Fatal Liaison (15 page)

“What I’m about to tell you doesn’t directly relate to your case,
but…”

Get on with it, Greg wanted to scream down the phone. Get it over
with! Spit it out!

“An arrest warrant has been issued for Lawson Green…”

Greg couldn’t breathe.

“…for the murder of Linda Nichols.”

Was he hearing right? “Lawson-arrest-Linda-murder?”

“Yes,” Neville said evidently understanding Greg’s question even if
Greg himself didn’t understand it. “It seems our Mr Green has been, shall we
say, frugal with the truth. According to Mr Green’s story, he and Ms Nichols
were never involved in a sexual relationship. He even denied ever being inside
her home. And on top of that he also claimed that he left the singles’ dinner
function alone.” Neville’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Amazing how some people
can be so naïve.”

“Yes, it is. Go on.” Greg’s voice took on an unintended brusque
edge.

“Pardon? Sorry. Where was I? Oh, yes. Well his little fairytale has
now been blown right out of the water. Forensics have seen to that. How he
thought he wouldn’t be found out I don’t know…”

The line went quiet. “Neville? Are you still there?”

“Oh, yes,” continued Neville as if there’d been no break in the
conversation, “and the police have now changed their original theory that Ms
Nichols was raped before being strangled. The autopsy did show evidence of
sexual activity, but little else to support the rape theory. The pathologist
didn’t consider the bruising significant. Nothing more than that which might
occur in an exuberant lovemaking session, he says. There was no semen – used a
condom I would say – but a couple of pubic hairs were found in the bed that
match our suspect’s DNA perfectly. That places him not only inside her home,
but also in her bed. I would like to see how he tries to talk himself out of
that one.”

Greg moved the phone to his other ear.

“He also lied about leaving the restaurant alone. A witness came
forward to say he saw a couple getting into a taxi outside the restaurant about
the time that Mr Green claimed he left alone. Nick Poulus – the witness – was
outside having a smoke when he noticed another bloke standing outside with his
hands in his pockets. Apparently, a minute or so later a petite, black-haired
woman comes out of the restaurant and joins him. The descriptions the Poulus
gave sounded very much like Green and Nichols. The police managed to track down
the taxi driver and he corroborated everything the witness said. Done deal.
He’ll certainly have a lot to answer for when the police catch up with him.”

Greg’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean catch up with him?
Surely he’s in custody already.”

“Oh, didn’t I say? Green’s disappeared. Gone to ground, I would say.
No one has seen hide nor hair of him since he left work last Friday afternoon.
His actions certainly make him appear guilty even if he’s not.”

“Are you saying there is some doubt?”

“Innocent until proven guilty—”

“Yes, yes, but are the police confident they have the right person?”

“Obviously they still need to question him, but if an arrest warrant
has been issued then I guess they think they have their man. But that’s not to
say they have. Even though Green has been caught out lying, the evidence is
still fairly circumstantial. They’ll need more than they have to convict him.”

Greg swapped the phone back to his other ear, wanting to hear
nothing more about the flimsiness of the evidence against Lawson. “What about
Sam’s disappearance? What have you found out? Could Lawson be involved in that,
too?” He could’ve continued rattling off questions, but what were questions
without answers.

“We’re doing everything we can and the minute I know anything I’ll
let you know.”

In other words nothing, thought Greg. “What if I was to tell you
another woman has gone missing?”

“Good Lord. Are you serious?”

With a flawed sense of smugness, Greg passed on all Megan had told
him about Brenda’s disappearance.

“Has this friend of yours reported it?”

Neville’s question stopped him in his tracks. “I assume so, though I
can’t say for sure.”

“Leave it with me,” boomed the once again in control investigator.

Gladly, thought Greg as he hung up and laid his head on the desk blotter.
But be quick about it.

Deep cramping
spasms gripped Brenda’s lower abdomen. Only semi-conscious, she tried to roll
over on to her side. Powerless to move, it was as if the connection between her
brain and her body had somehow been disrupted. Another spasm hit her. She cried
out, her feeble voice sounding foreign to her own ears.

If only she could open her eyes. She focused on her leaden legs,
willing them to wake. Shooting pain engulfed her limbs as the blood suddenly
returned to them. The scream was louder this time, echoing as it bounced from
wall to wall. Gulping mouthfuls of stale air, she tried to breathe through the
racking pain.

The bitter taste and dry furry sensation in her mouth was the same
she’d experienced coming out of the anesthetic after her appendix operation the
previous year. Where was she? Was she in a hospital? What day was it? Her
befuddled brain struggled to connect the dots.

And like in hospital, she found herself being pulled back into
unconsciousness. She didn’t fight it.

Hours – or was it only minutes – later, she resurfaced. Remembering
the pain the last time she tried to change position, she lay still, afraid to
move a muscle. The beginnings of cramp nipped at her calf.

An overpowering sickly smell, as if a whole can of floral
air-freshener had been emptied, assailed her nostrils. That and the faint
underlying odor of stale urine triggered thoughts of public toilets. It was
then she realized she must’ve wet herself, the dampness against her skin
confirming it.

The thought of wallowing in her own waste was too much to bear.
Heedless to the agony she was about to bring upon herself, she tried to shift,
only then realizing she was tethered by her wrists. She howled, her agony
compounded by fear.

She had yet to open her eyes.

The instant she opened them she wished she hadn’t. Now it was real.
No longer could she pretend it was just some horrible nightmare.

