Fatal Liaison

by Vicki Tyley

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t you think if I knew where he was I would tell the police?”

  “Police? What’s it got to do with the police?”

  Pauline’s response caught Megan unawares. “You mean you don’t know a warrant has been issued for his arrest?”

  Pauline swayed, clutching at the rail for support. “No, you’re lying.” With one foot already on the bottom step, she moved to step up.

  “Don’t come any further. I want you to go. I suggest you contact the police if you want any information.”

  Pauline stepped back and stared up at Megan, as if what she’d just heard had yet to sink in. Then without a word, she turned and walked away.

  Megan waited, breathing a sigh of relief as she watched Pauline cross the road and get into a dark-blue sedan. It’d been all bluster on her part. If Pauline had wanted to take her on, Megan wouldn’t have stood a chance. Whilst the weight differential wouldn’t have been much, Pauline’s body was all muscle. Not to mention the extra twenty centimeters in height Pauline had on her.

  Still shaken from her encounter, Megan quickly let herself into the house, locking the door behind her. The only light in the narrow hall came from two open doorways on the left. Breathing in the heavy stale air, she advanced to the first room and stood just inside the doorway taking in the scene. Lace curtains, in keeping with the house, screened the large front windows, but the main drapes, a pair of heavy burgundy brocade curtains, were open. With the covers on Megan’s king-size bed thrown back, the magazine lying face down on one of the pillows and the half glass of water sitting on the bedside table, it looked as if Brenda had only just popped out of bed.

  Without touching anything, Megan left the room and continued down the hall. At the back of her mind was something Pauline had said. Pauline must have had her reasons for thinking she might find Lawson there. The thought that Lawson could be hiding out in the house had crossed Megan’s mind. It’d certainly be the last place anyone, except Pauline, that is, would bother to search. She prowled around the house, expecting at any moment to see Lawson leap out of a wardrobe or from behind a door.

  In the laundry, she filled the watering can, hoping the cold tap water wouldn’t be too much of a shock to the temperamental African violets. Tending the neglected plants made her feel she was doing something constructive, minor as it was.

  She noticed the clothes dryer was full, so opened it and, without thinking, started shaking out its contents, folding the items neatly and placing them in the white plastic wash basket sitting on top of the washing machine. A temporary distraction.

  She had almost finished when she heard a sound coming from the front of the house. She paused, listening. There it was again. Somebody was banging on the front door.

  Dropping the pair of socks she had in her hands into the basket, she crept through the kitchen and living areas towards the hall. A break in the knocking had Megan assuming the visitor had realized there was no one at home and gone. Her assumption, however, soon proved wrong when whomever it was started battering the door with an increased ferocity.

  “Open up! I know you’re in there!”

  She made no move to open the door. The last thing Megan needed was another confrontation with Pauline. What’d possessed the woman to come back? Whom was she referring to? Did she mean Megan or was she still deluded in thinking Lawson was staying in Brenda’s house?

  Gnawing at her bottom lip, Megan held back, hoping Pauline would eventually give up and leave. After a few minutes of relentless pounding and demented screeching, Megan could take it no longer.

  Edging forward she shouted through the closed door. “I’m going to call the police if you don’t leave right now.”

  There was a brief lull.

  “I mean it, Pauline! I’m going to call the police.”

  “Call the police then. See if I care. I’m not leaving until you let me talk to him.”

  Megan’s hand circled her throat. “For the hundredth time, Lawson is not here!” she yelled, her voice breaking as the strain wore on her vocal chords.

  “Tell me where he is then.”

  “I told you I don’t know.” Megan was growing increasingly exasperated with Pauline, but there was no way in hell she was going to open the front door. “For God’s sake, what don’t you understand in that?”

  Pauline wasn’t giving up that easily. “How do I know you’re not just trying to fob me off?”

  Chance would be a fine thing, thought Megan. Not knowing what to do next, she sagged against the wall, sliding her back down until her knees met her chin.

  Had Pauline been drinking? What else could explain her erratic behavior?

