by Vicki Tyley
Decision made, he turned on his heels and strode back in the direction he had come from. His car was parked on the street in front of his office. When he was about ten meters away, he pulled his keys from his pocket and pressed the BMW’s remote, unlocking the car.
He buckled himself into the driver seat and considered calling Neville Crooke, then thought better of it. Neville would do what was right and warn him against trying to make any contact with Lawson Green. Then again, being an ex-police officer, Neville would have the contacts and knowledge needed to get past the gate.
Here goes nothing. He dialed the private investigator’s number.
Greg’s words were met with raucous laughter. “You’re joking, right? You don’t seriously think you can just turn up at Thomas Embling Hospital and they’re going to let you in?”
Greg held the phone from his ear as Neville laughed again.
“Hell, even as a cop the rigmarole you had to go through is unbelievable. The security in that place is as tight as a fish’s arsehole. Tighter.”
Greg got the picture. Plan A was out. He said his goodbyes and hung up. It could’ve been worse; he could’ve driven out to Fairfield and made a real laughing stock out of himself. Lesson learnt.
Plan B then. But before he could think about what that was, his phone rang. He glanced at the caller display. Megan. That surprised him. He hadn’t expected to hear from her so soon.
Keeping his voice light, he asked, “What’s up?”
“Pauline Meyer, that’s what’s up,” she replied, her voice an angry whisper.
“Where are you?”
“Out on the balcony of Brenda’s room, waiting for her to finish showering. Can you believe that woman had the nerve to turn up here bearing flowers and pretending she actually cared? The gall of the woman.” She’d paused barely long enough to take a breath when she was off again. “What really peeves me off though is Brenda fell for it. She thinks that Pauline's concern was genuine. Really. When I arrived, they were talking about Lawson. Of course, they stopped as soon as they realized I was there. The sooner I get Brenda home, the better.”
There was no love lost between him and Pauline, but Megan’s animosity seemed to be almost verging on jealously. “Where’s Pauline now? Is she still there?”
“No, thank God. Said she had a meeting with some hotshot lawyer and a psychiatrist who are going to get Lawson out. Yeah, right. She’s the one who needs the psychiatrist, not Lawson.”
Megan was certainly steamed up. He was about to ask if she had heard anything more about Lawson’s condition when she cut him short. “I’ll call you back.”
CHAPTER 46
Megan hung up. While she’d been talking to Greg, she’d plucked the card from a floral arrangement of white and pink rosebuds. She opened it and read: Get well soon. Yours, Nick x He hadn’t wasted any time.
Brenda emerged from the bathroom, dressed except for her boots, her wet hair smelling of apricots. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
“Very,” Megan said, replacing the card. “How well do you know Nick?”
“Hardly at all. I think he said he was a plumber or electrician or something. Can you check what’s in that drawer?”
Megan opened the bedside drawer, found a Who magazine and an inpatient questionnaire and handed them to Brenda. “I thought you told him you weren’t interested.”
Brenda’s shoulders caved. “I tried. Honestly, I did. But he was just so sweet. I didn’t want to hurt him.”
“You think getting his hopes up only to dash them is less painful?” Megan crouched down to check inside the bedside cabinet.
“I thought he’d get the hint.”
An image of Joe flashed through Megan’s mind. “Men don’t do subtle.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Just about ready? Do you have your discharge papers yet?”
“The nurse said she’d bring them.” Brenda perched on the edge of the bed. “I hope she doesn’t take too long.”
Megan dropped into a visitor chair. “Talking about not doing subtle, what or who do you think Lawson was protecting you from? The boogie man?”
Brenda gave a strained laugh and looked at her feet. “Probably.”
“What gives with Pauline and Lawson? Did you at least find that out?” Megan uncrossed her arms, not realizing she’d crossed them.
“It’s not sexual, if you think that. She’s old enough to be his mother.”
“What then?
Brenda pulled a face. “Friendship?”
“No, it’s more than that.” A thought struck her. “Oh, shit. You don’t think that Lawson was protecting you from Pauline? What if she wanted Lawson all to herself?”
For a long moment, they just looked at each other, open-mouthed.
“We need to find out if Lawson knew those other women,” Megan said.
“What will that prove?”
“Motive. Think about it. There has to be some reason she’s so possessive of him.”
At that moment, a nurse arrived with Brenda’s discharge papers.
CHAPTER 47
Ten minutes after arriving home, Megan had her patient ensconced on the couch with water, magazines, and TV remote all within arm’s reach. “Are you sure you’ll be all right here while I do a bit of work?”
“Don’t stress. I’m not an invalid, you know.” Brenda flapped her hand. “Go.”
“Do you want me—”
“Go!”
“Going.”
Megan headed for the study. Leaving the door ajar in case Brenda called, she logged onto the computer. According to Greg, Pauline had lied about her husband being killed in a car accident. Why would anyone say that if it weren’t true? And what about Pauline’s dead son, the victim of a hit and run? Megan had yet to relate any of it to Brenda. She needed more than hearsay before she dropped that on her.
