Fatal Impact (3 page)

4

A
nya waited in her car, running through the scene again in her mind. It was impossible to judge the volume of blood on the bathroom floor because it had been wiped. It could look like a massacre had taken place even if only one tablespoon of blood had been spilled. Gut feeling told her the amount on the tiles was significant blood loss for an adult. It was even more alarming if it had come from a child.

Maybe there had been an injury, or a blood nose, and the mother had rushed the children to hospital. Calls to the two closest hospitals excluded any admissions with the name Quaid. Anya drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. And waited.

The patrol car was first to arrive, quickly followed by Hobart detectives. After speaking to Anya, they immediately called the homicide squad, who took another forty minutes to reach the house. Inside her hired Commodore, the air-conditioning blasted. When she’d failed to find any sign of life, she had retraced her steps in order not to further contaminate the scene. Three people were missing, and the scene was suspicious. The local detectives had gone to the neighbours to ask if anyone had seen or heard anything unusual, and establish when Jenny and the girls had last been seen. Despite chainsaw man’s nosy interference, she doubted he would have been much help.

A car parked behind the crime scene van, and two men stepped out. The swagger of one suggested a homicide detective. Anya abandoned the cool air. The taller man peeled off sunglasses.

‘Not often a pathologist drums up business. Conference not interesting enough?’ He stood with hands on hips.

Anya extended her hand. He reluctantly shook it.

‘Detective Sergeant Jim Bowden.’

‘Dr Anya Crichton.’ His grip was strong. ‘Crime scene are still inside.’

‘Steve Schiller, detective constable,’ the shorter and younger man offered. ‘Interesting talk this morning, by the way.’

Bowden shot him a silencing look. ‘What do we know about the family so far?’

‘Twenty-five-year-old woman and two daughters, ten and three, live here. They’re part of a community that aims to get back to nature, eat organic foods.’

Bowden rolled his eyes. ‘Dog shit’s natural but you don’t put that in your pie hole.’ He tugged at his belt. ‘What exactly are you doing out here?’

‘Phone’s been off the hook and the grandmother was concerned something was wrong. She asked me to pay a visit.’

‘Police should have handled it.’ The senior detective flipped open a notebook. ‘Grandmother’s name?’

Anya could feel his resentment. ‘Beatrice Quaid. She did contact the local uniforms. They left a calling card when no one answered the door.’

Bowden just perceptibly shook his head and replaced the sunglasses.

‘They took a lot of care with the garden,’ Schiller volunteered.

‘Yeah, looks like they’re real house-proud.’ Bowden nodded towards the overgrown grass and car chassis in the front.

‘I’m serious. Look at this permaculture bed.’ Schiller wandered over to the raised garden. ‘Silverbeet is, or was, shading the lettuce. Roma tomatoes, basil.’ He found a stick and dug down. ‘They’ve used seaweed and leaves on a bed of branches. Composts well and limits fungal growth. This is cheap, efficient and productive.’ He lurched away as a rat scampered across the bed and into the grass.

At the sight, Anya took a few steps back and quickly surveyed the ground around them.

‘Must be good,’ Schiller added, ‘if the rats love it.’

‘Some recommendation.’ Bowden pointed to a dark green plant with cauliflower-type foliage. ‘Whatever that is it looks like a giant weed.’

‘It’s kale,’ Schiller responded. ‘Considered a superfood. Full of nutrients and antioxidants.’

‘And with the added benefits of rat shit,’ Bowden sniped.

The detective was right about the care in the planting. Anya wondered if Jenny had done the gardening on her own or with help. Beatrice had spoken about Jenny as if she were intellectually challenged. Either she had a talent for growing produce, or she had help with the property.

‘Wonderboy here has an environmental science degree. Likes to remind us every chance he gets.’ Bowden checked his watch. ‘How long did you say crime scene have been inside?’

Bowden was typically old-school, not tertiary educated, Anya assumed. Schiller was part of the new breed, brought into police forces with degrees, but not necessarily appreciated by Bowden and his ilk who valued experience and street smarts above formal education.

The three walked around to where the cat food had been rotting. ‘My first impression,’ Anya said, ‘was that the family could have just popped out. If it hadn’t been for the flies in the cat food, I may have left as well.’

Bowden’s phone rang and he listened to the caller. ‘Pathologist’s here now.’ His eyes remained on Anya as he hung up. ‘Turns out you were right. They just found a body inside.’

Anya’s body tensed.

Schiller broached, ‘The mother?’

Bowden shoved both hands into his trouser pockets and shook his head. ‘There’s some international pathologists’ meeting and Hobart’s short-staffed. They’ve asked if you’d mind examining the scene while you’re here.’

