Anya returned Ned Goodwin’s call. As if Natasha’s murder hadn’t been disturbing enough, Sophie was back in theater with a bowel obstruction, secondary to scarring from the hysterectomy and the abdominal surgery she endured after the stabbing. Her suffering was nowhere near over. Ned promised to call when she was safely out of surgery.
Anya would visit as soon as it was safe to.
Kate had Michael Buble playing softly in the background, which was surprisingly calming. Then again, that could have been the effect of a glass of wine and fatigue.
After their makeshift dinner of bread rolls and protein bars, Hayden Richards arrived, having called to say he was on his way.
“Have something you may be interested in,” he said to Anya, looking around the mess, presumably, for somewhere to sit.
Anya cleared off one side of the lounge. She got the impression that Kate would have left him standing indefinitely while she continued working. She either didn’t encourage visitors or wasn’t interested in being a good hostess.
“Coffee? Wine? Beer?” Anya offered.
“No thanks.”
“Everything’s fresh. I bought milk and the coffee’s just brewed.”
“In that case, white, no sugar, thanks.”
Kate seemed indifferent to the conversation, or chose to ignore it while she read and occasionally sipped beer from a bottle.
When Anya returned with the coffee, Hayden had some photos to show her.
“It’s taken a while, but those fragments of plastic you found on the road near the fatal crash site came from the front left indicator light and the headlamp from a silver Jeep Cherokee. We’ve narrowed it down to a model between 1993 and 1998. The damage to Savannah’s car on the right side rear matches, from the height where the two cars impacted, to the flecks of silver paint on her vehicle.”
Kate looked up. She had been listening.
“Good call. You were right.”
Anya felt satisfied, and hopeful that Savannah’s killer would be found. “So do the Harbourns own a car like that?”
“Not officially, but there are a few cars that come and go from their place; some are probably stolen or belong to deadbeat friends. Neighbors said a silver Jeep Cherokee was parked outside the house around the time of the accident but haven’t seen it since. Not that it would help us, the tribal mentality means they leave the keys in the sun visor so they can borrow whichever they want.”
“Or get away in a hurry. What are the chances of finding it?”
“We’ve put out a notice to all the spare parts suppliers in the city, to see if anyone has ordered replacements, but there is a long list for silver Jeep Cherokees. If someone’s hiding it in a garage or at an illegal smash-repair business, it could take longer.”
At least Hayden had confirmed that about a kilometer from where she had died Savannah Harbourn’s Colt had been hit from behind by another car.
“What about the speed cameras and the red-light camera at the intersection we looked at?”
Hayden pulled a photo from his file. It showed Savannah’s car in the intersection with the light red according to the camera behind and to the left.
“My guess is, whoever rammed her deliberately pushed her into traffic. That road has good visibility, it’s not as if the lights are round a blind bend. It’s a straight approach. According to calculations on the skid marks, when she crashed Savannah was doing at least fifty-five miles an hour. Either someone wanted to scare her, or chased her down with the purpose of running her off the road.”
“Or,” Kate offered, “she was scared and panicked after a minor bingle.”
Anya and Hayden stared at her.
“That’s just what your smarmy friend Brody would say. You know we need more than that.”
That reminded Anya. She hadn’t spoken to Dan since seeing him briefly at Saint Stephen’s. Somehow she’d almost taken personally his decision to defend Gary Harbourn, even though he had said it was initiated by Judge Pascoe through the other senior partners at his firm. And the work was to be pro bono. Officially, Gary Harbourn was unemployed.
She had decided to visit William again at the nursing home, to find out what exactly he knew about the baby’s father. For now, though, discussions with Dan had to wait.
“How’s Lydia Winter doing?” she asked Hayden.
“Forensics came back from the rape kit you did. Nothing helpful, I’m afraid. Lydia seems to have mysteriously forgotten the events of the other night.”
Anya couldn’t blame her if she recanted the story, or even blocked it from her memory. Besides that, medication could have interfered with her short-term memory, particularly if she’d been given certain benzodiazepines.
“I spoke to Natasha Ryder’s replacement. He doesn’t think we have a case. If Gary did rape Lydia Winter, he’s just committed the perfect crime.”