AC05 - Death Mask (32 page)

She switched off the tap, stomped over to her grandson and, after grabbing his hand, smacked him on the backside a good number of times. ‘You’ve dirtied your good clean clothes again! What have I told you about playing near mud?’ She slapped him once more.

The little boy started to shriek; despite the padding of a nappy, the whacks probably hurt. Anya wanted the grandmother to stop. ‘I’ll take him in and clean him up if you like.’

Mrs McKenzie stopped smacking and composed herself, wiping the curls from her forehead with the back of one hand. ‘He’s always getting into trouble, just like his mother.’
She grabbed the crying toddler by the hand and marched him towards the back door, where she began to strip him of shoes, socks, trousers and shirt.

‘If you want to help,’ she said to Anya, ‘you can clear my son of the false charges against him and stop that woman blackmailing him for money. You know she has already got herself a lawyer.’

As she slid open the door and pushed the now silent boy inside, Anya heard her say, ‘I’m getting too old for all this.’

W
alking out to the limousine, Anya described what had happened in the backyard.

‘I was hit as a kid, can’t say I never deserved it either,’ countered Ethan.

‘That’s not the point.’ Anya had been disturbed by the scene she had just witnessed. It was easy to understand the frustration of having a child get mud all over his clothes, but that was what kids did. They explored and played and sometimes got dirty in the process. It was true that the previous generation had a different style of parenting, but even so, Mrs McKenzie’s behaviour bothered her.

‘She lost control. I thought she was going to hose him down with cold water to teach him a lesson. And that was with me, someone who is investigating her son’s case, standing there watching. You’d think she would have been on her best behaviour. What would have happened if I hadn’t been there?’

The driver opened the door and Ethan slid in beside her.

‘You’re assuming she controlled herself in front of you. If that’s the case, she wouldn’t have hit him in the first place, instead she would have kept up the nice grandma facade while you were present. If that’s the worst she ever does, it hardly constitutes child abuse. The father let slip something about the
daughter trying to get clean. That boy was probably born a crack addict. If you ask me, the kid’s lucky to have his grandparents caring for him. He looked well fed, the place was clean, and did you see the pile of books in the basket behind the sofa?’

Anya had managed to miss that. Ethan had a point. Children that age didn’t read books themselves. It usually took an adult to pique their interest. She had to admit the boy seemed friendly and went enthusiastically to his grandmother in the living room. As soon as they noticed the smell in his nappy, he was cleaned and changed. A far cry from children left in their own excrement while parents had their next hit. Jonah did look well fed, and the toys in the backyard were in good condition. Someone could have caught Anya on a bad day when she was first a mother. It could not have been easy to find yourself responsible for your toddler grandchild, with all the time and energy demands that responsibility entailed.

If Liam McKenzie hadn’t used drugs or been involved in gangs, it made some sense that the parents doted on him. She wondered what came first, favouring the sport-star child to the detriment of the others, or giving him special attention after the others had proven themselves to be disappointments. Either way, the family had its fair share of dysfunction.

‘So what about the mother’s claim that our stabbing victim tried to extort more than $25,000?’

‘Like I say, there are many sides to the story. Our football star, the alleged victim, and the lawyers for both sides. Somewhere in there the truth has to be hiding. It’s just up to us to find out where it is.’

* * *

When they returned to New York, Anya chose to take the train to Connecticut, given it was apparently quicker than going by road. Ethan had a meeting with Lyle Buffet and representatives from the league’s legal advisers. She appreciated the opportunity to have some quiet time to herself and read the file Ethan had
been faxed by one of his many court contacts. From the station, she took a taxi.

If, like so many other women, Alison Walker refused to speak, the trip would be wasted. But Anya wanted to know what had really happened that night Liam was judged to have saved her life. The taxi rolled past rows of identical white weatherboard houses, each made slightly individual by a garden and the colour of the car in the drive.

Children’s bikes littered the lawns, as if they’d been dropped in the race to get inside. Ben had just learnt to ride a two-wheeler. She could picture him riding up and down these quiet streets. The taxi pulled up short of the corner. Anya paid the driver and asked him to wait long enough to see if anyone was home. He touched the peak of his Yankees cap. ‘Sure thing, ma’am.’

