Shadow Sands

by Robert Bryndza

  “That’s harsh,” said Kate.

  “Yeah. He loved the idea of the iTunes store. He wants to send me an iTunes voucher for Christmas . . . I said I’d ask you and Grandma if that was okay.” Kate nodded, trying not to let her discomfort show. “He loves David Bowie.”

  “What?” said Kate.

  “Peter. He loves David Bowie. He’s the guy from that film Labyrinth, the one we used to watch when I came to stay. The one who has two different colors in his eyes, like me.”

  “Yes, I know who David Bowie is. And he doesn’t have different-colored eyes. The pupil is permanently dilated in one of his eyes, which makes it look like it’s a different color.”

  “Oh,” said Jake. He seemed disappointed that his eyes weren’t the same. Kate thought it was odd that after all these years she hadn’t known Peter Conway liked David Bowie. She knew so many intimate details of his childhood and the disturbing relationship he’d had with his mother, Enid. Knowing his favorite music had never been at the top of her list. “Peter told me to check out an album, The Rise of Ziggy Starburst . . . Or something.”

  “The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars,” said Kate. “I think I’ve got it at home.”

  Jake already had his iPhone out, and he was tapping at the screen.

  “There, I’ve got it downloading,” he said.

  “That is fast,” said Kate. She didn’t know what she’d expected from their visit. She’d secretly hoped that Jake would have been disgusted by his monster of a father. She’d never expected Peter to start recommending stuff for Jake to buy on iTunes.

  “What did you and him talk about?” asked Jake, sucking cappuccino froth off his spoon and looking over at her quizzically.

  “Our visit was more difficult . . . We didn’t talk about music. But we settled on talking about our old police days,” said Kate, wondering if it was screwed up that they hadn’t talked more about Jake . . . but then again, she didn’t want Peter to have a relationship with Jake.

  “I know what he did to you, Mum . . . I remember how cruel he was to both of us.”

  “Did he say sorry? Show remorse?”

  “No. We didn’t talk about it,” said Jake. “But I haven’t forgotten. I know what he did to you, and all those women . . . I read that Ted Bundy was, apparently, a good dad. His girlfriend had a completely different experience of him. She saw a side of him that no one else saw. Maybe I was lucky today, and I just got to meet the part of him that’s still good.”

  Kate was taken aback by his maturity and insight.

  “Do you want to see him again?”

  Jake shrugged and stirred his cappuccino.

  “He wants me to come again. I said we should write to each other maybe first?”

  “It’s up to you, Jake. You know that until you were sixteen, he wasn’t allowed to contact you, but if you want to write to him, they can give him your address, or you can set up a post office box.”

  Jake nodded. “What about his mother, Enid? She’s my grandmother, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. She’s due to be released from prison next year,” said Kate. She was happy they were having such a sensible conversation, and she bit back the urge to say, Never call that sick bitch your grandmother. Enid Conway had a disturbing relationship with Peter. There had been rumors of a sexual relationship between them. She had also been involved in the plan to help Peter escape from the hospital, and for this she’d received a three-year sentence.

  “If Peter had managed to escape and they’d gone to live abroad, they would have been out there in the world . . .” Jake shuddered. “I think I prefer it when he’s behind thick glass, surrounded by guards.”

  Kate nodded and smiled.

  “We should Skype Gran and let her know how it went,” said Kate. “Are you okay?”

  Jake nodded. She went to squeeze his hand again, but mindful of the attractive blonde girl across the cafeteria, she gave him a smile.

  They finished their coffee and then resumed the journey home. They drove back listening to The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, and Jake fell asleep in the passenger seat, snoring lightly.

  Kate thought back to her discussion with Peter, about the mindset of a serial killer, and her mind came back to Magdalena.

  She had that niggling feeling in her gut. She had to talk to Kirstie Newett again. Even if she had become obsessed with Arron Ko, that didn’t mean her story wasn’t true. There were too many other things that didn’t sit right with Kate.

