The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (29 page)

“I have the tape, Mrs Moor.” He paused. “Are you really sure you want to see it? It’s a little graphic, I’m afraid.”

Andrew Jackson had rigged up the camera in the bedroom of the detached house whilst Jacob Moor was on council business a week ago. He’d thought it a bit ironic how Jacob Moor had passed him on the A1 about breakfast time. He’d marvelled at the size of the small surveillance camera, the lens no bigger than a baby’s fingernail. A smoke alarm in the middle of the ceiling had been the obvious place to hide it and the images would be relayed back to the offices in Berwick.

Sheila Moor’s suspicions had been correct. Her weekly trip to Berwick on market day had been the ideal opportunity for her husband to engage in his extramarital activities. Sheila Moor had pressed the button on the remote control five minutes before she left.

Jackson had been waiting.

He had plenty of patience but it wasn’t called on today. Within thirty minutes, the door to the bedroom had opened and the two figures appeared. Jackson had pressed
record
on the small machine.

And the oversexed private detective had enjoyed every frame. It was as good as any porno he’d ever watched, made even more interesting as the characters were real, not actors.

Sheila Moor sat at the table.

“Can I get you a cup of tea, Mrs Moor?”

Sheila Moor shook her head.”Just get it over with, Mr Jackson. This isn’t easy, you know.”

“Yes, sure… I’m sorry.”

Sheila Moor recognised the two figures as soon as they rounded the bed. She hadn’t been a hundred per cent certain as they’d appeared in the doorway but as the focus automatically kicked in the girl’s image was crystal clear.

It figured. Everything fell into place now. Jacob had never been a pub man in the early years of their marriage; they’d hired a video or watched a soap. Coronation Street, occasionally Eastenders, and, of course, always Emmerdale. In the first few years of marriage they’d hired a movie from the general dealers in the town and snuggled up with a bottle of wine, but now he never seemed to be away from the damn Ship Inn.

As her adulterous husband and his young lover… awfully young lover… embraced and began stripping off their clothes she could take no more.

“I’ve seen enough, Mr Jackson, you can stop the tape.”

“Sure, Mrs Moor, sure.” Andrew Jackson was a little disappointed, but nevertheless complied with his client’s wishes. After all, he was a consummate professional, he kept telling himself.

“You can prepare the bill. I won’t be needing your services any longer.”

Mrs Moor climbed from the seat and walked casually towards the door. Andrew Jackson couldn’t help admire her composure and the dignified way she held herself together as she left the room. As she left he sighed and settled down into the padded leather seat, the seat he called his own.

He leered… stretched across the desk, reached for a box of tissues and pressed play. He thought perhaps it was just as well Mrs Moor hadn’t seen the young man join the writhing couple on the bed five minutes into the video.

Sheila Moor had pressed her husband’s shirt as usual. As usual he’d thanked her politely, taken it from the coat hanger on the door and enjoyed the warm, starchy stiff feel of the cotton against his skin.

It felt good. Homely. Comforting. He looked at his wife and a momentary pang of guilt swept across him. But it was only fleeting. He cast his mind back to earlier that day.

Sheila was a good wife. He’d loved her once, maybe he still did, he wasn’t sure. What is love, who really knows? He used to get goose bumps and tremble each time they met, each time they managed to sneak into a friend’s bedroom or the back of his car but then, as the meetings became more frequent, the feelings waned.

They did for everyone; it was just a sad fact of life. And now as he gazed up at Sheila Moor who’d taken another one of his shirts from the back of the door and spread it over the ironing board he smiled. She looked at him as if sensing the intrusion but remained stoic.

He respected her. That was it.

He’d respected and cared for her for over twenty years, provided for her every need and seen that her personal bank account had been topped up every month. She wanted for nothing; he’d been a good husband, a good provider.

In turn, she’d raised their son well, had done a good job, and now he was studying hard for his Master’s Degree at Leeds University. Perhaps that was why she’d been a bit quiet lately. She missed Martin. A mother’s bond is strong and she’d naturally found it difficult to adjust.

The Island Keepers had congregated in the bar. They’d begun arriving just after seven thirty. Ashley sat in a small alcove with Debbie O’Hanlan. Claire had been cold, almost hostile, not so much as a smile.

Jacob Moor stood at the bar along with Stephen Kyle. Father Thompson was there too and a few others all dressed in the obligatory black suits and ties. They looked unhappy, sad; they were talking about old Frank, saying what a good man he was, how he’d shown no signs of suicidal tendencies.

It wasn’t a normal Island Keepers’ gathering; this wasn’t a normal Lodge evening.

At ten minutes to eight, the crowd started to peel away, one by one. A young man replaced Claire behind the bar, who Ashley noticed had dressed in a calf-length black dress for the evening.

