Fatal Liaison (30 page)

“Time for a coffee?”

Megan glanced at her watch and shook her head. “Another time
perhaps. I just dropped by to say hello and to see if you’d heard anything more
about how the murder investigation is faring.”

With a sigh, Greg leaned back in his chair. “There’s still no
concrete evidence to link Lawson Green to any of the murders except Linda
Nichols, and that’s only circumstantial at best. I don’t know what to think
anymore.” He sighed again. “I was so sure he was the one, but Neville assures
me the police forensics team went over that disgusting hovel that he had Brenda
locked up in with a fine-tooth comb.” He displayed his palms in an open shrug.
“As far as they’re concerned, Sam – or any of the other women – were never
there.”

“He could’ve taken them somewhere else.” The buoyancy had left
Megan’s voice. “Or…” She paused and dropped her gaze as if thinking how to
phrase her next statement. “Or perhaps Brenda is right and Lawson isn’t the
killer.”

“What does Brenda know? She can’t even tell you why she thinks that,
except that she’s still alive.”

“But have you even stopped to think she might have a point?” Megan’s
voice was low and calm.

Of course he’d thought about it. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.
But if they hadn’t found Brenda when they had, would she too have ended up as
another corpse left to rot with a plastic cable tie encircling her neck?

Greg kept his thoughts to himself. He’d not witnessed Megan in such
an ebullient mood before and he wasn’t about to upset that. “Thinking is all I
do,” he said in answer to her question. “Go and collect Brenda. She’s more
important right now. We can talk later.”

Megan bounced to her feet and with a cheery wave was on her way.

Greg picked up his pen and once again tried to concentrate on
completing the form in front of him. Although his eyes read the words, his
brain refused to take them in. In frustration, he threw the pen down on the
desk and stood.

The police had told Greg they’d no reason to believe Sam had been
held captive for any length of time prior to her death. They also had no reason
not to believe it. But if she hadn’t, did that mean it was possible Lawson
Green wasn’t the one responsible for the murders of the four young women?

Tense and on edge, he grabbed his jacket and headed outside, hoping
to walk off some of the uneasiness. Questions, more questions and what-ifs
buzzed through his mind.

Even with all his story changes, Lawson had proclaimed his innocence
all the way along. He’d eventually confessed to abducting Brenda and holding
her against her will, but never once had he conceded to having any involvement
in the other women’s deaths. If that was true, then a serial killer was still
at large. And for all he knew, preparing to take another life.

Then it hit him that if Lawson hadn’t been actively involved in the
murders, did he know or at least suspect whom the killer was? That could
explain why he kidnapped Brenda. In his own warped way, he must’ve thought he
was protecting her from the killer. But that raised another question. Why did
Lawson feel Brenda was at risk in the first place?

Perhaps his need to protect her had been just another facet in one
of his psychotic episodes. It certainly would explain a lot. If Greg had his
facts right, Lawson Green had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder some eight
years earlier. Until recently, medication had managed to stabilize his moods,
keeping the severe swings from mania to depression and back again at bay.

For some obscure reason, known only to him, Lawson had suddenly
stopped taking his medication. The mania and depression had returned with a
vengeance, degenerating to the stage where he had started becoming delusional.
Hence the reason why he was locked up in a psychiatric ward and not a prison cell.

Greg faltered in his step, before coming to a standstill in the
middle of the footpath. If he could find out if Lawson had indeed been the man
his sister had been involved with, or not, as the case may be, that would at
least give him a starting point. But as the police had been less than
forthcoming with their information, there was only one way to do that. Only one
problem. How was he going to get access to Lawson?

He’d never had cause before to want to visit a patient in a secure
psychiatric facility. What were the protocols in such a situation? Would access
be limited to doctors, lawyers and the like? There was only one way to find
out.

Decision made, he turned on his heels and strode back in the
direction he had come from. His car was parked on the street in front of his
office. When he was about ten meters away, he pulled his keys from his pocket
and pressed the BMW’s remote, unlocking the car.

He buckled himself into the driver seat and considered calling
Neville Crooke, then thought better of it. Neville would do what was right and
warn him against trying to make any contact with Lawson Green. Then again,
being an ex-police officer, Neville would have the contacts and knowledge
needed to get past the gate.

Here goes nothing. He dialed the private investigator’s number.

Greg’s words were met with raucous laughter. “You’re joking, right?
You don’t seriously think you can just turn up at Thomas Embling Hospital and
they’re going to let you in?”

Greg held the phone from his ear as Neville laughed again.

“Hell, even as a cop the rigmarole you had to go through is
unbelievable. The security in that place is as tight as a fish’s arsehole.
Tighter.”

Greg got the picture. Plan A was out. He said his goodbyes and hung
up. It could’ve been worse; he could’ve driven out to Fairfield and made a real
laughing stock out of himself. Lesson learnt.

Plan B then. But before he could think about what that was, his
phone rang. He glanced at the caller display. Megan. That surprised him. He
hadn’t expected to hear from her so soon.

Keeping his voice light, he asked, “What’s up?”

“Pauline Meyer, that’s what’s up,” she replied, her voice an angry
whisper.

“Where are you?”

“Out on the balcony of Brenda’s room, waiting for her to finish
showering. Can you believe that woman had the nerve to turn up here bearing
flowers and pretending she actually cared? The gall of the woman.” She’d paused
barely long enough to take a breath when she was off again. “What really peeves
me off though is Brenda fell for it. She thinks that Pauline's concern was
genuine. Really. When I arrived, they were talking about Lawson. Of course,
they stopped as soon as they realized I was there. The sooner I get Brenda
home, the better.”

There was no love lost between him and Pauline, but Megan’s
animosity seemed to be almost verging on jealously. “Where’s Pauline now? Is
she still there?”

