Without Consent (16 page)

Back home late Sunday afternoon, Anya
had three messages from Hayden Richards. Her mobile phone had been out of range over the weekend and with her continually forgetting to charge it, it was now flat.

The first asked her to call him regarding the causes of patchy white skin. He’d looked up vitiligo on the internet and wanted to discuss that with her. The next message was checking to see if she was in yet. The third surprised her. She sat down to replay it.

A search warrant executed at Geoff Willard’s home had found blood on a dark blue T-shirt that had been sent for urgent DNA analysis.

If DNA technology had been around when Eileen Randall died, Willard might have been exonerated. If someone else’s DNA had been found on the body, it could have placed a greater onus on the prosecution to prove he had killed the girl.

Willard was either incredibly unlucky that his defense had not picked holes in the prosecution’s case, or he had committed the crime and the prosecution was lucky to get a conviction.

She couldn’t decide which, rubbing the tension from her temples. She’d spent the weekend finding mistakes in the police’s handling of the Randall case that should have been enough to at least have raised reasonable doubt in the minds of a jury.

Anya phoned Hayden’s mobile. They agreed to meet for dinner at a local pizzeria.

Arriving at the restaurant, the detective looked even more slender in jeans and a fitted shirt. Weight loss had also taken years off his appearance.

One breath of the wood-fired dinners had Anya salivating. The smell of garlic and cooked dough gave the décor an even more homely feel. Wooden tables and benches in a courtyard seemed the ideal place for a quiet conversation. Thankfully, Sunday evenings were the quietest night of the week.

“Where did you disappear to?” he asked as they sat and were handed menus.

“I went away for the weekend.” Anya studied the menu. “The vegetarian pizza is to die for.” She grinned. “Low in fat and packed with fabulous flavors—basil, eggplant, artichoke.”

The waitress lit the candle on the table and switched on an umbrella-shaped gas heater. Another brought fresh bread with a divided dish containing olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

“I happened to go over the brief in the Randall case myself, given we arrested Willard for the Dorman murder based on similar pattern evidence.”

Anya dipped some bread into the balsamic vinegar. Her tongue savored the delight. “I hoped you would. What did you find?”

“Obviously, I’m not a forensic expert, but it seemed to me that the investigation was a bit thin on the ground. Most of it depended on Willard’s confession.”

“Which he later recanted.” Anya chewed her second piece. “Otherwise, there would not have been a trial.”

“Correct. There are definite similarities with Elizabeth Dorman’s murder—the nature of the wounds. I thought, though, he would have had more blood on him if he’d stabbed Eileen Randall up close that many times.”

Anya nodded. “I agree. You would expect a lot more blood.”

“So you have seen the report.” Hayden smiled and tried the bread.

“Just the PM. Oh, and I might have spoken to the officer who was in charge of the investigation locally.”

“Damn, you’re good!” the detective said.

The waitress returned to take their orders. Hayden chose a seafood pizza with bocconcini, and they agreed to share the vegetarian pizza, some bruschetta and a bottle of lambrusco.

“Something must have bothered you, to go all that way.”

“Let’s just say that in the past we were more specific about time of death. Places like the Body Farm helped us realize that it’s nothing like an exact science.”

“Okay, so time of death is dubious. What else?”

Anya felt free to speak to Hayden Richards. Facts didn’t compromise confidentiality with Veronica Slater and what they were discussing could as easily have been deduced by any other competent pathologist.

“The body has to have been immersed in saltwater. The chest contained crayfish larvae. They’re only ever found in the ocean.”

“Could she have breathed them in, if she went swimming first?”

The drinks arrived along with the bruschetta. Anya wiped her hands on the napkin. The detective poured half a glass for himself and a whole glass for his dinner companion.

“Thanks. No saltwater in the lungs. She didn’t swallow the larvae. They had to have entered the chest via the stab wounds. The debatable point is that if you take into account the winds that night, the tide could have swept her out a couple of hours earlier.”

“How can high tide be debatable? It’s recorded, isn’t it?”

“For the main bay, but Koonaka Beach is a cove and winds that night could easily have affected the timing.” She explained what Bill Lalor had told her.

Hayden sat silently, staring at the bruschetta. “But if she died that long before she was found, why were her clothes still wet? The blood on Willard’s shirt was fresh. Wouldn’t it have clotted and dried after two hours?”

“Not necessarily. The night was humid. Clothes don’t dry when there’s that much moisture in the air. The same goes for blood. Willard could have got the blood on himself if he carried her out of the water, like he initially said.”

“When she’d already been dead a couple of hours.” Hayden sipped his drink. “Bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”

“Not if he really was watching that TV show he described.”

