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

Judge Nyss sat back in his chair and considered his next step. He checked his watch. 3.15 pm. Still early. He thought of the Honda waiting for him in the car park, and for the first time in a long frustrating day, smiled. Perhaps there had been a reason he was just beginning to divine for the day’s unusual events. The judge did not believe in God, but he knew, without question, that on occasion he had been shown which path to follow. Like now. The omens were quite clear. This afternoon he would take the white Honda, as anonymous a car as ever invented, and have a poke around the old neighbourhood. After he had shed his courtroom

disguise.

Judge Nyss had been furious when courtroom wigs were dispensed with. He’d loved the pomp and ceremony of wig and robes, had basked in the respectability it bestowed, but even more, he revelled in the anonymity afforded by the wig. Now wigs had been washed away in a changing world. He had been silent in the heated debate that preceded the change, but he had no time for the closer-to-the-people nonsense. In the end he had been forced to adopt his own courtroom persona to maintain his

anonymity.

The judge hung up his robe, straightened his back, flexed his shoulders and stretched out his long lean body adding centimetres to his height. In the bathroom adjourning his chambers he washed his hair free of the grease he used to slick it back in a parody of a nineteen thirties style, took a couple of minutes to dry it with the hair dryer he kept in the cupboard, and let it fall into its natural college cut. He changed the thick black-framed glasses for a frameless pair and chose casual clothes from the wardrobe. Khaki chinos, a light-brown checked shirt, a casual black jacket and boat shoes.

Judge Nyss checked himself in the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door, turned and examined his side view. Satisfied himself that he looked nothing like a judge, and every bit like, Edward, a man who would drive a white Honda.

* Rose and Juliana retired to Jack’s Place for afternoon tea. Espresso coffee and lemon pie for Juliana, tea and a raspberry muffin

for Rose.

Juliana was bereft. ‘He used to be gorgeous, I’m telling you. Blondish hair and the most intense blue eyes. Tall and straight backed. Was a good athlete too. I know because the girl who lived next door to us was the same age as him and was completely besotted. Besotted! When his mother died, well, she was one of many who thought, “Now’s my chance!” ’ Juliana stopped talking long enough to take a bite. ‘Jack’s lemon pie is excellent. It’s one of my markers. A signature dish I use for rating.’

Rose ignored her. ‘How old was he, then?’

‘Oh, let me think. Maybe he was seventeen, eighteen? Trudi wasn’t long dead. The poor mother was a cot case. Got the flu and that was the end. She was devastated, couldn’t bear to live. You can understand. First the husband and then Trudi. Both accidents. Horrible.’

Rose nodded. ‘It must have been horrendous. What happened afterwards? He was young to be on his own.’

Juliana’s smile was wicked. ‘Well, the girls chased him like there was no tomorrow. Baking cakes, making casseroles, taking them around. He was gorgeous, and he owned the house after his mother died. Although none of the parents were too keen. Bad karma. Three out of four people in one family dying made the old biddies cross themselves. Like Mrs O’Brien.’ Juliana shrugged her shoulders. ‘Should we take her seriously? He could have just been unlucky.’

Rose took a sip of tea, placed the cup back in the saucer. ‘It’s confusing. I don’t know what to make of it.’

‘No.’ Juliana polished off her pie. ‘Neither do I. He hardly had the manic look of a killer, did he? Looked like any other old man sitting up there on the bench. The more I think about it, the more I reckon I got the wrong end of the stick. Mrs O’Brien gets funny ideas about people sometimes.’ She reached over and clutched Rose’s arm. ‘Let’s forget about today. And for God’s sake don’t say anything to Detective Cameron. He’ll think the pair of us are loonies. I don’t want him bothering Mrs O’Brien. I’d never hear the end of it. Poor old dear, she’s in a terrible state as it is. Don’t want the police worrying her.’

Rose nodded. ‘Sure.’

Juliana smiled. ‘Ah, well. You’re not in a hurry, are you? I can see Joe’s managing in the shop, so I think I might have another round. Give myself a bit of a treat. I’m so disappointed. It wasn’t a good idea to go there. Sorry. Yes, another piece of pie, I think. It wasn’t half bad at all.’

* Edward Nyss drove out of the car park, hesitated a moment and turned left. A course that would take him back to his old neighbourhood. He drove with care, adjusting to the unfamiliar car. In all his life, even his early years, Edward Nyss had never driven a Japanese car. Such a car had not suited the image he had cultivated.

After he’d sold off the family home, he’d installed himself in a flat with some other law students, bought some classic conservative clothes and had gone in search of a most important acquisition—the right car for a young man about town. He’d been on a mission. A mission to find the perfect wife and he had five years of law school to do so.

After a few weeks he settled on an old MG sports car in British racing green. Worn but classy, it served him well. He was tall, blond and athletic, dressed with style and he made sure he passed his exams with distinction. With the addition of a fancy car, girls loved him. Not that he took out just any girl. He was searching for the