  If there was someone abducting women, how did he do it? Women these days, she hoped, were savvy. Why would someone as smart as Magdalena stop and get into a stranger’s car? If it was someone dressed as an old man, then she might have been more inclined to stop.

  Kate looked up and saw they would be home in a couple of hours. She would get Jake settled, and then she wanted to speak to Tristan.

  47

  Magdalena’s arms and hands were almost numb with exhaustion as she scraped at the concrete floor around the pedestal of the toilet. It seemed so smooth and solid, and impossible to break.

  She was using pieces of the broken cistern lid to scrape away at the concrete and plaster fixing the toilet to the floor. If she could pull the toilet bowl away and drag it out into the corridor, then she could use it to stand on and reach the hatch.

  Magdalena didn’t know how much time had passed since she had fought off the man and found the gun. She was feeling dangerously weak. She had water, but she hadn’t eaten in so long. The stomach cramps were coming in ever-increasing waves, making her double over in pain. It took all her strength to pull up the reserves of energy and keep scraping away at the floor around the toilet. She kept listening out for the lift, with the gun by her side, tucked into the waistband of her jeans with the safety on.

  She wanted to sleep, but she was scared to fall asleep in case he came back in the darkness, found her, and took the gun. When she started to hear the voice of her nonna Maria, she knew she was close to the edge of her sanity.

  Come on, you are a strong girl, Magdalena. The strongest girl I have ever known. You need to keep going. We’re all waiting for you outside, above the soil . . . And when we’re all back together, I’m going to make you your favorite gnocchi, with mushrooms picked from the garden. Just promise me you won’t go to sleep, that you will keep going.

  The voice lulled her and made her forget about her numb arms and hands. Magdalena felt herself begin to drift off, and she pressed her head against the cold porcelain. The vile smell jolted her awake again.

  Keep going, keep going. You are so close, my darling, so close.

  48

  After an intense few days working on the case, Tristan felt strange, waking up on Sunday and Kate being away. She had called to say she had to take Jake to meet Peter Conway. They’d spoken briefly and she’d, understandably, been distracted.

  Despite everything Henry Ko had told them at the Ted Clough crime scene, Tristan still felt uneasy. He didn’t want to give up on Magdalena. He spent Sunday and Monday online, looking at the land registry website, researching buildings on the Shadow Sands estate. There were several commercial premises, shops and offices, and lots of tenants, like Ted, who rented properties on the estate. There were also three large manor houses—Thomas and Silvia lived in two of them, and the third was the derelict Hedley House nightclub. Tristan had been out clubbing to Hedley House a couple of times as a teenager. He remembered it was like a huge ballroom inside, a cavernous space with a bar, cloakroom, toilets, and very little else. He tried to find plans or blueprints online but didn’t have any luck.

  It was beginning to get dark on Monday afternoon, and Tristan was working at the desk in his bedroom when he heard a floorboard creak downstairs.

  “Hello?” he said. There was no answer. There was another creak, and he heard footsteps. He got up and grabbed the large empty bottle of champagne from his eighteenth birthday that he used as a doorstop. Holding it up like a baseba
ll bat, he went out onto the landing. He checked the bathroom and Sarah’s bedroom, but they were empty.

  There was another creak from downstairs and a rustling sound. The image of Ted Clough’s body came back to him. He saw him crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, his neck broken. It had looked like such a violent death, and it had caused him sleepless nights.

  Tristan clutched the champagne bottle, and he crept down the stairs. The living room door was ajar, and he could hear more creaks and rustling sounds coming from inside.

  He kicked the door open, advancing into the room with the champagne bottle above his head.

  “Christ! Tristan!” cried Sarah, clutching her chest and dropping a pen and notepad she was holding. She was crouching next to an open wine box by the kitchen door.

  “Jesus! I thought you were an intruder,” said Tristan. His heart thudding in his chest, he put the bottle down on the dining room table and rubbed at his big toe where he’d hurt it on the door. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “No.”

  “I was upstairs, and I called out ‘hello,’ and you didn’t answer.”