Hayden sat back, studying Anya. “You always find a way to surprise me. You have that insatiable woman’s curiosity that could really bugger up the cases we just want to finish with.” He chuckled again, then became serious. “Sorrenti thinks it’s all cut-and-dried. With Willard in jail, there’s only the brief to prepare. No other leads are being followed up regarding the northwest rapes.”

“What about the two who attacked Gloria Havelock? I know you think the mother and daughter rapes were unrelated, but what if—”

“Ah, you haven’t heard. The blue sheet you found in Gloria’s evidence bag and sent to the lab did have some DNA on it. Belonged to a guy called Eric Scholl. Arrested for assaulting a security guard at a nightclub. He was out on bail when he attacked the Havelock woman.”

That would be little relief to Gloria, but at least one of her attackers had been found.

“Have you interviewed him?”

The pizzas arrived and Hayden waited until the waitress had left.

“No chance. He was killed in a prison fight over drugs six months ago. Seems he developed a nasty cocaine habit inside.”

Anya’s appetite waned.

“Do you know who his accomplice was?”

“He was arrested with a real loser going by the name of Gideon Lee and half-a-dozen aliases. Has an IQ of about eighty and couldn’t mastermind a peanut-butter sandwich, let alone a burglary. Seems he followed Scholl like a puppy, but he’s not admitting to raping anyone.”

Anya picked up a slice of pizza and oil dripped onto her wrist. Hayden had begun cutting up his meal with a knife and fork. She quickly wiped herself clean and continued eating, more delicately.

“Is there any chance Lee could have committed Melanie’s rape?”

Dean Martin singing “That’s Amore” filtered through the outside speakers.

“No, he’s still in jail. And he’s Chinese, not exactly white-skinned.”

The white hands described by both victims still baffled her.

“I got your message about vitiligo. It causes depigmentation, or whitening of the skin. Michael Jackson is supposed to have it, I think.”

Hayden put down his knife and fork and finished chewing. “You know, that’s bothered me for a while now. Even though Melanie didn’t see the white stripe Louise described, there’s got to be something to it. Willard doesn’t have a blemish on his arms or hands. Maybe our guy has this vitiligo condition.”

Anya left the crust and picked up another piece, this time not caring how uncivilized she appeared. “Couldn’t it have been paint on his hand?”

“I thought that as well. I know Willard is odds-on to have raped again, but something tells me that he’s not the right guy this time. I can’t shake this gut feeling that maybe he didn’t do it.”

“Did you find the knife that killed Liz Dorman?”

“No. Maybe Willard’s playing us for suckers and is a lot smarter than we think.”

The detective’s phone chimed and he excused himself to answer it, swivelling sideways in his seat.

“Thanks for letting me know,” he said, and snapped the phone shut.

His face looked ashen.

“Is everything okay?”

“So much for our theories. That was the lab about the blood on Willard’s shirt. Looks like it came from Liz Dorman after all.”

The following morning, Anya met Veronica
Slater outside Long Bay prison. Every time she had visited, winds howled through the trees, giving the place an eerie feel, despite it being so close to the ocean.

It was unusual for Anya to see defendants, but Veronica stressed that it was important for the case. Being paid for her time was the only incentive Anya needed. After seeing the assault victims and the PM reports from the Dorman and Randall murders, she was curious to see what Willard was like and how he presented—whether he appeared intimidating, or came across as quite simple.

Outside the administration building, a number of camera crews stood waiting, as though they were expecting something to happen. Veronica’s arrival had them racing to shove a boom microphone as close to her head as possible.

“Can you tell us whether Willard is on suicide watch?”

“Has he confessed to killing and raping more women?”

“Do you think he’s going to die in prison this time?”

“Should he ever have been released?”

No one waited for an answer before firing off the next question.

Veronica acted surprised at the ambush. “In this country, a person is deemed innocent until proven guilty. In fact, renowned forensic expert Doctor Anya Crichton is here with me to help prove Geoff Willard’s innocence.”

Damn Veronica! She’d made out that Anya was on her “side,” not just providing an opinion based on fact. Anya ignored the cameras who chased her into the building, hoping not to give them good “vision.” She fumed that Veronica could have compromised her credibility with the sexual assault investigation, police and judges.

Inside, Veronica stomped across the carpet floor to the enquiry counter.

“Who let the reporters know we were visiting Willard today? Vultures are out there. We’ve just had to run the gauntlet.”

The officer behind the counter shrugged and asked them to sign in.

“I’m sorry to have mentioned you back there,” Veronica said casually over her shoulder, “but I was taken by surprise.”

Anya was yet to meet a barrister who couldn’t react on her feet.

“Let’s get something straight. You do not speak for me, let alone tell the media I’m on your side. There’s no excuse for the stunt you just pulled.”

