The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (27 page)

Claire climbed from the bed and stepped into her black silk panties. She bent down and pulled them from the floor, up past her knees and over her hips.

“‘Fraid not, I must go, Jacob. I need to prepare the lunches.” Claire reached onto the bed for her bra, and turned to face the bedroom door as she dressed as quickly as she could.

Jacob Moor hid his disappointment well, but realised she was right. After all it was Jacob who owned the freehold to the Inn and he’d gradually turned it around over the last few years ever since he’d allowed Claire to manage everything.

She was almost like a slave; he paid her peanuts and abused her wherever and whenever he could and yet she’d still put heart and soul into it and gradually built up the profits. She took a hand in everything: the food, reception, accommodation, the bar, she even cleaned the bloody toilets. He almost laughed out loud.

The only help she needed was a part-time barman and a dishwasher. Jesus, life was good, life was simple.

It was a relatively simple task to arrange a meeting with Sheila Moor. Ashley’s suspicions, intuition, natural curious nature, whatever it was, drew him to the Island Keepers and Jacob Moor in particular. He couldn’t explain why but he felt sure the organisation was the key to the disappearances. What better way to get nearer to them than through the wife of the Worshipful Master. He would also talk to Jacob; after all Claire had said he’d offered to help with the research.

It was as if Sheila Moor was glad of the company. Ashley had brought a copy of David Fox’s latest novel to a small café by the harbour where he met the ‘fan’. He’d perfected the American author’s signature well and took great care inscribing the book to Sheila Moor.

Almost flirtatiously Sheila Moor gazed into his eyes. She had gone to seed, past her sell-by date. She’d no make-up on, not even a smattering of lipstick and her wardrobe had seen better days. And yet Ashley could tell that Sheila Moor had been stunningly beautiful in her day, maybe not that long ago. Her fine features were smooth, hardly a wrinkle and she carried her slightly overweight figure elegantly. Nothing, Ashley thought, that couldn’t be repaired with a few weeks in the gym, a lick of paint and a visit to the Metro Centre.

As she spoke Ashley peered into the eyes of a troubled soul. He couldn’t pinpoint how he knew, or detail any mysterious body language or twitch of a facial muscle, but he knew. He’d seen those eyes a thousand times before, generally in a prison cell at the precise moment the criminal had thrown in the towel.

Sheila tried to appear enthusiastic, even talked about the plot of the novel she was holding, claimed she’d read the first few chapters when it was serialised in the Sunday Times magazine a few months ago.

“What is it that’s troubling you, Sheila?” Ashley enquired. A minute’s silence. Sheila Moor feigned a smile.”It’s that obvious, is it?” Ashley nodded his head, said nothing. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you, Mr Fox.” “Try me.” Sheila Moor looked just for a split second as if she would talk

but then she composed herself and the moment passed. “You’re a writer not a listener, Mr Fox.” “What difference does that make? I can listen if there’s

something you want to get off your chest.” She paused, looked up and spoke.”Are you married?” Ashley shook his head, prayed that the real David Fox wasn’t

either, though couldn’t remember seeing anywhere on the

internet about a Mrs David Fox. “Then you wouldn’t understand.” “Wouldn’t understand what?” Sheila Moor shook her head, smiled, looked around the table

for something to fiddle with, settled on a small sachet of sugar. She twisted it between her fingers to the point of bursting. She spoke in a whisper.

“Imagine, Mr Fox…” She leaned forward. “Imagine devoting and trusting your life to one person. Imagine you know everything and anything there is to know about a single individual. What makes them tick, what they like, what they don’t like, how they smell. Imagine the feeling of producing a child together. Do you know how special that is? A son. A living, walking, talking image of his father and mother. His habits, my habits, little traits and the way he walks, how he shakes when he’s nervous.” She laughed.”Just like his mother.”

Ashley broke eye contact for a second, looked at the sugar sachet trembling between Sheila Moor’s thumb and forefinger.

