attended overseas conferences and whose children left home years ago. Unfortunately, that covered most of the people there.
After an acrimonious divorce, seeing her son every second weekend meant that overseas trips were out of the question unless paid for by a client. She wasn’t going to rely on that ever happening. Having left the public pathology system, she no longer had the security of sick leave, paid holidays or study leave. And definitely no access to conference funds. She was saving every spare dollar to challenge her former husband for shared custody of their only child. Private forensic medicine was nowhere near as profitable as she had hoped.
The other side of the foyer comprised the usual advocates for victims of crime. A local politician, social workers, psychologists and families who had been devastated by crime all stood uncomfortably in a group herded together by Bob Reynolds. Bob had campaigned for victim recognition for over twenty-five years and was widely acknowledged as an expert in sentencing law. He was also Anya’s father.
She sipped her Verdelho and played with the condensation on the glass, glancing around the room for an ally. The deputy coroner had just legalized his second, or maybe third, marriage. Secretaries fawned over the new wife’s bauble as the men exchanged not-so-humorous anecdotes and laughed louder than the jokes deserved.
Forced to maneuver past a raucous raconteur, she relaxed when she spied Peter Latham, her mentor and friend. Headed for sanctuary, she slowed as she noticed that Peter was involved in what looked like a serious and very intense conversation with another pathologist, Alf Carney. The current directors of the state’s leading forensic centers stood with their heads close together. Aware that Peter Latham had known Carney a long time, Anya was still surprised to see them so involved in such a private discussion.
She didn’t notice her secretary sidle up.
“Sorry I’m late. The phones went crazy just as I was about to lock up.” Elaine Morton pulled a compact from her bag and checked her face. Her newly permed and set hair smelt like ammonia. “Nothing that can’t wait. How do I look?” She preened odd strands from her forehead. “Oh, and Dan Brody wants you to call him tomorrow.”
“Fine. You look fine.” Anya couldn’t avoid noticing the musk perfume, a sure sign that Elaine had smoked on the way. “What did he want?”
Elaine licked her teeth and grinned. “Your opinion on some case he’s involved with.”
Anya took a breath. She hadn’t spoken to the high-profile defense barrister for months. The previous year he had been the only one sending her work, which had kept her business afloat and meant she could pay alimony to her ex-husband while paying off the mortgage on her home and office. Then her world had almost crumbled when Kate Farrer, a homicide detective and close friend, was kidnapped and both their lives were threatened.
After that, Kate had gone on long-service leave and Dan had lost touch. Anya’s professional name had been poison for a while, with whispers that lawyers feared her forensic evidence would be tainted because of media interest in her past. Luckily, a job as acting director at a sexual-assault unit meant that she was at least able to maintain her income and slowly rebuild her reputation.
By the time cases she was now involved with came to trial, there would be no doubt that she was still one of the most qualified and experienced forensic physicians in the country. No court could tarnish that, or so Anya hoped.
“Looks like Brody’s grown up and come to his senses.” Elaine snapped closed the compact mirror. She’d spotted Peter Latham and headed straight over. A middle-aged woman on the prowl had no qualms interrupting secret men’s business, Anya thought. She watched with anticipation as to how Peter would handle the situation. Married more to his work than his wife, she’d never seen him flirt until he had met Elaine. As innocent as it seemed, Elaine had developed an almost adolescent interest in any meeting Peter was likely to attend, and the new hairdo was obviously for his benefit.
Anya thought about what her secretary had said about Brody. If she were honest, she missed the banter and arguments about ethics versus the law. The last time she saw him he had brought champagne. Instead of accepting his dinner invitation, Anya had rushed off to see Ben and her ex-husband. Dan hadn’t rung her about work-or anything else-since.
The chief coroner, Morgan Tully, excused herself from a zealous police sergeant and lifted a hand to Anya. In her late forties, she could accessorize classic suits with a scarf or necklace and look like she’d been dressed for a fashion magazine. The tastefully cropped silver hair drew attention straight to Morgan’s large green made-up eyes.
“Do you find these things as boring as I do? The old boys’ network in full swing?”
Anya mused, “Agony would be a better description.”
A master of discretion, Morgan Tully spoke softly. “I’m glad you came tonight. I wanted to see how you were. The fiasco in the papers a while back about you and your family was appalling.” Laying a hand on Anya’s shoulder, she lowered her voice further. “I tried to call you to offer support, but your secretary said you’d taken some time off.”
The weekend of Kate Farrer’s kidnapping, a hatchet-style article in the country’s biggest-selling newspaper had implied that Anya had helped her husband escape a murder charge in England. The journalist even suggested that Anya might have been involved in the abduction of her sister, who disappeared at the age of three. At the time, Anya was a mere five years old. The savagery of the article almost cost her access to her own child.
It had taken a lot of time and effort since then to convince her ex-husband that her work would no longer compromise their son.
“Couldn’t imagine any sane lawyer employing me as an expert witness, so I spent some time with my son down on the south coast.” Anya sipped her wine. “Turns out, I was right.”
“The article was outrageous and we all knew it. Just like all supposed scandals, everyone forgot about it when we found out about another politician who got caught with his mistress milking taxpayer funds.” Morgan lifted a mineral water from a passing waiter’s tray. “I’ve always had a lot of respect for your work, you know. So much so, I wanted to talk to you about a rather sensitive matter.” She motioned toward a leather lounge adjacent to a large indoor plant just inside the entrance. It was the most privacy anyone could expect in a crowded foyer.
The pair sat down and Morgan Tully began.
“I would appreciate your help on what really could be a political time-bomb. It’s come to my attention that one of your colleagues has made some, shall we say, controversial decisions, and I’d like you to review some of the cases. I don’t know if I’m over-reaching with my lack of expertise in your field, but I have questions about some of his findings that perhaps you could answer.”
Anya nodded. “How many cases are we talking about?”
The chief coroner frowned. “I’m not really sure. I’d like you to look at a dozen to start with.” She poured the mineral water into the wilting pot plant. “I don’t want this to look like a witch-hunt, which is why I would like it to stay just between us for now. And I don’t expect this to be pro bono.”
Anya knew she could use the extra income. Twelve case-reports were the equivalent of about three weeks’ work. “Fine, but why me? Why not someone like Peter Latham?”
Morgan looked around, presumably to ensure no one was eavesdropping. “For a couple of reasons. You’re the only fully independent forensic pathologist in the state, so you’re removed from the lockerroom talk within the departments. And if we’re being honest, because you’re a woman.”
She seemed to anticipate Anya’s offense at that comment. “This isn’t an affirmative-action thing. I thought about Peter, but unfortunately he’s part of the problem.”
Anya couldn’t believe what the coroner was saying. “I know Peter
Running a finger around the rim of her empty glass, Morgan smiled. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t put you in that position. I agree with you. It’s not Peter I’m investigating, it’s his mate over there, Alf Carney.”
Morgan perused the room and rose. “Can I rely on you and your discretion?”
Investigating a colleague was never going to make her popular, but getting the coroner offside would be the worse career move. Anya nodded. “Courier the files to my office and I’ll let you know what I think.”
Morgan’s eyes widened. She gave a half-smile then turned and embraced an elderly man who seemed more than willing to escort her in to dinner.
Never a fan of Alf Carney, who had deliberately tried to block her accessing vital information for a potential homicide case, Anya watched him finish his conversation with Peter Latham and make a direct line for the exit. She wondered what he had done to warrant a clandestine investigation.
