by Kathryn Fox
She returned minutes later with a full bottle of paracetamol and a newly opened pack of prescribed antidepressants from the bathroom cupboard. “Nothing to suggest an overdose.”
The reality of the scene hit Anya like a blow to the chest.
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Matt said, sitting back and checking that damn watch again.
“We have to call it.”
She heard his next words but they were meaningless.
“Time of death, 9:15 A.M.”
He turned to Anya. “I’m sorry, Doc. There’s nothing more any of us could have done.”
2
Detective Inspector Hayden Richards arrived just after Anya broke the news of Giverny’s death to her father. Mary sat next to Bevan Hart at the kitchen table, as stunned as Anya by what had just occurred. In shock, Val had been taken outside by Matt’s colleague.
Anya knelt down next to the bereaved father; he was clutching Mary’s hand and his eyes were glassy with disbelief.
“I just went out to pick up Val. We promised to be a family again for the trial. For Giv’s sake.”
“It’s been a difficult time for all of you,” Mary acknowledged.
Since the attack, Bevan Hart had demanded justice for his only daughter, regularly phoning the police, Anya and the Sexual Assault (SA) unit for updates. This had put him in direct conflict with his wife, who didn’t want her daughter dealing with the trauma of a trial. When Giverny dropped out of school, the couple had separated and Val Hart had moved out-alone.
“Those bastards didn’t give her a chance when they attacked her, now they’ve killed her, after everything she had to live for.” He stared at the table and sniffed back a tear. “She’s a fighter, our girl, always has been. It’s why she wanted to go to court and testify against those evil bastards. She wanted them to pay for what they did to her. She just had to get through today. That was all she had to do, but those mongrels came back and killed her before…” His voice trailed off and he hunched forward against the table, shoulders heaving with each agonizing sob.
Hayden tapped Anya on the shoulder. The pair stepped into the hallway as Mary tried to offer comfort.
“I’m sorry you had to be the one to find her.”
Head of the sexual assault task force, Hayden had met Giverny’s father the night of the attack, and kept the family informed at every step in the investigation. He, too, looked as though he had just lost a friend.
The pair returned to the doorway, where Giverny lay. The paramedics had disconnected the ECG cords but left the leads and pads on her chest and the tube in her mouth-protocol for what was now a coronial case.
Crime Scene Officer Detective Sergeant John Zimmer arrived dressed in his police overalls and accompanied forensic pathologist, Doctor Jeff Sales. Both seemed more somber than usual. For once, the CSO didn’t have a wisecrack.
“I know this is hard for all of us,” Hayden Richards announced, “but we’ve got to treat this like any other investigation. For the sake of Giverny and her family.”
Anya nodded.
“Can you tell us exactly what you found when you arrived? Walk us through it. Anything you can remember at all.” Hayden took out his notebook and pen.
Anya clasped her hands, as though that would help her focus as she replayed the scene.
“She was on her knees, head bent forward, the ligature around her neck attached to the doorknob. Her hands were untied, the right one by her side and one finger-the left index-was between her neck and the cable.”
Zimmer took some photos from different angles, then honed in on the young woman’s left hand. He clicked away.
“What did the body look like?” Jeff asked.
“Cyanosed, she was obviously without oxygen, and pulse-less.”
“Signs of lividity?”
Anya knew it could take an hour for blood to pool due to gravity. Although Giverny’s legs were tucked under her, there was nothing to suggest lividity.
“No, her head was still warm.”
“Did you notice any petechial hemorrhages on her face or conjunctiva before attempting to resuscitate?” Jeff inquired.
Hayden interrupted. “Doesn’t anyone who has been hanged or strangled have those?”
“Not necessarily. If both the carotid artery and jugular vein are occluded and pressure isn’t released until after death, the face doesn’t become engorged. It’s because blood isn’t able to surge back up the neck.”
“So if you see them?” Hayden leaned closer to observe Giverny’s face.
Anya breathed out. “If you see them in cases like this, they’re suspicious. It suggests someone strangled the victim and staged the hanging to cover it up. It’s tough to strangle anyone, so killers usually release pressure, then apply it again.”
The implication of her words was clear to everyone present. Giverny may have been murdered and the scene made to look like a suicide. Anya suddenly remembered the threat painted on the car in the garage.
Jeff Sales continued his external examination. “Don’t forget to get a photo of the knot in the cord.”
Zimmer donned rubber gloves and bent down. “Not this one. It’s been cut right through and unravelled.”
“Damn!” Hayden muttered, hitching up his trousers at the waist.
In the emergency, Anya hadn’t thought about the knot. All she’d cared about was saving the girl’s life. There was no way that Mary would have known how important it was to preserve the knot as evidence when she followed Anya’s instruction and cut the dying girl down. Anya’s hands began to tremble again.
“Mate, you did the right thing.” Zimmer moved to her side. “We’re all trained to prioritize. Save survivors first and make the scene safe. That’s exactly what you did here. It’s what any of us would-and should-have done.”
