Fatal Liaison

by Vicki Tyley

  The next few paragraphs touched on the abduction and murder of Samantha Jenkins, but added nothing new to what had previously been published.

  It wasn’t until she read the following section where the reporter had drawn parallels between Brenda and Sam’s disappearances that the shock really set in. The saliva in her mouth dried. She swallowed, a strong metallic taste filling her mouth. Confronted in print by the similarities that she herself had seen and then shied away from, only made it harder. She swallowed again. One thing for sure, it was not the sort of publicity Pauline Meyer needed for her business.

  A dull ache had set up behind her eyes. She refolded the newspaper, leaving it sitting on the countertop, while she went in search of a couple of Panadol tablets.

  By the time she returned to the kitchen for a glass of water, the pain had intensified, extending over the top of her head and down her neck. She gagged at the tablets’ bitter taste as they touched the back of her tongue.

  After refilling the glass, she carried it through to the living area, setting it on a coaster on the side table before flopping down in the armchair nearest the balcony. The light’s glare forced her to swap seats.

  While she used both hands to massage the tension from her neck, she contemplated how she was going to persuade Greg to join her on a bushwalk.

  If necessary, she’d go alone.

  CHAPTER 37

  The rich, organic sweetness of decaying leaf litter intermingled with the rain-fresh scent of eucalyptus. Greg crouched, tightening the lace on his right boot. “Tell me again how you convinced me to join you on this so-called bushwalk in the middle of nowhere.”

  When there was no reply, he stopped what he was doing and glanced up. Megan stood near the Nissan Pulsar’s open back door, hands on hips and eyebrows raised, looking straight at him.

  “You didn’t have to come.” She dropped her hands to her sides. “But since you’re here, call it helping a damsel in distress.”

  Greg finished tying his laces and stood up. “I was kidding. You don’t honestly think I would let you waltz around in the bush by yourself, do you?”

  Last night, when Megan had confided her intention to tramp through the bush surrounding what had been the official search site, he’d done his best to convince her otherwise. But nothing he’d said had swayed the headstrong woman from her ludicrous and potentially dangerous plan. It’d come down to the old adage, if you can’t beat them, join them.

  Who knew what or who was lurking out there. At least he didn’t have to worry about snakes. They’d be safely tucked away in semi-hibernation somewhere. He hoped.

  The ground though damp was firm underfoot. Following Megan down a well-trodden track, Greg pondered on the futility of what they were doing. Megan hadn’t actually come out and said it in so many words, but Greg knew they were there to look for Brenda, or more to the point, Brenda’s body. But the Yarra Ranges National Park was vast. It would be like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack, if indeed the needle did exist.

  The further they ventured, the colder and heavier the air became. Greg shivered. Sudden movement off to his left and the crack of branches breaking startled him. Through the trees, he glimpsed the dark shadow of what he assumed was a kangaroo bounding away. Ahead of him, Megan hiked on, unfazed by the disturbance.

  A few meters further on she stopped and peered into the undergrowth on both sides of the track. Without a word, she charged off into the bush to her left. As much as he wanted to turn back, Greg had no choice but to follow.

  Branches and tree fern fronds whipped at his face as he fought his way through the dense foliage, giving true meaning to the term bushwhacking. Every now and then, he would lose sight of Megan, but the sound of her plowing through the forest ahead would keep him on target. They were definitely off the beaten track and he had seen no sign that another human had ever passed this way before. What was Megan thinking? Hell, what if they were lost? He sincerely hoped she knew what she was doing.

  His lack of fitness surprised him as, gasping for breath, he tried to keep up. Rounding the rocky outcrop Megan had just disappeared behind, he suddenly found himself blinking at the brightness of the sunlight streaming through a gap in the trees. Megan stood in the middle of the clearing looking like a little girl lost, her head hung low. The woman on a mission had gone.

  He made his way toward her, stopping a couple of meters short.

  Without lifting her head, she said, “She’s not here is she?”

