Malicious Intent (37 page)

MALICIOUS INTENT

Anya arrived home to find Vaughan Hunter on her doorstep.

He smiled warmly when he saw her. ‘I’ve been phoning and got worried. You didn’t answer, and after that appalling piece in the weekend paper, well, I became concerned.’

‘I’m fine thanks,’ she said, more curtly than she had intended.

‘Good. I’m glad.’ This time, he was the one who looked awkward. ‘Suppose I ought to get going.’

Anya waited until he walked past before realizing how much she didn’t want to be alone.

‘Coffee?’

He stopped, grinned and nodded.

Once inside, Anya found herself talking. Being so emotionally wrung-out made her want to talk to an independent listener, one without his own agenda to push. They stood in the kitchen as she made the coffee.

‘Ben’s the victim in all this. My ex-husband can’t seem to settle and that’s very difficult for our son, always moving around the state.’

‘Can’t be easy being called a murderer in the media,’

Vaughan said.

‘Him or me?’ Anya snapped, before realizing he was referring to Martin. ‘No, it isn’t.’

‘Are you coping okay with the publicity?’

‘Just. I don’t understand people who seek it out. It’s destructive and fueled by parasites wanting to create controversy, even when there isn’t any. They don’t care whose lives get destroyed in the process.’

Vaughan listened intently. Whether he was in professional or friend mode didn’t matter to Anya. Talking released the pressure valve inside.

At 11:00 pm, and two coffees later, she realized that bread and cheese were the only foods in the house yet to pass their expiration date. Toasted sandwiches, it had to be. Her guest didn’t seem to mind.

As they ate at the kitchen table, Anya asked if he’d heard of experiments in anechoic chambers.

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‘I’ve read about them,’ Vaughan said after a moment. ‘Those experiments would never get through the ethics committees today and were pretty much a waste of time. Most of the information and understanding about behavioral modification didn’t come from behavioral scientists, anyway. It was gleaned from prisoners of war, especially their experiences in Korea. Interestingly, the captors used the same techniques as men who commit domestic violence.’

Anya had appreciated reading the articles he had given her.

She watched him as he spoke now, admiring his extensive knowledge and easy manner. His face conveyed not only information but empathy. It was easy to imagine anyone feeling comfortable enough to be counseled by him. ‘I’m worried that the victims in the cases I’m looking into were kept in one before their deaths.’

‘Why don’t you go to the police with your information?’ he asked, finishing his sandwich.

‘That’s the tricky part. They don’t want to know unless I can prove a crime took place.’

‘Oh. So you go up to this property and say, “Excuse me, do you torture women in your chamber, that is, if it’s still there?” ’

She had to smile. It did sound pretty farfetched. ‘Because it’s still a potential hazard to its owners, I can mention the lung diseases associated with the chambers and suggest they seek medical review. If that goes okay, why not ask for a sample of material from inside? Simple.’

‘Somehow with you, nothing seems that simple,’ he teased.

‘I’m at my Glenhaven rooms in the morning, which is just nearby. How about you pick me up from there? We might look more official as a pair, and I wouldn’t mind seeing the chamber if it’s still there.’ He wrote the address on a business card.

Anya didn’t need convincing. The events of the last few days had knocked her confidence to a new low-point. ‘Fine. I’ll see you at about eight.’

Vaughan stood to leave and wished Anya good night. She had to admit, the idea of spending more time with this man had 302

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appeal. Right now, she’d settle for friendship and moral support, which he seemed willing to offer.

At the doorstep, light drizzle prevented a drawn-out good-bye. Feeling revived by the coffee, Anya decided to look more closely at the fibers she’d taken from the chamber. At the back of her office sat a microscope her father had given her as a teenager. It was primitive, but still had good magnification. She tipped a tiny amount from the vial onto a clean glass slide and tried to scatter the fibers with a pencil tip. After focusing, she stared down the eyepiece. Moving the slide, she must have examined every fiber in order to be sure. These fibers were longer and thicker than the others, but were definitely hourglass shaped. There was a distinct similarity.

