Shadow Over Edmund Street Read online

  —

  SHADOW

  OVER

  EDMUND

  STREET

  SUZANNE FRANKHAM

  —

  Journeys to Words Publishing

  Registered Office

  181 Drummond Street,

  Carlton, Melbourne. 3053.

  journeystowordspublishing.com

  First published in Australia 2021

  Copyright © Suzanne Frankham 2021

  The moral right of the author to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted.

  The characters in this book are fictitious as is the plot.

  Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

  or real circumstances, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

  reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity

  (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations),

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any

  information storage and retrieval system, without prior

  permission in writing from the publisher.

  Editor: Jen Hutchison

  Text design by Daniel Chelchowski, Journeys to Words Publishing

  Typeset in EB Garamond 12pt/16pt by Daniel Chelchowski

  Cover design by Daniel Chelchowski, Journeys to Words Publishing

  Cover Image from Arcangel/Des Panteva

  Printed by Ovato

  ISBN 9781925902150

  —

  PART 1

  Ten Days in May

  DAY 1

  It had been a long night. Constable Andrew Houghton, three weeks out of the Police Academy, had been on his own at the front desk of the station dealing with whatever the public threw at him. He’d been terrified. A more senior officer would normally be rostered on the Saturday night shift but everyone was sick. A virus which began like a cold and went to the chest, left people with severe bronchitis and the asthmatics struggling for breath.

  He’d been lucky. It was a cold windy night. The streets were quiet. There’d been stolen cars, a couple of fights, a drug overdose and a lost dog but he’d coped. Grateful at least there’d been no out-of-control addicts to deal with. Nobody yelling at him.

  He checked his new watch, all silver and shiny, a graduation present from his parents. Almost six. Another hour and he would be done. Soon it would be over, nothing more than a good news story to tell his girlfriend, how he’d managed to bluff his way through his first night on the desk. His eyes were shining, and he was thinking of the way she looked at him in his new uniform when the phone rang.

  There was no time to introduce himself before the voice on the line took over. Male, loud, breathless. Within a few seconds the air was knocked clean out of his lungs. He struggled to breathe.

  ‘Are you sure she’s dead?’ he managed.

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I’m a doctor. I know when someone’s dead, and besides,’ he added, ‘the ring of blood around her neck is a giveaway.’

  The constable felt his stomach lurch. He’d never seen a dead person, never dealt with death in his twenty short years of life. He concentrated on reaching for the set of instructions kept below the counter. On spitting out the right questions in a business-like tone, making it sound as if he had done this before. To calm the agitated doctor and assure him help would be there in a matter of

  minutes.

  With blood pounding in his ears he picked up the special phone—the crimson one kept out of sight—the one which rang straight through to the big boys. He focused on steadying his voice as he detailed the information he had scrawled over the page.

  ‘Female. Reported dead in a car. Suspicious. Silver hatchback at the base of the escarpment in Pierce’s Park. Phoned in by Doctor James Thomas at 6.12 am. He’s still at the scene. No police there.’ He finished reciting the facts and put the phone back in its stand. His hand trembled as he sank into a chair.

  His first serious crime.

  It was later, at home and showering, when he realised he had no idea what an escarpment was. Before bed, he googled it — a cliff. A big long word and all it meant was a cliff.

  *

  Detective Alex Cameron took the call just after 6.30 am. The dog had padded into the bedroom at the sound of the phone, a mid-sized bundle of black fur with legs too long and skinny, a body too short and fat and eyes which never missed a trick. He settled down in the corner of the room with his head on his front paws, ears pricked, watching and waiting.

  Alex had found the dog a year ago, lying on top of an old woman dead on the floor of her bedroom. The dog had been a ball of desperate, snarling aggression in a room stinking of death and decay. The two constables first at the scene had called it in, unsure of what to do. Alex had heard their confusion on the radio and stopped by to help.

