Fatal Liaison

by Vicki Tyley

  “That’s it? Lawson’s been arrested for Linda Nichol’s murder and yet there’s no new evidence?” Greg couldn’t stay seated. “What about my sister? What about the De Luca woman?”

  Wiping a hand across his mouth, Neville studied Greg’s face, sizing him up. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but what the heck you’ll find out soon enough. A bail hearing has been set for—”

  Greg cut in, not believing his ears. “You can’t be serious? He’s been charged with murder and now you’re telling me he could be released on bail. How is that possible?”

  Neville gave a loud sigh. “You’re right, generally it wouldn’t happen, but there are provisions in the law where exceptional circumstances exist. In this case—”

  Not waiting for the rest of the sentence, Greg jumped in again. “Exceptional circumstances? What could possibly be exceptional in this case?”

  “Sit down, Mr Jenkins. This is not getting us anywhere.”

  The words reverberated around the room, stopping Greg in his tracks.

  “Please,” Neville added in a softer tone. “We need to look at this rationally.”

  Greg plonked back down into his chair, feeling like a petulant child. “I’m listening,” he said, the words sounding clipped even to him.

  For a split second, Neville’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  Greg ran his fingers through his hair, tugging the curls at the back of his neck. “Sorry, please go on. I’ll keep my big mouth shut.”

  “You do that.” Neville scratched his chin. “Mr Green’s lawyer is a QC named Clinton Edberg. You may have heard of him.” He held up a finger, shaking his head when Greg opened his mouth. “I’m not saying it’s a done deal, but if anyone can convince the magistrate to grant bail to Mr Green, he can. After a psychiatric assessment it’s possible he will be released into,” he referred to his notes, “the care of Mrs Pauline Meyer.”

  Greg’s hands clenched into fists. It took all his will power not to blurt out the questions banking up in his head? What psychiatric assessment? Surely, he wasn’t trying on an insanity plea. And Pauline Meyer? What did she have to do with Lawson’s bail hearing?

  The private investigator leaned forward, his voice softening. “Sorry, mate. Wish the news was more comprehensive, but I thought you ought to know anyway.” He started gathering his papers together. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anymore.” A sheet of paper fell on the floor between the couch and coffee table. He scooped it up, looked at it and frowned.

  “What is it?” Greg couldn’t contain his silence any longer. Besides, it appeared Neville had said what he had come to say.

  “Just a report from one of our operatives that I don’t recall seeing before.”

  “About?” Greg prompted.

  “About the lady herself. At first glance, there’s nothing here that would reflect on the case. But interesting enough it says here her husband is still alive.” He continued reading. “Her son, on the other hand, was killed in a hit and run when he was just a lad of eleven. Poor young bugger was out delivering papers on his bike.”

  Greg sat forward, intrigued. He vaguely recalled Megan mentioning Pauline’s husband had been killed in a car accident early in the marriage, but nothing about any children. What had prompted Pauline to lie about her husband? Had he abandoned her and their son with the story being an attempt on her part to save face? Or perhaps in her mind, he was dead.

  “So where is this husband then? Isn’t he supposed to be dead?”

  “Yeah, that’s what Mrs Meyer told our boys in blue, I believe.” Neville ran his finger down the page. “No mention here of his current whereabouts. I doubt it’s relevant to this case, but I will mention it to DS Dave Abrahams. If there’s anything to know, he’ll know.” Opening the top file in the heap, he dropped the report in the front and closed it again. “Right. I’m outta here. Things to do, places to see. I’ll call you if I hear anything.”

  The house was strangely silent after Neville left, as if his departure had produced a black hole that had swallowed the sound. That or Greg’s ears had yet to readjust to normal sound levels.

  He reached for the phone.

  CHAPTER 25

  The pillow where her cheek lay was damp, her eyes raw. Sleep had evaded her once again. Every time Megan closed her eyes, horrific visions of Brenda’s eyes bulging like a goldfish, her mouth open in a scream, confronted her. No matter what she did, she couldn’t shake the image.