It didn’t take Megan long to find what she was after: a news article about the tragic death of eleven-year-old Dylan Meyer Ambrose. She scrolled down the page, her heart skipping a beat as the photo of Pauline’s son appeared. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn it was a photo of Lawson as a boy.
She returned to the article, her gaze flicking back to the photo every few words in case she’d imagined it.
“…father arrested and charged with dangerous driving occasioning death.” She had to read it three times before it sank in.
Pauline’s drunken husband had been behind the wheel of the car that’d run down their son. No wonder she told people her husband was dead – to her he probably was. Not that it helped Megan with a possible motive. If the murder victims had been inebriated men, she might have had cause.
“…flowers. That was really sweet of you.” A pause, a giggle, then something Megan couldn’t make out.
Megan waited and when she heard no more, minimized the browser window, and went out to the lounge.
“I assume that wasn’t Pauline,” she said as Brenda glanced up.
“No, it was Nick. He wants to take me on a picnic when I’m up to it.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I’d think about it?”
“Oh, Brenda.”
“I know, I know. But I couldn’t do it. Not today.”
“Wuss.”
Brenda smiled. “At your service.”
“You okay for a bit?” Megan asked, serious again.
“No. I need someone to massage my feet and peel grapes for me.”
Megan laughed. “In your dreams. Okay, I won’t be long.”
Back in the study, she pulled up a new Internet page and plugged in “Nick Poulus.” Sweet he may be, but she wanted to know a lot more about the widowed plumber who’d witnessed Lawson and Linda leaving together in the taxi. Her grandmother’s saying rang in her ears: “If it seems too good to be true then it probably is.” In this case, he.
For the next twenty minutes, she trawled the Internet for mention of Nick, Nicholas or Nickolas Poulus. Many she discounted
as the wrong Nick Poulus. Then pay dirt. Or rather one small paragraph about the accidental drowning of primary school teacher Rebecca Poulus at Hutt Gully beach near Anglesea, that concluded with: “Rebecca leaves behind her loving husband, Nicholas, and sister, Marilyn.” Not a lot, but something.
She stared at the screen, her finger tapping a tuneless something on her lips. The Internet could only tell her so much. She really needed to talk to someone who’d known the married couple – preferably someone who wasn’t friends with Nick. If she could find out Rebecca’s maiden name, then she might have a chance of tracking down her family…
Multiple dead ends later, her efforts were rewarded. Rebecca’s sister, Marilyn Wetherspoon, had placed a remembrance notice on an online memorial site. Megan’s grip tightened around the computer mouse. How many M Wetherspoons could there be in Australia?
As it turned out, only two. Megan jumped to her feet and closed the study door, shutting out Brenda and what sounded like a travel documentary on television. Then praying that Rebecca’s sister didn’t have an unlisted number, she called the first M Wetherspoon.
“Hi, it’s Miles. Sorry, I’m not in—”
She hung up and tried the second number.
“Good morning,” greeted a refined woman’s voice.
“Marilyn?” Megan held her breath.
“Yes…”
“Rebecca’s sister?”
“Who is this?” Marilyn demanded. “How do you know my sister?”
“My name is Megan Brighton. I never knew your sister, but I met her husband.” She heard a sharp intake of breath. “Only briefly, though…” She paused, searching for the words that wouldn’t come. “I’m so sorry you had to lose your sister in such tragic circumstances. I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult that must’ve been for you.”
“What do you want?”
Megan swallowed. “Your help.”
“My help?”
“I don’t normally interfere in my friends’ love lives, but I have a friend who’s been through a lot lately. She doesn’t need more heartache.”
“What’s this got to do with my sister?”
“Nothing directly. More her husband. Bren… my friend is considering dating Nick. I’m concerned she may be getting involved with a man who’s—”
“A narcissistic, controlling son-of-a-bitch?”
Megan breathed out. “You didn’t get on with your brother-in-law?” she asked, no longer walking on eggshells.
“That’s an understatement. I was so happy when Bec told me she was leaving him, that she couldn’t handle his possessiveness any longer. Of course, Nick convinced himself there was another man.”
“They were separated?”
“She’d planned to move out that day… the day she died.” Marilyn’s voice cracked. “She’d just signed a lease on an apartment.”
“Was there anything suspicious about her death?”
“The coroner said not. He ruled her death an accident.”
“But you don’t think it was?”
“I’m not convinced, no. Bec was a strong swimmer and she knew that beach like her own backyard. And if she did run into trouble, why didn’t the bastard rescue her?”
“Why do you think she agreed to go swimming with him on the day she was moving out?”
“My thoughts exactly.” Marilyn sighed. “Pity perhaps. He had a knack of playing on her sympathies. Nick is one of those poor-me people. His mother left when he was very young – supposedly – leaving his father to raise him the best he could. Then when he was eighteen, his father died from a heart attack. Bec thought she could fill the void.” Her tone turned wistful. “She was always the one to bring home strays. I miss her.”
“Oh, Marilyn, I’m so sorry to have dragged it all up again.”
“If I can save just one woman from his clutches…”
“I really appreciate you being so open with me. If I could ask one last question: do you know the names of any girlfriends he’s had since your sister’s passing?”