  The constables were young, hadn’t dealt with death much or with frantic, grief-stricken dogs. As soon as Alex walked into the bedroom the dog stopped growling. After a couple of minutes it stood up, shook the stiffness out of its limbs and crept over to him. No one in the room uttered a word. He bent down, doing his best to avoid the stench clinging to the dog’s fur, looked it in the eye and saw its misery. He went to the kitchen and rifled through the cupboards, found a can of food and an opener, fed the dog and gave it some water. He watched while the dog ate and drank. Five days, the doctor said. The old lady had been dead for about five days, the dog by her side, waiting for her to wake up.

  That’s how it had started. Now the dog was his.

  ‘Another one, Dog,’ he said as he got out of bed, but as far as he was concerned the dog already understood. It was the eyes which gave him away. Old eyes which had seen too much. When Alex reached for his jacket and car keys the dog picked up his lead and carried it in his mouth as they caught the lift to the ground floor. He headed straight to Mr Chan’s apartment and waited. He wouldn’t mind being woken early on a Sunday morning.

  ‘Got a case on?’ the old man asked, opening the door, his face creased with sleep. He was in pyjamas and dressing gown, the few hairs on his head sticking straight up in the air.

  ‘Most likely a murder. Long days and nights ahead I suspect. Can you mind the dog for a few days?’

  ‘No problem, no problem. Come in, Dog.’

  The dog needed no invitation, he knew the ropes. He loped in and dropped his lead on the floor next to the kitchen table, all the time Mr Chan watching him, a smile on his face. The pair of them tried to act casual, the old man and the dog. It always amused Alex. Once his back was turned they’d be all over each other. He’d caught them at it before. They’d both looked embarrassed, so he went along with it—pretended he hadn’t seen the affection between them. After he left, he’d bet they’d be sitting on the sofa, two old friends, eating, drinking, watching TV, the dog sprawled across the old man’s lap. He’d suggested Mr Chan keep him, but the old man was insistent. ‘No, no, he’s your dog now. He chose you.

  Me, I’m happy to share.’

  *

  Sunday morning, the city was bleak. Grey streets showing through a grey dawn. Rubbish strewn on the pavement from the night before. Broken bottles, chip packets, food scraps. A purple feather boa wrapped around a lamppost, fluttering in the breeze. A group of young women giggling as they emerged from a nightclub, their dresses so short, their heels so high, it seemed as if they were walking on stilts.

  On a whim Alex decided to drive out of the city centre, take the scenic route along the waterfront to Pi
erce’s Park. A few minutes of stolen peace before a long day. The sky was leaden with banks of threatening clouds, the wind was gusting. Waves were crashing against the seawall, tossing spray over the car. He opened the window a few centimetres and sucked in the crisp clean air.

  The last traces of dawn had evaporated by the time he arrived at the park. A small wooden clubhouse painted white, tucked away in the distant corner, rugby goal posts, trees with half their yellowing leaves lying in pools at the base of the trunks, a sheen of silver dew on the grass.

  The uniforms were standing below the cliff, beside an elderly man clutching a trembling terrier. The doctor. His face was drawn, his body hunched against the chill air. Alex nodded to them and walked over to the car, a small silver hatchback parked next to steps that had long ago been cut into the side of the cliff face.

  Nothing seemed unusual. As Alex drew closer he noted the woman’s head was at an odd angle, her face white, a bright red gash around her neck.

  He walked over to the doctor, introduced himself. ‘You have to be very close to see this woman is dead. What made you go look at the car?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ the doctor replied, his voice hoarse, ‘not straight off. It was the only car in the park, so I noticed it, noticed her. I walked the dog to the other side of the park and when we came back she was in the exact same position. Struck me as odd … so I went to investigate.’

  ‘Do you often walk so early in the morning?’