  “If you were talking to me from upstairs, then I wouldn’t have heard you,” she said.

  “What are you doing here, Sarah?”

  “What do you mean what am I doing here? I live here.”

  “You said you were staying with Gary until the wedding. You could have given me a heads-up.”

  “I’ve already been back twice to get clean clothes. I thought you’d be at work,” she said.

  “It’s reading week at uni . . . Half term.”

  “Oh.”

  She picked up the notepad. Tristan saw she’d written down a long list of figures.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “The wedding venue phoned me. They’ve decided they’re going to charge us corkage. A quid a bottle, which is going to add up with all this,” she said, indicating the boxes piled high.

  “That’s not good.”

  “Can you give me a hand to pull this pile of boxes out? I can’t remember if there are six or eight bottles in a box. It’s written on the side facing the wall.”

  Tristan went to the pile of boxes near the kitchen door and carefully maneuvered them away from the wall.

  “Eight,” said Tristan.

  “Eight times sixteen is a hundred and twenty-eight; bloody hell, that’s a hundred and twenty-eight quid corkage just for the white,” said Sarah. “The cost of this wedding is getting out of hand. Donna-Louise has gone up two dress sizes since they put her on the carvery at the Brewers Fayre, and I’m having to fork out for extra fittings. Ugh! I’m sick of talking about the bloody wedding!” She put her notepad down and wiped her eyes. Despite everything, Tristan felt sorry for her.

  “Fancy a beer?” he said.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He went and fetched two cold beers from the kitchen and handed her one of the bottles. Sarah took a long gulp.

  “Thanks. That’s good,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Cheers. Nothing like a cold beer,” he said. They tapped bottles and drank again.

  There was an awkward silence. It had started to rain, and Tristan could hear it clinking on the gutter pipes outside. Sarah put her beer down on the table.

  “Tristan. I think we should deal with the elephant in the room,” she said.

  “I thought you didn’t want to talk about Donna-Louise and her bridesmaid’s dress?”

  Sarah burst out laughing. Her whole face lit up, and she looked completely different. Happy and carefree. Tristan was pleased to see her laugh. It happened so rarely.

  “That’s not funny,” she said, laughing again, despite herself. “I’m talking about you, what you told me. You being gay. I’m sorry if my reaction was harsh, but it goes both ways. You can’t expect us to just carry on as normal.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s lots to take in . . .”

  “Yes, you heard something. I’m the one who has to live it.”

  Sarah sighed and sipped at her beer.

  “The police phoned. They said you went and gave a statement. You told them that me and Gary didn’t know you’d gone out that night. Thank you.”

  “No problem. Why didn’t Gary come with you today? You two are usually joined at the hip.”

  There was an awkward pause.

  “He was going to, but he’s never met a gay person before. He was nervous.”

  “What do you mean he’s never met a gay person?”

  “He hasn’t, Tris.”

  “I’m a gay person. I’ve known Gary for a year. I went with you both to France, to get all this wedding booze—four times! He’s saying he doesn’t know me?”

  “Of course he knows you, Tris. He just doesn’t know you as gay.”

  “It’s me, Sarah. Nothing’s changed!”

  “I know, I know. Like I said, it’s all new to us too . . . ,” said Sarah. There was another awkward pause. “Is that girl, Magdalena, still missing?”

  “The police think she came off the road driving her scooter, fell into one of the ditches on the A1328, and was washed out to sea, but me and Kate think differently . . .” He didn’t want to mention finding Ted Clough’s body. Sarah would only be worried and concerned and go off on one. He could already see she was pursing her lips at the mention of Kate. Tristan drained the last of his beer. It was becoming impossible to talk to Sarah about anything in his life without it being awkward.

  “Do you need help to move the boxes of booze?” he said, changing the subject.

  “No. Thank you. Gary’s friend Sammo has offered to help. He’s a driver for Harry Stott, the lorry delivery firm. He’s going to do it on the side, as a favor. Make a space in one of the lorries on a Sunday and pick it up when he comes past.”

  “That’s a bit naughty.”