“Where are you off to tonight?” he asked.

She looked forlorn as she answered, “Downstairs to the meeting.”

Ashley shrugged his shoulders.”I thought it was men only.”

Jacob Moor took Claire by the shoulders.”She helps with the ceremony a few times each year.”

“Takes the part well,” Stephen Kyle interjected with a smile.

Jacob walked towards the far side of the room with Stephen Kyle and Claire following on behind.

No sooner had the last man disappeared down the stairwell and the door clicked locked behind them than the main door to the bar opened and in walked Sheila Moor.

Something was amiss. Sheila Moor just didn’t come into the Ship Inn, or in fact any other hotels or bars on the island. She wasn’t a drinker, never had been. The barman verified the fact.

“Hello, Sheila,” he responded, “something wrong?”

Sheila took up a position on one of the barstools and shook her head.”Nothing wrong, Martin, nothing at all, I just fancied a drink. Perhaps I’ll catch up with my husband a little later on. How long will he be in the temple?”

Ashley and the journalist looked on.

“Sheila Moor,” Debbie whispered, “Jacob’s wife.”

“Could be a couple of hours,” the young barman replied. “I believe they’ve a lot to get through tonight what with Frank’s death and things.”

Sheila looked over to the doorway leading downstairs then back to the barman.

“I’ll wait. Give me a large gin and tonic.”

The barman looked surprised. “Are you sure, Sheila? Are you sure you’re okay?”

Sheila Moor didn’t reply.

Debbie O’Hanlan turned to Ashley and, in the same whispered tone, said, “I interviewed her for the paper, remember?”

Ashley nodded. “Yeah… you said. I met up with her earlier today. She doesn’t look happy, does she.”

“No, not really and just look how quickly she’s gulping that gin.”

Sheila Moor had emptied half the glass without taking breath. She placed the glass on the bar and looked around. She spotted Dearblah and Ashley, gave a little wave. She spoke to the barman again, placed a ten-pound note on the counter and stood up. She lifted the glass and emptied it in one long mouthful and picked up the refill. She walked over towards Dearblah.

“Mind if I join you, Miss O’Hanlan? And you, David?”

Ashley stood up, pulled a chair out from the table.

“No, sure, Mrs Moor, by all means join us. You’re more than welcome.”

She held an outstretched arm towards Ashley as she stepped around the table, he took it gently and she lowered herself into the seat.

Sheila took another mouthful of gin and tonic. She’d slowed down a little, Ashley noticed, almost a delicate, ladylike sip. The first large one had obviously done the trick. She licked at her lips then spoke.

“The story I nearly told you about today, Mr Fox, before my husband so rudely interrupted us.”

Before Ashley could answer she spoke. “A bit of scandal and gossip Jacob reckons you’re seeking. Well, I just might just be the lady you’re looking for because I’ve got the story from hell.”

Ashley sat enthralled as Sheila Moor’s amazing story began to unfold. By the time she’d reached the bottom of the second glass she was clearly drunk, but Ashley knew that what she was pouring out was the truth.

Ten minutes into the incredible revelations and accusations, Dearblah excused herself, said she had to make a phone call. She walked quickly to the telephone cubicle over the other side of the bar.

“She’ll be on the phone to the paper,” Sheila suggested. “Asking them to pull the front page.”

Ashley wasn’t so sure. He fumbled for the mobile phone in his pocket, accessed messages without taking his eyes from Sheila Moor. He keyed the 4 button twice, the 3 button twice, the 5 button three times and finally the 7 button once. He felt for the send button and pressed it twice knowing that the text would be sent to the last person he had sent a text to… John Markham.

This was big, it was colossal. Sheila continued, her voice a little slurred now. Debbie returned to the table, her face slightly flushed. Ashley half expected her to take out a pencil and notebook but, thankfully, she resisted the urge.

“Murdered poor old Frank Short, my husband and Stephen Kyle. I found Jacob’s diaries just over two months ago. They were locked in the safe in our basement. They go back nearly thirty years and it took me nearly two weeks to read them. I found the key to the safe in the stupid little apron he wears for the meetings. It’s attached by a little key ring and was hidden in a pocket. He was careless one night, came back half-pissed from the meeting and couldn’t be bothered to put it away. I cleared up after him the next morning and as I picked it up, the key ring fell out. I racked my brain to figure out what the key was for.

“I was cleaning the basement when I noticed the old wall safe again. It had been there ever since we moved into the property over twenty years ago. Jacob had never let me see inside, said he didn’t use it, said he didn’t even know where the key was. I put two and two together and when he went out later that day I tried the key.”

Debbie sat quiet as a church mouse, fidgety and anxious, adrenalin coursing through her veins. This was a once in a lifetime story, a story most journalists would kill for – a story she had no intention of ever writing.

