Chapter Twenty-Six
After Judith delivered the little girl to the emergency room at Box Hill Hospital and told them that she suspected poisoning of the child and the mother, she called Rocky and told him the same thing.
He said he’d dispatch officers to search the house for anything suspicious, and told Judith to go home.
She wanted to wait at the hospital, but there was nothing she could do there, so she did as she was told and went home to her bed, and then couldn’t sleep.
At seven the following morning, she called Rocky. He answered on the second ring.
‘You’re up early,’ she said.
‘Didn’t go to bed.’
The tone of his voice was grim, and Judith’s heart sank. She could hear street noise in the background.
‘Where are you?’ she said.
‘Just leaving the hospital. She didn’t make it, Jude. Elsa Anderson is dead.’
‘What? You can’t be serious.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
The utter, shitty finality of the words hit Judith hard. It didn’t seem possible. That beautiful woman who’d been so vital, so present, the night before.
‘Her daughter? The little girl?’
‘Hanging in there. It was definitely poison. I sent a team to the house. The childminder pointed the boys to a jar of marshmallows. She said they were Elsa’s favourite sweets, that they’d been delivered by a courier, and the little girl—Doris—she ate some too.
Elsa died before we could finish testing, but they were laced with 1080. You know what that is?’
‘Not really.’
‘It’s the brand name for sodium fluoroacetate, which is a controlled pesticide.
It’s supposed to be accessible only to licensed pest controllers, but it’s widely used in the country to control possums, rabbits and other feral animals.
I’m told it’s an odourless, colourless crystalline powder and there’s no specific antidote.
There’s no way to reverse the effects, either.
All doctors can do is try and keep you alive and hope you recover. ’
‘So the kid . . .’
‘There’s hope. That’s all I know. It seems like Elsa ate some yesterday and more today. The little girl mustn’t have had as many. Usually 1080 works fast. No one seems to know exactly why they didn’t get sick until last night.’
Judith swore under her breath.
‘I’ve got a whole team working on this now, and our first priority is tracking down Ruth Hall. Sawhill’s thinking about making a public announcement. Warning people about the marshmallows.’
‘You think she sent them to someone else?’
‘You tell me, Jude. You’ve been ahead of me all the way on this. Do you think it’s possible?’
Judith hesitated. ‘I don’t know. So far, it feels like her campaign has been tightly targeted.’
‘Tightly targeted my arse. There’s a little girl in ICU who might not survive the day.
And whatever Elsa Anderson did, she doesn’t deserve what she got.
’ Rocky broke off to mutter something to someone who was with him, and Judith heard the sound of car doors opening and closing.
‘I have to go. I’ll see you at the station. ’
Judith, still at home, barefoot and in her pyjamas, sat on her couch and rubbed both hands over her shorn head.
She’d been a fool. Some part of her had felt sympathy for Ruth Hall and her cause, and some part of her had even envied Ruth’s ability to decide on a course of action and then implement it, without, it seemed, any hesitation or doubt or fear of the consequences.
What was so clear to Judith now—and what should always have been clear to her—was that Ruth was a psychopath.
She took life easily. Far too easily. Whatever Elsa had done to make herself a target, did it matter?
Short of actually killing Miriam herself, could she have done anything to deserve her murder?
And the little girl, she was a complete innocent.
Judith showered, dressed and ate. She got on her bike and rode to Lawrence Barr’s home address.
He lived in a townhouse on Ramsden Street in Clifton Hill, overlooking Quarries Park.
Judith let herself through the low pedestrian gate and went to the front door.
She rang the bell. The door was opened by a blonde woman who looked to be in her late fifties.
She was in her stockinged feet and wearing jeans and a long cardigan.
Judith could hear classical music playing from a room towards the back of the house.
‘Can I help you?’
Judith introduced herself, showing her ID. ‘I’m looking for Lawrence Barr. Is he available?’
The woman’s open, friendly expression disappeared quickly. ‘He’s out.’
‘I see. Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘I do.’
There was a long pause. The two women eyed each other.
‘He’s not in any trouble,’ Judith said.
The blonde rolled her eyes. ‘I know that. You’re the trouble. What’s it about?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t disclose that.’
That prompted another eyeroll and a shake of the head.
‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t very important. It’s . . . look, lives are in danger.’
