The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (11 page)

Ashley shook his head.

“I want to lay him to rest, Ashley. I want his body back. Back here in Newcastle, where he belongs, and a proper funeral.”

Ashley shrugged his shoulders.”There might be a sim–”

“A simple explanation, Ashley. Go on then, tell me; tell me what the simple explanation is, take a guess, tell me your hunch at this precise moment in time. Believe me, I’ve thought of them all. I’ve lain awake until daylight has come and I still haven’t thought up or dreamt up anything that makes sense. I don’t know of any reason why my son couldn’t find a telephone and make that call to tell me he was okay.”

She was convinced he was dead. There wasn’t a glimmer of hope in those beautiful, sad eyes.

He’d read of mothers and fathers who clung to a silk thread of hope that their children would pull back from an impossible medical illness. He’d heard of the stories of plane crashes with no survivors, yet parents, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives would be convinced that someone would be found a mile or two from the wreckage, alive. Or a shipwreck, and for ten years those parents would hope, hope the impossible and imagine a way, create a ridiculous story in their heads of how
their loved one
had defied the odds and swum to a desert island and would miraculously flag down the next passing ship.

But not Kate Wilkinson.

“One other thing, Ashley.”

“Go on.”

“I checked out the electoral roll of the island.”

“Yeah.”

“There was no Clara. No record of any girl called Clara on the island. I don’t know, perhaps the islanders may have been telling the truth after all, perhaps he never got there.”

A buzzer sounded as he opened the door to the small convenience store at the top of Richardson Road in Fenham. On the whole the area was quite pleasant, predominantly private housing, businesses and plenty of green areas nestling in the shadow of St James’s Park.

But the buzzer on the door indicated an underlying problem with certain individuals not too keen to carry out an old-fashioned trade where money is generally exchanged for goods. Ashley remembered the old corner shop of long ago on Rothbury Terrace in Heaton, with a bell on a spring to warn old Mrs White that a customer had come into the shop and needed serving. Mrs White could hear the bell from anywhere in the upstairs flat that was home, the upstairs flat above the corner shop and, wherever she was in that upstairs flat, she would be down to serve the customer in less than a minute. Nowadays, if the shopkeeper disappeared for a minute, half his stock would have walked out the door by the time he returned.

Ashley lingered in the doorway observing Rafi Patel serving a youngster cigarettes. His police instinct kicked in and he wondered if the boy was sixteen. He probably was… just.

Ashley didn’t care. If the kid wanted to smoke despite all the health warnings then he was just plain stupid. And if Rafi refused to allow the purchase then the kid would just get one of his older mates to make it. Or worse, the shop would be robbed in the hours of darkness.

Rafi smiled as he handed the customer the change. He looked up, spotted Ashley and gave a sort of half-hearted wave.

“Mr Clarke, how’s it going, sir?”

Ashley leaned over the counter and offered his hand.

“Good, Rafi. And you?”

Rafi sighed.

“Oh, not too bad, Mr Clarke?”

Ashley held up a hand.

“Please, Rafi, we aren’t in the station now, call me Ashley… errr, I mean Ash. Ash, I prefer Ash.”

Rafi looked a little taken aback, perhaps a little untrusting.

“So you’re not on duty.”

Ashley laughed a little, “No, not on duty, Rafi, just here to see how the shops are doing. You’re a hard-working kid, Rafi. Are you making plenty of money, my friend?”

“Just a minute,” Rafi replied.

He picked up a telephone handset from beneath the counter, punched in three or four digits and broke into his native tongue. A couple of minutes later an older man appeared from a doorway that Ashley guessed led to upstairs. The old man was clearly Rafi’s father, the same soft features and facial expressions. Even the way he walked over towards Ashley mirrored his son’s gait.

“Officer, very nice to meet you. I’m Sidney Patel. You may call me Sid.”

Ashley puzzled at the western forename.

