Fatal Impact (2 page)

Anya was more than a little surprised. It wasn’t often politicians approached her about starting preventive projects. Cost and lack of immediate benefits didn’t often translate to votes, particularly when it came to subjects that polarised voters. ‘What about funding and police support?’ she asked.

‘We can always find the funds, and leave the support to me.’ Moss winked. ‘I’m here to make a real difference. Sometimes there’s a greater good at stake.’

‘Excuse me, sir, press are waiting, cameras are set up.’ Ryan Chapman appeared at the minister’s elbow, checking his smart phone. ‘And we have to avoid the street closures.’ He raised the phone. ‘A quick photo?’

Anya stood beside Moss for the picture, unsure whether to be excited about the possibility of trialling GPS devices to curb domestic violence in the state, or suspicious that she was being used to boost Moss’s standing with female voters.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ Ryan Chapman assured her, and passed over a business card. She reached into her bag and returned the gesture with one of hers. Moss pocketed it before following his assistant out to address the sea of protesters. Anya decided to go back to her room to freshen up before a pre-arranged coffee with the police commissioner.

Checking her phone, she headed across to the adjoining hotel lobby, glad to avoid the press conference out on Davey Street.
A text message confirmed her father had arrived in time to hear her speak and was proud of how well she’d done. He was racing off to run a legal workshop for social workers and GPs, and would see her for dinner. She messaged back:
7 pm Constitution Dock.

In the lobby, the woman who had attempted to interrupt her talk sat on a lounge, crutches leaning against the side of her chair. A hotel security officer stood by her, speaking into a walkie-talkie.

‘I’m not leaving until I’ve seen her,’ said the woman tartly.

‘Madam, you are trespassing. We are going to ask you one more time to leave, or you’ll be forcibly removed. No one wants that.’

‘I have every right to be here.’ The woman remained defiant. ‘I’ll tell you exactly what I told your minion. I’m waiting for one of your paying guests.’

‘Madam, does she even know you’re coming?’

There was the slightest hesitation. ‘Of course.’

The security man rubbed his forehead and looked around. ‘You can’t camp here hoping to see a conference participant. We take our guests’ privacy very seriously.’

‘I’ll sit here all day and night if that’s what it takes.’

Metres away from the exchange, Anya’s phone rang. It was the front desk from the Grand Chancellor, asking if she was expecting a guest in the lobby.

Anya glanced across at the woman. ‘Does she walk with crutches?’

‘Yes.’ The receptionist sounded surprised. ‘You do know her?’

Anya breathed out. ‘I’ll go and talk to her now.’

She hung up and approached the lounge.

‘Dr Crichton,’ the woman exclaimed, and attempted to get up but struggled against the deep cushion. ‘My name is Beatrice Quaid. I have been waiting to see you.’

Anya extended her hand and said hello. The woman was hardly a threat and this was a very public place. She didn’t seem to have anything to do with the protest outside.

‘Apologies, madam, doctor, for any misunderstanding.’ The security man stepped back. ‘If we can be of further assistance .
. .’

‘You’ll be the first to know,’ the woman said, sarcastically. She must have been in her late sixties, dressed in elasticised pants and a floral appliquéd T-shirt. Anya sat on the adjacent chair.

‘The papers said you helped people and that you would be here for a conference. I’d almost given up hope.’ Her breathing was laboured and she wheezed intermittently. Arthritic fingers dug inside her open handbag to a set of rosary beads. ‘I’ve been praying for help and here you are.’ The woman’s eyes were dark and soulful. ‘You’re my last chance.’ The woman was determined, if nothing else.

‘For what?’ Anya asked.

Mrs Quaid swallowed. ‘To prove a woman murdered her child.’

Anya was surprised. ‘My job is to determine cause of death and the nature of injuries, and I specialise in sexual assaults. If you think a death may have been suspicious, you need to tell the police.’

‘If money’s an issue, I can pay.’ The fingers grabbled with an envelope from the bag, stuffed with dollar notes. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes for justice.’ Her eyes welled. ‘Please help me, I’m begging you.’

