Bloodborn (11 page)

Anya pulled the document from the fax
machine. Jeff Sales had completed his report on the fossilized baby.

She switched on the desk lamp, sat and read. The internal organs had undergone some degree of deterioration but it had been possible to biopsy sections of liver, brain, stomach, heart and kidney. Understandably, after many years and no history to go by, it was difficult to establish much about the cause of death. However, there appeared to be no evidence of physical trauma to the skeletal remains.

The attempt to collect milk from the stomach had been unsuccessful. So it wasn’t possible to establish whether the baby had lived long enough to feed. One section of the report immediately caught Anya’s attention.

Behind the left eye was an unidentified retro-orbital mass. It was unclear whether or not it extended from the brain tissue given the state of internal deterioration. X-rays revealed minor asymmetry of the orbit, with thinner bone on that side. Histology could take weeks to complete, given the fragile state and special fixative processes required to make a definitive diagnosis under the circumstances.

It appeared the infant had some form of intracranial tumor, which could well have been the cause of death.

To be noticeable on gross examination, the tumor had to have been significant. In that case, probability was, the baby had died of natural causes. She may never have taken a breath.

At least Dan Brody would be spared a homicide investigation involving someone in his family. The mystery of whose baby it was remained, but the answer was now academic. There would be no police involvement or public coronial inquest. She reached for the phone to call him when a new page arrived through the fax.

DNA analysis from the private testing facility confirmed the remains were those of a female. The DNA provided by Dan Brody bore similarities to that of the sampled remains. That wasn’t surprising if his grandfather had had an illegitimate child.

The next sentence explained in more detail. Mr. Brody and the remains shared mitochondrial DNA. In other words, they both had the same mother, aunt or grandmother. One of them had carried a child and hidden its dead body in a box in the wardrobe, and if Milo was right about the age of the wooden box, it had to have been Dan’s mother.

Anya wasn’t sure how to explain that to Dan. He spoke of his mother as if she were a saint, and had mentioned his parents were childhood sweethearts—first and only loves.

DNA may have proven a different story.

She rubbed her temples and dialed Brody’s number.

Half an hour later he pulled up in his red Ferrari. Only Brody would personalize his numberplate with LAW4L, as if the car didn’t attract enough attention on its own. The sound of big band music blaring from the speakers let her know he had arrived. Thankfully, for the neighbors’ sake, he had chosen to lower the bass levels.

She poured two glasses from a bottle of red wine and answered the door. Her neck began to itch from the hivelike rash she got every time she was nervous.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, and ushered him in.

“Couldn’t keep me away, that is if the body is still at the morgue.” He quickly glanced around and Anya wondered which of them was more uncomfortable.

“I’ve poured a glass of wine if you’d like.”

“That would be great. It’s been a long day in court.”

When Anya returned from the kitchen, Dan was holding a picture of her son, Ben. “He’s really growing.”

Ben was and she couldn’t wait to see him the following Friday and hear about the rest of the trip. She suddenly remembered the bookcase still in pieces upstairs. It would have to wait.

Dan took off his tailored jacket and draped it lining side out on the end of the lounge. He accepted the wine and sat. “How are you and your ex-husband getting on?”

“One of the cases I worked on over the last few weeks involved a cruiseliner, and as a thank-you the company flew Martin and Ben over for a holiday.”

Dan looked almost disappointed.

“Ben stayed in my cabin and Martin did his own thing in the day. We’d meet up for dinner for Ben’s sake, but nothing’s changed. Martin still has a lot of growing up to do.”

“Sorry to hear that.” He studied the color of the drink before taking a sip. “You need someone who’s on the same level. I mean in terms of age and maturity.”

Anya was never sure how to take Dan’s personal comments. What had started out like a compliment ended up sounding as though she were matronly.

“Are you saying I’m old before my time?”

He sniffed the top of the glass. “No, of course not. I just meant—”

Seeing a verbose lawyer tongue-tied made her smile. “It’s okay. Did you tell your girlfriend about the box?”

This time it was the lawyer’s turn to blush.

“Not yet. I don’t know if I want to, to be honest. We met while you were away and things happened so quickly. But there isn’t the trust there yet that comes from really knowing someone. I don’t feel I can trust her the way I can you.” He took a sip. “I mean, she really wants to make this work and I owe her that. Guess I need to give it time.”