  Absorbed in her thoughts, it took Megan a moment to realize Pauline had stopped bashing the door. She scrambled to her feet.

  Regrettably, Brenda hadn’t got around to installing a peephole in the door, relying on a flimsy security chain instead. Slipping the door chain into place, Megan noted there were no signs of stress on either the chain or the door. Brenda had to have known her abductor. She never opened her door to strangers without it.

  Treading warily, she backed away from the door and slipped into Brenda’s bedroom. She gauged the distance she’d have to stand back from the lace curtain so she wouldn’t be seen from the outside and then added some. The dark-blue sedan she’d seen Pauline get into earlier was still parked across the street, but there was no sign of the woman herself anywhere that she could see.

  Taking a couple of steps sideways, she tried approaching the window from a slightly different angle. Her hands flew to her mouth, smothering a yelp of surprise as Pauline’s cupped face appeared at the window. Megan stumbled backwards, tripping and landing on the bed. She caught her breath and then, staying as low as possible, eased herself over to the other side and onto the floor. She felt like a fugitive. Enough was enough.

  Scurrying on all fours, she made a dash for the windowless hall. If she remembered rightly, she’d dropped her shoulder bag on the floor between the two bedrooms. It lay exactly where she’d left it against the skirting board. Delving into her bag, her hand groped for her mobile phone, panicking when she couldn’t immediately find it. She upended the bag, spilling the contents in a heap on the carpeted floor, her fears allayed when she spotted it amongst the jumble.

  She snatched it up, punched triple-0 and was about to press the send button when she had second thoughts. If there were any way of avoiding it, she would rather not involve the police. If Pauline was trespassing, so was she. Instead, she rang the only person she thought could help her: Greg Jenkins.

  Pick up, pick up, pick up, she chanted in her head. Please pick up.

  Just when she thought the call was about to be diverted to his voicemail, he answered. Talking as quietly as possible and with her hand cupped around the phone’s mouthpiece, she quickly explained her predicament.

  “Don’t move. What’s the address?” Greg’s voice faded for a moment. “I’ll be right there.”

  After she’d given him directions and hung up, she sat on the floor with her back against the wall and her legs out straight listening to the silence, the stillness only marred by the thudding of her own heart. The quiet was scarier than Pauline’s ranting. At least when she was being vocal, Megan knew where she was.

  Megan did exactly what Greg told her to do, staying put until a knock at the door roused her. She rose to her feet and went to greet him.

  “Thank—” Her mouth gaped.

  Nick, the dark-haired guy she’d met briefly at the Dinner for Twelve function, looked as startled to see her as she was him. “Sorry.” He took a step back, the bottle of wine is his hand lowered to his side. “My mistake. I thought this was Brenda’s place.”

  “It is.”

  “Is she around?”

  “Was she expecting you?”

  Nick glanced at his feet. “Not exactly. I just wanted to make sure she was okay. We’d arranged to meet up for a drink, but she didn’t show and she hasn’t been
answering her phone.”

  “How did you get this address?” Megan couldn’t imagine Brenda handing out her home details to just any guy, especially when she had her sights set on another man.

  He frowned. “White Pages. Is that a problem?”

  “I hope not. When did you last hear from Brenda?”

  “Friday. Why?”

  “Day or night?”

  “Day. Look, what’s going on here? Has something happened that I ought to know about? Where’s Brenda?” He made a move to push past her.

  She blocked his way. “I don’t know. She’s missing, but you have no right to be here.”

  “Missing?” His eyebrows drew together. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, I bloody am. Unless you know something I don’t.”

  His head moved in a slow shake, his eyes dulling as if his mind were elsewhere. Silent, he turned and retreated down the steps.

  “If you want to help Brenda,” Megan called, “contact the police, give them a statement.” If he didn’t, she would.

  He raised a hand in acknowledgement, before disappearing up the street still carrying the bottle of wine.

  Across the street, Pauline’s dark-blue sedan was gone, a late-model silver BMW in its place. Megan breathed out as the driver’s door open and Greg emerged.

