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?”
“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.”
The waiter appeared and asked Anya what she would like to drink.
“Mineral water, thanks.”
As tempting as it was to use alcohol to obliterate the day, the combination of antibiotics, fever and painkillers was a far more potent cocktail.
“And I’ll have another pinot gris,” the prosecutor announced, dipping a bread stick into the oil.
“I appreciate your coming, I know it’s been a tough day all round.”
The image of the young woman hanging from the doorknob was still vivid, as if the whole scene had been burned on Anya’s retina.
“I can’t help thinking what might have happened if we’d found her sooner, if the CPR had been effective, if the paramedics had been faster with the defibrillator…”
Natasha toyed with the bread stick on the plate.
“My father used to say that there are two phrases that should be outlawed from the English language. ‘What if’ and ‘if only.’ Those words have ruined countless careers, marriages and lives.”
She drained her glass. “What’s happened is done, and you can’t torture yourself with what might have been. We have to move on. My problem now is what to do with the trial.”
The waiter arrived with the drinks and placed them on the table. “Are you ready to order?”
Anya didn’t feel hungry but she knew she should eat something. The restaurant was known for hearty rustic cooking. “I’ll just have the soup of the day.”
“To start with,” Natasha began, “the smoked salmon salad with the vinaigrette on the side, followed by the rump steak-cooked medium-rare, oven-roasted potatoes, string beans and aoili on the side, thanks.”
Despite her key witness dying, the lawyer had lost none of her appetite or fussiness. Anya balked at the almost callous attitude.
“I assumed that you’d have to drop the charges, given that Giverny can no longer testify.”
“That’s what the Harbourns and their legal team will assume. But this time they’re not getting away with rape and grievous bodily harm. The way I see it, we still have your evidence, what you found when you examined Giverny. The damage to her skin from the hose pressure is impressive and supports her version of events. A jury won’t be able to ignore your evidence.”
“I can only objectively describe what I saw.”
