The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (21 page)

Ashley pressed end. John Markham sounded somewhat relieved that the meeting wouldn’t take place.

He looked in the mirror and saw nothing but blackness, floored the clutch and pushed the gear stick forward. He eased onto the causeway and couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. His car headlights on full beam as he made his way out into the North Sea, water lapping the causeway on both sides. Five miles an hour… no more. The escape tower up ahead, eerily painted a dirty white, neglected and windswept, silhouetted against the evening sky.

He started breathing normally again as he spotted the
Welcome to Holy Island
sign at the end of the causeway. He leaned forward, eased from his seat and pushed a hand up the back of his T-shirt allowing the cool air conditioning to dry the sweat.

There were no signposts for a car park to the Ship Inn, and he pulled up directly in front of the residents’ entrance. As he opened the door to the car, the wind howled up the street, cutting him in two. He shivered, reached over to the back seat for his Adidas sports bag. He took a final look in the mirror. He hated beards but there again had to agree that this week’s growth of stubble suited him.

His hair had almost reverted to its normal colour and had grown another inch or so that it touched the back of his collar. Of course he had the mandatory glasses and an additional baseball cap that he intended to wear occasionally. If John Markham hadn’t recognised him in the Queen’s Arms from less than a foot away he had little chance of recognising him now, nor would anyone else.

He’d settled on a Home Counties accent, one he found relatively simple after his years in London, and decided he was coming to Holy Island to research a book, his latest novel.

He’d checked out a little known American author who’d spent the majority of his youth in Surrey. The author’s website had only one photograph taken from a distance and the author resembled the look he had adopted, complete with beard and glasses. He’d taken a little over three weeks to perfect his story, checking out masses of information and photographs on Google and had even read every one of the author’s published novels over an intensive seven-day period.

He had to admit he’d enjoyed them and didn’t mind playing the part of David Fox for the next few weeks. An author researching his next novel wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion. He’d be expected to nose around asking questions of the locals, checking out the characters of the island and their traditions, scandals and hopefully even a murder or two! It was perfect.

David Fox, best-selling author; in fact, he’d always thought he had a book in him.

“Mr Fox, I presume?”

“Yes… erm, how did you guess?” replied Ashley.

“I wouldn’t say I’m a fan but I’ve read a couple of your books, sir.”

“And you are?”

“Claire. Claire Macbeth. I’m the receptionist, come waitress, come barmaid, come everything. I’ve worked here since I left school. You could say I’m a bit of a fixture.”

Claire from the e-mail; a good start, thought Ashley, attractive too. He guessed Claire to be in her late twenties, very tall and slim with long auburn hair tied up in a ponytail at the back. She wore a pair of small red-rimmed glasses that might have looked ridiculous on someone else but actually suited her to a T. She caught Ashley’s look and removed them as she spoke.

“I need them for reading, Mr Fox, a necessary evil, I’m afraid.”

Ashley found himself back at school, in Kate’s kitchen as a fourteen-year-old.

“No honestly, they’re great, they really suit you.”

“Thanks, Mr Fox. I guess I’m a bit conscious of them. The optician convinced me to go with the red frame, but I’ve a black pair too if you’d prefer me to wear them.”

“Please… call me David and no, the red frames are just fine, great, really nice.”

Claire smiled, Ashley blushed. Thank God for the beard.

Claire went through the formalities. Ashley said he’d be paying cash, didn’t believe in credit cards and, when asked for ID, handed over the forged passport he’d picked up from Kevin the Fixer at the North Heaton Sports Club the previous week. Kevin could get anything. Dodgy ID, forged licences, phoney tax discs, counterfeit money and even guns. He’d been a bit wary of Ashley even though they’d known each other since they’d run together in the Ebor Street gang all those years ago. Kevin had a natural distrust of coppers, but over two pints Ashley had managed to convince him he was genuine. Ashley said he’d be back in a month or two; there was something else he needed from Kevin.

“How long are you staying, David?”

Ashley didn’t have a clue. Didn’t even have a game plan. This was not normal policing, he couldn’t go flashing a warrant card around, pressurise a witness or two. He couldn’t do door to door nor could he call on the assistance of any colleagues or access the police computer.

“To be honest, I’m not really sure.”

He had a bank statement, the word of the deceased’s mother and an e-mail suggesting he was about to make a booking. Nothing else. Jack shit. And unless someone or some persons on Holy Island made an enormous gaffe, the killers would escape.

“You mentioned a week on the telephone but to be really honest we’re quiet at the moment so it shouldn’t be a problem booking another week if you decide to stay longer.”

Ashley nodded, smiled.

“Great, that’s what I’ll do.” He reached in his pockets and pulled out a bundle of notes. “I’ll pay in advance, a week at a time.”

It was around nine o’clock when he made his way down to the bar. He was the only one there and was pleasantly surprised to see Claire standing behind the bar.

“You weren’t kidding, Claire, barmaid too.”

She’d dispensed with the glasses, changed into a loose-fitting white T-shirt and faded jeans. Ashley liked the look.

“Everything, David. I wasn’t kidding. What will you have to drink?”

Ashley clawed at the growth on his chin, hoped whatever investigation he was going to undertake would finish fairly quickly so he could shave the damn thing off.

“Not really sure, just something light. Have you a bottle of Bud?”

“Coming up. Are you missing home already?”

“Sorry?”

“America. Budweiser. That’s where you live… America, isn’t it?”

Jesus, he was out of practice, almost slipped up within two minutes. Think, man, think. You’re an American author here on a research mission; you’ve set your next novel on a small English island.

“Yeah… Oregon, nice part of the world. Have you been?”

Claire shook her head as she bent down to the cold shelf to retrieve a bottle of Budweiser and a chilled ice-cold glass.