  She waited for him to reach her. Then, without giving him a chance to greet her, she ushered him straight inside and locked the door behind him.

  Standing there in the hall face to face with Greg, his expression one of concern, she suddenly felt foolish. Foolish for calling him for what now seemed a groundless reason. With Pauline gone, what evidence was there to say Megan hadn’t exaggerated the entire situation? Besides, she should’ve been “big enough and ugly enough” – as her grandmother used to say – to fight her own battles.

  Struck dumb, she collected her shoulder bag, its contents now restored, and headed for the living room with Greg in tow.

  She tossed her bag on the sofa, flopping down beside it in an ungainly heap. Greg opted for one of the more formal low backed Bentwood chairs, moving it from its position by the window to nearer the sofa. He sat forward on the seat, his hands together and his elbows propped on his knees, waiting for her to say something.

  Taking a deep breath, she started. “I came over to water the plants…”

  One eyebrow arched.

  “Okay, maybe not. But I had to do something. What if there was some clue – something out of place – that the police overlooked? I know Brenda.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “The police don’t.”

  “Was there?”

  Megan shook her head. “I was still looking when that crazy woman showed up.” She described Pauline’s behavior, painting pictures with her hands. “When her face appeared at the window, I have to admit it freaked me somewhat. Even knowing she couldn’t see through the lace curtain didn’t help.” Megan kept the part about crawling across the floor on her hands and knees to herself.

  Greg sat upright, running his hands through his black curls, before returning to his original pose. “I think the police should be told, or at least let me pass the information on to Neville Crooke?”

  “Yes, but how are you going to explain my presence here?”

  “That’s easy. You came to water the plants – you always water the plants when Brenda is away.” He tilted his head to one side. “Don’t you?” he prompted, his raised eyebrows suggesting there was only one answer.

  Her gaze dropped to the floor. There was one teeny bit of information she had inadvertently omitted to tell him. “Uhhh…” She lifted her eyes and screwed up her nose. “Plants or no plants I don’t think the police would appreciate me entering a crime scene.”

  “Surely the forensic people have finished here.”

  From the expression on his face, Megan could see Greg couldn’t make sense of what she was alluding to. Standing up, she reached into her front right jeans pocket, a clump of blue-and-white tape unfurling as she withdrew her hand and opened her palm.

  Scooping up the crime scene tape from her hand he asked, “Where did this come from?”

  “It was strung across the entrance to the porch.”

  He shook his head, rolling his eyes. “You thought if you took it down you could always claim it had never been there in the first place?”

  At the time, the theory had seemed sound. Now she felt like an errant schoolgirl standing in front of the principal, waiting for the leather strap’s sting. Thank goodness, corporal punishment had been abolished.

  Greg chuckled, evidently amused by her pouting lips. “I doubt you have anything to worry about, but if you’re concerned at all, come clean with them. I’m sure they’re not going to lock you up for tearing down a bit of old tape.” He laughed again.

  She gave an indignant huff. “This is no laughing matter.”

  Wiping the smile from his face, he said, “Of course not. I—” He covered his mouth with his hand, cutting off the unsaid words.

  Heat flooded her face. Shielding her embarrassment behind her hands, she slumped back down onto the sofa. It wasn’t Greg’s fault she looked like a clown. She had managed that quite nicely by herself. As hard as it was to see the funny side, she did manage a small smile.

  “What next, Ms Jailbird?”

  She scowled at him, her mouth tight.

  He held his hands up. “Joke, joke.”

  She pulled her legs up onto the couch, wrapping her arms tightly around her knees. She needed to lighten up. She knew that, but she didn’t see it happening anytime soon. For God’s sake, there were more important matters to worry about, namely her best friend’s disappearance.

  Then she remembered: Brenda wasn’t the only woman missing. She glanced across at Greg. He sat eyes downcast, engrossed in winding the blue-and-white crime scene tape into a neat roll.

  “Greg?”

  His only response was a noncommittal grunt.

  “Greg, I really am grateful you came. Please don’t feel you have to stay.”

