After a welcome-back morning tea at the sexual assault unit, Anya retreated to her office. With so few doctors qualified and willing to be on call, taking leave became an accepted necessity. Despite absences increasing the load for the others, the knowledge and experience doctors brought back from overseas study and casework benefitted them all.
Anya settled in and began checking files from a year or more ago. She remembered a young woman who had presented for an examination and morning-after pill. At the time she had refused to make a police statement and was quiet about the details of the assault. She did, however, let it slip that a group of brothers had “taken turns” forcing her to have sex. One of them had been her boyfriend at the time.
That was the detail that had stuck in Anya’s mind. She suspected that if brothers attacked one of their girlfriends, it was highly likely they had raped other women.
How many months since she had presented? Months blurred together in Anya’s mind. She searched file after file, trying to recall specifics about the case. There had to be a good chance it was the Harbourns involved. There could not be too many sets of brothers raping women, or so Anya hoped.
Natasha Ryder had asked for help identifying any other cases that were “similar pattern” evidence. If she could find another of their victims to testify against the Harbourn brothers, the prosecutor could present a pattern of assaults, thereby strengthening the case against them. Giverny at least deserved that much.
Mary Singer brought a coffee into the physician’s office, edging past a chair to deliver it. Rapidly running out of room in the unit, highest priority were more fridges in which to keep forensic specimens. Often victims chose not to make a police statement immediately following the assault, but had the option to do so later on. Sometimes that meant storing evidence for prolonged periods.
Office areas didn’t rate improvement, especially when they required funding to do so. Anya didn’t really mind. The room was too small for drop-in visitors and no one stayed longer than they had to. Most importantly, the door could be locked so she could work without interruption. As part-time director, hours in the office were limited.
The counselor leaned against the desk, a bench that ran the length of the narrow room. A filing cabinet in the corner filled the space quota after the two chairs. A pile of files lay on the floor, under the desk.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been asked to do an audit?”
“No, but I could while I’m at it. I’m trying to find a case file but can’t remember when the woman presented.”
“Can I help?”
“A young woman, raped by her boyfriend and his brothers.”
“That sounds familiar. Have you checked the rosters for when you were on?”
Anya leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee. “That’s the problem. I was on just about all the time between the others taking long service leave or maternity leave.
“How about what she looked like?”
“Short, thin, long dark hair. She had a pierced eyebrow but didn’t say much.” It was much easier to remember those details than names because each examination took at least an hour to complete. It wasn’t easy to forget the person.
Mary stared at the floor. “Halloween.”
Anya looked up. “Pardon?”
“Halloween. Try end of October. I remember thinking the girl was dressed as if she’d been to a Halloween party. All black clothes and pale face. Is she the one?”
Mary was right. The woman had been dressed in black and had dark lips, giving her a gothic appearance. Anya flipped through the files to October/November. Nothing.
Then she checked October the year before. Relief filled her as she lifted out the folder.
“Got it! Thanks.”
Mary stood to leave. “I suppose you know that Giverny’s funeral is tomorrow. I’ll be going if you’d like a lift.”
Anya did know and was unsure whether to attend. She had no idea whether the Harts would appreciate her being there, or her presence would only upset them more.
“I’ll see how tomorrow turns out. I could be caught up, and I am still on call for the unit.”
Mary glanced over her half-glasses. “If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me. It’s worth remembering that carers need looking after too.”
Anya was already absorbed in the file and flipped to her summary. “Appreciate the coffee,” she managed as Mary closed the door behind her.
Nineteen-year-old Violet Yardley had presented on 30 October. As was Anya’s habit, notes of the conversation were scant, in order to protect the victim. If the assault ever came to court, even a minor difference between what Anya had documented and wording in a police statement could be used by a defense lawyer to discredit the victim.
She checked the address. The suburb wasn’t far. Turning back to her laptop, she pulled up the Whitepages website. The address existed, listed under a W and P Yardley. Anya dialed the number.
A middle-aged woman with what sounded like an Italian accent answered.
“Hello, I’m hoping to contact Violet Yardley.”
The woman readily explained that her daughter was working at a shelter, packing boxes of food. When asked if it was possible to meet Violet there, the mother didn’t hesitate to provide the charity’s address.
It always disturbed Anya how much information people naively gave away over the phone, especially to a female caller. The majority of people still trusted, which was why scams and credit card theft were relatively easy to commit.
The inner-city area had little parking, so Anya hailed a taxi from outside the hospital. Within minutes she was at an old warehouse. A rollerdoor was raised in front of a sign marked Deliveries only. No Parking. Inside, a number of people filled boxes with tins of food and fresh produce that had been piled onto trestle tables.
Violet seemed thinner and more gaunt than before. The eyebrow piercing was gone, but her jumper and long jeans were still black. The young woman looked up and stopped loading a box when she saw her visitor.
“I’m taking a break,” she called to no one in particular, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from her bag on her way toward the open door.
Anya followed her outside. “I don’t know if you remember-”
“How am I supposed to forget?” She lit a match and struggled to light the cigarette in the breeze. Anya cupped her hands to shelter the small flame.
The young woman nodded in gratitude and inhaled. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“That’s understandable. I hope you don’t mind, but I rang your home and a lady told me you were here.”
Crossing one arm across her waist, she supported her smoking arm. “My mother thinks I should bring more friends home, so she would have been happy that anyone phoned for me.”
Anya smiled. “Mums care. It’s their job. Which partly explains why I’m here. You didn’t come back to the unit and I wanted to see that you were okay.”
Violet exhaled out the side of her mouth and watched the traffic. “What can I say? Life goes on.”
A table-top truck pulled up, beeping as it reversed into the warehouse doorway.
“That’s the leftover veg from the co-op,” Violet said, stubbing out the remains of her cigarette on a metal bin by the entrance. “We do food parcels for the homeless and pensioners around here who can’t afford to pay exploitative supermarket prices.”
“Before you go…” Anya managed. “Please understand this is all still confidential, but there’s an important reason I’m asking-were the men responsible for what happened to you that night named Harbourn?”
The young woman folded her arms and bit her bottom lip.
“I never told you that.” Violet searched Anya’s face for an answer. “How did you know?”
Anya felt a rush of hope. They could have another case to answer for. “Because you’re not the only one they’ve done this to.”
“Yeah, well, like I said, my life’s moved on.”
Anya handed over a card, which the woman reluctantly took and stuck in the back of her jeans.
“I know this isn’t easy, but it’s not too late to give a police statement if you decide you want to. The samples I took that night are still in the unit if you change your mind.
“Give me one good reason.”
“One of the girls they raped is now dead. The police think they could have killed her.”
Violet’s eyes flared. “That’s bullshit. I chose to go to their house. We all got drunk that night. They might have taken turns with me after Ricky and I had sex, but that was it. There’s no way the Harbourns are killers. God, Rick was the nicest guy I’ve ever known.”
The young woman pushed past the volunteers unpacking the truck and quickly disappeared inside.
In disbelief, Anya walked back to the nearest intersection.
Almost a year and a half later, a woman who had been raped by a number of men could defend one of them as a nice man. Violet Yardley sounded as if she blamed herself for the assaults, never mind the unforgivable betrayal by her boyfriend. The woman was in complete denial.
If she stayed that way, there was little anyone could do to ensure her attackers didn’t rape again.