by Vicki Tyley
One look at Brenda’s face soon made her forget she even had feet. “Brenda, don’t take this personally, but you look like shit.”
Brenda peered out from under half-closed eyelids her lips twitching in a limp smile. “Thanks.”
“No, seriously, you look like death warmed up. Are you all right? Should you be home in bed?”
“I haven’t been sleeping…” Brenda picked up the wine bottle and nodded towards the unused wine glass in the table centre. “Care to join me?”
Megan nodded, studying Brenda’s face as she concentrated on pouring the wine. Brenda’s complexion, pale at the best of times, appeared almost transparent in the low light. Her eyes, glassy and sunk in shadows, lacked their usual vitality.
Megan reached forward and lightly touched the back of Brenda’s hand. It felt cold. Brenda lifted her eyes, meeting and holding Megan’s gaze with an imploring stare. That look alone was enough to tell Megan she’d underestimated the situation’s gravity. No question, murder was a serious matter in anyone’s books, but Brenda seemed to be more distressed about Lawson’s welfare than the fact that a woman who Lawson had been associated with was lying in the morgue.
What was Lawson to Brenda? Was it possible to develop such a strong bond in such a short time? Anything was possible, Megan supposed. However, to help she needed to understand, and to understand, she needed to get inside Brenda’s head.
Her voice low and steady, Megan summoned up her counseling training, rusty as it was. “Do you think it would help to talk about it?”
Brenda shrugged. “I don’t see how.”
“A trouble shared? What is it about Lawson?”
“Lawson? He understands me. He knows what it’s like.”
Leaning forward, Megan gave a reassuring nod.
“He lost his parents to a car crash when he was a kid, too. We’re both abandoned children.” Tears welled in Brenda’s eyes. “No one wanted him. They just kept shuttling him from foster home to foster home.”
Megan squeezed Brenda’s hand. Even though Brenda rarely spoke about her upbringing, Megan was aware Brenda’s mother had died in a car accident when Brenda was just a toddler. Her father unable to cope with the grief of losing his wife had then spiraled into a deep depression culminating in his suicide on the first anniversary of his wife’s death. Her aunt, her mother’s sister, had stepped in and raised her.
“He knows me.” Brenda tapped her chest. “He knows me in here. Things I’ve kept to myself for years, I can tell him. He understands in a way nobody else ever could.”
It perturbed Megan that until now she had never really realized the weight of the pain her friend had been carrying all those years. But then along came a white knight in the form of Lawson to rescue her. Megan and Brenda had been the best of friends for years, yet Brenda had chosen to confide her innermost feelings to Lawson, a man she had known for less than a fortnight. That hurt, but Megan did her best not to let it show.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Brenda continued. “You’ve had it in for him from day one. You don’t know him like I do.”
Megan nodded again. “True, but can you please promise me at least that you’ll be careful.” Nothing she said was going to change her friend’s mind about her newfound soulmate.
“Promise.”
By the time they were halfway through the second bottle of a Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc, some of the color had returned to Brenda’s cheeks and she seemed more relaxed, less inhibited. Plying someone with alcohol wasn’t normally a tactic Megan would have employed, but in this case it appeared to be working.
At that stage, she hadn’t mentioned Joe’s lawyer friend, but perhaps Brenda wouldn’t feel Megan was completely unsympathetic to Lawson’s plight if she thought Megan genuinely wanted to help. “I might be able to help Lawson find a good lawyer.”
Without looking up from the glass of wine she was nursing, Brenda shook her head. “No need,” she said lifting the glass to her mouth. “He has one. Pauline’s organized someone. Bloody interfering bitch.”
“Pauline? How did she even find out that Lawson had been taken in for questioning?”
Brenda shrugged. “Dunno. Lawson phoned her, I guess.”
“Why?”
Letting out a resigned sigh, Brenda lifted her head and met Megan’s gaze. “God, I don’t know. I don’t understand it either. Whenever I mention Pauline to Lawson, he just clams up…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes unblinking as she held Megan’s gaze. “You do believe me, don’t you?”
