The 3rd Victim (20 page)

42

S
ara jumped into her car which she'd parked three blocks east of The Liberty. The traffic had eased but not enough for her to achieve the speed she would have liked. She met every red light along the way, her fingers clenched around the steering wheel, her eyes flicking from the road to her cell on the seat beside her, which revealed she had missed four calls in the last three minutes.

David was home and he must have talked to Stacey. She would have told him a man named Hunt had called her, and so David was probably freaking. But what she had to tell him had to be told in person, so she pulled into the underground garage, swerved into their spot and jumped out to head straight for the garage elevator before pounding the button for ‘up’.

She hit their floor, immediately seeing the slice of light coming from their open apartment door. And she knew that he was waiting for her, and in that moment she felt eased by his proximity, even the look on his face making her feel comforted, safe. But relief was soon replaced by his fury at her for not calling him.

‘God, Sara, where have you been?’

‘I'm so sorry. I had a drink … with Daniel Hunt … he was waiting for me outside the office. He convinced me to listen to what he had to say.’ She dropped her bag onto the carpet and melted into his arms, his anger at her subsiding – but his rage at Hunt was now clear.

‘What did that asshole do to you?’ The muscles in his arms flexed as he held her back to examine her. ‘I swear to god, Sara, if he hurt you in any way …’

‘No.’ She shook her head and looked up at him. ‘Not me, he didn't hurt me, David.’

He took her hands in his. ‘Then what are you telling me? That he hurt someone else?’

She shut her eyes, trying to work out how to answer his question. But then she took a breath and realised that she needed to pace herself so that they could make sense of it all, and so she dropped her left hand, still holding on to him with her right and dragged him into the kitchen.

She pulled a bottle of wine from the refrigerator. ‘Hunt knows about the paternity,’ she began.

He looked at her, not knowing what to say.

‘He knows Jim Walker was not Eliza's father.’ She felt a need to repeat it.

‘How? Did Hunt say Davenport admitted to using the wrong seminal specimen by mistake?’

She shook her head as she tossed him a Heineken and pulled out a glass for her wine. ‘He said Sienna was having an affair. That the IVF was unsuccessful. That Eliza was conceived naturally.’

David froze. ‘
He what
?’

‘He said she was cheating on her husband.’ She took a long sip of her wine and felt it slip, cool and soothing, down her throat. ‘And that her husband found out, and that he confided in Hunt, and that Jim Walker was gutted, and that he suspected the child his wife was carrying was her lover's, and that he hit such a low that he …’

‘Oh god,’ said David.

And Sara nodded. ‘Hunt said Jim Walker's death was intentional, that he killed himself because he knew. And then Hunt said that Sienna was racked with guilt, that she knew she was to blame for her husband's actions. And then, he said that when Eliza was born – the child that belonged to a man who was not her husband – the guilt she carried was too great, that Eliza represented her betrayal, a reminder of what she had done, so she … so she …’ Sara had trouble saying it.

‘He's giving her motive,’ said David.

Sara nodded, but then her nod turned into a shake. ‘No … I mean, yes … but I am afraid it is worse than that.’

‘How in the hell could this be worse?’

‘Worse because he has proof.’

‘
Proof
? What proof?’ David was desperate to see it.

She put down her glass to face him. ‘Hunt said he interrupted Sienna before she had finished what she had intended to do.’

David's mouth opened in shock. ‘
He says he walked in on her killing her baby
?’

‘No, that's not what I mean. He said that when he arrived the bedroom was bloody but the baby was gone. He said he tried to reason with her, but that it soon became clear that killing her daughter was only half of her plan.’

‘What the hell does he mean, only half of her plan?’

‘He said that she was planning to take her own life as well.’

David looked at her, the significance of what she was saying now crashing down around him.

‘He said it was an attempted murder-suicide, David,’ Sara continued. ‘That Sienna had disposed of the baby and then set about killing herself.’

‘But that's not proof, Sara,’ David finally managed. ‘Just hearsay from the asshole who set this thing in motion in the first place.’

