Ashes to Ashes: An unputdownable thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller

This latter aspect was where Shelley had come good, mainly because of the teeny string bikini she’d fortunately remembered to take along with her, and the fact that she was still in terrific shape. It didn’t win her the contest, but it won her the hearts of male viewers, while her bubbly personality and determination to do well in the face of private accusations from one rival contestant that she was a ‘cutie-pie airhead’ won the admiration of women. She didn’t cop off with anyone on the show either, which the dailies suggested meant that Shelley Harper had finally grown up and earned her widespread approval.

Of course her career hadn’t exactly been relaunched. No sooner was she being talked about again than images from that infamous top-shelfer reappeared on the internet. But Shelley wasn’t too concerned. This was, she understood, a brief second throw of the dice, which would get her back into the gossip columns for a short time, grant her a few unexpected earners here and there, and, if nothing else, make her ‘Bayber’s Babe’ for 2017.

And why the hell not? She might be in her late thirties by now, but she was still the whole package. As eight o’clock came, she peeled off her cloak – to much ribald cheering from the crowd – and sashayed forward to stand alongside the veiled statue and its dangling cord. She boasted an impressive 36-24-36 figure, which fitted snugly into her sexy little showgirl outfit (the ‘Our Mavis Special’, as the organisers had referred to it). It was a bright-blue minidress, with a thigh-high hem and plunging neckline, and, trimmed with white tassels, it perfectly complemented her white fishnets and high-heeled white leather ankle boots. Shelley’s flowing blonde mane shone to dazzling effect in the explosion of flash-bulbs.

Fleetingly, the attention switched away from her as she yanked the cord and the sheet rustled to the ground, exposing the glittering bronze form of Bradburn’s very own cheeky chappie, standing in the guise of his personal favourite character, Wing Commander Porkins, complete with bomber jacket, flying helmet and monocle.

This was the moment when Shelley had to go that extra yard to win back the onlookers’ attention. Because after all, if they weren’t looking at her, what was the point in her being here? So she held her ground boldly, poised, pert, waving to the crowd, smiling gorgeously, throwing enormous kisses, shamelessly upstaging one of the grand old men of suggestive comedy, until gradually she became the focus again, everyone shouting and gesticulating back, and if some of those gestures were a little crude, and some of the comments a tad on the coarse side, what did it really matter if they desired her too?

The main thing was that she was back where she’d always wanted to be, in front of a mob of people who adored her. Whatever their preference, whatever their kink, adoration was the bottom line. They wanted her.

They idolised her.

They loved her.

Every single one of them.

Chapter 12

Heck felt no emotions as he stood on the corner of Shadwell Road and looked up at the grimy red-brick façade of The Coal Hole. Or perhaps he was just holding them in check, subconsciously restraining them. His dad’s old local, the Hole had barely changed: the familiar image of a pithead flywheel framed on a cloudy sky still adorned the shield over the door; the two front windows were still frosted to half their depth, the words FINE ALES printed in an arch over the top of each; it was still basically an end-terrace, though now an end-terrace on the edge of a post-demolition wasteland.

How the Hole had avoided the wrecker’s ball, Heck couldn’t imagine, but somehow it had – a bewildering stroke of fortune, which might, under ordinary circumstances, have brought a tear to his eye. He’d lost count of the Sunday lunchtimes as a small boy, when he’d sat on the hostelry’s back-step in his rugby scarf and bob-cap, listening to the jovial shouts from inside, smelling the mingled fragrances of alcohol and cigarette smoke, waiting with infinite patience for his dad to finally emerge, a clutch of workmates around him, so they could all set off to the match together. Or the Sunday afternoons afterwards, when the landlord would open the back door and allow the kids to come in with their dads and granddads. While the elders would drink and discuss the game, young Mark would spend endless happy hours clacking balls around on the snooker table, or sitting quietly at the back of the vault, a glass of lemonade and a bag of salted peanuts keeping him company while he carefully built armies out of dominoes.

Heck shoved the car keys into the pocket of his jeans, and went inside.

There was only a handful of people present now, most dotted at tables around the main taproom. The vault, which was accessible through an open arch at the far end, was empty, but a pool table now occupied the place where the snooker table had once stood. Otherwise, everything else was the same. The décor perfectly matched Heck’s memories: coats of arms, sports trophies, sepia-toned photographs.

Heck ambled to the bar. When he got there, the pub landlord was a familiar face. Harry Philbert, a professional rugby league star of the 1980s, and apparently still content in his role as licensee of The Coal Hole, was silver-haired these days and paunchy. In his silk shirt and club tie, he looked hale, hearty and every inch ‘mine host’, but when he saw Heck he stiffened.

‘Pint of Best, please,’ Heck said, producing his wallet.

Philbert hesitated to pull the pint.

‘Something wrong?’ Heck asked.

‘No, no.’ Philbert blustered. ‘Just … didn’t expect you round here again.’

‘I’ve been back once or twice.’

‘First I’ve seen of you.’

‘Well, funnily enough, Harry, you weren’t number one on my catch-up list. Wonder why that might’ve been?’

Philbert reddened, clearly remembering that night all those years ago when he’d refused to serve the young off-duty bobby, telling him that he wasn’t welcome in The Coal Hole any more. He cleared his throat as he drew the beer. ‘Keeping you busy, is it? Your job.’

Heck shrugged, pushing his money across the bar.

‘So busy you couldn’t even attend your mum and dad’s funerals?’

‘Well, you know what, Harry … here’s a funny thing. No one told me they were dead until they were underground.’

Even Philbert had the good grace to look shocked by that. ‘Surely, your Dana …?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Your Uncle Pat …?’

‘I found it harder to believe in his case, but I’d imagine he was acting on the wishes of the recently departed.’

Philbert pondered this for some time, then, apparently finding it understandable, maybe even appropriate, nodded and pushed the brimming pint across the counter. Heck grabbed it and walked away. Not particularly looking for company, he avoided the tables where other customers were sat, and strode into the vault. He stood contemplating the pool table, wondering if he had the interest and/or patience to play a couple of sets. He supposed there was nothing else to do – it was anyone’s guess how long it would be before his uncle came in, if he appeared at all. He placed his pint down and took a cue from the rack.

‘Now, stranger,’ a voice said. ‘You not talking?’

Heck glanced sideways, surprised. He hadn’t heard the woman approach. A minute ago she’d been seated in a quiet corner, drinking from a tall glass of coke while busying herself on a laptop. She’d caught his eye fleetingly: denim-clad and wearing a Motorhead T-shirt, but shapely with it, her thick dark hair hanging past her shoulders. He hadn’t recognised her though.

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