Shadow Sands

by Robert Bryndza

Magdalena pushed the thought of Tristan to the back of her mind so she could concentrate on her field trip. The previous night’s forecast had been for coastal fog, and it was correct—the air was thick with damp and fog forming out at sea, punctuated by the far-off blast of the foghorn.

  Her project had started with the farmer who’d found the huge footprint. After she visited him to take photos, they had gone for lunch at the local pub to talk further. Through the farmer she got talking to the locals about the Beast of Bodmin Moor, and then the conversation moved on to other local legends. Two of the barmaids had stories about a young man and a young woman, residents of the local children’s home, who had vanished in the fog on the same stretch of road leading out of Ashdean. One of the barmaids had given her the phone number of a third woman who could tell her a story about the fog abductions, but even after Magdalena left a couple of messages, there hadn’t been any answer.

  The barmaid had also told her own story of the fog.

  It comes up from nowhere and it gets you, disorientates you into a blind panic, she’d said. The barmaid told how she’d been out picking blackberries by the cliffs one cold June day, when a fog rolled in from nowhere. She’d spent an hour stumbling blind and lost and had nearly fallen over the cliff and down to the rocks and crashing waves below.

  Magdalena wanted this to be the starting point for her research project. This was evidence enough that it wasn’t a fog phantom causing these people to vanish. They could have got lost, or fallen into the sea, or into the undergrowth. There were footpaths and fields along the coast. Lots of places to fall and meet an untimely end. Today, she was planning to get some good photos of the sea fog rolling onto the land. Magdalena also harbored a fantasy that she would find the remains from one of these victims, stumbling across a pile of bones tucked away in some ditch or crevice on the cliff, still partially dressed in clothes they wore the day they went missing.

  Magdalena took the A1328 out of the town, and soon the houses and shops thinned away to fields and trees. This was the coast road linking Ashdean to Exeter.

  The cliffs were to her left, hidden behind a thick line of trees over the fields, freshly ploughed for the winter. As she passed a dirt track in the break between two fields, she slowed. Fog was rolling up from the cliffs and heading toward her down the track.

  She did a U-turn and turned off onto the dirt track. There were huge tire prints, left by a tractor, and she found it was easier to drive along the compacted mud, smooth and silky and pressed into perfect ridges.

  Magdalena had heard the English phrase “rolling fog” and thought it was silly. A ball rolls, not fog, but today the fog was coming toward her in just that way, rolling, as if it were being poured out in a huge mass, pushing forward along the track, turning over, with wispy fingers curling outward. It was as if it were alive, and the living mass was feeling its way toward her.

  Magdalena turned off the engine and kicked out the Vespa’s stand. She was fumbling in her bag for her camera when the wall of fog seemed to pick up speed, and she was enveloped in the white chill. She breathed in the cold, slightly salty taste of the fog, wet on her tongue, and felt the moisture condense on her hair and eyelashes.

  Magdalena was a practical woman. She didn’t believe in urban myths, and during her course of study, she’d remained logical. Ghosts, goblins, and mythical creatures didn’t exist. But as she was enveloped by this mass of fog so thick that she couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of her, she panicked. The Vespa didn’t want to start, the engine coughing and sputtering with a rih, rih, rih sound. The fog carried on rushing past, burying her deeper.

  It’s just condensed water, she said to herself.

  The Vespa finally came alive with a roar, and she pushed off, riding for a good thirty seconds, having to use the tire tracks to stay on the path. Suddenly, she emerged from the whiteness back into the fields, wispy fingers of fog trailing out behind her.

  She carried on at full speed for another thirty seconds before she slowed and came to a stop. Her heart was pounding against her chest, and her breath was quick. She parked the Vespa and got up on the grass shoulder and took some shots of the fog advancing toward her.

  Next to the grass shoulder was a ditch, overgrown with dead reeds and gorse. She parted the undergrowth and peered into the ditch. It was deep, and in the shadows, she could see only an oily black patch of water.

