Fatal Liaison (25 page)

The further they ventured, the colder and heavier the air became.
Greg shivered. Sudden movement off to his left and the crack of branches
breaking startled him. Through the trees, he glimpsed the dark shadow of what
he assumed was a kangaroo bounding away. Ahead of him, Megan hiked on, unfazed
by the disturbance.

A few meters further on she stopped and peered into the undergrowth
on both sides of the track. Without a word, she charged off into the bush to
her left. As much as he wanted to turn back, Greg had no choice but to follow.

Branches and tree fern fronds whipped at his face as he fought his
way through the dense foliage, giving true meaning to the term bushwhacking.
Every now and then, he would lose sight of Megan, but the sound of her plowing
through the forest ahead would keep him on target. They were definitely off the
beaten track and he had seen no sign that another human had ever passed this
way before. What was Megan thinking? Hell, what if they were lost? He sincerely
hoped she knew what she was doing.

His lack of fitness surprised him as, gasping for breath, he tried
to keep up. Rounding the rocky outcrop Megan had just disappeared behind, he
suddenly found himself blinking at the brightness of the sunlight streaming
through a gap in the trees. Megan stood in the middle of the clearing looking
like a little girl lost, her head hung low. The woman on a mission had gone.

He made his way toward her, stopping a couple of meters short.

Without lifting her head, she said, “She’s not here is she?”

He faltered, looking for the right words. What did she want him to
say? She’d rebuked him more than once for not being honest with her. Instead,
he took a tentative step forward, holding the palms of his hands out.

Lifting her head, she looked at him, her bottom lip quivering. Her
face crumpled. Instinctively he moved in, wrapping her in his arms and holding
her close. She let out a heart-rending sob, before burrowing her head into his
chest. He felt her smothered sobs through his shirt.

Eventually, the tears subsided and she drew away, backing out of
arm’s reach. Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, she avoided eye contact
with him and scanned the surrounding bush. As if embarrassed by her own behavior,
she seemed to be checking that no one had been watching. The only witnesses had
been the birds sitting high in the trees.

Greg’s suggestion they should return home met no resistance.
However, their immediate problem would be finding their way out. Megan hung
back. She’d led them to the clearing, but now clearly expected Greg to take the
lead. With more confidence than he felt, he plunged into the undergrowth at the
spot he thought he’d entered the clearing. He stopped. It all looked so much
the same: an impenetrable wall of trees, vines and bushes. But where was the
rock?

Backtracking he returned to the clearing.

Curled up in the
overstuffed armchair, swaddled in the duvet from her bed, Megan watched the
ebony sky fade to charcoal-grey before turning to a brilliant amber as the sun
peeked over the horizon.

Had she slept? She didn’t think so, but with a couple of blank
periods she couldn’t account for, she couldn’t be sure. The tip of her nose
felt numb. Shivering, she pulled the duvet up around her head like a padded
version of a Muslim hijab.

In a few hours, she and Greg would be calling on the parents of Tina
Barrett, the TAFE student whose skeleton had been found in the Yarra Ranges
National Park. They’d debated whether to call ahead. Megan had argued that
forewarning Mr and Mrs Barrett of their visit was only proper, but Greg had
disagreed. First, he pointed out, the Barretts would already be inundated with
phone calls from journalists and the like. Second, if the family knew in advance
why they wanted to see them, then they might refuse point-blank to talk to
them. Third, the police were already less than impressed with their involvement
in the case. The element of surprise was all they really had.

She shifted in her chair, searching for a more comfortable position.
The most surprising aspect was that Greg was accompanying her at all. They
hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms the day before. She blushed, her
cold face immediately hot, as she thought about the way she’d taken her frustrations
out on Greg.

Then she closed her eyes, remembering the reassuring feel of his
arms around her as she sobbed her heart out. It had all started going wrong
when it’d suddenly struck her that she was alone in the middle of the bush with
a man she barely knew. What if he wasn’t the man he purported to be? All manner
of chilling thoughts had raced through her mind as she backed away.

In hindsight, it was a wonder he hadn’t abandoned her there and
then. But if he had, would either of them found their way out? At one stage,
she could have sworn she had passed the same tree at least five times.

Tensions had run high and they’d both been testy, but laying the
blame on Greg’s shoulders for their predicament had not been fair. And she’d
known it at the time but had no control over what was coming out of her mouth.

Greg had made a few sniping remarks in return before falling oddly
silent. They’d walked in circles for what felt like hours until by sheer
accident they had stumbled upon one of the walking tracks. Even then, they’d
argued about which direction to take.

By the time they had made it back to her car, tempers were back to a
relatively even keel, both too tired to bicker. Megan had tried to apologize,
but Greg had just brushed it aside as if it really wasn’t important.

On the drive back to town, no more than half a dozen words were
exchanged. It wasn’t until Megan pulled into the driveway behind Greg’s BMW
that they’d really talked. Neville Crooke, the private investigator Greg had
employed when Sam had first disappeared, strongly recommended to Greg that he
let the police do their job unhindered. However, as Greg stated, that was
easier said than done. He couldn’t be expected to sit back twiddling his thumbs
doing nothing. It was then that she’d mentioned her idea of talking to the
murdered girls’ relatives.

No doubt the families had already undergone intensive questioning by
the police, but what if somewhere deep in their memories lay a missing piece of
the jigsaw? What if they possessed, without even realizing it, the link that
would tie the individual cases together?

But what if they didn’t?

No matter, she had to try. What did she have to lose? Megan was more
than willing to do whatever it took to bring Brenda home…

Dead or alive.

After all this time, she had almost resigned herself to never
hearing Brenda’s infectious laugh again, but she couldn’t – wouldn’t – give up
looking for her.

