The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (24 page)

“Except, Mr Short?”

“Except…”

The old man pushed his glass away, made to stand up.

“I have to get going, Mr Fox.”

“Please, Mr Short, tell me, I promise it won’t go any further.”

Frank Short laughed.”You’re writing a book, Mr Fox, what do you mean it won’t go any further? Why are you so interested about us anyway?”

“Curiosity, Frank, that’s all.”

Frank Short never elaborated any further. At one point Ashley thought he really wanted to, as if wanting to unburden himself but it never happened. He was evasive about each question and gave no information of any significance.

Frank Short stood up, walked over to the bar and replaced his glass on the counter. He bid the barman good day and walked towards the door. As he passed their table he stopped.”It used to be fun, Mr Fox, a noble organisation, only it’s changed recently.”

“Changed, Frank, in what way?”

The old man leaned forward, no more than a couple of inches from Ashley’s face.

“You seem like a nice man, Mr Fox. Stop interfering in something that you don’t know anything about. Leave the island, leave it for your own good and concentrate your research on that world web thing.”

Ashley was thinking Shaggy and Scooby and those pesky kids.

“For my own good? What are you saying? Are you warning me off?”

Frank Short adjusted his flat cap, tightened his tie once more and placed a hand on Ashley’s shoulder. He squeezed gently and let it linger for a moment. Ashley looked up and swore there was a tear in his eye.

“Good day, Mr Fox. I have to be going.”

“Frank, no, please, wait.”

The old man walked towards the door. The door opened then closed and Ashley sat on his own cursing his powers of persuasion.

Why was the old man so sheepish… it was as if they’d done something … wrong. As if they held some big secret. The ideals of the Masons: what were they exactly? He’d heard the rumours around the various stations he’d been assigned to. Look after each other, protect the family and look out for your fellow Masons. The Island Keepers, protect the island. Protect it from what exactly? Outsiders? No, he’d been made very welcome in the bar last night and what could be more outside than an American on a tiny island in the middle of the English North Sea.

He lifted his glass, took a mouthful. Suddenly he wasn’t so thirsty. He took out his notebook and turned to page two and alongside where he’d written
Island Keepers
he scribbled a line under Frank Short’s name along with Jacob Moor and Father Thompson and a large question mark. It was time for some more internet research, this time on the Freemasons.

He made a point of wandering the streets of the island; thinking time. It took all of ten minutes and he found himself walking up Causeway Chare and looking out towards the sea which now covered the causeway. The early afternoon sun had polished the surface to a mirror-like sheen.

The island was cut off. He was stranded.

A prisoner.

No way could he leave the island at this precise moment in time, whatever the reason.

A light sea fret had rolled in and the mainland had become obscured. He shivered, turned back to face the village and made his way back to The Ship Inn. He was pleasantly surprised to see Claire serving behind the bar with several locals keeping her company. A few tourists were there too, sitting at tables, easy to spot in walking boots, cagoules and a guidebook or two or an information pamphlet about Lindisfarne Priory. And, of course, one or two obligatory sets of binoculars.

Not quite crowded but the bar of the Ship had a pleasant ambience, a welcoming noise, different to last night. He looked over at the bar, gave Claire an awkward wave which she ignored totally. He bit his lip and walked over. One spare seat strategically placed between two fit-looking young men: villagers… locals… probably fishermen.

“Is that anyone’s seat?” Ashley asked politely.

“I’m afraid so, mate. There’s a seat over there.” The man pointed over to the far side of the room and grinned. Claire walked over, gave them a disapproving look.

“What are you having, David? I’ll bring it over.”

“Just a small beer, Claire, thanks.”The two young men glared at him and Ashley concentrated on staring straight ahead, not wishing to make eye contact. He turned and walked over to the table. A few minutes later Claire brought over the beer.

“Just ignore them, David, they’ll be gone soon. Don’t give them a chance to cause trouble.”

Ashley took a sip from the glass and looked up at Claire with a puzzled look.

“I’m not with you, Claire… trouble… I don’t understand.”

She sighed. “The seat is spare, David. He’s winding you up, taking the piss, they do that with all the strangers. They think they’re so damned macho. They’re notorious for it. They’ve been barred from every pub on the island at some point but then management always bow down and let them back in again.”

“Why?”

“Because they drink gallons, David, gallons and gallons every week. The average tourist has a few pints then disappears after a couple of days. It’s called profit, supply and demand; survival.”

“So the seat’s not taken?”

Claire shook her head.”Of course not.”

The adrenalin surge, he’d experienced it a hundred times before, that boost just before you know trouble is going to break out. He’d made his mind up.

“Just stay there and keep out of their way. They’ll be going on to the next pub shortly. The sooner the better.”

“Friendly sorts, aren’t they. Are there many more like them on the island?”

Claire shook her head.”They’re the worst if you ask me.”

Claire returned to the bar. Ashley was thinking. Could these be the scumbags that gave Tom a kicking before throwing him into the sea? He waited a few minutes, his anger growing by the second. Don’t lose your temper. He remembered his police training, remembered the self-defence moves, the restraining methods and the dozens and dozens of altercations over the years.

Claire had returned to the bar, busying herself washing a few glasses in the sink beneath. He walked across the bar, leaned over and spoke quietly to the man who had refused him the seat.

“Thought you said the seat was taken, my friend.”

The man clenched his fists, his friend’s body visibly stiffened.

“It is… my feet are on it.” His friend laughed out loud, he smiled and stared at Ashley.

It was a forced laugh, politicians on Question Time.

Ashley swiped gently at the man’s calves and his feet fell to the floor.