  Greg’s phone call the day before had done nothing to help matters either. Lawson Green – the same Lawson who Brenda was infatuated with – had been arrested for murder. Megan didn’t want to believe it, couldn’t believe it. A wave of nausea forced her to sit upright in a hurry. She swallowed hard, fighting the swell in her chest. It passed.

  Too afraid to lie down again, she sat shivering in her singlet, clutching the bedclothes to her chest. Light was starting to filter around the edge of the bedroom’s cedar Venetians. Dark thoughts raced through her mind. If Lawson was capable of killing once, what was there to say he wouldn’t kill again? No. Not possible…

  She flung the bedding back and scrambled out of bed. In the poky second-bedroom-cum-study, she shoved aside the piles of unopened bills and credit card statements on the desk, hunting for Pauline Meyer’s business card. She clearly remembered taking it out of her bag and throwing it on the desk. Thinking perhaps it had become caught up amongst the mail, she collected up the sealed envelopes and dealt them like playing cards back on to the desk. No business card. She stared at the desk, willing the card to appear as if by magic.

  A torn-open window envelope near the keyboard caught her eye. Her fingers grappled with it, for a moment unable to open it. Empty. She scrunched the envelope into a ball and lobbed it in the general direction of the wastepaper bin. It fell short. As she reached down to retrieve the crumpled envelope, she wondered if she might’ve inadvertently thrown the business card out. Setting the grey plastic bin on the desk, she sifted through the mostly paper litter. It wasn’t until she was nearly at the bottom that her efforts were rewarded.

  She studied the garish red-and-gold business card. Megan hadn’t expected to find a home number for Pauline Meyer and there wasn’t one, but there was a mobile number. Card in hand, she padded back to her bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Then with complete disregard for the early hour as well as the fact it was a Sunday, she picked up the telephone handset on her bedside table and dialed Pauline Meyer’s mobile number.

  Holding her breath, she listened to it ringing, not even quite sure of what she was going to say if Pauline did answer it. She was about to hang up when a female voice thick with sleep answered. It didn’t sound like Pauline.

  “Uh… I’m sorry… um… I hope I haven’t woken you,” Megan mumbled, her conscience suddenly getting the better of her.

  “Do you have any idea of the time?” snapped the voice that now couldn’t belong to anyone else but Pauline. “Who is this?”

  Megan immediately regretted waking the slumbering dragon lady. “A…a…friend of Lawson’s,” she said, not identifying herself for fear of having the phone hung up in her ear. “I hope you don’t mind me calling, but I was wondering how he was doing?”

  Met with a stony silence she changed tack. “He must be having such a tough time. I can’t believe how the police could possibly consider him a suspect…” Even as she was speaking, she knew how it must sound. Utter nonsense. Would Pauline fall for it? Not likely.

  “Thank you for your call, Ms Brighton, but Mr Green is none of your concern. Goodbye.”

  I’ll take that as a no then, thought Megan, listening to the disconnection beeps.

  Pauline had recognized her voice, not that Megan had tried to disguise it. Now what? Pauline wasn’t going to get rid of her that easily.

  She waited a few minutes, rehearsing what she was going to say if Pauline decided to answer the phone. When she thought she had what she wanted to say straight in her head, she pre
ssed the combination of keys that would block her caller ID and redialed Pauline’s phone number.

  When the phone was answered after the second ring, she almost dropped it. Quickly recovering her composure she blurted, “Don’t hang up. Please.”

  No click.

  “Listen, I don’t know for sure, but I think Brenda was with Lawson at the time of Linda Nichol’s death. She could alibi him.” It was a bluff. Megan thought no such thing, but if Pauline believed her, she might be more amenable to the idea of helping her.