  Without lifting his head, he looked up. “You want me to go?”

  She chose her words carefully. “I don’t want to impose on your time any more than I already have. I’m sure you must be a busy man.”

  “You’re not,” he said with a weary shake of the head. “And to be honest, with everything that has happened, I don’t think you should be trying to tackle this on your own. Neither of us should be.”

  Megan breathed out. “Any suggestions where we should start?”

  A hint of a smile tweaked at the corners of Greg’s mouth. “Just to allay your concerns, let’s find out if the police have finished here.”

  She listened as Greg phoned Neville Crook, asked the investigator if he knew or if he could find out if the police were finished with Brenda’s property.

  Greg swiveled the phone away from his mouth. “He’s phoning the police now.”

  Megan opened her mouth, aghast that she was about to be dobbed in.

  “Sorry?” He was speaking into the phone again. “No, nothing like that. Brenda De Luca’s friend Megan Brighton just needs access to water some pot plants.” He grinned. “Not that sort of pot. Pot-ted,” he said emphasizing the last syllable. “Any other news?”

  Neville Crooke obviously had nothing to add and Greg hung up.

  “You’re off the most-wanted list. Happy now?”

  CHAPTER 24

  Late Saturday afternoon, Greg lay sprawled on his back on the couch in his lounge. Manipulating the large rubber band that’d been around his mail kept his hands busy while his mind tried to piece together what he knew with the last few weeks’ events.

  One woman had been murdered and two were missing. The dinner dating agency remained the obvious common denominator. But what was it about Dinner for Twelve that linked the incidents? Was some psychopathic serial killer using the agency’s client list as his private hunting ground? Neither the police nor Neville Crooke had yet come up with any concrete evidence.

 
An arrest warrant had been issued for Lawson Green for the murder of Linda Nichols, but now he too was missing. Had he gone to ground or was there something more sinister to it? Background checks on Dinner for Twelve’s clients had yet to throw up anything of real import.

  The jigsaw in his head had great gaping holes in it. With no square edges to guide him and without all the pieces in his possession, he didn’t stand a hope in hell of completing, let alone deciphering, the picture.

  The doorbell’s chime startled him, rescuing him from his unproductive ruminations. He peeled himself from the couch, dropped the rubber band on the coffee table and went to answer the door.

  His impatient visitor pressed the doorbell again just as Greg opened the door. He blinked. Neville Crooke’s hulking frame filled the doorway. Without waiting for an invitation, the private investigator marched straight past Greg into the lounge room.

  “White with two, thanks,” he boomed, making himself at home in the middle of the couch and spreading paper and folders over Greg’s jarrah coffee table.

  Greg, without a thought to why Neville might’ve turned up unannounced on a Saturday, did as commanded and retreated to the kitchen to make coffee. It wasn’t until he was carrying the steaming mugs into the lounge room that he thought to ask.

  “So what brings you here? Good news, I hope,” he said part tongue-in cheek and part serious. No point in getting his hopes up.

  Neville cleared space on the table for the two coffee mugs. “Actually I do have news,” he said, the words fanning a flicker of hope in Greg. “Good? Well that depends on how you look at it.” He picked up the mug of white coffee and sat back in his seat, his legs splayed. “For goodness sake, sit down, man. You’re making me nervous.”

  Greg stifled a laugh. Him make Neville nervous? He sat down anyway, perching on the edge of the Chesterfield chair to Neville’s left.

  Neville sipped his coffee, making loud smacking noises with his lips. “Not bad. Not bad at all.” He set the mug down and looked at his notes. “Now, where were we? That’s right, I was about to tell you that Lawson Green is in police custody. They finally tracked down the bugger.” Picking up his coffee mug, he continued. “Unfortunately, they haven’t been able to get much out of him. Unless a rambling confession to having intercourse with Linda Nichols is anything to go on. With all the evidence, he couldn’t exactly deny it now, could he? He’s claiming it was consensual, of course. He’s told so many different stories it’s hard to know what to believe.”