“Believe you?” Megan said, momentarily lost.
“That Lawson couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with Linda’s death.”
Gnawing at her bottom lip, Megan weighed up whether to be brutally honest and tell Brenda exactly what she thought, or to contain those thoughts and instead tell Brenda what she wanted to hear.
Forthrightness won out. Before she knew it, the words were out of her mouth, completely bypassing her brain.
“I don’t know what to think. The police obviously have him in their sights. Not surprising, though, when Lawson was screwing the victim.”
Brenda stared at her open mouthed, her hand covering invisible welt marks on her cheek. The effect couldn’t have been any more dramatic than if Megan had physically struck her. Clearly, Megan’s counseling skills had deserted her.
Stress, fatigue and alcohol were proving not to be good mixers. Neither of them was thinking straight.
Megan let rip, paying no attention to the couples and others who up until then had been quietly enjoying The Atrium’s ambience. “For goodness sake, are you blind? Lawson’s relationship with Linda was not platonic.”
“It wasn’t him. You saw her,” retorted Brenda, tears streaming unchecked down her face. “She offered herself up on a platter. Any red-blooded male would’ve found it hard to say no.”
Suddenly conscious of the sidelong looks from the tables closest to them, Megan lowered her voice, but the vehemence remained. “So now you’re making excuses for him?”
“No. I mean yes. I mean…” Brenda dropped her head into her hands, smothering the rest of her words.
CHAPTER 13
Approaching twilight blurred the passing rural landscape. For a fleeting moment, Greg found himself mesmerized by the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. With a brisk shake of the head, he refocused his eyes on the road ahead and reached for the dashboard, feeling for the air-conditioning switch. The blast of ice-cold air shocked him back to instant wakefulness.
Unable to convince his mother to return to the city with him, he’d acquiesced and left with a neighbor’s promise to look in every day. His mother’s reaction to Samantha’s disappearance wasn’t quite what he’d expected. Although to be honest, he really hadn’t known what to expect. She’d sat there stoically, with her hands in her lap and her head bowed, absorbing Greg’s words as if they were a punishment to be endured. There were no tears, no emotional outbursts, nothing. It was as if all the life had been sucked out of her body, leaving just an empty shell.
Since reporting Sam’s disappearance, Greg had been in contact with the police every day and each time they told him the same thing. The case was being actively pursued, but regrettably, there was nothing more they could tell him, blah blah… For all the good it did, he might as well have listened to a tape recording.
Detective Sergeant Dave Abrahams – in contrast to their first meeting, the detective’s name was now firmly imprinted in his brain – was still being cagey about the possibility of there being any link between Linda Nichols’ murder and his missing sister. As far as Greg knew, they still hadn’t arrested anyone for the murder.
Greg wasn’t totally naïve though. He knew missing persons weren’t generally high on the undermanned and overworked police force’s agenda. Moreover, at this stage, there was no evidence to suggest Sam had met with foul play. Thank God.
However, none of that would help to bring Sam home.
A break in the Michael Bublé
CD he had playing in the car heralded an incoming call.
“Greg Jenkins,” he announced, automatically slipping into professional mode.
After a slight pause, a woman’s voice filtered through the car’s stereo system. “Greg, it’s um… Megan. Megan Brighton.”
Megan Brighton? He didn’t recognize the name straight away.
“We met the other night. At the Dinner for Twelve function. Your sister…”
His hands tightened around the steering wheel. Even though he’d left his business cards on the table at the singles function he had almost given up hope of hearing from anyone. “Yes, yes, Megan, of course I remember you.”
“I was wondering if there was any news about your sister.”
“Unfortunately, no,” Greg said, the faint swell of hope ebbing as fast as it had arrived. “Thank you for your concern though.” Flicking his indicator on, he pulled into the left lane. “Megan, I realize you never knew my sister, but can I ask if you knew the murdered woman, Linda Nichols?”
For a few seconds he heard nothing. Glancing down to his left, he expected to see the signal indicator bars on his car phone absent. Instead they indicated the opposite – full strength. Not a mobile reception black spot, then.
