by Vicki Tyley
“If he’s so innocent why did he lie to the police? And more to the point why did your friend cover for him?”
Megan sighed. “Look I can only tell you what Brenda told me and that was he was scared. Scared of being accused of something he didn’t do. And for some inconceivable reason, Brenda thinks she was doing him a good turn by saying nothing, but…” She dropped her gaze to the tabletop, slowly shaking her head as if she was still unable to comprehend her friend’s motives. “Of course, all that did was make it look like they had something to hide, didn’t it?”
She let out another low sigh and looked up, peering at him through half-closed lids. Her face portrayed no emotion. It was as if the energy needed to move her facial muscles just wasn’t there.
The twinge of conscience he felt at her pallor vanished the instant he realized she was preparing to leave. She had her handbag in her lap and was in the throes of opening her wallet. She couldn’t leave – there had to be more she could tell him. There had to be.
In his panic, he knocked over his empty beer glass. He ignored it, leaving it rocking on its side perilously close to the table edge. He was already on his feet when the clatter of the glass against the wooden tabletop prompted Megan to look up.
From the confused look in her eyes, he was sure he must seem to her to be quite unbalanced, mentally disturbed even. And she was more than likely regretting her decision to meet him. He couldn’t blame her. The strung-out wreck standing there now certainly wasn’t the same self-possessed man of a fortnight ago.
“You’re not going, are you?”
“Sorry, Greg, but I’ve got an early start tomorrow,” Megan said, extracting a couple of twenty-dollar notes from her wallet.
He waved his hands in a criss-cross motion in front of him. “Don’t worry about the bill. I’ll get it.” After all, it was the least he could do. “How about a coffee before you go?”
His delaying tactics turned out to be futile.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I really am whacked. Another time perhaps.”
She’d closed her wallet and was replacing it in her handbag when she seemed to have second thoughts. Unclipping her wallet again, she pulled out a business card and handed it to him.
He scanned the distinctive black-on-orange card, which reminded him Megan’s surname was Brighton and confirmed she was a recruitment consultant for PTS Personnel in the city. More importantly, there was an assortment of phone numbers listed, including a mobile number.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help. I sincerely hope your sister is okay,” Megan said, slipping on her jacket. “Goodbye, Greg.”
She turned and walked away from him, her wavy brunette hair bouncing on her shoulders as she disappeared out through the café door onto the street.
And that was that. Greg’s eyes continued to follow her even after she was well out of sight, the card gripped between his fingers. Instinct, or was it merely wishful thinking, was telling him Megan could help. Whether she realized it or not, she was his only real contact to Dinner for Twelve. And Dinner for Twelve was somehow linked with Sam’s disappearance. Of that he was certain.
CHAPTER 14
“Get off me, you bastard!” Brenda’s enraged shouts reverberated around the vacant cavernous warehouse. “Fuck off!” She screamed louder, pummeling the air in front of her as she tried to evade his hands.
But as fast as she backed away, he advanced, a lecherous grin splitting his ugly face in two. The back of her shoe collided with something solid and she lost her footing. In a flash, he pinned her up against the wall, the metal corrugations digging ruts into her back. With his forearm wedged under her chin, he used his free hand to bunch up her skirt.
Panic exploded in her chest, fear overriding any feelings of outrage. Oh God, why hadn’t she listened to Megan? With adrenaline surging through her veins, she fought like a wild cat to keep his groping hands at bay.
Her struggles only egged him on. He laughed, a loud hollow mocking laugh. She was no match for his bulky frame. She lashed out with her knee, aiming for his groin, but his reflexes were quicker than hers. With his knee pressed between her legs, he brought both her hands up over her head pinioning them to the wall behind her with his massive bear hands.
He moved in closer, his body pressed up hard against her, his zipper-constrained erection rammed in her abdomen. Every pore, every freckle, every hair on his face magnified as he closed in. Skewing her head rapidly from side to side, she tried to avoid his gaping mouth.
For a second, he hesitated, his pale grey eyes narrowing into tiny slits. Then he laughed and lunged. Unable to escape, she clamped her eyes shut, no longer able to look at him. She felt slobbery lips smothering her mouth, the bristles of his moustache scratching her cheek.
His hot wet tongue prodded and poked at her tightly pressed lips, looking for a way in. Then he brought his knee up, causing her to gasp. Instantly, his tongue was in her mouth. She gagged, fighting for breath.
Eventually, he pulled his head back and licking his lips, scrutinized her face. Even though she could scarcely breathe, she somehow managed to find the strength to gather all the saliva in her mouth into a ball and spit. The glob of spittle landed squarely between his eyes. She squeezed her lids shut, steeling herself for the inevitable smack.
“You’re all the fuckin’ same. Fuckin’ little cockteasers. Your time will come.” His voice was loaded with venom.
Her arms flopped forward as he released her hands. She felt the pressure on her body ease as he stepped away. Then she heard his heavy rubber-soled footsteps on the concrete as he retreated. But it wasn’t until she heard the metal clang of the door slamming shut that she was finally able to open her eyes.
What little air she had in her lungs escaped in a relieved huff. She was alone. Smudged dusty footprints coming from the door and leading back out again, the only evidence he had ever been there.
