Shadow over edmund stree.., p.19
Shadow Over Edmund Street, page 19
As Jerry said, ‘I reckon Edwina Bloody Biggs must have tried her hand at a spot of blackmail. Bloody shame it didn’t work.’
*
Things changed at the police station. The Super became more ground down by the day, his face haggard, eyes hooded and downcast. A man adrift. He talked about going fishing when he retired, set up a calendar and marked the days off—one more day he had survived, one day nearer the end. Alex avoided him as much as possible. It was painful to see the bewilderment in his eyes.
Jerry disappeared down-country to talk to the constable who had attended the death of the father-in-law, Judge Horricks. He came back a day later, disgusted and dispirited.
‘How lucky can this bastard be?’ he said to Marion. ‘The judge got the one cop who has nothing, I repeat, nothing between the ears. The man is an insult to the Police Force.’
‘It was a long time ago, Jerry, and who knows, maybe it was an accident.’
‘Yeah, right. You really believe that, do you?’
‘As much as you do. Doesn’t matter what we think though, does it?’
‘No,’ Jerry said. ‘Bastard.’
Sergeant Grigson, who had dealt with the death of the aged Mrs Horricks, was a different prospect altogether, but as Jerry reported the next day, the results were much the same. Mrs Horricks had moved in with her daughter and her son-in-law. She was eighty, had a bad hip and was quite frail. On the day of her death, the judge and his wife had a commitment they couldn’t avoid, a garden party at Government House. They’d left the old lady in her bedroom, getting ready to take an afternoon nap, and arranged for their housekeeper to pop in later. When the housekeeper arrived, she’d found Mrs Horricks at the bottom of the stairs. She’d called the ambulance, then the judge. The sergeant said it was pretty straightforward. Mrs Horricks had fallen down the stairs and her neck was twisted to one side. He’d seen straight away it was broken.
When Jerry had asked if there was anything, any one thing, he thought was unusual, the sergeant had been silent for a long time. Then he shook his head. ‘Nothing’. The reason he remembered the case as if it was yesterday, was because the son-in-law was a judge and the couple had been at a Government House garden party. Pretty damn swanky. The old lady falling down the stairs and dying was in order. ‘We see it often,’ he’d added. ‘It takes a while for relatives to realise how frail the elderly are. Take the daughter, in this case. She felt it was her fault. Moved the mother in, strange house, thought she was doing the right thing by putting in a stairmaster, and next day, there’s the mother dead because she wasn’t used to it. The daughter was badly cut up.’
‘What do you think, Alex?’ Marion asked. Her pink cheeks were chalky white, her green eyes dull.
‘Try and rustle up a doctor’s report.’ Alex was grim. ‘If the judge pushed the old lady down the stairs, then short of sneaking out of the garden party, he must have done it as they were leaving. I want to know how long she’d been dead.’
‘You do realise,’ Jerry said, ‘if he pushed her down the stairs on her first day, he must have decided to do it before she moved in. Didn’t bother wasting any fucking time. Absolute bastard.’
*
The three of them crowded into Alex’s office, Marion and Jerry stiff as soldiers, while Alex read the doctor’s report. It was sketchy. The doctor hadn’t been thorough. No one thought the death of Mrs Horricks was anything other than a tragic accident. The old lady had died from a broken neck as a result of a fall, two to four hours before being found. Death was thought to be instantaneous, or at least that’s what the doctor told the daughter. He had written in his notes the daughter had been distraught and blamed herself for leaving the old lady in an unfamiliar house. He had prescribed a tranquiliser and advised her to see her own doctor the
next day.
Alex finished reading the report, closed the file, then flung it across the room. Marion stood stock-still, open-mouthed. Jerry was silent.
‘This doctor was more concerned with the wife than with the dead mother. We’re going to nail this bastard. We’re going to do it through Edwina. We’re going to reactivate the case. Make it a priority again. We know what we’re searching for now. We’re going to go through it again, all the people, all the evidence. Find the links between Edward and Edwina. We’re going to work on the assumption Edwina was somehow threatening him or blackmailing him, and then we’re going to prove it.’
