Kathryn Fox - Without Consent

She wondered about the young woman’s sudden disappearance. Hayden’s mobile phone rang and he excused himself to get better reception.

Anya flicked through the list on her notice-board and dialled Port Macquarie hospital. The medical-records department proved surprisingly helpful when she explained the need for information. No one named Leonie Turnbull had been admitted. The sexual-assault service had been run by the local clinic for many years. Anya doubted a medical student would want to be examined by people she worked with if she’d been assaulted.

She dialled a friend at the Newcastle SA unit, the closest major center. After explaining how important it was to know whether Leonie had presented three years ago, her colleague agreed to check and promised to call back. Anya thanked her and flicked through the remaining pages from Peter Latham.

A case from six years ago involved a more elderly woman who had been stabbed in her home multiple times. This woman had ligature marks on her wrists and ankles from being restrained on the bed. Judging by the trauma, the poor woman had been raped with a sharp instrument prior to death. The details were horrific. After the rape, the perpetrator slit her throat, shearing the carotid arteries on both sides. The stab wounds weren’t confined to the chest and involved the face and limbs as well. As far as murders went, this was one of the most sadistic. The killer had even urinated on his victim.

When Hayden returned, Anya passed him the pages. He read in silence, shaking his head at various stages. “Hard to imagine what sort of animal can do this,” he said.

“I doubt it’s the same killer. The pattern of injuries is very different.”

Hayden studied the page. “I agree. What did Quentin Lagardia say about our guy? The gentleman rapist?”

“Exactly. In relative terms, he’s not that sadistic. Whoever did this wasn’t role-playing with the old lady. Everything he did was angry, brutal and degrading. Look at the urination. That’s something either an anger-retaliatory or anger-excitation rapist would do.”

“Our guy doesn’t kill them when he rapes them. And the ones who were stabbed to death weren’t raped at the same time, as far as we know, except for maybe Eileen Randall, and that could have been consensual going by her reputation.” He took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. “This old lady was a goner as soon as she opened the door.”

Either way, Anya knew she would be happier if Hayden followed up on whether or not anyone had been convicted of the old lady’s murder.

As if in response to her thoughts, he said, “I’ll still check it out just to be sure we’re not jumping to the wrong conclusion.”

Anya’s mobile phone rang in her handbag. She fumbled to grab it on the fifth ring.

“Thanks for getting back…She was?…She did? On the twelfth of June?…Brilliant. I’ll need to talk to her about the details later on. Thanks.”

A counsellor knocked on the door.

“Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve just got word. A woman is coming in who’s been tied up and held captive for two days. Casualty is checking her out. If she’s well enough she’ll come here, otherwise they’ll ask you to examine her over there,” she said. “I brought you these,” she added, presenting a plate loaded with buttered scones.

“Fine, thanks.” Anya’s headache suddenly felt worse. This would take hours to complete.

Hayden smiled and took the plate, thanking the counsellor.

“I think we could both do with some of these,” he said, tucking in to the first scone. “If we think the same person killed Liz Dorman and Leonie Turnbull, Willard can’t be guilty. He was in prison at the time. Unless we find a concrete link between Turnbull and Liz Dorman, Geoff Willard’s looking at life and I’m likely to be pulled off the case.”

Anya had almost forgotten. “That call was from Newcastle. It seems Leonie Turnbull had good reason to take off suddenly. She’d been raped four nights before she was murdered.”

Exhausted and with every muscleaching, Anya strapped Brown-Eye’s carcass in the back, climbed into her Corolla and instinctively pressed down on her lock, securing all the doors. All she wanted was a bath, a long soak and ten hours’ sleep.

The mobile rang. She closed her eyes and thought about ignoring it, but checked the caller ID, just in case it was important. Elaine. She hadn’t checked in with her secretary all day.

Breathing out, she picked it up. “How are things?”

Ever efficient, Elaine rattled off the routine and then emphasized the priority messages. Dan Brody had asked for another meeting. He could damn well wait, Anya thought. She wasn’t at his beck and call, and no doubt Veronica Slater had spun him some story about their argument at the prison.

Only half-listening, she let her mind wander. Nick Hudson was anxious to get his stuffed dog back. The drive out to the house would take about thirty minutes, maybe more in traffic, but Brown-Eye had already made her car reek, not to mention her office at the SA unit.

“That’s about it,” finished Elaine.

Relieved that everything could wait, Anya said goodnight and headed over to the Willards’ place.

“Brown-Eye, big fella.” Nick greeted his dead dog like he would a best friend.

“Sorry about the timing, but I couldn’t get out here any earlier.”

“My aunt’s in the kitchen, and we’re just watching the box.”

The scene was relaxed and homely. Anya imagined it echoed in millions of homes across the country.

By the fumes, meat was on the menu again, and The Price is Right was the focus of Nick’s attention. On the lounge sat a thick-set woman sorting washing. The abdominal girth could have been fat or pregnancy, but from that position it was difficult to tell. Anya had no intention of taking the risk of asking, When are you due?

“This is Desiree Platt, another old friend from the Bay. She stays sometimes for company,” Nick said. “When her husband’s away working.”

Desiree cupped one hand beneath her bulge, put the other behind her as an anchor, and arched her back to get herself up off the lounge. She was definitely pregnant.

“Hi,” Anya greeted her.

“You must be the doctor Nick’s been telling me all about.”

Nick scuffed the floor with his feet like a schoolboy. “Don’t you have to be somewhere?”

“Yeah, the toilet. This kid’s been using my bladder as a trampoline all afternoon.”

Mrs. Willard came out from the kitchen and wiped her hands on her apron. “Dinner won’t be long. Would you care to join us this time, dear? We’ve got an extra tray.”

Anya sensed she was being set up with Nick, who could just be a rapist and/or murderer. “No thanks, I can’t stay. I have a meeting to go to.”

Mrs. Willard grabbed Anya’s left hand. “No ring. You career women are missing out on the most important things.”

“Come on down,” cried the game-show host.

“How’s the investigation going?” Mrs. Willard asked, releasing her guest’s hand.

Anya thought twice about divulging information concerning the case, but the pleading look in the woman’s eyes made her want to give the mother something, some kind of hope, without giving away too much.

“We found another murder, one that Geoff can’t have committed, that is very similar to those of Eileen Randall and Elizabeth Dorman. It happened when he was in jail.”

Mrs. Willard’s eyes moistened. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll try to see Geoff tomorrow and tell him the good news.”

Anya paused. “The shirt the police took, that you said Geoff had never worn. Was it new?”

“Goodness, no. He couldn’t afford new things, and there are perfectly good clothes at the local op shop.”