“At first I didn’t pay much attention to them.”

“The diaries?” Ashley asked.

“Yes. Jacob’s diaries and every Keepers’ meeting for the last four hundred and fifty years, every word detailed meticulously.”

She signalled to the barman.”Same again, Martin, a drink for our writer here and one for Debbie; one for yourself too.”

Debbie O’Hanlan leaned back in her chair, no real interest in the story, the story she already knew.

The barman raised a thumb in the direction of Sheila Moor and looked over to check the drinks on the table.

“At first I thought they were just manuals and the teachings of the Island Keepers. They seemed to detail the ceremonies, their beliefs and philosophies. All a bit boring, some dating back donkey’s years. Then, as I flicked through them, I came to the present day. I noticed some names I recognised, the names of the wardens and, of course, Jacob was in there taking part in some of the ceremonies. I decided to start again and read them in chronological order from the beginning.”

She acknowledged the barman as he placed the drinks on the table, waited until he was out of earshot before continuing.

“And then every so often there was a heading.”

“A heading?” asked Ashley.

“A heading,” Sheila Moor repeated. She paused and looked up. “The Undesirables.”

Ashley swore the blood in his veins froze as she spoke and almost instantly the entire puzzle clicked into place.

“They might as well have changed the title to murder. At first I thought it was fantasy, it was like something out of the dark ages.” She laughed, took a mouthful of gin.”I suppose it was the dark ages. Strangers. Always strangers. Strangers who’d somehow upset the equilibrium of the island or more importantly displeased one or two of the Keepers. It started over four hundred years back with a wife of one of the Keepers who’d been having an affair. The Keepers found out and reported back to the husband.

“They tarred and feathered the poor girl and paraded her through the streets near naked in a horse-drawn cart. She was humiliated and abused for nearly an hour; three times they took her around the island, a bigger crowd gathering each time as the news got around. Afterwards her husband denounced her and told the jailers to do with her as they wished. They did just that. They weren’t so explicit in those days, there were a lot of blanks in the diary,
.
but it left little to the imagination what they did to the poor girl. The following day the husband accused her of being a witch and they took her out onto the causeway and hung her.”

Sheila Moor’s bottom lip trembled but she bit hard and continued. Dearblah O’Hanlan sat opposite. Ashley urged Sheila on mentally. He needn’t have worried.

Jacob Moor’s wife wanted this off her chest. She’d bottled it up for weeks, months, maybe longer, and as she’d read through his personal diaries it had confirmed her suspicions that her husband had been taking his pleasure with another woman.

He’d always been highly sexed but over the last few years his interest had waned. Or so she’d thought. She hadn’t minded. Sex had always been a bit of a chore, even in the early days of their relationship and some of his requests had at times been unacceptable, she’d thought.

But, she’d done her duty on a regular basis.

“They murdered her. The Keepers banded together, plotted and accused and murdered her.”

Sheila Moor took a deep breath, a tear rolled onto her cheek and she broke down, crying as she said, “And they haven’t stopped killing since.”

Dearblah O’Hanlan stood up, went around the table and sat down beside Sheila. She placed an arm around her and Sheila Moor leaned into her and sobbed like a baby. The barman began to walk over but Ashley waved him away.

Dearblah stroked her hair. Eventually the sobbing subsided. Ashley sat motionless unable to move, fearful of saying anything that would have Sheila Moor running from the room. They were treading on eggshells.

Ashley crossed his fingers under the table and spoke.

“Can you go on, Sheila? We need to know what happened, how many they have killed. You said they killed Frank. How did they kill him?”

Debbie chipped in.”I think she’s said enough. Let’s–”

Ashley held up a hand, glared at the reporter.

Sheila Moor cleared her throat, reached for the glass of gin again and seemed to compose herself. She took a handkerchief from her handbag, dabbed at her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I know you must think I’m being stupid. After all it was four hundred years ago, I didn’t even know the girl, but what she must have gone through was unimaginable.”

She cleared her throat and spoke after a brief pause.

“Humiliated in front of the town people, raped by two strangers then publicly betrayed by her husband and killed. Her only crime was to fall in love.”

She blew her nose, looked across the table at Ashley. “The murders were few and far between, some fifty years apart. Nothing too unusual for those days, life was cheap. Until that is –”

“Five years ago,” Ashley interrupted, “when Jacob took over.”

Sheila Moor looked up at Ashley in astonishment. “You know about them?”

He looked across at Debbie. “I suspected something wasn’t right,” he answered.”I scanned through the archives of the local rag, the statistics just didn’t add up. But not until now did I have any real proof. Are the papers still in his safe?” Sheila Moor nodded.

“Five years ago everything changed. Five years ago my husband became the all-powerful Worshipful Master of the Island Keepers and he’s retained the position ever since.”