Fatal Liaison (9 page)

While Brenda talked, Megan studied the business card, a simple
two-tone green background with a stylized leaf overprinted on the left. The
name on the card was Robert Lockwood. Under the name, in smaller block letters,
were listed a mobile phone number, an email address and a P O Box address.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit suss?” Megan asked, as she handed the
business card back to Brenda.

“What?”

“He doesn’t have a street address or landline.”

Brenda glanced at the card, a slight frown creasing her forehead.
“No, not really. He’s a contractor. He probably doesn’t have a fixed office.
Not everyone does, you know.” She dropped the business card into her handbag,
closing the bag’s zip as she turned back to Megan.

Brenda’s face lit up with a cheeky smile. “Enough about business.
Your new lover-boy is far more interesting. C’mon, spill the beans. Tell me all
about him.”

Megan rose to the bait. “Lover-boy?” she spluttered. “I’ve only just
met the man.”

As soon as Brenda started cackling, Megan realized her friend was
indulging in one of her favorite pastimes, winding her up. Even after all their
years as friends, Megan still occasionally allowed herself to be reeled in.

“What’s up with Lawson?” Megan asked, changing the subject. “He was
really down in the mouth.”

The slight frown reappeared on Brenda’s forehead, the corners of her
mouth drooping. “God knows what his problem is. I sure as hell don’t. He really
was moody though, wasn’t he?”

Megan opened her mouth to reply, but Brenda continued, talking more
to herself than to Megan.

Strike three. How
many strikes was he allowed?

Greg stood on the footpath just far enough away from the bar he’d
been banished from to be out of sight. He shivered as the wind lifted, crossing
his arms over his chest and using his hand to pull the open neck of his shirt
closed. Ties had a practical use, after all.

Had he really the audacity to think he’d fare better than the
police? Using his friend’s name as a subterfuge had opened a door, but from
thereon in his strategy had failed miserably. All he’d succeeded in doing was
to antagonize Pauline Meyer – his only link to Sam’s disappearance. The woman
was like an unrelenting guard dog keeping unwelcome outsiders at bay. He wasn’t
good with dogs.

Lawson Green’s exit from the bar caught him off guard. In the split
second their gazes met, Greg glimpsed sheer panic in Lawson’s face. Before Greg
could stop him, Lawson fled across the road, dodging traffic, deaf to Greg’s
shouts. Greg stared open-mouthed as Lawson reached the footpath on the other
side and promptly disappeared down a side alley.

Megan couldn’t
believe it. Gentleman Joe as she’d nicknamed him, had asked her out to dinner and
she’d accepted. To say she was feeling nervous was an understatement. She
hadn’t been on a
proper
date since Darryl, the two-timing bastard, had
unceremoniously dumped her. She was due to meet Joe Renmark at the restaurant
in less than three hours. There was still time to back out. She felt a headache
coming on. But what if Joe is the one to restore your faith in the male
species, a voice inside her head admonished.

Shaking her head, she hooked the hanger over the rail, rejecting yet
another shirt. Even though her wardrobe was crammed with clothes, she struggled
to find something to wear. Yet another excuse to cancel dinner? After much
consideration, she settled on black slimline trousers and a hip-skimming
crossover black top. Even her shoes were black. The one redeeming feature was
the top’s intricate silver buckle, lifting the look from bland to elegant.

Next was the handbag. She upended the shoulder bag she’d taken with
her to the bar the previous night on her bed. As she transferred a few of the
bag’s contents to a clutch bag more in keeping with her outfit, she came across
Gregory Jenkins’s business card. An image of his anxious face flashed through
her mind. What had happened to his sister? What had the agency to do with it,
if anything? Why was Pauline so anti the police? Was she merely protecting her
business interests or was there more to it?

Megan tucked the card under the edge of the telephone on her bedside
table, thinking she would give him a call in a day or two. Perhaps his sister
would have surfaced by then. She hoped so.

She’d just turned back to the clutter on the bed when the phone rang.
Reaching for it, she continued to sort her bag’s contents as she answered.

At first there was only a breathless squeak followed by a loud gulp.
“Oh my God, Megan! Oh my God!”

Megan froze. “Brenda, calm down. Take a deep breath. What’s
happened?”

“Oh my God, you’re not going to believe this. It’s… the police…”
Brenda’s voice trailed off. Hysterical sobbing followed.

Megan dropped down onto the bed, bulldozing aside her wallet,
hairbrush and sunglasses with the back of her free hand. It must’ve taken her a
good five minutes to calm Brenda enough to get any sense out of her.

“Take a deep breath,” Megan said, “and start from the beginning.”

“Linda Nichols is dead.” Brenda paused, gasping for air. “Raped and
strangled in her own bed.”

“Are you sure?” Megan clamped the phone to her ear, struggling to
absorb the news. It wasn’t possible. How could it be? They’d seen her in her
full glory a week ago. Now Brenda was telling her that Linda Nichols, the woman
she’d christened Mata Hari, was dead.

Raped.

Strangled.

Murdered.

The words echoed in Megan’s head.

“Of course, I’m bloody sure,” Brenda said, the pitch of her voice
rising. “I’ve just been interviewed by the police.”

Megan listened without interruption, having to remind herself every
few moments to breathe. From what Brenda was saying, Linda’s decomposing body
had been found at home in her bed. Strangled with a plastic cable tie. The sort
of news you read about in the papers, not about someone you actually knew.
Someone you could put a face to. They hardly knew the woman, but…

The police. If the police had spoken to Brenda then most certainly
they would be contacting her. A barb of guilt suddenly pricked at her
conscience. Even though she’d never voiced them, her initial thoughts on
meeting Linda had been less than kind. Megan knew it wasn’t rational, but she
wanted to take back those thoughts.

