Without Consent (20 page)

Exhausted and with every muscle
aching, Anya strapped Brown-Eye’s carcass in the back, climbed into her Corolla and instinctively pressed down on her lock, securing all the doors. All she wanted was a bath, a long soak and ten hours’ sleep.

The mobile rang. She closed her eyes and thought about ignoring it, but checked the caller ID, just in case it was important. Elaine. She hadn’t checked in with her secretary all day.

Breathing out, she picked it up. “How are things?”

Ever efficient, Elaine rattled off the routine and then emphasized the priority messages. Dan Brody had asked for another meeting. He could damn well wait, Anya thought. She wasn’t at his beck and call, and no doubt Veronica Slater had spun him some story about their argument at the prison.

Only half-listening, she let her mind wander. Nick Hudson was anxious to get his stuffed dog back. The drive out to the house would take about thirty minutes, maybe more in traffic, but Brown-Eye had already made her car reek, not to mention her office at the SA unit.

“That’s about it,” finished Elaine.

Relieved that everything could wait, Anya said goodnight and headed over to the Willards’ place.

“Brown-Eye, big fella.” Nick greeted his dead dog like he would a best friend.

“Sorry about the timing, but I couldn’t get out here any earlier.”

“My aunt’s in the kitchen, and we’re just watching the box.”

The scene was relaxed and homely. Anya imagined it echoed in millions of homes across the country.

By the fumes, meat was on the menu again, and
The Price is Right
was the focus of Nick’s attention. On the lounge sat a thick-set woman sorting washing. The abdominal girth could have been fat or pregnancy, but from that position it was difficult to tell. Anya had no intention of taking the risk of asking, When are you due?

“This is Desiree Platt, another old friend from the Bay. She stays sometimes for company,” Nick said. “When her husband’s away working.”

Desiree cupped one hand beneath her bulge, put the other behind her as an anchor, and arched her back to get herself up off the lounge. She was definitely pregnant.

“Hi,” Anya greeted her.

“You must be the doctor Nick’s been telling me all about.”

Nick scuffed the floor with his feet like a schoolboy. “Don’t you have to be somewhere?”

“Yeah, the toilet. This kid’s been using my bladder as a trampoline all afternoon.”

Mrs. Willard came out from the kitchen and wiped her hands on her apron. “Dinner won’t be long. Would you care to join us this time, dear? We’ve got an extra tray.”

Anya sensed she was being set up with Nick, who could just be a rapist and/or murderer. “No thanks, I can’t stay. I have a meeting to go to.”

Mrs. Willard grabbed Anya’s left hand. “No ring. You career women are missing out on the most important things.”

“Come on down,” cried the game-show host.

“How’s the investigation going?” Mrs. Willard asked, releasing her guest’s hand.

Anya thought twice about divulging information concerning the case, but the pleading look in the woman’s eyes made her want to give the mother something, some kind of hope, without giving away too much.

“We found another murder, one that Geoff can’t have committed, that is very similar to those of Eileen Randall and Elizabeth Dorman. It happened when he was in jail.”

Mrs. Willard’s eyes moistened. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll try to see Geoff tomorrow and tell him the good news.”

Anya paused. “The shirt the police took, that you said Geoff had never worn. Was it new?”

“Goodness, no. He couldn’t afford new things, and there are perfectly good clothes at the local op shop.”

“So it came from there?”

Mrs. Willard nodded. “We have to make do. When he came out of prison, he had nothing but a donated pair of trousers and a shirt. They didn’t even fit properly.”

Desiree returned from the bathroom, wiping her hands on the oversized Black Sabbath T-shirt she wore over black leggings. “What’s the good news?”

“The police have got some evidence that Geoff didn’t kill Eileen Randall or that other woman.”

“What?” she said, clutching her belly. “But he did it. He even broke into our place. God knows what he would have done if Nick and Luke hadn’t come in. We all know what he’s like.” Her voice became shrill and she began to hyperventilate. “Oh my God, it’s a contraction.”

Anya couldn’t believe the histrionics. “It’s probably the baby moving.”

“I know you had a scare.” Mrs. Willard led Desiree to the lounge. “But he didn’t hurt you. He wanted somewhere to hide out for a while. Maybe he has changed after all these years.” She straightened out her apron. “I’ll just check the dinner. After that, I’ll help with your folding and we’ll get you home.” She turned to Anya.

“Doctor, would you mind staying with Desiree for a few minutes, to make sure she’s all right?”

In the few days since they had met, Geoff’s mother looked like she had aged years. Nick seemed annoyed and left the room. His aunt followed him to the kitchen, and Desiree calmed down.

Anya wanted to run out the door more than ever, as a crowd of people shouted and made hand movements on the screen.

“Got a boyfriend?” The woman opened her mouth and revealed what looked like a piece of food clinging to a tooth.

Anya felt her face flush and became flustered. “I really just came to drop off Nick’s dog.”

The sound on the TV became louder, with members of the audience shouting and gesturing numbers at the pair on stage.