“No. After the funeral, I never heard from him again. Tell your friend to stay well away. He’s bad news.”
Megan hung up. Plumbers used cable ties. Why hadn’t she seen it sooner? Someone on the peripheral. Someone who was there but wasn’t. She’d been looking at it from the wrong angle. Like one of those abstract pictures that you could stare at for hours and never quite make out what it was supposed to be, but when you turned it on its side, it all made sense.
Only one slight hitch: she needed hard evidence to back up her suppositions. Throwing unsubstantiated allegations around wouldn’t endear her to anyone. Least of all, the police.
For what she had in mind, she’d need a lookout. No way was Brenda up to it and she wouldn’t have asked anyway. Besides, someone with a bit more muscle might come in handy, she thought as she picked up the telephone in the hope of roping Greg into her plans.
He answered just as she was about to hang up, then listened without interruption, as she outlined her plan to gain entry and search Nick Poulus’s residence.
“First, why are we whispering?” He cleared his throat, then continued in his normal voice. “And second, what you’re proposing is highly illegal.”
“And murder isn’t?" she retorted.
CHAPTER 48
Greg leaned forward. “Have you never heard of neighborhood watch?” he whispered, as Megan levered the end of a screwdriver between the two French doors at the rear of the Victorian cottage.
Megan ignored him, her face fixed in concentration as she continued to jemmy the doors. His first instinct when she’d phoned him was that her theories were way off base. But the more he thought about it, the more they made sense. However, that didn’t give them the right to break into private property. Although, come to think about it, it did seem to be becoming a habit. Ends justifying the means and all.
But was a hunch justification enough? Megan thought so and nothing Greg said had swayed her from her intended course. He’d wanted to call the police; she was adamant they didn’t. In the end, she’d told him she would do it with or without him. He believed her.
The crack of timber splintering jolted Greg. Megan’s housebreaking skills were evidently far superior to his. He didn’t stop long enough to work out if that was a good thing or a bad thing. With a little joggling, the door swung in. Megan stepped over the sill. After one last quick glance around at the neighboring properties, he followed.
Closing the fractured door the best he could, he stepped away from the glass panes, pulling Megan with him. She shook him off, but stayed away from the doors.
They moved from room to room, not touching, just looking. The air reeked of stale cigarette smoke and old wallpaper. The cottage’s small rooms, though neat and tidy, felt cramped. Contemporary furniture not in keeping with the house’s era was crammed in every room. It was as if the homeowner had downsized from a larger more modern home.
His BlackBerry rang. Megan yelped. He jumped. They were both on edge. Without looking at who the caller was, he turned off the phone. He wasn’t exactly in a position to be taking calls.
Greg wasn’t sure how much more his nerves could take. There was a right way and there was a wrong way; this was the wrong way. “There’s nothing here. Let’s get out of here.” He reached for Megan’s arm.
“No. Not yet. We haven’t even started looking.” She stood in the doorway to the master bedroom. “Check the front.” She slipped from his grasp before he had a chance to respond.
If he stood on his toes behind the lace-curtained lounge room window, he could just see over the cream painted brick front fence into the street. A couple of teenage girls sauntered down the footpath in one direction. In the other, he spotted an olive-skinned youth walking hand-in-hand with his blonde-haired girlfriend. The car parking space outside the house was empty. His BMW was parked on the other side of the street five houses up.
Dropping back down on to his heels, he headed back across the faded Axminster ca
rpet out into the dark narrow hall. Approaching the bedroom door, he could hear the sound of drawers being opened and closed.
Then he heard Megan gasp. His pace quickened. He found her standing open-mouthed next to the bed, staring at something in her hands. He rushed across the room and looked over her shoulder.
The object she held in her hands was a small intricately carved jewellery box, its hinged lid wide open. But instead of jewellery, the box contained photographs. Greg saw instantly what had caused Megan’s reaction. The top photo showed Megan’s friend, Brenda, getting out of her car, obviously unaware someone had a camera lens trained on her.
Megan set the box down on the bed, removing the photos. Perspiration beaded her upper lip and forehead. She quickly shuffled through the remaining photos, dumping them back in the box before turning her attention to the bedside table’s drawers.
Now convinced Megan was on to something, he made a start on the freestanding wardrobe in the corner. Not knowing what he was looking for, he searched the wardrobe systematically, starting from the top shelf and working down. Blankets, men’s clothes, women’s clothes, shoes.
It wasn’t until he knelt on the floor to close the stiff bottom drawer that he thought to look under the wardrobe. With the side of his face against the carpet, he peered into the dark recess. There, pushed to the back, was a black box. He reached in and, snagging it with the tips of his fingers, dragged it out.
He opened it. Newspaper clippings – some old and faded, some new – packed the box. He flicked through them, his heart beating harder and faster with each one.
The murder of Linda Nichols.
The discovery of the skeletal remains.
Sam’s murder.
The disappearance of waitress Melanie Armstrong.
The disappearance of TAFE student Tina Barrett.
Greg sat back on his haunches, his insides twisting into knots as the sickening realization set in. They’d found the missing link. But what did it prove?