The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (18 page)

signposted
Tyne Tunnel.

“I suppose the church was frightened of our power, our principles, our strong beliefs.”

He whistled out loud through gritted teeth.

“Power – that’s a laugh. We didn’t have any power then, not like we have today.”

He continued.

“The island was too easy to find, and the priests and damned witch-hunters made frequent visits. In the early days they were quite successful. I mean, it’s not as if it’s a big island, nowhere to hide. They found our temple and old relics and people were so frightened they told tales on their next-door neighbours and even members of their own families. It wasn’t hard, everyone on the island knew who the Keepers were and, for the islanders, it was a case of accuse or be accused. The islanders were literally lining up to speak to the priest as the delegation crossed the causeway.

“The tortures were horrific; most of the Keepers confessed to being a member as soon as they saw what lay in store for them. The nearest inquisition prison was in Berwick-upon-Tweed. The Keepers were generally racked.”

“Racked, sir, I don’t understand.”

“Racked, constable. One of the most notorious and successful pieces of torture apparatus of all time. The victim would be stripped near naked, male or female, it didn’t make any difference, and tied onto a roughly constructed wooden-planked bedframe. At each end of the frame were pulleys and a roller to which the victim’s ankles and wrists were secured. The clergy would always be present to put the questions to the terrified individual and the jailer would turn the handles of the rack if they gave an answer the priest wasn’t happy with.

“The poor bastards were in a no-win situation, constable. Plead guilty to heresy and be imprisoned for life, maybe even burned at the stake, or beg innocence and be disabled for life. Torture doesn’t drag out the truth; when will people begin to realise that? Torture delivers answers of desperation.”

The sky seemed to darken as the driver gunned the pedal to the floor and a gentle rain began hitting the windscreen.

“Brother Michael Macnab, the Worshipful Master at the time, wrote an account of his experience on the rack when he was eventually returned to the island after seventeen years’ imprisonment.” He turned to the passenger.

“Have you read it?”

“No, sir, I don’t believe I have.”

“You should. You really should. He describes how one by one his wrist and ankles snapped as he continued to deny the accusations. He felt each bone bend like a piece of wet wood; the pain was like nothing he’d ever felt before. When the bone eventually snapped it was almost a relief, he wrote.

“He even swore on the bible, asked God to intervene and recited passages from the scriptures. The priest… this so-called man of God, the same God our Brother worshipped week in, week out, stood over Brother Michael and nodded his head towards the jailer. Brother Michael passed out as his hip dislocated and, mercifully, the punishment stopped.

“Under the ruling at the time he couldn’t be tortured again, but despite not confessing to anything he still spent seventeen years in jail. For seventeen years the Order disbanded, partly because of fear, partly out of respect for Brother Michael, and it was only on Brother Michael’s return was it resurrected. He made a vow. He vowed that the Order would be made stronger than it ever was.

“It would expand. A mass migration from the island. They were to create new Lodges in the borough and other parts of the country. The islanders would breed and educate their offspring like never before. Those with the biggest families would be helped financially. Before the end of the century, the children of that generation held lofty positions: judges, merchants, lawyers and teachers and, of course, policemen.”

He turned and smiled at the passenger. “A lot of policemen. And of course the islanders looked after their own as you can imagine. Job interviews were foregone conclusions, court cases were decided before they ever came to court, and still they bred and expanded ever further. Some emigrated, founded new Lodges in America and Australia.

“At the same time the five per cent income rule was introduced. Every islander that was part of the Brotherhood pledged five per cent of his salary. That way we could educate our offspring and purchase land and property. We became better organised. We were ready for the inquisition when they eventually returned.

“Once again our saviour was the good old tidal system of the North Sea. A Keeper on the mainland would notify the island that the delegation had arrived and more often than not they would time it badly and not be able to make it across the causeway. They’d stop off at the local inns en route and of course the inns were owned or ran by the Keepers. They’d be given the wrong tidal times or perhaps persuaded to stay a little longer by way of a free whisky or two.”

The driver guffawed. “I don’t know what it is with priests and fucking whisky but they all seem to love a wee dram. They’ll stand in their pulpits week in and week out preaching to the converted masses about the evils of drink and as soon as they smell the barmaid’s apron they’re first in the queue.

“And of course there was the Gatekeeper on the causeway, a Brother, always a Brother. He would be very persuasive advising them not to cross even when they would have made it quite comfortably.”

“How would they notify the Brothers, sir? I mean, there were no telephones back then.”

“Good old fire, constable, a strategically placed pile of rubbish, old cobbles, fishing nets beyond repair, household waste, adjacent to the causeway on the sand, a permanent fixture. Fire and brimstone. It gave the Brothers time to hide the evidence and warn every islander what would become of them should they attempt to talk to the inquisitors.

“Eventually the priests gave up and turned their attention to the towns and cities where easier pickings lay, richer pickings.”

The passenger shook his head, let out a high-pitched whistle.

“And then, constable…” His hand slapped twice on the constable’s thigh. “And then, constable… nothing… nothing would stand in our way.”

They’d driven about forty minutes before a fully-fledged

conversation took place.

“Tell me this afternoon wasn’t a dream, Ashley.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I stood and watched him shake his head as the verdict was announced. What’s his name?... Dr Morgan…the pathologist, that’s it, Dr Morgan. He just sat there shaking his head. Did you see him, Ashley?”

Ashley nodded. Despite the shadows getting longer and the darkness in the car, he nodded and then whispered gently, “I saw him, Kate.”

