Author: Robert Bryndza
Category: Christian
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/robert-bryndza/page,4,604248-shadow_sands.html
Alan examined the photo again and looked up at Kate, raising a bushy eyebrow. Then looked back at the report.
“He was a muscular lad, with well-built lats . . . Would an outboard motor propeller puncture through all that flesh in that way? And through the rib cage to the lung?” Alan seemed to be talking to himself more than to Kate. “Hmm. No. Not without ripping a huge rent in his side . . . An outboard motor blade is curved. This wound looks more like a sharp object penetrated the flesh. Rapidly, stabbed in, and then out again.” He mimed a stabbing motion with his finger.
“Do you think the cause of death is wrong?”
“What? No, no, no,” said Alan hastily. “When a postmortem is conducted, we present the facts, and then it’s the police who use the information to form a theory . . .”
That’s not really answering my question, thought Kate. Alan was being loyal to this unnamed colleague, not wanting to accuse one of his own.
Alan flicked through the pages of the report to a chart at the back.
“Although if this poor lad fell in the water, drowned, and was then mangled postmortem by the outboard motor of a boat, why did he lose so much blood?”
“How much blood did he lose?”
“He’d bled out, considerably. Lost half the blood volume in his body. As you know, if a person is injured and the heart is still pumping, the blood loss is greater.” He closed the folder with a snap and looked troubled. “I think you should leave this with me.”
Kate had been reading snatches of the report as Alan turned the pages. She’d seen two signatures on the last page: Dr. Philip Stewart and DCI Henry Ko.
Alan got up from his chair, now towering over her. He rubbed at his eyes and slid his glasses back onto his nose.
“And you say the boy’s mother is questioning the cause of death?”
“Yes. She doesn’t believe he drowned.”
“I would rather you didn’t share what I’ve told you until I’ve had the chance to look at this.”
Kate nodded. “Of course.”
“Right . . . Yes.” Alan looked at his watch and picked up his coat. Kate could see he was troubled. He was straight down the line, honest and highly respected. He pulled on his coat and gathered up his phone and car keys. They went to leave, and Kate hesitated by the door.
“Alan. Off the record. Do you think Simon Kendal’s death was an accident?”
“Off the record. And I really mean off the record. No. I don’t think it was an accident. Now. I have to go,” he said.
Kate had never seen him look so worried and pale faced. She just wished she had more power and resources to follow the clues. She missed being a police detective.
8
Tristan knocked on the door of Professor Rossi’s office, and a slim young woman with long dark hair and black-rimmed glasses opened the door. She wore skinny jeans and a red sweater.
“Hi. Is Professor Rossi in today?” he asked.
“Yes. Hello,” she said. She spoke with a soft Italian accent.
“Oh. Hi,” said Tristan.
“You were expecting some crazy old Italian lady?”
“No . . . ,” said Tristan. That was exactly what he had been expecting. Professor Magdalena Rossi was a new professor lecturing in philosophy and religion. Both her name and subject didn’t match the beautiful, cool young woman in front of him. “Well, maybe. Hi. I’m Tristan Harper.”
They shook hands.
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m still the new girl; even after all these weeks, I haven’t met everyone.”
“Don’t worry, I feel the same.”
“How long have you been the new girl?” she said.
Tristan smiled. “I’ve been working here a little over two years. I’ve seen you around, I think. Do you have a yellow scooter?”
“Yes. A Vespa.”
“You drive fast.”
“Well, I am Italian,” she said with a grin. She held eye contact for a beat longer than Tristan felt comfortable.
“Right. I’ve got your slide projector,” he said, indicating it on the trolley beside him.
“Thank you, you can bring it in,” she said, opening the door wide. Her small office was filled with old wooden furniture, and every inch of the walls was covered in paperwork. A small window looked out over the sea, which today was choppy and gray. Tristan wheeled the trolley inside. “Just park it there, next to my desk. I was about to make a coffee—would you like one?” She indicated a little capsule coffee machine on the bookshelf.
“No, thank you. I should get going,” said Tristan. He pulled out his phone and checked to see if there was a message from Kate after her meeting with Alan.
