Fatal Liaison

by Vicki Tyley

  He hated lying to his mother, even little white ones, but her health took precedence. She’d have worried herself sick, ending up in hospital if she’d known the truth. Instead, he’d concocted a story along the lines that Sam had been asked at the last minute to step in for a colleague who couldn’t attend an important residential nursing conference. His mother, although frequently out and about, didn’t have an answering machine at home, so he thought he was fairly safe in saying that Sam had tried phoning her. His mother’s disappointment had been evident, but at least he’d managed to allay her concerns. For now.

  After a quick shower and shave, he headed for the kitchen to scrounge up some breakfast. He wasn’t sure if the gnawing ache in his stomach was hunger, but regardless it spurred him on. His cupboards were bare, though, the only bread left in the house a crust and a curled up slice of a week-old wholegrain loaf. Toast was out of the question, and he didn’t trust the milk. It’d been in the fridge for longer than he cared to remember.

  It’d have to be breakfast out again. Collecting his briefcase and keys, he headed out, making a mental note to do the grocery shopping after work.

  The owner of Le Petit Déjeuner greeted him by name as he entered the overheated café and took his usual table by the window. The smell of grilled bacon and fresh coffee hung heavy in the air. He ordered orange juice, a pot of Darjeeling tea and two slices of Vegemite toast. While he waited for breakfast to be served, he tried phoning Sam’s mobile number, hoping to catch her before she arrived at work and switched off her phone. Why wasn’t she answering the bloody thing? More to the point, why hadn’t she returned his messages?

  The hospital where Sam worked frowned upon employees taking personal calls while at work, but it was more important that he talk to his sister and find out what was going on. Sam’s shift wasn’t due to start for another twenty minutes, but there was every chance she might be at work even if she hadn’t yet signed in.

  He phoned the hospital, the switchboard redirecting his call to the nurses’ station. He listened to the clicks as the call connected and then the brr-brr as it rang through to the ward. To his relief, it was answered on the fourth ring.

  “Samantha Jenkins, please. It’s her brother.”

  “I don’t think she’s arrived yet, but if you hold on, I’ll go and check.”

  He drummed his fingers on the table, willing the nurse to hurry up, the tempo of his fingers increasing with each passing second.

  After an interminable time, she returned. “I’m sorry, she hasn’t logged in yet. Can I take a message or ask her to call you?”

  Every instinct in him was telling him that something was not right, but he did his utmost to quash those feelings by telling himself she wasn’t due at work for another sixteen-and-a-half minutes.

  “Please ask her to call me – Greg. Tell her it’s urgent. Thank you. ” If he hadn’t added the word “urgent” to the message then there was every likelihood that Sam would wait until her meal break to phone him. He couldn’t wait until then.

  His breakfast arrived and he ate it mechanically, not really tasting the food. His gaze kept drifting to his BlackBerry. It lay face up and silent on the table next to the teapot. Greg’s watch was digital, but he was sure he could hear it ticking as each second trudged past.

  At exactly one minute after seven o’clock by both his watch and his BlackBerry, he could no longer contain himself. He hit the BlackBerry’s redial button.

  After going through the same rigmarole, he spoke to the same nurse.

  “Let me check if she phoned in sick or something,” she said.

  He opened his mouth to speak, immediately closing it again when he heard the clunk of the receiver landing on a hard surface. He didn’t need her to check, he already knew the answer.

  The nurse returned a minute or so later. “I’m sorry, no one’s heard from her. She’s probably just running late.”

  He hung up, his chest tightening. No longer able to pretend his sister was simply playing truant, he had to confront the reality of the situation. Sam was missing. There was no way that she, despite her timekeeping shortcomings, wouldn’t have contacted someone by now.

  The beep of his BlackBerry startled him. He had an appointment in less than fifteen minutes. It was too late to cancel now. Swearing and muttering under his breath, he tapped the OK box in the BlackBerry’s reminder window and pushed his chair back.

