Fatal Liaison (14 page)

“Come in, come in. Take a pew.” Neville waved him in and gestured
toward one of the upholstered chairs just inside the door.

Greg took a seat, still thinking about a PI having a last name like
Crooke. It would be a safe bet that no one ever ventured to make fun of this
guy’s surname. Or, at least, not to his face, and especially back when he’d
been a serving police officer. The fact that Rickman Investigations advertised
themselves as being owned and operated by ex-police detectives had been the
deciding factor in selecting them over any of the couple of hundred odd other
agencies listed in the Yellow Pages. Greg figured that police training and
experience, not to mention the connections, had to be a major advantage to any
investigator.

By lumping one pile of papers on top of another, Neville managed to
clear a space large enough to squeeze his notepad into. “Right!” Neville said,
slapping a palm hard down on the paper.

Greg blinked. The police certainly wouldn’t have needed a loudhailer
while Neville was around.

“Where are my manners?” Neville’s voice dropped several decibels,
allowing Greg’s eardrums to recover from their shock. “Coffee? Tea? Water?”

Greg shook his head.

“Okay, Mr Jenkins, down to business then.”

Taking a deep breath, Greg started from the beginning and didn’t
stop until he had spilled everything. From his mother’s worried phone call to
his sister’s links with Dinner for Twelve to his own unfounded suspicions about
Lawson. It was almost a relief to share the load. He even mentioned sighting
the arguing couple in Bourke Street Mall. The more he thought about it, the
more he convinced himself that it’d been Pauline and Lawson.

The whole time Greg had been unburdening his fears and troubles,
Neville had remained remarkably sedate, taking notes, nodding every now and
then, and throwing the occasional question in to clarify something Greg had
said. When Greg finished, the investigator leaned back in his seat with his
hands linked behind his head, his elbows splayed out. For a moment, he stared
straight through Greg.

“I’m not sure how much we can be of help. We’re talking about an
active and ongoing police investigation here. From what you tell me, another
client of…” He dropped his hands, leaning forward to check his notes. “…Dinner
for Twelve was found murdered about a week after you realized your sister was
missing. I have no doubt that’s a link our boys in blue won’t be overlooking.
And, as I’m sure you can understand, the police don’t appreciate the likes of
you and I wading into the midst of their investigations. Seems to upset them
somewhat.” He chuckled and then leaning back in his chair again, continued.
“But as it happens, DS Dave Abrahams and I go way back. Good bloke. Anyway,
it’s possible – only faintly possible, mind you – that he’ll be able to give us
something off the record. A little something that might just help. You never
know.” Pausing, he stared past Greg, as if deep in thought. “We can only hope
your sister’s disappearance isn’t connected with that murder.”

“Damn you,
Brenda,” Megan cursed as she hacked at the poor defenseless carrot on the
board, only missing slicing her fingers by sheer fluke.

She stopped chopping. Why was she so bothered? She wasn’t Brenda’s
keeper. Give her space, a little voice in her head chided. You know Brenda;
she’ll contact you when she’s good and ready. Stop worrying about her.

Easier said than done.

It’d been after midnight Friday when Brenda pushed Megan out the
door, telling her to quit with the fretting. All she needed was a good night’s
sleep. That’s all.

But it was Sunday night and there’d been no word from her. Surely, a
quick phone call to say, “Hey, just to let you know I’m okay,” wouldn’t have
been beyond her capabilities. Sometimes Brenda just didn’t think.

Sighing, Megan scooped up the diced carrot and tossed it in a
microwave dish with a handful of frozen peas, her concession to vegetables. The
rest of her dinner, a skinless chicken breast, sizzled between the ribbed jaws
of her newly acquired Breville Health Grill.

While she waited for her bland but healthy dinner to finish cooking,
her mind wandered back to the previous night. Now, that Thai dinner most
certainly wouldn’t have come under the banner of diet food. She gained two
kilos just thinking about all that rich coconut cream.

Amazingly, she and Joe had finally got it together. No one could
have been more surprised than Megan that the evening had gone off without a
hitch. She’d been convinced that any hope of a relationship between them had
been doomed from the start. But Joe had persevered, accepting excuse after
excuse from Megan until eventually there had been nothing standing in their
way. No more excuses.

Joe had been the perfect gentleman she remembered him to be,
standing up from the table and pulling out her chair as she entered the
restaurant. While they’d both been a little stiff at the start, the formalities
were soon dispensed with. With the wine flowing, they chatted away as if they’d
known each other for years.

At the end of the evening, after insisting on paying the bill, he
had escorted her to the taxi, planting a dry kiss on her cheek as they said
their goodbyes. It was a start.

Not for the first time, Megan wondered why Joe wasn’t already
married with a brood of kids. He was attentive, well spoken, not to mention a
good listener. Most women Megan knew would kill for a man like that, so what
was it that’d attracted Joe to her in the first place? More importantly, why
had he stuck around when she’d brushed him off time after time to support
Brenda through her crises, Megan wondered, her mind once again back on her
friend.

Brenda loved gossip. She’d been more excited about Megan’s date with
Joe than Megan had. So why hadn’t she phoned the next morning, before it was
even light, pumping Megan for details as was her habit?

She wiped her hands on a tea towel, picked up the phone from the
kitchen bench and pressed the redial button.

Brenda’s disembodied voice answered. “Hi, you’ve called Brenda. You
guessed it: I’m not here. Get ready, beep coming up…”

However, the microwave’s high-pitched ping beat the answering
machine to it. She hung up without leaving a message.

At least Joe possessed the courtesy to phone. Could any man really
be that perfect? Spooning the cooked vegetables onto a plate, another of her
grandmother’s sayings flitted through her head: “If it seems too good to be
true then it probably is.” Her grandmother had been a wise woman.

