Anya felt like she was about to attend the unveiling of a top-secret weapon. Instead, they arrived at a lab containing half-a-dozen washing machines.
Shelly’s posture straightened as she entered a more comfortable environment. Her professor excused himself for a moment and disappeared down the corridor.
“My thesis is about transfer of DNA material in the wash.” Shelly picked up a plain white T-shirt to explain. “We know it happens with spermatozoa, but the properties of blood differ. It coagulates and flakes when it dries. To start with, I bought six identical shirts and washed each one first. I pricked my finger and let some drops of blood spill onto the first shirt. I then washed the shirt with another control.”
The student spoke quickly, being so familiar with her experiments.
“After drying, some of the DNA material from the first shirt had transferred onto the second. It seemed to collect in the seams. I repeated the process and found that with further washings, smaller amounts were transferred to the other shirts. Even so, it was still discernible.”
“Blood’s pretty difficult to get out without cold water. Did you do it in hot or cold washes?”
“Both. Heat sets the stain, so I needed to use cold washes as well. Even though the stains weren’t visible to the naked eye, they showed up with luminol. I’m planning to repeat the whole process with semen.”
Anya didn’t ask about the source of the semen. It was probably the student’s long-suffering boyfriend, or one of the other students. Such was the shoestring budget for research.
She tried to absorb the information. If this were true, suspects could merely claim they had washed their clothes in a communal laundry as a form of defense. The implications were enormous. “Has your work been published yet?”
“No,” she said, “I’m still working on the conclusion to stage one with the blood-testing.”
Jean Le Beau reappeared with some papers. “Do you mind if Doctor Crichton has a look at the draft? I’ve made some comments.”
Shelly shook her head. “If this could be applied to a case already, I’d be thrilled.”
Anya thanked them both and returned to street-level. All she could think about was the DNA on the shirts owned by Geoff Willard. The pile of washing that Desiree was sorting was more than you’d expect for two people. If she used the machine at Lillian Willard’s home, it made sense that she did some of their washing, too.
Outside, she hastily dialled Hayden Richards. His phone diverted to voicemail.
“Hayden, please call me. It’s urgent. Geoffrey Willard really could be innocent. You should be looking at his cousin, Nick, and Desiree’s husband, Luke Platt, before more evidence washes away.”
43
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Meira Sorrenti almost spat the words.
Anya unlocked her front door, frowning and glancing over her shoulder at a mother and toddler walking along holding hands. “We should discuss this inside. I don’t just work here, this is my home.” She’d watched the little girl trying to avoid stepping on the lines of the footpath before being distracted by Sorrenti’s outburst.
The detective came as close as possible to Anya, speaking through gritted teeth. Everything about her approach was meant to be intimidating. So far, it was effective.
“You stay the hell out of my investigation, or I’ll charge you with obstructing justice.”
Sorrenti obviously didn’t know how ridiculous she was being. Anya clenched her fists by her side and decided it was better to let the woman vent before tackling her with logic. The mother and child quickly crossed the road and hurried away. Sorrenti remained oblivious, it seemed.
“Richards ordered a tail on Nick Hudson. What the fuck’s that about? My men are wasting time when we’ve already got the guy who raped and killed Liz Dorman.”
She began to pace along the path, hands in her suit pants. “Do you have any idea how much of the budget has just been blown on this fucking joke? What are you up to? Trying to get me sacked so Richards can get back into the job?”
“I’m trying to save you from making a serious mistake.” Anya instantly regretted her choice of words.
“Funny, from where I stand you’re trying pretty bloody hard to make a fool out of me.”
She came closer again. Anya chose to remain on the doorstep, giving herself the slightest height advantage.
“This is about finding the truth. And if you go to court with the evidence you have against Geoff Willard, you’ll be making sure he gets acquitted. Is that what you want?”
“Don’t turn this on me. I want to nail the prick. I saw what he did to that woman. And we’ve got DNA evidence to place him at the scene. End of story.”
Anya waved hello to “Mrs. Bugalugs,” as Ben and Martin called the next-door neighbor, who had conveniently come outside to check her letterbox even though the postman delivered much later in the day. Despite claiming to be deaf and blind, the nosy woman managed to appear at the first sign of visitors or noise.
The elderly neighbor’s presence seemed to affect the detective.
“The DNA evidence you have is dubious. The distribution doesn’t fit with an attack and it’s on more than one shirt.”
“So?”
“So, even a first-year law student would blow your case out of the water. Science can make a case, but it can more often than not destroy one.”
“Is that what you and that Slater bitch are doing? You’re so desperate to make names for yourselves you’ll prove Willard didn’t do it at any cost. Oh, and going on TV news was a pretty gutless way to let us all know where you stood.”
Being linked with Veronica Slater made bile rise in Anya’s chest. The idea of colluding with the woman to further her career was nothing less than disgusting. Anya felt like hitting something-hard. Slater’s head came to mind first. Sorrenti came a close second. She tried to control her anger and opened and closed her fists.
“Detective, I think we should-”
“Stop there! There is no ‘we.’” Sorrenti’s face looked ready to explode. “You have nothing to do with this case. I don’t want you involved. You’re poison. You may have already shafted Alf Carney, but you sure as hell won’t screw me over.”
She swung around down the path, stopping to call “Have a good day” to Mrs. Bugalugs, who responded with a grin and a wave.
Then she stopped at the end of the path and announced, “Oh yeah, and Nick Hudson is threatening us with a harassment suit. His lawyer mentioned your name, too.”
Anya leaned against the door, feeling like she’d just gone a few rounds in a boxing ring. Inside, the phone rang and she wearily pushed open the wooden door. There was no sign of Elaine; she must have been at the post- office.
Anya’s hands were shaking when she picked up the receiver. The museum wanted her to know that the DNA on Nick Hudson’s dog had been analyzed. It didn’t match the animal hair found on the body of Eileen Randall.
There was nothing to connect Nick Hudson with the murder.
Anya slumped onto the waiting-room lounge. Maybe Meira Sorrenti had been right. She
The last thing she needed was a lawsuit. She tried to convince herself that Geoffrey was the serial offender, but something inside niggled. The supposed love-letter and photo from Melanie Havelock and the woman killed while he was in prison didn’t fit at all. And why did Louise Richardson describe her attacker’s hand as having a sort of stipe on it? She decided to go back to the start and review the evidence she’d taken in the sexual-assault cases, in case she’d missed something-anything.
