Shadow Over Edmund Street Read online

  ‘I say no problem, Boss. No problem at all. Twenty bucks says we know who it is by then.’

  Good old Jerry again. Always the optimist.

  *

  Alex loved working with Marion. ‘Born old,’ Jerry reckoned. Had her thirtieth birthday a little while back, but she's everybody’s mother. With her long ash-blond ponytail, scrubbed rosy cheeks, plump homely body and kind green eyes, she had ‘the knack’ they called it in the force. Within minutes of meeting her, people were chatting away like old friends, pouring out their thoughts, giving it up. Alex thought she was equal to two men, although he would never say it.

  ‘It’s cute,’ Marion said as they pulled up in front of eleven Edmund Street, a tiny weatherboard cottage with fresh white paint and a few late red roses climbing up the verandah. They had opened the white picket gate when an old lady came shuffling along the road and headed straight for Marion.

  Breathing hard and heavy, the woman was short and wide. Frizzy white hair caught up into a bun, and hips that had seen a good too many cakes and pies. She introduced herself as Mrs O’Brien, Edwina’s good friend. Her eyes behind large brown-rimmed glasses were sharp and watchful. Marion flicked out her identification, showed it to the woman. That’s when the dam broke. The worry tumbled out.

  ‘Are you here about Edwina? Has something happened? She and I always go to church now. The ten o’clock mass.’ She was talking to both of them, but her pleading eyes were fixed on Marion. Marion reached out her hand and touched the woman’s arm. The woman’s face crumbled. Understanding dawned.

  ‘Please, what’s happened?’ she whispered. ‘I have a key but I haven’t gone in. Should we go in?’

  Alex stood back. Left it to Marion. He watched her nod, take the key Mrs O’Brien offered, lead her inside and sit her down on the couch. A few quiet words from Marion and he heard the old lady gasp, moan. It was always the same. A world broken in a second—it could never be any other way.

  Nothing was out of place. Newly renovated, polished floorboards, soft lemon walls clean and unmarked. A person living alone. It didn’t give anything away. No photos hanging on the walls, no pegboards full of postcards, no obvious computer. Alex wandered outside through the French doors onto a tiled patio with planter boxes filled with red and pink geraniums.

  Leave the two women alone. Give Mrs O’Brien time to adjust.

  After a while he wandered back in, asked the old lady about a computer. She shook her head. ‘She learnt to use one for work, but she didn’t own one.’ She sat wringing her hands.

  ‘Was Edwina married?’

  That brought Mrs O’Brien up short. ‘Married? A long time ago. Long gone.’ She shook her head. ‘Ran off he did. Useless man. No, he’s long out of the picture.’

  ‘Children?’ Marion asked.

  ‘Oh yes, two. They don’t live here. Not in Auckland. One in Wellington, one in Christchurch. Oh my God, I’ll have to let them know …’ She crossed herself and clutched the crucifix around her neck.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs O’Brien.’ Marion’s voice was quiet. Soothing. ‘We’ll take care of it. If you give us a list of relations we’ll contact them.’

  ‘Oh, there isn’t anyone apart from her children. She was an only child and she’s been alone a long time now. There’s just me, really …’

  ‘Is your name Janet, by the way?’

  ‘Yes it is. How did you know?’

  Marion let the question drop. ‘What about friends?’

  ‘Well … our friends from the church, but I’ll let them know and then of course Juliana and her family. Edwina worked in their fruit and vegetable shop up the road most of her life. This new job,’ Mrs O’Brien sniffed, ‘I told her not to take it. A woman on her own driving at night, I told her …’

  ‘Anyone else?’ Marion broke in, stemming the tide.

  ‘Well she did make a new friend.’

  ‘New friend?’

  Mrs O’Brien snorted. ‘From the gym. Rose. Course I don’t know her.’

  Alex glanced at Marion. The priest perhaps, to identify the body? He couldn’t ask the little old lady in front of him who was clutching her crucifix for dear life and looking as if she’d been run over by a truck. Still, there wasn’t any question. A solitary picture of Edwina with her arm around Mrs O’Brien stared back at him from the mantelpiece. The two women were smiling outside Edwina’s, in front of the ‘For Sale’ sign with a sold sticker plastered

  across it.

