The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (26 page)

“I didn’t exactly say that in the article.”

“But reading between the lines you were sort of suggesting it?” Ashley stood up unable to get comfortable, he needed to pace the room, he needed to think about the next move. Walk and think. Before he could say anything else a tall thin young man walked into the room.

“Deb, you’re wanted on the telephone. You can take it in office number three. Some lady with a great story for you, an eleven year-old Stephanie Purvis has won the Border and Lothian under-fifteen cross country open race.”

She acknowledged the man and looked back at Ashley.

“See what I mean? Looks like our meeting is coming to an end, David.”

She held out a hand and Ashley took it. They lingered for a second or two before she broke the grip and walked towards the open door.

“Debbie.”

She turned.”Yeah?”

“Can we meet up again?”

She smiled.”We’re meeting up next week, remember? For the interview.”

Ashley laughed.”Oh yeah, I’d forgotten… the interview.”

As Dearblah O’Hanlan left the room Ashley typed Tom Wilkinson into the computer.

One result, one story, penned by a fair Irish hand, but as he read through the article entitled
Newcastle Man Missing
, he realised something was wrong.

Something was very wrong indeed.

The article was written before Tom’s body was washed up on the beach at Redcar and Ashley just couldn’t tear his eyes from the fifth paragraph:

Mr Wilkinson was a freelance IT consultant from Heaton in Newcastle upon Tyne. He was a popular member of the local community, a keen sportsman with a passion for travel.

Two little words, but of great significance. Two words that should never have been written by Dearblah O’Hanlan. And all of a sudden he didn’t feel quite so sure about the attractive reporter from The Berwick Advertiser.

The reporter sat at the laptop mildly frustrated. Everything stacked up. Perhaps she had been mistaken, perhaps her normal suspicious nature had betrayed her on this occasion. She’d searched on
Yahoo
and
Google
and asked
Jeeves
all manner of questions about the American author David Fox but so far had come up with a blank.

It was clear the man didn’t like his picture taken. Even on his own website the main picture had him sitting on the steps of what looked like the Vatican wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses and the full body shot taken from fifty feet away. And if she was completely honest with herself, it did look like him.

Nor had he tripped himself up. The neither here nor there English accent with an occasional American intonation seemed genuine enough. But then it would, wouldn’t it; she’d never ever held conversation with a half-American half-Brit before.

She went back to
Google
, keyed in
David Fox author
then scrolled up to images. She clicked on the icon. Fifty-seven different images, surely one would give a full mug shot with a decent pixel count.

She was out of luck.

“Shit,” she cursed. Only two photographs taken reasonably close, but both of them blurred, grainy images.

A sudden burst of inspiration.

She keyed in
David Fox author
and then
awards
. The
Google

search results showed over five hundred results. Again, she clicked the images icon. Four results. The four results loaded instantly. She cursed again, no better, in fact, a damn site worse.

She took off her glasses and cast them aside, decided on a coffee. As she got up and arched her back her eyes focused on the video icon. She hadn’t thought of that. There again, what chance was there to see a decent video clip when she couldn’t even find a decent picture.

She clicked the mouse.

One result.

One video of an award he’d received in London. She clicked play.

“Shit.”

The footage looked as if it had been taken by a four-year-old at the back of the Royal Albert Hall. David Fox and his interviewer were like black and white vibrating pin men and still he had the nerve to keep his bloody sunglasses on. It’s what celebrities do, she supposed. Victoria Beckham, Bono, Jack Nicholson, all parading around wherever they are like friggin’ flies under a microscope.

“Time for that coffee,” she mumbled to herself and, as she made her way across the room, the audio to the video kicked in.

The clarity of the sound was perfect. A round of applause and then in a crystal clear voice the interviewer asked what it meant to win the award. She rushed back to the computer and turned up the sound. David Fox paused for a second and smiled. He announced to the waiting press and selected audience how nice it was to be in England once again. In a carefully prepared short speech, he thanked the audience and the voting panel for awarding him the prize. He thanked his agent and publishing company and announced what a debt of gratitude he owed to his editor who turned a badly written yarn into a saleable commodity.

He thanked everybody and his dog in typical slushy American fashion. He thanked them in a perfect American accent…

There wasn’t a trace of English in any word. Why should there be? David Fox was an apple pie, midtown American. His own website had mentioned he’d left England as a youth; he’d been in America for over twenty-five years.

So who was this impostor and just what was he doing on the island? And his questions, his curiosity about the island and the islanders. Just who was the man she was now so angry with? She picked up her mobile and located the name. It rang three times before he answered.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Hi. How are you, working hard?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just been doing a little bit of research.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“It’s a case of what I can do for you.”

“Go on.”

She took a deep breath…stretched out the drama just a little bit longer than was necessary.”Seems like we have an impostor on the island, Jacob.”

It was ten in the evening before Ashley arrived back in the bar of the Ship Inn. There’d been an accident on the A1 at the entrance to Goswick Golf Club that had closed the road for two hours. He’d taken the opportunity to call Kate Wilkinson and give her an update on events as he’d sat in a lay-by. It had turned into a foul evening, the wind had picked up and the rain was coming down in torrents.

