Shadow Sands

by Robert Bryndza

  The light was already fading outside, and the fluorescent strip lights glared off the polished wood furniture and made the view of the sea and the sky a dark blue. Kate looked around at the desk, strewn with books and folders. It looked like the offices of most of her colleagues, apart from the little coffee machine in the corner. Most professors liked to use their coffee breaks as an excuse to get out of the office. She wondered if Magdalena was shy, or if she hadn’t yet got to know any of her colleagues.

  “Here’s the project,” said Tristan, indicating the corkboard. Kate looked at the photos, newspaper cuttings, and map of Shadow Sands reservoir.

  “And you say she didn’t mention the reservoir?” asked Kate.

  “No. I asked her, but she said she was concentrating on the surrounding area. She went to meet a farmer near Chagford, who found that footprint in the mud on his land,” he said, indicating the photo. “Then they went to the pub, and she got talking to a couple of local girls who said they’d heard stories of young people who went missing in the fog around the A1328 . . .”

  “Which runs by the reservoir,” said Kate, looking at the map again. She reached up and unpinned it from the corkboard and checked the back. It was blank. “Did she give you any names, the farmer, the girls at the pub?”

  “No.”

  Kate had a look around the rest of the office, then searched under paperwork and checked the large paper blotter on the desk. Tristan joined her.

  “Anything?”

  “The folders are all student coursework,” she said. She opened the three drawers in the desk, but they were filled with office supplies and a couple of romance novels in Italian. Kate looked at the desktop computer. It was password protected, and most professors brought their laptops in from home. “Can you see anything, like Post-its or notes, anything?”

  “No.”

  “Did she tell you where she lived?”

  “No, but we can find out from the staff directory.”

  Kate checked her watch.

  “Yes. Let’s go and knock on the door.”

  On the way out of the office, Kate took some photos of the corkboard, and Tristan grabbed the trolley with the slide projector.

  “In case anyone asks, I opened the door and collected this,” he said.

  “The Fog Phantom who abducts young women,” said Kate, reading off the board.

  “And there was thick fog on Sunday,” said Tristan.

  “That’s a troubling coincidence,” said Kate, shuddering.

  16

  It was dark and very cold when they arrived at Magdalena’s house. A tall Australian guy answered the front door. He was a typical surfer with shoulder-length blond hair. He wore board shorts and a T-shirt, despite the cold weather. He looked a little bleary eyed, as if he’d recently woken up.

  “Hi. We’re Magdalena’s colleagues,” said Kate. They both showed him their university ID cards. “We’re sorry about what’s happened. We’re here to find out who’s taking care of her research papers and books.”

  Kate knew they were winging it, and crossing a line, but they were only looking for details of the people Magdalena had talked to about the Fog Phantom.

  “Yeah. It’s intense. Magdalena’s a really nice girl. The police have just been here,” said the guy. “Are you police?”

  “No. We work with Magdalena at the university,” said Kate.

  “Right. Sorry. I haven’t got my contacts in. The police came and took a load of her stuff.”

  “Did you get their names?” asked Tristan.

  “They said their names, but I can’t remember. There was a mixed-race Asian guy. He was pretty cute.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Liam.”

  “What exactly did they take?” asked Kate.

  “Her laptop, schoolbooks, research papers. They even took some of her clothes; half of her wardrobe is empty, and she didn’t have a lot of stuff to begin with.”

  “Did they give you a paper to sign?”

  He shook his head.

  “They all flashed their badges and were gone within half an hour . . . Do you really think she was abducted?” he said.

  “No one knows. Did she seem like she was acting odd before she left?” asked Kate.

  “I didn’t see her. Sunday I was in bed all day until the evening. I did hear her wheeling her scooter down the corridor at some point, early, could have been. My other housemate, Alissa, has been away for a couple of days. I don’t know Magdalena all that well—we live our own lives—but we get along. I really hope she’s not hurt. Do you think it’s some psycho?”

  “Can we come in and check if her students’ coursework papers were taken?” asked Kate, feeling bad for lying.

