One breath of the wood-fired dinners had Anya salivating. The smell of garlic and cooked dough gave the decor an even more homely feel. Wooden tables and benches in a courtyard seemed the ideal place for a quiet conversation. Thankfully, Sunday evenings were the quietest night of the week.
“Where did you disappear to?” he asked as they sat and were handed menus.
“I went away for the weekend.” Anya studied the menu. “The vegetarian pizza is to die for.” She grinned. “Low in fat and packed with fabulous flavors-basil, eggplant, artichoke.”
The waitress lit the candle on the table and switched on an umbrella-shaped gas heater. Another brought fresh bread with a divided dish containing olive oil and balsamic vinegar.
“I happened to go over the brief in the Randall case myself, given we arrested Willard for the Dorman murder based on similar pattern evidence.”
Anya dipped some bread into the balsamic vinegar. Her tongue savored the delight. “I hoped you would. What did you find?”
“Obviously, I’m not a forensic expert, but it seemed to me that the investigation was a bit thin on the ground. Most of it depended on Willard’s confession.”
“Which he later recanted.” Anya chewed her second piece. “Otherwise, there would not have been a trial.”
“Correct. There are definite similarities with Elizabeth Dorman’s murder-the nature of the wounds. I thought, though, he would have had more blood on him if he’d stabbed Eileen Randall up close that many times.”
Anya nodded. “I agree. You would expect a lot more blood.”
“So you have seen the report.” Hayden smiled and tried the bread.
“Just the PM. Oh, and I might have spoken to the officer who was in charge of the investigation locally.”
“Damn, you’re good!” the detective said.
The waitress returned to take their orders. Hayden chose a seafood pizza with bocconcini, and they agreed to share the vegetarian pizza, some bruschetta and a bottle of lambrusco.
“Something must have bothered you, to go all that way.”
“Let’s just say that in the past we were more specific about time of death. Places like the Body Farm helped us realize that it’s nothing like an exact science.”
“Okay, so time of death is dubious. What else?”
Anya felt free to speak to Hayden Richards. Facts didn’t compromise confidentiality with Veronica Slater and what they were discussing could as easily have been deduced by any other competent pathologist.
“The body has to have been immersed in saltwater. The chest contained crayfish larvae. They’re only ever found in the ocean.”
“Could she have breathed them in, if she went swimming first?”
The drinks arrived along with the bruschetta. Anya wiped her hands on the napkin. The detective poured half a glass for himself and a whole glass for his dinner companion.
“Thanks. No saltwater in the lungs. She didn’t swallow the larvae. They had to have entered the chest via the stab wounds. The debatable point is that if you take into account the winds that night, the tide could have swept her out a couple of hours earlier.”
“How can high tide be debatable? It’s recorded, isn’t it?”
“For the main bay, but Koonaka Beach is a cove and winds that night could easily have affected the timing.” She explained what Bill Lalor had told her.
Hayden sat silently, staring at the bruschetta. “But if she died that long before she was found, why were her clothes still wet? The blood on Willard’s shirt was fresh. Wouldn’t it have clotted and dried after two hours?”
“Not necessarily. The night was humid. Clothes don’t dry when there’s that much moisture in the air. The same goes for blood. Willard could have got the blood on himself if he carried her out of the water, like he initially said.”
“When she’d already been dead a couple of hours.” Hayden sipped his drink. “Bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”
“Not if he really was watching that TV show he described.”
Hayden sat back, studying Anya. “You always find a way to surprise me. You have that insatiable woman’s curiosity that could really bugger up the cases we just want to finish with.” He chuckled again, then became serious. “Sorrenti thinks it’s all cut-and-dried. With Willard in jail, there’s only the brief to prepare. No other leads are being followed up regarding the northwest rapes.”
“What about the two who attacked Gloria Havelock? I know you think the mother and daughter rapes were unrelated, but what if-”
“Ah, you haven’t heard. The blue sheet you found in Gloria’s evidence bag and sent to the lab did have some DNA on it. Belonged to a guy called Eric Scholl. Arrested for assaulting a security guard at a nightclub. He was out on bail when he attacked the Havelock woman.”
That would be little relief to Gloria, but at least one of her attackers had been found.
“Have you interviewed him?”
The pizzas arrived and Hayden waited until the waitress had left.
“No chance. He was killed in a prison fight over drugs six months ago. Seems he developed a nasty cocaine habit inside.”
Anya’s appetite waned.
“Do you know who his accomplice was?”
“He was arrested with a real loser going by the name of Gideon Lee and half-a-dozen aliases. Has an IQ of about eighty and couldn’t mastermind a peanut-butter sandwich, let alone a burglary. Seems he followed Scholl like a puppy, but he’s not admitting to raping anyone.”
Anya picked up a slice of pizza and oil dripped onto her wrist. Hayden had begun cutting up his meal with a knife and fork. She quickly wiped herself clean and continued eating, more delicately.
“Is there any chance Lee could have committed Melanie’s rape?”
Dean Martin singing “That’s Amore” filtered through the outside speakers.
“No, he’s still in jail. And he’s Chinese, not exactly white-skinned.”
The white hands described by both victims still baffled her.
“I got your message about vitiligo. It causes depigmentation, or whitening of the skin. Michael Jackson is supposed to have it, I think.”
Hayden put down his knife and fork and finished chewing. “You know, that’s bothered me for a while now. Even though Melanie didn’t see the white stripe Louise described, there’s got to be something to it. Willard doesn’t have a blemish on his arms or hands. Maybe our guy has this vitiligo condition.”
Anya left the crust and picked up another piece, this time not caring how uncivilized she appeared. “Couldn’t it have been paint on his hand?”
“I thought that as well. I know Willard is odds-on to have raped again, but something tells me that he’s not the right guy this time. I can’t shake this gut feeling that maybe he didn’t do it.”
“Did you find the knife that killed Liz Dorman?”
“No. Maybe Willard’s playing us for suckers and is a lot smarter than we think.”
The detective’s phone chimed and he excused himself to answer it, swivelling sideways in his seat.
“Thanks for letting me know,” he said, and snapped the phone shut.
His face looked ashen.
“Is everything okay?”
“So much for our theories. That was the lab about the blood on Willard’s shirt. Looks like it came from Liz Dorman after all.”
31
The following morning, Anya met Veronica Slater outside Long Bay prison. Every time she had visited, winds howled through the trees, giving the place an eerie feel, despite it being so close to the ocean.