  He faltered, looking for the right words. What did she want him to say? She’d rebuked him more than once for not being honest with her. Instead, he took a tentative step forward, holding the palms of his hands out.

  Lifting her head, she looked at him, her bottom lip quivering. Her face crumpled. Instinctively he moved in, wrapping her in his arms and holding her close. She let out a heart-rending sob, before burrowing her head into his chest. He felt her smothered sobs through his shirt.

  Eventually, the tears subsided and she drew away, backing out of arm’s reach. Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, she avoided eye contact with him and scanned the surrounding bush. As if embarrassed by her own behavior, she seemed to be checking that no one had been watching. The only witnesses had been the birds sitting high in the trees.

  Greg’s suggestion they should return home met no resistance. However, their immediate problem would be finding their way out. Megan hung back. She’d led them to the clearing, but now clearly expected Greg to take the lead. With more confidence than he felt, he plunged into the undergrowth at the spot he thought he’d entered the clearing. He stopped. It all looked so much the same: an impenetrable wall of trees, vines and bushes. But where was the rock?

  Backtracking he returned to the clearing.

  CHAPTER 38

  Curled up in the overstuffed armchair, swaddled in the duvet from her bed, Megan watched the ebony sky fade to charcoal-grey before turning to a brilliant amber as the sun peeked over the horizon.

  Had she slept? She didn’t think so, but with a couple of blank periods she couldn’t account for, she couldn’t be sure. The tip of her nose felt numb. Shivering, she pulled the duvet up around her head like a padded version of a Muslim hijab.

  In a few hours, she and Greg would be calling on the parents of Tina Barrett, the TAFE student whose skeleton had been found in the Yarra Ranges National Park. They’d debated whether to call ahead. Megan had argued that forewarning Mr and Mrs Barrett of their visit was only proper, but Greg had disagreed. First, he pointed out, the Barretts would already be inundated with phone calls from journalists and the like. Second, if the family knew in advance why they wanted to see them, then they might refuse point-blank to talk to them. Third, the police were already less than impressed with their involvement in the case. The element of surprise was all they really had.

  She shifted in her chair, searching for a more comfortable position. The most surprising aspect was that Greg was accompanying her at all. They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms the day before. She blushed, her cold face immediately hot, as she thought about the way she’d taken her frustrations out on Greg.

  Then she closed her eyes, remembering the reassuring feel of his arms around her as she sobbed her heart out. It had all started going wrong when it’d suddenly struck her that she was alone in the middle of the bush with a man she barely knew. What if he wasn’t the man he purported to be? All manner of chilling thoughts had raced through her mind as she backed away.

  In hindsight, it was a wonder he hadn’t abandoned her there and then. But if he had, would either of them found their way out? At one stage, she could have sworn she had passed the same tree at least five times.

  Tensions had run high and they’d both been testy, but laying the blame on Greg’s shoulders for their predicament had not been fair. And she’d known it at the time but had no control over what was coming out of her mouth.

  Greg had made a few sniping remarks in return before falling oddly si
lent. They’d walked in circles for what felt like hours until by sheer accident they had stumbled upon one of the walking tracks. Even then, they’d argued about which direction to take.

  By the time they had made it back to her car, tempers were back to a relatively even keel, both too tired to bicker. Megan had tried to apologize, but Greg had just brushed it aside as if it really wasn’t important.

  On the drive back to town, no more than half a dozen words were exchanged. It wasn’t until Megan pulled into the driveway behind Greg’s BMW that they’d really talked. Neville Crooke, the private investigator Greg had employed when Sam had first disappeared, strongly recommended to Greg that he let the police do their job unhindered. However, as Greg stated, that was easier said than done. He couldn’t be expected to sit back twiddling his thumbs doing nothing. It was then that she’d mentioned her idea of talking to the murdered girls’ relatives.

  No doubt the families had already undergone intensive questioning by the police, but what if somewhere deep in their memories lay a missing piece of the jigsaw? What if they possessed, without even realizing it, the link that would tie the individual cases together?

