Fatal Liaison (11 page)

It perturbed Megan that until now she had never really realized the
weight of the pain her friend had been carrying all those years. But then along
came a white knight in the form of Lawson to rescue her. Megan and Brenda had
been the best of friends for years, yet Brenda had chosen to confide her
innermost feelings to Lawson, a man she had known for less than a fortnight.
That hurt, but Megan did her best not to let it show.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Brenda continued. “You’ve had it
in for him from day one. You don’t know him like I do.”

Megan nodded again. “True, but can you please promise me at least
that you’ll be careful.” Nothing she said was going to change her friend’s mind
about her newfound soulmate.

“Promise.”

By the time they were halfway through the second bottle of a
Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc, some of the color had returned to Brenda’s cheeks
and she seemed more relaxed, less inhibited. Plying someone with alcohol wasn’t
normally a tactic Megan would have employed, but in this case it appeared to be
working.

At that stage, she hadn’t mentioned Joe’s lawyer friend, but perhaps
Brenda wouldn’t feel Megan was completely unsympathetic to Lawson’s plight if
she thought Megan genuinely wanted to help. “I might be able to help Lawson
find a good lawyer.”

Without looking up from the glass of wine she was nursing, Brenda
shook her head. “No need,” she said lifting the glass to her mouth. “He has
one. Pauline’s organized someone. Bloody interfering bitch.”

“Pauline? How did she even find out that Lawson had been taken in
for questioning?”

Brenda shrugged. “Dunno. Lawson phoned her, I guess.”

“Why?”

Letting out a resigned sigh, Brenda lifted her head and met Megan’s
gaze. “God, I don’t know. I don’t understand it either. Whenever I mention
Pauline to Lawson, he just clams up…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes
unblinking as she held Megan’s gaze. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

“Believe you?” Megan said, momentarily lost.

“That Lawson couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with Linda’s
death.”

Gnawing at her bottom lip, Megan weighed up whether to be brutally
honest and tell Brenda exactly what she thought, or to contain those thoughts and
instead tell Brenda what she wanted to hear.

Forthrightness won out. Before she knew it, the words were out of
her mouth, completely bypassing her brain.

“I don’t know what to think. The police obviously have him in their
sights. Not surprising, though, when Lawson was screwing the victim.”

Brenda stared at her open mouthed, her hand covering invisible welt
marks on her cheek. The effect couldn’t have been any more dramatic than if
Megan had physically struck her. Clearly, Megan’s counseling skills had deserted
her.

Stress, fatigue and alcohol were proving not to be good mixers.
Neither of them was thinking straight.

Megan let rip, paying no attention to the couples and others who up
until then had been quietly enjoying The Atrium’s ambience. “For goodness sake,
are you blind? Lawson’s relationship with Linda was not platonic.”

“It wasn’t him. You saw her,” retorted Brenda, tears streaming
unchecked down her face. “She offered herself up on a platter. Any red-blooded
male would’ve found it hard to say no.”

Suddenly conscious of the sidelong looks from the tables closest to
them, Megan lowered her voice, but the vehemence remained. “So now you’re
making excuses for him?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean…” Brenda dropped her head into her hands,
smothering the rest of her words.

Approaching
twilight blurred the passing rural landscape. For a fleeting moment, Greg found
himself mesmerized by the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. With a brisk shake
of the head, he refocused his eyes on the road ahead and reached for the
dashboard, feeling for the air-conditioning switch. The blast of ice-cold air
shocked him back to instant wakefulness.

Unable to convince his mother to return to the city with him, he’d
acquiesced and left with a neighbor’s promise to look in every day. His
mother’s reaction to Samantha’s disappearance wasn’t quite what he’d expected.
Although to be honest, he really hadn’t known what to expect. She’d sat there
stoically, with her hands in her lap and her head bowed, absorbing Greg’s words
as if they were a punishment to be endured. There were no tears, no emotional
outbursts, nothing. It was as if all the life had been sucked out of her body,
leaving just an empty shell.

Since reporting Sam’s disappearance, Greg had been in contact with
the police every day and each time they told him the same thing. The case was
being actively pursued, but regrettably, there was nothing more they could tell
him, blah blah… For all the good it did, he might as well have listened to a
tape recording.

Detective Sergeant Dave Abrahams – in contrast to their first
meeting, the detective’s name was now firmly imprinted in his brain – was still
being cagey about the possibility of there being any link between Linda
Nichols’ murder and his missing sister. As far as Greg knew, they still hadn’t
arrested anyone for the murder.

Greg wasn’t totally naïve though. He knew missing persons weren’t
generally high on the undermanned and overworked police force’s agenda.
Moreover, at this stage, there was no evidence to suggest Sam had met with foul
play. Thank God.

However, none of that would help to bring Sam home.

A break in the Michael Bublé CD he had playing in the car heralded
an incoming call.

“Greg Jenkins,” he announced, automatically slipping into
professional mode.

After a slight pause, a woman’s voice filtered through the car’s
stereo system. “Greg, it’s um… Megan. Megan Brighton.”

Megan Brighton? He didn’t recognize the name straight away.

“We met the other night. At the Dinner for Twelve function. Your sister…”

His hands tightened around the steering wheel. Even though he’d left
his business cards on the table at the singles function he had almost given up
hope of hearing from anyone. “Yes, yes, Megan, of course I remember you.”

“I was wondering if there was any news about your sister.”

“Unfortunately, no,” Greg said, the faint swell of hope ebbing as
fast as it had arrived. “Thank you for your concern though.” Flicking his
indicator on, he pulled into the left lane. “Megan, I realize you never knew my
sister, but can I ask if you knew the murdered woman, Linda Nichols?”

