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

was in pyjamas and dressing gown, the few hairs on his head sticking straight up in the air.

‘Most likely a murder. Long days and nights ahead I suspect. Can you mind the dog for a few days?’

‘No problem, no problem. Come in, Dog.’

The dog needed no invitation, he knew the ropes. He loped in and dropped his lead on the floor next to the kitchen table, all the time Mr Chan watching him, a smile on his face. The pair of them tried to act casual, the old man and the dog. It always amused Alex. Once his back was turned they’d be all over each other. He’d caught them at it before. They’d both looked embarrassed, so he went along with it—pretended he hadn’t seen the affection between them. After he left, he’d bet they’d be sitting on the sofa, two old friends, eating, drinking, watching TV, the dog sprawled across the old man’s lap. He’d suggested Mr Chan keep him, but the old man was insistent. ‘No, no, he’s your dog now. He chose you.

Me, I’m happy to share.’

* Sunday morning, the city was bleak. Grey streets showing through a grey dawn. Rubbish strewn on the pavement from the night before. Broken bottles, chip packets, food scraps. A purple feather boa wrapped around a lamppost, fluttering in the breeze. A group of young women giggling as they emerged from a nightclub, their dresses so short, their heels so high, it seemed as if they were walking on stilts.

On a whim Alex decided to drive out of the city centre, take the scenic route along the waterfront to Pierce’s Park. A few minutes of stolen peace before a long day. The sky was leaden with banks of threatening clouds, the wind was gusting. Waves were crashing against the seawall, tossing spray over the car. He opened the window a few centimetres and sucked in the crisp clean air.

The last traces of dawn had evaporated by the time he arrived at the park. A small wooden clubhouse painted white, tucked away in the distant corner, rugby goal posts, trees with half their yellowing leaves lying in pools at the base of the trunks, a sheen of silver dew on the grass.

The uniforms were standing below the cliff, beside an elderly man clutching a trembling terrier. The doctor. His face was drawn, his body hunched against the chill air. Alex nodded to them and walked over to the car, a small silver hatchback parked next to steps that had long ago been cut into the side of the cliff face.

Nothing seemed unusual. As Alex drew closer he noted the woman’s head was at an odd angle, her face white, a bright red gash around her neck.

He walked over to the doctor, introduced himself. ‘You have to be very close to see this woman is dead. What made you go look at the car?’

‘I didn’t,’ the doctor replied, his voice hoarse, ‘not straight off. It was the only car in the park, so I noticed it, noticed her. I walked the dog to the other side of the park and when we came back she was in the exact same position. Struck me as odd … so I went to investigate.’

‘Do you often walk so early in the morning?’

‘No. Usually around seven, seven thirty. Before breakfast. But this morning … I don’t know. I was wide awake. Don’t sleep much anymore. The dog was impatient, so …’ the doctor shuddered. His face was pale, his eyes watery. ‘Seen death before, but this is nasty. Seems very cold-blooded to me, very professional. The way she is dead and propped there … as if she is alive.’ He straightened up. ‘I’ve been here since six this morning. I’m tired and cold, and I’m hungry. I’m going home now.’

‘Fine.’ Alex nodded. He would have to be checked out, the doctor, in the park at such an ungodly hour. Just not now when it seemed he might pass out at any second. He signalled to one of the uniforms, a young constable, his cheeks red, eyes watering from the biting chill. He brightened up when Alex asked him to see the doctor home, make him a cup of tea, feed him something, take the man’s particulars, find out if he is married, if he was home last night. The constable nodded, smiling. Anything to be away from the dead woman on a miserable Sunday morning.

Alex watched as the constable took the small terrier from the doctor and tucked it under one arm. Saw the two men turn and trudge up the steps to the houses at the top, the doctor hauling himself up using the handrail. About fifty steps, Alex guessed. Not an easy climb for an old man who’d found a body. It was then he realised the houses on the top of the cliff were some of the most expensive in Auckland. Mansions with turrets and towers and uninterrupted views over Waitemata Harbour. As expensive as real estate gets in a city that worships the sea.

He was wondering if there was any connection between the murder and the fancy real estate when the rest of his team rolled up. Jerry, in his old station wagon splattered with mud, and Marion in her pristine blue Honda Civic. Behind her, he recognised the pathologist’s wagon followed by the white van of the forensic team. A funeral procession, he thought.

* ‘What do you think?’ Alex asked James Ramsey, the young pathologist. James looked exhausted, his forehead etched with furrows, eyes dull and cloudy. He worked hard to control a yawn.

‘Nothing to tell. What you see is what it is. Strangled with a bit of a slice. A thickish wire of some sort, most likely. There’s definitely wire involved, it’s left a ring of blood. No defensive wounds. I’d say she didn’t expect it, unless she’s been very carefully arranged afterwards. Nothing on the hands. Nothing on the face. Clothes seem undisturbed. All very odd. Creepy. Remaining