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

short, shocked. Edwina’s pristine living room was crowded with piles of household items. Her new, store-bought clothes, so long in coming, were tossed in a heap.

‘We’ll only be here for a few days,’ Rowena said seeing the look in his eyes. ‘We thought we’d try and sort things out before we go back. Your colleague said it would be okay as long as we didn’t throw anything out.’ Her voice was shrill and edgy.

He didn’t say anything, couldn’t trust himself to speak. Families, he thought. Who’d have them?

‘Come through to the kitchen. I’ll make some coffee.’ A truce, then. ‘Michael will be here soon. He’s gone out to buy some groceries. We thought we’d stay here instead of the hotel. Easier to get things done.’

‘Yes,’ was all he could manage. Pull yourself together, he told himself watching Rowena, her face untroubled, no sign of distress. She was whippet thin, sharp angular cheekbones, her wavy red hair pulled back in a loose twist, her blue eyes clear.

Michael, when he arrived, resembled his sister. A little bit taller, his hair a little bit darker, his face more welcoming. In him, Alex could detect a trace of humanity, an inkling of sorrow.

Alex was calmer when the inevitable questions came. It was Rowena who did the talking.

‘It’s difficult,’ she said, her voice hard, as she served the coffee, ‘having a mother who’s been … murdered. Tell us about this woman, the one who latched onto Mum. The one who seemed to be pulling her strings. New house, car, job. Who is this woman?’ It was

spat out.

Alex sipped his coffee. Looked around the room.

‘Don’t you like it here, then?’ He let his gaze linger on the French doors that ran along the back, opening onto a patio, letting in the sunshine. On the red and pink geraniums in planter boxes, their heads moving in the morning breeze. Turned back towards Rowena. A challenge. He couldn’t help it.

‘Well … yes. It’s pretty.’ Rowena gathered herself. ‘But this woman. Mrs O’Brien told us this person had a lot of influence over Mum. We deserve to know if this was true. What happened to the money Mum made from the sale of the house? Is it all accounted for?’ She had worked herself into a frenzy. Taken the righteous high ground.

Alex took another sip of coffee, strong and bitter. ‘It must have been a big thing for your mother to sell the old house after it was in the family for so many years.’ He phrased the next question with care. ‘Did one of you help guide her through the transaction?’

Rowena glared at him. Michael, he saw, was trying to hide a grin.

‘Detective,’ Michael said, ‘I could do with some more air. Why don’t we take a walk together?’

* ‘Don’t mind Rowena. At the moment, I think she’s consumed by guilt. The sort that rears its ugly head when you realise you haven’t been much of a daughter and it’s too late to make

amends.’

Michael had his hands in his pockets and his head down as they strolled. The two of them were drifting around the neighbourhood. One street after another. White weatherboard, cream weatherboard, grey weatherboard, white weatherboard. The paint immaculate on most of the houses. The gardens neat with a scatter of autumn leaves on the mown lawns.

‘I understand,’ Alex said. But he didn’t, didn’t want to. Rowena showed no signs of sorrow. It wasn’t right.

‘It came as a shock to Rowena to find Mum had moved on. Managed somehow to reinvent herself. Shed those bitter years. Mum had told us about the house, but it was a huge surprise to see it. A different life from when we were kids.’

Alex didn’t say anything. Tried to imagine this man, with the Rolex watch and the Italian leather loafers, as a deprived kid.

‘Rowena’s angry about Mum’s new young friend. A daughter replacement, perhaps? I don’t know. Psychology isn’t my thing. I’m guessing the idea someone else took her spot isn’t sitting easy.’

They passed a small park. The swings empty. The roundabout motionless, the child-friendly rubber bark chips unruffled.

‘Shall we sit for a moment?’ Alex motioned towards a park bench. Sat down and took a few breaths, tried to calm himself. ‘Tell Rowena we have forensic accountants going through the paper work. They’re having a good close look at the money. So far everything seems above board.’

Michael nodded. ‘It’s what I expected. Good on Mum. At least the end of her life was comfortable.’ He looked down at his shoes. ‘It must have meant something to her. After years of struggle.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Alex said. ‘Tell me about growing up here.’

Michael moved his Rolex back and forth on his wrist. ‘It’s stuff I don’t particularly want to remember. It’s why we haven’t been very good children to our mother. Ironic, isn’t it. Once we escaped, we never wanted to come back. Rowena called her every week. But it was duty, you know, not love. Sure, I paid the rates and home insurance, helped her out here and there, sent money if she asked. It’s not much is it? Now I’m older, I understand. There was just no money, none at all, and Mum was on her own, except for Mrs O’Brien. There were no aunts, no uncles. No one to offer a helping hand.’

‘When our father took off, his parents moved away too. Didn’t want to know us. According to Mrs O’Brien they were ashamed. Not a great family history. So, no grandparents to take us for the weekends to give Mum a break. No contact. Apart from church camps, I never had a holiday as a child. Ever. We lived off church handouts, used clothes. It was tough. Much harder for Rowena than for me. You know girls, they want more. She got her first job at thirteen and started work full time at fifteen. I went into an apprenticeship at fifteen, as well as having a weekend job.’

Alex thought back to his