For a few seconds he heard nothing. Glancing down to his left, he
expected to see the signal indicator bars on his car phone absent. Instead they
indicated the opposite – full strength. Not a mobile reception black spot,
then.

“Not really.” Another pause. “I met her very briefly, but that’s
all.”

What wasn’t she telling him? Driving in heavy traffic, he couldn’t
concentrate fully on the conversation. When he stopped at the lights, he took the
opportunity to unclip his BlackBerry from its cradle and open the notepad app.

“Megan, I’m on my way home. Can I give you a call back?” The caller
ID on the phone only indicated it was a private number calling. “Better still,
we could meet. That’s if it suits you, of course,” he added, dropping the
BlackBerry onto his lap as the lights changed to green.

Although not sounding exactly enthusiastic about the idea, Megan
agreed to meet him at a café in St Kilda that she knew, but he’d never heard
of. He hung up before realizing that after all that, he hadn’t asked her for
her phone number. Let’s hope, he thought, I've remembered the café’s name and
location correctly, and more importantly, that nothing happens to prevent Megan
from keeping our rendezvous.

Greg arrived in St Kilda with about half an hour to spare, but then
spent the best part of it driving around looking for a car park in the general
vicinity of the café. Or at least where he thought it ought to be. Eventually,
he spotted a space in one of the back streets a few blocks from Fitzroy Street.
Leaving his prized silver BMW 6-series wedged between a big blue dumpster and a
hulking black Nissan four-wheel drive, he set off in search of the More Café
and Bar.

The streetlights cast an insipid wash over the footpath and parked
vehicles. With his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets and his shoulders
hunched against the night chill, Greg walked quickly, keeping to the middle of
the path.

He turned left at the corner, forcing his pace to slow as he searched
for street numbers. Sandwich-boards advertising some of St Kilda’s myriad of
cafés and restaurants littered the footpath. Down the street, he managed to
make out a sign with the word “MORE” in bold capital letters. He assumed the
smaller indistinct text underneath read “café and bar.”

A welcoming flurry of warm air enveloped him as he stepped into the
café. He scanned the room, recognizing her round face immediately. She raised a
hand in a tentative wave.

It wasn’t until after he greeted Megan and was seated across the
table from her that he realized how pale and drawn she looked. Even the blood
in her hands appeared to have stopped circulating. An empty cup in front of her
told him she had been there for some time.

Feeling a little awkward and unsure of where to start, he picked up
the menu propped at the end of the table. Buying time, he kept his eyes down
and skimmed through the selections. He could feel Megan’s gaze on the top of
his head, and he felt ridiculous, like a teenager on a first date. But he
wasn’t a teenager and this wasn’t a date – first or otherwise.

“If you’re hungry, they do a great char-grilled steak,” Megan said,
breaking the heavy silence between them.

He looked up and smiled, feeling foolish but nevertheless grateful
for the icebreaker. “Have you eaten?”

Megan opened her mouth as if to speak, but then with a small shake
of her head, closed it again.

As it turned out, neither of them had much of an appetite and they
ended up ordering just the one small platter of Spanish tapas to share. At any
other time a chilled bottle of Chardonnay would have been the perfect
complement. However Megan soon kyboshed that idea when she mentioned she was
driving, reminding Greg that he too would be behind the wheel later. He did the
right thing, settling for a light lager instead of wine, while Megan opted for
a bottle of sparkling mineral water.

Thinking that probably the softly-softly method would be the best
approach on this occasion, Greg steered clear of any mention of the Nichols
woman’s murder or Sam’s disappearance, or even Dinner for Twelve, until after
he had downed his first beer and signaled to the waiter for another.

Up until then, they had stayed on relatively safe ground, discussing
their respective jobs, the merits of various restaurants and bars in and around
the city, and even that time-honored conversation topic, the weather. Nothing
personal.

The tapas platter on the table between them remained barely touched,
with only the odd missing garlic olive and spicy morsel marring the presentation.

Waiting for his drink to arrive, Greg poked at what looked to be a
spice-crusted miniature chicken wing on his side of the platter. He stopped
fiddling with the food and glanced up. “Sam… my sister…” He faltered, not sure
of what he wanted to say.

Megan’s eyebrows arched questioningly.

He started again. “I’m not sure where to begin.” Wasn’t that an
understatement? “I really appreciate you meeting me like this.” Now he sounded
too formal. “What I mean is… Oh shit, what do I mean?”

They looked at each other and simultaneously burst out laughing. The
knots in his neck eased. But at the same time he felt guilty. Now was not the
time for mirth. Not while Sam was still missing.

The laughter may not have been appropriate, but at least it had the
side effect of untangling his tongue. “Sorry, Megan. I don’t usually get this
tongue-tied.” The amusement tugging at the corners of Megan’s lips withered as
he continued, his voice grave. “It’s been almost two weeks and my sister Sam
still hasn’t turned up. The police haven’t come up with anything and I’m
desperate. I don’t want to think the worst, but as each day passes, it gets
harder. Anything, anything at all, that you can tell me about Dinner for
Twelve, about the Nichols woman, about Lawson, about any of the clients, about
anything, would be such a big help,” he implored, displaying his open palms
briefly before dropping them back onto the table.

“Oh, Greg, I’m sorry, but as much as I would like to, I can’t see
how I can possibly help you.” She leaned forward. “I only phoned you to check
that your sister had turned up safe and sound. That bar I met you at the other
night was only the second dating agency function I’ve ever attended. Ever. And
the only reason I know, or rather know of, Linda Nichols was because she was on
our table at that first function. Before that night I knew nothing about her.”
She sat back in her chair. “If it helps, though, I’ll tell you what I can.”

The surrounding sounds of clinking glass, chatter and music
intermingled, creating a white noise background to Megan’s voice.