A snippet of a previous conversation with Brenda popped into Megan’s
head. “You don’t think that Lawson—”

Brenda jumped in before Megan could complete the sentence. “No, I
don’t think!”

Megan moved the phone from her ear, surprised by Brenda’s defensive,
almost hostile reaction. Her friend was being very protective of a man she’d
only just met. Megan tried a different approach, her voice neutral. “I didn’t
mean to imply anything. It’s just that you mentioned that Lawson and Linda left
the restaurant around the same time last Saturday. I just thought that—”

“I didn’t say they left together.”

“Brenda, I didn’t say that. What has got into you? Why are you being
so prickly?”

“Don’t say anything to the police. Please. Stay put. I’m coming
over.”

Not waiting for a reply, Brenda hung up, leaving Megan listening to
the disconnection hum. In slow motion, Megan replaced the phone in the cradle.
She remained seated on the bed, trying to untangle her thoughts. Certainly the
news of Linda’s murder had winded her, but Brenda’s aggression was even more
bewildering. Had she missed something?

She forced herself to take a deep breath, slowing her mind.
Speculation could only be counterproductive. In situations like this, the mind
always conjured up worse case scenarios. Her only option was to wait for
Brenda.

Greg’s hand
flailed for the alarm clock. Nothing but air. He sat bolt upright, instantly
awake, although it took him a second or two to work out where he was. Massaging
the crick in the side of his neck, he eased himself off the couch. He’d lost
all track of time. Sunlight streamed through the lounge room’s west windows.
Late afternoon.

The whole of the previous night he’d prowled from room to room,
unable to sleep. His brain had been working overtime, looking for clues,
searching for answers. He still couldn’t shake the image of Lawson’s wide-eyed
pale face from the forefront of his memory. There had to be more – much more –
to it than met the eye. Somehow, he had to find out what.

In the end, lack of sleep and mental exhaustion took its toll. It’d
been daylight when he’d stopped pacing. The last thing he remembered was
sinking onto the couch.

The doorbell rang again.

Feeling like the walking dead, he padded in his socks across the
room towards the front door. He opened the door at the precise moment his mouth
gaped in an involuntary yawn that threatened to swallow his face. He closed his
mouth, but before he could open his eyes, he yawned again, powerless to stop
it.

When he was able to clamp his mouth shut long enough to open his
eyes, he came face to face with two grim-faced, clean-shaven men in neat, but
obviously cut-price suits. Mormons. He was about to close the door in their
faces when they produced identification.

A flicker of hope welled in his chest and he smiled tentatively, his
eyes searching their faces for confirmation. They didn’t return his smile,
promptly dashing his hopes.

“Mr Jenkins? Detective Sergeant Dave Abrahams and,” the more
thickset of the two men motioned at his companion, “my colleague Detective
Senior Constable Eric Friar. May we come in please?”

Without a word, Greg stepped aside and held the door open, closing
it again once the police officers were inside. He lingered, his back to the
men, taking a moment to steel himself. Forcing a smile, he ushered them through
to the lounge room.

“Can I get you gentlemen anything? Coffee?” Greg’s heart hammered in
his chest, the sound of blood rushing in his ears so loud he was convinced the
officers could hear it, too.

“We’re fine, thanks.”

His power of speech momentarily deserting him, Greg gestured at the
couch. The detectives took the cue, seating themselves at opposite ends of the
couch. Greg dithered – anything to delay the inevitable – about where to sit,
before opting for the more austere Chesterfield chair. His fingers dug into the
dense leather arms, anchoring himself to the seat.

Every nerve cell in his body twanged. He knew why the detectives
were there, so why didn’t they hurry up and get it over with. He closed his
eyes waiting for the words that would tear his whole being apart.

The sergeant cleared his throat. “What can you tell us about the
dating agency, Dinner for Twelve?”

Greg’s eyes snapped open. “Sorry?”

The detective repeated the question.

Tension drained from Greg’s body. He loosened his grip on the
chair’s arms and sank back in the seat. “I don’t know what she’s told you, but
I can explain.”

“Explain what, Mr Jenkins?”

“Why Pauline Meyer jumped to the conclusion I was a cop.”

“Sorry, you’re losing me.”

“Isn’t that why you’re here? To follow up on a complaint by the
owner of Dinner for Twelve?”

“Not exactly, though it would help to know what this incident you’re
referring to between you and Mrs Meyer is all about.”

“Just a simple misunderstanding.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Greg studied the senior detective’s hardened features. Why were they
there? “I was asking questions about my sister. Mrs Meyer didn’t approve.”

“What sort of questions?”

“Christ!” He sat forward, throwing up his hands. “What is this? I
haven’t broken any laws. Simply doing what any brother concerned about his
missing sister would do. What you should be doing.”

“Broken no laws, perhaps, but undermining and jeopardizing the police
investigation into your sister’s whereabouts isn’t in anyone’s best interests.
Leave the detective work to the police in future.”

A retort about their lack of progress to date was on the tip of his
tongue. He closed his mouth, swallowing the words. Nothing could be gained from
antagonizing them. He would do whatever it took to find his sister and bring
her home. “So how can I help?”

The two officers took turns to ask him questions about Dinner for
Twelve, questions about what he knew of the people involved, questions about
Sam’s affiliations with the agency. And then they turned the questions around
and asked them all over again. Greg held nothing back.

In the midst of spieling off his suspicions about Lawson, Greg
caught the two detectives exchanging knowing glances. He stopped mid-sentence.

“What’s going on?” He jumped to his feet and stared down at the
senior detective, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “What aren’t you
telling me?”

“Please sit down, Mr Jenkins.”