Kathryn Fox - Without Consent

“And you believe a mother?”

“No, listen. I rang the lab this afternoon. The shirts were taken after crime scene used luminol at the home. They found traces of Liz Dorman’s blood on not one but two of his shirts.” He handed her a faxed report and trotted off to make coffees.

Maybe Geoffrey had taken a change of clothes and got some from his skin on the second shirt. Anya twice read the comments on the page. These traces were small smears, nothing like you would expect for such a blood-spattered scene.

From the amount of blood at the Dorman house, the shirt should have been saturated, or at least covered in splatters. The small amount of blood on Willard’s shirt at the site of the Randall murder bothered her more than the tide discrepancies. The similarities between the cases became more odd.

Maybe Willard had had an accomplice if he did kill Liz Dorman. When the detective returned, she raised the possibility of a second attacker. “When Gloria Havelock was raped, there were two men there.”

“Yeah, the dead one and Captain Moron.”

A cup with the remnants of someone else’s lipstick faced her along with two plain biscuits. Anya turned the cup around and drank with her left hand. She could taste unrinsed dishwashing liquid on the rim.

“When they robbed her, they took wallet-sized photos of her daughters. Did they ever turn up?” Anya asked carefully.

“Not that I know of. The officers did a search of Captain Moron’s cell yesterday and didn’t find anything apart from tennis magazines.” Anticipating his guest’s next question, he explained. “Girls, mini skirts. It’s the closest thing to porn Lee could get. Sorrenti went over there to interview him and got nowhere. The little bastard wouldn’t talk. Kept saying he’d answer one question for every time she showed him her tits.”

As much as Sorrenti grated on Anya, she shouldn’t have had to put up with that.

“Does the guy still have his gonads?”

Hayden laughed. “Only just. Sorrenti was incredibly ticked off. She didn’t get anything out of him.”

“Willard was in jail when Gloria was raped, but don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence that her daughter was attacked in their house once he got out?”

Hayden crunched on a biscuit, trapping crumbs in his moustache. “You know the stats: just about every woman I know has had to deal with a pervert some time. The girl’s kind, pretty and would automatically turn heads.”

Anya knew that the detective hadn’t meant to implicate Melanie in her assault, but he was right. All it took was one sexual deviant to notice her.

Anya needed to find out how Willard had got that photo, without letting on that Willard had it. As galling as it was, Veronica had her rattled. Telling the police about Melanie’s photo could breach confidentiality, in which case Veronica would make sure everyone heard about it. Perhaps there was a chance Hayden would work it out himself. It was pretty clear in Anya’s mind that Melanie would never have sent it with a love letter. But in a world of dysfunctional people, bizarre things happened.

“Was Willard ever in prison with Gideon Lee?”

“Don’t think so. Lee’s been in Goulburn jail, Willard served at Long Bay.”

“Could Geoff have had contact at any stage with Lee’s dead partner?”

Hayden looked confused. “Unlikely. Willard was incarcerated for a long time. Am I missing something?”

“No. I’d like a link between Melanie and Gloria’s attackers, that’s all. It still doesn’t sit right that they were both random victims.”

Hayden shrugged. “How do you explain the shirt results?”

Anya decided not to pursue the issue of Melanie’s photo-for now. The DNA evidence needed to be discussed.

“The small amounts of blood on the clothing don’t make sense. Maybe Willard, or someone else, threw out the really blood-stained shirt and accidentally got blood on his other clothes.”

Hayden bumped the desk with an elbow and nearly spilt his drink. “I was thinking more about the chances of contamination in the lab. To the naked eye, the clothes were clean when we picked them up.”

“So they’d both been washed?”

“Yep,” he said, breaking his diet and munching on two more biscuits. “Luminol showed up the stains again at the lab, which is why they were tested properly.”

The detective flicked through the papers on his desk, pulled out some photos and handed them across. “We had his cousin under surveillance when Willard was on the run. This character’s a bit smooth for my liking, and he’s got an answer for everything. He lives at the house and could have been an accessory after the fact.” He cleaned his moustache with the back of his hand. “Fancy a little trip out there for a chat?”

Anya wondered if that were appropriate. “I thought priests were the only ones who popped round for visits just in time for dinner.”

“It’s when the punters are most likely to be home.”

Hayden had obviously planned that she would go along. “Aren’t you risking trouble if you keep investigating without Sorrenti’s permission?”

He put down his half-full cup and collected the papers into a pile before locking them in his desk drawer. “The investigation only begins with the arrest. That’s when the fun starts, trying to put together the brief. That’s all I’m doing, nothing more, nothing less. A woman might have better luck with the cousin.”

“You mean I’m a distraction to get him to let his guard down?”

“Doc, you are a looker, and it might just work.”

Anya opened her mouth wide, not sure if he were serious or joking. Going by the grin on his face, he was joking. She hoped.

She felt like a hanger-on, but what Veronica Slater had orchestrated made her more determined to find out what had really happened to Eileen Randall and Liz Dorman. She wondered if her criticism of the Randall autopsy results would lead to a guilty man getting away with Liz Dorman’s murder.

Maybe she was no different from Alf Carney after all. She tried to block the thought from her mind.

Nick Hudson opened the door withoutreleasing the chain.

“We’re about to eat,” he said. “It’s not a good time.”

They heard a frail voice call from inside. “If it’s reporters, tell them to leave us alone.”

“No, Auntie, it’s the police. They’ve got some more questions.”

A few seconds passed and a petite, gray-haired woman in a floral apron opened the door.

Hayden held up his badge. “I’m sorry for the timing, but this shouldn’t take long.”

“I don’t know how we can help. We don’t know anything,” said Mrs. Willard, leaving the door open as she scuffed her way to the living room.

Two fold-out trays were set up in front of the lounges. The TV was switched to a popular teenage soap-opera.

“Do you mind if we eat before it gets cold?” She detoured to the kitchen, returning with two meals. Well-done chops, boiled potatoes and peas and beans. Mrs. Willard kept the most burned piece of meat for herself.

“You might as well sit down,” Nick offered, before leaving the room. He returned a moment later with a bottle of barbecue sauce.

Hayden and Anya sat at the end of the longer lounge and waited for the pair to have a few bites of their meals. A black bass guitar stood propped on a stand, next to its speaker. No sheet music was in sight.

“Do you play in a band?” Anya asked.

Nick puffed his chest. “Some mates own a pub and we get a gig now and then.”

Men always thought being in a band impressed women. Anya thought of Liz Dorman’s boyfriend playing at a pub while someone took her life.

The smell of burned meat reminded her of the days before her mother knew what “medium-rare” meant. The sole purpose of cooking was to kill the bacteria in the meat and the only way to do that was by burning it to a piece of carbon that was almost inedible. Anya used to mock her mother for their evening meals. Ironically, with all the diet trends over the years, the old meat and three vegetables was now being accepted as one of the healthiest. Her mother had actually known best.