The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (3 page)

The John Snow public house on the corner of Broadwick Street was the appropriate venue for Ash and his colleagues in their sombre mood.

After they had sunk the required amount and numbed their brains, they drifted off one by one. Ash retired to the nearby section house that was his home. He stood in his room for a while, staring out of the fifth floor window across the rooftops of Soho. It was never really dark there; even in the dead of the night the sodium lighting gave the city no rest and, as he stared out from behind his mirrored wall, a tear rolled down his cheek for his departed colleague. The section house was a gloomy depressing place to be that night; the echoes of laughter that usually rang out around the corridors were replaced with an eerie silence. He crashed onto his pillow in a semi-drunken, exhausted haze.

And later, the 1984 miners’ strike, yet another week on the picket line. Ash’s tenth visit to the Yorkshire coalfields, each time having to stay for a week at a time in a converted gym on an army base sleeping up to one hundred cops at a time. Not that there was much sleep to be had: the working day would start around 2am with a hearty cooked breakfast in the army canteen. To forsake this mountainous plateful for an extra half-hour in bed was plain foolish. Neither Ash nor his colleagues were particularly hungry at this unearthly juncture, considering they had only finished their last pint about two hours earlier, but a long day lay in store for them and they would need to draw on the reserves of their 2am feast. An essential piece of equipment during the day was the pillow that would help them nod off again against the coach window whilst being driven to whichever coalfield needed the police resources on site. Then it was out onto the line face to face with the striking miners, face to face with working-class men and boys just like him.

After standing around for a few hours, a welcome reprieve would arrive in the form of a power nap back on the bus whilst being herded to the site where the blue line would be deployed, and so it went on, finally finishing around teatime. Then it was back to the cramped makeshift digs, a quick shower and hot meal at the canteen, then out to the local for a decent swill.

It was during these evenings in the local pubs that Ash detected the overwhelming sense of hostility from the struggling communities. The tills in the bar would normally have been ringing with the proceeds of the miners’ earnings, but it was a different story now. The penniless miners were at home whilst hordes of cops from all over the country had descended upon their territory, filling the bars and lavishly spending their overtime pay in view of everyone.

This didn’t rest easy with Ash; his humble origins in the east end of Newcastle had instilled in him morals and a respect for anyone trying to earn a decent living. He had total sympathy for the community that was being torn apart by a government policy.

During the conflict, Ash openly attempted to converse with any miner that stood opposite him on the picket line and nine times out of ten there was an open dialogue, a conversation, some kind of mutual understanding. Ash lowered the barrier and the veil that was his uniform and attempted to show some respect for his fellow human that just wanted to earn a decent crust. But just when Ash’s efforts had fallen on a sympathetic ear it would all come crashing down. The line would jostle and everyone would be moved along a space or two and now Ash’s new acquaintance would be face to face with another Met copper, this one was from the Home Counties, perhaps a leafy suburb in Surrey. And in a deliberate attempt to get a reaction, a sly derogatory comment.

“Was that your bird in the Red Lion last night? Nice girl, very friendly, if you know what I mean.”Then the copper would reach into his pocket and pull out a wad of ten pound notes and start to count them in the face of the penniless miner. And a reaction from the miner as sure as eggs were eggs: a curse, a flailing fist directed at the provoker and then a quickly executed armlock and a grin.

“You’re all the fucking same, you’re fucking scum, the lot of you, fuck off back to London.”

Only seconds earlier Ash had been in the kind of conversation that would have been commonplace between two pals, and now this troubled soul was being frogmarched away to the nearest police van, carrying with him a renewed hatred towards the police. Ash felt sick to the pit of his stomach; he’d seen this before in isolated incidents, the arrogance and lack of respect that some of his fellow officers had towards some individuals was beyond his comprehension. It was at times like this that Ash was ashamed to be wearing the uniform that he had been so proud to earn.

A year the strike had lasted. A whole year…

Ashley was back on his familiar Soho beat on his favourite shift, the night shift, quietly moving through the back lanes that connected Wardour Street, Dean Street, Greek Street and the surrounding area. Doc Martens were his chosen night shift shoe. The cushion sole allowed the stealth approach to the next quiet back lane, alleyway or courtyard where he happened upon his prey: a drug deal going down, a thief rummaging through the contents of a stolen bag before dumping it, a prostitute and her punter. There were rich pickings to be had if you were hungry enough to put yourself around like the young enthusiastic Ash.

Tonight was one of those nights that not even Ash could do much about, all quiet on the western front. He’d covered the ground over and over again, but there was nothing doing. For a moment his thoughts strayed back to the picket line and the attitude of some of his uniform colleagues that was starting to piss him off. He knew he couldn’t spend the rest of career pounding the beat; it was time to start weighing up his options.

As he turned the corner into Greek Street, he couldn’t help notice the tramp lying in the recesses of the doorway; he was just a shadow cowering in the dark corner, long greasy hair, beard, an assortment of rags surrounding him. He’d seen him around before over the recent weeks but hadn’t taken much notice of him. Tramps would come and go, some had been around for years sleeping in their regular pitch, some would even die where they lay.

“You all right?” Ash enquired as he stood over the wretched soul.

“Go away,” came the voice from behind the greasy beard. It was only two words but Ash instantly recognised the dulcet tone of a fellow northerner.

“Well there’s no need to be like that, is there, especially to a fellow Geordie.”

At that point a grubby hand emerged from within the ragged coat, the palm opened outwards revealing a silver badge identical to the one Ash was carrying in his back pocket, the one that he had been so proud to receive from Commander Penrose over two years ago.

