by Vicki Tyley
CHAPTER 43
Within seconds of Megan’s phone call, Greg had looked up the address for Saul’s Lawnmower Maintenance, called Neville Crooke to alert him to what was happening and grabbed his car keys.
He strode out the door, continuing to talk to Neville as well as trying to maneuver his free arm into his jacket sleeve.
“Forget the heroics,” the private investigator said. “Under no circumstances, approach Green. Keep your distance from him and the warehouse until the police arrive. Both you and your lady friend.”
Personally, Greg saw a lot of wisdom in that. His qualms, however, lay with what Megan might or might not do. Driving as fast as he could without risking being pulled over for speeding, he followed the BMW’s onboard navigator’s directions, opting for the slightly longer distance but more straightforward route.
He pulled into the empty parking spot next to Megan’s Nissan Pulsar hoping – though not expecting – to see her waiting for him. Cursing under his breath, he clambered out of his car and surveyed the area. Not a soul in any direction. Besides the few parked cars, the whole place appeared deserted. An industrial ghost town.
The desolate brick warehouse Megan described was directly across the road. There was no sign of activity in or around the building, but more importantly, there was no sign of Megan.
Armed with the wheel wrench from his car, he crept down the side of the old brick warehouse, conscious of his footsteps crunching the gravel.
He rounded the corner, the wrench slippery in his sweaty palms, and spotted a couple of concrete steps about a third of the way down the back. His assumption that they would lead to a door was proved right, but one look at the padlocks told him Megan hadn’t gained access that way. Where the hell was she?
In that instant, the bushes growing up against the back wall beside him moved. If he didn’t know what scaring the living daylights out of someone meant before, he certainly did then.
“Fucking hell! What are you trying to do to me?” He thumped his chest. “Kill me?”
“How do you think I felt?” Megan snapped as she pushed her way out of the foliage. “I don’t normally dive into bushes for no particular reason.” She brushed herself off and looked up. “Okay, okay, I should’ve stayed in the car. But you’re here now. I’ve done a recce and this door is our best bet.” She nodded at the wheel wrench raised defensively above his head.
He lowered it slowly to hang by his side. “We should wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“The police.”
“If you called the police, why aren’t they already here?” She paused. “Or is your car faster?” she added sarcastically.
He had to admit he’d expected the police to be there if not before, then shortly after he arrived. What if Neville had made an error when he was passing on the address details? He reached into his pocket for his BlackBerry.
Megan put her hand out. “No, let’s not waste any more time. If they’re still not here by the time we’re inside, then we can think about ringing again.” She picked up a jagged rock about the size of a grapefruit from the ground. “Now help me get this door open.”
It took the two of them using rocks, the wheel wrench and brute force nine or ten precious minutes to break off the antiquated padlocks, and then another couple to push the door ajar enough for them to squeeze through. Greg went first.
His eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom. He shivered, the frigid air inside the cavernous warehouse chilling him to the bone. Pinching his nostrils against the tickly musty smell, he scanned the large open space. A dozen or so broken pallets, a stack of newspapers, a rusting bicycle minus its front wheel, a heap of what appeared to be old paint tins in the otherwise empty space, gave no hint to what the warehouse may have been used for in its heyday. At the far end were two closed doors that Greg assumed probably led out to front offices. In the far corner, jutting into the warehouse was another office or room.
Megan stood next to him, so close he could almost feel the warmth of her body. He glanced at her. She nodded and edged forward.
Tightening his grip on the wheel wrench, he started across the concrete floor, his feet stirring up flurries of dust. He held out an arm, keeping Megan safely behind him.
They’d almost reached the far wall when Megan stopped him. Her fingers dug into his arm. “Did you hear that?” she asked in a strangled whisper.
He froze, his ears straining for the slightest sound. “Hear what?”
“Sounds like a mewing kitten. Listen.” She released his arm and took off, heading straight for the room in the corner to the right of them.
He followed in her wake, inhaling the dust kicked up by her feet. She pressed her ear up hard against the faded and patchy brown door, the look on her face one of intense concentration.
Greg felt the inside of his nose twitch, but was powerless to stop it. What resulted was not some barely audible achoo, but a loud thunderous sneeze that echoed around the warehouse. Then he sneezed again. And again.
“Shush!” Megan scowled at him as if he had sneezed deliberately.
He took a moment to wipe his nose and then joined her at the door. Then he heard it. A faint plaintive cry much like, as Megan had suggested, that of a mewing kitten. How did a cat come to be trapped in that room?
Megan snatched the wheel wrench from his hands, catching him unawares, and like a woman possessed, attacked the door. She smashed through the hollow door as if it was made of balsa, punching out a hole she could look through.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” Shrieking, she set upon the door with even more ferocity, almost wiping out Greg in the process.
He yelled at her, but she wasn’t listening. Something she’d seen inside that room had set her off, but what? The way she was brandishing the wrench, he wasn’t game to try to get close enough to see for himself.
The wrench landed with a loud clank on the concrete. She was through, the door a gaping hole of splinters.