“Like I said, they took me by surprise.”

Like hell, Anya thought.

Once past the multiple gates and security checks, and the lawyer’s incessant complaints about having to give up her mobile phone for the duration of the visit, they were let into a fenced courtyard. Stark apart from white plastic tables and chairs, it was where families met on visiting day.

“He likes to be in the sun,” Veronica said, as though she cared.

Anya doubted the woman saw him as anything more than a fast-track to bigger, higher-profile, and therefore more lucrative, cases.

A few moments later, a guard escorted out a man in a green tracksuit who was considerably shorter than the witnesses had described. Anya thought of Quentin Lagardia saying that victims almost always overestimated their attacker’s stature.

Veronica remained seated as Willard failed to make eye-contact with either of them.

“We haven’t got long and it’s important that we go over some things. This is a doctor who I’ve asked to check how you’re being treated. I gather the police were unnecessarily rough with you when you gave yourself up.”

Willard sat at the table and looked down at his lap. So far he didn’t appear very intimidating at all.

“Can you show the doctor your bruises?”

Geoff deferred to the nearest guard, who nodded.

“Excuse me,” Veronica said. “Lawyer, client. Privileged.”

The guard took a few steps backward.

Willard held out his arms. Anya noticed bruising on the back of his wrists, presumably from handcuffs. His fingernails had been chewed beneath the tips of his fingers. She wrote a brief note on the pad she’d brought in.

“The doctor wants to ask you some questions about the night Eileen Randall died.”

Willard looked up. “Why? I’m not in jail for that any more.”

Anya couldn’t work out whether the seasoned prisoner’s naivety came from innocence, or was part of a polished act.

“I looked at the report, and I think Eileen’s body floated in the water that night. Just like you said when you first went to the station.”

“That was a long time ago,” he said.

“Do you remember what show you watched that night, before you went out?”

He smiled, just perceptibly. “It was funny. I laughed a lot.”

“Can you tell us its name?” Veronica spoke to him as though he were a baby.

“
The Eleventh Hour
.” He watched an ant on the corner of the table. “It was a bit rude. Mum didn’t like it.”

“Good boy,” Veronica said.

Willard may have been in a forty-year-old body, Anya thought, but the twenty years in prison hadn’t allowed him to mature. He was emotionally frozen as an immature adolescent and should have been treated as one, not babied.

Anya tried to encourage him to open up. “I checked, and the show that was on that night was never run again on TV. Can you remember anything about the episode you saw before you found Eileen?”

Geoff seemed far more interested in the ant. He put his hand out for the insect to crawl on. Anya noticed the dirt beneath his stumpy fingernails as the ant ran maniacally over one finger, then another. It was difficult to judge whether he was being kind or cruel.

“A man went up to a woman at the bus stop and looked up her dress. She slapped him in the face and stormed off. Then an old lady came up and hit the man with her umbrella when he wouldn’t look up her dress.”

He continued to play with the ant.

Veronica clicked her pen on and off, on and off. She reached over and squashed the ant with her finger. “You’re facing life in prison if you get convicted of murder. We’re busting our backsides here trying to get you out of this place and maybe even get you exonerated for the Randall murder. Do you know what that means? If we can do that, you’ll be entitled to compensation. Lots of it. You could do anything, go anywhere you want, not rot in here for the rest of your life.”

He didn’t react to what his lawyer said, just studied the insect remains.

Anya lowered her head to make eye-contact. “Ms. Slater is trying to help. I’m trying to find out about the tides the night you watched that show. Do you remember anything about them, like whether the tide was coming in or going out when you saw Eileen on Koonaka Beach?”

Geoff scratched the palm of his hand with the opposite thumb. “I told the police I killed her. I tried to tell them what happened but no one believed me. Not even Mum.” He turned to Veronica. “Now I want to see my picture.”

Veronica shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know if I have it.”

Geoff’s jaw tensed. He slapped the table and Veronica started, then pulled a photo from the back of her yellow notepad. It was a wallet-size snapshot of a girl with long, dark hair.

Geoff snatched it, and held it close to his chest.

Anya was no longer sure who was in control. She looked around for the guard, who was speaking to another visitor.

“I told you I’d look after it for you, and bring it when you wanted,” Veronica said. “But you do not threaten me. Ever.”

Geoff hid the picture against his chest and sulked.

“Is that your girlfriend?” Anya asked.

“Not yet, but she likes me. She said so.”

“May I see?”

Geoff looked at Veronica, who nodded, and then passed his prized possession slowly across the table.

Anya gasped when she saw the photo. The hair was longer, but it was probably taken a while ago. Even so, the candid smile unmistakably belonged to Melanie Havelock. And her address had been scrawled on the back.