“No, thank God. Said she had a meeting with some hotshot lawyer and
a psychiatrist who are going to get Lawson out. Yeah, right. She’s the one who
needs the psychiatrist, not Lawson.”

Megan was certainly steamed up. He was about to ask if she had heard
anything more about Lawson’s condition when she cut him short. “I’ll call you
back.”

Megan hung up. While she’d been talking to
Greg, she’d plucked the card from a floral arrangement of white and pink
rosebuds. She opened it and read:
Get well soon. Yours, Nick x
He hadn’t
wasted any time.

Brenda emerged
from the bathroom, dressed except for her boots, her wet hair smelling of
apricots. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Very,” Megan
said, replacing the card. “How well do you know Nick?”

“Hardly at all.
I think he said he was a plumber or electrician or something. Can you check
what’s in that drawer?”

Megan opened the
bedside drawer, found a
Who
magazine and an inpatient questionnaire and
handed them to Brenda. “I thought you told him you weren’t interested.”

Brenda’s
shoulders caved. “I tried. Honestly, I did. But he was just so sweet. I didn’t
want to hurt him.”

“You think
getting his hopes up only to dash them is less painful?” Megan crouched down to
check inside the bedside cabinet.

“I thought he’d
get the hint.”

An image of Joe
flashed through Megan’s mind. “Men don’t do subtle.”

“Tell me about
it.”

“Just about
ready? Do you have your discharge papers yet?”

“The nurse said
she’d bring them.” Brenda perched on the edge of the bed. “I hope she doesn’t
take too long.”

Megan dropped
into a visitor chair. “Talking about not doing subtle, what or who do you think
Lawson was protecting you from? The boogie man?”

Brenda gave a
strained laugh and looked at her feet. “Probably.”

“What gives with
Pauline and Lawson? Did you at least find that out?” Megan uncrossed her arms,
not realizing she’d crossed them.

“It’s not
sexual, if you think that. She’s old enough to be his mother.”

“What then?

Brenda pulled a
face. “Friendship?”

“No, it’s more
than that.” A thought struck her. “Oh, shit. You don’t think that Lawson was
protecting you from Pauline? What if she wanted Lawson all to herself?”

For a long
moment, they just looked at each other, open-mouthed.

“We need to find
out if Lawson knew those other women,” Megan said.

“What will that
prove?”

“Motive. Think
about it. There has to be some reason she’s so possessive of him.”

At that moment,
a nurse arrived with Brenda’s discharge papers.

Ten minutes after arriving home, Megan had
her patient ensconced on the couch with water, magazines, and TV remote all
within arm’s reach. “Are you sure you’ll be all right here while I do a bit of
work?”

“Don’t stress.
I’m not an invalid, you know.” Brenda flapped her hand. “Go.”

“Do you want
me—”

“Go!”

“Going.”

Megan headed for
the study. Leaving the door ajar in case Brenda called, she logged onto the
computer. According to Greg, Pauline had lied about her husband being killed in
a car accident. Why would anyone say that if it weren’t true? And what about
Pauline’s dead son, the victim of a hit and run? Megan had yet to relate any of
it to Brenda. She needed more than hearsay before she dropped that on her.

It didn’t take
Megan long to find what she was after: a news article about the tragic death of
eleven-year-old Dylan Meyer Ambrose. She scrolled down the page, her heart
skipping a beat as the photo of Pauline’s son appeared. If she hadn’t known
better, she’d have sworn it was a photo of Lawson as a boy.

She returned to
the article, her gaze flicking back to the photo every few words in case she’d
imagined it.

“…father
arrested and charged with dangerous driving occasioning death.”
She had to read it three times before it sank in.

Pauline’s
drunken husband had been behind the wheel of the car that’d run down their son.
No wonder she told people her husband was dead – to her he probably was. Not
that it helped Megan with a possible motive. If the murder victims had been
inebriated men, she might have had cause.

“…flowers. That
was really sweet of you.” A pause, a giggle, then something Megan couldn’t make
out.

Megan waited and
when she heard no more, minimized the browser window, and went out to the
lounge.

“I assume that
wasn’t Pauline,” she said as Brenda glanced up.

“No, it was
Nick. He wants to take me on a picnic when I’m up to it.”

“What did you
tell him?”

“That I’d think
about it?”

“Oh, Brenda.”

“I know, I know.
But I couldn’t do it. Not today.”

“Wuss.”

Brenda smiled.
“At your service.”

“You okay for a
bit?” Megan asked, serious again.

“No. I need
someone to massage my feet and peel grapes for me.”

Megan laughed.
“In your dreams. Okay, I won’t be long.”

Back in the
study, she pulled up a new Internet page and plugged in “Nick Poulus.” Sweet he
may be, but she wanted to know a lot more about the widowed plumber who’d
witnessed Lawson and Linda leaving together in the taxi. Her grandmother’s
saying rang in her ears: “If it seems too good to be true then it probably is.”
In this case, he.

For the next
twenty minutes, she trawled the Internet for mention of Nick, Nicholas or
Nickolas Poulus. Many she discounted as the wrong Nick Poulus. Then pay dirt.
Or rather one small paragraph about the accidental drowning of primary school
teacher Rebecca Poulus at Hutt Gully beach near Anglesea, that concluded with:
“Rebecca
leaves behind her loving husband, Nicholas, and sister, Marilyn.”
Not a
lot, but something.

She stared at
the screen, her finger tapping a tuneless something on her lips. The Internet
could only tell her so much. She really needed to talk to someone who’d known
the married couple – preferably someone who wasn’t friends with Nick. If she
could find out Rebecca’s maiden name, then she might have a chance of tracking
down her family…