CHAPTER 15
Megan sat staring unseeing at the computer screen, her thoughts elsewhere. In fact, her thoughts had been elsewhere for most of the day.
It’d been still dark when she’d arrived at work that morning, but her good intentions somehow never managed to materialize into actions. By the time other staff started trickling into the office, she hadn’t touched her ever-growing backlog of paperwork: the sole purpose of her early start. Instead she’d pumped herself full of caffeine, perused the staff notice board, skimmed through yesterday’s Age newspaper, tidied up the magazines in the front reception. Anything but what she was supposed to do.
The rest of the day didn’t pan out as it was supposed to either. Sure, all her scheduled candidate interviews went according to plan, but she’d only been going through the motions. She hoped the few notes she’d taken at each interview would refresh her memory later when she came to write up the assessments.
Back in her office, she’d continued to procrastinate, her in-tray growing higher by the hour. Becoming increasingly frustrated with her own inaction, she’d briefly contemplated packing up her desk and going home. But her conscience wouldn’t let her. Of course, that didn’t mean she was any more productive. Even though the intent was there, her focus was shot. Her mind wandered to the previous night.
Greg Jenkins’ behavior had been rather eccentric, but until she knew him better, she could only put it down to the stress he was under. The entire time he had been talking to her, he had been arranging and rearranging the cutlery and other table accoutrements into neat lines on the tabletop. He probably wasn’t even conscious he was doing it. But then when she was getting ready to leave the café, he’d leapt from his chair with such force that he’d knocked over his glass and almost the table with it. But as she’d reminded herself at the time, she had to make allowances. After all, the disappearance – and the awful possibility of worse – of a close family member would be enough to test anyone’s sanity.
Besides, he was rather charming, not to mention, with his chiseled features and scalp-hugging black curls, easy
on the eye. At some other time Megan may – only may – have considered trying her luck. However, this wasn’t some other time.
Megan had also been trying to contact Brenda since lunchtime with no luck. Even Brenda’s office had no idea where she might be. The last any of her real estate colleagues had seen of her was at around ten o’clock that morning when she’d left to meet a client.
It was now four-twenty and Brenda had yet to return any of the many messages Megan had left on her mobile phone, at her office and on her home answering machine. Given Brenda’s habit of playing hooky every now and again, Megan knew she shouldn’t be unduly alarmed, but regardless, the niggling feeling in her gut refused to budge.
The two women’s relationship had come under a lot of pressure since Lawson entered the equation. Possibly Brenda was avoiding her, but Megan’s main concern was with her friend’s frame of mind. She wasn’t thinking straight. Allowing herself to become personally involved with a murder suspect, how could she possibly be?
A wave and cheery “goodnight, have a good weekend” from one of the company’s other consultants as she passed the door clinched Megan’s decision to follow suit and finish early. For the second time in almost as many days, she packed up her desk in a hasty and somewhat slipshod fashion, gathering the piles of paperwork on her desk into one disorganized heap and dumping them in the cabinet.
While her PC performed its shutdown routine, she used the opportunity to phone Brenda for the umpteenth time that day. Still no answer at any of her numbers. Although not an alarmist by nature, Megan was becoming anxious. It just wasn’t like Brenda to remain incommunicado for quite so long.
With a promise to herself to tackle her bulging pending tray first thing Monday morning – no more excuses – Megan slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and stepped out into the corridor, breaking into a trot when she heard the distinctive ping heralding the lift’s arrival. Once inside the elevator, she took a deep breath, exhaling to a count of ten.
Her moment of respite was brief. In sprint mode the instant the revolving door spat her out on to the footpath, she skirted around and through the throng of pedestrians, making Flinders Street in good time. Her pace quickened further when she spotted the number 48 tram pulling into the stop.
Gasping for breath, she leapt onto the tram with only seconds to spare. She jammed in between the standing commuters, finding a handhold on one of the bright yellow vertical poles as the doors hissed closed.
It wasn’t until the tram was past the end of Brenda’s street that she realized she’d missed her stop. Cursing under her breath, she pressed the “next stop” button and worked her way toward the doors.
Except for the sporadic refreshing puff of wind, the late afternoon air hung heavy and oppressive, which only served to add to her sense of unease. Her shirt felt moist and sticky against her body and strands of hair clung to her sweat-dampened face. Scraping back the hair, she readjusted her bag on her shoulder and pressed on.
The setting sun brought a welcome drop in air temperature just as Megan arrived, weary and bedraggled, outside the Victorian semi-detached house Brenda had been describing as a “renovator’s delight” ever since she’d paid some exorbitant price for it over two years ago. The brick-paved postage stamp of a front courtyard also doubled as a car park. Fortunately, Brenda drove a small car. It’d have been a squeeze for anything larger than the fire-engine-red Mini Cooper that was parked there.
Breathing a little easier, Megan edged past the car toward the front door. No point pressing the doorbell. Megan knew it didn’t work. Instead, she knocked, stepped back and waited. No response. She tried again, calling out as she rapped her knuckles harder against the door.
“Brenda, I know you’re in there. C’mon, open up.”