  Perhaps helping was the wrong word, but Megan was desperate enough to try anything. If there was any possibility Lawson Green was involved in the disappearance of Brenda, then her starting point had to be with him. Where had he been in the week before his arrest? Knowing she wouldn’t be able to talk to him in person, she had to find another way to get to him.

  According to Greg, Pauline Meyer was footing the bill for Lawson’s lawyer, which meant there had to be more to the relationship between Lawson and Pauline than straight business. However, as evidenced by the scene at Brenda’s place, Pauline had been as much in the dark about his whereabouts at that time as Megan had.

  “Pauline, Brenda means as much to me as Lawson does to you, so I know what you’re going through. And I’m not ashamed to admit that not knowing where she is or if she’s safe is torture. She and Lawson have a close connection, which means there’s a good chance wherever she is, he is. If we work together, we can bring them home faster.”

  Megan waited for a response.

  Nothing.

  Slow mocking laughter broke the silence. “If you think I believe one word of that, you're more naïve than I thought. Lawson Green is not the kind of man who would deign to have more than a fleeting association with a woman like that.”

  Megan saw red. “Like what?”

  “Goodbye, Ms Brighton. Contrary to what you believe, Mr Lawson doesn't need your help.” The sharp intake of breath Megan heard was her own. “I hope you find your friend,” Pauline added with all the sincerity of a death adder.

  Dumbfounded, Megan hung up the phone. Clearly, Pauline and she were never going to see eye to eye, but did that mean any chance of getting through to Lawson was out of the question? Megan was not a defeatist, by any means.

  And any means were what she was prepared to resort to.

  Greg wasn’t Pauline’s favorite person, either, but the private investigator he’d employed seemed to have the inside track as far as access to police information went. Perhaps there was a way, after all. She reached for the phone, stopping herself as she remembered the time. She wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

  Too restless to sleep, she headed for the small study. After moving the wastepaper bin from where she had left it on the desk to back to the floor, she sat down in the swivel chair and picked up the first envelope on the pile of unopened mail, her telephone account for the last quarter. A quick glance at the due date confirmed it was now overdue. She opened the next envelope, her American Express statement. It too was past due.

  With the intention of logging onto the Internet to pay her bills, she switched on her computer. While it ran through its start-up processes, she continued opening and sorting the mail. Envelopes and junk mail into the bin, bills and statements into a pile beside the keyboard.

  She opened her Internet browser, the page defaulting to Google. Moving the pointer over the bank icon in the links toolbar, she hesitated. Something about the flashing cursor in the search box drew her.

  She stared at it for a moment, her fingers poised over the keyboard, then typed “missing persons,” refining her search to pages from Australia. In less than a second, she had hundreds of thousands of hits.

  Fortunately, what she was looking for was on the first page. Brenda’s disappearance had been canvassed in both print and television media, but Megan wanted to make sure all bases were covered. She clicked on the national Missing Persons link and found the page for Victoria.

  Sorted in alphabetical order, Brenda’s photo was in the third row down, Samantha Jenkins’ on the next page. But they were only two of many. Confronted with photo after photo of women and men still missing, not for days or weeks, but months and years, Megan felt as if she’d been punched in the chest. What if, like many of those people, Brenda was never seen again?

  Her throat tight, she clicked Brenda’s name. A larger image of Brenda’s happy laughing face appeared on the screen. Last seen, year of birth, height, build, eyes, hair, complexion, gender. Impersonal data. Those details weren’t what made Brenda the person she was.

  Looking at Brenda’s vibrant face only served to intensify Megan’s anguish, a harrowing reminder of everything she held dear. With one click, the image disappeared from the screen.

  There was no mistaking the vivacious woman in the next photo. She shared the same curly hair, dark eyes and chiseled features as her brother. Samantha Rose Jenkins, 1970, 170cm, slim, curly black hair, olive complexion, brown eyes, female – details again that belied the flesh and blood woman behind the photo. She knew exactly what Greg was going through.