  ‘No. Usually around seven, seven thirty. Before breakfast. But this morning … I don’t know. I was wide awake. Don’t sleep much anymore. The dog was impatient, so …’ the doctor shuddered. His face was pale, his eyes watery. ‘Seen death before, but this is nasty. Seems very cold-blooded to me, very professional. The way she is dead and propped there … as if she is alive.’ He straightened up. ‘I’ve been here since six this morning. I’m tired and cold, and I’m hungry. I’m going home now.’

  ‘Fine.’ Alex nodded. He would have to be checked out, the doctor, in the park at such an ungodly hour. Just not now when it seemed he might pass out at any second. He signalled to one of the uniforms, a young constable, his cheeks red, eyes watering from the biting chill. He brightened up when Alex asked him to see the doctor home, make him a cup of tea, feed him something, take the man’s particulars, find out if he is married, if he was home last night. The constable nodded, smiling. Anything to be away from the dead woman on a miserable Sunday morning.

  Alex watched as the constable took the small terrier from the doctor and tucked it under one arm. Saw the two men turn and trudge up the steps to the houses at the top, the doctor hauling himself up using the handrail. About fifty steps, Alex guessed. Not an easy climb for an old man who’d found a body. It was then he realised the houses on the top of the cliff were some of the most expensive in Auckland. Mansions with turrets and towers and uninterrupted views over Waitemata Harbour. As expensive as real estate gets in a city that worships the sea.

  He was wondering if there was any connection between the murder and the fancy real estate when the rest of his team rolled up. Jerry, in his old station wagon splattered with mud, and Marion in her pristine blue Honda Civic. Behind her, he recognised the pathologist’s wagon followed by the white van of the forensic team. A funeral procession, he thought.

  *

  ‘What do you think?’ Alex asked James Ramsey, the young pathologist. James looked exhausted, his forehead etched with furrows, eyes dull and cloudy. He worked hard to control a yawn.

  ‘Nothing to tell. What you see is what it is. Strangled with a bit of a slice. A thickish wire of some sort, most likely. There’s definitely wire involved, it’s left a ring of blood. No defensive wounds. I’d say she didn’t expect it, unless she’s been very carefully arranged afterwards. Nothing on the hands. Nothing on the face. Clothes seem undisturbed. All very odd. Creepy. Remaining question is drugs and alcohol. Take a while to do the blood work.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘Car window was open. Got frigging cold last night. Been dead a few hours is all I can say. Let you know later.’

  ‘Will you be doing the autopsy?’

  ‘Nah mate, not me. Carruthers. I end up with the homeless and the drug overdoses. He takes the interesting ones.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Alex, who loathed dealing with Carruthers’s rules and regulations and formal reports.

  ‘Tell me about it, mate.’ James ran his hands through his hair. ‘But that’s the way it works. Been up all night. It was very ugly. Some of the stuff I saw would make you puke.’ He glanced up at the darkening clouds. ‘You’ve got a real problem though. I’d say a fair bit of the Antarctic is about to dump on you. I’ll get out of your way. Gonna head home and have a shower. Leave you to it.’

  *

  They were beaten by the weather. The forensic team, clad in their science fiction whites and despite their modern equipment, could do nothing in the face of the onslaught. It rolled in from the south, fast and furious—an almost black band of mountain-sized clouds firing jagged shards of lightning as it rumbled forward. The best they could do was to get the body removed and the car onto a flatbed and off to a lock-up. Alex knew they’d stumbled at the first hurdle. They’d tried their best to photograph and preserve everything they could, but with the wind whipping the autumn leaves into a fury and the rain about to pound down, they’d had to hurry.

  The three of them ended up sitting in Jerry’s station wagon. It was a mess and smelt of a mixture of sweat and earth. Footy boots and rugby clothes were sprawled in the back. A tip, Marion had called it when she climbed in, pushing empty food cartons to one side with her shoe.

  ‘Sorry, Marion,’ Jerry said grinning. ‘Had a game yesterday afternoon and then a big party. The whole whanau, my auntie’s birthday. No time to clean up.’