“Yes, Sidney’s an unusual name for a Pakistani gentleman, isn’t it? My father thought it would help me progress in your country. Rafi is the third generation of our family to have lived in England. So many better opportunities than in Pakistan, we are very proud of our adopted country and of our city’s football team.”

Mr Patel pointed at the huge Newcastle United crest hanging in a frame above the counter.

“Rafi and I are season ticket holders, never miss a game.”

Ashley took the old man’s hand and shook it warmly. A leathery hand, a hand that bore testament to over forty years’

hard labour.

“Me too… in the old Gallowgate End, Mr Patel, and you?”

“The Milburn Stand, officer, about ten feet from the halfway line. We are almost on speaking terms with the manager.”

Ashley and the two shopkeepers broke out into smiles but almost immediately the old man’s face straightened.

“Officer… I’m sorry, I know you aren’t here to talk football, I’m forgetting my manners. Rafi tells me you need to talk to him. I normally take a little nap about now. I open the shop up at six in the morning, you see, so my customers can buy a paper on their way to work. I’ll look after the shop while you two go upstairs.”

Rafi’s head tilted and he flicked his eyes over in the direction of the doorway his father had come through. Ashley started walking over. As he brushed past Mr Patel, the old man gripped his arm lightly. He whispered gently in Ashley’s ear.”He’s a good boy, officer. He was forced into it, you know. They take money from me, eat into my profits. I have overdrafts and loans with the banks just to make ends meet. He’s a good boy, Rafi’s a good boy.”

Ashley placed a hand on his shoulder

“I know, Mr Patel. I know he’s a good boy.”

A worried look came across the old man’s face now, his voice stuttering a little, his bottom lip trembling.

“Then you’ll help him, officer?”

Ashley sighed.”I don’t know if I can, Mr Patel.”

“He won’t survive prison, you know that? He’s not the type that can look after himself. They forced him, officer, they forced him.”

Ashley squeezed the old man’s shoulder, nodded his head and walked slowly towards Rafi who held the door ajar. Ashley wanted to help. That’s why he was here.

“It’s been quiet since they were all arrested… err... we were all arrested. Graham’s team are keeping a low profile until the court case. I am being told that he’s still running the operation from his prison cell.”

Rafi rubbed at his tired eyes, paused for a second or two. Ashley wondered whether the youth trusted him, whether he wanted to divulge the next bit of information.

“I’ve heard there’s a bit of a power struggle going on too.”

Ashley nodded. “You’re right. The other two big gangs in the city are waging a mini-war. They figure Bulldog is looking at a ten-year stretch, they’re trying to move in on some of his business activities particularly the protection.”

Rafi sat on an old leather sofa, crouched forward, his body rigid and tense, his hands steepled together tightly.

“Have any of the gangs moved in here?”

Rafi unsteepled his hands, dragged one of them through his thick mane of jet-black hair. He was a handsome young man, Ashley thought, soft, almost feminine features. His father was right, prison would be hell.

“Not yet, Mr Clarke.”

“Ash, remember?”

“Yes, sorry, Ash.”The youth forced a smile.”Not yet, Ashley, I’ve only had one visit from a member of Graham’s gang. He said there wouldn’t be any collections for a few months but made it clear that the payments would mount up.”

Ashley frowned in disappointment. “So the fact that Bulldog has been banged up on remand hasn’t made a blind bit of difference?”

The Pakistani youth shook his head and wiped a tissue in the corner of his eye. He spoke in a soft tone.

“I’ll be banged up too, as you call it, in a little over a month.”

“When’s the date of the trial?”

“October 15th. I won’t survive prison, you know that.”

A tear trickled down the side of his face.

“I was locked up for six hours once in a cell at Market Street, mistaken identity.” He forced a smile. “You white guys think we all look the same.”

Ashley smiled, shrugged his shoulders by way of an apology.