Anya felt her heart rate quicken. She knew the women hadn’t been in that particular chamber, but Dr. Taggert had said it was built less than a year ago. It didn’t exclude the possibility of older chambers using different materials, which the similarities in the shape of the fibers seemed to support. These larger fibers were far less likely to be inhaled into small airways, and therefore, safer.

Before switching out the light, she remembered to check her e-mail, in case Dr. Rosenbaum had any more recollections.

Peter Latham had confirmed what she had already known: Briony Lovitt’s PM found that she had the same fiber in her lungs. Kate’s message mentioning the Crisis Center made her feel more than a little guilty about not passing on the chamber information. Dialing Kate’s number, she hung up when she heard the engaged signal. This was not unusual, given that Kate always seemed to be on call. Her mobile didn’t answer and failed to divert to voicemail.

After trying a couple more times, Anya phoned directory assistance and asked them to check if Kate’s phone was faulty.

The operator assured her the phone was simply off the hook –

the subscriber was not engaged in a conversation.

Kate bordered on being nocturnal and didn’t go to bed before midnight, usually staying up to watch British soccer. If KATHRYN FOX

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she’d bumped the phone off the hook, work could be trying to contact her and she’d never know. Despite her sense of betrayal, Anya decided to drive the five minutes to Kate’s house.

She pulled up behind her friend’s car and the front sensor light failed to come on. Tapping was all it took to open the door.

Anya felt a lurch inside her chest. Kate would never leave her door unlocked. Had the place been broken into?

‘Kate, are you okay?’ she called loudly, trying to scare off any intruder. ‘The police are on their way.’ Listening carefully, she didn’t hear a sound.

Slowly opening the door with her elbow, she cautiously stepped inside. Instead of mess sprawled everywhere, the place had been tidied. Books and papers stacked around the walls.

What sort of intruder tidies up? she thought, and relaxed.

‘Kate, are you here?’

Looking around the small house, it became clear no one was home.

She pulled her mobile from her jacket and dialed Brian Hogan.

‘What?’ a groggy voice challenged.

‘Anya Crichton. Listen, I’m at Kate’s place. There’s no sign of her and her door was open. I’m a little concerned.’

‘Not everything’s a mystery,’ he grunted. She’d either woken him from a deep sleep, or committed coitus telephone inter-ruptus. ‘Got a call ’cause she needed time off for personal reasons. Family illness or something.’

Anya didn’t know she had any family apart from her father, who lived in Western Australia.

‘Did she say who was sick?’

‘What is it with you? Don’t you people sleep?’ he snapped.

‘I took the message myself. Good night.’ The idiot hung up before Anya could speak.

She hurriedly redialed.

‘This had better be good,’ he growled.

‘Hear me out. Kate’s car is out front, her front door was 304

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open and she’s not here. Something’s wrong.’ She had to get through to him. ‘What exactly did she say?’

‘She didn’t say anything, her brother called –’

‘Listen to me, Brian. Kate doesn’t have a brother. She’s an only child!’

52

When the sound abruptly stopped, the silence made Kate’s ears ache. She tried to fill the void by singing but couldn’t remember the words to any songs, not even nursery rhymes or ad jingles. After the first line, her mind went blank. If she couldn’t remember a bloody nursery rhyme, what chance was there of escaping?

What’s worse, the shaking wouldn’t stop. She had never known terror like this. Not having control. Not knowing what was going to happen. One minute she was freezing; a while ago, it had felt so hot, she almost passed out.

Whatever he had planned, she wished to God he’d show his face and give her a chance to fight.

The noise started up again and suddenly the platform moved, as if it had been bumped. Kate dropped to her knees then lay flat, clinging to the metal grid with all her strength.

The whole thing was about to drop. The floor quivered as she held her breath. After a while, it vibrated to a stop. She slowly inhaled and could have sworn she smelled porridge. The light flicked on, off, then on again, long enough for her to see the plate of food beside her. She edged toward it and the noise stopped.

The bastard wanted to play.

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‘I’m not going to play your stupid mind games!’ she shouted.