  He was almost at the door when he remembered he hadn’t paid the bill. He did an about-turn and marched over to the cash register, opening his wallet and extracting a twenty-dollar note en route. The girl behind the counter smiled and accepted his money. Waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, he turned and headed back towards the door. It’d been an extremely generous tip, but he didn’t have time to hang around for the change.

  He arrived at his office with only seconds to spare before his appointment turned up. From a business point of view, the presentation ran smoothly. However, whilst he managed to maintain a professional façade, his heart was not in it. Moreover, he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was finding Sam. The client could go to hell for all he cared. Despite this thinking, he somehow found himself shaking hands with Mr Bryant and uttering all the standard niceties his professionalism demanded.

  After the outer office door swung shut behind his client, Greg flopped into one of the reception area’s plush visitor chairs, his breath escaping in a loud huff. Eyes closed, he used his thumbs to knead the knots of tension in his temples.

  Eventually he opened his eyes. Sitting around stressing out didn’t achieve anything. He lumbered to his feet and made his way back to the office. Fortunately, he only had another two appointments in his diary for that day. A couple of phone calls later they were rescheduled.

  Turning to his computer, he searched the White Pages telephone directory for Melbourne hospitals. Starting with the large public hospitals, he worked his way methodically through the list. Each time he called a hospital, he half-expected, as well as half-hoped, to hear that a Samantha Jenkins had been admitted. Anything was better than not knowing.

  He’d exhausted the list and was no closer to finding his sister. Each time the notion of ringing the morgue had crossed his mind, he’d pushed it aside as inconceivable. Now he had to face it. He had to know one way or the other.

  He found the phone number and punched it into the phone’s keypad, hesitating ever so slightly on the last digit.

  An educated-sounding voice answered his call before he could change his mind and hang up. “Good morning, Victorian Institute of Forensic Medicine.”

  “I’d like to speak,” he said, his voice cracking, “to someone regarding recent admissions.”

  Up until Sam’s disappearance, he’d prided himself on the fact that regardless of what life threw at him he’d always managed to stand tall, confronting whatever it was head on. Nothing was insurmountable. His fortitude had been sorely tested eighteen month’s previously, with the shocking drug overdose suicide of his younger and only brother Tim. And when his father died from a heart attack less than two months later, Greg thought he’d drown in his grief. But survive he did, coming out the other side a much stronger person.

  Now it felt like he was coming apart at the seams. He used the time spent on hold, fighting to recover his composure. It was imperative he stay focused: for Sam’s sake, if not his own.

  A gravelly male voice jolted him, briefly unsettling his newly found equilibrium.

  Greg snatched up the telephone receiver. “Good morning, my name is Greg Jenkins. I’m looking for my sister, Samantha Jenkins. She’s thirty-four. Slim build. Black hair – curly black hair. Brown eyes.” He swallowed, tasting bile. “Can you tell me if any unidentified bodies matching that description have come in?”

  Every muscle in his body tensed, his jaw tightening, his knuckles whitening as he waited for the response.

  “What timeframe are we talking about?”

  Greg’s heart sank. “Last few days. Sin
ce Friday.”

  For several long moments, nothing, then, “I can’t give you specifics, but only one female admitted in the last week remains unidentified. I can, however, confirm she does not match your sister’s description.”

  He slumped against the back of his chair, the nightmarish visions of his sister’s cold body lying on a slab in the morgue fading.

  “If you haven’t already done so,” continued the man, “I suggest you contact the police. Thank you for calling.”

  Greg hung up. Whilst it was good advice, he debated whether it was too soon to drag the police in. He’d ruled out the hospitals and the morgue. And what if Sam wasn’t missing per se, but had just taken off for a few days? After all, she was an adult, responsible for her own actions and not accountable to anyone else. No, the police had to be a last resort. There had to be another answer.

