Shadow Over Edmund Street by Suzanne Frankham (best e reader for android .txt) 📗

Rose slumped back in the chair, her face a pasty white. Alex handed her a plate of lasagne. She took a few bites then put the plate on a side table with most of the food uneaten.

‘I probably sound as though I didn’t like her,’ Rose continued. ‘Not true. In many ways I admired her. She’d had a pretty hideous life, but she had a good soul. Wasn’t bitter. But struggled. Did things with the church, made clothes for babies, helped out. It was … I don’t know, she was intense. It was as if she was waking up after a long sleep, and for some reason she’d chosen me as a confidant. It was hard. I was barely coping myself. Had moved back with the kids. Tough times. Plus, we were so different. I’ve lived all over the world, she’s barely set foot out of Ponsonby.’

‘Everyone we’ve talked to says Edwina wouldn’t have been interested in a man. Why? She’d transformed herself, why couldn’t she have found a boyfriend?’ Alex asked.

Rose shrugged, closed her eyes. ‘She just wouldn’t.’

‘But she lost so much weight, had a makeover. Why?’

‘She wasn’t interested.’

Marion put her hand out, touched Alex on the arm, shook her head. He nodded. They were done for the night.

‘Can I see you tomorrow? Talk some more?’ Alex asked. So unexpected, he surprised himself. Marion jumped. ‘Thing is,’ he continued, ignoring Marion, ‘we need to know everything about Edwina. Especially about the things that happened recently. Everyone we’ve talked to has mentioned your name.’

Rose opened her eyes, looked from Alex to Marion and back again. ‘Are you in charge, then? You’re not just the tea boy?’

Alex smiled.

‘All right,’ Rose said, but the words were dragged out of her mouth. ‘I’m working in the morning. Too late to cancel now. We’ll talk after my class.’

‘Good,’ said Alex. ‘Yes, good.’

* ‘Can I see you tomorrow?’ Marion mimicked. ‘It sounded as if you were asking her out on a date. She’s a potential suspect,’ she spat out with razor sharpness. ‘Whatever were you thinking, Alex?’ They were in the car on the way back to the station. Marion wasn’t going to let it go.

‘There are questions to ask. Why does everyone say there isn’t a man somewhere? Jerry’s probably right on this one. Even if she wasn’t interested in finding a man, it doesn’t mean a bloke hasn’t been chasing after her. She’s a catch now. Got a nice house, a bank balance, a brand-new car.’

It was true too, Alex told himself. Edwina could easily have been preyed upon by some chancer. If he tried hard enough, he could almost convince himself that was his motivation in seeing Rose tomorrow, but he could never persuade Marion. She could pick up nuances, read people. That’s what made her such a good interrogator. With her old school country values, it didn’t matter she was young and he the boss. Marion always said what Marion thought.

‘I’ll check around at the university. Find out a bit more about her. It could be useful.’ Alex knew it sounded lame, wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

Marion folded her arms and looked out the window. The silence was fractured with a disbelieving snort.

* Alex dropped Marion at the station. She had remained silent and scowling, and drove home thinking about the little pools of misery he’d created during the course of the day. Wondered how many times in his life he’d sat in front of people who had cried because of the sadness he’d brought into their lives. Rose worried him. Everything about her screamed she was just hanging on. He hoped there was a special person somewhere to hold her hand when the tears flowed. Unlike himself. He had dropped into the land of the unloved when his wife left him and took their daughters. He’d mentioned it once to Jerry—about bringing despair into people’s lives. Jerry was no philosopher. He’d picked up a full glass of cab sav, tossed it back like water and said, ‘What do you want to do? Get a job as fucking Santa Claus?’ They’d both roared, but that was after too much red wine on a Friday night at the end of a bad week.

Alex was almost home before he realised it, the busy road empty at night. The homeless shelter without its usual cluster of men hanging about outside. He caught sight of the front of his building. The small ground-floor window was an apology of a shop, filled with a haphazard assortment of Chinese porcelain. Teapots, tea sets and bowls in blues, reds and greens shining through the layers of dust. Alex loved the window, how it changed as things were sold, orders sent out to customers. He’d told Mr Chan he couldn’t stand the chaos anymore. He was going in there to clean it up, give the delicate porcelain a decent place to live. But there was never the time. It was on his to-do list. One day.

His colleagues had not believed him when Alex bought the apartment. Five doors up from a homeless shelter and on one of the busiest roads in town. That was before they took the old Otis lift, all panelled oak and wrought iron filigree, to his eighth-floor sanctuary where the traffic noise was dulled and the view from the back balcony over the city was a thing of wonder.

He’d had a house on a hill once, a large Victorian villa with views over a green belt and beyond to the city. It had disappeared along with his marriage and his children. Now he had a little piece of the city in this run-down art deco building. He’d worked hard doing it up. Every evening building, painting, tiling, plumbing, anything to avoid the dull ache of an empty home. A home without children, a home without his wife. For two years he’d worked every night until his anger was under control. He was left with a redecorated apartment and an empty life.

The first time