Fatal Liaison (22 page)

When he took his hands away and looked back, the person was gone. A
second later, he glimpsed a tall figure dressed from head to toe in black
striding down the wide footpath, away from him and towards the main gates.
Something about the man looked familiar. Only the hand of his mother searching
for his prevented Greg from taking chase.

Progress had been slow. The weather was closing in and there were
still a number of people waiting to speak to them. His mother looked weary, her
face grey and haggard. Knowing that friends would understand, he placed his
hand in the small of her back and gently propelled her in the direction of the
car.

The first drops of rain fell just as they reached the black
limousine. Opening the car door for his mother, he happened to glance back.
Amongst the mourners darting for cover, he spotted Megan Brighton. By the time
he’d helped his mother into the rear seat, closed the door, and turned around,
she’d disappeared from sight.

Within minutes of
returning home, Megan stood naked in her bedroom, her clothes abandoned in a
heap on the floor.

Running the shower as hot as she could stand it, she eased her body
under the jets of steaming water. For a few moments she stood motionless, her
eyes closed, letting the water wash over her, rinsing away the uneasy, almost
tangible taint left by the funeral.

What had prompted her to go to the cemetery in the first place?
Unless she’d known the deceased person intimately, she normally would’ve found
any excuse to avoid a funeral. She hadn’t even met Samantha Jenkins. Funerals
are about the dead, Megan reminded herself, but they are meant for the living.
She’d been there as a mark of respect for Greg, right? So then why had she been
so reluctant to approach him? That she couldn’t answer.

She scrubbed her body from head to toe, emerging from the shower
with her skin pink and tingling. After wrapping one towel around her body and
another around her head in a turban, she cleaned her teeth. Only after she’d
gargled and spat out a mouthful of foul-tasting mouthwash did she begin to feel
remotely human.

Exchanging the towel around her body for a freshly laundered toweling
robe, she headed to the study for a notepad and pen. She was due back at work,
but work could wait. Something in her head was still not adding up. Writing it
down on paper might help.

She made a cup of Earl Grey tea and settled down at the table. Using
both hands to cradle the cup, she sipped the hot aromatic liquid, staring over
the rim at the lined but blank notepad in front of her. Greg was the one with
the analytical mind, not her.

But he’d just buried his sister. To expect anything from him in his
time of mourning was unthinkable. He’d call when he was ready, she reasoned. It
could be hours, days, weeks, or even months. Everyone handled grief in his or
her own way. When her grandmother had died, she’d become a workaholic, working
day and night for weeks on end. It wasn’t until sheer exhaustion caught up with
her that the grief had really set in.

Besides, Greg’s search was over. What interest was it to him that
her best friend was still out there somewhere? He owed her nothing.

She set the cup down in its saucer and picked up the black ballpoint
pen. In large capital letters in the middle of the page, she wrote Brenda’s name.
She stared at the faint blue lines, gnawing the pen top as she tried to pull
her thoughts into some semblance of order.

Removing the pen from her mouth, she wrote Linda’s name near the top
of the page and then without pausing, shifted her hand to the right and wrote
Sam’s name. Three women: two murdered and one still missing. As much as Megan
hated to admit it, the chances of finding Brenda alive diminished by the day.
She circled each of the names, connecting them to make a triangle. Somewhere
inside that empty space lay the answer.

But what made her think that she, a recruitment consultant with zero
detective training, could find that answer if the police and the private
investigator Greg had hired couldn't? If what she’d been told was right, the
police had questioned everyone associated with the dinner dating agency
multiple times. That included Pauline Meyer, her small staff, current and past
clients, consultants and suppliers. Even the poor old milkman hadn’t been
exempt from their interrogations.

She tore off the top page from the pad and started afresh on the
next page. Maybe if she wrote down what she knew about each person, she’d be
able to figure out what was niggling at her.

The first name that came to mind was Robert Lockwood or, as she
preferred to think of him, Mr Ginger Moustache. No question, he’d sexually
assaulted Brenda in that vacant warehouse, but did that automatically brand him
a killer? The police certainly didn’t think so.

Megan clenched her jaw, thinking about the business card Robert
Lockwood had given to Brenda. Megan recalled having doubts, but regrettably,
hadn’t pushed the issue with Brenda at the time. According to Greg, Mr Ginger
Moustache was an unemployed laborer living at home with his elderly parents. A
different story from the one he’d given Brenda.

Neville Crooke’s report stated that Robert Lockwood had only left
the house twice during the surveillance period, both times to walk to the
corner shop. Even if he knew where Brenda was, he obviously wasn’t going to
risk going near her.

And what about the elusive Lawson Green? So far, neither she or the
PI had been successful in tracking him down. He hadn’t been at work for weeks
apparently, and no one at his job was prepared to give Megan his home address.
She couldn’t find a listing for him. But then she remembered how frantic
Pauline had been that day outside Brenda’s place and realized she wasn’t the
only one who hadn’t been able to find him. He’d turned up since and had been
subsequently arrested for the murder of Linda Nichols. How the court saw fit to
release him on bail, Megan would never know.

No charges had been laid for the murder of Samantha Jenkins yet the
existence of the plastic cable tie pointed to one killer. Why hadn’t the police
at least revoked Lawson’s bail?

Then there was some suggestion that Lawson had suffered or was
suffering from a mental illness. Unfortunately, Greg had come up with nothing
more substantial than an inpatient admission to a psychiatric ward eight years
earlier. Was Lawson a raving lunatic? He certainly came across as normal
enough. Morose perhaps, but nothing more. As one of his bail conditions, the
court had ordered Lawson to undergo a full psychiatric assessment. But perhaps
that was standard practice. Megan’s experience and knowledge of the legal
system was extremely limited, after all.