Anya could hardly refuse. Since the amalgamation of state medical boards, she could easily step into the role in Tasmania. And she was present. She agreed to do whatever she could to help and moved to the crime scene van and steeled herself. After pulling on white overalls over her trousers and shirt, she grabbed an evidence collection box. The homicide detectives followed her.

Once inside the front door, all three donned gloves and shoe covers.

‘Through here.’ A scene of crime officer with ‘SOCO’ printed across his back ushered them in and indicated the children’s bedroom. His face was solemn. ‘We’ve taken photos but didn’t want to disturb anything before you .
. .’
His voice trailed off.

‘Appreciate it,’ Anya said as they headed past the bathroom and into the bedroom.

‘In there.’ A SOCO with a camera jerked his head towards the wardrobe. Inside, Anya saw a pink plastic container. It resembled the box that her son Ben kept his toys in. Sturdy, but not heavy enough to cause damage if the lid shut on a child.

Schiller fell in behind.

Bowden hovered a little longer by the door. ‘We’ll give you some space.’

The lid was up, and inside was a khaki army disposal blanket. Anya turned to the SOCO with the camera. ‘Have you taken all the photos you need yet?’

‘I haven’t disturbed anything apart from the corner of the blanket we moved. As soon as it was clear it was a body, we called for you.’

He stood to the right of Anya, camera poised. She gently peeled back a section of blanket to the chest. A small pale hand was visible against a bony forearm. Anya held her breath and lowered it further. The photographer snapped with the flash on
.
The child’s body was curled into an almost foetal position, clutching a stuffed duck. A girl. Blood was smeared around her mouth and had dripped onto her threadbare butterfly nightdress. Fine, shoulder-length brown hair framed the pale face. On the exposed skin, collar bones appeared prominent.

‘She’s too big for a three-year-old but small for a ten-year-old,’ Anya commented.

‘Any obvious trauma?’ Bowden remained a few steps behind.

‘Not that I can see.’ She gently lifted the nightie. ‘Blood stains on the underpants, though. We have to consider sexual assault, so the implication is, a man is likely to be involved in the death.’

‘Which means,’ Schiller said what they were all thinking. ‘The mother probably knows him. She’s either involved in the death or taken off with the other child.’

‘Or, it’s possible whoever did this has the mother and the three-year-old,’ Anya said. ‘Either way, it’s urgent you find Jenny and her younger daughter.’

‘If a whack-job raped and killed the girl then took the mother and kid, they could be dead already,’ Bowden said solemnly.

Another officer entered and immediately had everyone’s attention. ‘Rest of the property is clear. No more remains.’

Anya was concerned about the amount of blood in the bathroom. There didn’t appear to be trauma to the girl’s face, or that much blood on her clothes. It was possible the blood in the bathroom came from someone else. ‘Did you find anything that could have been used to inflict trauma?’

He shook his head.

Bowden took command. ‘Listen up, everyone. We have a missing mother and her three-year-old child. We need a description of them and recent photos. Someone in this freakin’ community knows something.’

‘Judging by the blood in the bathroom,’ Anya reminded
them, ‘if Jenny and Mia are alive, one or both could be critically
injured.’

‘For now we treat this as a homicide and a missing persons investigation,’ Bowden ordered, before punching numbers into his phone and heading out of the room.

The message was clear. If Jenny or Mia had bled in the bathroom, they had to be found quickly to have any chance of surviving.

5

A
nya suggested she visit the GP on Beatrice’s list whose surgery was nearby. Bowden immediately volunteered Schiller to tag along with Anya in her car.

Beatrice Quaid would have to formally identify the young body back in Hobart, to establish whether it was, in fact, Emily. Anya could only imagine her grief at losing a second grandchild, and being told that Jenny and Mia were missing, possibly murdered. There was nothing she could do directly for Beatrice now. Besides, as a family member who had raised the alarm, Mrs Quaid might find herself a person of suspicion in the initial stages of the investigation. Except the older woman didn’t appear capable of lifting a child into a toy box by herself, or dexterous enough to wipe the bathroom floor. And there was the issue of a possible sexual assault.

Anya and the detective stood in the waiting room amongst sniffles, babies, bandaged limbs and the elderly. A woman in her forties appeared from an end room, seemingly unperturbed by the noise or number of filled seats in the waiting area. Blue earrings matched the frames on her glasses.

A receptionist handed her a file with sticky notes attached. ‘There’s a policeman and doctor here to see you. They said it’s urgent.’

‘Thanks.’ Dr Debra Wilson scanned the messages.
A
toddler in the waiting area let out a scream and her focus temporarily diverted. ‘Sorry, but we’re short-staffed today. How can I help you?’

In a low voice, Schiller said, ‘A patient of yours was found today. Dead.’

She let out a sigh. ‘You need a death certificate?’