“Wouldn’t blame you if you were shit-scared of getting involved. Men can be real bastards.” She rubbed her abdomen again and her shirt moved with what was probably a kick. “Lucky I got a good one. We got married once we knew the baby was on its way, before I lost my figure.”

Judging by the size of Desiree’s arms and the broad hips, the figure she referred to was full. The tooth didn’t have food on it, either. It was some kind of crystal embedded in the enamel.

“Congratulations,” Anya managed, backing toward the entrance.

“Nick’s a great bloke,” Desiree continued. “You could do a lot worse. And he’s a great kisser.”

“I’m sure he is,” Anya blurted, wondering why the words came out of her mouth. “I really have to go.”

Desiree propped herself to get up and Anya gestured to stop her.

“I’ll let you out.” The woman smiled and lumbered to the door, which had been deadlocked. As Anya stepped out onto the porch, Desiree said quietly, “From one woman to another, I hope you find someone.” Looking weary, she arched her back and rubbed her belly. “I know this little one’s gonna cause me pain. God knows, it already has with the morning sickness, reflux and backache. And don’t start me on about the hemorrhoids.”

Anya had no intention.

“And from what everyone says, the birth is going to be agony. But I’ve gotta go through it to have this baby.” She rubbed the back of her neck, as though massaging out another sore spot.

“You know, my friends back home used to have a really wise saying. ‘If you can’t feel pain, you can’t feel love.’”

Before Anya could respond, the door clunked shut.

Once outside, Anya stood at her car.
Desiree’s words repeated in her mind.
If you can’t feel pain, you can’t feel love
.

It was just like
If you can’t be hurt, you can’t be loved.

Did Desiree somehow know what the rapist said? Was she sending Anya a message? Had she, herself, been raped? Was she saying that the baby was a product of the assault?

The words were disturbing. It wasn’t something expectant mothers would normally come out with. She drove off, wondering whether Desiree was warning her about Geoff or Nick. The thought made her check her rear-view mirror to make sure no one was following. A few minutes passed and, after running an amber light, the hairs on the back of her neck relaxed. She wondered why she’d felt so threatened. Why did Desiree say “friends back home?” What friends, and where exactly were they from? Fisherman’s Bay?

She thought back to the minimal conversation they’d had. Desiree had said something about men being bastards but that she’d found a good one.

Anya turned on the radio and a news update rapidly faded into the background. Desiree’s comment could have been innocent. The woman was not far off giving birth. The labor would be on her mind already. To increase the focus, a pregnant woman was a magnet for everyone with a birthing horror story. Even strangers felt the need to regale mothers-to-be with the most horrendous tales of excruciating agony culminating in third-degree tears, stillborns or permanent incapacity.

At least that was Anya’s experience and that of her friends. Not once had any of the well-meaning scaremongers bothered to say that pain relief was available and that there were no prizes for being a martyr in the delivery room. Or that most women who gave birth chose to do it again.

If either Geoff Willard or his cousin was the serial rapist, and Desiree had spent time with them, it was possible she’d picked up the phrase, having no idea of its sinister meaning. Maybe it even came from Lillian Willard. It was a strange “tough love” sort of expression. No, it couldn’t have been just a coincidence, she decided. There was no such thing.

Anya hit the indicator and pulled into a breakdown lane on the M2. Immediately she put her hazard lights on to save anyone running into her. Multiple cars passed. No one slowed or stopped. Thank God, she thought, that chivalry was dead. The last thing she wanted was some man or men stopping. She’d seen rape victims fall for that one many times. Locked in, she dialled Hayden Richards.

“Jesus Christ! She really said that to you?”

Great. The detective didn’t come out with comments about over-reacting or panicking for no good reason.

“Where the hell are you now?”

“On the M2. I’m fine. Just heading back home. Look, it was said in innocence, I’m sure. They were trying to hook me up with Nick Hudson.”

“Christ! How did you get out of that one without ticking him off?”

“I behaved like a professional and sneaked out the door.”

She could hear Hayden’s voice go up half an octave. “Nothing like the rejection of a woman. I wouldn’t have picked you as the skulking-away type, not until the end of the game-show, anyway.” His voice returned to normal, much to Anya’s relief.

“How about you go straight home and get some sleep and we’ll talk again in the morning.”

Something in his tone suggested he was more concerned than he wanted her to know. She was about to hang up when he spoke.

“Can you do one thing for me? Promise you’ll lock all your doors and windows.”

Anya felt as though someone had just walked over her grave.

The following morning, Anya felt hungover
from tiredness. She’d had nightmares again, just like she used to have when she had oral exams at medical school. In the recurring dream, she’d sit in the exam and watch, helplessly, as two examiners dissected her body with scalpels.

She leaned against the kitchen bench, sipping herbal tea, and made an effort to think things through rationally. Dismally, she admitted to herself that there was a lot to worry about.

Veronica Slater had affected her more than she wanted to admit. The biggest concern was that the solicitor had virtually ruined her chances of consultancy work for both the police and defense attorneys. That didn’t give her many other options in private practice. Her income would plummet.