“Not really.” Another pause. “I met her very briefly, but that’s all.”
What wasn’t she telling him? Driving in heavy traffic, he couldn’t concentrate fully on the conversation. When he stopped at the lights, he took the opportunity to unclip his BlackBerry from its cradle and open the notepad app.
“Megan, I’m on my way home. Can I give you a call back?” The caller ID on the phone only indicated it was a private number calling. “Better still, we could meet. That’s if it suits you, of course,” he added, dropping the BlackBerry onto his lap as the lights changed to green.
Although not sounding exactly enthusiastic about the idea, Megan agreed to meet him at a café in St Kilda that she knew, but he’d never heard of. He hung up before realizing that after all that, he hadn’t asked her for her phone number. Let’s hope, he thought, I've remembered the café’s name and location correctly, and more importantly, that nothing happens to prevent Megan from keeping our rendezvous.
Greg arrived in St Kilda with about half an hour to spare, but then spent the best part of it driving around looking for a car park in the general vicinity of the café. Or at least where he thought it ought to be. Eventually, he spotted a space in one of the back streets a few blocks from Fitzroy Street. Leaving his prized silver BMW 6-series wedged between a big blue dumpster and a hulking black Nissan four-wheel drive, he set off in search of the More Café and Bar.
The streetlights cast an insipid wash over the footpath and parked vehicles. With his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets and his shoulders hunched against the night chill, Greg walked quickly, keeping to the middle of the path.
He turned left at the corner, forcing his pace to slow as he searched for street numbers. Sandwich-boards advertising some of St Kilda’s myriad of cafés and restaurants littered the footpath. Down the street, he managed to make out a sign with the word “MORE” in bold capital letters. He assumed the smaller indistinct text underneath read “café and bar.”
A welcoming flurry of warm air enveloped him as he stepped into the café. He scanned the room, recognizing her round face immediately. She raised a hand in a tentative wave.
It wasn’t until after he greeted Megan and was seated across the table from her that he realized how pale and drawn she looked. Even the blood in her hands appeared to have stopped circulating. An empty cup in front of her told him she had been there for some time.
Feeling a little awkward and unsure of where to start, he picked up the menu propped at the end of the table. Buying time, he kept his eyes down and skimmed through the selections. He could feel Megan’s gaze on the top of his head, and he felt ridiculous, like a teenager on a first date. But he wasn’t a teenager and this wasn’t a date – first or otherwise.
“If you’re hungry, they do a great char-grilled steak,” Megan said, breaking the heavy silence between them.
He looked up and smiled, feeling foolish but nevertheless grateful for the icebreaker. “Have you eaten?”
Megan opened her mouth as if to speak, but then with a small shake of her head, closed it again.
As it turned out, neither of them had much of an appetite and they ended up ordering just the one small platter of Spanish tapas to share. At any other time a chilled bottle of Chardonnay would have been the perfect complement. However Megan soon kyboshed that idea when she mentioned she was driving, reminding Greg that he too would be behind the wheel later. He did the right thing, settling for a light lager instead of wine, while Megan opted for a bottle of sparkling mineral water.
Thinking that probably the softly-softly method would be the best approach on this occasion, Greg steered clear of any mention of the Nichols woman’s murder or Sam’s disappearance, or even Dinner for Twelve, until after he had downed his first beer and signaled to the waiter for another.
Up until then, they had stayed on relatively safe ground, discussing their respective jobs, the merits of various restaurants and bars in and around the city, and even that time-honored conversation topic, the weather. Nothing personal.
The tapas platter on the table between them remained barely touched, with only the odd missing garlic olive and spicy morsel marring the presentation.
Waiting for his drink to arrive, Greg poked at what looked to be a spice-crusted miniature chicken wing on his side of the platter. He stopped fiddling with the food and glanced up. “Sam… my sister…” He faltered, not sure of what he wanted to say.
Megan’s eyebrows arched questioningly.
