by Vicki Tyley
Raped.
Strangled.
Murdered.
The words echoed in Megan’s head.
“Of course, I’m bloody sure,” Brenda said, the pitch of her voice rising. “I’ve just been interviewed by the police.”
Megan listened without interruption, having to remind herself every few moments to breathe. From what Brenda was saying, Linda’s decomposing body had been found at home in her bed. Strangled with a plastic cable tie. The sort of news you read about in the papers, not about someone you actually knew. Someone you could put a face to. They hardly knew the woman, but…
The police. If the police had spoken to Brenda then most certainly they would be contacting her. A barb of guilt suddenly pricked at her conscience. Even though she’d never voiced them, her initial thoughts on meeting Linda had been less than kind. Megan knew it wasn’t rational, but she wanted to take back those thoughts.
A snippet of a previous conversation with Brenda popped into Megan’s head. “You don’t think that Lawson—”
Brenda jumped in before Megan could complete the sentence. “No, I don’t think!”
Megan moved the phone from her ear, surprised by Brenda’s defensive, almost hostile reaction. Her friend was being very protective of a man she’d only just met. Megan tried a different approach, her voice neutral. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. It’s just that you mentioned that Lawson and Linda left the restaurant around the same time last Saturday. I just thought that—”
“I didn’t say they left together.”
“Brenda, I didn’t say that. What has got into you? Why are you being so prickly?”
“Don’t say anything to the police. Please. Stay put. I’m coming over.”
Not waiting for a reply, Brenda hung up, leaving Megan listening to the disconnection hum. In slow motion, Megan replaced the phone in the cradle. She remained seated on the bed, trying to untangle her thoughts. Certainly the news of Linda’s murder had winded her, but Brenda’s aggression was even more bewildering. Had she missed something?
She forced herself to take a deep breath, slowing her mind. Speculation could only be counterproductive. In situations like this, the mind always conjured up worse case scenarios. Her only option was to wait for Brenda.
CHAPTER 11
Greg’s hand flailed for the alarm clock. Nothing but air. He sat bolt upright, instantly awake, although it took him a second or two to work out where he was. Massaging the crick in the side of his neck, he eased himself off the couch. He’d lost all track of time. Sunlight streamed through the lounge room’s west windows. Late afternoon.
The whole of the previous night he’d prowled from room to room, unable to sleep. His brain had been working overtime, looking for clues, searching for answers. He still couldn’t shake the image of Lawson’s wide-eyed pale face from the forefront of his memory. There had to be more – much more – to it than met the eye. Somehow, he had to find out what.
In the end, lack of sleep and mental exhaustion took its toll. It’d been daylight when he’d stopped pacing. The last thing he remembered was sinking onto the couch.
The doorbell rang again.
Feeling like the walking dead, he padded in his socks across the room towards the front door. He opened the door at the precise moment his mouth gaped in an involuntary yawn that threatened to swallow his face. He closed his mouth, but before he could open his eyes, he yawned again, powerless to stop it.
When he was able to clamp his mouth shut long enough to open his eyes, he came face to face with two grim-faced, clean-shaven men in neat, but obviously cut-price suits. Mormons. He was about to close the door in their faces when they produced identification.
A flicker of hope welled in his chest and he smiled tentatively, his eyes searching their faces for confirmation. They didn’t return his smile, promptly dashing his hopes.
“Mr Jenkins? Detective Sergeant Dave Abrahams and,” the more thickset of the two men motioned at his companion, “my colleague Detective Senior Constable Eric Friar. May we come in please?”
Without a word, Greg stepped aside and held the door open, closing it again once the police officers were inside. He lingered, his back to the men, taking a moment to steel himself. Forcing a smile, he ushered them through to the lounge room.
“Can I get you gentlemen anything? Coffee?” Greg’s heart hammered in his chest, the sound of blood rushing in his ears so loud he was convinced the officers could hear it, too.
“We’re fine, thanks.”
His power of speech momentarily deserting him, Greg gestured at the couch. The detectives took the cue, seating themselves at opposite ends of the couch. Greg dithered – anything to delay the inevitable – about where to sit, before opting for the more austere Chesterfield chair. His fingers dug into the dense leather arms, anchoring himself to the seat.
Every nerve cell in his body twanged. He knew why the detectives were there, so why didn’t they hurry up and get it over with. He closed his eyes waiting for the words that would tear his whole being apart.
The sergeant cleared his throat. “What can you tell us about the dating agency, Dinner for Twelve?”
Greg’s eyes snapped open. “Sorry?”
The detective repeated the question.
Tension drained from Greg’s body. He loosened his grip on the chair’s arms and sank back in the seat. “I don’t know what she’s told you, but I can explain.”
“Explain what, Mr Jenkins?”
“Why Pauline Meyer jumped to the conclusion I was a cop.”
“Sorry, you’re losing me.”
“Isn’t that why you’re here? To follow up on a complaint by the owner of Dinner for Twelve?”
“Not exactly, though it would help to know what this incident you’re referring to between you and Mrs Meyer is all about.”
