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

He could remember Rose sitting next to his bed in the hospital, holding his hand. She’d been wearing a white T-shirt. The whole room had been a picture of white, her wounds stark against her parchment skin—the cut on her head and the black eye where she’d connected with the edge of the dryer, the bruises down one side of her body where she’d ricocheted off a wall, bringing down a shelf of Sam’s swimming trophies. At the edge of his memory, he was sure she’d described spending hours gluing them back together again, didn’t want the imprint of the judge on something as innocent as her children’s triumphs.

Jerry, too, had limped in on crutches, his face a pasty greenish white but his spirits flying high. ‘We got the bastard, Alex, we got him good and proper!’

Alex had tried to smile, exhausted by his enthusiasm. Tiredness must have shown on his face because Jerry’s voice dropped as he hovered over Alex’s bed, but his eyes were alight with fun.

‘Guess what,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve convinced Marion to take a few days off. I need some help at home.’ He winked at Alex who found he couldn’t say anything. A faint recollection of Jerry and Marion on the floor together surfaced, but he didn’t know what to make of it. He looked away from Jerry at a sliver of blue sky and put it out of his mind. Something to deal with later.

The young constables had mended well. They came and saw him before they left the hospital. One had a broken wrist, the other a broken arm. He could see by the expressions on their faces they had survived the experience, had mastered their emotions. They’d been covered in praise and glory by their colleagues, fussed over by the nurses and doctors. If they were going to wobble, it would come later, in the dark of night when they were alone, when the sweat would break out and panic take hold. When the what ifs played themselves out to different, agonising conclusions.

For Alex, the words ‘internal bleeding’ had kept him planted in a hospital bed, attached to drips until it was sorted out. He was tired. Very tired. Too old to be attacked by a madman wielding a cricket bat, fuelled by a lifetime of hate and insanity.

The doctors had come, distinguished men and women in suits and white coats. When they’d gone, the nurse whispered to him, ‘Do you know who they were? Gerard Chan’s team. They’re the best in the country. He flew up from a conference in Wellington. Incredible. You know the imaging they did? Well, it’s being looked at by specialists in Seattle, for confirmation of their diagnosis.’ She was awed. ‘You must be some mega hero.’

Alex had lain back on his pillow and digested the news. Mr Chan calling in favours for him. The tentacles of the Chan empire cushioning him once again. Trying to keep him safe.

He’d recovered. Sometime in between being belted by a cricket bat, the consultation of the doctors and the digital images winging their way through the ether from Auckland to Seattle, Alex’s bleeding had slowed and stopped. He was released with a list of strict conditions for existence.

It came as a shock to find himself escorted from the hospital. Spirited away by two anonymous men and sequestered on the fourteenth floor of a downtown hotel, along with Jerry, Marion, the Super, two Supreme Court Judges, the President of the Law Society, the Attorney General and half the politicians in the country. The view of the harbour was spectacular, the Waitemata at its sparkling best, busy with ferries and yachts, and two cruise ships docked in the city, disgorging thousands of tourists. None of them noticed. The room bristled with anger and confusion. Anger at the detectives who had caused such a mammoth problem. As if somehow having a murderous judge was fine, as long as he wasn’t unmasked. What to do with the cases Judge Nyss had presided over? The politicians regarded the detectives with exasperation. If only the skeletons had stayed buried.

It had been Mac who stepped forward. Before Jerry, crutches and all, could tell them to fuck off. Mac, a man about to retire, who had been desperate to ignore the investigation, said it straight. He apologised to Alex, Jerry and Marion for not being more supportive. Praised them for their commitment, for continuing the investigation when others would have left it alone. The politicians bowed their heads and the lawyers and judges shuffled their papers, accepting the inevitable chaos.

In any case, Edward Albert Nyss was talking. The police, politicians and lawmakers gathered around a computer screen, drinking tea and coffee, watching him describe murder to a stunned psychiatrist. In detail. The death of his sister, the death of his mother, his father-in-law, a law clerk he’d taken a violent dislike to. Edwina. But not his mother-in-law. The psychiatrist commented later that killing his mother-in-law had been the one act that unsettled Edward. Upset his moral compass.

It was too much for Jerry. As if a man who killed and killed again had a sense of morality. ‘Oh, he had,’ the doctor said.

‘His own, to be sure, but it was there.’ Jerry had a lot of fun with that one.

* Alex let the dog out of the car and walked to Rose’s front door. He noticed a new plant, lush green foliage in a dark blue ceramic pot. It confused him. After the violence and madness, had Rose been out and bought a new plant? It seemed improbable.

He took a deep breath and knocked. He heard movement. Slow and careful. The door opened a fraction, then wider.

‘You must be Alex.’

‘Yes. I am. I’m sorry, I …’

‘I’m Catherine,’ the woman broke in, ‘from up the road. Number seven. I’m glad you’ve finally come, Rose has been worried, a bit frantic.’

Alex found himself unable to speak. Of course, she would have been anxious. Frightened.

‘Alex.’ Catherine moved out onto