But the look in her eye told him otherwise. ‘Hunt says that when he came to see her that night, she had sedated herself – heavily. That it wasn't Davenport who administered those sedatives but Sienna, and that Hunt's chance visit had literally saved her life.’

He met her eye, before falling back onto the counter top behind him. ‘Oh god,’ he said for the second time in minutes. ‘Davenport has gone to Katz with his story.’

‘
What
?’

‘When I went to see him tonight, he was behind closed doors – with the District Attorney.’

‘Oh god,’ Sara echoed David.

David said nothing so she moved toward him. ‘David, this is … disastrous.’

But she could tell that he was not listening, because his case had just imploded before him – and, worse still, Daniel Hunt had won.

PART FOUR

43

One month later

I
t was barely dawn. Esther Wallace heard him before she saw him. The noise was slight but distinguishable given it was different to the myriad noises she was now familiar with – the ones the moors conjured up with a brutal daily relentlessness. She had gotten used to the low hum of the wind. Its voice sang with a dull consistency broken only when it settled at the bottom of a breath or whipped up into a frenzy that reverberated in a scream. This sound was different. It had a sluggish rhythm. Footsteps in wet galoshes – the volume of the squelching increasing as the man finally reached his front door.

Esther got up from the bed, careful to make as little noise as possible. The cold bit into her skin so she dragged the blanket with her, pulling the sheets up neatly so that the room remained at peace.

She made it to the living room for his entrance. She could tell it was the heat that surprised him first. He had expected it to be cold. He would have been used to it of course, the cold. She knew men like him. They always preferred winter to summer. It was a form of penance, for sins past.

He shut the front door behind him as she moved further into the room.

‘I let myself in,’ she said, stating the obvious.

He jumped. He met her eye.

His expression was one of confusion, and then suspicion, and then irritation, and finally rage.

‘Who the hell 're ya and what the hell 're you doin' in my cabin?’

He dropped the bag of bloodied rabbits he was holding in his left hand in order to support the now rising hunting rifle he was holding in his right.

‘My name is Esther Wallace,’ she said, looping the blanket over her shoulder before extending her hand.

He didn't answer, but he
did
cock the rifle and squint at her warily above the barrel.

‘There really is no need for that,’ she said, gesturing at the gun. ‘I hate to rely on a dreadful cliché, but I come in peace.’

She paused then to consider him: the red cheeks and muddied gumboots, the wisps of gun-metal grey hair trying desperately to escape from the confines of the thick knitted hat that sat tightly on his head.

‘Why are you here?’ he asked. His voice was low and gravelly.

‘It's a long time since you had visitors,’ she replied, avoiding his enquiry on purpose. ‘I am sorry. I have been terribly presumptuous, and I am afraid it only gets worse, you see, because … I have come to ask you a favour. I am in great need of your help.’

‘You must have the wrong address,’ he said – a quip and quite a clever one, but there was no hint of humour in his stare.

‘I'm sorry,’ she said again, ‘but there's no mistake.’

His eyes narrowed again.

‘I've come a long way. The least you can do is hear me out,’ she said when he failed to respond. ‘You look cold, tired. I can make us some breakfast and a nice cup of tea.’ She nodded at the rifle, encouraging him to put it down.

‘You have some hide,’ he said, but to his credit he lowered his weapon.

‘Indeed I do,’ she said as she took it upon herself to move forward and pick up the rabbit bag in her finger and thumb. ‘I'll put these on some ice while you take a moment to freshen up.’ She gestured at his boots and his beanie, the latter of which he actually pulled from his head sending the small crystals of snow stuck to it silently to the floor.

‘I'll hear you out but then you're gone,’ he said. ‘In case you haven't noticed, I like m'peace.’

‘Peace?’ She managed a smile at the thought of it. ‘Oh, I'm afraid that's not possible,’ she said.

He opened his mouth to argue, but she lifted her finger to silence him before moving slowly toward the stove.

