Kathryn Fox - Without Consent

Within seconds, the police arrived and entered via the back door, followed shortly after by Hayden Richards and Meira Sorrenti.

“We need an ambulance, there’s been a stabbing,” Hayden yelled into his mobile phone.

Anya slumped to the floor, aching and exhausted. “Where’s Ben?”

Meira bent down. “He’s with one of the constables.”

“Platt’s dead,” she said. “She stabbed him when he got between us.”

Desiree wailed, “Liar! You killed him. You said he was gonna be all right.”

The ambulance men arrived and one ran to Anya, who’d only just realized she was covered in Luke’s blood. “I’m all right,” she said. “The blood’s not mine.”

Meira remained at her side. “Nasty hit to your face. Did Platt do that?”

“No, that was my ex-husband.” She smiled and the movement split her lip open. “What did you hit me with?”

“My foot. I dived on the woman. Only I misjudged a little and kicked you. Sorry.”

Two uniforms lifted and hand-cuffed Desiree before leading her away. Martin stood watching the commotion. He had seen death during his years as an intensive-care nurse, but he had never been involved in a crime. His whole body trembled. Hayden Richards moved over and took him outside.

All Anya could think of was that at least he was respectable enough for Ben to see once he got over the initial shock. Whereas she’d have to get cleaned up first.

Meira asked one of the Crime Scene Officers to swab and photograph Anya straight away, so they could bag her clothes and let her get clean.

“Could you hold out your hands, please?” asked the gloved constable. A white cotton swab dabbed at one of the bloody spots. Then another. “Did you scratch your assailant?”

“No…I mean, yes, I think. When he had me around the neck.”

The constable swabbed beneath her nails and then cut them, placing the cuttings in a plastic jar.

“We need to do this to tie up the loose ends.” Meira sounded sympathetic.

“All done until we do the clothes. When you undress, could you place this paper sheet beneath you?”

“I know the routine,” Anya said.

“Come on.” Meira put her arm around Anya’s shoulder. “I’ll help you upstairs.”

Meira waited until they were alone in the bathroom. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

All her adrenalin spent, Anya had trouble mustering the energy to go over the last few hours. “He came to rape me but he didn’t get the chance.” The words came out, but it was as though she were talking about someone else. “Desiree arrived and stopped him.”

The detective seemed relieved. “You used your wits. They saved your life,” she said. “You’re a strong woman. You’ll get over this.” She rubbed Anya’s shoulder. “I’ll wait here while you have a shower. Chain of evidence and all that.” Any sentimentality was erased from the moment.

When Anya closed the bathroom door, she heard, “And there’s a kind of cute kid next door busting to see you, so could you hurry it up?”

Staring at the shower, Anya decided to scrub herself down from the sink. The thought of Platt staring at her while she washed was too fresh. Stepping out of the blood-soaked clothes, she took a wet face-washer and began to wipe off the red stains.

“Welcome back.” Hayden Richards stoodin the office doorway with a cactus plant in his arms. Around the base was a bright yellow ribbon.

Anya stared at the plant. “What’s this in aid of?”

“I call it ‘The Crichton.’ It’s hardy, practical and can survive almost anything. It’s like a rose, only it has prickles instead of thorns.”

Anya pushed back her chair and stood up.

“It’s a really nice gesture,” she said, taking the plant. “Thank you.”

“So how was the holiday?”

“Good,” she said. “The salt air was just the thing. Ben and I had a ball.”

He put his hands in his pockets. “And your ex?”

She put the plant down on the desk. “He’s doing okay. It was good to spend some time together, I guess. He’s nowhere near as angry as I thought he would be about my work. Ironically, it’s mellowed him and rekindled respect. I think he was genuinely impressed that I talked my way out of getting raped and killed.” She moved the plant closer to the center. “Can I make you a coffee?”

“Why not?”

The pair retreated to the staffroom. Light filled the area and the surrounding trees gave it a sense of calm. Someone had kindly already made a pot.

Hayden sat on one of the padded vinyl chairs and stretched his legs. “Thought you might like an update on what’s gone on.”

Anya was ready to hear about it. She’d prepared herself to listen to every detail.

“Turned out Lerner was just a thug. There may be up to twenty-eight rape cases that Luke Platt committed, judging by the unsolved cases we’ve tracked down and the stash of souvenir photos Platt had hoarded. Some of the details are patchy and they cross three states, but getting information from victims is not easy. Not surprising, given how much he’s moved around. We should be grateful he did get around. It made it harder for Desiree to follow him at night. Otherwise there would have been others killed.”

“Why didn’t she kill more?”

“They only hooked up about three years ago.”

Of course, Anya thought. Desiree had told her that. “What about before Luke?”

Hayden looked out at the view. “Before that, she lived somewhere remote with a farmer. They barely left the property. He says she wouldn’t let him. A real control freak, always accusing him of being unfaithful.”

Anya needed to hear. “How could she think Luke was having relationships with these women? Is she still delusional?”

“Technically not, according to the trick-cyclist. Then again, trust a psychiatrist to think Desiree is sane. He reckons it was reasonable to assume Luke was having affairs. All the secrecy, sneaking out, lies, he could have been any unfaithful husband. Besides, he stalked them, so he kept going back to the same house. If you were in denial, you would think he was having an affair. And the few times she followed him, she didn’t see the gloves. He kept them in his pockets until he went around the back. She didn’t see him climb in Liz Dorman’s window, or so she says. Either way, she knew right from wrong when she stabbed her victims.”

“It’s lucky more wives don’t take the same course of action.” Anya poured a couple of cups. “What about the blood on the knife?”

“Ah,” he said. “That belonged to Desiree herself. She must have cut herself during one of the three murders.”

“Three? Elizabeth Dorman, and I’m presuming Leonie Turnbull. Who was the third?” She passed Hayden a black coffee.

“Ta. Eileen Randall. She confessed to everything.” He grinned and massaged his top lip. “There you go, maybe she is crazy. Even told us about planting the murder weapon in Lerner’s garage after you went to her place. She knew we were digging around and chose him because of his reputation for domestic abuse.”

“Desiree was very calculating. It makes me feel better that Willard didn’t do it.” She sat next to the detective, feeling a sense of pride at helping to vindicate an innocent man.

“Yeah, well, apparently she was on with Nick Hudson when he did the deed with Randall. Seems she’s had trouble with pathological jealousy for a bloody long time.”

Anya couldn’t believe fourteen-year-old Desiree would kill Eileen Randall over a boy. Desiree may have been legally sane, but she was incredibly disturbed, even if she’d escaped being labelled delusional. She was psychopathic, having not an ounce of remorse for what she’d done. She had even let Geoff Willard take the blame and spend twenty years in prison.