She felt the rash on her neck redden. “Would you like to read Jeff Sales’s report or just get the summary?”

Dan sat forward and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and placed it on the coffee table. Anya had never felt the need for coasters on cheap furniture, but appreciated the courtesy.

He placed his glass on top. “I’ll read and you can translate if necessary. By the way, this place is really nice and this couch is far more comfortable than mine. Want to swap?”

Anya shook her head; although a leather sofa did have appeal compared to her secondhand lounge, she had to admit that sinking into this one took the edge off a long day. She handed him the envelope in which she’d placed copies of the post-mortem results, minus the DNA profile. She sat close enough to track the words as he read.

It took a few minutes for him to comment.

“The baby died of some kind of cancer? Nothing suspicious?”

Anya sat back and folded her arms. “That’s what it looks like. There’s no need for an inquest.”

He breathed out. “It’s kind of sad, but it is good news, under the circumstances. Thanks for doing what you have. I owe you.”

He leaned back and locked his hands behind his head. “As far as I know, my dad’s father had six kids and neither they nor my cousins have any kind of hereditary diseases to speak of. The old man died of lung cancer after smoking fifty a day for most of his life.”

Anya rubbed her neck. The only way to tell him was to just give him all the facts.

“The DNA sample showed you and the baby, a little girl, are related, but it isn’t through your grandfather. You share the same mitochondrial DNA.”

He didn’t react.

“Dan, mitochondrial DNA only comes from the mother’s line. What I’m trying to say is that the baby had to be from your own mother’s line. It could be from women on your mother’s side—cousins, for example.

“That can’t be right,” he said. “My mother was adopted. She was orphaned in England during the war. Apparently my grandparents on Mum’s side weren’t able to have kids so they visited an orphanage while on holiday there and adopted Mum. Mind you, I sometimes wonder why they bothered. There wasn’t a lot of love in that family. By the time I was born, Mum had no contact with her parents. First time I saw my grandfather was in law school when he gave a lecture. Guess Mum felt like an accessory—all their high-powered friends had children—so they had to have one, and a girl could marry into a legal dynasty, increasing their status. By marrying my father, who was never going to be a judge, she ruined their ambitions.”

In that case, there was only one possibility. “Dan, you understand what that means? The baby has to be your mother’s.”

He reached for his drink and quickly emptied the glass. “No one ever mentioned a stillborn. If I had a sister I’d know. My parents didn’t keep secrets.”

He stared at the glass in his hand. Anya stayed silent, giving him time to absorb the news.

“If what you’re saying is true, the only explanation has to be that it was just too painful for them to ever talk about.”

Anya took a deep breath. She didn’t want to be the one to shatter Dan’s image of his late mother but she had no choice.

“There’s a chance your father doesn’t even know about the baby. The DNA test shows that he cannot have been the father.”

Dan immediately stood, handed Anya the empty glass and grabbed his jacket. She couldn’t read what he was thinking, or whether he was angry or even believed her.

“The only way to sort this out is to talk to Dad. If you don’t mind coming, I could pick you up next Sunday, say about three and we can clear this up. There has to be a mistake somewhere and a simple explanation.”

“Sorry, I can’t go with you. I’ve got Ben for the weekend.”

“No problem. Bring him along. There’s a park next to the nursing home. He’ll love it. Tell you what, I’ll even bring a football.”

Anya tried to protest, but the lawyer was used to winning arguments. Ben would go with them and get to run around a park as a bribe.

She closed the door, surprised at how well Dan had taken the news, but doubtful he had accepted the truth about his mother.

She couldn’t see how the visit could end well for Dan or his unsuspecting father.

Anya fumbled for the phone in the dark.

“Doctor Crichton,” she droned, eyelids too heavy to open.

No one spoke back.

“Hello,” she mumbled, hoping the caller had changed their mind.

As she was about to hang up, she heard what sounded like someone crying in the background.

“It’s Violet Yardley.” The voice was high-pitched. “You told me I could call. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Anya reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. The clock showed 12:15
A.M.
No wonder her limbs and head felt like lead as she tried to sit up.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m scared and I need your help. Someone’s in trouble.”

Anya was suddenly alert.

“Where are you? The police can be there—”

“No, no police.” Violet became more shrill. “That’ll make everything worse. She’s hurt. It’s bad this time.”