A blue Pontiac swung into the empty drive and out stepped a large woman dressed in a collared shirt and jeans, which were pulled a little too tight at the waist.

‘Excuse me,’ Anya called as she walked up the driveway. ‘Could you please tell me if Alison Walker lives here?’

‘Depends on who’s asking.’ The woman opened the boot, which contained bags of groceries.

Anya stepped forward and offered her card. The woman glanced at it. ‘I could print them on any computer.’

Taken aback, Anya explained, ‘I’m a forensic physician from Australia. The only other ID I have with me is my passport.’

‘So you cut up dead people.’ The woman turned to the groceries. ‘What’s that got to do with Alison?’

‘I specialise now in seeing survivors of sexual assault and domestic violence. I came a long way and was hoping to talk to Alison. If it isn’t convenient, I can come back.’

The woman placed a hand on one very rounded hip and scanned Anya from head to toe. ‘Who sent you?’

‘I’m investigating cases involving Liam McKenzie.’

The woman grabbed two bags and slammed the boot. ‘Well, she don’t give interviews, and if you’re a friend of his, you’re
trespassing. Get off my property right now or I’ll call the police.’ She headed for the door, jeans swishing at the thighs with each step.

‘I’m not his friend. I’m looking at women McKenzie may have assaulted over the last few years.’

The woman slowed, then stopped at the doorstep and half turned.

‘No one else believed us, why should you?’

Anya stepped closer. ‘On the way here I read the original police report and saw the photos. I don’t believe Alison hurt herself that night.’

The woman turned around fully. ‘Mother Teresa you ain’t. What’s in it for you?’

‘It’s my job, and the reason I’m here is because I don’t have loyalty to any of the teams or players. I guess that makes me unbiased. And I don’t believe in paying off witnesses before they testify.’

The woman stopped and watched a cable van drive past.

‘Are you trying to tell me you would turn down thousands of dollars if it was thrown at you? If you were poor and needed the money?’

‘If I accepted a bribe, I’d risk losing my registration.’

The woman scoffed and unlocked the screen door.

Anya tried once more. ‘I need to work to support my family.’

‘Girl, you don’t just come from another country, you’re from another planet! Ain’t too many people who’d turn down thousands of dollars.’

Anya half smiled and shrugged.

The woman’s frown softened. ‘I’ve been nagging my sister to talk to someone apart from me. Someone professional.’ She looked at her visitor for a few more seconds. ‘I’m Bethany.’

Anya waved to the taxi driver, who eased away from the curb. She reached out and took one of the grocery bags. As Bethany fiddled with two sets of locks, Anya noticed a camera mounted on one corner of the roof. A quick glance around revealed it was the only house with that sort of security.

Inside, Bethany threw the keys on a hall table.

‘Ali, we got ourselves a visitor.’

It took Anya’s eyes a few moments to adjust to the dimmers. Bethany led the way to the small but neat kitchen and placed the groceries on the bench. She yanked back a set of curtains, almost pulling them from their hooks. Light flooded the room.

‘She must have heard us talking and closed everything in this place. God made light so we don’t have to sit in the dark.’

She took the bag from Anya and began removing boxes of biscuits, pasta and cereal, which were quickly dispatched to cupboards. ‘Alison! I said we got a visitor.’ A number of TV dinners from the second bag were placed in the freezer section of the old Westinghouse. ‘Now, how ‘bout I make some lunch. Then I gotta get back to work.’

Bethany was obviously a woman in charge and organised, particularly given she did the food shopping in her lunch break.

A frail young woman, who stood about five foot two inches, appeared in the doorway, long hair and fringe hiding much of her face. She leant against the open door, like a shy child nervous about meeting a stranger.

‘What did you open them up for?’ she asked in her sister’s direction.

‘People gotta see inside their own house.’ She filled a kettle and placed it on the gas stove. ‘I gotta go back to work, but I can stay for a bit.’

The woman slowly entered the room and sat at one end of the laminated kitchen table, facing away from the window.

‘Does the light hurt your eyes?’ Anya asked.