Anya suddenly wasn’t so sure. It had never occurred to her that Giverny could have already been dead when they arrived. She saw the girl and automatically reacted, more with emotion than clinical acumen.
She hadn’t looked beneath Giverny’s closed lids to check for hemorrhages on the conjunctiva, and she couldn’t remember whether there were any on the girl’s face. She assumed there weren’t but could never swear to it. She may have simply failed to notice. God, how could she have missed something so important?
“I didn’t notice any hemorrhages. I’m sorry. It all happened so fast.”
Hayden offered, “None of us would have swapped places with you. We all knew Giverny and her gentleness got to all of us. But if those bastards did this to her to stop her testifying, we need to know every possible detail, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”
Jeff Sales clicked on a hand-held dictaphone.
“One hundred and twelve Levy Road, inside the front door is the body of a female adolescent, weight approximately fifty-five kilograms, height one hundred and sixty centimeters. ET tube is in situ, as is cannula in right forearm. A cream computer cable appears to have been removed from her neck.
“The face is engorged and petechial hemorrhages dot the area around the eyes and conjunctiva. A ligature mark consistent with the width of the computer cord extends from below the earlobes, under the chin. There is a small area on the left side of the neck, two centimeters inferior to the left ear, where the skin has been pierced. Blood has flowed vertically and then appears to travel toward the nape of the neck.”
Anya listened, still unable to accept that the body in front of them was the young woman she had known and treated. She looked down at the dried blood on her fingers. Giverny’s blood.
“I cut the cable with that knife on the floor,” she said, pointing to the smaller knife by the door, “while I was holding her upright, then when Mary freed her from the door tie I laid her flat on the ground to begin resuscitation. That’s why the blood dripped down then behind.” Her hands shook again as her temperature climbed. “Mary used the larger knife.”
She held her ribs and coughed again.
“You okay? You look flushe
d.” Hayden had a worried expression.
“I’m fine.”
“We can take a break if you want.”
“No. Let’s keep going.” Anya’s words were more curt than she had intended. It was best they finish going over the details while everything was still fresh in her mind.
“Were the knives near the body when you arrived?”
“No, I told Mary to quickly find something to cut the tie to the door. I assume she got them both from the kitchen.”
Zimmer photographed the knives, then placed them in paper evidence bags. The bloodstained cord went in another bag. “We’ll need to fingerprint Mary, as well as the doorknob.”
Jeff Sales lifted the skirt of Giverny’s dress, then replaced it.
“Underwear intact. No external evidence of sexual assault.”
All Anya could do was stand and watch, feeling as though Giverny’s body was being violated yet again.
3
After giving formal police statements, Mary dropped Anya a few blocks from her home. Anya wanted to clear her head and walk the rest of the way. By trying to save Giverny, she and Mary had contaminated what was considered a crime scene. As a result, if anyone had murdered Giverny Hart, evidence could be too blurred to lay charges.
She pictured the threats painted on the car and garage wall. DIE SLUT and LYING BITCH. Had she seen that and panicked? Replaying the scene in her mind, she couldn’t be sure her emotions hadn’t got in the way of common sense. On top of that, the fever could have affected her reactions and clouded her thinking.
Damn! Why couldn’t she remember what Giverny’s face had looked like before she had freed the cord from her neck? The small face was bent forward, barely visible until the ligature had been severed and released. It was the priority under the circumstances.
She knew better than anyone that in order to cause petechial hemorrhages, a killer would have to have cut off the blood supply to the neck, then relaxed the grip long enough for blood to surge back into the head region, before tightening the grip again. Even the strongest of men had trouble maintaining a hold long enough to kill in one episode of pressure.
If that happened, Giverny could have been in and out of consciousness, knowing she was going to die.
Anya coughed and a pain shot through the middle of her back. She slowed her pace and paused by a tree to let an elderly couple pass on the footpath.
The only ones who would benefit from the girl’s death were the Harbourns. The thought of her failed attempts at resuscitation helping them get away with murder brought bile to her throat.
She walked slowly, pain shooting through her back. Leaning over the body, doing cardiac massage had been exhausting. Now her muscles were in spasm.
Her thoughts wandered to her mother, a family doctor in Tasmania. Doctor Jocelyn, as her patients called her, had often come home dejected about losing one of her patients. Too often, as one of the few doctors in the area, she was the one to pull victims from mangled cars on the highway, or deliver stillborns of women she in turn had delivered all those years before.
Up until today, Anya hadn’t truly appreciated the impact that must have had. Her mother knew-and cared for-almost everyone in their area.
Giverny was a kind, sensitive girl who had touched all who had met her after the assault. The one hope was that she had not suffered any more in death that she had in life. If she’d hanged herself, unconsciousness would have come within about fifteen seconds of the cord tightening.
But if she were murdered…
Despite being terrified of facing her attackers in court, Giverny had talked about finding strength knowing that without her evidence the brothers would get away with their crimes. In spite of that, the multiple delays in the trial had worn her down. Having dropped out of school, her spirits were low. The parents’ separation was undeniably stressful. But was she depressed enough to commit suicide?