44

M
adonna Carrera was upset. She had that feeling in her stomach, the one you get when a good thing starts turning bad. She was still in shock from the unexpected shellacking her boss had given her mere hours earlier. It was so out of character. Admittedly his mood had turned a little sour over the past few weeks but he had
never
spoken to her like that before, never treated her like she was …
stupid
.

She had called the girl and got her here, as she had done with regularity over the past week or two. Madonna had no idea why this one needed so much special attention, nor why Dr Davenport seemed so keen in his determination to see her but then treated her like shit.

She guessed there was something wrong with her, that the thing growing in her belly – a belly that was now so large that a good three inches of it protruded like a flesh-coloured balloon in between her customary grey hoodie and sweat pants – was sick or twisted or in some sort of contorted position which meant the doctor would have all sorts of hell trying to get the damned thing out. And Madonna wished it would come out – fast – so that the girl could go home and bring up her kid behind whatever rock she crawled out from, and never bother Dr Davenport or Madonna again.

‘Why does he want me here again?’ asked the girl. She picked at the raw skin around her nonexistent fingernails. She had a ketchup stain on her sweat shirt and a look of disdain on her face. ‘Is there something wrong with me?’ she asked. As she said this, she cradled her middle, and Madonna noted something new in her tone – concern, panic, fear.

‘I told you I don't know,’ bit Madonna. But then, seeing the forlorn look in the dishevelled girl's eyes, she decided to tone it down a little. ‘I'm sure there's nothing wrong with you. Dr Davenport is just being digi … digilent.’ She started to pick at her own long acrylics before forcing herself to stop.

The girl named Sophia nodded. ‘You got kids?’ she asked after a pause.

Fabulous
– now the girl who had never given any hint of personality decided she wanted to talk.

‘No.’

Sophia nodded. ‘Me neither, but soon.’

Madonna pointed at her stomach with her pen, her face expressing the soundless form of the international comment known as ‘
Duh
!’

The girl lowered her eyes and Madonna thought that she might be about to cry. Madonna had been mean and she was not a mean person. Her mother had always said that Madonna had been born with a very big heart, and that she should remember this every time she came across someone less fortunate than herself – which, not surprisingly, happened quite a lot.

‘When I first started here, I was scared I would stuff up,’ she said – the only thing she could think of to say.

Sophia looked up to meet her eye.

‘Dr Davenport called me Miss Carrera and it made me feel special and nervous at the very same time. Now he calls me Madonna, because we've gotten to know and respect each other.’ Wishful thinking. ‘And now I feel better, because I've been here a while.’

‘Do you call him Dick?’ asked the girl.

How weird a fucking question was that? ‘Well no,’ Madonna said, bristling just a little, her eyes flitting back to her computer in the hope the gesture would put the girl off.

‘Was your mom religious?’ the girl persisted.

Madonna exhaled. ‘I don't see that that is any of your …’ But then her eyes met Sophia's once again. ‘My mom is Catholic. She goes to church every Sunday.’

‘But you were named after the other Madonna, the one with the kids from Africa,’ said Sophia.

Madonna said nothing, but once again remembered her mother's directive and offered the girl a half-smile.

‘Would you be shocked if I told you I was a virgin?’ asked the girl.

Madonna met her eye again. ‘The Angel Gabriel back in business?’ She started to laugh at her own joke but then noticed the girl appeared to be deadly serious.

‘I'm scared,’ said the girl, looking up once again, her wide brown eyes glistening. ‘They say it hurts but you forget, but that's because of what you've gained.’

Madonna was not sure how to respond. ‘A baby's good,’ she attempted after a pause. ‘As far as gains go, I mean.’

But then the door to Dr Davenport's surgery opened and a reluctant Sophia stood to follow him into his rooms. As she passed she shook her head toward Madonna, and then Madonna felt a chill rise from deep inside of her, and then the phone began to ring.

45

‘I
've said it before and I'll say it again, Sienna Walker does not suffer from depression.’