“Are you sure? A shot of espresso won’t slow you down.”
Tristan was about to say no, when he noticed a map fixed to a pin board on the wall. It was of Shadow Sands reservoir and the surrounding moors. A card saying LOCAL MYTHS AND LEGENDS was pinned underneath with newspaper articles featuring famous Devon and Cornwall legends that Tristan recognized: the Beast of Bodmin Moor, King Arthur’s pool, Cornish giants, the Hound of the Baskervilles. But there were also a few handwritten notes with queries: WOLF MAN of BODMIN MOOR—find him, FOG PHANTOM—too new?
Magdalena followed his gaze.
“Are you doing a project about the reservoir?” he asked.
“No. Why?”
“I just recognized it. I’m local,” said Tristan, not wanting to go into the details of Simon Kendal’s death. He stepped closer to the board.
Underneath WOLF MAN of BODMIN MOOR—find him were two photos of a giant paw print. The first photo showed it in situ on a muddy, tree-lined footpath. The second photo was a close-up. The paw print looked like it was from a large dog; Tristan could see the outline of the paw pads and long claws. What shocked him was the large, hairy human hand next to it for comparison; the paw print was three times the size of the hand.
“That’s not my hand, by the way,” said Magdalena. Tristan jumped. She was now beside him holding two steaming espresso cups. She was small and fine boned. The top of her head came up to his shoulder. Her rich black hair was neatly parted and smelled fresh, of fruit shampoo. Tristan thought she had an earthy beauty.
“Thanks,” he said, taking one of the cups. “Is this for a new module?” he asked, indicating the corkboard.
“No. It’s for my thesis. I’m studying the origins of urban legends. Devon and Cornwall are rich with study material. I took the photos of the paw print on a farm out near Chagford on the edge of Dartmoor. The farmer swears that one night he saw a beast-like figure, standing on two legs, ten feet tall next to a fence in one of his fields.”
“What did he do?” asked Tristan, sipping at the strong and bitter coffee.
“He did what I’d do. He went inside and locked the doors. He didn’t dare venture back out until the next morning. That’s when he found this footprint.”
“What the hell leaves a footprint like that?” asked Tristan. He reached up to touch the photo, and the arm of his sweater shifted up, showing an inch or two of the sleeve tattoo covering his forearm.
Magdalena paused for a moment, and he noticed her staring at his tattoo. It was a black-and-white block of trees, set against the night sky.
“It’s probably a lion, or a lynx, or some crossbreed,” she said. “You must have heard all the theories of rich Victorians bringing back baby lions and tigers from voyages abroad and then turning them out into the wild when they got big and dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“That’s the logical conclusion.”
Tristan downed the rest of his espresso. The huge paw print made him shudder.
“What’s the Fog Phantom?” he asked, seeing a series of tiny black-and-white photos from a stretch of empty road surrounded by trees. Pockets of fog clung to the depressions in the tarmac as the road banked down and then vanished around a bend.
“That’s a work in progress. I had a chance conversation with a local girl in the pub. She told me a
story about young people going missing on a stretch of the A1328, the road which runs close by to the Shadow Sands reservoir. Every time there’s thick fog . . .”
“Really? I haven’t heard of that,” said Tristan.
“I think she’s—what do you say in English?—an unreliable narrator . . . probably a better idea to pitch as a movie than to put in my thesis.”
“Like that movie Candyman. You know, you say his name five times into the mirror and he appears behind you with a hook.”
“That’s based on a story by Clive Barker, a very good one.”
Magdalena took a sip of her coffee, and they were silent. Tristan felt the urge to tell her of the death of Simon Kendal, but he didn’t. She smiled and reached over, sliding up the sleeve of his sweater to reveal his forearm. “I like your tattoo,” she said, tracing her fingers over his skin. “Sometimes they can look tacky, but this is real artwork.”
“Thanks. I have a great guy I go to, in Exeter . . .” He felt himself blushing, and goose pimples appeared on his skin. Magdalena smiled and gently pulled his sleeve back down.
“Are you a postgraduate?”
