Fatal Liaison

by Vicki Tyley

  With Megan leading the way, they jostled their way through the ever-growing crowd, eventually making it out on to the footpath without mishap.

  Unfortunately, they stepped out to find it raining. Not simply a drizzle either, but a full-scale downpour. The street gutters, battling to cope with the sudden influx of water, were rapidly filling.

  In dismay, Greg stared at the curtain of water in front of them. Melbourne was a city renowned for experiencing all four seasons in one day, yet he hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella with him. Nor had Megan by the look of her upturned palms.

  Greg inhaled deeply, clearing his lungs, pleased at least be to out of the stuffy bar. Next to him, Megan shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Do you want to go back in until the rain stops?” he asked, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the comparative silence of the street.

  Her only answer was a slow shake of the head.

  If they chose to wait for the rain to stop, they could be there for hours. The other alternative was to make a run for it, stopping for breath and shelter under the various shop verandas down the street. That’s if they knew where they were headed in the first place. Being a Friday night, they would be lucky to find any bar in the city that wasn’t jam-packed.

  “Perhaps we should leave this for tonight. Talk tomorrow,” Megan said, her teeth starting to chatter.

  She didn’t protest when he ripped off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. “If you like. But I thought you’d want to know what came up in Neville Crooke’s background checks. I thought we could discuss it.”

  Megan’s head shot up.

  He had her attention now. “It might mean more to you than it does to me,” he added.

  Megan’s teeth stopped chattering. “What might mean more?”

  “Nothing specific. It’s just that you know these people better than I do.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “Not really.”

  “How about a woman’s perspective then?” He took a deep breath. “I’m clutching at straws, I know, but if we work together don’t you think we stand a better chance of…” With a weary shake of his head, he added, “Forget it.”

  Wrapping his jacket tighter around her shoulders, she turned to him. “No. You’re right. We should work together.”

  But with no sign of the rain letting up, where could they go to talk? The notion of retiring to his place or even Megan’s place was soon dismissed. They hardly knew each other. For all she knew, he could be a homicidal maniac.

  They’d have to make a move soon, though. The damp chill of the evening air began to seep through his shirt. Raucous laughter accompanied a group of middle-aged businessmen exiting the bar. A string of expletives followed. Continuing to curse, the men made a dash for it, shaking themselves off like wet dogs when they reached the other side of the street.

  Greg opened his mouth to speak at the same instant Megan did. They both stopped, waiting for the other to continue. Neither spoke. And then they repeated the farce, once again opening their mouths simultaneously and then closing them. It was enough to bring a small smile to Megan’s face.

  “Our best bet would be a restaurant rather than a bar. There’s an Italian restaurant near my office. It’s nothing fancy, but the upstairs section is reserved for tables of two, so at least there’d be no rowdy parties to contend with.” He paused and when Megan didn’t say anything, continued. “What do you think? Shall I call a taxi?”

  Megan nodded, mumbling a few words Greg wasn’t able to catch. So far that evening, it felt as if he was the one doing all the talking. Megan was far more reserved than he remembered from their last meeting. But then again, after the trauma of the past week he, better than anyone else, should understand the reasons behind it.

  “Would you rather go home? If you’re not up to it, we can make it another time.”

  “Sorry, Greg. Yes, I mean no… Yes, let’s try that restaurant, and no, I don’t want to go home.”

  Encouraged by her few words – the most he’d heard from her so far that evening – he went to reach for his BlackBerry then remembered it was in his suit jacket. Before he could say anything, Megan had removed the jacket from around her shoulders and handed it to him. After extracting the phone from the inside pocket he passed the jacket back. She hesitated, initially reluctant to take it from him, but then accepted it. While she rewrapped herself in his jacket, he scrolled through his BlackBerry’s contact list for the taxi’s number.

  The wait for the cab seemed interminable. Taxi delays on Friday nights tended to be lengthy at the best of times; the weather didn’t help. By the time they were seated in the warm and dry back seat of a Yellow Cab on their way to Giulio’s, it was after eight.

  Giulio, the restaurant’s namesake and an Italian version of the legendary detective Hercule Poirot complete with waxed moustache, met them at the door, treating them like long-lost relatives as he fussed over them. The mouth-watering aroma of tomato and garlic wafted past Greg’s nose, awakening his dormant appetite. As expected, the downstairs dining area was full, the tables packed in so tightly that the waiters had to sidle between the tables to deliver meals.

  Leaving behind the noisy but jovial atmosphere, they followed in their host’s wake, climbing the narrow back stairs to the floor above. Even though the plastic red-and-white checkered tablecloths were the same, muted lighting and candles added an intimacy that set it apart from downstairs.

  Giulio soon had them seated with menus at one of only two available tables in the room. They both opted for the day’s special of fettuccini marinara, choosing a Margaret River Verdelho to complement it, before the conversation moved around to the real reason they were there.

  “So what was so important you couldn’t tell me over the phone,” Megan said, moving closer to the table, her pale face expectant.

