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

it had created a rift that had never fully healed.

Now all that remained of his intense religious indoctrination was the ability to recite huge chunks of the Mass verbatim and, as a special party trick, the books of the bible. In order. He’d become the religious go-to man. Church-related matters were always dropped in his lap.

Alex checked his watch—6.45 am—and went in search of a tie. He might have given up on God when he was sixteen but going into a place of worship without a tie and dark jacket was unthinkable.

The old feelings of guilt surfaced the minute he stepped out of the car in front of St Joseph’s parish church. He’d been trying to break free for nearly thirty years but discovered the ties that bind were strong. The lessons rammed in early were hardwired.

Alex was locking the car, steeling himself to meet the priest, when a message came through to say the time of death had been put at around 1.00 am. A full report would take a couple of days. The time of death suggested Edwina had driven straight to the park and been killed almost immediately. A meeting perhaps?

‘Detective Cameron?’

Alex turned towards the young man who had wandered out of the church. Thirty something, jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, glasses and longish brown hair. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m John McNally, the priest here at St Joseph’s.’ He held out his hand.

It was all Alex could do to keep his face bland. Even so, he could feel his eyes open wide as he held out his hand and greeted the priest. This was not the sort of priest he was accustomed to and as he followed him inside he wondered how on earth the Pope let his men wear denim. Grubby, crumpled denim.

‘Come into the kitchen and have a cup of tea,’ the priest said. ‘I’ve got hold of some of the women Edwina knew. I’ve only been here a year. They’ll be able to tell you more about Edwina than I can.’

Alex walked into the kitchen. A circle of women sat around the small formica table, each holding a cup of tea. His hands began to tremble. He’d been ten years old, with his mother, drinking tea with the local priest when the bishop had dropped in unexpectedly. The right-hand man of God, his mother had whispered. He’d taken his mother’s words literally and been terrified. His hands had shaken so much he’d been too scared to hold the teacup.

He nodded at the women, put his shaking hands in his pockets.

‘Is it true?’ one of them asked.

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

‘Really? It seems impossible.’

He sat down. Let the priest do the introductions while he settled into his chair. ‘How well did you know Edwina?’

‘If you want to know about Edwina, you should be talking to Mrs O’Brien. She knows … knew Edwina better than anyone else. They were like mother and daughter, Detective,’ said Mrs

Jenkins.

‘And best friends,’ added Mrs Edwards.

‘Always together,’ said Mrs Burge. ‘They never seemed to need anybody else. They were happy in each other’s company.’

‘And what we’ve heard about Edwina being found in Pierce’s Park is very hard to believe,’ said Mrs Jenkins. ‘Edwina didn’t move about the city much. Her whole life was here.’

‘Within a few streets, pretty much,’ said Mrs Edwards.

‘Never even had a proper holiday, poor dear,’ said Mrs Jenkins.

Mrs Burge nodded. ‘Sure, she had a new job …’

‘Don’t forget the car,’ said Mrs Edwards, ‘what a surprise.’

‘And her new friend,’ said Mrs Jenkins. The others nodded. ‘Mind you she hadn’t turned her back on her old life. Not at all. Oh no. True, she was different … but not much. Underneath she was the same Edwina.’

‘Who was this new friend?’ asked Alex.

‘Oh, a youngster. What was her name? A flower something,’ said Mrs Burge. ‘Violet?’

‘No. Not Violet. Rose. It was Rose,’ said Mrs Edwards.

Alex nodded. ‘Yes, we know about Rose. Thank you. But we’re interested in finding out if there was anyone else in Edwina’s

life.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Mrs Jenkins.

‘For example, could there have been a man? Could Edwina have been seeing a man? She was found in a part of town she didn’t ever go to, by all accounts.’

‘Edwina? A man? No, definitely not.’ Mrs Edwards spoke for the group. She set down her cup and stared at him. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

‘Even though she’d changed so much in the last few years?’ Alex asked.

‘Well … but … no. It’s true she was smarter now. New clothes to go along with her new figure and the new house, but a man, no. If you knew Edwina—after what she’d been through—no. In all the time I’ve known her, she’s never so much as looked at a man. Never wanted one.’ Mrs Edwards was definite. The others nodded in agreement.

‘In fact,’ Mrs Burge said, ‘considering her life hadn’t been easy, she was quite content. Worked very hard, no money, but never complained.’

‘Yes, exactly,’ nodded Mrs Jenkins, ‘exactly.’

‘Did she do any outreach work? With parishioners?’

The women shook their heads.

‘No,’ Mrs Edwards said. ‘She didn’t drive. Well, until recently. She was very nervous abut it. No. We met on a Wednesday afternoon and sewed and knitted baby clothes. For parishioners and refugees. Edwina was part of the group, but Mrs Burge and I took the clothes out to people. Not Edwina.’

‘She never dealt with other people from the church?’

The women exchanged glances.

Mrs Edwards spoke. ‘She helped our priest here. She did the flowers, was in charge of the fete, the book sale. Even cleaned on the odd occasion. Always ready to lend a hand.’

Alex closed his notebook. Put it in his pocket. ‘Is there anything else?’

The women exchanged glances and shook their heads again.

‘No,’ said Mrs Jenkins. ‘Edwina wasn’t the type to …’

Alex nodded. He knew what she was going to say. Edwina wasn’t the type to mix with low life. Someone who might turn around and murder her.

Alex left clutching a schedule of services (his Italian heritage hadn’t