“No,” said Tristan, feeling embarrassed. “I assist Kate, Professor Marshall. And I seem to be the only one who knows how to mend these old slide projectors.”
“I’ve heard about your adventures with Professor Marshall,” she said, not breaking eye contact. She had beautiful brown eyes and full lips.
“There’s that, too, yes, but officially I’m on the payroll, not an academic or nothing, anything.”
She smiled.
“How was your espresso?”
He looked down at the cup.
“Um . . .” He laughed. “I’m more of a Starbucks kind of guy.”
Magdalena laughed.
“You’re talking to an Italian. That’s not coffee. What’s your usual drink in Starbucks?”
“Caramel macchiato,” he said with a grimacing grin.
“Oh my Lord.”
“You haven’t been here long, and most people here end up having meetings in the Starbucks downstairs. I’m sure you’ll be converted.”
“Perhaps we should get some Starbucks sometime?” she said, cocking her head and looking up at him from under her thick fringe of hair. “You could convert me.”
“Oh,” he said, realizing she was flirting.
“Yes, Tristan. I’m asking you out . . . Is that something you’d be interested in?” Her confidence had taken him aback, and he didn’t know what to say. “Can I have your number?”
“My number?”
“Yes. You can probably tell. I’m not the kind of girl who sits waiting by the phone.”
“Of course.”
He put his espresso cup down on her desk as she handed him a ballpoint pen and a small notebook open to a blank page. He scribbled down his phone number. His phone pinged, and he took it out of his pocket. He saw it was a message from Kate.
“I better go—that’s Professor Marshall,” he said.
“I’ll call you.” She smiled.
“Great,” he said. “And thanks for the coffee.”
He waited until he was outside Magdalena’s office, and then he looked at the text:
GERAINT JONES HAS AGREED
TO MEET US TOMORROW AT 11 AM
Tristan hurried off to call Kate, and his meeting with Magdalena went to the back of his mind.
9
Geraint had asked to meet them at a local snooker club close to his student halls on the outskirts of Exeter town center.
Kate and Tristan found it at the end of a run-down parade of shops, and they parked outside. A tall, stocky lad with shoulder-length strawberry blond hair was waiting for them under a faded green awning that read POT BLACK SNOOKER CLUB. He wore black Doc Martens boots, grubby jeans, and a denim jacket with an equally grubby sheepskin lining. He had a pleasant, round face and was trying to grow a beard, but all he had was a fluff of downy hair on his chin.
“Do you play snooker?” Geraint asked Tristan as he flashed a membership card at the front desk and signed them into the club.
“No,” said Tristan.
“I don’t either,” said Geraint in a low voice. “I come here cos you can have a cigarette with your pint.” He had a soft, lilting Welsh accent, and his eyes were a little glazed. Kate wondered whether he had already been drinking. He led them through a chipped, grimy door, and they emerged into a long, low room with dark-green walls. The rows of snooker tables were empty, apart from two elderly gents playing a game at one by the bar. The snooker tables each had a large lamp above with a red velvet fringed shade. They cast a dim light over the room, catching the haze of cigarette smoke. “What can I get you to drink?”
“I’ll have a pint of Foster’s,” said Tristan.
“Do they have cappuccino at the bar?” asked Kate, seeing this was a working men’s club.
“They’re more likely to have Al Pacino at the bar,” deadpanned Geraint.
“Black coffee, then,” she said, warming to him.
“Sit yourselves down. I’ll be over,” he said.
Kate and Tristan found a table farthest from the bar, under a wall display of polished trophies in glass cabinets.
“How come you can smoke in here?” asked Tristan when they sat down.
“It’s a members’ club. You can still smoke in members’ clubs,” said Kate, getting out her pack of Marlboro Lights. It was quite peaceful and chilled, with just the murmured chatter of the elderly men and the click-clack of the snooker balls.
Geraint came back with their drinks and sat opposite them both, keeping his coat on. He downed half his pint in one go and then lit up a cigarette.
“I first want to say, sorry about Simon,” said Kate. Tristan nodded.
“Evil-Lyn’s put you up to this, has she? Digging around?” he said, exhaling and fixing Kate with a stare.
