Fatal Liaison (12 page)

“There were twelve on our table including, believe it or not, the
agency owner. That’s one.” She tapped her little finger. “My friend Brenda who
was responsible for us being there in the first place,” she said, counting off
another one. “The guy sitting next to me – Wayne McJerk or McGurk or something
– told me he was a property entrepreneur. Actually wouldn’t shut up about it.
Then there’s Mr Ginger Moustache, the sleazeball—”

“That’s his name?”

“Sorry. Robert…” She glanced down, then up again. “Lockwood. A
hotshot landscaper if what he told Brenda is to be believed. Next to him was
Nick. Don’t know his occupation. I didn’t get his surname either, but both he
and Mr… Robert were at the bar function you were at.”

Greg watched her mouth, hanging on every word.

“I don’t recall the names of the others at that end of the table.
Brenda might, but I doubt it. She was too busy lusting after Lawson – you met
him the other night. Mata Hari—” Megan averted her gaze. “Linda Nichols was seated
between him and Pauline Meyer.”

Megan evidently remembered people by tagging them with nicknames.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered if she’d coined one for him.

He tried to get who was who straight in his head. It’d have been
much easier to work it all out on paper, but he didn’t think Megan would
appreciate him pulling out a pen and paper to start jotting notes. Although so
far, nothing in what she had told him had jumped out at him.

“By the way they were acting towards each other, I’m pretty sure that
Linda and Lawson had met before that night. I think they left together.”

Greg’s ears pricked up. “They left together?”

“Maybe not. Brenda only said that they left around the same time.”
Megan’s finger traced a path through the condensation on her glass. “Lawson
didn’t mention it to the police. Nor, as it happens, did Brenda.”

“Shit. What are we waiting for?” Greg started to push back his
chair. “We have to tell the police.” He leapt to his feet. “Now.”

Megan remained seated, shaking her head wearily. “No. Hang on. I
told the police what I’ve just told you when they took my statement. Although I
didn’t know at the time Lawson and Brenda had kept that information from them.”

His hands gripped the chair back. “So what the hell have they done
about it?”

Megan patted the air in front of her, motioning him to sit. “If you
would just sit down and listen. Lawson was taken in for questioning late
yesterday,” she paused and looked him straight in the eye, “but as I discovered
today, they’ve released him without charge. And…” She held her hand up, palm
out as he opened his mouth to speak. “From what I can gather from Brenda, the
investigation is still ongoing, but at the moment the police don’t have enough
evidence to hold him and what they do have is only circumstantial. Brenda, of
course, believes he is totally innocent and there is no swaying her from that.”

“If he’s so innocent why did he lie to the police? And more to the
point why did your friend cover for him?”

Megan sighed. “Look I can only tell you what Brenda told me and that
was he was scared. Scared of being accused of something he didn’t do. And for
some inconceivable reason, Brenda thinks she was doing him a good turn by
saying nothing, but…” She dropped her gaze to the tabletop, slowly shaking her
head as if she was still unable to comprehend her friend’s motives. “Of course,
all that did was make it look like they had something to hide, didn’t it?”

She let out another low sigh and looked up, peering at him through
half-closed lids. Her face portrayed no emotion. It was as if the energy needed
to move her facial muscles just wasn’t there.

The twinge of conscience he felt at her pallor vanished the instant
he realized she was preparing to leave. She had her handbag in her lap and was
in the throes of opening her wallet. She couldn’t leave – there had to be more
she could tell him. There had to be.

In his panic, he knocked over his empty beer glass. He ignored it,
leaving it rocking on its side perilously close to the table edge. He was
already on his feet when the clatter of the glass against the wooden tabletop
prompted Megan to look up.

From the confused look in her eyes, he was sure he must seem to her
to be quite unbalanced, mentally disturbed even. And she was more than likely
regretting her decision to meet him. He couldn’t blame her. The strung-out
wreck standing there now certainly wasn’t the same self-possessed man of a
fortnight ago.

“You’re not going, are you?”

“Sorry, Greg, but I’ve got an early start tomorrow,” Megan said,
extracting a couple of twenty-dollar notes from her wallet.

He waved his hands in a criss-cross motion in front of him. “Don’t
worry about the bill. I’ll get it.” After all, it was the least he could do.
“How about a coffee before you go?”

His delaying tactics turned out to be futile.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I really am whacked. Another time perhaps.”

She’d closed her wallet and was replacing it in her handbag when she
seemed to have second thoughts. Unclipping her wallet again, she pulled out a
business card and handed it to him.

He scanned the distinctive black-on-orange card, which reminded him
Megan’s surname was Brighton and confirmed she was a recruitment consultant for
PTS Personnel in the city. More importantly, there was an assortment of phone
numbers listed, including a mobile number.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help. I sincerely hope your
sister is okay,” Megan said, slipping on her jacket. “Goodbye, Greg.”

She turned and walked away from him, her wavy brunette hair bouncing
on her shoulders as she disappeared out through the café door onto the street.

And that was that. Greg’s eyes continued to follow her even after
she was well out of sight, the card gripped between his fingers. Instinct, or
was it merely wishful thinking, was telling him Megan could help. Whether she realized
it or not, she was his only real contact to Dinner for Twelve. And Dinner for
Twelve was somehow linked with Sam’s disappearance. Of that he was certain.

“Get off me, you
bastard!” Brenda’s enraged shouts reverberated around the vacant cavernous
warehouse. “Fuck off!” She screamed louder, pummeling the air in front of her
as she tried to evade his hands.

But as fast as she backed away, he advanced, a lecherous grin
splitting his ugly face in two. The back of her shoe collided with something
solid and she lost her footing. In a flash, he pinned her up against the wall,
the metal corrugations digging ruts into her back. With his forearm wedged
under her chin, he used his free hand to bunch up her skirt.