The question still hung over her, though. Where was Brenda?

Greg stared out
his office window, his mood as bleak as the day outside. Tuesday. Another day
gone.

The phone rang. He let the answering machine pick it up.

“Greg, it’s Megan. Megan Brighton. We met…” Her voice faltered. “I
was wondering if you’d heard from your sister—”

He snatched up the phone. “Wait.” After a series of clicks and
squeals, he managed to switch off the answering machine. “Sorry about that.
Still no sign of her.” He took a deep breath. “Dead or alive.” As much as he
didn’t want to accept it, the prospect of finding Sam alive dwindled with each
passing day.

He heard what sounded like a strangled sob at the end of the line.
“Megan?”

She blurted out her story, running her words together in her haste
to get them out. As shocked as he was to hear about the ginger-mustached guy’s
assault on Megan’s friend Brenda, what really disturbed him was that Brenda was
now missing.

Greg shifted in his seat. “You haven’t heard from her since Friday
night?”

“No one has. She didn’t turn up at work for her regular Monday
morning meeting. I’m probably being paranoid, but she’s been in such a funny
mood lately. I don’t know what to make of it. Maybe she just needed some time
out on her own.”

“But didn’t you say her car was parked in front of her house and her
back door was unlocked?”

“Yeah, but Brenda’s always forgetting to lock the back door. Car…
well, if she’s holed up in the city – she has a penchant for luxury hotels –
then she might have grabbed a taxi.”

Maybe, but it came across more like Megan trying to convince herself
there was nothing to worry about. Unlike her, he refused to believe in
coincidences.

He hadn’t yet let on to Megan that he’d hired a private investigator
to help in his search and do some discreet background checks. He needed more
time to digest what she’d just told him before that happened. How did her
friend’s disappearance fit in with Sam’s disappearance, if at all? Was some
maniac on the loose out there, abducting woman and…? He shook his head,
dislodging the notion from his mind. Whatever, he couldn’t get away from the
fact that Dinner for Twelve was central to everything that’d happened.

“You’re probably right,” he said in a voice that sounded hollow even
to him. “Time out from the maddening crowd, as they say.” He recalled telling
himself the exact same thing about Sam a fortnight ago.

Silence.

“Not that I’m saying you’re mad or a crowd.”

“I’m not so sure. Sorry, I have to go. Bye, Greg. I hope you find
your sister soon.” She hung up before he could reply.

Greg slouched forward, his elbows propped on the desk, his
fingertips pressed to his temples.

Another missing woman?

Surely not.

No way.

Not possible.

Greg had been hoping to hear from Megan. Hoping for any tidbit of
information she may’ve discovered that could help him with his search for Sam.
Brenda’s disappearance only made it worse. Another nail.

His stomach lurched, the jitters setting in as his body rebelled
against the double-shot espressos he’d been subsisting on. Before he knew it,
the cumulative effect of stress and lack of sleep, coupled with the caffeine
overdose, strained his system to breaking point. With both hands clamped to his
mouth, he staggered from his seat.

After more than an hour hugging the toilet bowl, Greg resurfaced. He
couldn’t recall a time when he’d felt so ill. A quick glance in the mirror
confirmed it. He had indeed joined the ranks of the walking dead. How else
could he explain the bloodless face and glassy eyes?

Using the wall to steady himself, he made his way to the compact
kitchen next to his office. Even the humdinger of a hangover he’d experienced
after his wife walked out on him didn’t come close to the way he was feeling
right then.

He focused his energies on reaching the sink on the kitchen’s far
side, his legs like those of a toddler trying to walk for the first time. With
the exertion came another bout of nausea. Clinging to the laminated bench, his
face breaking out in a cold sweat, it was all he could do to stay upright.

The nausea bout eventually passed. He concentrated on finding a
glass. Water, he reasoned, would help dilute the caffeine.

He downed one glass of water standing at the sink. The second, he
took with him to the table in the corner of the room. He sank into the left of
the two revamped armchairs either side of the table and let out a groan of
relief.

Not daring to close his eyes, not even for a second, Greg sipped the
water. It’d take a lot more than a few mouthfuls of liquid to rally his body.
He needed sleep. And something more than bile and water in his stomach.
Swallowing another mouthful of water, he resolved to lock up the office and go
straight home to shower, eat and sleep. In that order if he could manage it.

But first, he needed to ring Neville Crooke at Rickman’s
Investigations and pass on what Megan had told him about the ginger-mustached
man’s molesting of Brenda De Luca and her subsequent disappearance. Robert was
the man’s first name, but for the life of him, Greg couldn’t recall his
surname. Had Megan even mentioned it? It wasn’t important. Greg felt certain
that by now Neville would have a detailed list of Dinner for Twelve’s clients
and be well on the way to completing full background checks. Discreetly, of
course. An unswerving faith in the investigator’s abilities was the only thing
keeping him going.

Out in the office, his phone rang. Unable to summon the strength to
move from the chair, he let the answering machine take the call.

The beep sounded, followed by a deep booming male voice that needed
no introduction. In a flash, Greg was on his feet, his exhaustion and nausea
forgotten. Although by the time he reached his desk, his legs were threatening
to boycott his body. He slumped into his office chair in the same instant his
hand closed around the phone’s receiver.

Neville Crooke must’ve wondered what he’d interrupted when Greg’s
breathless voice cut off the recording. Neville made no comment and waited for
Greg to catch his breath.

“There’s been a development.” Neville cleared his throat. “Keep what
I’m about to tell you to yourself for now.” He paused. “Although, I guess it’ll
be public knowledge soon enough, anyway.”

Greg’s chest tightened, in two minds about whether he really wanted
to hear what was coming next. If it’d been good news, Neville wouldn’t have
bothered with the preamble.