It was a lie. A lie that Ashley could live with for the time being. Because Ashley hadn’t seen him; his eyes had been fixed on his uniformed ex-colleagues. Ashley wanted their smiles to fade, fade into a different expression, a frown perhaps, maybe a look of sympathy, maybe even surprise at the coroner’s verdict.

But no.

They were smiles. Definitely smiles and smiles that hadn’t faded as they left the courtroom. At one point Ashley even expected them to slap each other’s back by way of a victory. And no surprise either, a look of confidence, especially Roddam. Roddam knew what the verdict would be, Ashley was sure of it.

Kate spoke, brought him back to the present.

“Where do we go from here, Ash?”

Ashley shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know, Kate, I really don’t know. Part of me wants to punch the whole damned lot of them. Part of me wants to get even.”

“And just how do we do that?”

Ashley was thinking.
A good question. Just how do we get even
?

It was simple really; after all he was a detective, shouldn’t be too hard to work out. Someone on the island must have slipped up, or would slip up if put under the right sort of pressure. Not from a cop but from a visitor, a tourist asking some subtle questions.

He was already beginning to think up an undercover role, a birdwatcher or a photographer, maybe a researcher working on a book.

“We get even by proving that Tom Wilkinson was murdered on Holy Island.”

“You’re convinced, Ash?”

“I think everyone in that courtroom was convinced except for the coroner and….”

“And?”

“Maybe a few… maybe just a few other sceptics.”

“My offer’s still on the table, Ashley.”

“Your offer?”

“Yes. I’ll pay you good money to take this case on.”

“But–”

“But nothing, Ashley. I can afford it and you need a job.”

She placed a hand on his knee.

“I want to get even too. Tell me you’ll at least try.”

He took his eyes from the road for a second and looked into her eyes. He breathed a sigh of relief as she removed her hand.

“You can work from my office. I’ve a spare room that isn’t used and I’ll sort you a telephone and a computer out.”

“I’ll work from one place and one place only… the island.”

The two friends, an ex-policeman and the mother of his dead best friend sat almost in silence for the rest of the journey back home to Newcastle. Ashley was thinking; he almost felt like taking a notebook and pencil out but contented himself with the mental manuscript in his head. Ashley took the car down through the gearbox as he approached the Tyne Tunnel. The mobile rang, he pushed the earpiece in his ear and pressed the green button.

Holy John.

“I’ve just heard the verdict, Ash, I can’t believe it.”

“Me neither, John, me neither.”

“You’re not gonna let it lie, are you?”

“Damned right I’m not, John. I owe it to Tom.”

He glanced across at Kate; she met his gaze, figured who it was on the other end of the phone.

Ashley spoke again. “Where do I go from here though, John? What happens now?”

“Where do we go from here, Ash?” He emphasised the ‘we’. “I’m in it with you, remember? I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do. It’s tarnishing the island, my island.”

Ashley breathed out slowly.”So you do believe he was there, John.”

“I’m fairly certain, Ash. I take it you’re heading up there sooner or later.”

“You’re a mind-reader, Holy John.”

“Copper’s instinct, Ash, copper’s instinct. Just keep me posted on your movements; whatever you find out, run it past me.”

“I will, John, I will.”

“One other thing, Ash.”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“I don’t think it would do any harm to have another meeting with the pathologist.”

“Yeah, like he’ll meet with me.”

John Markham sounded hesitant, he paused then sighed. “I’ll see what I can do, Ash, leave it with me.”

“Fancy a drink, Ashley? I could do with one.”

Kate’s voice interrupted his thoughts; they took a few seconds to register.

“Well, Ashley, do you?”

“Erm yes… yes.”

“Thank God for that, I thought you’d turned me down for a second. It must be ten years since I asked a man out for a drink.”

Ashley smiled nervously.”Where did you have in mind? What about The Blackbird in Ponteland? It’s only a ten-minute walk from your house. I’ll get a taxi back over home afterwards.”

“Sounds good, Ash.”

Ashley signalled as he approached the entrance to Kate’s house, slowed up and stopped while Kate activated the remote control to the gates. The huge black lead gates groaned open slowly and Ashley drove through.

“Actually, Ashley, I think I’ve a cool bottle of wine in the fridge. Do you mind if we have that drink here? All of a sudden I don’t think it’s worth the effort to go out.”

Ashley shrugged his shoulders.”I’m easy, Kate, whatever.”

The large house seemed cold, uninviting, lonely even. Ashley wondered why Kate, who’d been on her own for so long, needed such a big place. As in the office, the photos of Tom were everywhere. Kate dropped her handbag onto a seat in the hallway and walked through into the kitchen. Ashley followed her through, took a seat at the breakfast bar. Kate opened the fridge.

She raised a half smile.”A 2002 Rioja, Ashley. Will you do the honours?”

She handed him the bottle and, a few seconds later, a bottle opener she’d retrieved from a kitchen drawer.

By the time he had opened the bottle, Kate had placed two heavy crystal glasses beside him. He poured the wine and Kate sat down opposite him. They took a mouthful at the same time, gazing over the tops of their glasses. Their faces were barely a foot apart. Ashley leaned a little forward. He could smell her sweet breath lightly perfumed by the Rioja. He took another sip, spoke gently, almost whispered. It was the wrong place and the wrong time to be feeling how he was feeling.

“I need to tell you something, Kate.”

He wanted… needed to tell her about his fantasies as a sixteen-year-old, needed to tell her about his attraction to her, how unhealthy it all was and how he didn’t think it was such a good idea to work so closely with each other. What would she say? What would she do? Laugh? Tell him he was being stupid and how she was old enough to be his mother. Is that what it was, a schoolboy fantasy that had never been realised?