  He opened his briefcase and stuck his hand under the stack of manila folders, his fingers feeling for the keys to Sam’s home. He’d held on to them with the intention of returning them to her when she came home. They were so tarnished he doubted she even knew of their existence. He should’ve reminded her to change the locks when she moved in; she wasn’t living in the country anymore.

  Before rushing out the door, he checked the answering machine was switched on. The machine’s unblinking green eye stared at him. For a split second he contemplated changing the message.

  No time.

  Within moments, he was behind the wheel of his car and accelerating into the street. Completely disregarding the possibility of speed cameras en route, he headed in the direction of Sam’s place. He only narrowly avoided hitting a delivery van when he failed to notice it coming out of a service station. That shook him, forcing him to slow down.

  He reached his destination without further incident, pulling into the driveway behind Sam’s car. Clambering out of his own, he made his way down past the carport and onto the path leading up to the front veranda’s chipped and cracking concrete steps. Nothing had changed since his last visit, but hoping against hope, he rapped his knuckles on the solid front door and called out.

  One of the two keys on the ring in his hand fitted the back door, but he hadn’t thought to try the other key in the front door when he let himself out last time. He turned the key and felt the lock-assembly yield. The thought of scaling the side fence again would’ve been too much to bear.

  The door swung inwards, the air colder inside than out. As he stepped into the entrance hall, he looked down at his feet and realized he hadn’t removed his shoes. Out of force of habit, he crouched down and undid his laces. If he’d stopped to think about it, traipsing dirt through the house was the least of his worries.

  He stood and shut the door, closing out the outside world. The house was silent and a hint of mustiness hung in the air. He padded down the hall, glancing in each of the rooms he passed. When he stepped into the kitchen, it was more than evident Sam hadn’t been home since Sunday. The original single coffee cup still sat in the sink, along with the mug he’d used and rinsed. The dishes were still in the dish-rack and the coffeepot was sitting on the edge of the range where he’d left it cooling.

  Remembering the dinner dating agency’s brochure, he made a beeline for the fridge. He rescued the glossy trifold from the jaws of a purple plastic crocodile and, perching on the table edge, studied it. The glib promises and posed photos might have charmed some, but certainly did nothing for him. However, that wasn’t important. What he really needed was a phone number. He turned the brochure over to where the company’s contact details, including a website, were listed.

  He dropped the brochure face down on the table and plonked down on one of the wooden chairs. He then drew out his BlackBerry and dialed Dinner for Twelve’s business number. It rang half a dozen times before a toffy female voice answered the phone.

  Hiding his angst, Greg kept his voice low, and speaking in carefully measured tones explained who he was and that his sister, one of their clients, had not been seen or heard of in some days. “Obviously, this is causing her family some concern. Especially since it’s so out of character for my sister to take off without telling anyone her plans. It’s imperative that I speak with the man she made a connection with at one of your company’s functions.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the woman whose name he hadn’t caught, “but I’m afraid I’m not in a position to help you.”

  “Please. Our mother is extremely unwell. I need to find Sam before it’s too late.” A slight exaggeration but needs must. “She described the guy as ‘tall, dark and drop-dead gorgeous,’ if that helps.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Jenkins. I do understand that you are concerned about your sister, but the Privacy Act prevents me from passing on any information about our clients without their consent.”

  Any pretence at civility promptly vanished. “You have to be joking! The Privacy Act? This could be a matter of life and death and you’re sprouting the Privacy Act at me?”

  “I really do apologize, but unless you have a warrant, I can’t help you. Thank you for your call.”

  Then the line went dead. The heat already suffusing Greg’s face intensified, his jaw dropping in sheer disbelief. She’d hung up on him.

  He dropped his BlackBerry on the table and glared at the brochure for a few moments. Only common sense prevented him from venting his rage on what was really an inoffensive piece of marketing hype. In reality it was more than that; it was his only lead to Sam.

  All the pent-up tension in his body made it impossible for him to remain seated. He scraped back his chair, stood and began to pace within the kitchen’s confines. Circling the kitchen table, he voiced his thoughts. Talking aloud helped him to think.