  But what if they didn’t?

  No matter, she had to try. What did she have to lose? Megan was more than willing to do whatever it took to bring Brenda home…

  Dead or alive.

  After all this time, she had almost resigned herself to never hearing Brenda’s infectious laugh again, but she couldn’t – wouldn’t – give up looking for her.

  She hunched down, snuggling into her duvet cocoon, her breath warming the exposed skin of her cleavage. I’ll find you, Brenda. I promise.

  It was the last thing she remembered until the alarm clock’s blaring woke her. Except it wasn’t the alarm clock.

  It took her a moment to realize the incessant noise was her mobile phone. With her eyes still not open, she fumbled for the phone on the side table.

  “Hello?”

  “Megan, it’s Greg. Where are you?”

  Her eyelids sprung open, her head swiveling to check the clock. She was already half an hour late. With a spurt of energy she didn’t know she had in her, she managed to untangle herself from the duvet with one hand, hold her phone to her ear with the other, utter profuse apologies to Greg and scurry down the hall to her bedroom all at the same time.

  She set a record getting dressed, buttoning up a classic black longline jacket over matching trousers. A quick glance in the mirror on the way out assured her she looked halfway respectable. At least she’d had the foresight the night before to think about what she should wear to offer condolences.

  Greg had, too. Leaning on his open car door talking into his mobile phone, he looked smart, but not overdressed in a pair of black trousers, toffee-colored open-necked shirt and black sports jacket. He acknowledged her with a small wave and continued talking into the phone.

  Feeling, and no doubt looking, suitably sheepish for her lateness, Megan waited patiently for him to finish his call.

  With Greg driving and Megan in the passenger seat of his BMW, they arrived in Burwood within the half hour.

  Greg removed the keys from the ignition, unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to her. “Have you given much thought to how you want to play this?”

  They were parked on the street outside a rather nondescript white stuccoed house with a reddish-brown tiled roof. The front garden looked as if it hadn’t received any attention for quite some time, weeds the only plants flourishing in the garden. The rickety white metal mailbox overflowed with junk mail.

  Ignoring Greg’s question, she asked, “Are you sure this is the right address?”

  “There’s a map and printout in the glove box.”

  Opening the compartment in front of her, she wasn’t surprised at all by the orderliness of the contents. No salvage license needed. Hoping he’d never have cause to open the glove box in her car, she reached in and retrieved the two sheets of paper, one folded inside the other. Smoothing them on her lap, she checked the street number on the printout against the numerals on the front of the mailbox. Number 79. Unless the Barretts had recently moved house, it was the correct address.

  “Is it?” Greg looked past her, through the passenger’s side window, studying the property and not really paying any attention to what she was doing.

  She refolded the paper and was about to replace it in the glove box, when the corner of a photo that’d slipped out of a brown envelope caught the edge of her vision. She reached in and careful not to spill the contents, withdrew the bulky brown envelope. Before she had a chance to poke the offending photograph back in, he plucked it from her hands.

  “Ah good. Almost forgot them.” He slid the package into his inside jacket pocket and, checking his side-view mirror, opened the car door.

  As Megan reached down to collect her handbag from the floor, her door opened. For a microsecond, she wondered if BMWs now came with telepathic door sensors. Why was it that in the gravest of situations her mind came up with these laughable absurdities?

  Greg held the car door open, watching her intently, one eyebrow cocked quizzically. Had she actually chuckled out loud? She blushed, her hand flying to cover her mouth. Now both Greg’s eyebrows were raised.

  “Thanks,” she murmured as she stepped out onto the footpath, tugging at her jacket to straighten it. She glanced at the house’s large front windows, hoping she didn’t have an audience. Nothing so obvious as twitching curtains, anyway.

  They walked in silence and side by side up the deceptively steep concrete driveway to the small semi-enclosed front porch. High on the green-painted doorframe’s right hung an ornate but tarnished brass bell. Greg tapped the side of it gently, but even though the bell swung, it remained mute. Great, she thought, first telepathic car doors and now silent doorbells. I’m going mad.