  If she fell into the ditch and drowned, or even if she fell and broke a bone, would anyone hear her calling? This was the middle of nowhere. She would be swallowed up by the undergrowth . . . Could there be a dead girl or guy down there? A poor soul who had stumbled wrongly in the fog? The body slowly rotting in the mud?

  She took a few shots of the ditch, focusing the lens, and then she saw something move in the water. She leaned closer. There was a sudden movement, a flapping of wings against her face, and she screamed as a duck flew up from between the reeds into the sky above.

  Magdalena sat back, the dry reeds prickling through her jeans. Her coat was warm, but the fog had left a thick layer of moisture on her hair and soaked through to her scalp. She was hungry and cold and feeling a little spooked, so she decided to head back to Ashdean.

  At the end of the track, she turned back onto the road. The fog was starting to disperse from the sea, and the air was hazy. There was a cream-colored Volvo parked farther along the road. It was caked with dirt and jacked up on its back wheels.

  An old man was heaving a spare tire out of the boot. As she passed on her scooter, she saw he was dressed in baggy blue corduroy trousers, boots, and a tweedy jacket going threadbare at the elbows. A mass of gray hair poked out from underneath a flat cap, and he had a bushy gray beard and thick-rimmed glasses.

  In her rearview mirror she could see the old man was struggling to move the tire. He kept dropping it. He stopped and clutched his back. She thought herself smart and savvy, but she came from a small town in the north of Italy, where elderly people were afforded a great deal of respect. What would her mother say if she left this old man to struggle on the side of the road? She checked her mirror again.

  “No, no, no,” said Magdalena under her breath. She slowed, did a U-turn, and started back.

  “Can I help you?” she said to the old man as she drew level to the car. She slipped up the visor on her helmet. The old man was panting and had the tire against the back wheel facing the road.

  “Oh, that’s very kind,” he said with a thick Cornish accent. “I just . . .” He stopped to gather his breath, which sounded ragged. “I just need to get the tire round the other side. I think I ran over some glass or a tack.”

  The old man dropped the tire, and it rolled across the road, just as a lorry came along. The lorry driver had to slow and swerve around the tire lying in the road, honking the horn loudly. The lorry sped past them with a whoosh of dust.

  Magdalena parked her scooter behind the Volvo, took off her helmet, and hooked it over the handlebar. There was a small jack under the back wheel of the car. She picked up the spare tire and came back over to the man. It was heavy, but she could manage. “Please. Round the side there,” he said, indicating the rear-wheel axle next to the shoulder.

  “Thank you,” he said, following her. “I’ve got the wrench.” He picked up a torque wrench from the open boot of the car, and a cloth.

  The Volvo was parked right up against the high grass, which was lined with a ditch. The front mirror on the driver’s side protruded over the grass between the road and the ditch and blocked her way to the front. The old man was now standing between Magdalena and her Vespa. She saw through the grimy windows that the back seat was covered in old blankets.

  “Let me just move so you can get to the tire,” she said, going to squeeze past him. The old man blocked her way. He suddenly seemed to stand up taller, and she noticed how broad he was. He had a large gnomic nose, and his eyes behind the thick glasses were an odd color.

  “Do you like to party?” he said. His voice was now different
, smooth and oily, without any accent.

  “What?” she replied.

  He punched her hard in the face, grabbing her camera on its strap as her head snapped back. She saw stars and was dazed. It took her a second to realize he was looping the camera strap around the Volvo’s roof rack. It tightened around her neck.

  “Noooo!” she cried, but her mouth was thick and numb and covered in blood.

  “Do you like to party?” he repeated, pushing a small brown bottle up under her nose. A chemical smell overpowered her and seemed to explode in the back of her head. Blood rushed around her body, and her legs buckled. The camera strap broke her fall, catching under her chin and choking her.

  It was as if Magdalena were outside her body as she watched the old man calmly pick up her scooter and toss it into the ditch. The undergrowth seemed to swallow it whole. She was hanging by her neck. The camera strap was tight around her throat, and her feet scrabbled underneath her as she tried to get purchase on the ground and stand.