She stood.”I must be going, Jacob will be home–”

Ashley reached for her hand.”No.”

Their eyes met again and Sheila’s gaze lingered for a second. In that glorious oh so short period of time Sheila Moor was ready. She opened her mouth to speak.

And then the unmistakable sound of her husband’s voice shattered the silence.

“Good afternoon, dear. I just bumped into Father Thompson; he said I’d find you in here.”

The sugar sachet split and tiny brown grains of sugar cascaded downwards, bounced onto the tablecloth as if in slow motion.

Jacob stared into her eyes.”Helping our friend with a bit of his research, are we?”

Sheila held up the book.”He’s given me a signed copy, Jacob.”

“Very kind of him, I’m sure.”

Jacob turned to Ashley.”I should have mentioned, Mr Fox. My wife’s quite a fan of yours. I really should have arranged a meeting earlier. Your eighth book now, I believe, is that correct?”

Ashley nodded.

“I’ll pick up where you left off, darling,” Jacob announced. He looked at his wristwatch, never focused on a hand or a digit.”It’s time for you to be getting home.”

Without another word Sheila Moor reached across the table, shook Ashley’s hand and, before he could say anything, she was gone.

Jacob Moor sat smirking, a way too confident look on his face, and a strange cold shiver ran the length of Ashley’s spine.

“I hear you had a good day in Berwick up at The Advertiser office, Mr Fox.”

Ashley didn’t answer; he considered the next course of his investigation. Why was Jacob so keen to get rid of his wife? He’d arranged the meeting with Sheila when Claire had told him Jacob Moor would be on council business all day.

But he’d come back.

Someone had called him and he’d returned to the island just as fast as he could. Could it have been Father Thompson? Ashley had noticed him skulking outside the coffee shop as he waited for Sheila.

“I thought you were in Berwick today, Jacob. Did your meeting get cancelled?”

Jacob thought for a second, pawed nervously with his ear lobe. “Yes, unfortunately.” He grinned. “Or fortunately… depends which way you look at it. I hate the damn council business but someone has to do it.”

“That’s right,” replied Ashley glaring at the Worshipful Master, despising him more and more as each second lapsed. “Someone has to look after the island, isn’t that so?”

“Quite, Mr Fox.”

“Protect the island from the undesirables.”

The word seemed to touch a raw nerve. Ashley grinned, lifted his coffee cup up as if to say cheers.

“Just something the Irish reporter said, Jacob, that’s all. I take it you’ve heard of Dearblah O’Hanlan?”

“Just what is your purpose here, my friend?” Jacob asked Ashley politely, trying to gain a little composure, trying to turn the conversation round.

In for a penny, thought Ashley.

“Until I went up to the newspaper offices today, I thought I was researching a book.”

Jacob remained attentive; it was as if both men knew that what was about to be said would turn both worlds upside down.

“Now, Jacob, I’m not so sure.”

“Go on.”

“Now I feel I’ve stumbled upon something far greater than a three hundred page mystery novel.”

Jacob laughed.”I’m intrigued, Mr Fox, tell me more.”

Ashley leaned back in his seat, placed his hands behind his head.

“Ask your Irish reporter, Jacob. I figure you and her are quite close; she’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

Ashley drained the cold dregs from his coffee cup as he stood to leave. Strangely enough it tasted quite pleasant.

Ashley had put off the phone call for long enough. He wandered back down the main street and opened the door to the public payphone.

Not for the first time he cursed the lack of reception on his mobile phone. Strangely he could send and receive texts. He didn’t relish the call to his ex-colleague in Strathclyde Police. He was going to ask him to break the rules, effectively put his job at risk. He was fairly sure Jordan Cameron would do just that; his favourite expression when he’d worked with him in the Met was
rules are for the obedience of fools and for the guidance of wise men.

Cameron continuously overstepped the mark during their time together in London. He’d think nothing of saying he had a warrant as he’d stormed into a house when in actual fact no such thing had been issued.