Anya lightly touched the woman’s elbow. ‘Have you spoken to the police?’

Mrs Quaid wheezed. ‘They treat me like I’m crazy. One said I could be charged with making a vexatious claim. The security guard over there wanted to have me charged with trespass and creating a public disturbance.’

Anya glanced around the foyer, which was congested with a group checking in or out. It was easy to see why the hotel security discouraged loiterers, and the woman’s manner had not endeared her to them. That didn’t mean she was crazy.

‘Who do you think was murdered?’

‘I don’t think. I
know
. My grandson was murdered. By my own daughter.’

2

‘H
ow did your grandson die?’ Anya asked carefully.

Beatrice dabbed at a tear with bulbous arthritic fingers.

‘Little Tom’s death was horrific. The coroner said it was whooping cough.’

Anya felt for the grieving grandmother. Even so, infections happened. Whooping cough was one of the most fatal. ‘Unless your daughter or someone she knows deliberately injected Tom with a lethal infection, it can’t be considered murder.’

Beatrice looked across, dark eyes pleading. ‘She might as well have. She refused to vaccinate him, and my two granddaughters.’

Anya took a deep breath. As devastating as this was, murder charges could never be brought against the mother. ‘I’m
afraid –’

‘I know what you’re going to say. I’ve heard it all before. It may be the parents’ right to refuse to vaccinate, but what about the rights of the children? Isn’t that what your conference is about?’

The woman had a point, but Anya knew too well that it wasn’t that simple.

‘Our Jenny’s not that bright. Never has been. My husband made a lot of money on the share market, and left me comfortable. I want to provide for the girls, but I can’t give Jenny anything. It’ll just go to that hippie cult she’s caught up in.’

Anya knew of a number of religious groups in the state that could be deemed cults. ‘Who is she involved with?’

‘Jenny and the others live on a few acres in the Huon Valley, in Bellamy. They’re all about natural healing, organic foods and going back to basics. Mind you, our taxes support them and the poor children are neglected and subjected to cruel treatment. These people manipulated her and refused to get Tom medical help until it was too late. Now they’ve got my granddaughters as well.’

She pulled out a photo from her bag. In the image, two little girls looked to be around 12 months and eight or nine. The smaller one sat on her sister’s lap. Both had scraggly hair and grinned at the camera.

‘Mia’s three now, and Emily, well, she’s ten. I’ve postponed my knee replacement surgery to fight for custody of them.’

If this was the most recent photo the grandmother owned, she hadn’t had contact with her daughter in a while.

‘Jenny and her friends don’t believe in doctors. They believe some charlatan who thinks he can heal everything. And there’s always a hefty price attached.’

Anya had been involved in cases in which children had been neglected and refused medical aid that could have saved their lives. If it could be shown that Jenny or her fellow commune members had known how ill the child was and refused medical intervention, there might be a case for manslaughter. In those cases, irrespective of a verdict, no one really won.

‘Please understand, I don’t want to hurt Jenny. It isn’t her fault. She never fitted in at school and got pregnant to the first boy who looked at her. Then she had two more to a couple of other no-hopers.’

The woman put her weight forward, wincing as she supported one knee. ‘Please help those girls. They don’t stand a chance with Jenny and the people she’s in with.’

Anya pulled out her iPad. Bellamy wasn’t familiar. ‘Are they affiliated with any other group?’

Beatrice reached down into her bag. ‘They put out a newsletter called
Back to Basics, Nature’s Only Way
. I printed out everything I could find on them.’ She handed a plastic sleeve containing newspaper cuttings and articles across to Anya.

‘They live on communal land. Jenny lives on the outer part of the acreage. Jenny moved into that house just over a year ago. The rent was cheap, then I found out it was because those people owned the land. That was just before Tommy got sick. I’ve tried to call, but the phone just rings out. The phone company says there isn’t a fault. I went there a couple of months ago but no one would let me see Jenny or the kids. They threatened to call the police and have me charged with trespassing.’ The old woman’s shoulders drooped and she looked away. ‘I just wanted to see that my grandchildren were well and safe.’