  He came back and put his face close to hers.

  “Do you want to touch the stars?” he purred, his voice soft. His eyes were an odd purple blue. He pressed the small bottle under her nose. She felt another explosion in her head, and a falling sensation, and then there was darkness.

  15

  Kate returned to work on Monday feeling despondent. She’d checked the news the last two mornings, but there was nothing more about Geraint being charged with murder, or the progress the police were making on the case.

  It was a full day of lectures and meetings, so she didn’t get the chance to speak to Tristan until Tuesday afternoon. They were coming back up the stairs to her office, at the top of one of the towers in the campus building, when they heard two male voices echoing down the stairs, speaking in a low murmur.

  “Who’s in your office?” said Tristan.

  Kate shook her head and moved past him and up the last turn of the spiral staircase. The door to her office was ajar, and she found DCI Henry Ko sitting at her desk, peering at some paperwork. An older man with a portly frame and a jowly face was holding a book from the shelf in his hand. He wore a creased, ill-fitting suit.

  “Can I help you?” she said, staring between the two men. Tristan appeared behind her a moment later.

  “You? No,” said Henry. “Tristan is the man we’re looking for.” He got up from Kate’s desk. The other officer put the book back on the shelf. “I’m DCI Henry Ko. This is DI Merton . . .” They both pulled out their police ID cards. Kate turned to Tristan and saw the look of alarm and confusion on his face. “Where’s Magdalena Rossi, Tristan?”

  “Who?” asked Kate.

  “Professor Magdalena Rossi; she works here. I thought you’d know that, Professor Marshall,” said Henry.

  “She’s a visiting professor. She lectures in philosophy and religion,” said Tristan to Kate.

  “When did you last see her?” asked Henry.

  “Last week. Friday. I delivered some equipment to her office,” said Tristan.

  “And you spoke to her on the phone on Saturday, and you were due to meet her Sunday night,” said DI Merton, speaking for the first time.

  “She didn’t show up,” said Tristan. Kate was watching, confused as to why the police were suddenly interested in a visiting professor, and why Tristan would be meeting her.

  “What does this have to do with you poking around my office without a warrant?” asked Kate. Henry opened his mouth to protest. “You should have a warrant if you’re going to go through my stuff.”

  “We were shown up here by one of the administrators downstairs,” said Henry. “Magdalena Rossi was reported missing yesterday afternoon. She went out on Sunday and never returned home. Your assistant here was the only person Professor Rossi was due to meet.”

  “She was supposed to come by my flat, Sunday night at seven. We’d arranged to go to the cinema, but she never turned up,” said Tristan. Kate could see he was starting to shake.

  “Where were you between one p.m. Sunday and nine a.m. Monday?” he asked.

  “I was at home Sunday morning with my sister and her fiancé. I went to the gym after lunch; then in the afternoon, the caterers came around to our flat.”

  “Caterers?”

  “My sister’s getting married in a few weeks. They came to give us a tasting menu. I then got ready to meet Magdalena, but she never showed up.”

  “Did you phone her? Or go round her house and see why she stood you up?” asked DI Merton.

  “I phoned her a couple of times, but it went to voice mail. In the end I went out with my sister and her fiancé for pizza.”

  “Which pizzerie did you go to?” asked Merton.

  “The proper word is pizzeria,” said Kate. He ignored her.

  “Where did you go?”

  “Frankie and Benny’s, on the high street,” said Tristan.

  “What time did you go?” asked Henry.

  “Eight, maybe just after.”

  “What did you eat?” asked DI Merton, moving closer to Tristan and, realizing the height difference, peering up at him.

  “I had . . . an Italian hot pizza.”

  “What about the other two diners?” fired back DI Merton.

  “I can’t remember; four cheese, I think. Sarah will have the receipt . . .”

  “That’s enough,” said Kate. “Is this your strategy? If Tristan can’t remember what food everyone ordered, that’s grounds for, what? Arrest?”

  “Arrest?” said Tristan.