‘Good one, Boss,’ said Jerry giving him the thumbs up. ‘You’re right. We can’t do anything about these other cases. But Edwina, yeah, we’re still in with a chance.’
*
‘Let me get this straight,’ Mac said. He was standing at the window of his office, eyes fixed on the pigeons below, watching them fly from the ground onto the balcony of the building opposite. His hands were behind his back, shoulders slumped. ‘Number one, you want a constable to moonlight in the pathology lab on a Saturday night. Number two, you want to bring back Meg Johnson who left to have children. But only in a part-time capacity, mind,’ he added. ‘Number three, last but not least, you want a group of, for want of a better word, informers, including some inside the courthouse. The courthouse, for God’s sake.
‘Yes,’ said Alex, talking to Mac’s back.
‘Go over it again for me please, Alex.’ Mac’s voice was weary, his words dragging.
‘The pathology lab is happy to have one of our people there. If we’re going to find a link between Edwina and the judge—and we are sure there is one—there’s a good chance Jennifer Wright will discover it. She’s bright and as keen as hell.’
Mac nodded. ‘Yes. Straightforward enough. Now what about Meg Johnson? What is she meant to do?’
Alex cleared his throat. ‘It so happens she goes to the same gym as the judge’s wife, moves in the same circles. Family money.’
Mac’s head sank. ‘The judge’s wife. What’s this about, Alex? Explain, please.’
Alex considered for a moment. ‘Gossip,’ he muttered.
‘Gossip.’ The Super shook his head. ‘Gossip?’
‘Comings and goings, all sorts of personal details.’
‘And how, may I ask, is she going to find out personal details?’
‘These women,’ said Alex, glad Marion wasn’t in the room, ‘seem to have a lot of coffee mornings. Lots of things are discussed.’ He joined Mac at the window, watching the birds.
‘Well, I never thought I’d hear a statement like that. And the rest, Alex?’
‘The rest. Ah, well. As Jerry put it, we want to know where the bastard is every moment of the day.’
*
‘How did it go?’ Marion asked, standing close to Jerry, the pair of them waiting in the corridor outside Mac’s office.
Alex hesitated. ‘How old is Mac, again?’
Marion answered. ‘Early sixties. Why?’
‘I think I almost gave the poor bugger a stroke. Have to watch it in the future.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, come on, let’s get going. We’ve got work to do.’ A huge grin spread across his face.
Jerry gave Marion a hug. Clapped Alex on the back. ‘Way to go, Boss.’
*
It had been lurking in the back of his mind, unshaped, what needed to be done, but it was Clare who had shown him the way forward. One evening, deep into her project, she had unravelled, parchment like, several pieces of A4 paper taped together. The Chan family tree.
‘Of the original family group arriving on the goldfields, two of the brothers returned to China, two other brothers and one sister remained. Over one hundred and fifty years ago. Isn’t it amazing? Mr Chan said it’s part of their culture to document the family history and it’s all on the computer now, so he doesn’t need this anymore. How come we haven’t done this dad? We need to know our family history don’t you think?’
Alex had pored over the family tree, astonished, but not for the reason Clare assumed. What he saw drawn in ordered lines, were hundreds of names, that together formed the close-knit Chan empire.
It was a big step, but as he sat with Dog on Mr Chan’s sofa that night, he knew if he was going to nail the judge, he’d have to break some rules. He didn’t care. Mr Chan was putting the finishing touches to a feast—the works tonight. Brought over steaming by a young chef from one of the restaurants. Mr Chan had shooed him away after a few minutes, and the dishes were laid out on the table.
‘The problem now,’ said Mr Chan as they sat down, ‘is Chinese food has become ordinary. The public has grown accustomed to the spices of Asia. They talk about cinnamon and cardamom, fresh turmeric and star anise. And the herbs. Holy basil and Vietnamese mint. All these things! They dismiss Chinese food. Out of fashion. Who would have thought?’