He stepped through it after her. He gagged, the heavy fetid air choking him. Megan, still chanting and seemingly oblivious to the smell, was hunched over what looked to be a pile of old moldy blankets on a single bed. The bare concrete floor was littered with empty plastic bottles. White plastic shopping bags holding goodness knows what sat atop the two chairs in the corner.
With his hand covering his nose and mouth, he edged over to Megan. It wasn’t until he was almost on top of the bed he saw the woman. The only part of her not buried under the blankets was her gaunt face. Vacant glassy eyes stared out at him.
He’d only met Brenda the once, but her face had been splashed across the newspapers and on the TV for weeks now. Still, he would never have recognized the semi-conscious woman as that person, but Megan obviously did.
Greg stepped back, reaching into his pocket for his BlackBerry. His hands shook as he called first for an ambulance and then the police. When he was finished, he returned to Megan’s side.
Megan sat on the side of the squalid bed, stroking Brenda’s brow and sobbing. Brenda whimpered and then closed her eyes.
Wishing there was more he could to do to help, Greg gave Megan’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.
She turned to him, her wet face contorted in anguish. “She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”
Praying he wasn’t giving her false hope, he nodded. “The ambulance is on its way.”
The ambulance? That suddenly gave him something to think about. How were the paramedics going to know where to find them? How were they going to get Brenda out? The back door was jammed. He and Megan had managed to jemmy it open wide enough for them to squeeze through, but there was no way a stretcher would fit through that small gap.
Not sure Megan had heard him before, he repeated himself. He ducked back out through the hole in the door and headed for the stuck back door.
He almost broke his shoulder against the door, but all of a sudden, it gave, opening wide and tumbling him on to the concrete inside. H
e picked himself up, dusting off his hands and clothes, and went to check on Megan and Brenda.
Planting his hands on either side of the door, he stuck his head through the gap. Megan remained seated on the bed edge, crooning reassurances as she caressed her seriously ill friend’s face. He stood watching, trying hard not to think about the ordeal his sister must have endured. Had she too been kept like an animal in a cage waiting to die? Had he brought her here?
Greg swung away from the door, his stomach churning.
One fact he couldn’t get away from was that his obsession, as Megan called it, with Lawson Green had been justified. That bastard would wish he had never been born, if Greg ever got his hands on him.
CHAPTER 44
Megan stood by the hospital bed gazing down at her friend’s sleeping form. Brenda lay on her back, the fresh white sheet covering her chest tucked under her arms. An intravenous drip attached to the back of her hand administered fluids and electrolytes to her dehydrated body.
A few more days and it would’ve been Brenda’s funeral she’d have been attending, not her bedside. The few bottles of water her captor provided her with had been nowhere near enough to stave off dehydration. As each day passed, she’d have become weaker and less able to help herself. Death hadn’t been far away.
The police caught up with Lawson Green trying to board a plane to Perth, less than four hours after Brenda had been found. From all accounts, after the police arrested him, he’d rambled on incessantly about how he loved Brenda and how she wasn’t supposed to die. On his last visit to the warehouse, he’d found Brenda totally unresponsive, and panicked thinking he had killed her.
The police cut the interview short as Lawson became increasingly hysterical and more incoherent. Since then, Megan had discovered they’d charged him with unlawful abduction and were holding him in a secure psychiatric hospital.
I hope they throw away the key, she thought, pulling up a chair beside the bed and sitting down. Brenda’s pale almost transparent eyelashes flickered, a low moan escaping from between her bloodless lips. Megan gave Brenda’s hand a gentle squeeze. Her friend’s face relaxed, her breathing settling.
Megan slowed her own breathing in sync with the rhythmic rise and fall of Brenda’s chest. Sterilized air filled her nostrils and lungs. Closing her eyes, she dropped her forehead down on to the bed.
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
Megan sat bolt upright. “Hey, yourself.”
“The doctor says I can go home in a day or two.”
“Really?” Megan hadn’t expected they would let her out so soon.
Brenda nodded. “Two conditions, though. One I have to have someone look in on me from time to time, and two, I have to have at least three meals of hospital food.”
“There’s no question about it, you’re staying with me, but…” Megan paused, drawing out the moment. “I don’t know what you’re going to do about the hospital food.”
For a few giggly minutes, they discussed a hundred and one uses for hospital food. From compost, to plugging holes, to feeding the dog, anything but actually eat it. However, their merriment was short-lived.
The corners of Brenda’s lips dropped. “Any news on Lawson?”
Megan was at a loss to understand Brenda’s concern. “After everything he did to you…”
Brenda’s hand lifted from the bed. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t believe he actually meant me harm. I can remember him dancing around the bed telling me over and over it was for my own good. It was like he was high on drugs or something. In his mind, he was protecting me. I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s how it was.”
“For God’s sake, the police caught him getting on a plane to Perth. He was going to leave you there to die.”
Brenda gave a somber nod and then turned her gaze to the ceiling. “Perhaps, but you weren’t there.”