  He was pondering the next move when Marion said she was taking Mrs O’Brien home and making her a cup of tea. Alex nodded. Let Marion tease out the finer details of Edwina’s life while he had a wander around. There was something not quite right about this pristine house. No books, newspapers, computer or stereo. In the kitchen he had seen an old-fashioned wireless, a museum piece. And in the lounge, a tiny television. The furniture was old, mismatched. It didn’t feel right. Not in this renovated inner-city cottage that no doubt came with a hefty price tag.

  He checked his watch. He needed to talk to the priest, then order some phone records before the three of them met up back at the station to pool everything they had found out about Edwina Biggs.

  *

  Rose Jones walked along Wells Street wishing she’d thought to bring her sunglasses. It was ridiculous. Two hours ago the heavens had opened and dumped on the city. Lightning, thunder and a massive amount of rain had flooded drains and hurled rubbish and leaves all over the streets. As quickly as the squalls had arrived they had passed. Now droplets of water glistened on the pavements, lawns, cars and trees. The streets glowed bright in the weak, watery sun.

  When the rain had stopped, Rose had thrown on her jacket and started walking. Her kids were both fast asleep and the urge to get out of the house was strong. She walked up to the main road, crossed over the street and plunged down the hill into her old neighbourhood. Wandering along she looked around and found she was close to her old primary school, outside a cottage that used to belong to Mrs Harris. She stopped, amazed at the changes. It had been transformed. A second storey had been added and the facade shone with a new coat of antique white. The decorative Victorian elements were highlighted in delicate pale green and the letterbox trim, the doorknocker and handle were a deep, burnished bronze. What used to be bare lawn was now a designer garden complete with yucca trees and pathways laid out with cream and black pebbles.

  As Rose watched, the front door opened and a slim woman in tight cut jeans, casual fitted shirt and long brown boots emerged. She tossed her oversized leather bag into the back of a silver SUV that sparkled and shimmered from the recent rain.

  Rose stared. She couldn’t help it. It should have been Mrs Harris opening the door. Mrs Harris wearing a red floral apron overdress with a cloud of wiry salt and pepper hair, her eyes darting back and forth behind the thick lens of her glasses, watching the children go to school and the men catching the bus to work. The old lady had never missed a trick as she swept and washed her driveway to within an inch of its life.

  There’d been kindness too, Rose remembered with a smile, and a black and white tabby cat she’d doted on. But Mrs Harris was long gone now. Reduced to a ghostly presence in the minds of a few people. She belonged to a time before gentrification. When many of the houses had paint peeling off and the kids ran free with no shoes. Before the pavements were resurfaced, the cafes blossomed and proliferated, before the money moved in, packed in the back of BMWs, Audis, Mercedes and SUVs. Before the tide of renovation overran the suburb.

  Rose put her head down and kept on walking. It wouldn’t do to be caught staring and casual conversation was out of the question, given her mood today. That she was back where she was born, was an act of fate—the heavy hand that falls without warning. Today was her wedding anniversary but it wasn’t a day to celebrate, not anymore. Jeremy was dead. Wind shear they said, had taken the helicopter and slammed it like a Tonk
a toy into an oil platform in the middle of the North Sea. It had been a fine day, clear, nothing to worry about, no warning signs, another routine flight. Except this one ended up in the sea with everyone dead.

  After the accident there had been nothing left to do but come full circle. She’d packed her life of fifteen years into cardboard boxes and with her two bewildered children left Aberdeen and retreated to Auckland. Back to her mother, her brothers, nieces and nephews. Back to her old life, except it didn’t exist anymore. It was gone. Changed. Different.

  Rose increased her pace. Past what used to be the Bushers's old place. Two elderly spinster sisters, stern and wraithlike. Never so much as a smile or a welcoming nod. She shook her head at the soft-top Audi squashed into the narrow driveway, almost grazing a downpipe. Wondered how many times they had connected. Tried to imagine what the sisters would have thought.