The next name she wrote down was Nick Poulus. When he’d taken the
seat next to her at the first Dinner for Twelve function, rescuing her albeit fleetingly
from Mr Hotshot Property Entrepreneur, Megan had thought he was interested in
her. Looking back, she realized he’d had his sights set on Brenda all along.

It wouldn’t have surprised Megan if Brenda had agreed to have a
drink with Nick just to make Lawson jealous. That or she’d never had any
intention of turning up for the drink. Megan had lost count of the number of
men Brenda had stood up over the years. For some reason, she found it easier
than turning them down when they asked her out.

Recalling how Nick had found Brenda’s home address, Megan opened the
White Pages app on her mobile phone. Two could play at that game. It took her
less than a minute to find an address and phone listing for one N Poulus. She
only hoped it was the right one. A male voice answered on the fourth ring.

“Is this Nick Poulus?”

“Yes…” He didn’t sound so sure.

“Nick, it’s Megan Brighton, Brenda’s friend.”

“What can I do for you? Do you have news about Brenda?”

Megan shook her head, forgetting for a moment that Nick couldn’t see
her. “I’m sorry, I don’t. I wish I did. Can you answer me something?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“When Brenda accepted your invitation to have a drink with you, was
Lawson within earshot?”

“What sort of—”

“Please.”

He sighed. “I don’t know. He could’ve been, I suppose. There were a
lot of people around that night.”

Something that Greg had said tugged at her memory. “Were you the man
who witnessed Lawson and Linda getting into the taxi together outside the
restaurant?”

“I don’t see what business it is of yours or why you’re even asking,
but yes. Maybe you should be talking to the taxi driver. He was the last person
– besides the killer, that is – to see the woman alive.”

Megan circled Lawson’s name, then Linda’s. “Are you saying you think
the man she got into the taxi with killed her?”

“I don’t think anything. That’s for the police to decide.”

“Did you ever meet a Samantha Jenkins?”

“Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Dark, curly hair. About my height, but slimmer—”

“No. Look, I’ve given my statement to the police. I don’t know what
more I can add—” A chime in the background interrupted him. “I have to go,
sorry. I expect Brenda will turn up soon enough.”

She hung up and scribbled “witnessed getting into taxi” next to
Nick’s name, adding arrows to Linda and Lawson.

Then there was Joe Renmark. Even though she’d only met him on her
second Dinner for Twelve outing, she’d no way of knowing if he had been present
at the earlier dinner function. She certainly didn’t remember seeing him, but
that didn’t mean he hadn’t been there. With more than a hundred people spread
over ten or so tables, she’d have been hard pushed to recognize even a small
fraction of the faces from that evening. Joe certainly couldn’t be discounted,
but nor could the other ninety-odd people.

Megan sighed. Whom was she kidding? Her theory that writing down her
thoughts would somehow make everything clearer wasn’t panning out. If anything,
she was more confused.

She gazed vacantly at the words on the page, her hand occupied with
doodling criss-crosses and other odd patterns in the margin. Her mobile phone
beeped.

1 message received.

How R U? Pls ph soon. YF Joe.

YF? She huffed, assuming the two letters stood for “Your Friend.”
Cursing, she pressed the menu button, consigning it to the deleted box along
with the thirty or more other SMS texts she had received from Joe in the past
few days. When was he going to get the message that she didn’t want to see him?

Knowing she wasn’t entirely blameless didn’t help the situation any
either. Regardless of her reasons, she should never have phoned him. In one
fell swoop, she’d undone all the work put into letting Joe down softly. Once
again, he thought he was in with a chance.

Not now, not ever, she thought. Damn men. They’re more trouble than
they’re worth.

Angry with herself, she slammed the phone down on the table. It made
a strange tinny brrr-ing sound that stopped just as she picked it up. Frowning,
she peered at the small screen – no missed call. Then it rang again. Not recognizing
the phone number, she pressed the end button, diverting the call to her
voicemail. If the call was important, they’d leave a message.

A glance at the time reminded her she was late for work. There’d
been no objections to her taking a couple of hours off work for the funeral,
but Megan didn’t want to push her luck. The day Brenda disappeared, Megan’s
productivity had come to a screeching halt. Sure, she clocked in each day, but
whilst she may have been there in body, her mind was elsewhere.

The previous week her boss, Karla Madden, had urged her to take some
of her accrued annual leave. To do that would mean letting go of what Megan saw
as her last bastion of normality. Her work, if nothing else, gave her a reason
to get up each morning. But she knew she couldn’t carry on as she had been. If
she did, sooner or later, the decision would be taken out of her hands.

Jump or be pushed…

Less than a week
after his sister’s funeral, Greg was making arrangements to sell the family
home. It’d taken a lot of convincing, but he'd persuaded his mother to sell up
and buy a smaller property closer to him. Somewhere he could keep an eye on
her.

At some stage, he’d have to repeat the exercise for Sam’s house.
Worse than that would be the sorting and clearing out of all her personal
belongings. Something he wasn’t looking forward to. At least the request from
the police to defer putting the place on the market would give him some
breathing space.

After entering the contact details in his BlackBerry for the real
estate agent he was scheduled to meet at two-thirty that afternoon, he washed
up the few dishes in the sink and ran the vacuum cleaner around the lounge
room. Straightening his surrounds helped him think.

No matter how he added up the facts, he couldn’t come up with an
answer. Everything pointed to Lawson. In Greg’s mind he was quite sure Lawson
had been the “tall dark and drop-dead gorgeous” man involved with Sam. Lawson’s
reaction to the photo of Sam and the way Pauline Meyer had jumped to his defense
only added more fuel to that thinking. Despite that, twice now Lawson had been
in police clutches, and twice they’d released him. If it wasn’t him, who was
it? Where was the evidence?