‘Ain’t nothing wrong with the eyes the good Lord gave her.’ Bethany began searching kitchen drawers and cupboards. ‘Where in tarnation did you hide the knife this time?’

Without a word, Alison got up and reached into a cupboard. Inside an oblong casserole dish was a chopping knife.

Anya watched her shuffle back to the table and sit, hands cupping her throat. For a moment the scars on her face were just visible.

Her heart went out to this woman. The reason for closing the curtains was more than likely to avoid being seen clearly. Hiding the knives in a new place after her sister left the house was far from normal safety procedure, even if there had been children in the house. This appeared to be a terrified and traumatised woman. Nothing like the image the press had painted of a gold-digger who had targeted an innocent footballer.

‘I wanted to ask you about Liam McKenzie.’

Ali pulled her robe tighter, revealing a fine tremor in the process.

‘It’s OK,’ Bethany said, chopping vegetables and dropping them into a saucepan. ‘She ain’t got nothing to do with him.’

‘And I’m not with the police either. I’m a physician and I treat women who’ve been hurt by men.’

Bethany wiped her hands on a towel and left the room, returning with a folder.

‘This is what that man done and got away with.’

Anya opened it to look at the contents, sensitive to the sister, who turned her face further away.

An envelope contained a head shot of a young woman, carefully groomed, with perfect hair and makeup and a striking smile. The eyes sparkled into the camera. Ali had been very attractive.

‘One of them Hollywood agents wanted her to do ads, she was so pretty.’ Bethany continued chopping. ‘No wonder McKenzie wouldn’t leave her alone. I warned her about men like him with their money and smooth talk, but what does a big sister know?’

Anya turned to the next image and took a silent breath. This time the face was unrecognisable: eyelids so swollen they were closed; blackened cheeks. The next shot showed an eye forced open, revealing a haematoma on the lateral aspect consistent with a fractured cheek. The next picture closed in on the lips; both upper and lower had splits up to three centimetres and sutured. With such a profuse blood supply, lips healed quickly without intervention. These wounds had to be more than superficial, or no one would have bothered with the stitches.

‘I took them ones the first time he hit her. All promises and roses, saying he don’t know what come over him, and how it was never gonna happen again. The judge said the pictures couldn’t be shown ‘cause they were … What’s that word? Where heaven forbid a jury could think bad things about McKenzie?’

‘Prejudicial?’

Bethany pointed the knife in the direction of the table. ‘That’s it. Prejudicial. Judge said ‘cause there was no police report, anyone could have hit her. Them fancy lawyers tried to say she got herself beat up so she’d make more money out of the case.’ The chopping became more aggressive.

Anya turned to the small woman at the table. ‘What sort of boyfriend was he, in the beginning?’

Ali stared into space, and for a moment her eyes shone. ‘A real gentleman. Kind, considerate, and real loving. I met him at a party, only I’d never heard of Liam McKenzie. I’d never even been to a game. He asked me out and wouldn’t take no for an answer. The next day flowers arrived, all romantic and expensive.’

Bethany added, ‘I warned her not to let that turn her head. A man who has to buy love ain’t worth lovin’.’

Ali sighed. ‘I thought he was handsome and he had the kind of eyes that laugh. Next week, he called all through the day just to ask where I was, what I was doin’. It sure felt romantic.’

Anya had seen the signs many times. What many women thought was flattering and caring was in fact the beginnings of a relationship in which the man sought control of every aspect of his girlfriend or wife’s life – where she was, who she was with, day and night. Pretty soon, he’d be the only one she spent time with and she’d be cut off from family and friends; then he had even more control, which was exactly what he wanted. The pattern of behaviour was all too predictable. As his power over her grew, her self-esteem lessened. The cycle of abuse had begun.

‘He’d text me at least a dozen times a day asking what I was doing, saying he was thinking about me.’ A small smile unfolded, but out of her sister’s line of vision.

‘In the beginning, we were real happy. I was working and
he was playing well. I even learnt about football and went to a couple of matches, but I couldn’t bear to watch him get hit or smashed into.’

Anya had read about a back injury that had sidelined McKenzie for four matches. She was trying to work out the timing of that in the relationship. ‘Did he injure his back at some stage?’