  Alex saw Marion wrinkle her nose, but she didn’t say anything more. After all it was Jerry’s car. It struck Alex that compared with the professional nature of the murder they were acting like the Keystone Cops—huddled in a stinking station wagon with footy boots and smelly clothes, freezing in the unseasonal cold snap while the crime scene was being wiped clean by a vicious downpour and repainted with a fresh dump of autumn leaves. He could see a torrent of water cascading down the cliff face, pooling at the base, turning the area around the car into a swimming pool, drowning any evidence.

  Jerry went with the obvious. Woman alone, Sunday morning. ‘Picked someone up last night. Betcha. We find her favourite drinking hole, we find the bloke. Most places have CCTV. Her friends should be able to tell us.’

  Alex heard Marion snort. Marion was never one to rush to conclusions. Neither was he, but staring out of the window at the dreary day and the driving rain, he couldn’t help but agree with Jerry. Crimes fuelled by drink or drugs. Squalid arguments between squalid people and someone dead or injured at the end of it. So pointless. For the last few months he’d been plagued by doubts. Why bother?

  ‘Car registered to Edwina Biggs. Ponsonby address,’ Jerry said. He was the records man, thrived on modern technology. ‘What’s the handbag say? Is she our victim?’ He yawned as Marion cleared a space on the back seat. She pulled on a pair of gloves, laid out an evidence bag and picked her way through the victim’s handbag with the precision of a surgeon dissecting a body.

  ‘Mobile,’ Marion said. ‘It’s old. Very old. A Nokia. My mother had one the same when I was a kid. No GPS.’ She scrolled through the contacts. ‘Two numbers. Roadside Assist and someone called Janet. Let me check her call log … wait, umm … three to Janet. No more.’

  ‘Jeez, those Nokia’s go forever,’ Jerry grinned. ‘Makes it harder, no GPS. Unless Janet’s a bit more than a friend.’

  Marion took the driver’s licence from the wallet. ‘Name, Edwina Biggs. Born 1965.’

  ‘She’s our girl,’ said Jerry. ‘Edwina Biggs. What a name. Gawd.’

  Marion ignored him, pulled a s
heet of paper out of the bag. ‘A pay slip. This is interesting.’

  ‘Spit it out, Mar,’ Jerry yawned. Marion, good old Marion was the only one wide awake.

  ‘If I’m reading this correctly, she is being paid by Parks Pathology for work on a Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. If so, there was a good chance she was working last night.’

  ‘Yeah, before she went to the pub,’ Jerry said.

  Marion continued to ignore him, kept on reading. ‘One casual rate till midnight, but an increase after midnight.’ She straightened up, waved the sheet of paper at Jerry. ‘I reckon she was working last night. Which fits with the sensible clothes.

  Not party wear.’

  ‘Still time for a club after work,’ Jerry was determined. ‘Which would fit with the clothes too.’

  Alex had already googled Parks Pathology. ‘Just opposite the hospital. Says here 24/7. There should be someone there now. Jerry, start the search off here, then head to Parks Pathology. Talk to the people on last night’s shift. Check everything.’

  Jerry nodded.

  ‘How many uniforms can we rustle up for an area search?’

  ‘Sunday morning? Could be tricky. Hell, with this weather, why bother? We’re not going to find anything.’

  ‘No question. Has to be done. Make sure they check out the houses on the hill. She was found at the bottom of the steps. Could be very interesting. Tell the uniforms not to feel bullied. There’s bound to be some serious money up the hill. Tell them to stand up for themselves.’

  ‘Great,’ said Jerry, rubbing the fogged-up window with his hand. The rain was lashing down again. ‘You didn’t happen to bring an umbrella along did you, Mar?’

  She paid no attention to him. Turned to Alex instead.

  He smiled at her. ‘You and I, Mar, we’re off to her house. Try and dig up some friends. If Jerry’s right we should have this done within a couple of days. What do you say?’