“Just a simple misunderstanding.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Greg studied the senior detective’s hardened features. Why were they there? “I was asking questions about my sister. Mrs Meyer didn’t approve.”
“What sort of questions?”
“Christ!” He sat forward, throwing up his hands. “What is this? I haven’t broken any laws. Simply doing what any brother concerned about his missing sister would do. What you should be doing.”
“Broken no laws, perhaps, but undermining and jeopardizing the police investigation into your sister’s whereabouts isn’t in anyone’s best interests. Leave the detective work to the police in future.”
A retort about their lack of progress to date was on the tip of his tongue. He closed his mouth, swallowing the words. Nothing could be gained from antagonizing them. He would do whatever it took to find his sister and bring her home. “So how can I help?”
The two officers took turns to ask him questions about Dinner for Twelve, questions about what he knew of the people involved, questions about Sam’s affiliations with the agency. And then they turned the questions around and asked them all over again. Greg held nothing back.
In the midst of spieling off his suspicions about Lawson, Greg caught the two detectives exchanging knowing glances. He stopped mid-sentence.
“What’s going on?” He jumped to his feet and stared down at the senior detective, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Please sit down, Mr Jenkins.”
Greg dropped back into the chair. Agitation continued to tweak at his muscles. A tic that he hadn’t suffered from for some time surfaced under his left eye.
“First of all… Greg…?” The younger detective paused.
Greg nodded, willing him to continue, indifferent to the drop in formality.
“Do you know or have you ever heard of a Linda Nichols?”
“Linda Nichols? Not that I can recall. Who is she? What does she have to do with Sam?”
The sergeant – whose name had passed over Greg way back – took over. “Linda Nichols was a client of Dinner for Twelve.”
Greg leaned forward, eager for information. “Does this Linda know where Sam might be?”
The sergeant shook his head. “No. Unfortunately, Linda Nichols was found murdered late yesterday afternoon.”
Greg’s jaw dropped.
The sergeant continued. “At this stage we don’t think there is any link between this woman’s death and your sister’s disappearance.”
“Murder?” spluttered Greg. “How could my sister’s disappearance possibly be linked to a murdered woman? Where was this Linda woman’s body found?”
“I’m sure you’re right, but we do have to investigate every possibility. Linda Nichols was discovered dead at home in her bed.”
“Well, there you go then. Sam is definitely not dead in her bed. I’ve checked.” He stared at the detectives, the set of his face defiant. “It’s just a coincidence that this woman and Sam both belonged to that dating agency,” he added, more in an effort to convince himself than them. “Tell me something: was this woman raped? Did she suffer?” He didn’t know why he needed to know this; he just knew he did.
The sergeant hesitated as if weighing up how much or how little he should divulge. “There are some indications she may have been sexually assaulted, but at this stage findings are inconclusive.”
It wasn’t until after the police officers had left and he was alone that the real significance of their visit hit home. Despite what they told him, they were obviously not completely convinced that the Dinner for Twelve link was a coincidence.
Emotionally drained, and with the synapses in his brain misfiring, he could no longer think straight. In the state he was in, he was of no use to anyone. It’d all be clearer tomorrow.
The dry acrid taste in Greg’s mouth reminded him he hadn’t had anything to drink since arriving home the previous night. Dehydration didn’t help brain function.
On the way to the kitchen for a glass of water, he noticed the answering machine’s green message light flashing. He didn’t need to play it to know it would be his mother. Realizing he could no longer fob her off with flimsy excuses, he resolved to drive up the next morning and talk to her in person. She’d every right to hear what was going on. And as fragile as her health was, he also understood his mother was much stronger than he actually gave her credence for.
That night, Greg did something he hadn’t done since he was a schoolboy in short pants. He knelt beside his bed, bowed his head, and prayed.
CHAPTER 12
Megan checked her watch. Less than two hours before she was due to meet Joe for the dinner that had never eventuated on Saturday night. What with Brenda springing the news about Linda Nichol’s murder over the phone and then coming around, Megan had clean forgotten what day it was, let alone the time.
Poor Joe. How long must he have sat in that restaurant, alone and feeling conspicuous, waiting for Megan to turn up? His voice, when he did succumb to phoning her, had been aloof and tightly controlled. She’d apologized profusely, explaining briefly what had happened and promising to call and reschedule dinner for another night. Tonight was that night.
That’s if she ever got away from work. Part way through vetting a stack of curriculum vitaes, her mobile phone buzzed. Glancing at the caller ID, she finished the notation she was scribbling in the margin. For a split-second, she considered not picking up. Brenda’s behavior of late had been peculiar – to say the least. For most of the last three days, she'd been unreachable, then when Megan had managed to get through, Brenda would giggle maniacally one moment, sob the next. Something was eating at her, but no amount of coaxing, cajoling or outright bullying from Megan had persuaded her to open up. One thing for sure though, Lawson was involved. Somehow.
As she pressed the talk button, she had a premonition Brenda’s call wasn’t social. With a horrible sense of déjà vu, Megan listened to Brenda’s breathless voice.
“Oh my God, Megan! Oh my God!”