  “Sure. Knock yourselves out,” he said, stepping to the side to let them in. “I’m gonna grab a shower; just close the door on your way out.”

  Magdalena’s room was large and looked out over the seafront and Thurlow Bay. There was a double bed, a wardrobe, and a desk unit with shelves. The charger was still lying on the desk for her laptop, and the bookshelves were empty. Kate noticed a line of dust where the books had been.

  “Can the police take stuff when it’s a missing person?” asked Tristan.

  “Yeah. They can remove things if needed for evidence, but they would need to record what they are taking,” said Kate. “It looks like Henry Ko just came in, flashed his police ID card, and grabbed a load of stuff.”

  “Why would they take her books?” said Tristan.

  “We don’t know exactly what was on these shelves. They could have taken personal papers, diaries. Her laptop,” said Kate, feeling her heart sink that there was nothing personal left over.

  They came back downstairs, and Kate peered into the living room. It was empty of furniture, apart from a large TV and six beanbags dotted around. They went and had a look in the kitchen.

  “It’s so clean. Even the stove top,” said Tristan. Kate gave him a look. “That’s not an observation about the investigation. Just an observation.”

  Kate noticed the fridge. It was covered in magnets and takeaway menus. Tucked among it all was a Post-it with two names and phone numbers. The first name was Barry Lewis; the second was Kirstie Newett. Kate took a photo of the Post-it with her phone. Then she googled “Barry Lewis.”

  “Okay. I think he’s our local farmer,” said Kate, holding up the search results. There were four entries, and the third was the owner of Fairview Farm on the edge of Dartmoor.

  “Kirstie Newett is a pretty common name. There’s seventeen Facebook profiles, and lots of Google search results coming up,” said Tristan, working on his phone.

  They heard the bathroom door open, and Kate moved to the bottom of the stairs.

  “Hello? Liam?”

  He peered over the banister. His long hair was wet, and he was wearing just a towel around his waist.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sorry. Did Magdalena talk about a woman called Kirstie Newett?”

  “Nope.”

  Tristan joined Kate at the stairs and looked up.

  “What about a project on local myths and legends?” asked Kate.

  “Yeah. She was nervous about meeting this local dude, a farmer who had found a weird footprint.”

  “Barry Lewis?” asked Tristan.

  “Yeah. She went to see him in the day, but then they went to the pub, and she called me just to check in when she got there; she said the pub was full of a few weirdos.”

  “When was this?”

  “First week of October. I offered to go meet her, but she called me later from the pub and said it was all cool, and she came home . . . That time.” His face dropped at the realization.

  “Liam, do you remember the name of the pub?” asked Kate.

  He reached up and ran his fingers through his wet hair.

  “It was something old English. The Old . . . No . . . the Wild Oak, near Chagford.”

  “Thanks. This is my phone number, in case you remem
ber anything else,” said Kate, writing on a piece of paper and climbing a few stairs. Liam reached down and took it.

  “Shouldn’t I be calling the police, if I remember anything about Magdalena going missing?” said Liam.

  “We’re just concerned for Magdalena.”

  “Concerned colleagues,” added Tristan.

  “Did the police want an alibi from you?” asked Kate.

  “Yeah. I had a guy staying Sunday and Monday. He vouched for me,” he said with a sheepish grin.

  When they came back out onto the street, the wind was blowing up from the sea below.

  Kate checked her watch.

  “Shit. I have an AA meeting in ten, and then Jake is Skyping me . . . Can I call you later?”

  “Sure,” said Tristan.

  “Are you okay? Don’t worry about the police.”

  Tristan nodded, but Kate thought he still looked troubled.

  “I’ve come across police officers like Henry Ko many times. They use macho bullshit to compensate for the fact they’re not much good at their jobs. It’s not like you had anything to do with Magdalena going missing . . . Do you want me to drop you home?”

  “No. Thanks. I’m going to walk home. It’s not far. I need some air,” he said.

