Shadows on the Mirror

by Frances Fyfield

  ‘I don’t believe you, but you look in vain. Mr Plumb has disappeared.’

  ‘People connected with you have that habit, sir, don’t they?’ Ryan remarked conversationally.

  ‘Yes. I have to concede that. Especially wives. But Edward’s disappearance is not of that kind. He will reappear, like the proverbial bad penny.’

  ‘I see. Not like the wife, then.’

  ‘As I said. But she reappeared too.’

  Ryan sipped the coffee he had brought from his own table. In the weeks intervening since the discovery of Elisabeth Tysall, his anger had faded into a dull curiosity, blunted by a sense of futility. He required some kind of reaction from this calm face more than he needed explanations. Ryan was learning that there need not be any explanations, but it irked him, the powerful frustration flowing from a man who was beyond hurting, whose physical wounds healed with the same even speed as the rest, and he wanted above all to needle a response. He wanted to prickle and hurt like those little pieces of glass he had seen in Sarah Fortune’s flat before the doors were closed against him. Not your case, DS Ryan, not anyone’s case, thank you. Oh, Mr Tysall, you are beyond the law, but not beyond suffering, surely, nor quite outside all those little devils which trouble me. Besides, I’m curious. I saw you react, just the once, when you announced you had loved your wife. Perhaps you did, like I love mine. Like I loved Annie. You were hurting then; I want to see it again, you bastard. Then I shan’t feel so useless. I hate you, Charles Tysall, you stinking mixed-up coward. Hate you for failing to understand you at all, and because you didn’t even have the guts to kill anyone. You just made them want to do it themselves and sent me on a goosechase. You’ve made a monkey of me, Charles old boy, so I shall try to needle you with the unanswered question you do not seem to have considered.

  ‘Do you have to sit here, Mr Ryan? Surely you have other duties? I don’t have to speak to you.’

  ‘Shan’t keep you, sir. You don’t have to answer, but I hoped you might, and if you do, it isn’t for the record . . . One question in my head, the rest I can live with . . . I have to, don’t I?’ Charles nodded grimly. ‘. . . But your wife, Mr Tysall sir, Elisabeth. One thing defeats me. It seems she may have killed herself, but who,’ here he paused for effect, ‘buried her? Dug her in, I mean,’ he added to emphasise the point.

  Charles stirred and clasped long fingers together, faced luminous eyes on the broad features next to his, then turned his attention to the half-finished cup of coffee, the hand holding it trembling slightly, Ryan noticed with satisfaction.

  ‘Buried, Mr Ryan? The sand buried her, or so I understand. A natural process: the force of water moving sand to cover an intrusion. Maybe she died in a natural hollow and was covered. No one mentioned burial, not in the terms I understand.’

  ‘No?’ said Ryan. ‘Fancy that. But then you were being questioned about her disappearance, not her burial. I promise you she was buried, sir, in a bank which split open later. Buried deep, sir, or there would have been nothing left to see. There was nothing natural about the burial, sir, human hand, not nature’s. You could always go and look, sir, ask the locals if you don’t believe me. Someone definitely dug a hole and put her in it . . .’

  ‘No,’ said Charles, cup crashing against saucer, his voice unnaturally loud.

  ‘Yes, they did,’ said Ryan, grinning his wolfish grin, teeth on the jugular, pleased to have found the weak spot with his usually faulty instinct. ‘Yes they bloody did. Sir.’

  Charles’s right hand clenched the edge of the table, a white scar on his dark skin glowing against the wood.

  ‘So,’ Ryan went on relentlessly, pursuing his advantage, ‘she didn’t just fade away, did she? Someone had their hands all over that lily-white body right at the end, and not yours either, I suppose. Poor Elisabeth, always partial to a bit of the other, wasn’t she? I hope he was a good strong man, well-endowed, if you see what I mean. Gentle, passionate and sensitive with it; you know, all the things a woman could ever have wanted . . . Hope he made her scream before he buried her . . . I can see it all, one last night together on the sands: Elisabeth darling, I’ll show you what a man can do . . .’

  Charles choked, the pale skin blotched. He pushed at the table and half ran for the door. A waiter stepped into his path and stepped aside, seeing the rapt expression of a man on the verge of nausea. Ryan turned to watch the departure, then resumed his cold coffee, suddenly unperturbed. He sat back, smiling. All right then, no answers at all, but at least he’d kicked where it hurt, clever enough to have found the spot. More than one way to skin a cat. The bastard. He signalled the waiter.

  ‘More coffee please. And don’t worry,’ he jerked his head in the direction of the door, ‘I’ll pay for his breakfast.’ Then I’ll go home and sort out the wife, he added to himself, catching his healthy reflection in a mirror on the wall.