Ashley whispered in his ear, “Not now they’re not, motherfucker.”The man leapt to his feet as his friend took hold of Ashley by his jacket. His accomplice pulled back his fist ready to spring into action. Claire screamed as Ashley’s forearm caught the man who held his jacket, square in the Adam’s apple and he fell gasping to the floor. His friend’s fist was already propelling towards Ashley’s face as he seemed to take hold of the arm in slow motion, deflected it and, in one perfectly executed movement, drove the man onto the floor with his thumb pressed deep into his wrist and his arm rigid behind his back. He placed his foot on the man’s neck.

“I think you and your friend were just leaving, unless you’d care to finish this outside.”

His friend lay red-faced on the floor shaking his head furiously. Ashley looked at him.

“Looks like you’re on your own, buddy.”

“No,” was all he could say. Ashley loosened his grip. The two men rose gingerly to their feet. The man holding his throat was coughing violently. For a split second Ashley thought they were considering a second bite at the cherry but Ashley smiled confidently, puffed out his chest and took a half step towards them making them all too aware he was up for it a second time around. They backed away cautiously.

“It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, gentlemen, see you again, I hope.”

The man who only seconds before had been pinned to the floor by his throat turned as he reached the open doorway.

“Watch your back, stranger,” he shouted.”Watch your back.”

“I shall do just that, my friend,” Ashley countered, “I’ll do just that.”

Ashley turned to face Claire with a cheeky smile. She stood open-mouthed, unable to speak, trembling gently.

“Pussycats really, Claire.”

She shook her head. “Where on earth did you learn to do that? It was like something out of a Bruce Willis movie.” She smiled.

“US Special Forces. Five and a half years, a little like your SAS, I think.”

“They won’t let it lie, David, they’ll be back.”

“How many?”

“I dunno, maybe another two or three.”

“Should be a pretty fair fight then,” he said as he claimed his prize of the lone wooden seat that sat at the bar. Claire handed him a bottle of Budweiser.

“That one’s on me,” she grinned.

But as she turned away something gnawed at her. Something told her the incident that had occurred in front of her hadn’t been real. Although she couldn’t quite put her finger on exactly what it was.

He hadn’t slept well that night, rose before it had even managed to break daylight and took a walk down Crooked Loaning to the opposite side of the island. No causeway here.

Nothing between Holy Island and Norway.

The North Sea was an awful grey-black colour, a light drizzle mixed with an early morning fret. He wondered what sort of day it had been when Tom Wilkinson met his death. He hoped he’d been unconscious when he entered the hostile world of the North Sea. Surely nothing could be worse.

Ashley zipped up his leather jacket and regretted his early morning wander as a gust of icy wind nearly knocked him off his feet. He turned round and headed back to the village. He’d enjoyed his little disagreement in the bar as always, but somehow didn’t think those two bozos could be involved in Tom’s tragedy.

Why was Tom killed? Was it a drunken brawl that went too far or something far more sinister?

He’d decided to cross the causeway today, take a trip up to Berwick-upon-Tweed, check the archives of the local newspaper, The Berwick Advertiser. He’d checked with Claire: the causeway was safe to cross just after ten. Berwick was a twenty-minute drive away.

Berwick was cold and grey; it hadn’t changed much since his last visit as a twelve-year-old visiting some distant relation of his father’s. It was stuck in a seventies seaside town time warp, that’s how he remembered it

He’d telephoned The Berwick Advertiser, put on his best Home Counties accent, intermingled with an odd Americanism and told them about the book and Holy Island and the necessary research needed to pen a novel. The newspaper had been only too pleased to assist David Fox, though insisted on an interview for the paper. Ashley was a little uncomfortable with that but had promised to return later that week to fulfil his obligation.

He sat in the offices of The Berwick Advertiser in Main Street at the lone desktop computer that had been reserved for him. An elderly lady, Dorothy, fussed around him explaining everything from the keyboard to the mouse and how to access the archives.

“We only go back forty-two years, Mr Fox,” she explained in a beautiful Scottish border lilt. “It’s a question of resources and time. But I’m sure you’ll find more than enough to go on with. Now, can I get you a nice cup of tea?”

“A black coffee would be nice, Dorothy. Just a sprinkling of sugar.”

Dorothy gave a smile and walked in the direction of a coffee machine over in the far corner of the room.

Ashley pulled out his notes with the key words underlined. He typed
missing persons
into the computer. Sixty-four results. Missing persons from Edinburgh, missing persons from Berwick and Newcastle, even a missing person from Carlisle on the west coast. Narrow the search. He keyed in
missing persons Holy Island.
Twelve results. Twelve missing persons from Holy Island, unusually high, he thought, given the size of the place but, then again, Edinburgh and Newcastle didn’t have a causeway. He sighed and began reading the articles in detail.

The first three people were last heard of trying to cross the causeway, the next two likewise, but the sixth person was missing, presumed dead, fallen from a fishing boat a mile out to sea. Nothing unusual. 1990 the next one, washed from the causeway, presumed dead. His heart sank a little further after reading each piece. He wanted suspicion, doubt, a reason to carry on for the sake of Tom Wilkinson. He wanted the newspaper articles to cry foul. They didn’t.

He typed in
murder Holy Island
. Nothing. He typed in
suspicious death Holy Island
. The same three words appeared in a box at the centre of the screen:
No results found
. His mood deepened as he read the next report and the next.
The causeway, foolish, drowned, swept away, presumed dead, in the hours of darkness.
He looked again at the last article,
in the hours of darkness.
It stuck out like a lighthouse beacon; were they crazy? What sort of fool would attempt a crossing in the dark? And then the tenth report: two young males, brothers, Bobby and David Copeland, again in the hours of darkness, a little after midnight,
coastguard alerted, too late.