Shadows on the Mirror by Frances Fyfield - Sarah Fortune 01 - Shadows on the Mirror

Author:Frances Fyfield - Sarah Fortune 01 - Shadows on the Mirror [Fyfield, Frances]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Suspense
ISBN: 9780754010241
Google: PUM0AQAAQBAJ
Amazon: 0745142877
Barnesnoble: 0745142877
Goodreads: 3820982
Publisher: MANDARIN
Published: 1988-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was raining and dark after Ryan had gone, and Malcolm had the overwhelming desire to speak to his father. In case that wise old bird would extend into the vacuum some hint of affection, or even suggest he might know what to do with a financier like Charles Tysall. But no. To speak to his father was to try and speak a new language, and only ever served to renew the old quarrel. Perhaps at the Gray’s Inn Ball, that grand annual occasion which both of them were bound to attend, out of long habit and his mother’s insistence. Perhaps then, when they were both bound to be jolly, but not now. All Father would do now was scold, like an otherwise fair school prefect on a bad day, raise his voice out of the stiff collar of his outraged pride. Lowly public servant, he would yell, as he had yelled before. Struggling in the gutter for your trade, hardly like a proper solicitor, and probably damaged in the process. You fool. Yes, yes, Malcolm had said, all that and more. Exploited, bemused, saddened and maddened, usually on the losing side. You never change anything by prosecuting people, Father had shouted. No you don’t, Malcolm had agreed, but then nothing changes people except luck, and at least this way I have the chance to protect the victims, that’s the point. Besides, I get to laugh sometimes, which is more than you seem to do. But only sometimes. Not a dignified way of earning money, but my own, you see.

No, he would not speak to his father, however much he loved him. Tomorrow he would make ten more telephone calls in the search for Sarah Fortune; maybe he would succeed. She might have been a stranger, but he never lost the urge to talk to her again, or the belief that she would understand him. He had tried to will it away as he would have tried to deny the existence of a toothache, with the same lack of success for an ache which grew. The thoughts were jumbled: Sarah, Charles Tysall and his own father, all somehow ill-fated.

He could not bring hope of a prodigal return to his father, nor could he defend himself. If neither Ryan, Bailey nor himself could even draw the barge of the judicial system alongside Charles Tysall’s yacht, then Stepfather would be proved right. Even if he were interested in criminal affairs, which Malcolm doubted, he never had, as far as Malcolm knew, encountered violence. Instead of speaking, Malcolm resorted to his old friend, the night. He went out like a burglar at midnight, ignoring the summer rain. Padding his dark route on shiny warm streets, looking for the man and the dog, wanting something to rescue.

There they were, on cue for inspection, the dog thinner than before, ratlike with damp fur, dragged each inch of the way, not even whimpering protest, while the man shrugged on, fighting his private battle with the world.

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