  Greg then rapped his knuckles against the front door’s ridged and frosted top glass panel. After a few moments with no response, Megan stepped forward and tried her luck.

  “Mr and Mrs Barrett, my name is Megan Brighton,” she called through the door. “I am not a reporter. You may be aware that another suspected victim of the…” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “My best friend Brenda De Luca is missing. I really need to talk to you. Please. I promise it will only take a few minutes of your time.”

  A shadow appeared behind the door. “Who’s that with you?”

  So they had been watching. Greg opened his mouth to speak, but Megan raised her index finger, silencing him. “Mr Barrett, Greg Jenkins is with me. Greg’s sister Samantha was found in the Yarra Ranges National Park…” Unable to find the right words, her voice trailed off.

  A couple of long seconds passed before she heard the door chain rattle. One look at the frail grey-haired Mr Barrett had her wishing she hadn’t come. His dark eyes were dull and sunken, the anguish etched in deep lines on the unshaven man’s face unmistakable. Part of her wanted to offer condolences and hightail it out of there, leaving a father to grieve for his daughter in peace. Another part, a stronger part, urged her forward.

  “Mr Barrett,” she blurted, wiping her feet on the doormat, “we’re so sorry to be intruding on you in your time of grief, but we really do appreciate you seeing us.”

  Giving no indication he had heard her, Mr Barrett shuffled off. Megan glanced at Greg, lifting her shoulders in a slight shrug as she stepped through the doorway into the cork-tiled, narrow entrance hall. Greg followed, closing the front door quietly behind him.

  An opening to the right led into a large but cluttered room with burnt-orange drapes framing lace-curtained windows at the far end. Mr Barrett stood beside an ochre-colored velvet upholstered armchair, his arm draped around the shoulders of a diminutive, fair-haired woman. Fear flashed in the woman’s pale eyes, her eyebrows drawing together as Megan and Greg entered the room.

  Megan’s insides churned. What could she say to this husband and wife that wouldn’t sound superficial? Hoping the words would come to her, s
he opened her mouth. Unfortunately, all that she managed were a pile of ums and ahs.

  Then she heard Greg’s voice – soft and low – from behind her right shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. The pain is all encompassing. It’s not just emotional, it’s physical…”

  Mrs Barrett’s fingers locked together in a stunted prayer. Her eyes brimmed with tears. Mr Barrett’s head moved in a barely perceptible nod, his arm tightening around his wife’s shoulders.

  “Death leaves a heartache no one can heal. Love leaves a memory no one can steal. Your daughter will always be your daughter. May her soul rest in peace.”

  Megan swallowed hard, the emotion in the room overwhelming her. It took everything she had to fight the instinct to flee. She shouldn’t have come, but now that she was there, she couldn’t leave.

  Whether it was intended or not, Greg came to her rescue.

  “Mrs Barrett, how about we get Megan to make us all a nice cup of tea?”

  As if suddenly remembering her manners, Mrs Barrett went to stand up, but her husband’s steadying hand stopped her. He whispered something in her ear and she nodded, sitting back in her chair.

  Ordinarily, Megan would have resented someone offering her services before asking her first, but not this time. Leaping at the chance to do something constructive as well as have the time to compose her thoughts, she headed in the direction Mr Barrett pointed.

  Unlike the living room, the kitchen was spartan with no knick-knacks cluttering the windowsills or pink marble-look benches, but like the living room, it was spotless. She filled the kettle, setting it to boil before going in search for the rest of the tea-making accoutrements.

  The kitchen drawers and cupboards soon yielded teaspoons, cups and saucers. In the pantry, she found a white plastic canister containing teabags and an opened bag of white sugar. Dreading the thought of having to go back and ask each of them how they took their tea, she kept foraging in the hope she would come across a sugar bowl and milk jug. She found both, plus a short spouted stainless steel teapot that looked as if it probably hadn’t been used for quite some time.