Fatal Liaison (16 page)

Burying her face in a handful of scrunched up tissues, she swiveled
her chair so her back was to the desk. The tears continued unabated until there
was nothing left to cry. Turning back to her desk, she dropped the sodden clump
of tissues in her lap, replenishing them with fresh ones from the near empty
box.

She glanced up, hoping that none of her work colleagues had been
witness to her loss of control. With no sign of anyone nearby, she breathed a
little easier, grateful for small mercies.

After blowing her nose and mopping her face, she suddenly remembered
she’d agreed to meet up with Greg Jenkins that evening. He’d been quite
insistent he see her, not that she’d taken much convincing.

The last time they’d met in person Greg had been searching for his
sister. Now two women had disappeared, seemingly without trace. In less than a
week, Megan’s life had been turned upside down. Each of them now had someone
dear to them missing.

Megan felt emotionally hollow. Physically she didn’t feel much
better. Was she even up to facing anyone tonight? She was having enough trouble
keeping her thoughts coherent. What was the likelihood she’d be able to speak
in whole sentences?

She heard voices in the corridor and snatched up the phone,
pretending to be deep in conversation as she turned her back to the door. She
didn’t want anyone to see her smeared makeup and swollen, red-rimmed eyes. But
more than that, she couldn’t trust herself not to start blubbering again the
instant someone spoke to her.

Whoever it was, continued down the corridor without pausing.
Breathing out, she hung up the phone.

Greg crossed,
uncrossed and recrossed his legs, then glanced at his watch for the tenth time
in as many minutes. The bottle of Chardonnay he’d taken the liberty of ordering
sat untouched in a steel ice bucket hooked to the end of the table. The two
wine glasses stood empty and forlorn. He checked his watch again.

Men and women in dark tailored suits, the city workers’ unofficial
uniform, continued to spill through the bar’s front doors. The increasing
volume and intensity of competing conversations and laughter around him as the
workweek’s shackles were cast aside drowned out the background music. He could
scarcely hear himself think. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
Having second thoughts, he pulled out his BlackBerry. Suggesting a change in
venue would, if nothing else, provide him with a good excuse to check – without
sounding as if he was hassling her – if Megan had forgotten their meeting or
was just running late.

He located Megan’s number and was about to press the call button
when an austere looking woman in an ill-fitting black suit entered the bar.
With a strained half-smile that did little to soften her features, the woman
raised a hand in a tentative wave and headed his way.

Greg did a double take. In the short space of a week, Megan had lost
so much weight he almost didn’t recognize her. Not only had her body lost its
comely roundness, her face had a gauntness and pallor about it that didn’t
equate to the woman he knew. Her hair, which he had only ever seen soft and
loose around her face, was drawn back into a severe knot.

As she neared the table, he noticed her eyebrow twitch as she took
in the chilling wine and two wine glasses. In hindsight, he couldn’t believe
how presumptive he’d been. Of course, he should’ve waited for her to arrive
before ordering.

By the time he had come to his senses and stood up, Megan had
already taken off her jacket, draping it across her knees as she sunk into the
upholstered armchair across the table from him.

Still beating himself up for his lack of manners, he gestured to the
wine, making a garbled apology as he did so. She nodded without speaking. Even
if she’d spoken, he doubted he’d have heard her above the din of the Friday
night revelers. Unless you call shouting at the top of your lungs conversation,
then the atmosphere was certainly not conducive to conversation.

Greg poured the wine, sliding one of the two glasses across the
table to Megan. She mouthed the word “thanks” – or at least he guessed that’s
what it was – and lifted the glass to her lips.

Up close, she looked as exhausted as he felt. If her eyes receded
any further, she’d be looking out through the back of her head. What a great
pair they made. How he wished the circumstances could’ve been different. How he
wished his most pressing problem, like that of many of those around him,
involved the frittering away of a Friday night. How he wished.

The first glass of wine went down quickly, a filler for the gaps in
their disjointed conversation. Straining to interpret what the other was
saying, they leaned in, their heads almost touching. The body-warmed scent of
Megan’s hair and skin so close caught him off guard. At times Greg found
himself nodding, only guessing at what she was saying, hoping it was the
appropriate response.

Midway through the second glass of wine, Greg managed with some
ingenious miming to suggest to Megan that they move on to somewhere else. He
hadn’t thought as far ahead as to where they might go, but staying in the bar
was out of the question if they wanted to talk.

With Megan leading the way, they jostled their way through the
ever-growing crowd, eventually making it out on to the footpath without mishap.

Unfortunately, they stepped out to find it raining. Not simply a
drizzle either, but a full-scale downpour. The street gutters, battling to cope
with the sudden influx of water, were rapidly filling.

In dismay, Greg stared at the curtain of water in front of them.
Melbourne was a city renowned for experiencing all four seasons in one day, yet
he hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella with him. Nor had Megan by the look of
her upturned palms.

Greg inhaled deeply, clearing his lungs, pleased at least be to out
of the stuffy bar. Next to him, Megan shivered and wrapped her arms around
herself.

“Do you want to go back in until the rain stops?” he asked, his
voice sounding unnaturally loud in the comparative silence of the street.

Her only answer was a slow shake of the head.

If they chose to wait for the rain to stop, they could be there for
hours. The other alternative was to make a run for it, stopping for breath and
shelter under the various shop verandas down the street. That’s if they knew
where they were headed in the first place. Being a Friday night, they would be
lucky to find any bar in the city that wasn’t jam-packed.

“Perhaps we should leave this for tonight. Talk tomorrow,” Megan
said, her teeth starting to chatter.

