Shadow Over Edmund Street by Suzanne Frankham (read a book .TXT) 📕

‘Someone came in and bought everything?’

‘Yes, a company. I can’t remember the name. She didn’t need much in the new house.’

Alex nodded.

‘And once she decided to go ahead and sell, the old school network came into play. The St Joey’s Kids, she called them. The real estate agent and the lawyers. They all seemed to know each other.’

Now they were getting to the meat. He was careful, the way he phrased the next question.

‘Did you go to the auction?’

‘Yes. It went well. There were three real bidders I think. Hard to tell sometimes who’s genuine and who isn’t. It was a good property, no problem selling it.’ She shrugged. ‘For a real estate deal it went smoothly.’

‘Good price?’

‘Yes, I think so. Gone up since I bought two years before.’ Again, she shrugged. ‘It was all about what she had left over, once she bought the cottage.’

‘And?’ he prompted.

Rose frowned, realised what he was after. She turned away from him, gazed out the window towards the sea. ‘I’m sure you can check the fine print.’ Her voice was stiff. Stilted. Her face flushed with colour. ‘Am I to be a suspect then? Someone who ripped off her money? My reward for helping Edwina?’ Her eyes flashed as she turned back towards him.

‘No.’ Alex wished he had Marion with him. He was floundering. He rushed on. ‘Everyone has said she wanted to be your friend. You were the one she got close to. There’s no suggestion there is anything untoward.’

She watched him in silence, her cheeks redder, her mouth a straight angry line, the hint of tears in her eyes.

He wanted to say, don’t look so angry, Rose. I’d never hurt you. In the end, he changed the subject. ‘Did you help her with the car, too?’ She took her time. Nodded.

‘Did you advise her on which make to buy?’

Again, she nodded.

‘Rose.’ He hesitated. ‘Please talk to me. We need to know. So far, you’re the only person who can tell us about the transformed Edwina. We don’t suspect you.’ Hoped she would believe him. Hoped Marion would forgive him.

Rose stared at him, her eyes puffy from a night of crying. He knew he’d blown it. He stood up and walked to the door, ready to leave.

‘Did you find her phone?’ she muttered.

‘Yes.’ Surprised, he turned back towards her.

‘I gave it to her for the car. An old one of my mother’s. Pre-paid SIM. Don’t know if she managed to charge it.’

‘She did. It was with her when we found her. Rose,’ he said. ‘Please. Is there anything else you think is important? It’s about Edwina, now. We need help to find who did this.’

Rose’s eyes fixed on the cat asleep in a basket. ‘The driving instructor might help. Edwina had over a hundred hours of

lessons.’

Alex felt a surge of triumph. Bingo. The driving instructor. Jerry had been right. There had been a man. ‘Do you remember his name by any chance?’

‘A woman. Carol, with AAA Learn to Drive.’

Rose uncurled from the sofa and walked over to the front door. Opened it for him. Slammed the door shut while he was still on the porch.

* Alex was angry with the world, but mostly with himself. He was angry about the interview with Rose, angry about Edwina. Even though they knew there’d been a transition, they’d been fooled by this woman who had been driving a new car, wearing a well-cut trouser suit, sporting a short sensible haircut, living in a pretty, renovated cottage and working at a job in a pathology lab. None of it was ‘real’.

The real Edwina Biggs was a short dumpy woman who, for most of her life, had lived in a rambling dump that was falling to pieces. The only money coming in was from a job with friends, slaving in a vegetable shop at five in the morning.

Alex was angry he’d missed the phone. It was an old model with a pre-paid SIM card. Two numbers in its phone book. They should have picked up on the fact someone had given it to her. He was furious they’d missed the driving instructor. Why on earth hadn’t they thought about the driving instructor? They knew she’d just learnt to drive. But at that stage, the real Edwina Biggs had been hiding behind her glossy new facade.

He took out his phone, called Jerry and Marion. Everyone in the briefing room first thing in the morning. No exceptions. This case needed to be taken apart and then put together again. In the meantime he headed off to find the driving instructor.

* ‘How is it possible to spend over one hundred hours with a person and not know a damn thing about them?’ Alex was talking to the dog, but it was Mr Chan who answered. Mr Chan who had seen Alex parking his car, and called out to him, invited him in for dinner. In the space of a few minutes Alex was installed on the sofa with Dog lying next to him while Mr Chan whipped up a meal. The one man in the city who could steam up a magnificent spread at the drop of a hat. The dog, sensing Alex’s agitation,

crept closer.

‘Ah,’ Mr Chan said, foraging in the freezer and operating the steamer, ‘practical reasons. Driving doesn’t come easy to everybody. I suspect there was no time for conversation except mundane things, such as “indicate”, “brake”, “merge left” or “go into the right lane”. All of it said while trying to stop oneself from screaming. Have you forgotten the pain of teaching someone to drive?’

Alex stroked Dog, smiled when he snuggled closer. There was pain, but not the sort Mr Chan meant. In his case the distress had been caused by another man teaching his children to drive. His wife’s new husband. The one who lived two hundred kilometres away, owned a stud farm, drove a Mercedes, had a holiday house and according to his children, a