The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (25 page)

And then a flicker of recognition, the names… those names, the surname, same as the drummer from The Police. Then he remembered. A bad lot. They were two young drug dealers from Luton, apprentice gangsters following in the footsteps of their father Billy ‘Mad Monk’ Copeland. He was called Monk on account of his rapidly thinning hair on the back of his head, though no one dared call him that to his face. Mad because of his reputation in a fight. Ashley had crossed him once and it had taken four policemen to bring him down.

Mad Monk’s boys… dead.

Ashley suppressed a smile. The world, and in particular Luton, would be a better place without them and he hoped their father was experiencing some of the hurt he’d dished out over the years. But what had happened? Ashley read on: A fishing trip, the archives said, and sure enough at the bottom of the article the estate in Luton, Bedfordshire and a quote from their father:
Two wonderful sons, they’ll be sorely missed.

The date September 2003; he was still in London at the time. Strange how he hadn’t heard of their demise, hadn’t shared a few celebratory beers with the lads on the shift as they usually did when some low life that had terrorised and abused the general public received their comeuppance.

Another death in 2004 and 2005 and another in 2006.

His finger hovered over the keyboard. Twelve deaths in forty-two years, five deaths in the last five. He caught his breath, his hand above the keyboard trembled as he realised the enormity of what he’d just uncovered. Statistics. Incredible statistics.

What had happened to the law of averages? Why hadn’t the paper questioned it? He typed in
Holy Island
again and the word
mystery…no results found.
He scrolled through the articles looking for some sort of pattern. Young males. All young males, twenty-five to thirty-five years old, the two Luton brothers, Carlisle, Newcastle and Glasgow.

“Interesting?” a voice behind him questioned in a soft Irish accent.

Ashley looked round.”Erm, yes… sort of.” He held out a hand. “I’m David–”

“David Fox the American author, I know. The boss told me all about you, I’m to do your interview. I’ve been looking into your website. I know a fair bit about you already.”

Suddenly the interview seemed a little more appealing to Ashley.

“And you are?”

“Dearblah O’Hanlan. Most people call me Debbie. I don’t mind, Dearblah’s a bit of a mouthful.”

She held out a hand.”I’m a journalist here at The Advertiser.”

Dearblah O’Hanlan bent slightly, straining to see the screen. She smiled.

“At least that’s what my job description states, though it’s not exactly what I had in mind when I took the job three years ago.”

She pointed at the screen.

“Those last three articles are my handiwork. Why are you interested in them? Hardly material for book research, is it?”

Before Ashley had a chance to answer, Dearblah O’Hanlan continued.

“Those jobs were interesting enough but normally I get all the crap. Obituaries of the local cobbler, great Auntie Nell’s 100th birthday bash, the village fete and summer fairs, but, hey, I’m told at least once a week I’m serving my time. Last week I had to interview an eight-year-old footballing superstar, Callum Douglas, who can keep the ball up two thousand times without dropping it. I mean he was a nice kid and he gave me an incredible demonstration, but it’s hardly the Yorkshire Ripper trial, is it?”

She stood up straight, her eyes fixed on Ashley.

Ashley took a deep breath, tried to compose himself, but her beautiful deep brown eyes drew him in like a black hole and her dark, silk-like mane of hair glistened and shone as the sun shimmered through the office window. And her accent. Her soft Belfast accent just made him melt.

“Tell me what you’re looking for, Mr Fox. I’ll try and help.”

“I’m looking for mystery, Miss O’Hanlan. Intrigue… scandal. I’m trying to get a feel of the island, get into the heads and maybe under the skins of the locals. I want to be nosy, I want a story. I’m having a bit of writer’s block. I need a stimulus to get moving again.”

Dearblah O’Hanlan spoke.”There’s a story there alright.”

Ashley sat up.

“Go on.”

The young Irish girl paced slowly towards an open window looking onto the street. She took in a breath of air. Ashley’s eyes surveyed the beautiful shape silhouetted against the brightness of the day. She walked back slowly to the computer. Ashley’s gaze followed hers to the screen, and the gentle mix of expensive perfume and femininity intoxicated him.

“You’re probably wondering at the five deaths in five years. A little unusual you’re thinking to yourself.” Ashley nodded.

“It was the most exciting story that I’d come across in three years. Or at least I thought so. I’d covered a death story on the island back in 2005.”

“A death?”

“A missing person initially, but washed up on Berwick beach a few days later. I went to the island, interviewed the locals.

Apparently he was a bit of a hoodlum from Glasgow. When the body was found he had three stolen credit cards on him. They belonged to the islanders. He was bad news, got what he deserved, they said, one of the locals from Marygate called him an undesirable, said he had no place on the island.”

“An undesirable?”

“Yeah, that’s what he said, the islander was a bit spooky, huge owl-like eyes, looked like Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein, remember?” Ashley did remember. He recalled seeing the movie as a teenager.

“So we’ve stumbled on a horror movie, have we?”

Dearblah grinned.”Sorry, I get a little carried away sometimes. I’ve a vivid imagination, should’ve been a novelist like you. Anyway, he’d gotten into a fight with a couple of the locals and as a result got thrown out of his hotel late at night. He said he was leaving the island there and then. The locals warned him it was unsafe to cross and by all accounts they persuaded the landlord to change his mind and let him stay the night. “

“Where was he staying? What happened, Dearblah?”

“I’ll tell you if you hold your tongue and remember it’s Debbie.”

Ashley bit his lip, he was over keen. Relax, he told himself. Remember your role: an author mildly curious about the island.

“Sorry… Debbie.”

“He was staying at the Ship Inn.”

He caught his breath.”The Ship?”

“Yeah. Do you know it?”

“I’m staying there.”