  She dug her hands deeper into the pockets of her jacket, squeezed them into tight little knots, made a conscious effort to relax. Breathe deeply, slowly. It didn’t help. She shook her head in an attempt to bring herself back into the real world, lifted her chin and straightened her spine. Turning around she strode back up the hill onto the main road, past the vegetable shop with its overflowing buckets of flowers, the bakery filled with baskets of French bread, the retro store selling vinyl records and into an overcrowded cafe. It was 11.00 am on a Sunday morning. To celebrate her dead husband and what would have been nineteen years of marriage, she ordered ‘The Works’ for breakfast with a double shot espresso. Barring divine intervention this was as exciting as her day was going to get.

  *

  The weather hadn’t improved. A couple of hours of sunshine in the middle of the day and then back to driving rain. Alex, Marion and Jerry crowded into Alex’s office. The room was tired and cold, the building ageing. Built in the sixties, fast and ugly, all concrete and straight lines. A new police station, light and airy, filled with comfortable welcoming spaces, was a drawing on an architect’s computer. Marion put on the lights and a fan heater, pulled the blinds closed to shut out the rain. Marion the homemaker. Bringing comfort, even in a big impersonal sixties box.

  Jerry shrugged off his jacket, slumped into a chair. He was a big man, made the office seem small, overcrowded. The hint of a tattoo visible above his sock. Alex had asked him about it once. ‘Whanau,’ he had said. ‘Mother’s side. You know what it’s like.’

  Alex hadn’t. There was no Maori in his family. His roots were back in old Europe, his mother’s from generations of farmers who had lived in the countryside of Calabria, before the war had sent them spiralling across the world in search of a safe place to call home. His father’s family had been forced to flee as well, but that was well over a hundred and fifty years ago when the English had persecuted the Scots, driving them to scour the globe for a place to live in freedom.

  ‘You were right, Marion,’ Jerry said, ‘no night clubs. Edwina Biggs was working. Got to be wrong some of the time, eh? But give us another day, there’s bound to be a man somewhere. Maybe you’ve already found him?’ His voice was hopeful.

  Marion shook her head. ‘No bloke. Not yet anyway.’

  ‘Let’s take it from the top,’ Alex said. ‘You first, Jerry.’

  ‘OK. I’ll try and keep it simple.’ He didn’t glance at his notes. His memory was sharp. He leant back in the chair, put his hands behind his head, closed his eyes and started talking. ‘Edwina worked from seven last night till about twelve-thirty this morning. Did you know Thursday, Friday and Saturday night are known as “fight and accident nights”? They need extra staff. The pathology place hired her as a dogsbody to help with the rush work for A&E. Nothing fancy about her job but sometimes they need someone to dash over to the hospital to pick up a sample rather than wait for the normal couriers. Someone to answer phones. Simple stuff. She’s been there about eight months after doing a “return-to-the-workplace” course. They reckoned she was pretty hopeless at first, but she did whatever they asked or at least tried to. Worked as long as they needed her, then one of them escorted her to her car and waited till she drove away. The owner insisted. Last night it was Jared Edgar’s turn. I woke him up and talked to him. Young, thirty-three. He was adamant. She got into her car and drove away in the usual direction. No different from normal.’

  ‘Did Edwina say anything to him about going somewhere after work? Meeting someone, perhaps? Did she seem in any way different last night?’ Alex prompted.

  ‘No, no and no. There were two pathologists on duty last night. Neither of them knew anything. Both said much the same thing. It was a busy night. Not much time for chatting, and Edwina was different from the young things they’d had working there before. At the end of the shift, she was ready for bed. Dog tired. They assumed she’d be going straight home. She certainly didn’t say she was going anywhere.’

  ‘What about the owner? Is he in the picture at all?’ Alex could feel the gloom settling over him.

  ‘Nah. Her, actually. Mei Nguyen. She runs the place. Husband is a neuroscientist. Went to their place in Remuera. Flash as. Mei Nguyen heard about this “back-to-work” course on the radio and thought it was a good idea to try someone from there. Before Edwina they’d always had students earning extra money on the weekends, but the turnover was high. She said they were pleased with her. Edwina was slow to catch on but she was keen and reliable. Not crash hot on the computer though. They sorta worked around it somehow.’

  ‘Wait, what you’re telling me is you’ve got nothing? Right?’