‘What are you going to do? Fight back?’
‘Yes. But it’s hard. We need a whole new marketing campaign.’
Alex considered the old man across the table. He was most likely about eighty, but with the brain of a thirty-year-old. He had a finger in every pie as far as Alex could tell, even though he had handed over the reins to his children. His simple life was
a disguise.
‘So, what are we having tonight?’
‘Duck. One of the culinary experiences that has become fashionable again is a banquet duck extravaganza. But you know, sometimes the presentation is a bit rough around the edges. This is a new, refined version the chef has created. Come, let’s eat. See what you think.’
The two of them ate. Starting with the pancakes wrapped around the duck meat, cucumber and spring onion and dabbed with hoisin sauce, followed by the crispy skinned duck meat, and ending with the broth.
‘Well,’ said Mr Chan, dabbing his mouth with a linen serviette. ‘Your verdict?’
‘Amazing,’ said Alex.
‘Like it then?’
‘Oh, yes. Love it.’
‘But would your girls eat it?’
‘Ah. I don’t know. Could be too fatty for them. And the duck thing. You know? Animals …’
‘Yes,’ sighed Mr Chan, leaning back in his chair. ‘That is a problem. It’s my problem. You, I think, have a problem of your own, do you not?’
Alex had to stop himself smiling. Mr Chan had a radar that would put the American army to shame.
‘Indeed, I do. A big problem.’ He picked up his wine and walked over to the window. It amused him that Mr Chan, multi-millionaire, looked out over the rubbish bins stacked at the back of the building, while he, on the eighth floor, had a panoramic view over the city. ‘I don’t know how to say this.’
‘What you say to me stays in this room, Alex. You must know I’d never speak out of turn.’
‘Yes, of course. No. It’s something else.’ They’d never discussed the tentacles of the Chan empire before, but he’d seen the closeness of the extended family and the solidness of the networks they had created. He took a deep breath, turned back. ‘I hope you don’t take this the wrong way.’ He saw the old man raise one eyebrow. ‘The thing is, I need information.’
Mr Chan put his hands together, narrowed his eyes. ‘Do you know what today is, Alex? Do you know why I invited you here today?’
‘No. Is it a special occasion?’
‘To me it is. Today is the anniversary of my second life. The one you gifted me.’
Alex took a gulp of wine. Massaged his shoulder. ‘That day is done. Over. Best for us to forget.’
‘I understand. But how can I ever forget? It’s a debt I will always owe you. So stop pacing, Dog is becoming upset. Sit down and tell me what you want.’
Alex nodded. ‘Okay. For a start, you wouldn’t have anyone who works in the courthouse by any chance? Would you?’
—
PART 4
Spring Fever
—
It had been two months since Alex reopened the Edwina Biggs case. Two months since Mac had panicked and two months since a group of people started watching every move the judge made. Two tedious months of closing the net. In that time, the city had shed its winter coat. The trees had sprouted fresh green leaves, the harbour had started to sparkle in the spring sunshine, the outdoor cafes had thrown open their doors, placed chairs and tables on the pavements. Auckland was putting on its party clothes, ready for the summer. Holidays by the beach, picnics and barbeques on long warm evenings, yachts playing on the water, Sunday lunches along the waterfront.
None of it made Alex happy. Time was passing, progress was slow. It had started well. Given everyone hope. Jennifer Wright working the Saturday night shift in the pathology lab had struck gold early.
‘She’s found him,’ Marion said, one Monday morning, her smile wide.
‘Who, what?’
‘The judge! Jennifer found him in the records of the pathology lab.’
Alex felt a surge of triumph. ‘Tell me.’
‘He had pathology done after being a passenger in a car accident one evening.’
Alex smiled. It was as good as winning a medal in the Olympics. ‘Would Edwina have seen his name in the course of her work?’
