“Can you tell me if your friend is still awake?”
Anya heard muffled crying in the background. At least the victim was conscious and breathing.
“If I’m going to help I have to know what I’m dealing with and how badly she’s hurt.”
Violet waited before answering. “She’s beaten up, her face is swollen and she can’t move her left arm. Please help, she’s in a lot of pain.”
Asking for pain relief over the phone instantly aroused a doctor’s suspicion. It could be a ruse to get hold of narcotics. It wouldn’t be the first time an addict had feigned injury, although that usually entailed stories of miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy or a bone disorder.
Anya spoke slowly and clearly, trying to quell Violet’s rising panic.
“I don’t carry pain relief in my bag or at the assault unit attached to the hospital. If she needs something strong, I can’t give it to her. Hospital’s the best place for her.”
In case drugs were the reason for the call, it should be enough to discourage an addict from continuing with the sham.
Instead, Violet became more frantic. “She’s straight-edged-she doesn’t even take headache tablets. And she isn’t drunk. I’m really scared, you’ve got to help us. There’s no one else we can turn to.”
“Is the person who did this near you?”
“No. He’s gone for now.”
Committed now to seeing the girl and her friend, Anya climbed out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans. The crumpled oversized T-shirt she slept in was replaced with a bra and shorter, ironed version. She glanced past Ben’s empty bedroom on the way downstairs.
“I’m on my way to the hospital, the same place you saw me the first time.”
“I remember.”
“Let’s meet out front and I’ll let us in.”
“Please hurry.”
Violet hung up and Anya dialed Mary Singer, to keep her informed of what was happening. Mary, who sounded surprisingly alert for this time of night, wanted to come along, citing a policy to always have a counselor in attendance, but Anya promised to call back if Mary were needed.
Twenty minutes later she pulled up outside the center and immediately saw two small figures in the shadows of the streetlamp, one bent over. She rushed over to offer support but Violet urged her to take them somewhere safer.
Once inside, Anya locked the entrance and quickly glanced out the glass door to make sure no one was outside. She switched on the light and led the girls to the examination suite.
The girl with Violet staggered to the lounge chair, her friend at her side. Anya would not have recognized the face even if they’d met before. The cheeks and eyes were swollen, and blackened. Blood stained her pale shirt. With one hand, she held a blood-soaked towel to the back of her head. The other showed a deformed wrist and forearm, which on a quick glance had to be a displaced fracture.
Anya immediately pulled on latex gloves and grabbed a thick surgical pad along with a pillow. Violet made way as she moved over to the lounge.
“That’s a pretty nasty gash to the head. Can I take a look?”
The girl seemed to defer to Violet, who nodded.
Anya carefully lifted the broken forearm onto a pillow on the owner’s lap. The woman grimaced but did not resist. Next came a cursory examination of the scalp wound.
“Looks like someone really did a job on you. This might sting a bit.”
Anya pressed around the seven centimeter split in the skull, feeling for boggy swelling, anything to suggest a fractured skull beneath. Relieved not to find any abnormality, she then studied the jagged laceration more carefully.
“Can you tell me how this happened? It’s pretty obvious someone wanted to hurt you.”
Violet had folded her arms and sat on a single seater, bent forward, with her long black skirt stretched over her knees. “Is this confidential? Like you promised when you saw me?”
Anya looked across. “Yes, but if someone’s life is at risk, that confidence may have to be broken.”
The two women exchanged looks. “Told you she was all right,” Violet said. “We’re safe here. Go on, tell her.”
The laceration had temporarily stopped bleeding but would need stitches, so Anya sat, gloved palms facing upward on her lap.
The unknown woman spoke through a split bottom lip.
“My name is Savannah. Savannah Harbourn.”
18
Anya had heard a great deal about the crimes of the Harbourn family, but never any mention of Savannah.
Violet appeared agitated while she explained, “We used to be friends. That’s how I met her brother, Rick, the one I was going out with when…” She picked at the skin framing a thumbnail. “The night I came here.”
“She means the night she got pissed and had sex with my brothers,” Savannah said, matter-of-fact.
“Do you know whoever did this to you?” Anya asked. “You and Violet look terrified.”
Savannah breathed through her puffed-up mouth. The bridge of her nose had already widened with swelling.
“I went over to see my two younger sisters. I moved out, but go back to help them with homework and stuff. It was after eight and no one was cooking for them, so I started making spaghetti.”
“Their mother has never given a shit,” Violet said. “If it wasn’t for Savannah, they’d live on potato chips and Coco Pops.”
“When I was in the kitchen, Mum and Gary, my oldest brother, started arguing about the police and what they had on him this time. He just kept saying he had it covered. I ignored it ’cause they argue like that all the time. It’s why I left home.”
Anya could imagine the scene in the crowded, squalid home full of teenagers and adults in constant trouble with the police. If criminal behavior was learned, the family home was the ideal schooling ground. Savannah was wise to move away from it. With this family, though, violence seemed to have been inescapable.
“What happened then?”
Anya stayed seated, allowing Savannah to tell her whole story before suturing and cleaning the wounds. She had numerous questions about what Savannah knew about the family’s criminal acts but wanted to gain the sister’s trust by letting her speak freely for a while. She hoped something-anything-would come out about Giverny and the attack on Sophie and Rachel Goodwin. Even though this conversation was in complete confidence, Anya just might be able to persuade Savannah to speak to the police about what she knew.
“Gary started screaming and then Bruce and Paddy came home. They joined in and said Paddy got rid of the paint from that night, and that’s all he and Bruce did. But Mum didn’t believe them and started slapping them around the face.”
Violet spoke again. “They would just take that from her, no one would dare hit back.”
Anya wondered if the violence they inflicted on women was a surrogate way of getting back at their mother. Abusers had often been abused themselves, but it was no defense-moral or legal. It didn’t make the victim’s suffering any more bearable.
“I stayed out of it, but half the street would have heard. They kept telling Mum that they got rid of the paint, that’s all. Eventually she took off in her car. There’s this bloke she goes to when she’s pissed off with us lot.”
The paint. Was it the red paint they had used to scrawl threats on Giverny’s car? That meant the Harbourns were involved in what happened at the Hart home, despite four of them being in jail at the time. Anya wanted to know exactly what they had said to incriminate themselves, but had to be very careful in dealing with Savannah. At the moment she was a patient, not informant.
“Can I get something for the pain? This arm is killing me when I move.”