  “Okay. I’ll call you later about these names.”

  Kate got into her car and watched as Tristan walked to the end of the road and turned down toward the seafront. He didn’t seem fine. He was hunched over and withdrawn. She would have to keep an eye on him. She started the car and then set off for her AA meeting.

  17

  When Tristan got home, his heart sank to see Gary and Sarah sitting together on the small sofa in the living room. The sound was up loud, and they were watching the quiz show Eggheads.

  “Hey, Tris, there’s a couple of slices of pizza in the kitchen,” said Sarah, not taking her eyes off the TV.

  He navigated around the boxes of duty-free wedding booze to the kitchen. There was a supermarket-brand pizza box on the counter and a couple of anemic-looking slices left in the grill pan. There was nothing more depressing than frozen supermarket pizza. And why did they put Italian Style on the box? Where else did pizza come from? He put a couple of slices in the microwave. He could hear Gary and Sarah muttering about something in low voices. Tristan wished he could come home to peace and quiet so he could think. In six weeks Sarah and Gary would be married and living in their own place, and Gary wouldn’t be a constant presence.

  When the microwave was done, he put the pizza on a plate, took a can of Coke from the fridge, and went through to the living room. The small dining table in the corner was strewn with wedding paperwork. Eggheads was finishing on TV.

  “Don’t get pizza sauce on my wedding plan,” said Sarah. Tristan put his plate on the chair and gathered up the papers into a pile. He sat down and started to eat.

  “We had a visit from the police today; they came into the bank,” said Sarah. They were now looking at him intently from their spot on the sofa.

  Oh crap, thought Tristan. He should have thought that the police might contact her. “They wanted to confirm we all went out for a meal on Sunday night.”

  “Which we did, that wasn’t a problem,” said Gary.

  “Why didn’t you tell us that girl Magdalena has been reported missing?” asked Sarah.

  “I only found out a few hours ago when the police came to talk to me at work,” said Tristan. Gary switched the TV channel to the ITV early-evening news.

  “They said she was planning to go out on Sunday for a ride on her scooter and she never came home . . .”

  “Here, it’s on the news,” said Gary. He turned up the volume, and they watched the news report.

  “Look, her mum and dad have flown in from Italy,” said Sarah. “Aren’t the Italians well dressed? They must be in their sixties, and they’re beautifully turned out.”

  A woman and a man, both small with dark hair, were pictured at a news conference organized by the Devon and Cornwall police, sitting behind a long table with two police officers in uniform. They looked bereft. A picture of Magdalena flashed up, taken in a vineyard. She was smiling and wore a long red dress. Her long dark hair tumbled over her bronzed shoulders.

  “She was a nice-looking bird. Shame you didn’t get to date her before she went missing,” said Gary.

  “That’s very insensitive,” said Sarah.

  “Just an observation.”

  “One we don’t need.”

  Tristan chewed on the cardboard pizza. His appetite was gone, and he was shaking. This was all too close for comfort and real. They watched the news conference as the police outlined a timeline of the night and day before Magdalena vanished. Then they showed a grainy CCTV image from the early hours of Monday morning, taken on Jenner Street, which ran along the end of Magdalena’s road. There was a series of time-lapse images between one and four thirty a.m. that made his stomach lurch. They showed a tall young man walking up and down the empty street, twice between one and one fifteen a.m. and then returning at four thirty a.m.

  “That looks like you, Tris,” joked Gary. Tristan swallowed a chunk of the dry pizza. He could feel the color drain from his face.

  “Tris? Is that you on Jenner Street?” asked Sarah.

  “Erm, no,” he said, coughing.

  “Where’s the remote?” Sarah grabbed it from Gary and used the “pause live TV” function. She ran the news report back to the part where they showed the CCTV images.

  “Sarah,” said Tristan, starting to panic. He felt the pizza crawling in his stomach. She was now standing up in the middle of the room, peering at the TV.