“She’s not put us up to anything. She’s concerned with the circumstances of Simon’s death.”
“You know that’s what Si called her. Evil-Lyn. Like in the cartoon He-Man.” He smiled for a moment and then wiped a tear from one of his eyes. “Fuck it.” He downed the rest of his pint and raised his glass at the bar.
“Simon didn’t get on with his mum?” asked Kate.
“No. The coroner and the police ruled it was an accident. Does Lyn think she knows more? She wasn’t there. She just doesn’t like me and wants to make trouble for me.”
“What do you think happened to Simon?”
“I think Evil-Lyn killed him . . . Not directly, but she put so much pressure on him with the swimming. She was a pushy mother, to say the least. She spent a fortune hiring a trainer. A right bastard, he was; he drove Si half-mad. It should have been Lyn training for the Olympics. She wanted it more than Si.”
“Lyn said that Simon got injured last year, and he didn’t make the Olympic team,” said Tristan.
“He hurt his foot last Christmas, something stupid, fell off the pavement outside a pub.”
“Was he drunk?”
Geraint nodded and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
“Drunk with you?” asked Kate.
Geraint smiled and nodded again. He lit up another cigarette.
“Which would explain why she doesn’t like me,” he said, exhaling smoke up at the ceiling. “She thought I was a bad influence, but it was the first time in months that Si had been out on the lash, and even then, he only had a pint. He was a lightweight. It was a silly accident. Si tripped, landed on the curb in a load of broken glass. There was blood everywhere. I helped him to the A&E. They patched him up and x-rayed him. He’d chipped a bone in his foot, and it put him out of action. He couldn’t train for six weeks, which meant he lost condition. He was a dead cert for competing in the London Olympics. Lyn had a sponsor lined up, but come June, he just failed to qualify for Team GB by a matter of seconds.”
“Jeez. That must have been tough,” said Tristan. Geraint nodded.
“Not only d
id his dream of being on the Olympic team go down the shitter, Evil-Lyn was on the warpath. She’d mortgaged the house to pay for his training over the past couple of years. If Si had qualified, a sponsor would have taken over those costs and paid off her loan . . . She demonized Si after that. She was pushing him to train harder and always going on about how he’d missed his biggest opportunity. That’s enough to make anyone suicidal.”
“Was Simon suicidal?” asked Kate.
“I don’t know, but he wasn’t in a good state of mind, started likening the pool where he trained to a concrete hole full of chlorine.”
“What made you pick the campsite by the reservoir?”
Geraint smiled ruefully.
“We were meant to go camping in the Gower, in West Wales. It’s gorgeous there for surfing and camping, but Evil-Lyn changed her mind at the last minute and told Si he could only have two days off from training. He trains, trained, here in Exeter. Shadow Sands is obviously a lot closer than the Gower. And there’re a couple places nearby. Benson’s Quarry is good for swimming and diving. Loads of fit birds, girls hang out there . . . You been there, mate?” he added to Tristan.
“No,” said Tristan.
“You should check it out, especially on a hot day. Lots of hot girls in just their bikini bottoms . . .” The barman appeared with a fresh lager for Geraint. “Thanks, mate,” he said, downing half of it in one gulp and lighting another cigarette. Kate exchanged a glance with Tristan, who was still sipping at his first pint.
“Was the Shadow Sands campsite empty when you and Simon arrived?” asked Kate.
“Yeah. The weather was shit. And so is the campsite. It’s beside the reservoir, but it has a huge fence with razor wire blocking off the water. It’s like something out of Auschwitz. And the toilets were half-boarded-up and caked with shit. There was stuff left over from druggies. We got to the campsite about eight, eight thirty in the evening. We’d been to Dawlish Beach nearby, surfing, and we ended up forking out for a cab to the campsite. We were hungry, and it was getting dark when we arrived . . . I don’t know why we didn’t just get a youth hostel. It was one of those holidays where you plan something, then stuff changes, and you try to keep the whole idea of a camping holiday alive . . .” He took another gulp of his pint. “But you end up in a shithole like that.”