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

to thirty-three minutes. Back at the house he showered, dressed, went downstairs to the breakfast nook which caught the early morning sun and ate the porridge his wife prepared—one of the few things from his former life he relished. He glanced through the paper as he ate, chatted with her about the minutiae of their life together and left home between seven-thirty and seven thirty-five. On a good day he would be at court around eight, depending on the traffic. He was calm and ready for whatever the day threw at him. Just the way he liked to be. Prepared.

This morning had not gone to plan. He had been driving for about ten minutes when the engine in his new Jaguar, with twelve thousand kilometres on the clock, began to thump and hammer. By the time he managed to pull out of the traffic to the side of the road, the engine was as good as dead.

The judge was stupefied. Such a thing was not meant to happen. For a few moments he was unable to decide what to do before searching through the Jaguar handbook for Roadside Assist.

The breakdown took time and when he arrived at work in a taxi, he was furious. He sat in his chambers until the anger reduced to a slow burn, washed his face and put on his robes. For the first time as a judge, he was forced to delay the beginning of the morning session.

At lunchtime the manager of the Jaguar dealership rang. The engine had done something to the big end bearing. His car, not yet a year old, needed a new engine, which would be flown out from the factory. In the meantime, a rental car was on its way. There had been a perfunctory apology, but he was displeased, and when the rental car arrived he was shocked to discover it was not another Jaguar as he’d expected, but a Honda. New? Yes, but a demeaning vehicle for a judge to drive. He was an expert at knowing the accessories required to play a role to perfection and a Honda, new or not, was inappropriate.

He was not looking forward to the afternoon session. A man was on trial for cooking up a large quantity of methamphetamines in his garage, owning unlicensed firearms and a host of other offences. In the judge’s view, he was as guilty as sin. Left to his own devices, he would sentence most of the people he tried in a matter of minutes, including this man. Judge Nyss did not believe in the high and mighty scrupulousness of the law. However, in order to preserve his position, he was meticulous in his decision-making. He played the game well. Anyone could trawl through his records and find him an impartial observer of the law.

The session got off to a bad start. He was a master at the game of observation, a skill that had served him well all his life. The minute he entered the courtroom he picked them out. Everything was wrong about the two women sitting on their own—their hair, their clothes, the way they gazed around. They were voyeurs. He got them on occasion—sightseers who came for an afternoon’s free entertainment. The practice made his blood pressure skyrocket. He was deciding what to do when a bolt of pure shock ran through him. One of the women was familiar. The one with the gaudy clothes. Not many people dressed with such flamboyance and with the scarlet lips and primped black hair, he knew who she was. Not her name, but he was sure she was the woman from the vegetable shop. Trudi and Edwina’s childhood friend.

The judge could barely breathe. He kept his head bent, brought his breathing under control, his mind racing. He recognised her because he still visited Jack, a secret they both held close. Power. The judge loved power, gloried in it, and thanks to a series of youthful indiscretions on Jack’s part, he held sway over him. It had started with a drink driving charge, then possession of marijuana and ended with an assault charge after a pub brawl. The judge had been a practising lawyer, had helped Jack deal with the charges, and in a moment of unnatural generosity after he gained access to his wife’s money, had staked Jack to start the cafe. The money had long been repaid but he visited Jack now and again, a gentle reminder of obligations not forgotten. In return he was gifted food, wine and neighbourhood gossip. Juliana. He remembered her name now. He’d sat at a booth in Jack’s Place and watched her in the vegetable shop grow older and fatter over the years, her clothes becoming louder and brighter as her youth faded.

The judge was bewildered, a sensation he hadn’t felt for nearly forty years. Why was she here? Did she know? Did she suspect? It took a while, but bit by bit his natural superiority asserted itself. He decided it was unlikely this woman knew anything. She’d been annoying as a child, and if he remembered some of Jack’s stories, she’d become a drunk. But nevertheless, there she was sitting in his courtroom.

He remained agitated and when the defence lawyer stumbled twice, he called a halt to proceedings for the day. He gave the lawyer a dressing down and left the court, remembering to stoop as he walked out. The walk of an old man weighed down and worn out by years of responsibility. Once in his chambers, he had the security film sent to him and replayed it until he had Juliana’s face full screen. It was her, he was sure. Large eyes, vacant expression. Self-absorbed and vacuous. Not a threat, but the woman next to her was different. He examined her face. There was intelligence in those eyes and a watchful expression. He considered whether this was the person Edwina had mentioned. Her ‘guide’ she’d called her. Rose, her inspiration. If so, he might have