Anya thought about how much the Harts had lost. Bevan’s only daughter had been brutally raped. His determination to see a conviction had driven his wife to leave; she had wanted Giverny to move on with her life, not remain a victim. In contrast, the trial had become the focus of her husband’s life.
Looking at a passing couple in her street, hand in hand, doting on their baby, Anya felt a terrible pang for the Harts. No parent should ever outlive a child. Bevan and Val would never experience the joys of watching their daughter fall in love and have her own children, their grandchildren. That had all been taken from them.
As Anya walked slowly on, rain began to spit from a charcoal sky. The day could barely be any more miserable. A minute from home, the drizzle became a downpour.
Anya didn’t increase her pace; she was numbed by the morning’s events. It was only weather, and rain wasn’t capable of hurting her or causing her pain.
People were the experts at that.
Once inside her terrace house, she dropped her soaked leather shoes in the corridor and was greeted by Elaine, her secretary.
“You’ll catch your death of cold,” the middle-aged woman scolded.
Anya didn’t bother arguing that bacteria and viruses caused infections, not the weather.
“I’ll put the kettle on while you get out of those wet things.”
Anya knew from experience that Elaine would not take no for an answer, so she automatically complied. Elaine’s fussing was her way of showing affection, and at the moment, Anya appreciated that.
The soggy stockings were removed next and deposited in the laundry at the back of the house. On the way through the lounge, she flicked on the television for any bulletins on the case.
She wondered how Natasha Ryder, the prosecutor in the trial, had taken the news. Years spent trying to make the Harbourns answerable for their crimes were suddenly wasted. The senior prosecutor had endured two other trials with the brothers, each ending in acquittals when key witnesses refused to testify.
Without Giverny’s testimony, the current case came down to whether or not the teenager had consented to group sex. With DNA evidence to show sex with a number of men had taken place, the Harbourn brothers all claimed that Giverny had begged them for a “gang bang.” The thought made Anya shudder as she headed upstairs to change. Pulling on an oversized jumper and pair of yoga pants, she quickly towel-dried her hair and headed back down.
Elaine had a mug of hot chocolate waiting. Just like her mother used to do.
“Rough day?”
Anya took the offering and warmed her hands with it. “You could say that.”
“Detective Richards rang to see how you were doing. He explained why court was postponed.”
A news bulletin flashed on the screen, catching Anya’s attention. She moved to the lounge and hit the volume button on the remote.
Holding a press conference outside the family home was Noelene Harbourn, matriarch of the twisted criminal family. She was dressed in her trademark blue apron, to make herself look like a benign suburban mother, Anya supposed; some of her younger children were offering biscuits to the waiting media.
“I have just heard that the trumped-up police case against four of my sons has fallen apart. The only witness they could find to testify passed away unexpectedly this morning. I expect Mr. Argent, our lawyer, will be making a statement later on about when my sons will be released. Boys, we can’t wait to have you home and I’ve been baking all day to celebrate.”
A flurry of microphones moved forward and reporters shouted questions.
“Have you heard how the witness died?”
“What happened?”
“What’s going to happen with the trial?”
“Well, I don’t think anyone knows for sure, but when a young person dies suddenly, isn’t it normally due to a car accident or suicide?”
Or murder, Anya thought, tightening her grip on the mug.
“And I must say, I don’t think I was alone in worrying about the stability of that poor young woman. I mean, to make up so many lies like she did. My boys could never
hurt anyone. I guess she knew she had made a terrible mistake and couldn’t live with the guilt and shame of what she’d done.”
This was unbelievable. Noelene Harbourn was standing there celebrating Giverny’s death. How had she found out so quickly? If the trial were to continue, she had virtually declared that the police’s only witness was not only mentally unstable but had committed suicide rather than face the men she had falsely accused.
The charges would surely be dropped.
4
After a few hours of restless dozing, Anya weaved her way past the tight groups of suit-clad men and women spilling out from the Star Bar. She coughed as a well made-up executive in patent leather heels exhaled smoke in her direction. The woman barely acknowledged the offense before drawing her next puff and continuing her conversation.
The combination of perfumes, aftershaves and secondhand smoke irritated Anya’s inflamed, bronchitic lungs.
Inside, hip-hop music pulsed over alcohol-fueled conversations while big-screen televisions highlighted the latest sports results. Even up-market pubs like this one had never appealed to Anya. Then again, she wasn’t into networking or climbing the corporate ladder.
And she definitely wasn’t interested in a relationship that began over drinks and then soured when all effects of alcohol wore off.
Upstairs in the restaurant, the pub noises became muffled. In the corner Anya could see Natasha Ryder at a table, sipping from a large wine glass. Anya had been surprised by her request to meet over dinner. It was the last thing she wanted, but the prosecutor for the Harbourn trial deserved to hear what had happened from someone who had been there.
Anya headed straight over, took off her jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. “Sorry I’m late. I tried to call but your phone’s off.”
The prosecutor glanced up. “Didn’t fancy talking to anyone. Hope you don’t mind, I started without you.”
She pointed to a variety of breads with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. “I was starving.”