‘Yes. She’d been working there about three months. It was a Thursday night and she was on duty. The judge was a passenger in a car that was hit from behind. Jennifer found the police report. Not much damage done to the car, or to them. It was pretty much a nose-to-tail, but our judge was vomiting at the scene. The police recognised him, didn’t want to take any chances, so they drove him to the hospital for tests. Everything was okay, so they sent him home. Edwina would have seen his name. Maybe even logged it in.’
‘Bingo,’ said Alex. ‘We’re getting there.’ He saw Marion’s face flush. ‘Is there something wrong, Mar?’
‘Thing is Alex, would you mind—would you have any objection if Jennifer kept doing the Saturday night shift in the lab? Second job and all.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘Ah. The job might be lousy, but—and I’m quoting Jennifer now—the pathologist there,’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘he’s really cute. They’re going out, but he works Saturday night, so …’
It was all Alex could do to contain a laugh. This was the second romance the case had started. The young constables who had played the courting couple in Pierce’s Park were still at it. Engaged, he’d heard. He wasn’t even counting himself and Rose, wasn’t going there. All because of Edwina, who had never known anything resembling true love. She was bringing people together like there was no tomorrow.
It was such a positive start, he had hope then. But as the colours of spring exploded around the city, his faith drowned in the slow tedium of collecting data, collating bits and pieces of information that could be glued together to make a coherent picture. Alex hated it when a case came down to this. The combined weight of thousands of pieces of inconsequential evidence.
*
Judge Nyss strode into the restaurant with Patricia on his arm. They were five minutes late, deliberately so. The maître d ’ jumped when he saw the judge and his wife and came close to bowing before he led them to their table by the windows. The windows with the million-dollar harbour views now clothed in darkness except for the lights of the yachts, ships and ferries peeking through. The other diners swivelled to watch the couple make their way across the room. Everything about them shouted people of consequence. From the judge’s bespoke suit of the finest light-weight charcoal wool, to Patricia’s black silk trouser suit offset with gleaming pale-pink pearls at her throat and in her ears. Her French shoes—black, but edged in a fine pink leather, with tiny pink heels and pink laces—were a work of art.
Their friends were waiting for them. Three couples. Tomorrow the four women would be leaving for Europe, the men left behind to fend for themselves. Everyone was in high spirits, the champagne corks already popped.
‘Are you a good cook, Edward? You’ve got a busy job. How do you manage without Patricia?’ asked Jonathon who saw himself as a new-age man, someone who loved nothing better than whipping up a storm in the kitchen. He leant close to the judge as if somehow the answer would signal a conspiracy between the two
of them.
The judge forced himself to reply, to mask his contempt for the man. ‘Yes, well,’ he stumbled, ‘this is the longest time Patricia has been away. Gallivanting around,’ he added, thinking that sounded endearing.
‘But it was your idea, Edward,’ one of the others laughed.
‘I know.’ He managed a rueful smile. ‘Lots of dinners in the club for me, I expect.’
‘A toast.’ Patricia raised her glass of Veuve Clicquot. The others picked up their glasses, held them high. ‘To a most wonderful holiday and my dear husband who suggested it.’
There was murmured assent as the group nodded towards the judge.
‘But what about us?’ wailed one of the men.
Everyone laughed.
‘Oh, you’ll do fine,’ Patricia said. ‘I’m sure you’ll all revel in being able to do as you please with nobody to pull you back into line.’
The other women nodded as everyone drank, but not the judge. He smiled with the rest, joked with them, but never took more than a sip of alcohol when he was out in company. Getting drunk and losing control was not something the judge had ever considered doing. Nevertheless, they had his undivided attention—the judge with his impeccable manners.
Patricia was in fine form as he drove home. She had downed several glasses of champagne and with the thrill of the impending holiday she was elated. Her eyes shone with love and desire. Sure enough, when they reached home she left him to take a shower. She would call him when she was ready. The judge picked up the dog that was running around in circles at his feet and went into the lounge overlooking the ocean. He made himself comfortable with a glass of Aberlour, another single malt he was evaluating, put the dog on his lap and contemplated his good fortune.