Sorrenti would not want Anya to give evidence in any rape trial involving Geoff Willard. The fact that Veronica had asked her to consult on the case—very publicly thanks to the staged press-conference outside the prison—wasn’t surprising, but still distressed her. Veronica never intended to use Anya’s findings. She had no obligation to use any opinion that might hurt her case. She might have to go through twenty specialists to find one who gave her client a favorable slant, but she would. The media would be anticipating Anya’s evidence at a trial. Her omission could hurt the reputation she’d worked so hard to forge.

Things seemed to be getting out of control. Even the most basic housework seemed overwhelming. Suddenly she could see mess and dirt all over the house. So much for the plan to get a cleaner. She might not have enough money to pay the mortgage by the end of the year.

She picked up the kitchen rubbish to take it out the back door and deposited yesterday’s dirty clothes in the laundry on the way. What faced her was the piled-up washing, impossible to ignore. Deciding to put on a load of whites before Elaine arrived, she put out the bin and quickly sorted what she was most likely to need sooner rather than later. Adding some powder to the full load, she switched it on to the fast-wash cycle.

Whenever she put in a load of washing, it reminded her of a case she had seen a few years ago. A baby had suffered a severe head injury from being placed in a bouncinette on top of the family washing machine. The baby had slept, but when the cycle hit the spin-dry phase, the baby bounced right off, onto the concrete floor. The mother didn’t seem to understand how it could have happened. Unfortunately, stupidity wasn’t a good enough reason for community services to remove the child from the mother’s care.

Anya checked her answering machine. There were three messages. Martin had given her address and number to a mother from preschool, so Ben could play some time. The mother would call during the week. Anya didn’t recognize the friend’s name, but that was hardly surprising. She had only been to preschool a few times to collect her son.

Dan Brody’s message asked if they could have a chat about the Willard case. Anya felt her pulse race again at his arrogant tone. She didn’t want to speak to him, not today. She deleted it before he’d finished.

Lastly, her father had phoned. He’d be in town next week and asked if they could have dinner.

She sat down, and wrote down the phrase that Desiree had used so casually. The way she’d behaved was a little possessive toward Nick, yet she made a point of saying how happy she was with her “good man.”

What was Desiree’s last name? She strained to remember. Watt? Putt? Patt? Sounded like a hairdo—Platt! That was it. She circled it on the page for when she next spoke to Hayden.

She also wrote down what they knew about the Dorman murder. Two of Geoffrey’s shirts taken from the house had traces of blood that were consistent with Liz Dorman’s. The DNA evidence against Willard was pretty damning, let alone the similarities to the Randall stab wounds—the number, distribution and types. He also had no alibi for the night Liz Dorman died.

Anya concluded that the same killer was most likely responsible for both deaths.

Did Liz’s rape have anything at all to do with her murder? But the photo that had been stolen from the fridge during the rape was found in the garbage bin after her murder. She was unaware of any serial offender who took souvenirs of their victims and then returned them to the scene.

The rape
had
to be related. So was Geoffrey Willard the serial rapist? Or did he work with a partner? Maybe Nick?

Elaine arrived with a cheery “good morning” and removed a scarf and coat.

“You started early,” she said. “Anything I can do?”

“Just going over a case. Just when I think I’ve worked it out, something comes up to confuse me all over again.”

Elaine rubbed her hands together. “Do you mind if I put the heater on?”

“No,” Anya said, lost in thought again.

Mrs. Willard had told her one of Geoff’s shirts had come from the opportunity shop and he hadn’t even worn it. But it was possible the mother had lied to protect him.

Was there a possibility the shirts he bought already had Liz’s DNA on them? She clicked on to the Internet and googled Willard. He’d been released four weeks ago, and Liz died just over a week ago. It was unlikely he’d worn the same donated shirt and trousers for three weeks, especially if they didn’t fit. Still, Hayden could check the dates with the shop receipts. Maybe he had borrowed Nick’s clothes in the interim.

“Oh, Anya!” Elaine called from the kitchen, her voice impatient.

What now? She stood up, not realizing how cold her fingers were until she passed through the lounge room and felt the warmth of the sun in the kitchen. Elaine was behind the kitchen in the laundry, bending over the washing machine.

Anya had begrudgingly accepted that Elaine liked to mother even when at work. Sometimes that meant helping out with household tasks. Today Anya had no objection.

“The machine was bouncing across the floor. You put an unbalanced load in,” the secretary said, standing up with two mottled pink shirts, both of which had originally been white. “I can’t believe you did this again.”

Anya had thrown the clothes in without checking inside the machine. Ben’s missing red sock had been in there, forgotten from the last wash. Her favorite pair of capri pants were ruined as well. Things were not getting better.

“When I duck out with the post, I’ll get you some of that dye remover,” Elaine said. “If we wash it straight away, the color might just come out.”

There was no point stressing over a pair of trousers, Anya thought. She went back to her office. Just as she sat, the idea of dye running in the wash made sense.

“Elaine, you’re a genius!” she called. “You’ve just helped me with a case. Why didn’t I think of it sooner? I’ve got to go out for a while. I’ll be back soon.”

She grabbed her handbag from the kitchen bench and slipped into her shoes at the door, pausing to say, “That dye remover is under the sink. I bought a spare in case it happened again.”