Panic exploded in her chest, fear overriding any feelings of
outrage. Oh God, why hadn’t she listened to Megan? With adrenaline surging
through her veins, she fought like a wild cat to keep his groping hands at bay.

Her struggles only egged him on. He laughed, a loud hollow mocking
laugh. She was no match for his bulky frame. She lashed out with her knee,
aiming for his groin, but his reflexes were quicker than hers. With his knee
pressed between her legs, he brought both her hands up over her head pinioning
them to the wall behind her with his massive bear hands.

He moved in closer, his body pressed up hard against her, his
zipper-constrained erection rammed in her abdomen. Every pore, every freckle,
every hair on his face magnified as he closed in. Skewing her head rapidly from
side to side, she tried to avoid his gaping mouth.

For a second, he hesitated, his pale grey eyes narrowing into tiny
slits. Then he laughed and lunged. Unable to escape, she clamped her eyes shut,
no longer able to look at him. She felt slobbery lips smothering her mouth, the
bristles of his moustache scratching her cheek.

His hot wet tongue prodded and poked at her tightly pressed lips,
looking for a way in. Then he brought his knee up, causing her to gasp.
Instantly, his tongue was in her mouth. She gagged, fighting for breath.

Eventually, he pulled his head back and licking his lips, scrutinized
her face. Even though she could scarcely breathe, she somehow managed to find
the strength to gather all the saliva in her mouth into a ball and spit. The
glob of spittle landed squarely between his eyes. She squeezed her lids shut,
steeling herself for the inevitable smack.

“You’re all the fuckin’ same. Fuckin’ little cockteasers. Your time
will come.” His voice was loaded with venom.

Her arms flopped forward as he released her hands. She felt the
pressure on her body ease as he stepped away. Then she heard his heavy
rubber-soled footsteps on the concrete as he retreated. But it wasn’t until she
heard the metal clang of the door slamming shut that she was finally able to
open her eyes.

What little air she had in her lungs escaped in a relieved huff. She
was alone. Smudged dusty footprints coming from the door and leading back out
again, the only evidence he had ever been there.

Megan sat staring unseeing
at the computer screen, her thoughts elsewhere. In fact, her thoughts had been
elsewhere for most of the day.

It’d been still dark when she’d arrived at work that morning, but
her good intentions somehow never managed to materialize into actions. By the
time other staff started trickling into the office, she hadn’t touched her
ever-growing backlog of paperwork: the sole purpose of her early start. Instead
she’d pumped herself full of caffeine, perused the staff notice board, skimmed
through yesterday’s
Age
newspaper, tidied up the magazines in the front
reception. Anything but what she was supposed to do.

The rest of the day didn’t pan out as it was supposed to either.
Sure, all her scheduled candidate interviews went according to plan, but she’d
only been going through the motions. She hoped the few notes she’d taken at
each interview would refresh her memory later when she came to write up the
assessments.

Back in her office, she’d continued to procrastinate, her in-tray
growing higher by the hour. Becoming increasingly frustrated with her own
inaction, she’d briefly contemplated packing up her desk and going home. But
her conscience wouldn’t let her. Of course, that didn’t mean she was any more
productive. Even though the intent was there, her focus was shot. Her mind
wandered to the previous night.

Greg Jenkins’ behavior had been rather eccentric, but until she knew
him better, she could only put it down to the stress he was under. The entire
time he had been talking to her, he had been arranging and rearranging the
cutlery and other table accoutrements into neat lines on the tabletop. He
probably wasn’t even conscious he was doing it. But then when she was getting
ready to leave the café, he’d leapt from his chair with such force that he’d
knocked over his glass and almost the table with it. But as she’d reminded
herself at the time, she had to make allowances. After all, the disappearance –
and the awful possibility of worse – of a close family member would be enough
to test anyone’s sanity.

Besides, he was rather charming, not to mention, with his chiseled
features and scalp-hugging black curls, easy on the eye. At some other time
Megan may – only may – have considered trying her luck. However, this wasn’t
some other time.

Megan had also been trying to contact Brenda since lunchtime with no
luck. Even Brenda’s office had no idea where she might be. The last any of her
real estate colleagues had seen of her was at around ten o’clock that morning
when she’d left to meet a client.

It was now four-twenty and Brenda had yet to return any of the many
messages Megan had left on her mobile phone, at her office and on her home
answering machine. Given Brenda’s habit of playing hooky every now and again,
Megan knew she shouldn’t be unduly alarmed, but regardless, the niggling
feeling in her gut refused to budge.

The two women’s relationship had come under a lot of pressure since
Lawson entered the equation. Possibly Brenda was avoiding her, but Megan’s main
concern was with her friend’s frame of mind. She wasn’t thinking straight.
Allowing herself to become personally involved with a murder suspect, how could
she possibly be?

A wave and cheery “goodnight, have a good weekend” from one of the
company’s other consultants as she passed the door clinched Megan’s decision to
follow suit and finish early. For the second time in almost as many days, she
packed up her desk in a hasty and somewhat slipshod fashion, gathering the
piles of paperwork on her desk into one disorganized heap and dumping them in
the cabinet.

While her PC performed its shutdown routine, she used the
opportunity to phone Brenda for the umpteenth time that day. Still no answer at
any of her numbers. Although not an alarmist by nature, Megan was becoming
anxious. It just wasn’t like Brenda to remain incommunicado for quite so long.

With a promise to herself to tackle her bulging pending tray first
thing Monday morning – no more excuses – Megan slung the strap of her bag over
her shoulder and stepped out into the corridor, breaking into a trot when she
heard the distinctive ping heralding the lift’s arrival. Once inside the
elevator, she took a deep breath, exhaling to a count of ten.