He’d bluffed it out; no one had ever asked to see the piece of paper normally issued by the local magistrate. Jordan hadn’t taken any crap from the low life and was not averse to giving an unruly youth a slap.

Strangely enough, the decent parents had always seemed to approve. And, lo and behold, anybody who resisted arrest. Jordan would simply weigh in with his fists flying and take the consequences later; never his truncheon, only his fists.

Ashley remembered the only occasion where he’d lost his temper with a habitual serial offender, twenty-one years old, whose particular speciality was barging his way past old ladies as they’d answered his knock to their door.

Once inside he’d rob them of anything and everything they had, but not before he’d punched and kicked them black and blue.

Jordan and Ashley had been lucky one night. The old lady had managed to pull at a distress cord as she lay battered on the ground. The two policemen had noticed the flashing red light above the front door as they’d passed in a patrol car. The door was ajar and they walked into a horrific sight in the passageway. The old lady’s blood adorned the hallway and the beige carpet shimmered like a small crimson lake. She groaned but managed a faint smile as she witnessed the two officers walk through the door. Her knights in shining armour had arrived, the good old boys in blue. Her head returned back to the carpet and she closed her eyes.

As if on cue, her attacker walked from the lounge carrying a video recorder. He stopped dead in his tracks, stunned at what he was looking at, his exit now blocked. He held the recorder high above his head and hurled it in the direction of the policemen. The corner of the VCR hit Ashley square in the chest and he gasped as every breath of air was forced from his lungs. He fell to the floor as the pain from two broken ribs kicked in.

The thug made a bolt in the opposite direction, desperately looking for another exit. Jordan Cameron caught up with him as he fumbled at the bolt of the back door. Cameron had remained cool, told him he was under arrest as he managed to release the bolt. He pulled at the door furiously, Jordan Cameron read him his rights. It was still locked, he turned his attention to the key protruding from the lock. Cameron swung a punch into his kidneys. The man yelped like a dog as he hit the floor. Cameron resisted the urge to kick his head in. He took him by the hair and hauled him to his feet. He remembered the sight of the helpless old lady who lay on the floor in the hallway and he hammered a fist into the bridge of the thug’s nose.

The youth slumped to the floor again as his nose collapsed into his face and two jets of blood spiralled downwards from each nostril.

“Get up, you useless piece of dog shit.”

The policemen aimed a heavy Doc Martens boot into his stomach. He pulled the groaning man to his feet again and that might have been the end of the beating if the thug hadn’t grabbed at a kitchen knife as he was manhandled out of the kitchen. Jordan Cameron hadn’t noticed the rack above the microwave, he should have been more alert, shouldn’t have let his anger cloud his observations. The youth lunged for a knife and in one swift movement turned to face the policeman, the knife pointing just inches from the policeman’s face. Cameron moved his hand down to his truncheon, a weapon he was proud never to have drawn. The youth was sweating profusely, he was nervous, twitchy, and he had the skinny, drawn face and shallow complexion of a user. Most of his teeth had rotted away or been knocked out as he followed his dangerous occupation. Nothing could come in the way of his next fix; it was all he lived for.

“I’ll give you three seconds to put that knife down and, if you don’t, you’ll regret the decision for the rest of your life.”

The knife didn’t move; it hovered as if suspended in mid-air. The youth was unsure of his next move; the fucking filth still blocked his exit and he was a big cunt.

“One.”

Was the bastard wearing one of those stab proof vests? Maybe he should go for the thigh or a slash at the fucker’s boat race.

“Two.”

The face, go for the fuckin’ face, hit the cunt on three then make a run for it.

Jordan Cameron never intended to count to three.
Two.
And in one swift, well-rehearsed, full-blooded movement his truncheon smashed into the wrist of the knifeman. Before he could scream out in agony, a heavy fist crashed into his face knocking his remaining front teeth into the back of his throat.