Barbara Wong McGregor was one of Boston's most respected family psychologists. While her specialty was children, she had also spent years studying and diagnosing women with post-partum depression. David had used her before – most notably a few years ago when he defended a thirteen-year-old boy accused of killing his mother – which meant Wong McGregor was not just an expert but a friend, and they knew they needed to surround themselves with friends at this point, a mere six weeks from trial.

No depression, she had said. David had not expected anything else, but if Hunt and Davenport were going to milk the murder-suicide theory in court, they needed a psych consult who was well and truly on their side.

They had decided to fight – not just because they believed in their client but because they knew, in order for Sienna to do what Daniel Hunt had suggested, she would have had to have been suffering from the worst form of psychological despair, and as Barbara had explained after each and every one of her four meetings with their client, Sienna was not depressed – at least not in the way Hunt was claiming, not enough to murder her baby before attempting to kill herself.

They were at Myrtle's. They were nursing beers – and in Nora's case a shandy – despite the fact that Mick had no licence to serve alcohol, a discrepancy they all overlooked considering the Boston PD's Head of Homicide and his partner were now part of their little late night group.

Barbara's eyes narrowed as she put her beer on the table and shuffled in her seat. ‘You know, this woman is incredibly interesting,’ she said then, ‘from a psychological point of view, I mean.’

David loosened his tie. He understood Barbara was trying to find something that would help them, so she was most likely firing off observations hoping one might hit the mark. ‘How so?’ he asked.

Barbara opened the file on her lap. ‘I know you are going to think I am some sort of psychological nerd when I say this, but she is an extraordinary subject. She is just so …’ Barbara attempted to find the word, ‘… lucid. She has this uncanny ability to break queries down and see your questions at face value – which is very uncommon, believe you me.’ She pushed her shoulder-length black hair behind her ear.

‘We've found the same thing,’ said Sara. ‘So where does that kind of thinking come from? Is it inherent or learnt?’

‘In her case I think it is a little of both. I assume you are all aware of her background?’

‘We know she grew up privileged,’ said Joe. ‘David told us her grandfather was some sort of artistic genius.’

Barbara nodded before turning to David. ‘Do you want me to break it down for you – in psychological terms, I mean?’ she asked.

David nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said, although to be honest he thought their time would be better spent getting Barbara's opinion on the psychological profile of a man like Daniel Hunt. He knew Hunt was beyond smart but he also knew there had to be a psychological flaw in there somewhere, and he could not help but think it was essential that they find it. ‘But then we need to talk about Hunt,’ he said.

‘A little difficult considering I haven't examined him,’ warned Barbara.

‘I understand,’ replied David. ‘But anything you can tell us would help at this stage.’

The attractive Japanese-American nodded, before picking up her folder and turning to the job at hand. ‘Sienna Walker was born Sienna Elizabeth Harrington. She grew up in the town of Guildford, Surrey, which is southwest of London.’

‘Surrey,’ said Joe. ‘Isn't that the county for the UK's rich and famous?’

‘It's the wealthiest county in the UK,’ said Barbara. ‘As for famous, I think that title belongs to Hertfordshire – that's where the Beckhams built their mini-palace after all.’

‘Beckingham Palace,’ said Frank, and the entire group turned to look at him. ‘
What
?’ he asked. ‘Kay reads the tabloids.’

Barbara smiled before consulting her notes once again. ‘Sienna's parents were individually successful and both had diverse talents – left brain, right brain stuff, which makes Sienna a very interesting genetic mix.’

‘In what way?’ asked Arthur.

‘Sienna's father was Edward Harrington, a respected lawyer who specialised in international criminology. He had his own incredibly successful London-based practice, but in his later life was approached to be a special adviser to first Prime Minister John Major and then Prime Minister Tony Blair on matters of international law and security.’

‘But weren't Major and Blair from opposite parties?’ asked Sara. ‘I mean, usually new administrations bring in their own people.’

Barbara nodded. ‘Sara's right, and Sienna's low-key reference to her father's professional history intrigued me as well. So I did some independent research and discovered Edward Harrington was quite an extraordinary man. From what I can gather he knew more about the legalities of dealing with the factions of the vastly diversified global criminal syndicates than anyone in the UK, and thus was highly sought after until he died of a heart attack in 2003.’