It was a natural assumption to make. Elderly and chronically ill people died at home. Without certification by a doctor who could establish cause of death, it became a coroner’s case and required a post-mortem.

‘I’m afraid it’s more than that. I’m Detective Constable Schiller. Dr Crichton is assisting with a homicide investigation. Is there somewhere we can speak in private?’

Suddenly, the area went silent. Patients could have been forgiven for assuming the doctor was under suspicion.

Anya hastened to add, ‘We just need to find out if you know anything that could help us.’

‘Of course.’ The GP ushered them into a consulting room and closed the door. ‘Who was the patient?’

‘We suspect it was Emily Quaid.’

The doctor’s eyes widened. ‘Not little Emmy?’ She turned to Anya. ‘What do you mean
suspect
?’

‘The body was found at the Quaid home. We’re still awaiting formal identification, but it appears to be a small child around eight to ten.’

The GP sank into her consulting chair, hand over her mouth for a few moments. ‘The poor family. After everything they’ve been through.’

With the desk butted against the wall opposite the door, Schiller pulled the corner chair closer. ‘The mother and sister are missing.’

‘Missing? I don’t understand.’

Anya sat in the extra chair. ‘Emily’s body was found in a toy box in the wardrobe. There were blood stains on the bathroom floor. At this stage, it isn’t clear whose blood it is.’

Dr Wilson seemed stricken. ‘You think .
. .
Emmy was
murdered?’
Her eyes darted from the detective to Anya for answers. ‘Jenny and Mia?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. And why time is so pressing,’ Anya explained.

‘I understand.’ She straightened. ‘How can I help?’

Schiller cleared his throat. ‘Do you know the mother well?’

‘I saw her fairly frequently until about a year ago. I heard she was seeing some alternative practitioner instead. From what I know of her, she seems like a loving, caring parent. After the death of her little boy, she threw everything she had into protecting those two little girls.’

Anya let the detective take the initial lead. After that, she would ask about any family or medical history that would be valuable at Emily’s post-mortem.

Schiller took rapid notes. ‘When did the boy die? What happened?’

‘It was a while ago. I can check the exact dates.’ Dr Wilson wheeled her chair back to the keyboard.

Anya glanced around the office. As well as a Fellowship with the College of GPs, a Medical Degree with Honours and a Paediatric diploma hung above her desk. A jungle mural on the opposite wall with a vertical ruler measured children’s height. In the corner were two plastic crates, one containing wooden toys and the other well-worn picture books. Two bright yellow toddler-sized chairs sat in front of the toys. The practice clearly comprised a significant proportion of children.

A few seconds later, a file appeared on the computer screen. ‘Tom’s file has been archived, but I’ve got the family history on Emily’s notes
. . .
He contracted whooping cough last January
. . .
He was eight months old.’ She looked up. ‘I saw him one night when he was in acute respiratory distress and immediately called an ambulance. He was intubated and spent the next day in intensive care, where he died.’

‘How long had the child been ill before the mother sought medical attention?’ asked Schiller.

‘A couple of days,’ she said. ‘Respiratory infections are common in infants.’

‘Was he vaccinated?’

‘No. To my knowledge, none of the children were.’ She locked eyes with the detective. ‘Emmy’s dead and Jenny and Mia are missing. Shouldn’t you be out there looking for them?’

Schiller leant forward. ‘I realise this is difficult for you, but two kids have died on this woman’s watch and it’s our job to protect the other one, who may or may not still be alive.’

Dr Wilson seemed to freeze. ‘I can’t believe it. It doesn’t make sense.’

Doctors became attached to patients when they lived and worked in a small community. Anya knew that from her own mother. She had grown up thinking her mother’s patients often meant more to her than family.

‘The police need to know as much as possible about Jenny and Mia. Anything you can tell us will help,’ Anya reassured her.

‘Did she have any religious beliefs that prevented her seeking medical help?’ asked Schiller.

Anya suspected he was alluding to the Bellamy commune and their lifestyle.

‘Being anti-vaccination is a choice, not a religion, and it’s not a crime, as much as you or I may disagree with it. A large number of people around here believe in natural healing. It’s a battle we constantly fight. We have to be accredited, satisfy stringent professional reviews, but anyone can call themselves a healer.’

Anya tried a different approach. ‘How did Jenny react when Tom died?’

‘She was devastated. As any mother would be. She wasn’t the same after.’

‘In what way?’ Anya had seen the changes in her own parents after losing a child.

‘More withdrawn, but she refused counselling and didn’t come in for a follow-up. I saw her at the markets recently, selling bread she’d made, and she seemed a lot brighter.’

Schiller resumed. ‘Were there ever unexplained bruises, head injuries, broken bones on the children?’