“Spooooky…” She laughed.”You’d better be careful, Mr Fox.” She gave a wry smile, raised an eyebrow.

“Anyway he made his way to the causeway; a few people followed and tried to talk him out of it, said it was unsafe. He started jogging across the causeway claiming he’d hitch a lift on the A1.The thing is the causeway can look so safe but then the water rolls in faster than a man can run. It’s lethal.”

“And?”

“And the rest is history, Mr Fox.” “David.” “Okay… David. His body was discovered a few days later.

That’s what I reported in the article, nothing unusual, no foul

play, just a drunken, argumentative, stubborn Glaswegian.” “And then more?” “Yes. I’d read about the two brothers on a fishing trip. I thought

it a bit of a coincidence, they were no angels either by all

accounts. But then two more in 2005 and 2006.” And Tom Wilkinson, Ashley wanted to reply as he bit his lip. “So I’m sent back across to the island and I’m getting some

really uncomfortable feelings.” She leaned across Ashley and took the mouse. “I’d searched these archives too. They just didn’t add up.” “So we have a bit of a mystery, Debbie?” Debbie O’Hanlan shrugged her shoulders, bit into her bottom

lip. “I thought so, David. I went back to the island, started poking

around, only this time the locals weren’t so forthcoming.” “How come?” “At first I wasn’t sure, but then I fathomed it out. It was clear

they didn’t want to talk about anything that might affect business. I spoke to Jacob Moor; he runs the show on the island, head of tourism over there, a bit of a big shot, a lawyer and a magistrate here in Berwick.” Debbie laughed. “Apparently his wife Sheila is a fan of yours.”

“Is she?” “That’s what Jacob has been saying; she’s read most of your

books.” “Jacob Moor, you say.” “Yes, do you know him?” “Yeah, I’ve bumped into him. He’s also the head of some local

Freemason type group, the Keepers.” “That’s him. He gives me the creeps, a real smoothie, thinks he’s God’s gift. He came on to me, I told him to fuck off.” Ashley’s mouth fell open, surprised that such a word could fall

from such a perfectly formed mouth.

“I’d met Sheila on a previous visit, interviewed her over the disappearances, I wonder if she realises what a bastard he is.”

And Ashley could only think of the look Jacob Moor had given him when he’d become overly familiar with Claire in the bar, a look that said hands off, and he began to wonder.

“I questioned Jacob Moor. I asked him about the five deaths, asked if he thought it a bit unusual. For the first time I was fulfilling my ambition and acting out the role of an investigative reporter.”

“And?”

“He blamed the recent explosion in binge drinking. Said it was the scourge of modern society, over-strong lagers and vodka shots. “

Ashley sighed.”He’s probably right, I’m afraid.”

“Maybe. And Jacob pointed to the pathologists’ reports, they all confirmed an unusually high level of alcohol in each body.”

Ashley turned in the swivel chair.

“So he didn’t think it unusual. Five young men dead in five years, all full of alcohol, washed up on a beach somewhere, stone dead?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. He laboured on the pathologists’ reports and begged me not to write the feature.”

Ashley knew the answer to his next question. “And what did you do?”

“I wrote the article. I spent many weeks on it, looked into the victims’ backgrounds and visited the island several times. I interviewed those who would speak to me.”

“I’m puzzled, Debbie. Some people wouldn’t talk.”

She shook her head.”Afraid so. Some refused point-blank, they just clammed up. And some…”

“Go on.”

She stood up, stiff, uncomfortable even.

“Some of them, David, just seemed plain scared.”

“Scared?”

“Terrified, when I think about it.”

A shiver ran the length of Ashley’s spine and he remembered a similar conversation he’d had with Kate Wilkinson.

“But that didn’t stop me. I was loving it, even the hours of research, the phone calls to pathologists, the coroners and the families of the victims. I wrote a damned good two-thousand word article. I must have spent a week on it. My first piece as a real journalist and I realised at the time that I had in fact chosen the right profession and it was only a matter of time before I got the break I wanted with a daily tabloid or a broadsheet. “ “And you felt this article could be the stepping stone, right?”

“Correct. I presented it to my editor with a huge grin. He read it there and then straight through. I stood trembling with excitement watching his eyes absorb every line. It was the best story to come out of these offices for twenty years.”

She flicked a strand of hair from her face and looked at Ashley. He glanced at his computer, shrugged his shoulders.

“So where’s the story? It didn’t come up in any of the searches.” He looked back at Dearblah O’Hanlan and knew the answer to his question by the look on her face.

“They didn’t print it, did they.”

She shook her head. “My first meeting with the boss seemed quite positive… and yet–”

Debbie paused, looked out across the room towards the window that looked onto the street.

“Even then I should have guessed. The signs were there. He came back to me the next day, said it was unfounded. I don’t know, perhaps he was right. Said it could ruin the tourist industry on the island. One or two people came forward with objections.”

“Islanders?”

Debbie nodded.

“For the life of me, I just don’t know how they knew.”

“And?”

“It was clear he was being pressured, there was more than just him behind the decision. He didn’t listen to anything I said. I begged him to reconsider, pointed out the coincidences within the pathologists’ reports.”

“The coincidences?”

“Yeah. Three of the victims had lacerations and bruising around the head and face.”

Ashley swore his heart skipped a beat as the words tumbled from the girl’s mouth. He’d been hit by a sledgehammer, his flesh covered instantly in a hundred thousand goose pimples, he couldn’t quite comprehend what he’d just heard.

“What did you say?”

“Lacerations, cuts and bruising on three of the victims. I’d suggested in my article that they’d been beaten before they’d fallen in the sea.”

“You mean murdered.”

Dearblah O’Hanlan stalled, seemed to take a sharp intake of breath.