He reached the causeway. The tide was just beginning to drift in. The heavy rain made the causeway tricky and at times the slightly raised road almost blended with the sea. He took his time, no more than ten miles an hour. His hands loosened their grip on the wheel as he approached Causeway Chare that led into the village. He ran from the car and into the doorway of the Ship Inn trying to minimise the rain damage. He shook himself dry in the entrance porch. As he walked into the bar, Claire beamed at him. But it was different smile yet again. Claire Macbeth, the girl with a thousand faces.

“Hi, David, have a good day? Find what it was you were looking for?”

He shrugged his shoulders without answering the question, gave her a kind of not sure look that she seemed to understand.

For some reason he felt uncomfortable. The seat he took at the bar seemed harder than normal and he found it difficult to find the right position. Without being asked, Claire placed a bottle of Budweiser on the bar.

“It’s quiet tonight, David, hardly been a soul in all evening. With a little bit of luck I’ll get away to bed by midnight.” She peered out of the window.”I can’t see anyone venturing out now.”

Ashley looked at his watch.”I’m tired myself, think I’ll have this one and turn in too.”

That smile again.

“Only two people all night. Frank Short for a couple of beers earlier on and then Jacob Moor about an hour ago.”

Ashley looked around the bar and noticed he was the only customer in. No one sat in the darkened nooks and crannies of the old inn.

“Jacob was asking after you, wondered how the book was going, and wondered if he could help in any way. I said you were in Berwick researching some newspaper archives. Did you find out anything interesting?”

Ashley ignored the question, took his first mouthful of beer. It hit home, the effect was immediate.

“Jacob Moor… tell me about him, Claire. He’s the big cheese around here, isn’t he?” He took another mouthful, smacked his lips as the bottle left his mouth.”Bit of a smoothie, I hear, bit of a one for the ladies. You’d better take care of yourself, a pretty girl like you.”

He wanted a reaction but got nothing.

“Are you likely to want another drink, David? I’ll start and close up.”

Ashley shook his head.

“Good.”

Claire began turning the lights off around the bar area. Ashley looked on, there seemed to be a light switch for every damn bulb. As she turned off the lights to the main room, it cast a dull shadow across the whole bar area, and Ashley was plunged into a semi-darkness.

She stepped out from behind the counter and walked slowly towards the doorway and the darkened entrance, pushed the heavy door closed and secured the brass bolt at the top. She reached across to a shelf within the small enclosure, located a key, inserted it into the lock and turned it. She turned round to Ashley then smiled. Claire Macbeth reached across for the light switches and the bar turned to pitch. Ashley became aware of the barmaid’s intoxicating perfume as she breezed past him… and then it was gone.

Ashley Clarke skipped the magnificent Ship Inn breakfast, decided to grab a coffee and Danish pastry at the café by the harbour.

He crept quietly down the stairs a little before ten, sloped past the reception desk without meeting a soul and opened the door to the street, stepping out into the bright sunlight. He made his way down Marygate in the direction of the harbour.

Claire watched him from the small kitchen window overlooking the street; her heart skipped a beat. After she had watched him disappear from sight, she walked slowly along the corridor towards reception. She peered into the dining room. Clear. The guests had all disappeared, out for the day exploring the Priory and visiting the craft and gift shops, maybe a trip to Berwick or even a train up to Edinburgh to visit the castle.

The telephone rang. She knew who it would be, same time every week, a phone call she dreaded and yet one she had to answer. She’d tried to ignore it in the past but it had never stopped him. He simply walked over to the hotel and had his fun in one of the empty bedrooms, always more violent, more experimental than he was in the confines of his own domain.

She picked it up, took a quick look along the corridor as she read the familiar digits on the display.

“Hello.”

“It’s me. Okay to talk?”

“Yes.”

“She took the 8.30 bus, won’t be back till after four. It’s time to play fucky, fucky, young lady; get your pretty little arse round here quick.”

He grinned to himself and could swear a little more blood flowed into his ever-growing penis with each expletive. Jesus, if his wife could hear him speaking like this.

He was sure Claire loved it, loved every curse, the dirtier the better and what a performance she put in each time they met. He could count on two hands the amount of times his wife had allowed him to make love with the light on and, as for perversions as she called them like oral sex, well … that was taboo, a strict no-no. It was for the animals, she’d grimaced, as he’d suggested it, two months into their twenty-year marriage.

Not Claire. She’d sucked and fucked like a whore on heat ever since she was fourteen.

He’d trained her well. Anything went. She’d cried when he insisted they video their sordid performances but she’d eventually succumbed. And the tears had flowed like a river as he introduced her to anal sex. He bought the standard sex toys and eventually, after getting a little bored, went a step further.

Always a step further.

They’d had to tie her up the first time, knock her about a little but eventually they’d succeeded and after a few sessions they’d dispensed with the ropes.

“I’ll get my coat.”

“Good. It feels so long.”

“But it was only last week, remember?”

He purred.”Yeah, how could I forget? See you in ten minutes then, okay? I’ll leave the door open.”

“See you soon.”

“See you in ten.”

Claire replaced the receiver and reached for her coat hanging on the back of her chair and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

Jacob Moor sniffed at his armpits and thought it wouldn’t do any harm to use a little deodorant, maybe a squirt downstairs.

They lay in the Moor marital bed…spent. Their session had lasted a little over fifteen minutes, such was the expertise of his lover.

“A little too quick for my liking, Jacob,” Kyle mocked.

“She shouldn’t be so good, that tongue of hers is like a lizard. Give me ten minutes, the old fella will be standing to attention again.”