‘I would have noticed if there had been anything. And there was nothing about the children’s behaviour to suggest abuse or neglect. They were a bit scruffy, usually covered in dirt, the usual bruises on the shins.’

‘Dirty and scruffy?’ Schiller noted the description.

Dr Wilson stressed, ‘As in normal, healthy, active kids.’

‘Except that two of these healthy kids are dead.’

‘With all due respect, detective, I’d be more concerned if I didn’t see routine bruises on shins. To me that would suggest something was stopping the child from playing and doing normal activities. Illness, delayed milestones, or a child who was cocooned in virtual bubble wrap.’

Anya had seen too many cases in which failure of a child to grow was the result of physical or emotional neglect. ‘What were the children’s growth patterns?’

The GP referred back to the computer. For her age, Emily was on the twenty-fifth percentile for height and the twentieth for weight. ‘Emily was smaller than average for a ten-year-old, but her growth was consistent. Mia was bigger, on the eightieth percentile for height and the seventieth for weight. At least, that was the case five months ago.’

Schiller scribbled. ‘Was Emily being smaller than her sister a concern?’

‘What matters is consistent growth rate, not size. Different fathers means different genes. Emmy was born petite and stayed that way.’ She typed away at her keyboard. ‘The last time I saw Emily was to suture a finger.’ She scrolled down the records. ‘She got it caught in the spoke of her sister’s tricycle. That was in .
. .
August. I always thought Jenny was an amazing mother under the circumstances.’

‘Circumstances?’ the detective asked.

‘Being a single mother. From what she told me, she left school pretty early and fell in with the wrong crowd, experimented with drugs.’

Schiller looked up. ‘Did she still use?’

‘No. She was poorly educated, not stupid, detective. Those children mean the world to her. Tom’s death made her more protective.’

Anya knew the blood on Emily’s underwear suggested sexual assault. A de facto or boyfriend would be high on the suspect list. ‘Did Jenny have
–
’

‘Discussing her relationships would breach patient confidentiality.’ Dr Wilson sounded conflicted.

‘I get that, I really do.’ Schiller leant in closer. ‘But a ten-year-old girl’s body was shoved into a toy box. We’ve got blood all over the bathroom floor and we don’t know whose it is. Jenny or Mia could be seriously injured and in desperate need of help. If you know anything that can help us, you owe it to them to tell us.’

A long silence followed.

Anya tried another tack. ‘The grandmother told me that there were three different fathers. The question is, were any of them involved in the kids’ upbringing, or was there another man in the girls’ lives? If you can’t tell us, is there anyone who might know?’

The GP rubbed her forehead before looking back to the screen.

‘According to my notes, Emily’s father died from some neurological condition and never even knew her. Jenny was afraid Emily might have inherited it. As part of the family history, I can tell you there was also a maternal history of clotting disorders.’

Anya read between the lines. A clotting disorder meant the pill and certain hormone contraceptives were too dangerous to prescribe.

‘Theoretically, would contraception be a concern for someone with that history?’

The GP nodded. ‘Only if a patient was sexually active. Like I said, Jenny was dedicated to those kids. She is anti-vaccination, but has no problem with certain modern medicines. Mind you, she wouldn’t necessarily have confided in me. Like I said, it’s been some time since I saw her in the rooms.’

Anya knew GPs were part of the local communities, and this one was small. ‘Outside the surgery, have you ever seen Jenny with a man?’

‘Socially, I’ve seen her at the fresh food market I mentioned. She seemed to be friendly with the people there. They barter fruit and vegetables for haircuts, gardening and the like. Jenny makes gluten-free bread, which is much better than store-bought versions. We share a hairdresser at Hairtastic.’

‘What about the other fathers? Are they involved?’ Schiller enquired.

‘Last Jenny heard, Mia’s dad was working on a fishing trawler off the Western Australian coast, and Tom’s was in the army, from memory. I remember he came back for the funeral and that was it. I just can’t believe anyone who knew them would hurt Emily or Mia.’

Schiller stood. ‘We appreciate your time. Just one more question. You mentioned an alternative therapist who’s involved with the Bellamy group. Do you happen to know his name?’

‘Dylan something .
. .
Hey, no. Heyes. That’s it. Dylan Heyes.’

Schiller wrote down the name, thanked the doctor and left the room.

‘You’ve been incredibly helpful.’ Anya stood.

‘Whatever the police think, I can’t believe Jenny would have ever intentionally harmed her children.’

The word ‘intentionally’ caught Anya by surprise. ‘Meaning?’

‘From what I can tell, she’s fairly simple and trusting. She’d ask me questions about cooking, how to use cleaning products, that sort of thing. Things you’d assume were basic common sense. Then again, common sense is a misnomer. It’s a lot rarer than it should be.’

Anya wondered if Jenny had inadvertently put the children and herself at risk.