She hunched down, snuggling into her duvet cocoon, her breath
warming the exposed skin of her cleavage. I’ll find you, Brenda. I promise.

It was the last thing she remembered until the alarm clock’s blaring
woke her. Except it wasn’t the alarm clock.

It took her a moment to realize the incessant noise was her mobile
phone. With her eyes still not open, she fumbled for the phone on the side
table.

“Hello?”

“Megan, it’s Greg. Where are you?”

Her eyelids sprung open, her head swiveling to check the clock. She
was already half an hour late. With a spurt of energy she didn’t know she had
in her, she managed to untangle herself from the duvet with one hand, hold her
phone to her ear with the other, utter profuse apologies to Greg and scurry
down the hall to her bedroom all at the same time.

She set a record getting dressed, buttoning up a classic black
longline jacket over matching trousers. A quick glance in the mirror on the way
out assured her she looked halfway respectable. At least she’d had the
foresight the night before to think about what she should wear to offer
condolences.

Greg had, too. Leaning on his open car door talking into his mobile
phone, he looked smart, but not overdressed in a pair of black trousers,
toffee-colored open-necked shirt and black sports jacket. He acknowledged her
with a small wave and continued talking into the phone.

Feeling, and no doubt looking, suitably sheepish for her lateness,
Megan waited patiently for him to finish his call.

With Greg driving and Megan in the passenger seat of his BMW, they
arrived in Burwood within the half hour.

Greg removed the keys from the ignition, unbuckled his seatbelt and
turned to her. “Have you given much thought to how you want to play this?”

They were parked on the street outside a rather nondescript white
stuccoed house with a reddish-brown tiled roof. The front garden looked as if
it hadn’t received any attention for quite some time, weeds the only plants
flourishing in the garden. The rickety white metal mailbox overflowed with junk
mail.

Ignoring Greg’s question, she asked, “Are you sure this is the right
address?”

“There’s a map and printout in the glove box.”

Opening the compartment in front of her, she wasn’t surprised at all
by the orderliness of the contents. No salvage license needed. Hoping he’d
never have cause to open the glove box in her car, she reached in and retrieved
the two sheets of paper, one folded inside the other. Smoothing them on her
lap, she checked the street number on the printout against the numerals on the
front of the mailbox. Number 79. Unless the Barretts had recently moved house,
it was the correct address.

“Is it?” Greg looked past her, through the passenger’s side window,
studying the property and not really paying any attention to what she was
doing.

She refolded the paper and was about to replace it in the glove box,
when the corner of a photo that’d slipped out of a brown envelope caught the
edge of her vision. She reached in and careful not to spill the contents,
withdrew the bulky brown envelope. Before she had a chance to poke the
offending photograph back in, he plucked it from her hands.

“Ah good. Almost forgot them.” He slid the package into his inside
jacket pocket and, checking his side-view mirror, opened the car door.

As Megan reached down to collect her handbag from the floor, her
door opened. For a microsecond, she wondered if BMWs now came with telepathic
door sensors. Why was it that in the gravest of situations her mind came up
with these laughable absurdities?

Greg held the car door open, watching her intently, one eyebrow
cocked quizzically. Had she actually chuckled out loud? She blushed, her hand
flying to cover her mouth. Now both Greg’s eyebrows were raised.

“Thanks,” she murmured as she stepped out onto the footpath, tugging
at her jacket to straighten it. She glanced at the house’s large front windows,
hoping she didn’t have an audience. Nothing so obvious as twitching curtains,
anyway.

They walked in silence and side by side up the deceptively steep
concrete driveway to the small semi-enclosed front porch. High on the
green-painted doorframe’s right hung an ornate but tarnished brass bell. Greg
tapped the side of it gently, but even though the bell swung, it remained mute.
Great, she thought, first telepathic car doors and now silent doorbells. I’m
going mad.

Greg then rapped his knuckles against the front door’s ridged and
frosted top glass panel. After a few moments with no response, Megan stepped
forward and tried her luck.

“Mr and Mrs Barrett, my name is Megan Brighton,” she called through
the door. “I am not a reporter. You may be aware that another suspected victim
of the…” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “My best friend Brenda De Luca
is missing. I really need to talk to you. Please. I promise it will only take a
few minutes of your time.”

A shadow appeared behind the door. “Who’s that with you?”

So they had been watching. Greg opened his mouth to speak, but Megan
raised her index finger, silencing him. “Mr Barrett, Greg Jenkins is with me.
Greg’s sister Samantha was found in the Yarra Ranges National Park…” Unable to
find the right words, her voice trailed off.

A couple of long seconds passed before she heard the door chain
rattle. One look at the frail grey-haired Mr Barrett had her wishing she hadn’t
come. His dark eyes were dull and sunken, the anguish etched in deep lines on
the unshaven man’s face unmistakable. Part of her wanted to offer condolences
and hightail it out of there, leaving a father to grieve for his daughter in
peace. Another part, a stronger part, urged her forward.

“Mr Barrett,” she blurted, wiping her feet on the doormat, “we’re so
sorry to be intruding on you in your time of grief, but we really do appreciate
you seeing us.”

Giving no indication he had heard her, Mr Barrett shuffled off.
Megan glanced at Greg, lifting her shoulders in a slight shrug as she stepped
through the doorway into the cork-tiled, narrow entrance hall. Greg followed,
closing the front door quietly behind him.

An opening to the right led into a large but cluttered room with
burnt-orange drapes framing lace-curtained windows at the far end. Mr Barrett
stood beside an ochre-colored velvet upholstered armchair, his arm draped
around the shoulders of a diminutive, fair-haired woman. Fear flashed in the
woman’s pale eyes, her eyebrows drawing together as Megan and Greg entered the
room.