‘They always are,’ the blonde snapped. ‘That’s the problem.’ Before Judith could respond she said, ‘You’ll find him at St Bart’s. Finishing up the early morning meeting. Try to leave him in the state you found him in, would you?’ And she slammed the door in Judith’s face.
St Bart’s was a red-brick Anglican church on Burnley Street, about four kilometres from the Barrs’ townhouse in Clifton Hill.
Judith parked her bike and looked Lawrence Barr up online.
Katy had obviously been right about Barr not practising anymore.
He wasn’t listed as a psychologist in any mental health practice.
But the internet is forever, and Judith was able to find a few photographs of the former psychologist—formal-looking shots where he stood with other besuited men and women, smiling blandly for the camera.
Barr was a short man—best guess, she’d put him at around five foot five or six—with a sharply receding hairline.
His skin was tanned and lightly freckled.
Judith waited, sitting on her bike. At ten-fifteen a.m., she saw Lawrence Barr emerge from the building, a cardboard cup of coffee in hand, chatting with an older man.
Judith waited for the older man to leave, then approached Barr as he turned to go back into the church.
‘Mr Barr? Do you have a moment?’
He was willing enough to talk to her, and seemed unsurprised when she introduced herself as a detective. He led the way to a wooden bench that was installed against an outer wall of the building and gestured for her to take a seat.
‘I appreciate your time,’ Judith said.
‘So how can I help you, Detective?’
‘I’m trying to track down a woman you may have treated when she was a young girl. Her named is Ruth Hall.’ She watched his face when she said Ruth’s name. It took him a moment, perhaps, to place her, but place her he did. She saw recognition in his eyes. Recognition, and caution.
‘I’m not sure how I can help you with that. I haven’t seen Ruth since she was a child.’
‘Right,’ Judith said. ‘Could you point me to a psychiatrist who might have treated her more recently? Towards the end of her time in the foster system?’
‘I could, but they won’t talk to you without a court order.’
‘I don’t want to ask any questions about her treatment or her diagnosis. I’m just trying to track her down. Or even track her friends down. Anyone who might have been close to her as a teenager who might still be in touch now.’
‘Even so,’ Lawrence said, shaking his head, ‘they won’t talk to you about a patient.’
‘I really don’t mean her any harm.’
He shrugged. ‘The rules are the rules.’
Judith hid her disappointment, and tried to figure out what she could do next.
She should go to the station, go through the child protection files, the release of which would now certainly be expedited.
Maybe she’d find something useful there.
She could go to the homes Ruth had lived in, speak to any foster parents she may have been placed with.
The Giffords had been very helpful. There might be others like them who would be willing to talk to her, even if the social workers and psychologists could not.
But she felt a deep sense of urgency. As if somewhere a hidden hourglass had been turned over and the sand was spilling out far too quickly.
‘Look, if it’s any consolation, I don’t think they’d be able to help you, even if they were willing to talk to you,’ Lawrence said.
‘Really? And why is that?’
‘Because Ruth would not have stayed in touch with her treating doctors, and because she didn’t have friends.’
Judith digested that for a moment. ‘If you only treated her when she was a child—’
‘I didn’t treat her when she was older, that’s true, but we were a small team, the psychologists and psychiatrists who dealt with kids in the system. We provided multidisciplinary care. We had meetings, and we discussed the kids. Ruth was a very challenging personality.’
Judith waited. He had more to say, she could feel it. But Lawrence was silent.
‘I spoke to Ruth’s foster parents, the Giffords. They told me what happened with Steve’s finger. It sounds like Ruth got inpatient treatment for a while, after that. The Giffords thought that she probably went to a group home.’
‘She did,’ Lawrence said. ‘For a while. There were other attempts to place her with a foster family. Three that I know of. All of them failed. She spent most of her time in the system in a group home, and there were a lot of problems there too.’
‘You said she didn’t make friends easily.’
He paused, not, she thought, because he didn’t want to speak, but because he was carefully considering his words.
‘How much do you know about her history?’
‘I know that her father was Charlie Palmer,’ Judith said. ‘I know what she went through.’
Barr gave a sad smile, and shook his head. ‘I doubt that, Detective. You might know some of it, but you couldn’t possibly know all and I’m not going to get into it with you.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Why are you here? Is Ruth in some kind of trouble?’