‘Have you applied for visitation rights?’ Grandparents were often the casualties when relationships broke down, and were regularly forgotten or ignored by the courts and parents.

‘Jenny ignores my lawyer’s letters. I even rang the local police to go around there.’ Beatrice reached over and clutched Anya’s hand. ‘Please help me, the police won’t do anything. Community services went out there and said there was no case to answer.’

A question needed to be asked. ‘Do you think they’re at risk of physical harm – abuse, or even sexual interference?’

‘I don’t know. You read about these sorts of groups, how they treat women and children–’ She stopped herself. Anya could feel the woman’s pain and fear.

‘How long was Tom sick with the infection?’

Beatrice shook her head. ‘We only know what Jenny said, and she’s protecting the charlatan I told you about. The local doctor eventually saw him and sent Tom straight to hospital. He was put on a breathing machine, but .
. .’
She took a shallow breath. ‘By then, it was all too much for his tiny body.’

Anya could imagine the tragic scene. The little boy had died in hospital. There were no guarantees earlier intervention could have saved him.

‘When was the last time you spoke to, or had contact with Jenny?’

‘After Tom’s funeral. I asked about whether the other children had been vaccinated, she said they were getting natural medicine instead. Please, doctor, you’re my last chance. Jenny isn’t fit to raise those children on her own. I feel it in my bones. Something terrible is going to happen to them if we don’t do something.’

Anya thought for a minute. The Huon Valley wasn’t far from Hobart. ‘I could pay your daughter a visit and see the girls if she’ll let me in. I can also go over the death certificate and medical history of your grandson if you give me the details. Names, dates of birth and death, and the names of any doctors who might have seen Jenny and the kids.’

‘I have a list.’ Beatrice’s pained frown softened. ‘Here’s Jenny’s address, my details, and oh, yes, the names of the doctors who’ve treated the kids in the past, and a signed consent for me to access their records. Jenny signed it before Tom .
. .’ Beatrice trailed off and paused.

‘One more thing,’ Beatrice Quaid said. ‘If you see the girls, could you please let them know Nanna loves them.’

Anya passed over her business card. She hoped Beatrice was being completely honest and didn’t have another agenda. ‘My assistant will be in touch regarding my fees for private consulting.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you, doctor.’

Anya helped the arthritis sufferer to her feet and handed across both forearm crutches. She wondered how the grandmother would ever be able to manage two young girls even if she were given custody.

3

T
he meeting with the police commissioner was productive. He was open to the concept of GPS monitoring of violent male offenders. Anya took the opportunity to ask about the community in Bellamy that Jenny Quaid was part of. As far as he was concerned, they lived an alternative lifestyle, kept to themselves and didn’t cause trouble.

Free for the afternoon, Anya decided to hire a car a day earlier. She had planned to drive north to see her mother in the morning. She could be at Jenny Quaid’s house in around half an hour. The ten-year-old should be on school holidays. If she couldn’t see the mother and daughters, the local doctor might at least discuss Tom’s death.

Anya collected the car and called her assistant about fee structures for Mrs Quaid. Thankfully, nothing urgent had arisen, so she was still free to stop in on her mother for a couple of nights as planned.

Out of Hobart, it felt good to be amongst scenery she had always loved. Heading southwest on the Huon Highway, she was reminded of the breathtaking greenery of her birth state, and the abundance of produce for which it was world renowned. This really was the ‘apple isle’, highlighted by the signs for apple cider, juice and fresh fruit at almost every turn-off.

The town of Huonville sat on the banks of the Huon River. Just past the town, Anya turned down a remote road. At an intersection, a tie-dyed flag flapped beside a row of letterboxes. Anya stepped out of the car, engine still running, and lifted the flap behind 4033. Inside, snails had eroded the corners of a white envelope. Behind the plastic window, the addressee showed Ms J. Quaid. Anya dialled the number Beatrice Quaid had provided. The engaged signal continued to beep. Anya felt the sting in her face from the unfiltered sun and wiped perspiration from the back of her neck.