He started again. “I’m not sure where to begin.” Wasn’t that an understatement? “I really appreciate you meeting me like this.” Now he sounded too formal. “What I mean is… Oh shit, what do I mean?”
They looked at each other and simultaneously burst out laughing. The knots in his neck eased. But at the same time he felt guilty. Now was not the time for mirth. Not while Sam was still missing.
The laughter may not have been appropriate, but at least it had the side effect of untangling his tongue. “Sorry, Megan. I don’t usually get this tongue-tied.” The amusement tugging at the corners of Megan’s lips withered as he continued, his voice grave. “It’s been almost two weeks and my sister Sam still hasn’t turned up. The police haven’t come up with anything and I’m desperate. I don’t want to think the worst, but as each day passes, it gets harder. Anything, anything at all, that you can tell me about Dinner for Twelve, about the Nichols woman, about Lawson, about any of the clients, about anything, would be such a big help,” he implored, displaying his open palms briefly before dropping them back onto the table.
“Oh, Greg, I’m sorry, but as much as I would like to, I can’t see how I can possibly help you.” She leaned forward. “I only phoned you to check that your sister had turned up safe and sound. That bar I met you at the other night was only the second dating agency function I’ve ever attended. Ever. And the only reason I know, or rather know of, Linda Nichols was because she was on our table at that first function. Before that night I knew nothing about her.” She sat back in her chair. “If it helps, though, I’ll tell you what I can.”
The surrounding sounds of clinking glass, chatter and music intermingled, creating a white noise background to Megan’s voice.
“There were twelve on our table including, believe it or not, the agency owner. That’s one.” She tapped her little finger. “My friend Brenda who was responsible for us being there in the first place,” she said, counting off another one. “The guy sitting next to me – Wayne McJerk or McGurk or something – told me he was a property entrepreneur. Actually wouldn’t shut up about it. Then there’s Mr Ginger Moustache, the sleazeball—”
“That’s his name?”
“Sorry. Robert…” She glanced down, then up again. “Lockwood. A hotshot l
andscaper if what he told Brenda is to be believed. Next to him was Nick. Don’t know his occupation. I didn’t get his surname either, but both he and Mr… Robert were at the bar function you were at.”
Greg watched her mouth, hanging on every word.
“I don’t recall the names of the others at that end of the table. Brenda might, but I doubt it. She was too busy lusting after Lawson – you met him the other night. Mata Hari—” Megan averted her gaze. “Linda Nichols was seated between him and Pauline Meyer.”
Megan evidently remembered people by tagging them with nicknames. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if she’d coined one for him.
He tried to get who was who straight in his head. It’d have been much easier to work it all out on paper, but he didn’t think Megan would appreciate him pulling out a pen and paper to start jotting notes. Although so far, nothing in what she had told him had jumped out at him.
“By the way they were acting towards each other, I’m pretty sure that Linda and Lawson had met before that night. I think they left together.”
Greg’s ears pricked up. “They left together?”
“Maybe not. Brenda only said that they left around the same time.” Megan’s finger traced a path through the condensation on her glass. “Lawson didn’t mention it to the police. Nor, as it happens, did Brenda.”
“Shit. What are we waiting for?” Greg started to push back his chair. “We have to tell the police.” He leapt to his feet. “Now.”
Megan remained seated, shaking her head wearily. “No. Hang on. I told the police what I’ve just told you when they took my statement. Although I didn’t know at the time Lawson and Brenda had kept that information from them.”
His hands gripped the chair back. “So what the hell have they done about it?”
Megan patted the air in front of her, motioning him to sit. “If you would just sit down and listen. Lawson was taken in for questioning late yesterday,” she paused and looked him straight in the eye, “but as I discovered today, they’ve released him without charge. And…” She held her hand up, palm out as he opened his mouth to speak. “From what I can gather from Brenda, the investigation is still ongoing, but at the moment the police don’t have enough evidence to hold him and what they do have is only circumstantial. Brenda, of course, believes he is totally innocent and there is no swaying her from that.”