  “Sam, tell me what I’m supposed to do now. Call the police? No, you wouldn’t want me to do that. Or would you? Shit, I don’t know!” He paused, roughly rubbing the palms of his hands over his face. “Did you leave willingly or unwillingly? There’s no sign of a struggle and…” He came to an abrupt stop, his voice trailing off as he suddenly remembered the handbag on the floor in Sam’s bedroom.

  Scooting through the kitchen door into the hall, he headed straight for the master bedroom. The black leather handbag was exactly where he recalled seeing it on Sunday – on the floorboards beneath the far window. He stepped into the room feeling decidedly uncomfortable about invading his sister’s personal space.

  Over at the window, he stooped and without moving the unlatched bag from its spot on the floor, fossicked through it. There were only a few items in the bag: a small lumpy yellow and white zippered pouch he guessed probably contained lipstick and the like; a green cardboard packet about the size and shape of a matchbox – mouth fresheners according to the label; an expired train ticket; a dangly gold earring; half a small pack of cellophane wrapped tissues; and finally, jammed in the bag’s bottom corner, the mate for the dangly gold earring. There was no sign of a purse or wallet nor a mobile phone. But that was good. It meant she’d taken them with her when she left the house. That, at least, was some consolation.

  He retreated to the kitchen, dropping down onto the chair he’d earlier vacated. Hunched forward, his hands hung in an upside down prayer between his knees. His forehead descended to within a centimeter or two of the table. He let it fall further, bouncing his forehead on the tabletop in frustration.

  When he’d done beating himself up, he sat upright again and picked up Dinner for Twelve’s brochure. That woman had been more than evasive. Privacy Act be damned. There had to be another way.

  He sat motionless, eyes open but unseeing, running the options – both feasible and unfeasible – through his mind. He needed to do whatever it took to find his sister. He had no choice; the time had come to alert the police. Face to face was the best approach, he thought. First, there was something else he needed to do.

  Although he was confident the police would make every effort to help him, they didn’t stand to lose anywhere near as much as he did. He just wasn’t prepare
d to abdicate the responsibility. For God’s sake, she was his little sister, an unworldly and gullible country girl. He refused to dwell on the possibility that some bastard had preyed on those traits.

  Clearing his throat, he picked up his BlackBerry and hit the redial. The same snooty bitch answered the phone, but he had been prepared for that.

  “Good morning. I would like to join up with your agency.” He’d deepened his voice, hoping it would be enough to disguise his identity.

  “Certainly, sir. We can complete most of the formalities over the phone, but we still require you to come in for an informal, obligation-free interview. That way we get to know you and your expectations and you get to know us. Perhaps we can start with your name?”

  He didn’t falter. “Harris, Justin Harris.” It was the first name that came to mind. Justin and he’d been great mates in secondary school, but then Justin’s family had moved across the country to Perth. They still exchanged the occasional email, but it had been years since they’d actually seen each other.

  Dinner for Twelve’s next function, drinks and finger food at some inner city bar he hadn’t heard of, was scheduled for that Friday evening. That suited him better than a formal sit down dinner. He had been dreading the thought of being stuck at a table and being compelled to play the part of a single man looking for love. The single part was right, but the last thing he needed in his life was so-called love.

  He’d found out the hard way that love was for fools. Even now, after nearly a year, his chest still constricted when he thought about the crushing way Karina had left him after seven years of what he blindly believed had been wedded bliss. The idiot he was, he’d had no inkling that it was looming. She’d ridiculed him that fateful day, telling him she’d never loved him. By the time he pulled himself together and thought to ask why, she’d walked out of his life forever. To this day, he remained none the wiser.

  CHAPTER 6

  After a hectic week, Megan had been looking forward to Friday evening when she could unwind. Unfortunately, she’d broken her promise to herself and agreed to accompany Brenda to another of Dinner for Twelve’s functions, a cocktail party.