  “Tristan. That’s your tracksuit. The black one with the red, green, and blue stripes . . . and your white, red, and blue Adidas vintage cap you bought from America. That’s what you were wearing when we went out for pizza on Sunday night.” Sarah ran it back again. “He’s even got your gait.”

  “What do you mean, gait?” asked Gary, getting up and standing beside her.

  “The way Tristan walks. His body language.” She left the TV report playing as an appeal number flashed up on-screen asking for any information. “What the hell, Tris?” she said, turning to him. Tristan could feel his legs shaking. He couldn’t control them. He hadn’t even known there was a CCTV camera on Jenner Street. Sarah and Gary were both staring at him, but he couldn’t think of what to say. “Say something! What the bloody hell are you doing on police CCTV . . .”

  “It’s not police CCTV,” said Tristan, hearing his voice wobble. “It’s Jenner Street.”

  “It’s on the bloody news! If I’ve recognized you, I’m sure someone else will!”

  “I just went for a walk,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Tristan. The police came into the bank! I told them that we went for dinner Sunday evening and then you were in all night until Monday morning. I gave them a signed statement!”

  “I didn’t ask you to,” he said. Tristan thought how the police had treated Geraint and arrested him with flimsy evidence. He was terrified.

  “I could have perjured myself at work!”

  “Sarah, love, you weren’t under oath,” said Gary, reaching out to try and grab her hand. “I’m the assistant manager; I can protect—”

  “What normal person gets up in the middle of the night and goes for a walk, in October?”

  Sarah and Gary were now in his face, and the walls of the cramped and tiny living room seemed to be closing in on him.

  “You know what, Sarah? You’re the only normal person in the world, you just judge everyone.”

  “Now come on, mate, that’s enough,” said Gary.

  “Or what?” said Tristan, standing. He was more than a head taller and able to look down on Gary, at the overhead light bouncing off the top of his shiny bald patch.

  “That’s enough! You are both going to sit down. Sit,” said Sarah. Gary obediently sat back on the sofa. “Tristan.”

  He rolled his eyes.


  “Tristan. You need to phone this number or go to the police and explain what you were doing. I don’t for a moment think that you had anything to do with this, but why did you make us lie?”

  “And, Tris. They’re gonna want to know what you were doing for three and a half hours near Jenner Street,” said Gary. Sarah’s mouth opened as it seemed to dawn on her that he wasn’t walking through Jenner Street; he was hanging around.

  “What were you doing for three and a half hours in the middle of the night on Jenner Street?” said Sarah. “Why did you walk past Magdalena’s road three times?”

  They were both looking at him now, as if he were capable of something horrible, like kidnapping or murder. Tristan could feel the pizza lurching in his stomach. He bolted out of the living room and up the stairs and only just made it to the bathroom in time before he threw up. He heaved and coughed, holding on to the toilet bowl and seeing stars. There was a knock at the door.

  “Erm, mate, it’s Gary . . . Mate. Are you okay?”

  “No.”

  There was a pause, and he could hear the sound of Gary breathing through the thin door.

  “Sarah has asked me to ask you to come back down to the lounge. She wants you to tell her what’s going on. We’ll stand by you, mate.”

  Tristan flushed the toilet, got up and yanked the door open, pushed past Gary, and went downstairs back into the living room.

  “Sarah . . . ,” he started. She came out of the kitchen wiping her hands. She looked scared.

  “What?”

  He opened his mouth to say more, but Gary appeared in the living room doorway.

  “Listen, Tris . . . Mate. I hope you don’t mind me saying. You’re acting a little wacko for my liking,” said Gary, putting up his hands. “Perhaps, Sarah, you should come and stay at my place tonight until Tristan calms himself down.”

  “Can I have a minute with my sister?”

  “I’m not comfortable with that,” said Gary. It was all too much for Tristan. He wanted to explain to his sister first, without bloody Gary, who was always there, in the way, popping up like some irritating idiot. He opened his mouth to speak, but he had nothing. He grabbed his coat and left the house, slamming the door. He started up the seafront, against the howling wind, with tears in his eyes.