Shadows on the Mirror by Frances Fyfield

Author:Frances Fyfield
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

‘Well, I’m going home. You come too, it’s only a mile. See how the other half live.’

Ryan looked up in surprise. Friendliness from a lawyer was one thing, appreciated and mistrusted in equal proportions, even if you got drunk with them sometimes; but being invited across the portals of their precious houses was quite another, a rare occurrence, except perhaps between bent copper and dodgy brief. And yes, he would like to see how an honest one lived, and yes he did see there was something in the gesture which should make him wary. No one in Ryan’s book, not even Mr Cook, gave something for nothing, but he would suspend judgement on that, for the moment.

Two hours later, Ryan left and returned to Cook’s attic-flat laden with the Chinese food they had ordered. Conversation was flowing, freely. Ryan was finding a liking for wine. Cook could make him like the stuff, none of this poncing about with sniffing corks and that, and Ryan was even enjoying the prospect of being able to tell his wife. Most interesting evenings in Ryan’s life could not afford that kind of follow-up, but he could tell her all about the visit, if not the conversation, thinking as he shambled up the street with the hot bag how odd it was that people like Malcolm Cook should celebrate their modest and educated success by going to live in draughty old houses. Nothing so strange as folk. Thinking hard on that phenomenon and others, when he stopped, and almost released his hold on the carrier.

There she bloody was. Mrs Charles Tysall to the life, tripping down the steps from the big front door into Malcolm’s house, collar turned up against the evening chill, exquisitely, formally dressed, as if for work, with a flow of red curls catching the light from the taxi-meter as she bent towards the window. Mrs Tysall had caught his fancy more than he had told, and Ryan’s heart stopped, until he saw the clean lines of that smiling profile, so close he could almost have touched, and heard the voice giving pleasant directions. ‘Gray’s Inn, please.’ Sarah Fortune, off to meet yet another lawyer. No, not Mrs Tysall, he saw with enormous relief and some regret. Just her double, without her gravelly voice or cut face. Not quite her height, but near as dammit, and his heart lurched into movement again, along with his feet, as the taxi pulled away, cheerful island of light in a dark street, diesel engine thumping. What a cracker, though. Thank God she wasn’t Mrs T, he’d have looked a real fool saying hallo. And why did such silly objections occur to him? He would have preferred her to be found. And thank God, whoever she was, she lived the other end of London from good old Charles: she was just his type. And he’d have to ask Cook if he kept a fancy woman downstairs. No sign of anything like that in residence with the prosecutor.

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