“It was the worst six hours of my life. I was sharing a cell with an old tramp who was actually enjoying a roof over his head and some regular food, and a hardened criminal who had a swastika tattooed on his right arm. He threatened me the whole time, called me the vilest names you could imagine. There was one toilet in the corner of the cell, no privacy and, of course, no toilet seat. How can people live like that? How can these people survive months, years, living like that? Even an animal in a zoo has better conditions than that.”

Ashley spoke. “Because that’s what most of them are, Rafi… animals. They don’t think of the consequences before they plunge a knife into someone or stamp on someone’s head so hard they kill him. It’s beyond their logic to think that far ahead.”

“Well, I’ve thought about it, Ash. My solicitor reckons I’m looking at a few years in prison; dealing to kids is the worst and perhaps I do deserve it.”

“Stop beating yourself up, Rafi, you were forced into it.”

Rafi seemed to ignore Ashley.

“Perhaps it’s God’s way. I have good insurance. A man called Mr Hunter deals with our community, calls round a couple of times a year. Last year he persuaded me to sign up for a big policy.”

Ashley realised what the poor kid was getting at.

“Two hundred thousand pounds will go to my father if I die. He could pay off our debts and still have enough to retire, sell a couple of the shops or rent them out.”

“You’re not thinking straight, Rafi, it doesn’t need to come to that.”

Rafi stared straight ahead looking right through Ashley, focusing on nothing in particular.

“Allah will provide.”

“What if you don’t go to prison?”

“God is good, he works out everything in the end. He sent me a message through a dream. I dreamt I was hanging from a light fitting, a torn bed sheet around my neck.”

He focused on Ashley, the youth was smiling.

“God sent me that message, Ashley.”

Ashley decided that now was not the time to express his atheist views.

“What if the judge is sympathetic, Rafi? He’ll know all about Bulldog. Jesus, everybody in the city knows about him, he’ll know how he works. Tell him about the protection racket, tell him about the debt, tell him how he forced your hand.”

Rafi climbed from the seat, walked over to the far side of the small lounge. He turned and faced Ashley.

“I’ve already been advised what will happen if I disclose that to the courts. I can’t deny I was dealing for him, I had to admit it, that’s bad enough, but Graham cocked up, not me and he isn’t holding the confession against me. But if I disclose to the courts that he forced my hand then he’s looking at another five years.”

Rafi wiped a handkerchief across his nose. “Five years of hell for my family. His monkeys have been into the shop, warned what will happen to the shops and…”

He paused, so much emotion, so much terror. “And my little brother.” Ashley wanted to speak, wanted to find the words. “I’ve to take whatever the courts throw at me, Ashley. I’ve

made my confession, it’s been signed and I mustn’t deviate from it in any way. Anything I say will add a year or two, maybe more, to Bulldog’s sentence and he’s made it clear that just wouldn’t do.”

“Do you have your solicitor’s number, Rafi?” “Yes.” “Then give it to me.” “Why? You’re on the other side so to speak.” “No, I’m not. I’m not on the force anymore, I’ve resigned. And

I’m on your side and you aren’t going to prison.” “How... Why?” “I’ll explain everything once I’ve spoken to your solicitor.” “But Billy Graham, Ashley, his gang. I’m scared, my brother, the

shops, I can’t–” “I’ll take care of that, Rafi, now go and get the bloody number.” Ashley opened the door to the shop as he folded the piece of paper and slipped it into his Levi’s pocket.

“One last question, Rafi.” Ashley paused by the door.

Rafi Patel raised an eyebrow.”What?”

“Would it offend you if I called you a Paki?”

Rafi Patel thought it a strange question. A half grin crept across his face.

“It depends in what context, Mr Clarke. If you called me a Paki bastard as I know some people do then yes, I would be offended. But if you said you were going to the Paki shop, then no, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”

Rafi laughed.

“I know some of my favourite customers use that term. They don’t mean to offend. Why do you ask?”