  Who had buried Porphyria, stoked her into the mud in her final, obscene abandonment? Charles arrived at the quayside during the Saturday business of mid-afternoon. The sense of holiday was gone, winter in the air, stragglers peering at boats, leaning over the sea-wall to feed the birds in the channels; then disappearing into the warmth of the cafés and amusement arcades. Fish and chip front down to the east end of the harbour reserved for fishermen, where the wind blew colder and the water was relatively empty, the tide low, leaving acres of mud and sand exposed between the swift channels of water running in between the banks. He had witnessed this scene before, never with the same fascination. Elisabeth it was who loved the sea, the peculiar mystery of this double-edged landscape, at once a bleak view of colourful earth and muddy rivulets, filling with tide, until it seemed as if the ocean had come to land leaving only the slightest trace of tufty ground. The surfaces above the channels were covered with sea-lavender, a faded but vivid carpet as far as his eye could see. Cardinal’s purple, Charles thought, a pall for a coffin, but I never saw her buried.

  He began to walk down the old stone steps of the quay wall and across the mud where boats lay like beached whales waiting for water. Absently, he removed his shoes before wading across the nearest channel to the opposite bank, surprised at the coldness of the water and the strength of the current pulling around his calves, flowing inland. It was all innocuous, peaceful and calm in the stiff breeze. He walked on, skirting the glittering water, feeling sand beneath his feet.

  ‘Mister!’

  There was a small boy crossing his path, walking back purposefully towards the quay, stopping Charles’s progress towards the skyline of the distance.

  ‘Mister, don’t go far up the creeks, Mister. The tide’s turned, see?’

  He looked at the child with the contempt he had always reserved for children, angry to be disturbed by a human voice.

  ‘What do you mean, boy? Get out of my way. There’s other people further out.’

  ‘Coming back, though, not going out. They’re coming back in, don’t you see?’

  Charles did not understand. Nor did he wish to know the child’s nonsense, but the boy stood firm, ready to elaborate his explanation. Irritably, he pushed the slight figure out of his path and walked on.

  He had in his mind the picture they had shown him of where she had been found. It was imperative to discover the place now, not later or another day but now. In the slow churning thoughts which had governed his actions since the morning, there had been one burning question demanding immediate answer. Who had buried her, intervened like a lover in that last chapter of her life. He needed to discover the place. To ensure Ryan was wrong. Once he had seen the place he would surely find what he needed to know. That there had been no lecherous undertaker willed to Elisabeth’s side in final infidelity or in death. There would be no peace, no sleep until he discovered that patch of sandy earth, and found it innocent. The wind was growing colder. He moved quickly.

  The boy was faster, ran after him, caught up, pulled his arm.

  ‘Don’t go, Mister,’ he was shouting. ‘Tide’ll be high today. Too much
east wind. And there’s nothing to see.’

  Charles looked down at the anxious face, seeing nothing but obstruction, interference and sheer insolence. He raised his arm and struck the child a casual blow to the head as he would have thrashed at a branch obstructing his path. Unprepared, the boy sprawled sideways into the sand with a grunt of surprise, scrambling up within seconds, ready to fight back. But he saw that the man had moved on without a backward glance, and his own eyes narrowed as he rubbed his jaw, felt the beginnings of a dull pain and involuntary tears in his eyes. By his side, slow to protect, a small dog barked anxiously and licked his hand.

  Pain turned to anger. The small guardian of the creeks saw the long figure striding into the distance, walking along the banks, following the path where he himself would have taken the boat, disappearing from view as the very last of the walkers returned back to the harbour-wall. The sky was turning ugly grey in the last of the daylight. Let him, then. Don’t interfere or tell him his business.

  Don’t tell anyone else either.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ he said. ‘Time to go home.’

  ‘Where would we go,’ said Sarah to Malcolm, ‘if we did not have to live here?’

  ‘To the sea I think. I find it soothing.’

  ‘And dangerous.’

  He put his arm round her with the familiarity of a brother. ‘We can and we will change our lives. The privilege of being human. Nothing is safe, but nothing is hopeless either. Look in the mirror.’ He hugged, less brotherly, turned her to face the new mirror on the wall. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘You and I against the world?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We can do anything then,’ said Sarah.

  About the Author

  FRANCES FYFIELD has spent much of her professional life practicing as a criminal lawyer, work which has informed her highly acclaimed novels. She has been the recipient of both the Gold and Silver Crime Writers’ Association Daggers. She is also a regular broadcaster on Radio 4, most recently as the presenter of the series ‘Tales from the Stave.’ She lives in London and in Deal, overlooking the sea, which is her passion.

  www.francesfyfield.co.uk

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Also by Frances Fyfield

  A Question of Guilt

  Trial by Fire

  Shadow Play

  Perfectly Pure and Good

  A Clear Conscience

  Without Consent

  Blind Date

  Staring at the Light

  Undercurrents

  The Nature of the Beast

  Seeking Sanctuary

  Looking Down

  The Playroom

  Half Light

  Safer Than Houses

  Let’s Dance

  The Art of Drowning

  Blood from Stone

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book was originally published in 2012 by Little, Brown Book Group.

  SHADOWS ON THE MIRROR. Copyright © 1989 by Frances Fyfield. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition FEBRUARY 2014 ISBN: 9780062303950

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