  The unpaid bills forgotten, she pushed back in her chair, the heaviness in her chest no less. Then barefoot and still in her singlet and boxer shorts, she headed for the French doors leading out on to the balcony. Outside it was light, but the streetlamps still glowed. Breathing in the heavily dew-laden air, Megan stood at the rail, looking out across the patchwork of houses – houses where families slept oblivious to the evil in the world.

  The damp and cold eventually drove her back indoors. Chilled to the bone, she set the gas heater in the lounge on high and went in search for something warmer to wear. A short time later, she was rugged up in a pastel-blue velour robe several sizes too large for her.

  A good cup of tea had been her grandmother’s answer to all the world’s ills. The panacea for everything from fatigue to depression to murder. She headed for the kitchen to make a cup of tea, only to discover she was out of milk.

  Damn. She shut the door with more force than intended, the fridge’s rubber seals absorbing the impact of her irritation.

  A few minutes later, dressed in a pair of jeans she’d fished out of the laundry basket and an unbecoming green puff jacket, she collected her wallet and car keys and headed out the door.

  She’d inserted the key in the Nissan Pulsar’s ignition and was about to turn it when a tap on the passenger’s side window almost sent her through the car’s roof. She spun around, ricking her neck. Joe’s intense deep-set eyes stared back at her.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she lowered the window enough to talk to him, but not enough for him to put his arm through. “Shit, Joe. What are you playing at?”

  Joe peered at her through the gap, his fingers hanging on the glass edge. “I was worried. You haven’t returned my calls.”

  Megan rolled her eyes. “I thought we talked about this.”

  “You said you wanted to be friends. Friends look out for one another.”

  He had a point. “But friends don’t creep up and scare you witless,” she countered.

  “Sorry about that. Seriously, though, I’ve been concerned about you and I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He paused before adding, “Just as a friend, of course.”

  Megan now wished she’d listened to the little voice in her head that had told her the “let’s be friends” approach might backfire in Joe’s case. He either had the hide of a crocodile or genuinely believed perseverance would win her over. Or both.

  She flicked the air with the back of her hand as if shooing a pesky fly. “I’m okay.” She sighed and turned back to the steering wheel, gripping it tightly. “Now go away. Please, Joe, just leave me alone. I don’t need this shit.”

  She started the car. As she moved the shift selector into reverse, she glanced sideways at Joe, immediately regretting it. She had nothing to feel guilty about, so why did she feel so bad? Taking her foot off the brake, she kept her gaze fixed on the rear-view mirror an
d started backing out of the driveway.

  A piece of white paper fluttered through the passenger’s side window, landing on the seat. Megan ignored it and continued reversing. Out on the street, she wasted no time in straightening up, speeding off without a backward glance.

  Even though she’d only intended driving a couple of blocks to her local 7-Eleven store, she completely missed it, driving straight past until the distinctive red and orange number seven of the next store caught her attention. She turned down the side street next to the convenience store and pulled into a parking space not far from the corner.

  With the ignition turned off and the doors locked, she closed her eyes and leaned back in her seat, trying desperately to regain her composure. Joe turning up unexpectedly like that had really unnerved her. As if she didn’t already have enough to contend with.

  Opening her eyes, she reached across to the passenger side and picked up what she’d earlier mistaken for a piece of paper from the seat. It was a square, white envelope. Turning it over in her hands, she found her name written neatly in blue ink across the front. She ripped the envelope open.

  The picture on the card inside looked to be a print of an Impressionist watercolor depicting a field of red and yellow tulips. With a sinking sensation in her stomach, she opened it.

  “Dear Megan,

  Just a short note to tell you that even though we haven’t known each other for long, your friendship means a great deal to me. Believe me when I say that I do understand that you are not ready for commitment at this stage in your life. Obviously at this time, your focus must be with your friend.

  Take care and please remember that if you ever need me I’ll be there for you.