‘So the dad was left brain,’ said Joe. ‘What about the mom?’

Barbara took a sip of her beer and used the back of her hand to push her wire-rimmed glasses back up her petite turned-up nose. ‘Equally as amazing. While Sienna's father was certainly a man of some influence, her mother had built up her own reputation as an expert in her own field of influence – that being the arts.’

‘So Sienna Walker followed in her mother's footsteps,’ said Frank, ‘working at the gallery.’

‘Yes,’ replied Barbara. ‘But her mother's specialty was music.’ She referred to her notes once again. ‘Alison Granby Harrington was classified as a musical genius at a very early age. She was a celebrated violinist and attended the Royal College of Music in London's fashionable South Kensington – a college that is highly regarded as one of the best music schools in Europe.’ Barbara ran her finger down the page in front of her. ‘She was a huge supporter of the arts in all forms, eventually being named Chairwoman of the Arts Council of Great Britain at the age of forty-one.’

‘You've done your homework,’ said Arthur.

‘Yes,’ replied Barbara. ‘And admittedly a lot of this may seem unnecessary to your defence, but from a professional point of view this information, this kind of background, certainly helps me when it comes to building a psychological profile of your client.’

Barbara looked up from her notes and saw uncertainty on most of the faces around her. ‘Okay, indulge me for a minute,’ she said, placing her folder on the table. ‘Her father was obviously smart and blessed with an incredible talent for diplomacy and her mother was a musical whiz. Sienna was an only child, and she admits to being indulged in the sense that her parents spent a lot of time teaching, talking, including her in their discussions, their thought processes, their view on the universe as a whole. But then Sienna's world falls apart – her mother dies in a horse-riding accident when Sienna is only eleven. Her father is devastated. He throws himself into his work. Sienna is sent to boarding school, and while admittedly it was one of the best in the UK, it was still the first time in her life that she was isolated, which meant there were two ways she could have gone at this point – rebellion or excellence – and Sienna being who she is, she automatically followed the path of …’

‘Excellence,’ said David.

Barbara nodded.

David was beginning to see how this might help them – or at the very least explain why his client was who she was. Sienna could well have fallen into a heap when she was eleven, but she hadn't – on the contrary, she had excelled. David suspected Barbara was trying to explain to them why depression was simply not in their client's make-up – and, if the Kat
did
decide to push the depression envelope, why it would be an argument that could well benefit them in court.

‘So where did she go from boarding school?’ asked Frank.

‘Well,’ said Barbara, who had obviously committed this information to memory, ‘from the Roedean School in Brighton she was accepted into Oxford to study the history of art and architecture, where she graduated with honours.’

‘That's some familial resumé,’ said Joe.

Barbara agreed. ‘Her lineage is certainly impressive, especially when you consider the talents of her maternal grandfather – the artist Alistair Granby, who was, by the way, a descendant of British gentry.’ But then the psychologist began to frown.

‘What is it?’ asked Sara.

Barbara shook her head. ‘I suppose he is the one chink in her genetic armour – the grandfather with some grand British title who shunned his peerage, began painting, and then went AWOL at the peak of what was reportedly an incredibly successful career. He was by all reports antisocial, violent, misogynistic, cruel.’

David felt a flash of concern slip quickly up his spine. ‘Wait a minute, are you suggesting the prosecution could use a genetic link like this one to solidify their argument for Sienna's state of mind?’ he asked. It sounded like a strategy from way out of left field, but they were talking about Roger Katz here and David knew the man made an art out of picking at the details until he drew blood.

‘I'm saying it's possible,’ admitted Barbara, ‘that Roger Katz could enlist the services of his own psychologist to link the grandfather's aggression to his granddaughter. Don't forget, if Katz puts your Dr Davenport on the stand as you suspect he will, and if the doctor gives evidence relating to your client's self-administration of those sedatives, well … in this scenario his psych expert could well have the easiest job in the courtroom – all he has to do is provide a genetic link for your client's actions and …’

‘You're talking about some form of genetic mental illness – bipolar or the like.’