With a sweep of her leg, she made contact with the plate and kicked it off the platform.

The intolerable noise started again.

53

After two hours with crime scene at Kate’s house, Anya had gone home with Brian Hogan’s promise to phone the moment he knew anything. By six o’clock she could no longer bear to sit around and headed for the shower. Kate didn’t just disappear. Something had happened. It could have been related to any of the homicide cases she had worked on since Kate irritated just about everyone she’d ever met. Hell, even the sandwich shop owner found her offensive. Surely she wouldn’t have done something stupid to herself after Briony’s death.

Determined to remain positive, Anya decided to follow up on the chambers at Annangrove.

Once in traffic, she switched on the radio for any news. An item on a leadership challenge in the opposition party had her thinking about the last time she had spoken to Kate. Why did it have to be a fight?

Every instinct told her that Kate was in trouble and there was nothing she could do. Just like when Miriam vanished.

Traffic flowed reasonably well for peak hour until Old Northern Road. With light rain, the roads were quickly coated in a film of grease. At yet another traffic light intersection, the car in front accelerated on the green but screeched to a halt with a sudden change to amber. Anya shoved her foot down on 308

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the brake pedal. The van behind her did the same, a second too late.

Anya braced herself. The impact snapped her head forward and back, like a rubber band. Before she could take off her seatbelt, the van driver had jumped out of his car and begun yelling obscenities, his tirade of abuse washing over her. She took a mental note of his corporate logo shirt, unclipped her belt, stepped out and walked to the back of her Corolla. The extent of the damage shocked her – tailgate punched inside out, window in the hatch door shattered, rear guards pushed upward and jammed against the right rear wheel. With a five-hundred-dollar insurance deductible, this was something else she didn’t need right now.

Seemingly oblivious to the damage he’d caused, the other driver continued to accuse her of incompetence. Cars behind tooted horns, caught in the ensuing traffic jam.

‘Listen,
you
smashed into
me
,’ she said, trying to sound calm while wanting to scream. ‘You are at fault. Before you go anywhere I want your name, driver’s license number and insurance details.’ A couple of passersby offered to help move her car off the road and, looking at the number of cars held up at the lights, she accepted the offer.

Within minutes three tow trucks arrived and their drivers had begun arguing about ‘whose tow it was.’ Anya phoned the police and her insurance company and refused to participate.

One of the drivers became verbally abusive and tried to hook her car up to his truck. She blocked him with her body. A few minutes later, the police arrived and had the traffic under control. The abusive van driver decided to cooperate and exchanged details as drizzle became heavy droplets, then a consistent shower. After a word with the police, the aggressive tow truck driver removed his hook and left, still swearing at Anya as he drove away.

Soaking wet and hating herself for being so helpless, Anya phoned Vaughan and asked if he’d pick her up. She wanted to leave before seeing the Corolla towed.

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He arrived quickly, did a U-turn and temporarily blocked the traffic as Anya climbed into the passenger seat of his sedan.

‘You okay?’ he asked, handing her a towel as he drove off.

Anya nodded. Her neck ached and her head felt like it was being squashed by a vice.

‘We’re not far, you might as well get dry at my place. It’s around the next bend.’ He turned the heating up. ‘You must be freezing.’

Anya sat, almost anesthetized, as the car slowed and indicated a left turn outside a cottage on the main road. A sign out front read ‘Family Counseling Center.’ Instead of pulling into the car park, Vaughan turned down a drive adjacent to the cottage.

‘I live up here, you might find it more comfortable to get warm in the house.’

Anya noticed how many trees lined the muddy drive. ‘This is beautiful.’

‘I think so. I’m close to the rooms and private enough that patients don’t know I live here. No need to tell you how important that is.’

At the end of the winding dirt road, they stopped at a house with separate stables and an old-fashioned barn a short walk away.

Mounted on the front verandah were two cameras, one at each end. Vaughan darted toward the house to deactivate the alarm as Anya opened the car door. Wind tore across the front seat, bringing freezing droplets of rain. Shielding her face with the towel, she ran, splashing through a puddle. Muddy water drenched her calf.