behind Ashley. He turned around on the seat, watched her pause by the door. He expected her to turn round and face him. She didn’t. She stood for what seemed like an eternity staring at the door that led out into the main office.
“To a man, woman and child, Ashley, they said they’d never seen hide nor hair of him. Never heard the name, never seen the face when I showed them the photograph. In fact, Ashley, I swear some people never even looked properly at the photograph before replying they’d never seen him before. I’d show them, hold up the photograph and they’d look right through it. It’s as if…”
“Go on. Tell me what you think.”
“It was as if the whole island was hiding something.”
Ashley fingered the handle on his coffee cup as a shiver ran up his back.
“The receptionist at The Ship looked through the bookings, said no one by the name of Wilkinson had reserved a room there. And yet, Ashley, he didn’t say he was going to book a room, he definitely said he’d booked one, even told me how reasonable it was.”
Ashley pushed his pen into his pocket. “I’ll make some enquiries back at the station, call in a few favours, see where they got to with the investigation.”
“I want to know, Ash. I just want to know. That’s not too much for a mother to ask, is it?”
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.”
Chapter 8
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
“To a man, woman and child, Ashley, they said they’d never seen hide nor hair of him. Never heard the name, never seen the face when I showed them the photograph. In fact, Ashley, I swear some people never even looked properly at the photograph before replying they’d never seen him before. I’d show them, hold up the photograph and they’d look right through it. It’s as if…”
“Go on. Tell me what you think.”
“It was as if the whole island was hiding something.”
Ashley fingered the handle on his coffee cup as a shiver ran up his back.
“The receptionist at The Ship looked through the bookings, said no one by the name of Wilkinson had reserved a room there. And yet, Ashley, he didn’t say he was going to book a room, he definitely said he’d booked one, even told me how reasonable it was.”
Ashley pushed his pen into his pocket. “I’ll make some enquiries back at the station, call in a few favours, see where they got to with the investigation.”
“I want to know, Ash. I just want to know. That’s not too much for a mother to ask, is it?”
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.”
Chapter 8
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
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