After giving formal police statements, Mary dropped Anya a few blocks from her home. Anya wanted to clear her head and walk the rest of the way. By trying to save Giverny, she and Mary had contaminated what was considered a crime scene. As a result, if anyone had murdered Giverny Hart, evidence could be too blurred to lay charges.
She pictured the threats painted on the car and garage wall. DIE SLUT and LYING BITCH. Had she seen that and panicked? Replaying the scene in her mind, she couldn’t be sure her emotions hadn’t got in the way of common sense. On top of that, the fever could have affected her reactions and clouded her thinking.
Damn! Why couldn’t she remember what Giverny’s face had looked like before she had freed the cord from her neck? The small face was bent forward, barely visible until the ligature had been severed and released. It was the priority under the circumstances.
She knew better than anyone that in order to cause petechial hemorrhages, a killer would have to have cut off the blood supply to the neck, then relaxed the grip long enough for blood to surge back into the head region, before tightening the grip again. Even the strongest of men had trouble maintaining a hold long enough to kill in one episode of pressure.
If that happened, Giverny could have been in and out of consciousness, knowing she was going to die.
Anya coughed and a pain shot through the middle of her back. She slowed her pace and paused by a tree to let an elderly couple pass on the footpath.
The only ones who would benefit from the girl’s death were the Harbourns. The thought of her failed attempts at resuscitation helping them get away with murder brought bile to her throat.
She walked slowly, pain shooting through her back. Leaning over the body, doing cardiac massage had been exhausting. Now her muscles were in spasm.
Her thoughts wandered to her mother, a family doctor in Tasmania. Doctor Jocelyn, as her patients called her, had often come home dejected about losing one of her patients. Too often, as one of the few doctors in the area, she was the one to pull victims from mangled cars on the highway, or deliver stillborns of women she in turn had delivered all those years before.
Up until today, Anya hadn’t truly appreciated the impact that must have had. Her mother knew-and cared for-almost everyone in their area.
Giverny was a kind, sensitive girl who had touched all who had met her after the assault. The one hope was that she had not suffered any more in death that she had in life. If she’d hanged herself, unconsciousness would have come within about fifteen seconds of the cord tightening.
But if she were murdered…
Despite being terrified of facing her attackers in court, Giverny had talked about finding strength knowing that without her evidence the brothers would get away with their crimes. In spite of that, the multiple delays in the trial had worn her down. Having dropped out of school, her spirits were low. The parents’ separation was undeniably stressful. But was she depressed enough to commit suicide?
Anya thought about how much the Harts had lost. Bevan’s only daughter had been brutally raped. His determination to see a conviction had driven his wife to leave; she had wanted Giverny to move on with her life, not remain a victim. In contrast, the trial had become the focus of her husband’s life.
Looking at a passing couple in her street, hand in hand, doting on their baby, Anya felt a terrible pang for the Harts. No parent should ever outlive a child. Bevan and Val would never experience the joys of watching their daughter fall in love and have her own children, their grandchildren. That had all been taken from them.
As Anya walked slowly on, rain began to spit from a charcoal sky. The day could barely be any more miserable. A minute from home, the drizzle became a downpour.
Anya didn’t increase her pace; she was numbed by the morning’s events. It was only weather, and rain wasn’t capable of hurting her or causing her pain.
People were the experts at that.
Once inside her terrace house, she dropped her soaked leather shoes in the corridor and was greeted by Elaine, her secretary.
“You’ll catch your death of cold,” the middle-aged woman scolded.
Anya didn’t bother arguing that bacteria and viruses caused infections, not the weather.
“I’ll put the kettle on while you get out of those wet things.”
Anya knew from experience that Elaine would not take no for an answer, so she automatically complied. Elaine’s fussing was her way of showing affection, and at the moment, Anya appreciated that.
The soggy stockings were removed next and deposited in the laundry at the back of the house. On the way through the lounge, she flicked on the television for any bulletins on the case.
She wondered how Natasha Ryder, the prosecutor in the trial, had taken the news. Years spent trying to make the Harbourns answerable for their crimes were suddenly wasted. The senior prosecutor had endured two other trials with the brothers, each ending in acquittals when key witnesses refused to testify.
Without Giverny’s testimony, the current case came down to whether or not the teenager had consented to group sex. With DNA evidence to show sex with a number of men had taken place, the Harbourn brothers all claimed that Giverny had begged them for a “gang bang.” The thought made Anya shudder as she headed upstairs to change. Pulling on an oversized jumper and pair of yoga pants, she quickly towel-dried her hair and headed back down.
Elaine had a mug of hot chocolate waiting. Just like her mother used to do.
“Rough day?”
Anya took the offering and warmed her hands with it. “You could say that.”
“Detective Richards rang to see how you were doing. He explained why court was postponed.”
A news bulletin flashed on the screen, catching Anya’s attention. She moved to the lounge and hit the volume button on the remote.
Holding a press conference outside the family home was Noelene Harbourn, matriarch of the twisted criminal family. She was dressed in her trademark blue apron, to make herself look like a benign suburban mother, Anya supposed; some of her younger children were offering biscuits to the waiting media.
“I have just heard that the trumped-up police case against four of my sons has fallen apart. The only witness they could find to testify passed away unexpectedly this morning. I expect Mr. Argent, our lawyer, will be making a statement later on about when my sons will be released. Boys, we can’t wait to have you home and I’ve been baking all day to celebrate.”
A flurry of microphones moved forward and reporters shouted questions.
“Have you heard how the witness died?”
“What happened?”
“What’s going to happen with the trial?”
“Well, I don’t think anyone knows for sure, but when a young person dies suddenly, isn’t it normally due to a car accident or suicide?”
Or murder, Anya thought, tightening her grip on the mug.
“And I must say, I don’t think I was alone in worrying about the stability of that poor young woman. I mean, to make up so many lies like she did. My boys could never hurt anyone. I guess she knew she had made a terrible mistake and couldn’t live with the guilt and shame of what she’d done.”
This was unbelievable. Noelene Harbourn was standing there celebrating Giverny’s death. How had she found out so quickly? If the trial were to continue, she had virtually declared that the police’s only witness was not only mentally unstable but had committed suicide rather than face the men she had falsely accused.
The charges would surely be dropped.