  Greg turned his head, checking that no one was eavesdropping. “Neville Crooke has unearthed some interesting information with his background checks. Whether there’s anything to it I don’t know.” He lowered his voice before continuing. “I’ll start with Lawson Green. Thirty-five, never married, works as a systems programmer for a company called…” He paused, wishing he had his notes with him. “Frey Technology, I think. No criminal history, not even a parking fine. Lives alone in rented accommodation. Credit rating so-so. No passport, so he hasn’t travelled overseas.” Working his way through his mental checklist, he watched Megan’s face for a reaction. “No immediate family. Parents killed in a car accident when he was a youngster. Raised by foster parents…”

  Megan dipped her head.

  His eyes widened. “You knew about Lawson’s parents?”

  She nodded. “Brenda told me. I guess that means that he doesn’t lie about everything—”

  “Did you also know that about eight years ago he was hospitalized?”

  “No, but…” She frowned. “Why is that relevant? People are hospitalized every day.”

  “We’re not talking about having your tonsils out here. We’re talking about a psychiatric ward.”

  The frown lines on her forehead deepened. “Psychiatric? Are you saying Lawson had a nervous breakdown or something?”

  Greg nodded and picked up his wine glass. “I don’t have any details. Neville was able to find out that he had been a psych patient, but not why.”

  “What if it wasn’t a breakdown? What if we’re dealing with some sort of psychopath here? There has to be some way we can find out.” Megan’s voice had increased to such a volume that other diners had stopped their own conversations to listen in.

  Greg raised a finger to his lips. “Don’t panic. It was a long time ago and Neville assures me there’s no record of him being an inpatient since then.”

  “Sorry, it’s just that…” Megan said, her voice trailing off as she dropped her gaze to the table.

  His hand inched across the table, but stopped just short of Megan’s fingers. “I really do understand, Megan.” Withdrawing his hand, he
picked up his wine glass. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the police will be checking it out thoroughly.”

  For a few moments neither spoke.

  Greg twirled his fork in his meal, watching the strands of fettuccine as they coiled and then uncoiled. “Then there’s Wayne McGurk, your property entrepreneur: twice divorced, no children, two sisters, parents deceased. More than a few speeding tickets, a couple of credit defaults. Nothing really of note to report. Ditto Nick Poulus, the guy whose surname and occupation you couldn’t recall. Widower, no siblings, father deceased, mother’s whereabouts unknown, good credit rating. For the record, he’s a plumber.”

  “Haven’t you forgotten someone?”

  “Adam…” He closed his eyes for a moment, trawling his memory. “Adam Tennyson: Car salesman, never married, one brother, two sisters, parents alive but divorced, nothing untoward financially.”

  “And?”

  He glanced up, bringing his fork to a standstill. “And what?”

  Megan glared at him, her lips pressed together in a thin line. “What about Mr Ginger Moustache?”

  “I was getting there.” He set his fork down and picked up his wine glass. “If you mean Robert Lockwood then I can tell you he’s never been married, lives at home with his elderly parents and is currently unemployed.”

  She leaned forward, her gaze fixed on his.

  He wavered, trying to read her face as he contemplated whether to continue. “Please keep in mind what I’m about to tell you is all hearsay. It seems your Mr Ginger Moustache left his last employer, a landscaping firm, under a bit of a cloud. There was some suggestion of sexual harassment, but it was all hushed up and no charges were laid.” He paused, taking a breath. “Remember none of this has been substantiated,” he quickly added when Megan frowned. “But, of course, there is the assault on your friend Brenda to consider.”

  Megan’s face turned grey. Greg could just imagine the scenarios playing in her head and none of them were good. In retrospect, sharing what he’d learnt from Neville Crooke with Megan had not been the wisest of moves.

  Her bottom lip trembled.

  Instinctively his hand reached across the table and covered hers. “Forgive me. This was a bad idea. I should have kept it to myself.”

  Megan shook her head. “No. No, it wasn’t. Please don’t ever hold anything back. I need to know. We have to work together.” The corners of her lips twitched. “Remember?”

  He remembered, but he still wasn’t convinced. In his desperation to trace his sister, he had been prepared to use every means at his disposal. Megan had been one of those means. He saw now that his motives had been selfish.

  She read his thoughts. “It’s not up to you, so don’t even think of shutting me out of this investigation.” Jutting her chin forward, she added, “With what’s at stake you can’t afford to.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “Please, please… I’ll do whatever you want, but please just let me go.”

  “Shut up! Shut up. I have to think.” With his hands clamped firmly over his ears, he paced in tight circles in the space between the bed and the door.

  It’d taken some doing, but Brenda had eventually persuaded him to remove the handcuffs from her wrists. However, the reprieve had been short-lived. While her hands were freed, he’d shackled her left ankle to the bed end with a heavy metal chain and two massive padlocks. He wasn’t taking any chances.

  “You can’t keep me here forever—”

  He turned on her. “Just shut up, would you! Oh shit, don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Here.” He stepped forward and shoved a crumpled rag at her. “Wipe your face.”

  She did as commanded, smearing the tears and days of accumulated grime around her face. Her body, her hair, her teeth, her tongue, her clothes, the bedding, the concrete floored room, everything, was coated in a layer of grunge. With no escape from the filth of her own unwashed body and its wastes, her sense of smell soon shut down. Yet her jailer, who spent more time away from the room than in it, seemed unaffected by what now had to be a nauseating stench. Every day she begged him for soap and water, but so far he had failed to fulfill her request. The bottles of water he did bring were barely enough to stave off dehydration.