“No such luck, I’m afraid. I meant to go travelling and to uni but just never got there. My grades were good enough at school but my uncle got me a part-time job here and I suppose I liked it. I’ve been here ever since, nearly ten years.”

“Where’s this uncle of yours? He needs a good lecture, and what did your dad have to say about it?”

Claire’s facial expression changed. He guessed he’d put his foot in it. She concentrated on opening the bottle, eye contact broken temporarily.

“My dad died when I was fourteen.” Her eyes filled with sadness now, Ashley opened his mouth but no words came.

“It’s okay, David, you weren’t to know.”

He reached across as he was handed the bottle.

“He was a good man.” The voice came from behind him. Ashley turned around. A short elderly man dressed in an immaculate dinner suit and black tie spoke again.

“One of the best, George was.”

Ashley nodded, “I’m sure he was,” turned back to face Claire. “Sorry, Claire, I truly am.”

Claire looked over Ashley’s shoulder, made eye contact and proceeded to pour a pint of Guinness. The gentleman sidled up

to the bar and sat in the seat next to Ashley.

“You must be the Yankee author, right?”

“Yes, David Fox, pleased to meet you.”

He held out a hand. The elderly gentleman paused for a second, took a long lingering look at Ashley as if eyeing up a prize thoroughbred to see if it would make the grade and reluctantly shook his hand. It was fish-wet cold and, as the two men broke hands, Ashley placed his hand on his thigh and casually moved it a few inches to dry it. Ashley looked at the briefcase the man had placed on the floor.

“Frank Short, Mr Fox. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Off to the Lodge, Mr Short?”

The man took a long slow drink from the glass Claire had placed in front of him, wiped the froth from his top lip.

“Familiar with the Freemasons, Mr Fox?”

Ashley thought back to the times he been asked to join the Lodge, of the strange limp-like handshakes he’d been given over the years by colleagues and senior officers. He wanted to tell the gentleman how many times he’d refused the invite to join and how certain individuals had changed their approach towards him which he thought was so wrong. He wanted to tell the gentleman that he thought the culture of preferential treatment for the Brothers amounted to an almost racist approach and, of course, as a confirmed atheist, it just wasn’t possible to join an organisation founded on the belief of a Supreme Being.

“The Freemasons’ organisation is very popular in America, sir. I’ve a certain knowledge, though I’m not in the craft myself.”

Mr Short raised a glass.

“Me neither.”

Claire interjected, “Frank belongs to the Brotherhood of the Island. The Keepers.”

“A spin-off of the Masons, right?” asked Ashley.

Claire shrugged her shoulders, the elderly man remained silent. Claire gave him a wry smile.

“Well, David, how would I know?” She held her arms open, took a step back so that Ashley could focus on her full form. “I’m hardly dressed for the occasion, am I?”

Ashley found himself staring at her for a little longer than necessary. The old man spoke.

“The Brotherhood has been in existence far longer than the Freemasons, Mr Fox. Some would say the Masons are a spin-off from the Brotherhood.”

Ashley’s jaw gaped.

“You mean you’re telling me that this small island gave birth to the Freemasons?”

The man took another long mouthful from his glass. Ashley was conscious of the door to the bar opening behind him and footsteps coming towards them on the ancient stone floor. The bar had changed little in a couple of hundred years.

“I’m telling you nothing, Mr Fox. Our organisation is unique, that’s all I’m saying, and other societies have latched on to our principles and ancient ceremonies, of that there’s no doubt. Some of our Brothers have been asked to join the Masons over the years and have resigned in disgust almost immediately, blatant plagiarism they say. We’ve managed to get a copy of the three degrees of the Masons’ ceremonies and some of the text is almost word for word.”

Ashley spoke in a hesitant whisper. “Might it have been the other way round, Mr Short? You know, the Brotherhood stealing from the Masons?”

The stranger, also dressed in an immaculate dinner suit and leaning against the bar, spoke with a soft lilt.

“Impossible, my friend. The Island Keepers date from Saint Cuthbert’s time, our dearly beloved Saint actually drew up the constitution and the ancient ceremonies. We have the tomes in a bank safe in Edinburgh.”

He held out a hand and Ashley took it.

“Jacob Moor by the way, pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise, David Fox.”

Jacob Moor was a tall, dapper man, probably in his early forties. He had a confident demeanour and a cold non-infectious smile.

“The first volume of the tome dates back to 687, ten years before St Cuthbert’s death. It details the ancient ceremonies performed around that time and runs to over two hundred and ninety thousand handwritten words. It’s quite incredible, Mr Fox. You as an author must appreciate that.”

“Erm… quite.”

Another three gentlemen all suited and booted walked into the bar and Claire proceeded to place a drink next to each of them without either asking or being told. Jacob Moor nodded as a glass of whisky was handed to him and threw back half the glass before he spoke again.

“Some people claim that the original Freemasons date back to biblical times and to King Solomon’s Temple. This is not correct, Mr Fox, and there is no firm evidence to back it up. It is more likely that the Freemasons we know today started in medieval times evolving from stonemasons’ guilds. The Grand Lodge of England for example didn’t open until 1717. We have documentary evidence in Edinburgh that our Brotherhood was active a thousand years before.”

Jacob Moor turned to his three Brothers assembled at the bar.

“This is Mr Fox, gentlemen, an American author. He’s here to research his next book and I’m giving him a little history lesson of the Brotherhood.”

Ashley raised his glass in the direction of the assembled group.

“I’d prefer to think of myself as half-British actually. My mother was born here and I spent nearly twenty years in Surrey. That’s why I haven’t got the accent. Thank Christ, eh?”

“I’d prefer if you wouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Mr Fox,” Jacob interjected.”Our friend Father Thompson may take offence.”