  ‘Sorry, Boss.’

  ‘Come on, Jerry, there must be something? Something tiny that didn’t sit right with you? Struck you as odd.’

  Jerry was silent for a moment. ‘Nah. Sorry. I’ll go through them again with a fine-tooth comb but so far, they’re squeaky clean. Oh, by the way, none of them could ever imagine Edwina going to a nightclub. The other thing they said quite seriously too, was that Edwina was a very nervous driver. She’d had her licence for a few months and kept to set routes. You know—her house, to work, to the supermarket. None of them could believe she’d driven to Pierce’s Park.’

  Marion nodded her head. ‘Mrs O’Brien said the same. More forcibly. Insisted it couldn’t be Edwina because there was no way Edwina could have driven there.’

  Shit, thought Alex. Maybe it isn’t Edwina? ‘Marion, we need the identification now. Where the hell is the priest? Christ, maybe we’re on the wrong track?’

  *

  The body was Edwina’s. There was never any serious doubt, just the teasing hint of confusion. It was late afternoon when the priest was able to find a moment in his Sunday schedule to identify

  the body.

  Alex, Jerry and Marion were tired. Night closing in and they’d been at it for hours. Alex ordered food. Vietnamese rice paper rolls for Marion, beef and vegetable noodles for himself and Jerry—double serve for Jerry. No one was happy. Alex had been hoping for something from Edwina’s workplace. A friend at least. Now all he had to focus on was the pathology business itself.

  ‘They use drugs there, don’t they, Jerry?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jerry said, his attention on the food. He was a messy eater, bits of noodles stuck to the tabletop. Marion, in her kinder moments, referred to him as a ‘vigorous eater’. ‘Sure they do. It’s a pathology practice.’

  Alex nodded. Grunted. Drugs. It had to be. Had Edwina stumbled across something she shouldn’t have? It was the last place she’d been seen. So many cases Alex had dealt with involved drugs. The city was swimming in the stuff. People smoking, inhaling, growing, injecting and dying. It had to be checked out.

  ‘Get some uniforms to help tomorrow. Go through the company's records. Find out everything. Pick the whole damn company to bits. If they are doing something with drugs, even fiddling the books, find it.’

  ‘On it, Boss.’ Jerry stopped eating. ‘Drugs. Yeah. Would be a good little cover operation. If it
’s there, I’ll find it.’ He nodded to himself and started eating again, wrapping noodles around a plastic fork and shovelling them into his mouth.

  Alex could hear the smile in his voice. Jerry might stand one hundred and eighty-eight centimetres tall, play rugby in the front row and stare at you with piercing jet-black eyes and a crooked nose, but a lot of it was an act. When it came to records and computers he was agile and fast. ‘Hey, by the way Jerry, is there any way we can pick up Edwina’s car at the first intersection? Do we know which way the car turned? Was there anyone else in the car? There might be CCTV somewhere. After all, it’s close to the hospital.’

  ‘I’ll check it out, but don’t hold your breath.’

  *

  Marion cleaned up, took the rubbish to the bin away from the office, came back with three cups of instant coffee, wiped the table. Then she was ready to talk.

  ‘The story poured out of Mrs O’Brien. Confusing.’ She opened her notebook, spent a few moments checking over the details. ‘Mrs O’Brien is seventy-three. She was a friend of Edwina’s mother first. I don’t know if this is important, but until recently Edwina lived at number one Edmund Street. Big house on the corner of the main road, next door to Mrs O’Brien. Sold it last year and moved into number eleven.’

  ‘Must have made a pile of money,’ Alex said.

  ‘I’ll come to that later.’ Marion cleared her throat. ‘Edwina was an only child, brought up by her mother, Alice, with a lot of help from Mrs O’Brien. The two of them were like sisters. Father ran off before Edwina was born. When the mother was about six months pregnant. Should have heard Mrs O’Brien go on about the father. If he ever showed his face again, I think she’d kill him herself. Her story was very confused at this point. The two women brought Edwina up and then when she was a teenager Edwina’s mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. At the same time Edwina got pregnant. Mrs O’Brien didn’t say it outright, about the pregnancy, but Edwina was married at sixteen.’