“Wait, Violet.” Anya needed to know how severely injured this unknown person was. If she needed an ambulance, they could be wasting critical time. The image of Giverny Hart’s body and what a difference a few minutes made flashed through her mind.

“How badly hurt is she? Was there an accident? Do you need an ambulance?”

“No. No ambulance, no other doctors and no nurses! We want you to look after her.”

So far Anya had no idea what had happened to the friend. She hadn’t ruled out a drug overdose or attempted suicide or an accident. Fear of police and hospitals suggested she’d done something illegal, possibly drugs or drunk driving. Then again, she could have been sexually assaulted. She needed a lot of information quickly, if she was to help in any way, without Violet becoming histrionic and panicking.

The background had gone quiet.

“Can you tell me if your friend is still awake?”

Anya heard muffled crying in the background. At least the victim was conscious and breathing.

“If I’m going to help I have to know what I’m dealing with and how badly she’s hurt.”

Violet waited before answering. “She’s beaten up, her face is swollen and she can’t move her left arm. Please help, she’s in a lot of pain.”

Asking for pain relief over the phone instantly aroused a doctor’s suspicion. It could be a ruse to get hold of narcotics. It wouldn’t be the first time an addict had feigned injury, although that usually entailed stories of miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy or a bone disorder.

Anya spoke slowly and clearly, trying to quell Violet’s rising panic.

“I don’t carry pain relief in my bag or at the assault unit attached to the hospital. If she needs something strong, I can’t give it to her. Hospital’s the best place for her.”

In case drugs were the reason for the call, it should be enough to discourage an addict from continuing with the sham.

Instead, Violet became more frantic. “She’s straight-edged—she doesn’t even take headache tablets. And she isn’t drunk. I’m really scared, you’ve got to help us. There’s no one else we can turn to.”

“Is the person who did this near you?”

“No. He’s gone for now.”

Committed now to seeing the girl and her friend, Anya climbed out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans. The crumpled oversized T-shirt she slept in was replaced with a bra and shorter, ironed version. She glanced past Ben’s empty bedroom on the way downstairs.

“I’m on my way to the hospital, the same place you saw me the first time.”

“I remember.”

“Let’s meet out front and I’ll let us in.”

“Please hurry.”

Violet hung up and Anya dialed Mary Singer, to keep her informed of what was happening. Mary, who sounded surprisingly alert for this time of night, wanted to come along, citing a policy to always have a counselor in attendance, but Anya promised to call back if Mary were needed.

Twenty minutes later she pulled up outside the center and immediately saw two small figures in the shadows of the streetlamp, one bent over. She rushed over to offer support but Violet urged her to take them somewhere safer.

Once inside, Anya locked the entrance and quickly glanced out the glass door to make sure no one was outside. She switched on the light and led the girls to the examination suite.

The girl with Violet staggered to the lounge chair, her friend at her side. Anya would not have recognized the face even if they’d met before. The cheeks and eyes were swollen, and blackened. Blood stained her pale shirt. With one hand, she held a blood-soaked towel to the back of her head. The other showed a deformed wrist and forearm, which on a quick glance had to be a displaced fracture.

Anya immediately pulled on latex gloves and grabbed a thick surgical pad along with a pillow. Violet made way as she moved over to the lounge.

“That’s a pretty nasty gash to the head. Can I take a look?”

The girl seemed to defer to Violet, who nodded.

Anya carefully lifted the broken forearm onto a pillow on the owner’s lap. The woman grimaced but did not resist. Next came a cursory examination of the scalp wound.

“Looks like someone really did a job on you. This might sting a bit.”

Anya pressed around the seven centimeter split in the skull, feeling for boggy swelling, anything to suggest a fractured skull beneath. Relieved not to find any abnormality, she then studied the jagged laceration more carefully.

“Can you tell me how this happened? It’s pretty obvious someone wanted to hurt you.”

Violet had folded her arms and sat on a single seater, bent forward, with her long black skirt stretched over her knees. “Is this confidential? Like you promised when you saw me?”

Anya looked across. “Yes, but if someone’s life is at risk, that confidence may have to be broken.”

The two women exchanged looks. “Told you she was all right,” Violet said. “We’re safe here. Go on, tell her.”

The laceration had temporarily stopped bleeding but would need stitches, so Anya sat, gloved palms facing upward on her lap.

The unknown woman spoke through a split bottom lip.

“My name is Savannah. Savannah Harbourn.”