small army had amassed. The police had arrived within the hour and cut the old man’s body down. A doctor had pronounced him dead at the scene.

He passed yet another policeman, a young ginger-haired lad no older than twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, an employee of Northumbria Police. He stood in a sentry-like position a few yards from the door of Frank Short’s terraced house. Ashley breathed a sigh of relief as he failed to recognise him. He was aware immediately that someone was tugging at his jacket from behind. He turned round.

“Debbie… how nice to see you… what are you doing here?”

Debbie O’Hanlan frowned. “You must have pulled that from the world bank of stupidest questions ever, David. I’m a reporter, remember? And a man has died under suspicious circumstances.”

Ashley laughed, it
was
a stupid question but it was the first thing that had come into his head.

“Suspicious, you say. What makes you think that?”

Debbie took him gently by the sleeve. “Let’s get a coffee. I haven’t had one all day.” She looked at her watch. “A world record for me.”

They walked in the direction of the Priory.

“It’s amazing what a big smile and a little flutter of the eyelids achieve,” Debbie said as she peered over the top of the steaming cup.

I bet, Ashley thought to himself, I bet.

“The thing is, this young copper probably told me a little bit more than he was supposed to. I had my notebook out, pen at the ready and I’d flashed the press badge at him. Suicide, he announced. Plain and simple.”

Ashley didn’t interrupt; Debbie was in full flow, it was clear she had a story to tell.

“I could see in his eyes that he was hiding something. I asked him off the record, put my notebook in my pocket. He looked around, made sure no one was in earshot and leaned forward.”

“And?”

Debbie grinned.”He asked me for a date.”

“A date?”

“A date. I told him to give me something and I’d give him my telephone number.”

She sat back grinning as Ashley pictured the scene in his head.

“I’m a good flirt when I need to be, I have to admit,” she announced, as she flicked her hair back from her face and looked upwards.”He told me there had been signs of a struggle. I pressed him, he said a vase had been broken and the detectives couldn’t work out why he’d jumped through the glass window.”

Ashley remembered the debris strewn across the pavement at the scene. He thought nothing of it at the time but sure… if you wanted to kill yourself why not open the window instead of throwing yourself through it. It didn’t make any sense.

“Anymore?”

“No. That was it, but Jesus, David, he was more or less saying that the poor old bugger was murdered.”

Suddenly the hot sweet tea in front of him had lost its appeal.

“I think we should tell the police what we know about the young men’s deaths,” she blurted out. “I don’t like it, David, I don’t like it one little bit.”

Ashley warmed his two hands on the cup, shrugged his shoulders.

“Tell them what, Debbie? Each death has been through a police investigation and a coroner’s court. No suspicious circumstances whatsoever.”

Debbie spoke but Ashley was miles away in his own thoughts. The police would arrive at the suicide version and the case would go to the coroner. And he was thinking that inevitably the coroner would come up with a verdict of suicide too.

He thought about his new found acquaintance in Glasgow, thought about
that
phone call. Thought how ironic it was after all the years he’d spent in the police that now a member of the underworld was helping him to solve his case.

Debbie took her final mouthful of coffee, placed the cup on the saucer and pushed it into the centre of the table.

“You’re not listening to me, are you.” She frowned.

“Not really, Debbie, no,” he replied.”Let’s go and get a proper drink.”

And all he could think of was that article and whether the time was right to come clean, to push the reporter and ask the questions he knew he should. Whether the time was right to call John Markham and bring in the cavalry.

Sheila Moor sat in the office on Hyde Hill, Berwick-upon-Tweed, a tear or two welling up in her eyes, but her cheeks remained dry. She wasn’t distraught, wasn’t devastated or harbouring any hysterical feelings.

She’d known for some time their marriage was over but nevertheless it saddened her. Where had it started to go wrong? she asked herself. She felt inadequate, let down. What had made her husband turn to another woman? Was it her fault? What would the islanders say?

The private detective breezed through the door. A young man by the name of Andrew Jackson, no more than thirty years old. What was he thinking? Was he thinking that Jacob Moor’s middle-aged slightly overweight wife was an old frump? Was he thinking she was past her sell-by date, not a good screw these last few years, maybe a bit frigid.