“Listen, pal, I’m on surveillance. Will you just fuck off before you blow the job out, and another thing, stop being so keen. Get out of here for the night, put your feet up and grab a cup of tea somewhere.”

Ash disappeared into the black night but a light had switched on in his head; from that moment he knew where his future lay. He had a newfound purpose, he had to start planning, his mind was working overtime. He couldn’t do much about it until the following week when he was back on day shift.

The news that the divisional crime squad were not going to recruit any new members for the next twelve months came as a bitter blow to Ash. His plan was in tatters; there was no way he could wait that long and, if this was not depressing enough, his gloom was compounded even further when the news filtered through about the crime squad’s latest success.

They had raided the address in Greek Street where his Geordie counterpart had been keeping watch. Ten kilos of high grade coke, four section one firearms, two thousand rounds of .38 calibre ammunition and three of Soho’s highest profile Maltese hierarchy had all been taken out. All in all, a huge feather in the cap for the West End Crime Squad. The excitement was too much. Ash knew what he wanted and he wanted it now. He racked his brain, he had to act, there must be something he could do. He couldn’t contemplate the prospect of pounding the beat for another twelve months. He began to think about his brief meeting with Inspector Lawson at training school.

The third floor of Vine Street Police Station was home to the senior officers and sitting in prime place was the office of Chief Superintendent Mike McCaffrey, a man who was nearing the end of his distinguished police career. He was immensely respected throughout the Met. He had been a first-class operator in his day and had achieved legendary status. He’d been the Vine Street Commander for just over twelve months.

The first time that Ash had heard about his arrival at Vine Street was whilst he was on sick leave, nursing a broken leg. Ash

hobbled down the stairs of the section house to pick up his mail from the office; he opened the small brown envelope that was addressed to him. It read:

Dear Ashley,

As you may know, I have recently been posted to Vine Street as the Chief Superintendent. I am conscious I have not met you yet and was sorry to hear of the unfortunate injury to your leg.

I hope your recovery is going well but please do not rush back to work too early. If there is anything you need in the meantime (except money!!) please do not hesitate to contact me. When you do return please come and see me.

Yours sincerely,

Mike McCaffrey

Upon his return to work Ash had responded to McCaffrey’s request. Ash was always wary of a new boss. However he felt instantly at ease with his new chief. He was a true gentleman, a career detective. It hadn’t escaped McCaffrey’s notice that the hours that Ash had spent pounding the beat had earned him the highest number of crime arrests at the station.

Over the next twelve months McCaffrey acknowledged Ash every time they met which would invariably be in the charge room while Ash was booking in another arrest.

“Morning, Geordie. Busy again, keep up the good work.”

Austin Reed was a well-known store on Regent Street, just up from the Man in the Moon passage which led into Vine Street. On the lower level was the gentleman’s barber shop which was normally reserved for the city gent types to have themselves groomed for a princely sum.

Ash knew that it opened at 8am and today he would be the first customer, because this wasn’t just any old haircut, it wasn’t the normal trim he would settle for at Pete the Barber’s in the dingy basement on Wardour Street. If he was about to do something radical, the preparation and state of mind had to be right. His uniform had never been so immaculate and he could just about make out his reflection in the toecaps of the shoes that had almost crippled him months earlier.

He knew exactly what time he would carry out his operation. He had walked past the office often enough en route to the admin department and he knew that by about 9.30am McCaffrey would have had his daily briefings and updates by his underlings and would be just about to settle down to the business at hand.

As he reached the landing of the third floor, he took a deep breath. His heart was practically jumping out of his chest.
No going back now,
he thought to himself. Ash reached the open doorway, stood still and knocked on the heavily glossed panelled door. McCaffrey looked up from the heavy oak desk and peered at Ash through his bi-focals.

“Ah, Geordie, come in, have a seat.”

“I’d rather not, sir. What I’ve got to say won’t take long, if I could have a minute of your time.”

McCaffrey smiled, removed his glasses and rested them on the table.

“Very well, what is it you want to say?”

Ashley walked further into the huge office and stood in front of McCaffrey’s’ desk.

“Sir, I just want you to know that I wish to be considered for the CID.”

He felt a lump in his throat; he paused as if about to deliver a best man’s speech.

“And I want to work on the divisional crime team; I know that is where my future is.”

McCaffrey rearranged a few papers on his huge oak desk, raked his fingers through his hair and sighed deeply.

“That’s all very well, Clarke, but there’s a process in place for that and we won’t be advertising for vacancies for another twelve months.”

“I know, sir. I just wanted to bring it to your attention, that’s all.”

“I see. Well, thanks for letting me know, just keep up the graft, keep your nose clean and we’ll see how things work out for you next year.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Is that everything, Clarke?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

McCaffrey had never called Ashley by his surname. He’d always thought being called Geordie by such a senior officer was a term of endearment. He’d always thought he’d been on the right side of McCaffrey, but in the space of less than a minute he’d managed to blow everything. That sort of approach was unheard of. The audacity of walking into the Chief Superintendent’s office proclaiming one’s desires was the stuff of fiction.

“Okay then… on your way.”

Ashley turned to walk out as McCaffrey’s head lowered and focused on the mound of paperwork requiring his attention, and, as Ash took the last few steps towards the doorway, the voice from behind the heavy Victorian desk slowed his pace.

“By the way, Geordie, you’ve got some fucking nerve, haven’t you?”

The softly spoken, unassuming Irish accent of the gentleman that was McCaffrey washed over Ash with a warm glow, and in that instant he knew he had done the right thing. A familiar feeling of quiet satisfaction came upon him and as he walked from the office, he turned; his reply was simple.