  Henry stepped back and folded his arms. A look passed between him and DI Merton.

  “We’ll need to verify all of this,” he said.

  “It shouldn’t be difficult,” said Kate. “Tristan was with his sister, then a caterer, he went to the gym, came back, and went out to a restaurant. Lots of witnesses and CCTV you can call on. Where did Professor Rossi go missing?”

  “If we knew that, she wouldn’t be missing,” said DI Merton. Kate rolled her eyes at his petulance.

  “Did she tell anyone where she was going?”

  “She told one of her housemates she was going on a field trip, to take photos on the A1328,” said Merton.

  “Doesn’t a portion of the A1328 run between the cliffs and the Shadow Sands reservoir?” said Kate, seeing that stretch of road in her mind and thinking of Simon Kendal. “Have your officers done a search?”

  “We’re searching the beach, and maintenance boats regularly patrol the water on the reservoir,” said Henry.

  “A maintenance boat will only find a body when it floats. As you remember, I found the body of Simon Kendal deep underwater,” said Kate. “Did Magdalena have her belongings with her when she went missing?”

  “She left her house with her camera, bag, and mobile, and she was driving her moped. Are you sure Magdalena didn’t drop by your house, Tristan?” asked Henry. Kate didn’t like his accusing tone.

  “Tristan has already told you he was busy for most of Sunday. Wouldn’t it be a better use of your time to confirm his alibi?” said Kate to Henry. “You rushed to rule Simon Kendal’s death an accident, then had to backtrack. Professor Rossi could have had an accident on the moor. She could have fallen into the reservoir. She could have decided to leave of her own accord. Tristan’s able to prove where he was during the period she went missing. If you want to talk to him again, you need to phone and make an appointment. I’m sure he will be happy to assist you with his solicitor present.”

  She went to the open office door and indicated they should leave.

  “Just out of interest, have you charged Geraint Jones with the murder of Simon Kendal?” she asked Henry as he passed.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Good luck proving how Simon and Geraint levitated over a razor wire–topped fence from the campsite into the water.”

  Henry gave her a hard stare.

  “We’ll probably want to talk to you again,” he added, pointing at Tristan with his notebook. DI Merton gave them a nod and followed
Henry out.

  Kate closed the door. Tristan slumped onto the small sofa under the window.

  “What do you mean with a solicitor?” he said.

  “I’m reminding them that they need more than a hunch to come and harass you.”

  “Do the police think I’m a suspect?”

  “Suspect for what?” said Kate. “They don’t even know if she’s missing or if she’s run away. There’s no body!”

  “I have a criminal record, you know that,” said Tristan.

  “You have a caution for smashing the window of an abandoned car as a drunken teenager. It’s nothing like being on probation for attacking someone in a club, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Kate. “Tell me, what’s going on with you and this Magdalena, Professor Rossi?”

  Tristan outlined how he’d met her, the myths and legends project she was working on, and their subsequent phone call. Kate felt concerned for Tristan, but a curiosity was prickling the back of her head. The Shadow Sands reservoir had come up again.

  “Why didn’t you mention any of this?” she said. “I mean, that she was working on a project to do with the reservoir?”

  “I didn’t know her project was directly linked to the reservoir. She had a map of the reservoir up on the wall in her office, but lots of other stuff about myths and legends. I was going to ask her more about it when we went to the cinema.”

  “Where’s her office?” asked Kate.

  “On the other side of the building, top floor,” said Tristan.

  “Can you show me the map?”

  Tristan looked at Kate. “Her office will be locked, if the police aren’t in there now.”

  “You have keys, don’t you? For when you do the equipment deliveries and pickups,” said Kate.

  The corridor was quiet outside Magdalena’s office. Kate tried not to look as if she were “keeping watch” as Tristan searched for the key on a large bunch. There was a thin, oblong window of glass in the door, and Kate could see that the office was dark inside.

  “This one, here we go,” said Tristan as he turned the lock and the door opened. He went in first and flicked on the lights. Kate followed and closed the door behind them.