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

‘Time?’

‘Car window was open. Got frigging cold last night. Been dead a few hours is all I can say. Let you know later.’

‘Will you be doing the autopsy?’

‘Nah mate, not me. Carruthers. I end up with the homeless and the drug overdoses. He takes the interesting ones.’

‘Shame,’ said Alex, who loathed dealing with Carruthers’s rules and regulations and formal reports.

‘Tell me about it, mate.’ James ran his hands through his hair. ‘But that’s the way it works. Been up all night. It was very ugly. Some of the stuff I saw would make you puke.’ He glanced up at the darkening clouds. ‘You’ve got a real problem though. I’d say a fair bit of the Antarctic is about to dump on you. I’ll get out of your way. Gonna head home and have a shower. Leave you to it.’

* They were beaten by the weather. The forensic team, clad in their science fiction whites and despite their modern equipment, could do nothing in the face of the onslaught. It rolled in from the south, fast and furious—an almost black band of mountain-sized clouds firing jagged shards of lightning as it rumbled forward. The best they could do was to get the body removed and the car onto a flatbed and off to a lock-up. Alex knew they’d stumbled at the first hurdle. They’d tried their best to photograph and preserve everything they could, but with the wind whipping the autumn leaves into a fury and the rain about to pound down, they’d had to hurry.

The three of them ended up sitting in Jerry’s station wagon. It was a mess and smelt of a mixture of sweat and earth. Footy boots and rugby clothes were sprawled in the back. A tip, Marion had called it when she climbed in, pushing empty food cartons to one side with her shoe.

‘Sorry, Marion,’ Jerry said grinning. ‘Had a game yesterday afternoon and then a big party. The whole whanau, my auntie’s birthday. No time to clean up.’

Alex saw Marion wrinkle her nose, but she didn’t say anything more. After all it was Jerry’s car. It struck Alex that compared with the professional nature of the murder they were acting like the Keystone Cops—huddled in a stinking station wagon with footy boots and smelly clothes, freezing in the unseasonal cold snap while the crime scene was being wiped clean by a vicious downpour and repainted with a fresh dump of autumn leaves. He could see a torrent of water cascading down the cliff face, pooling at the base, turning the area around the car into a swimming pool, drowning any evidence.

Jerry went with the obvious. Woman alone, Sunday morning. ‘Picked someone up last night. Betcha. We find her favourite drinking hole, we find the bloke. Most places have CCTV. Her friends should be able to tell us.’

Alex heard Marion snort. Marion was never one to rush to conclusions. Neither was he, but staring out of the window at the dreary day and the driving rain, he couldn’t help but agree with Jerry. Crimes fuelled by drink or drugs. Squalid arguments between squalid people and someone dead or injured at the end of it. So pointless. For the last few months he’d been plagued by doubts. Why bother?

‘Car registered to Edwina Biggs. Ponsonby address,’ Jerry said. He was the records man, thrived on modern technology. ‘What’s the handbag say? Is she our victim?’ He yawned as Marion cleared a space on the back seat. She pulled on a pair of gloves, laid out an evidence bag and picked her way through the victim’s handbag with the precision of a surgeon dissecting a body.

‘Mobile,’ Marion said. ‘It’s old. Very old. A Nokia. My mother had one the same when I was a kid. No GPS.’ She scrolled through the contacts. ‘Two numbers. Roadside Assist and someone called Janet. Let me check her call log … wait, umm … three to Janet. No more.’

‘Jeez, those Nokia’s go forever,’ Jerry grinned. ‘Makes it harder, no GPS. Unless Janet’s a bit more than a friend.’

Marion took the driver’s licence from the wallet. ‘Name, Edwina Biggs. Born 1965.’

‘She’s our girl,’ said Jerry. ‘Edwina Biggs. What a name. Gawd.’

Marion ignored him, pulled a sheet of paper out of the bag. ‘A pay slip. This is interesting.’

‘Spit it out, Mar,’ Jerry yawned. Marion, good old Marion was the only one wide awake.

‘If I’m reading this correctly, she is being paid by Parks Pathology for work on a Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. If so, there was a good chance she was working last night.’

‘Yeah, before she went to the pub,’ Jerry said.

Marion continued to ignore him, kept on reading. ‘One casual rate till midnight, but an increase after midnight.’ She straightened up, waved the sheet of paper at Jerry. ‘I reckon she was working last night. Which fits with the sensible clothes.

Not party wear.’

‘Still time for a club after work,’ Jerry was determined. ‘Which would fit with the clothes too.’

Alex had already googled Parks Pathology. ‘Just opposite the hospital. Says here 24/7. There should be someone there now. Jerry, start the search off here, then head to Parks Pathology. Talk to the people on last night’s shift. Check everything.’

Jerry nodded.

‘How many uniforms can we rustle up for an area search?’

‘Sunday morning? Could be tricky. Hell, with this weather, why bother? We’re not going to find anything.’

‘No question. Has to be done. Make sure they check out the houses on the hill. She was found at the bottom of the steps. Could be very interesting. Tell the uniforms not to feel bullied. There’s bound to be some serious money up the hill. Tell them to stand up for themselves.’

‘Great,’ said Jerry, rubbing the fogged-up window with his hand. The rain was lashing down again. ‘You didn’t happen to bring an umbrella along did you, Mar?’

She paid no attention to him. Turned to Alex instead.

He smiled at her. ‘You and I, Mar,