Megan leapt from her chair, the mobile phone still pressed to her ear. She reached her office door in a flash and pushed it to, shutting out the rest of the office and cloistering herself in the claustrophobic shoebox of workspace called her office.
Brenda continued to gabble as Megan stepped behind her desk, reclaiming her chair.
“Brenda, stop. What on earth are you talking about? You’re not making any sense. What about Lawson? Start again. Slowly.”
Megan waited patiently, listening to Brenda’s labored breathing as she fought to regain her composure.
“Lawson…” Brenda croaked and started again. “The police have taken Lawson in for questioning. Oh God, what if they think he did it?” The tone of her voice suddenly switched from distraught to accusatory. “You didn’t tell the police what I told you, did you? Please say you didn’t.”
Megan wavered. “If you’re talking about Lawson and Linda leaving the function around the same time how could I not tell them? But, Brenda, if Lawson’s done nothing wrong, he’s got nothing to worry about.”
“Oh God. Do you know what you’ve done? They’ll think he was lying, that I was trying to cover for him. How could you?”
“Listen to yourself, Brenda. This is not like you. What’s this obsession with Lawson? How can you be so sure he isn’t involved? If he’s lied to the police, what’s to say he hasn’t lied to you?”
“You don’t understand—”
“Make me understand. Please, Brenda, I want to help, but you have to tell me what’s going on. What aren’t you telling me?” Megan’s best friend was falling apart and unless she could convince Brenda to confide in her, she was powerless to help. “Look, I don’t know about you, but I could sure do with a drink about now. How about we meet at The Atrium? Don’t worry, everything will be okay, it’ll sort itself out.”
After Megan secured an agreement from Brenda to meet and then hung up, she remembered her dinner date with Joe. Could Joe possibly forgive her a second time? She wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t – even nice guys had a breaking point. But, as she told herself, she’d only known Joe five minutes, whereas she and Brenda had been good friends for half a lifetime. No question, Brenda came first.
Joe must have guessed the reason for Megan’s call. After the initial hello, he remained silent waiting for Megan to fill the void that hung between them. In an effort to assuage her guilt at standing him up yet again, she blathered on, disclosing far more information than she ever intended. He didn’t interrupt, waiting until she ran out of air before taking his turn.
“Megan, if what you’ve just told me is true, Brenda could be in serious trouble. You’re saying that this Lawson character was involved with the missing woman and…” he paused, drawing out the last word, before repeating it. “And he was involved with the woman who’s turned up murdered.”
Megan heard him take deep breath.
“On top of that,” he continued, “you tell me she hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with the police. Lawson probably hasn’t been either. Are you really all that surprised the police have taken Lawson in for questioning?”
Hearing someone else voice her own thoughts just reinforced what her instincts had been telling her all along. If Joe and she could see it, why couldn’t Brenda? Surely, Brenda hadn’t been blindsided by Lawson’s shy and retiring veneer.
Joe’s voice broke into her thoughts. “If you think it would help, I have a friend who’s a lawyer. He’s very good and if anyone can help Lawson, he can.”
His offer of help took Megan aback for a moment. Why would she want to help Lawson? In her mind, she’d already branded Lawson a cold-blooded murderer and, if that was the case, the last thing anyone needed was some hotshot lawyer bailing him out. But then again she had no evidence – only a feeling – to back up her judgment.
“You know,” he said, “it’s innocent until proven guilty, not the other way around.”
He was right, of course. But jumping to conclusions had always been her forte. “Let me talk to Brenda and then I’ll get back to you. Can I call you on this
number tonight?” A low chuckle at the other end of the line reminded Megan why she’d phoned Joe in the first place. “Oh sorry, Joe. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
That’s if we ever do get together, she thought as she said her goodbyes and hung up. Maybe she was destined to remain single all her life because, sure as hell, fate seemed to be conspiring against her. Events beyond her control had twice now thwarted any chance of a relationship with Joe getting off the ground. Maybe it was for the best. He almost seemed to be too good to be true, anyway.
With no time to dwell on her love life, or rather lack thereof, she gathered up the papers on her desk and shoved them into the cabinet behind her. It took her less than a minute to lock the cabinet, shut down her computer, and grab her coat and handbag.
Exiting the lift on the ground floor, she hurried across the foyer and out through the revolving doors on to the footpath. Although technically still daytime, dark clouds shrouding the city made it feel later than it actually was. Buttoning up her coat as she ran, Megan headed for the throng of people waiting impatiently on the corner for the traffic lights to change to green.
By the time she’d traversed town, reached Collins Place and ridden the lift to the 35th floor, she was more than ready to collapse into one of The Atrium’s tub chairs. First she had to find Brenda.
With the muted lighting, it took her eyes a few moments to pick out Brenda’s profile. She sat at one of the tables near the piano, overlooking the concourse. Megan hobbled towards her, each step she took sending sharp pain shooting through the balls of her feet, reminding her that whilst stilettos might look the part they weren’t designed as walking shoes.
She reached the table and with a huge sigh of relief dropped down into the chair opposite Brenda. The temptation to slip her shoes off under the table was almost too much.