She thumped the door again.
And then again.
Megan was about to give up and try the back door when she heard what she thought was movement. She held her breath, listening. From behind the door, she heard the sound of slow footsteps approaching followed by the metal click of the door lock unsnibbing.
When the door didn’t open as expected, Megan turned the door handle and gave the door a tentative push. It swung open enough for Megan to catch sight of Brenda padding barefoot down the hall away from her. She caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. Frowning, she stepped in and closed the door behind her.
She caught up with Brenda in the narrow but deceptively spacious living room. Brenda, wearing a white fluffy robe that swallowed her, her hair wrapped in a turban, puffed furiously on a cigarette. Three other butts lay crumpled in the ashtray.
“I thought you gave up.”
Saying nothing, but continuing to drag on her cigarette, Brenda scowled at her through the grey haze of smoke.
Completely mystified, but at the same time relieved, Megan dropped her bag on to the floor and kicked off her shoes. Finding Brenda safe and sound at home lifted a huge weight off Megan’s mind. With Linda Nichols’ murder and the disappearance of Greg’s sister in the forefront of her thoughts, Megan had begun to fear the worst, even though she didn’t like to admit it.
“So what’s up, Ms De Luca?” Megan deliberately kept her tone light.
“Nothing’s up.” Brenda released a mouthful of smoke. “I just needed some me time, that’s all.”
Megan hadn’t heard that one before. “So you’re not still mad at me because of what I said about Lawson?”
“Everyone’s entitled to their opinion,” muttered Brenda under her breath as she ground her cigarette out in the ashtray.
The expression “like pulling teeth” immediately came to Megan’s mind. It used to be one of her grandmother’s favorite sayings whenever the information she was after wasn’t forthcoming. As a typical angst-ridden teenager, Megan had heard the phrase often growing up.
Experience had taught Megan that when Brenda was in one of her moods it was best not to turn the situation into something heavy and serious. The lighter she kept it, the sooner Brenda would come around. Sometimes Brenda would open up and confess what was bothering her, but other times Megan would be left on the outer, none the wiser. Pressuring Brenda was a pointless exercise; she’d only clam up further.
Megan settled at the far end of the oversized suede sofa and picked up the Vogue magazine lying on the arm. She leafed through the glossy pages, not absorbing the contents at all. She couldn’t relate to the stick-thin models, let alone afford the clothes they paraded. The magazine’s use as a prop, however, was invaluable. Feigning interest in an article about “this season’s most covetable styles,” she bided her time.
After what felt like hours, but in reality must’ve been only a few minutes, Megan heard a click as Brenda lit yet another cigarette.
“I should have listened to you.”
Brenda’s matter-of-fact statement took Megan aback. Her mind went into fast rewind. What was Brenda referring to? Obviously something she’d said, but what? Something about Lawson perhaps?
“I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming.”
See what coming?
“His disgusting revolting clammy hands were all over me. His tongue—” Brenda’s voice broke. “Bastard!”
As anxious as she was to find out what’d happened, Megan stayed mute, mentally willing Brenda to continue. They were the longest few seconds she’d ever endured.
When Brenda did start talking again, she did so in a flat monotone drone. Sat at opposite ends of the sofa, an imaginary screen separating them, Megan felt like a priest in a confessional box. She listened in dismay as Brenda recounted what’d happened in the warehouse earlier that day.
All Megan’s initial instincts were confirmed. It hadn’t been just some exaggerated distaste for his ginger moustache after all. She angled her body in Brenda’s direction, no longer the confessor. “I sincerely hope you’ve reported it to the police. The bastard needs to be locked up. Better still, strung up and castrated.”
“It’s my word against his.” Brenda�
��s voice sounded small and defeated. “Besides what could he be charged with? He didn’t actually rape me, you know. Maybe I led him on somehow without realizing it. Maybe it’s my fault—”
Megan couldn’t believe her ears. “Don’t be ridiculous. You didn’t lead him on. Just having tits is enough of a come-on for that bastard.” The intensity of the outrage engulfing Megan’s body made her feel she possessed the strength of Samson. If the lowlife had been standing in front of her at that very moment, she’d have easily torn him limb from limb. How dare he think he could get away with it.
CHAPTER 16
Greg’s cappuccino sat untouched, the milky froth slowly dissipating as he gazed out the window down into Bourke Street Mall. His eyes roved back and forth across the crowns of the milling Saturday morning shoppers. An approaching tram obscured his view of a couple of buskers juggling fluorescent orange balls and other curiously shaped objects.
Picking up the cup of now lukewarm coffee, he glanced back down into the mall. His arm froze, the cup suspended halfway between the table and his lips. Though the tram had gone and the buskers were still merrily entertaining the crowd, it was the blonde woman and her darker haired male companion standing between the tram tracks that had grabbed his attention. Without averting his eyes from the two people below, he set the cup back in its saucer, the coffee still untasted.
Something about the couple struck him as familiar, but it wasn’t until the woman glanced up, almost as if she knew she was being watched, that he recognized her as Pauline Meyer. He switched his gaze to the male. The man she was so deep in conversation with had to be Lawson or at least someone who bore a strong resemblance to him.