Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'That
was
the
life
she
was
leading,'
Irene
said.
He
watched
the movement
of
her
lips.
'But
I
was
a
secretary.
I
don't
mean
in
the
typing
pool.
I
was
a
private
secretary
to
one
of
the
directors.
I
had
started
with
nothing
but
I
got
qualifications.
I
taught
myself
how
to
talk
and
to
dress.
Nobody
did
anything
for
me.'
'But
you
knew
about
Frances.'
'Oh.
Oh,
no.'
She
sounded
eager
to
make
him
understand.
'One
day
in
my
lunch
hour,
I
saw
this
girl
and
recognised
her.
It
was
just
by
accident.'
On
a
station
platform,
in
a
restaurant
,
people
could
meet
by chance.
It
was
possible
to
believe
her;
and
that,
given
the
smallest
change
of
circumstance,
she
and
her
sister
might
not
have
met
again.
'I
married
Malcolm
and
he
brought
me
here.
She
came
after us.
I
wasn't
to
know
she
was
looking
for
this
man
who
killed
her
mother.'
'Your
mother
too.'
'The
detective,'
she
said
.
'Oh,
you're
the
one
who
knows.'
Elsewhere,
like
a
signal
from
the
hotel's
hidden
life,
a
door
banged
shut.
Startled,
he
glanced
towards
the
landing,
but
no
one
appeared.
Beddowes
presumably
was
still
being
comforted
by
the
wife
who
had
been
given
some
reason
to
separate
from
him
even
before
he
stole
from
her.
The
look
on
his
face
when
he
had
heard
her
voice,
It's
Myra.
Myra.
A
snatch
of
music
from
a
radio
ended
with
the
closing
of
another
door.
'There
are
a
lot
of
things
I
don't
know
about,'
Murray
said.
'Like
whether
it's
really
Frances
who
has
done
all
these murders?'
'It's
possible
.
'
'You
think
she
would
have
killed
John
Merchant?
And
those
other
men?
You
think
she
could
have
done
all
those
terrible
things
to
them?
But
if
it
was
her,
wouldn't
she
do
it
again?
Kill
someone?'
And,
of
course,
he
wasn't
sure.
How
could
he
be,
remembering
the
submissiveness
of
a
woman
watching
as
he
threw
her possessions
scattered
on
to
the
floor?
'It's
possible,'
he
said
stubbornly.
'Malcolm's
with
her.'
Irene
reached
out
and
touched
his
hand
.
'She
phoned
this
afternoon
and
he
told
her
he
would
come.
He's
been
with
her
all
this
time.'
24
Blood on a Mirror
SATURDAY,OCTOBER
6
TH
SUNDAY,OCTOBER 7
TH
1988
After
they
had
waited
for
a
time
without
an
answer,
Irene
produced
a
key.
She
saw
him
look
at
it,
but
he
said
nothing;
if
it
was
a
challenge,
this
was
not
its
time
.
From
the
first,
the
flat
felt
wrong
to
him,
even
before
they
put on
the
lights
and
went
from
that
room
along
the
passage
to
find
the
bedroom
empty.
The
bed
was
disturbed,
but
there
was
no
way
of
telling
if
it
had
been
used
or
left
unmade
from
the
previous
night.
'They
may
have
gone
out
somewhere,'
she
said.
'Where?'
As
a
couple,
Malcolm
and
Frances
Fernie
had
no
right
to
exist
outside
this
flat.
They
were
only
bodies
that
came
together.
One
of
the
pillows
was
dragged
half-way
down
the
frozen
wound
of
the
bed;
a
woman
might
have
done
that,
gathering
it
under
her
to
raise
her
buttocks.
He
looked
up
and
met
Irene's
eyes.
'It
seems,'
she
said,
'as
if
we
have
the
place
to
ourselves.'
The
bathroom
was
empty,
which
was
only
what
he
had
expected;
but
as
he
turned
to
go
out,
he
caught
sight
of
his
face
in
the
round
mirror.
Across
his
nose
and
cheeks,
there
was
a
stain
like
a
tribal
scarring.
He
put
on
the
fluorescent
strip
around
it
to
see
better,
but
there
was
only
the
single
mark
like
a
smeared
handprint.
It
was
in
the
front
room
beside
one
of
the
chairs
that
he
found
a
dark
circle
of
spots.
'He'd
been
hurt
and
he
fell
here
or
bent
forward
.
'
He
sought
out
with
his
finger
for
her
each
separate
indication.
'He?'
'There's
blood
in
there
too.
On
the
mirror
in
the
bathroom.'
'But
she
wouldn't
hurt
him,'
Irene
said.
'And
neither
of
them are
here.'
'He's
been
hurt.'
He
saw
Malcolm's
face
in
the
mirror
tattooed
with
blood.
He
kept
his
voice
steady,
but
at
the
last
word
he
felt
a
pulse
shake
his
right
eyelid
as
if
a
shock
had
been
carried
into
his
whole
system.
'What
about
Frances
then?
What
are
we
going
to
do?'
she
asked.
He
was
paralysed
by
the
impossibility
of
telling
Mother
that Malcolm
was
dead.
'We
can't
stay
here,'
he
heard
her
saying.
He
could
not
decide.
In
a
crisis,
when
other
people
panicked,
he
had
always
been
able
to
ace.
Now
in
the
nightmare
he
could
not
decide.
'Your
friend
Eddy
Stewart
would
be
able
to
find
out
if anything's
happened
to
them,'
she
said.
'Eddy?'
He
stared
at
her
stupidly.
'You
know
where
he
lives,
don't
you?'
He
nodded
.
'We'll
go
there
then.'
Sitting
beside
her
in
the
car
as
she
drove,
he
said,
'When
I
was
a
boy
my
father
would
say
to
me
I
had
hands
like
shovels.
You'll
never
be
a
gentleman
with
hands
like
that,
he
said
to
me.
I
went
back
to
the
house
for
his
funeral
when
I
was
sixteen.
Malcolm
was
just
a
baby
and
I
had
never
seen
him,
so
I
went
into
the
bedroom
and
picked
him
up.
He
was
all
wrapped
up
in
white
and
he
jumped
in
my
arms
like
a
fish.
I
dropped
him
.
'
Gaping
at
the
doorway
in
terror
then,
he
had
seen
the
figure
of judgement
. Oh, Mother, I've killed the baby.
When
Lynda
Stewart
had
been
a
kid
who
laughed
easily,
with
long
blonde
hair
that
wasn
't
washed
often
enough,
skirts
had
been
worn
long
and
over
the
months
her
growing
belly
had
gradually
raised
them
at
the
front.
After
seven
months
of
pregnancy,
Eddy
Stewart
had
married
her
and
as
things
went
in
Moirhill
that
was
luck.
'I
didn't
come
from
Florence
Street,'
Lynda
said.
They
were
waiting
for
Eddy
to
come
home.
'Carnation
Street,'
Murray
remembered.
'It
was
Eddy
–
and
Billy
Shanks,
of
course,
who
came
from
Florence
Street.
Just
round
the
corner.'
Back
then,
rather
than
watch
her
marrying
someone
else,
Murray
had
chosen
to
go
away
and
leave
the
city,
so
there
had
been
luck
in
it
for
him
too,
though
no
way
of
being
sure
which
kind.