She didn’t protest when he ripped off his suit jacket and wrapped it
around her shoulders. “If you like. But I thought you’d want to know what came
up in Neville Crooke’s background checks. I thought we could discuss it.”

Megan’s head shot up.

He had her attention now. “It might mean more to you than it does to
me,” he added.

Megan’s teeth stopped chattering. “What might mean more?”

“Nothing specific. It’s just that you know these people better than
I do.”

Her eyebrows arched. “Not really.”

“How about a woman’s perspective then?” He took a deep breath. “I’m
clutching at straws, I know, but if we work together don’t you think we stand a
better chance of…” With a weary shake of his head, he added, “Forget it.”

Wrapping his jacket tighter around her shoulders, she turned to him.
“No. You’re right. We should work together.”

But with no sign of the rain letting up, where could they go to
talk? The notion of retiring to his place or even Megan’s place was soon
dismissed. They hardly knew each other. For all she knew, he could be a
homicidal maniac.

They’d have to make a move soon, though. The damp chill of the
evening air began to seep through his shirt. Raucous laughter accompanied a
group of middle-aged businessmen exiting the bar. A string of expletives
followed. Continuing to curse, the men made a dash for it, shaking themselves off
like wet dogs when they reached the other side of the street.

Greg opened his mouth to speak at the same instant Megan did. They
both stopped, waiting for the other to continue. Neither spoke. And then they
repeated the farce, once again opening their mouths simultaneously and then
closing them. It was enough to bring a small smile to Megan’s face.

“Our best bet would be a restaurant rather than a bar. There’s an
Italian restaurant near my office. It’s nothing fancy, but the upstairs section
is reserved for tables of two, so at least there’d be no rowdy parties to
contend with.” He paused and when Megan didn’t say anything, continued. “What
do you think? Shall I call a taxi?”

Megan nodded, mumbling a few words Greg wasn’t able to catch. So far
that evening, it felt as if he was the one doing all the talking. Megan was far
more reserved than he remembered from their last meeting. But then again, after
the trauma of the past week he, better than anyone else, should understand the
reasons behind it.

“Would you rather go home? If you’re not up to it, we can make it
another time.”

“Sorry, Greg. Yes, I mean no… Yes, let’s try that restaurant, and
no, I don’t want to go home.”

Encouraged by her few words – the most he’d heard from her so far
that evening – he went to reach for his BlackBerry then remembered it was in
his suit jacket. Before he could say anything, Megan had removed the jacket
from around her shoulders and handed it to him. After extracting the phone from
the inside pocket he passed the jacket back. She hesitated, initially reluctant
to take it from him, but then accepted it. While she rewrapped herself in his
jacket, he scrolled through his BlackBerry’s contact list for the taxi’s
number.

The wait for the cab seemed interminable. Taxi delays on Friday
nights tended to be lengthy at the best of times; the weather didn’t help. By
the time they were seated in the warm and dry back seat of a Yellow Cab on
their way to Giulio’s, it was after eight.

Giulio, the restaurant’s namesake and an Italian version of the
legendary detective Hercule Poirot complete with waxed moustache, met them at
the door, treating them like long-lost relatives as he fussed over them. The
mouth-watering aroma of tomato and garlic wafted past Greg’s nose, awakening
his dormant appetite. As expected, the downstairs dining area was full, the
tables packed in so tightly that the waiters had to sidle between the tables to
deliver meals.

Leaving behind the noisy but jovial atmosphere, they followed in
their host’s wake, climbing the narrow back stairs to the floor above. Even
though the plastic red-and-white checkered tablecloths were the same, muted
lighting and candles added an intimacy that set it apart from downstairs.

Giulio soon had them seated with menus at one of only two available
tables in the room. They both opted for the day’s special of fettuccini
marinara, choosing a Margaret River Verdelho to complement it, before the
conversation moved around to the real reason they were there.

“So what was so important you couldn’t tell me over the phone,”
Megan said, moving closer to the table, her pale face expectant.

Greg turned his head, checking that no one was eavesdropping.
“Neville Crooke has unearthed some interesting information with his background
checks. Whether there’s anything to it I don’t know.” He lowered his voice
before continuing. “I’ll start with Lawson Green. Thirty-five, never married,
works as a systems programmer for a company called…” He paused, wishing he had
his notes with him. “Frey Technology, I think. No criminal history, not even a
parking fine. Lives alone in rented accommodation. Credit rating so-so. No
passport, so he hasn’t travelled overseas.” Working his way through his mental
checklist, he watched Megan’s face for a reaction. “No immediate family. Parents
killed in a car accident when he was a youngster. Raised by foster parents…”

Megan dipped her head.

His eyes widened. “You knew about Lawson’s parents?”

She nodded. “Brenda told me. I guess that means that he doesn’t lie
about everything—”

“Did you also know that about eight years ago he was hospitalized?”

“No, but…” She frowned. “Why is that relevant? People are hospitalized
every day.”

“We’re not talking about having your tonsils out here. We’re talking
about a psychiatric ward.”

The frown lines on her forehead deepened. “Psychiatric? Are you
saying Lawson had a nervous breakdown or something?”

Greg nodded and picked up his wine glass. “I don’t have any details.
Neville was able to find out that he had been a psych patient, but not why.”

“What if it wasn’t a breakdown? What if we’re dealing with some sort
of psychopath here? There has to be some way we can find out.” Megan’s voice
had increased to such a volume that other diners had stopped their own
conversations to listen in.

Greg raised a finger to his lips. “Don’t panic. It was a long time
ago and Neville assures me there’s no record of him being an inpatient since
then.”

“Sorry, it’s just that…” Megan said, her voice trailing off as she
dropped her gaze to the table.