Megan couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Brenda was defending Lawson. It was on the tip of her tongue to retort, but instead she said, “You get some rest and I’ll be back later. What clothes do you want me to bring in?”
Brenda pepped up as she ticked off her fingers: her black boots, her stonewash jeans and the big woolly jumper from the top of her wardrobe. With that and a promise from Brenda that she’d give the goulash and mashed potatoes on that day’s menu a go, Megan was on her way.
Her hand was on the door when Brenda spoke.
“He’s not the killer, you know.”
Megan turned slowly. “How can you be so sure?”
“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts.” Brenda smiled and gave a little wave, the clear IV tubing dancing on the hook above her bed.
Lost for words, Megan shook her head and pushed through the door, stepping into the ward corridor. Brenda’s comments made no sense. Not one iota. The ordeal had clearly twisted her mind.
CHAPTER 45
“Knock-knock. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Greg looked up from the superannuation proposal he’d been slaving over for the best part of an hour. “Not at all.” He lay his pen down and beckoned Megan in.
She dropped into the closest visitor’s chair. “I can’t stay long. I’m just on my way to the hospital. Can you believe Brenda’s coming home today?” Megan sounded upbeat and the spark that’d been missing from her eyes had returned.
Greg couldn’t be happier for Megan that Brenda had turned up, if not unharmed, at least alive. And he did take some comfort from the fact that Lawson was locked up in a place where he couldn’t hurt anyone else. Regardless of all that, nothing could bring back his sister.
“Time for a coffee?”
Megan glanced at her watch and shook her head. “Another time perhaps. I just dropped by to say hello and to see if you’d heard anything more about how the murder investigation is faring.”
With a sigh, Greg leaned back in his chair. “There’s still no concrete evidence to link Lawson Green to any of the murders except Linda Nichols, and that’s only circumstantial at best. I don’t know what to think anymore.” He sighed again. “I was so sure he was the one, but Neville assures me the police forensics team went over that disgusting hovel that he had Brenda locked up in with a fine-tooth comb.” He displayed his palms in an open shrug. “As far as they’re concerned, Sam – or any of the other women – were never there.”
“He could’ve taken them somewhere else.” The buoyancy had left Megan’s voice. “Or…” She paused and dropped her gaze as if thinking how to phrase her next statement. “Or perhaps Brenda is right and Lawson isn’t the killer.”
“What does Brenda know? She can’t even tell you why she thinks that, except that she’s still alive.”
“But have you even stopped to think she might have a point?” Megan’s voice was low and calm.
Of course he’d thought about it. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. But if they hadn’t found Brenda when they had, would she too have ended up as another corpse left to rot with a plastic cable tie encircling her neck?
Greg kept his thoughts to himself. He’d not witnessed Megan in such an ebullient mood before and he wasn’t about to upset that. “Thinking is all I do,” he said in answer to her question. “Go and collect Brenda. She’s more important right now. We can talk later.”
Megan bounced to her feet and with a cheery wave was on her way.
Greg picked up his pen and once again tried to concentrate on completing the form in front of him. Although his eyes read the words, his brain refused to take them in. In frustration, he threw the pen down on the desk and stood.
The police had told Greg they’d no reason to believe Sam had been held captive for any length of time prior to her death. They also had no reason not to believe it. But if she hadn’t, did that mean it was possible Lawson Green wasn’t the one responsible for the murders of the four young women?
Tense and on edge, he grabbed his jacket and headed outside, hoping to walk off some of
the uneasiness. Questions, more questions and what-ifs buzzed through his mind.
Even with all his story changes, Lawson had proclaimed his innocence all the way along. He’d eventually confessed to abducting Brenda and holding her against her will, but never once had he conceded to having any involvement in the other women’s deaths. If that was true, then a serial killer was still at large. And for all he knew, preparing to take another life.
Then it hit him that if Lawson hadn’t been actively involved in the murders, did he know or at least suspect whom the killer was? That could explain why he kidnapped Brenda. In his own warped way, he must’ve thought he was protecting her from the killer. But that raised another question. Why did Lawson feel Brenda was at risk in the first place?
Perhaps his need to protect her had been just another facet in one of his psychotic episodes. It certainly would explain a lot. If Greg had his facts right, Lawson Green had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder some eight years earlier. Until recently, medication had managed to stabilize his moods, keeping the severe swings from mania to depression and back again at bay.
For some obscure reason, known only to him, Lawson had suddenly stopped taking his medication. The mania and depression had returned with a vengeance, degenerating to the stage where he had started becoming delusional. Hence the reason why he was locked up in a psychiatric ward and not a prison cell.
Greg faltered in his step, before coming to a standstill in the middle of the footpath. If he could find out if Lawson had indeed been the man his sister had been involved with, or not, as the case may be, that would at least give him a starting point. But as the police had been less than forthcoming with their information, there was only one way to do that. Only one problem. How was he going to get access to Lawson?
He’d never had cause before to want to visit a patient in a secure psychiatric facility. What were the protocols in such a situation? Would access be limited to doctors, lawyers and the like? There was only one way to find out.