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

spilt trophies over the floor. She was in the laundry area, past the washing machine and dryer and at the door, turning the key when reality hit. She wasn’t going to make it. So near to freedom, but he was there.

Rose turned, her back pressed hard against the door, her eyes searching for something she could use as a weapon.

‘Not bad, Rose. Not bad. Better than Edwina.’ He started to chuckle. ‘Poor Edwina, she was always so hopeless.’ His eyes fixed on her, pinning her like a butterfly, his madness burning

bright.

Her hand closed on Sam’s cricket bat, propped behind her, next to the back door. It would have to do. Keep him talking, she thought, it was all she had left. If he made a mistake, she might be able to yank open the door. Catch him off guard. Escape.

‘What happened with Edwina?’

The judge relaxed. ‘Poor Edwina. Always such a dull child. After all this time she got it into her head to right a wrong. She said to me, it’s time to right a great wrong. Can you believe it?’ He shook his head. ‘It started with the house in Edmund Street coming up for sale. On the anniversary of Trudi’s death. Then when she saw my details on a database in the lab, well … I swear she believed the hand of God was leading her. She started ringing me from a call box in the hospital. Every week. Thursday night. Week after week. Said she wanted fifty thousand to arrange a memorial for Trudi. The silly little fool.’

His hands clenched and unclenched. Rose thought he was about to come for her. But instead, he started talking again. ‘I might have given her the money, you know. After all, Trudi was my little sister. Hell, for all I care, the whole family could have a memorial.’ His smile broadened, his intense blue eyes gleamed.

‘But she wanted more. She wanted me to resign. Said a person like me shouldn’t be a judge.’ His voice dropped to a soft whisper as he stared at her. ‘Imagine. A person as inconsequential as Edwina daring to suggest I shouldn’t be a judge?’

Rose moistened her mouth. Tried to control the shaking in her voice. ‘But how did you do it, how did you entice her to drive to the park?’ She saw wariness creep over him again, thought he was going to charge. Started to babble. ‘It was ingenious to lure Edwina into driving somewhere unfamiliar, so late at night.’

He laughed again. ‘Thing is, dear Rose, you don’t realise how convincing I can be. I played the contrite brother—a sullen, angry teenager who’d grown up, become solid and responsible, wanted to clear his conscience. I played it well—I’m an excellent actor. I’ve had plenty of practise through the years. She bought it, was charmed by me. I began to look forward to those Thursday night phone calls. Playing with her.’ He shrugged. ‘It was easy. I told her if she wanted the money, I’d slip out of home and meet her in the park after she finished work. One o’clock on the dot. I wasn’t going to carry fifty thousand in my back pocket. Poor dear. She had no idea, sat there like a lamb waiting to be slaughtered.

‘Don’t you think it was meant to be? Otherwise, it wouldn’t have been so easy. Why would the evidence have been washed away the next day? And she didn’t say anything because I told her not to. Part of the deal. Said I’d tell the bishop she was trying to blackmail me over something which was an innocent childhood accident. Any sensible person would have told someone, don’t you think? Someone more influential than a child like you, Rose. No,’ he said, his voice dropping so low she strained to hear, ‘it was

meant to be.’

He shook his head and the smile vanished. He cleared his throat, nodded once and lunged at her. Rose whipped the bat out in front of her with one hand. A fluid movement learnt from her older brothers and practised in backyard cricket games, brought her other hand onto the handle as she crouched and went for a cross shot, low and strong. She put everything into it, aimed for his thighs. Hoped for a second chance, to go for his head.

* Alex could see a police car parked outside Rose’s house, and two young constables knocking on her door. ‘Break the window,’ he yelled as he pulled up. ‘Break it, damn you,’ he screamed again as they stared at him without moving. He saw one shrug his shoulders, pick up a flowerpot and crash it through the front sash window, then bash out the shards of glass sticking in the window frame, before climbing through to open the front door.

Alex bulldozed his way past them, the constables nervous, trailing behind.

‘Rose,’ he yelled, catching sight of the dog, the backpack next to the bench, an overturned kitchen chair, tomatoes spilt everywhere. Thought he was too late until he heard noise downstairs. He took the stairs three at a time and saw Rose on the floor near the back door, the judge towering over her with a cricket bat in his hand. All Alex could think of was to get to the judge before he hit Rose. All his years of running, not to win marathons or the hundred metre sprint, all his years of training were for this one

moment.

The judge turned, lunged forward and swung the bat hard, smashing it into Alex’s ribs. The blow was savage and Alex was aware of the judge stepping to one side as he fell, hitting the wall and collapsing in a heap near the slumped body of Rose. He lay stunned, unable to move, gasping for air, wondering if this was over before it had begun.

In that instant the two constables sprang into action. The strength of youth and anger was unleashed, as one grabbed the judge by the legs,