Lying on her back in the darkened but not pitch-black room, she
managed to twist her head enough to glimpse the two sets of metal handcuffs
securing her wrists above her head. Sheer panic made her tug against her
restraints, the handcuffs’ hard edges cutting painfully into her wrists as they
clanked against the bed’s tubular bedhead.

Impervious to the torture she was inflicting on herself, Brenda
continued to struggle. The agony of her raw and swollen wrists proved too much.
Using the last vestiges of her strength and with her fingers clutching the
bedhead rail, she somehow managed to pull her body up the bed a fraction,
taking some of the tension from her arms.

Hyperventilating and fighting for breath, she squeezed her eyes shut
and started counting backwards from ten. Ten, nine – oh God – eight, seven – just
a nightmare – six, five, four – not real – three, two – can’t be – one…

Slowly opening her eyes, the terrible reality of her situation
struck. It was no dream. Imprisoned in a room barely large enough for the
single bed she was shackled to, she managed to still her racing thoughts enough
to take stock of her surroundings.

The urine-stained sheet gathered in bunches under her fully-clothed
torso, a thin grey blanket partially covering her legs. A motley collection of
other blankets lay in a heap on the floor as if they had been kicked off the
bed.

The only light came from a small, frosted glass window high on one
wall, the room empty apart from the bed and a group of objects appearing as
hazy silhouettes in the corner to the left of her feet. If she squinted, she
could just make out the outlines of two what she supposed were wooden chairs.
In the middle of the seat of one of them was a cluster of smaller objects that
no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t identify. On the floor next to the
other chair was what looked to be a bucket.

Closing her eyes, she strained to hear, alert for the slightest
sound. Any noise that might provide a clue to where she might be. A distant
rumbling that she felt more than heard brought to mind heavy machinery. But
then she heard a far more frightening sound – footsteps and they were getting
closer. They stopped outside the door. The clank of metal against metal
followed.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the door opening. She
couldn’t help it, she lost control over her bladder, the hot liquid saturating
the crotch of her jeans and seeping into the already stained sheet. In a last
ditch effort to avoid confronting her jailer she feigned sleep.

Concentrating desperately on keeping her breathing slow and
measured, she heard shuffling footsteps as her captor moved around the room,
followed by the sound of running liquid as if it was being poured from one
container to another. Then she felt the weight of blankets being laid over her
body.

The scrape of a chair on the floor near her head almost blew her
act. Her breathing faltered. He was so close she could smell his masculine
muskiness and feel the warmth of his breath as he leaned over her face.

Megan stared at
the cellophane-wrapped white roses lying across the corner of her desk. She had
neither the energy nor the inclination to deal with Joe’s growing
possessiveness.

Her best friend’s disappearance was of far more concern. Brenda had
been missing for almost a week and the police had yet to make any headway in
tracing her whereabouts. Nor had Neville Crooke, the private investigator Greg
had employed to search for his sister, made any progress. Every passing day
added to Megan’s torment.

Yet, Joe Renmark refused to take no for an answer, bombarding her
daily with flowers, cards and SMS messages. He had even resorted to waiting
outside the building for her when she left work the previous night. She’d
managed to fob him off with some fast talking. Maybe at another time in another
life, she’d have found his gestures charming, romantic even. However, his
persistence was starting to wear on her. All she wanted was to be left alone.
Couldn’t he see that?

The time had come for her to tell him straight. She would have to be
brutal. It was the only way. No more trying to let him down gently. For his
sake as well as hers.

Without reading the attached card, she picked up the bouquet of
roses and plunged them head first into the waste paper bin under her desk. For
a few moments, she didn’t move, simply gazing at the ends of the rose stems
each with its individual water supply attached in tiny plastic capsules. Then
with a deep sigh, she reached down and retrieved the now buckled flowers.

She opened the small white square envelope taped to the wrapping and
extracted the card. It read: “To my dearest Megan, hope you’re feeling better.
See you soon. With all my love Joe x.” Megan sighed again, feeling a twinge of
guilt for telling him she thought she was coming down with the flu. There was
nothing in the card she could take offence to, so what was her problem? Perhaps
the past couple of weeks’ events had left her oversensitive. Especially where
men were concerned.

Whatever, whether it was timing or something else entirely, Megan
didn’t see her relationship with Joe going anywhere. It had to end. And the
sooner the better. She reached for the phone.

Listening to the dial tone, she changed her mind, replacing the
phone in its cradle as she promised herself she’d call him tomorrow. She needed
time to rehearse what she was going to say, the theory that brutality was
called for, discarded. Joe hadn’t actually done anything wrong, the perfect
gentleman all the way along.

The words that immediately came to mind she’d heard more than once:
“It’s not you, it’s me. I hope we can still be friends.” When she’d been the
one on the receiving end, they always sounded so contrived, so insincere. But
as clichéd as it was, this was exactly how she felt about Joe. I really don’t
need this, she thought kneading her temples with her fingers. Not now.

Once more, the flowers were relegated to the bin and shoved deep
under her desk. Out of sight, out of mind.

Picking up her pen, she tried yet again to focus on redrafting the
newspaper advertisement for the position of office manager one of her clients
needed to fill. But it was a wasted effort, her mind a blank. In frustration,
she balled up the form and hurled it at the half-glass partition between her
office and the corridor.

Tears ran unchecked down her face, her chest heaving with silent
sobs. Why are you doing this? she wanted to scream at an invisible God. It’s
not fair.

To Megan, Brenda was more than a friend. She was family, the sister
Megan never had. What God in his right mind would allow Brenda to be taken from
her? What’d she done that was so bad that she deserved to be punished in this
way?