Kathryn Fox - Without Consent

Veronica Slater had affected her more than she wanted to admit. The biggest concern was that the solicitor had virtually ruined her chances of consultancy work for both the police and defense attorneys. That didn’t give her many other options in private practice. Her income would plummet.

Sorrenti would not want Anya to give evidence in any rape trial involving Geoff Willard. The fact that Veronica had asked her to consult on the case-very publicly thanks to the staged press-conference outside the prison-wasn’t surprising, but still distressed her. Veronica never intended to use Anya’s findings. She had no obligation to use any opinion that might hurt her case. She might have to go through twenty specialists to find one who gave her client a favorable slant, but she would. The media would be anticipating Anya’s evidence at a trial. Her omission could hurt the reputation she’d worked so hard to forge.

Things seemed to be getting out of control. Even the most basic housework seemed overwhelming. Suddenly she could see mess and dirt all over the house. So much for the plan to get a cleaner. She might not have enough money to pay the mortgage by the end of the year.

She picked up the kitchen rubbish to take it out the back door and deposited yesterday’s dirty clothes in the laundry on the way. What faced her was the piled-up washing, impossible to ignore. Deciding to put on a load of whites before Elaine arrived, she put out the bin and quickly sorted what she was most likely to need sooner rather than later. Adding some powder to the full load, she switched it on to the fast-wash cycle.

Whenever she put in a load of washing, it reminded her of a case she had seen a few years ago. A baby had suffered a severe head injury from being placed in a bouncinette on top of the family washing machine. The baby had slept, but when the cycle hit the spin-dry phase, the baby bounced right off, onto the concrete floor. The mother didn’t seem to understand how it could have happened. Unfortunately, stupidity wasn’t a good enough reason for community services to remove the child from the mother’s care.

Anya checked her answering machine. There were three messages. Martin had given her address and number to a mother from preschool, so Ben could play some time. The mother would call during the week. Anya didn’t recognize the friend’s name, but that was hardly surprising. She had only been to preschool a few times to collect her son.

Dan Brody’s message asked if they could have a chat about the Willard case. Anya felt her pulse race again at his arrogant tone. She didn’t want to speak to him, not today. She deleted it before he’d finished.

Lastly, her father had phoned. He’d be in town next week and asked if they could have dinner.

She sat down, and wrote down the phrase that Desiree had used so casually. The way she’d behaved was a little possessive toward Nick, yet she made a point of saying how happy she was with her “good man.”

What was Desiree’s last name? She strained to remember. Watt? Putt? Patt? Sounded like a hairdo-Platt! That was it. She circled it on the page for when she next spoke to Hayden.

She also wrote down what they knew about the Dorman murder. Two of Geoffrey’s shirts taken from the house had traces of blood that were consistent with Liz Dorman’s. The DNA evidence against Willard was pretty damning, let alone the similarities to the Randall stab wounds-the number, distribution and types. He also had no alibi for the night Liz Dorman died.

Anya concluded that the same killer was most likely responsible for both deaths.

Did Liz’s rape have anything at all to do with her murder? But the photo that had been stolen from the fridge during the rape was found in the garbage bin after her murder. She was unaware of any serial offender who took souvenirs of their victims and then returned them to the scene.

The rape had to be related. So was Geoffrey Willard the serial rapist? Or did he work with a partner? Maybe Nick?

Elaine arrived with a cheery “good morning” and removed a scarf and coat.

“You started early,” she said. “Anything I can do?”

“Just going over a case. Just when I think I’ve worked it out, something comes up to confuse me all over again.”

Elaine rubbed her hands together. “Do you mind if I put the heater on?”

“No,” Anya said, lost in thought again.

Mrs. Willard had told her one of Geoff’s shirts had come from the opportunity shop and he hadn’t even worn it. But it was possible the mother had lied to protect him.

Was there a possibility the shirts he bought already had Liz’s DNA on them? She clicked on to the Internet and googled Willard. He’d been released four weeks ago, and Liz died just over a week ago. It was unlikely he’d worn the same donated shirt and trousers for three weeks, especially if they didn’t fit. Still, Hayden could check the dates with the shop receipts. Maybe he had borrowed Nick’s clothes in the interim.

“Oh, Anya!” Elaine called from the kitchen, her voice impatient.

What now? She stood up, not realizing how cold her fingers were until she passed through the lounge room and felt the warmth of the sun in the kitchen. Elaine was behind the kitchen in the laundry, bending over the washing machine.

Anya had begrudgingly accepted that Elaine liked to mother even when at work. Sometimes that meant helping out with household tasks. Today Anya had no objection.

“The machine was bouncing across the floor. You put an unbalanced load in,” the secretary said, standing up with two mottled pink shirts, both of which had originally been white. “I can’t believe you did this again.”

Anya had thrown the clothes in without checking inside the machine. Ben’s missing red sock had been in there, forgotten from the last wash. Her favorite pair of capri pants were ruined as well. Things were not getting better.

“When I duck out with the post, I’ll get you some of that dye remover,” Elaine said. “If we wash it straight away, the color might just come out.”

There was no point stressing over a pair of trousers, Anya thought. She went back to her office. Just as she sat, the idea of dye running in the wash made sense.

“Elaine, you’re a genius!” she called. “You’ve just helped me with a case. Why didn’t I think of it sooner? I’ve got to go out for a while. I’ll be back soon.”

She grabbed her handbag from the kitchen bench and slipped into her shoes at the door, pausing to say, “That dye remover is under the sink. I bought a spare in case it happened again.”

Anya stood in the forensic-science studentlab at the University of Technology in the city. Renowned for its forensic-science degree, the university had developed an excellent post-graduate research program.

The director of the degree course was a biochemist who was so passionate about the science that he was a major instigator in the World Congress of Forensic Medicine, organizing conferences in Sydney followed by Montpellier in the South of France.

Jean Le Beau was a small man with the blackest hair and dark brown eyes. He had the sort of eyelashes that mascara companies would die to promote, had they been on a woman. It was the only feminine thing about the gifted scientist. Jean was intense, and his face seemed set in a perennial frown. Anya often questioned whether supreme intelligence was a constant burden.

“Hello, Unya,” he said, in an accent that could melt the coldest heart. She knew it was shallow, but at the forensic conferences she’d been to, married women would find excuses to talk to him, just to hear his voice. His presentations were always standing-room only. Not bad for someone with relatively little charisma before he spoke.