knocked on a bit of non-chipped paint on the door. She was about to leave when it creaked open.
A short, bald man stood there, bare-chested, in pajama pants.
“I’m looking for Bill Lalor. The tides expert.”
“That’s me.” He grinned, scratching a silver-haired chest.
“Charlie Boyd sent me.”
The man sighed. “You can get stuffed if you’re here to make fun of me. The town eccentric isn’t playing today.” He began to close the door.
Anya held out her hand. “Actually, I am in need of your expertise.” Looking at his attire, or lack of it, Anya offered, “If it’s a bad time, I could come back later?”
“Why would you think that?” he asked, scratching his un-shaved stubble. “Come in, come in.”
Anya wiped her feet on the straw mat. “I hear you’ve got records of every high and low tide in this area for over forty years.”
“Sure have.”
“You must really know your stuff.”
Bill Lalor grinned again. Three of his front teeth were missing.
“I specifically need to know about a date twenty years ago.”
The man’s pale-gray eyes flared, revealing more of the white sclera. “If it’s about the night Eileen Randall died, I have nothing to say.”
Anya could understand the unwillingness to talk to strangers, but hoped this man might be upfront about his theories regarding that night.
“I understand that no one listened to you before. I want to know about the tides that night. Why you think the police got it wrong.”
The man scratched the back of his head. “I got death threats after I went to the police. Someone even burned me old house down.”
Anya said, “I’m reviewing the case. If they come after anyone, it ought to be me.”
“I don’t want my name mentioned. You understand?”
“Absolutely. I’ll get experts from somewhere else to confirm the details if they agree.”
Inside she heard a twitter and the rattle of a bell. She followed the old man down a linoleum corridor into a back room filled with potted ferns. A white fluffy cat sat perched on a chair, clawing at the birdcage.
“Get down, Snowie,” Bill said, clearing the chair for his guest. Overweight Snowie’s bell jingled as it begrudgingly moved.
Then her host vanished. Anya stood in the room, watching the bird, when Bill returned with a roll of maps. He laid them on top of piles of papers on the kitchen table and asked her to hold down one side. She obliged.
“I made copies after that night. Ones for the police, but they didn’t want them. These weren’t at my place when it went up.”
Anya wondered how many other people had been affected by Eileen Randall’s death. The cat purred at her ankles and brushed against her legs.
“Geoff Willard couldn’t have killed the girl at the time they said because of the tides. If you see here, high tide around the bay was 12:43 a.m., but in the cove it had to be earlier.”
Anya didn’t follow.
“The winds, girl. The winds. The expert they got in didn’t factor them. This was a sheltered cove. Missed the mark by a couple of hours.” He paused and seemed to wait for a sign of understanding. “Winds affect the tides, especially in a cove. That expert just averaged the times across the whole of the bay.”
“So what you’re saying is that high tide was as much as two hours earlier than the police thought.”
“That’s right. Willard told his mother he dragged the dead girl out of the water. Only thing is, I don’t know how to prove he was telling the truth.”
“There might be a simple way,” Anya said. “Do you know anything about crayfish larvae?”
“Not much. They live in the sea.”
“The pathologist found larvae inside Eileen Randall’s chest cavity. The only way they could have got there is if they floated in through the stab wounds.”
Bill slapped his leg. “So I’m right. The body was in the water. Willard told the truth.”
“In so much as we now know that the body was floating in the water at some stage. But it doesn’t tell us when exactly.”
Anya thought that it seemed too simple to have been overlooked. If Bill Lalor was right about the tides that night, then Eileen Randall may have been killed before Geoff Willard found her.
She sat on the chair vacated by Snowie. Taking that into account and the lack of blood on his clothes, it was possible that Willard might not have stabbed Eileen Randall after all. If that was true, he’d just served twenty years in prison for a crime he hadn’t committed.
Back at the cabin, Anya took copious notes about her discussions with Charlie and Bill. The crayfish larvae could only have got into the body via the water. If Willard had watched the TV show as he had claimed, Eileen may have been killed earlier and been floating in the water when he found her. That would explain the smears on his shirt, if he carried her up to the beach. But why would he be dressing her? And there was the issue of a positive ID from Michele Harris, Eileen’s friend. She circled that fact over and over.
This was the side of forensic medicine Anya loved and loathed. Answering questions was incredibly satisfying, but creating even more questions was a source of constant frustration.
She made a sandwich and pulled out a crime novel. Sitting on the small wooden balcony, she put her feet up on the second chair and began to read. She was yet to find one that wasn’t full of inaccuracies, but she still enjoyed the stories.
The sound of children laughing on the beach reminded her of childhood holidays at Low Head-before and after Miriam had disappeared. That was such a sterile word for what had happened. She thought of her three-year-old sister building sandcastles and obsessively putting shells in a straight line on every one. That’s what Miriam loved to do-build things and make them perfect. And then she was gone.
A young girl squealed with the thrill of getting wet, as her mother stood, huddled, wet up to her ankles. The little girl jumped and splashed, unaffected by the cold temperature. Anya wondered how kids could complain about a tepid bath but revel in a chilly ocean.
Putting the novel aside, she closed her eyes and drifted into a relaxing state with the sun warming her face and legs. Something about the ocean made everything seem insignificant, except Eileen Randall. The thought kept entering her mind. If she had been floating in the water, that would explain the clean feet.
Why would Willard confess to a crime he hadn’t committed? It wouldn’t be the first time the police had intimidated a suspect. And the emotions of the local community and police that night would have been feverishly high.
What was the name of the show Charlie Boyd mentioned? The seventh something. Damn. Anya hated not remembering a name. She grabbed her laptop from inside and connected to the Internet via the phone line. Within minutes she’d located a television guide on a nostalgia site. On the evening of the murder twenty years ago, at 11:30 p.m., a comedy sketch show called
Willard had been right. If he had such an amazing memory for shows, he might have remembered some of it. Or was that expecting too much? She wondered if she could recall any of the sketches from revues during her university days. She could remember the funniest ones, but something from a weekly TV show? Only one came to mind. A brilliant impersonation of Brains from the
She thought of phoning Veronica, but decided to wait to speak to her tomorrow. It was probably tennis time, anyway, she thought.
“Excuse me, are you Doctor Crichton?”
Anya turned and saw a woman about her age standing in harem pants, a tie-dyed shirt and a straw hat. She carried the card Charlie Boyd had taken. Anya wondered whether this was the rape victim he had mentioned.
“Yes. Please, come up.”