As she drove down the winding drive, past a burnt-out house on one side, she could see a raised garden bed several metres long. The block number 4033 was graffitied in white paint on its corrugated-iron support. Anya parked on a verge and stepped out. In the front yard, away from the house, a rusted car shell lay amidst metre-high grass.

The place looked derelict, apart from the garden beds. Fruit was withering in the heat and the soil cracked beneath her fingers. There were few weeds, so the garden had been tended at least until recently.

Anya wondered if the mother and daughters had gone away for a few days. A chainsaw whirred somewhere in the distance.

Anya wiped her forehead as she climbed the verandah and knocked on the front door. A set of chimes on the verandah clinked in the hint of a breeze.

No answer. Glancing down, she noticed something protruding from under a tattered doormat. Lifting the corner, Anya saw that the local police had left a calling card, as had a telephone company worker. She replaced the mat and stepped down off the verandah. To the right of the house, the garage door was half-open. Blowflies flew out and buzzed around Anya’s head as she approached. She swiped at them and tentatively stepped inside.

‘Hello. Is anyone home?’

A noxious smell flooded her nostrils. Concerned and uneasy, she continued through to the back of the garage, which led through to a small courtyard. A clothesline was mounted against the back wall. Tattered towels hung limply amongst rows of children’s underwear, shorts and T-shirts. More raised garden beds contained silver beet, wilted lettuce and a number of yellow and red cherry tomato plants which had shrivelled in the dry soil. Flies swarmed around a plastic bowl by the fence. As Anya neared it, she saw maggots wriggling their way through the rotting contents. Pet food. Anya headed back to the front of the house.

‘You right?’ An older man called from the street, dirt staining a once-white singlet.

Anya raised her hand to block the sun. ‘I’m looking for Jenny Quaid. Do you know if she’s home?’

The man held a chainsaw in large, suntanned hands. ‘Don’t have much to do with the tree huggers. If you ask me, they’re all feral. Filthy buggers, ought to piss off, the lot of ’em.’

The neighbour swatted flies from his face.

‘Have you seen their pet?’ Anya asked.

‘That bloody feral cat? It’s feral too. Should be shot if you ask me. Found another dead rosella on my doorstep this morning.’

‘Could the Quaids have gone away and left the cat?’

‘That’d be right. If I see that bloody animal, it’s a goner.’ He marched off, chainsaw at the ready. He had obviously seen her arrive; probably took note of who came and went. Anya suspected curiosity had prompted his visit rather than any desire to be helpful.

She sensed something wasn’t right. If Jenny had gone away, it seemed odd that she would leave the garage door open and all that washing on the line. Anya moved back to the courtyard, used her shoe to flip the bowl over and cover the rotting mess of animal food.

It didn’t put her at ease. Off the courtyard, a glass sliding door provided access to the house. Peering through, she could make out the kitchen and living area. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness inside, she saw tins and utensils strewn across the bench. She knocked and the door moved a little. With her left hand, she manoeuvred the glass, careful to avoid the handle. It clunked then gave way enough for her to put her foot inside and lever it open further.

‘Hello? Jenny?’ Anya stepped inside and startled as a mottled cat sprinted out the partially opened door. A chill went through her. Plastic dolls, balls and blocks littered the floor. The handset of an old-fashioned corded phone dangled over the kitchen bench.

In the eerie quiet, she could hear a slow drip coming from another room. She pulled out her mobile phone and a fly hit her in the face. Then another. She clasped the handset tightly and tracked along the skirting boards of the corridor – force of habit, to preserve evidence in case of a crime scene. Leaning into the bathroom, she caught her breath. Dark smears spread across the white tiled floor. A stained towel, with the distinct smell and colour of stale blood, lay near the door. A bird squawked outside the part-open window. Without stepping inside, she stood on her toes to see more. Another soiled towel had been thrown inside the otherwise empty bath.

Her heart galloped as she dialled the police. While waiting for an answer, she quickly surveyed both bedrooms, calling out one more time then straining to hear a response that didn’t come.

There was no sign of life.

Or death.