  The pressure points on her pelvis and back throbbed. She’d been lying in the one position for far too long. She tried to sit up, but the effort required was too much for her weakened body. She slumped back, knowing if she didn’t get out of that room soon, she may never get out.

  She’d tried everything to get through to him, her efforts thwarted at every turn. Playing the friendly card hadn’t worked and threats only made him angry. She’d pleaded, coaxed, cajoled, all to no avail. She was at her wit’s end.

  His behavior was becoming increasingly irrational. At first, he sat for hours on end on one of the chairs in the corner just watching her, mumbling words she couldn’t make out. Then without warning, he’d leap up and start dancing around the room, his arms flailing in some witch doctor ritual. Cowering on the bed, Brenda would close her eyes, waiting for the inevitable pounding. But not once did he strike her. Instead he ranted, jumping from one idea to another and talking so fast the words ran together. There’d be spells when he seemed relatively calm, or at least stable, but they were becoming shorter and less frequent.

  Seizing the opportunity, she once again tried to reason with him. “We’ll go to the police together. We’ll tell them what you know. They can stop what’s happening. They’ll understand why you had to protect me.”

  He delivered her a withering scowl. “They can’t stop it. Only the savior can help you now.” With his arms outstretched above his head, he spun around and around like a demented jack-in-the-box.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Swaying, he came to a standstill. “Doing what?” He looked genuinely puzzled.

  “I’m not an animal. You can’t keep me chained up against my will. What do you want from me?”

  “It’s for your own good,” he replied, waving his hands as he once again sent his body into a manic spin. “I am the savior.”

  “Stop!” she screamed, wanting him to halt, but also hoping against hope that someone outside would hear her. “Please.”

  Deaf to her pleas he continued. “I am the savior, I am the savior, I am the savior,” he sang at the top of his lungs before swinging around and lunging towards her, bringing his face within millimeters of hers. “I am your savior.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Standing on the front steps of Brenda’s home, Megan felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up. The fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach warned her she wasn’t alone. She turned slowly, scanning left and right, expecting at any moment to be accosted. Nothing. Not a soul to be seen in either direction. Except for the line of parked cars, the street was deserted.

  Deciding it was only her nerves getting the better of her, she stepped up into the small porch. Patches of fine black powder stood out against the white painted front door, the only evidence that all was not as it should be. The fingerprint powder raised Megan’s spirits a little; the police were taking Brenda’s disappearance seriously, after all.

  Wiping her feet on the rubber doormat, she rummaged in the side pocket of her shoulder bag for Brenda’s spare key. They each had a key to the other’s place, but Megan could only recall using it once before when Brenda had been too sick to get out of bed. Megan had neglected to tell the police she had the key. Not that they’d asked. And even though Megan thought hers was the only spare key to Brenda’s house, she didn’t know for sure. Had Brenda hidden a key outside somewhere in case she locked herself out? According to the police, there had been no sign of a struggle. Though that assumed she had been abducted from inside the house and not somewhere else.

  Megan knew she shouldn’t be there, but if the police turned up, she already had a story worked out. She was there to water the indoor plants. It wasn’t a total lie. Brenda’s precious African violets weren’t exactly drought tolerant. Brenda w
ould never forgive her if she let them die.

  She was about to insert the key in the lock when she heard a noise. Freezing, all her senses alert, she tried to pinpoint the direction it came from. This time she wasn’t imagining it. With the key clasped firmly between her fingers acting as a makeshift knuckleduster, she turned her back to the locked door.

  A different noise, a loud creak and then a metal clang she recognized as the side gate leading to the rear of the property being opened and closed, spooked her.

  “Who’s there?” she called out with an assertiveness she didn’t feel.

  There was no answer, only the sound of approaching footsteps. Struck dumb, she remained motionless, unable to tear her gaze away from the corner of the path where the interloper would first appear.

  “You! Pauline, what the fuck are you doing here?” Megan demanded, using language that only ever came to the fore when she was at her angriest. “You have no fucking right to be here.” She was shaking, the shock of seeing Pauline Meyer resonating through her body. The Dinner for Twelve proprietor was the last person she’d expected.

  No longer feeling threatened, Megan stepped to the edge of porch and stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at Pauline. Fortunately, the steps up from the path gave her a height advantage. She probably wouldn’t have felt so cocky if their positions had been reversed.

  The first thing that struck Megan about Pauline was how haggard she looked. The burden of the murder and missing person investigations was clearly wearing on her, or perhaps it was because she had never seen Pauline in broad daylight before. Whatever, it aged her ten years. Dressing like a twenty-something in tight low-rise faded jeans and a frilly white open-weave blouse that did nothing to hide her pink bra didn’t help either.

  “What do you want, Pauline?”

  Pauline’s eyes narrowed. “Lawson.”

  “Lawson? Why the hell would Lawson be here of all places?”

  Pauline shrugged. “Do you know where he is?”