Barbara nodded. ‘It's possible,’ she said.

Sara looked at David. ‘I know we suspect Katz has no intention of playing the depression card but if he could link such a condition to genetic aggression – I wouldn't put it past him, David.’

They all knew what Sara was saying. Ever since she had had her impromptu meeting with Hunt they understood just how high the cards were stacked against them. If Davenport was subpoenaed as a witness for the prosecution, if he could prove Sienna's motivation for taking her daughter's life was her own guilt, then Katz could go to town on the psychological angle without the concession of a lesser charge and sentence. Post-partum depression was one thing, but murder-suicide, motivated by Sienna's guilt at having had an affair which in turn triggered her husband's suicide, was another altogether. The DA could claim Sienna took out such guilt on her daughter, and then opted for the coward's way out of attempting to end her own life as well. The whole thing reeked of premeditation, and that meant it had ‘murder one’ written all over it. Hell, if they were almost anywhere else but Massachusetts, their client would be headed for the electric chair.

‘I'm sorry,’ said Barbara then. ‘If it's any compensation, I'll do everything I can to offer a strong counterargument on the stand.’

‘But you think it might not be enough,’ said David.

She shook her head. ‘Not with the evidence they have against your client. I'm sorry,’ she repeated to the room as a whole.

But David did not hear her, for all he heard was the ticking of that internal clock that felt like it was accelerating toward their day in court. Tick … tick … tick.

*

It was past midnight when they finally called it a night, David walking out under the clear night sky, spring having slipped through winter's fingers, the air crisp but not biting, cool but not cold.

‘You're lucky to have her,’ said Joe of Barbara Wong-McGregor.

‘Don't I know it,’ replied David as he watched Joe extend his arm toward his Nissan, the somewhat worse-for-wear vehicle blinking to life at the command of the keys in Joe's left hand.

‘Did you ask your client about that injury? The one that might have seen her use the DSMO?’

David turned to look at his detective friend. ‘Yes, sorry, I forgot to tell you. She said she'd been in good health – no sprains or strains, certainly no need for analgesics or anti-inflammatories. But she's taken the odd migraine tablet, so I thought maybe there were some medications that …?’ He stopped to turn toward his detective friend, noting the look of confusion on his face. ‘Is this significant, Joe?’ he asked. ‘The dimethyl sulfoxide in her blood, I mean. Because I don't see how it can be, given it's not a drug used to treat depression or …’

But Joe's head was downcast, his feet shuffling on the pavement.

‘Joe?’

Joe finally lifted his chin. ‘One of the reasons Frank and I set out to find this Esther Wallace was because we wanted some more background on Sienna's medical situation. We thought this Wallace – being a nurse and all – might remember any additional treatments or prescriptions issued to your client. But as you know, Wallace has gone AWOL. We checked the flights from Logan, both international and domestic, and they were a no-go. We got a warrant to search her house … the woman appears to have disappeared into thin air, which either means absolutely nothing or … something significant – I'm just not sure which.’

David stopped under a street light. ‘You think this Esther Wallace knows something about Sienna being prescribed the DSMO?’

‘Or not.’

‘But she was just Davenport's assistant. She didn't have the authority to prescribe medication so …’

‘True, but she
was
a nurse and that's what interests me. Nurses are more hands-on than most surgical receptionists – the dimwit Davenport has working for him now being a case in point.’

David nodded. While he had admired Madonna Carrera's ingenuity, he sensed she was not exactly Mensa material. ‘You think Davenport employed this girl on purpose?’

But Joe shrugged, noncommittal, then said: ‘Nurses take blood.’

‘They do,’ replied David.

‘So maybe this Wallace was involved with taking your client's.’

‘So we're back at the dimethyl sulfoxide.’

Joe nodded. ‘The DMSO has more than one use, David.’