  “I can’t afford to hire a large van, and Harry Stott lorries are constantly going past Ashdean to Exeter. Sundays are their busiest days,” said Sarah.

  Tristan put his beer down, his mind suddenly racing.

  “The Harry Stott lorries, they go from where to Exeter?”

  “I think they use the motorway from Portsmouth and Bournemouth. They go past Ashdean to Exeter. Sammo should be able to swing by here without getting into trouble. The firm has GPS on their lorries.”

  “So, they use the A1328 as their main route through to Exeter?” asked Tristan.

  “The A1328?”

  “The main road that runs from Ashdean past the Shadow Sands reservoir and Hedley House club to Exeter?” said Tristan, getting impatient with Sarah.

  “Yes. Sammo says Harry Stott runs a distribution lorry through there every hour on Sunday, so there should be room for our boxes.”

  “Can you give me Sammo’s number?”

  “He’s got a wife. He’s married.”

  “I don’t want his number in that way,” snapped Tristan, impatient at her stupidity. “I want to ask if he was driving past Shadow Sands reservoir last Sunday.”

  49

  Kate and Jake had been home for only a short while when there was a knock at the front door. When she opened it, Tristan was outside.

  “Kate. Sorry to barge in. I might have a lead from someone who saw Magdalena on the A1328 before she was abducted,” he said, breathlessly. He peered through the hallway to the living room. “Sorry. Is this a bad time?”

  Kate could see Tristan was very excited.

  “No. Jake’s up in the shower. What? Who? . . . Let’s go outside,” she said, grabbing her coat.

  They came out the front door and walked round the house to the sand dunes at the top of the cliff. There were a couple of deck chairs set up next to a sand dune, which was shelter from the wind, but neither of them sat down.

  Tristan quickly explained about Sarah’s wedding alcohol and Gary’s friend who worked for Harry Stott.

  “Sarah gave me Sammo’s number, and I talked to him. He wasn’t driving the A1328 route las
t Sunday when Magdalena went missing, but he’s asking around, hopefully right now, to see if any of the other drivers saw anything . . .” He pulled out his phone and checked the screen. “I’ve got full bars so hopefully he’ll call soon. I also had a look at all the properties and buildings on the Shadow Sands estate. I’ve made a list.” He took out a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and then his phone rang.

  “Who is it?” asked Kate.

  “Unknown number,” he said, showing her his phone screen.

  “Put it on speakerphone. And let’s sit down, it’s not as windy . . .” They sat on the deck chairs, and Kate scooted hers closer to Tristan. “And don’t ask him any leading questions, if he knows something.”

  Tristan nodded and answered the phone.

  “Hey, Tristan? I’m Dennis. Sammo says you wanted to talk to me?” said the voice on the other end of the phone. He sounded older, with a trace of a Devon accent. Tristan thanked him for phoning, and he explained why they wanted to talk to him, being careful not to lead him in any way. “I’m here with Kate. She’s my boss,” added Tristan.

  “Hi,” said Kate.

  “Yeah, hi. Sammo told me about the missing woman. I saw a young woman with long dark hair on a yellow scooter. She stopped to help this old geezer who was parked up on the side of the road,” he said.

  “Can you remember when this was?” asked Tristan.

  “A week ago, last Sunday. Sunday the fourteenth,” he said. “I don’t know, around mid to late afternoon.”

  Kate put her head in her hands for a moment and then looked up in shock at Tristan. He grabbed her hand.

  “Where exactly was this where you saw her?” asked Kate, trying to keep her voice calm.

  “A few miles outside Ashdean, just before the reservoir . . . I remember it because the old geezer let a spare tire roll in front of my lorry. I nearly ran him over.”

  Tristan gripped Kate’s hand harder.

  “Did you see what the old man looked like?” asked Kate.

  “He was dressed like so many old duffers round here. Old trousers, a tweed jacket. You know, like he got a suit from a charity shop years ago. He wore a flat cap, glasses. He had a big, bushy gray beard and hair coming out from under his cap . . .”