Authors: Vicki Tyley
Her moment of respite was brief. In sprint mode the instant the
revolving door spat her out on to the footpath, she skirted around and through
the throng of pedestrians, making Flinders Street in good time. Her pace
quickened further when she spotted the number 48 tram pulling into the stop.
Gasping for breath, she leapt onto the tram with only seconds to
spare. She jammed in between the standing commuters, finding a handhold on one
of the bright yellow vertical poles as the doors hissed closed.
It wasn’t until the tram was past the end of Brenda’s street that
she realized she’d missed her stop. Cursing under her breath, she pressed the
“next stop” button and worked her way toward the doors.
Except for the sporadic refreshing puff of wind, the late afternoon
air hung heavy and oppressive, which only served to add to her sense of unease.
Her shirt felt moist and sticky against her body and strands of hair clung to
her sweat-dampened face. Scraping back the hair, she readjusted her bag on her
shoulder and pressed on.
The setting sun brought a welcome drop in air temperature just as
Megan arrived, weary and bedraggled, outside the Victorian semi-detached house
Brenda had been describing as a “renovator’s delight” ever since she’d paid
some exorbitant price for it over two years ago. The brick-paved postage stamp
of a front courtyard also doubled as a car park. Fortunately, Brenda drove a
small car. It’d have been a squeeze for anything larger than the
fire-engine-red Mini Cooper that was parked there.
Breathing a little easier, Megan edged past the car toward the front
door. No point pressing the doorbell. Megan knew it didn’t work. Instead, she
knocked, stepped back and waited. No response. She tried again, calling out as
she rapped her knuckles harder against the door.
“Brenda, I know you’re in there. C’mon, open up.”
She thumped the door again.
And then again.
Megan was about to give up and try the back door when she heard what
she thought was movement. She held her breath, listening. From behind the door,
she heard the sound of slow footsteps approaching followed by the metal click
of the door lock unsnibbing.
When the door didn’t open as expected, Megan turned the door handle
and gave the door a tentative push. It swung open enough for Megan to catch
sight of Brenda padding barefoot down the hall away from her. She caught a
whiff of cigarette smoke. Frowning, she stepped in and closed the door behind
her.
She caught up with Brenda in the narrow but deceptively spacious
living room. Brenda, wearing a white fluffy robe that swallowed her, her hair
wrapped in a turban, puffed furiously on a cigarette. Three other butts lay
crumpled in the ashtray.
“I thought you gave up.”
Saying nothing, but continuing to drag on her cigarette, Brenda
scowled at her through the grey haze of smoke.
Completely mystified, but at the same time relieved, Megan dropped
her bag on to the floor and kicked off her shoes. Finding Brenda safe and sound
at home lifted a huge weight off Megan’s mind. With Linda Nichols’ murder and
the disappearance of Greg’s sister in the forefront of her thoughts, Megan had
begun to fear the worst, even though she didn’t like to admit it.
“So what’s up, Ms De Luca?” Megan deliberately kept her tone light.
“Nothing’s up.” Brenda released a mouthful of smoke. “I just needed
some me time, that’s all.”
Megan hadn’t heard that one before. “So you’re not still mad at me
because of what I said about Lawson?”
“Everyone’s entitled to their opinion,” muttered Brenda under her
breath as she ground her cigarette out in the ashtray.
The expression “like pulling teeth” immediately came to Megan’s
mind. It used to be one of her grandmother’s favorite sayings whenever the
information she was after wasn’t forthcoming. As a typical angst-ridden
teenager, Megan had heard the phrase often growing up.
Experience had taught Megan that when Brenda was in one of her moods
it was best not to turn the situation into something heavy and serious. The
lighter she kept it, the sooner Brenda would come around. Sometimes Brenda
would open up and confess what was bothering her, but other times Megan would
be left on the outer, none the wiser. Pressuring Brenda was a pointless
exercise; she’d only clam up further.
Megan settled at the far end of the oversized suede sofa and picked
up the Vogue magazine lying on the arm. She leafed through the glossy pages,
not absorbing the contents at all. She couldn’t relate to the stick-thin
models, let alone afford the clothes they paraded. The magazine’s use as a
prop, however, was invaluable. Feigning interest in an article about “this
season’s most covetable styles,” she bided her time.
After what felt like hours, but in reality must’ve been only a few
minutes, Megan heard a click as Brenda lit yet another cigarette.
“I should have listened to you.”
Brenda’s matter-of-fact statement took Megan aback. Her mind went
into fast rewind. What was Brenda referring to? Obviously something she’d said,
but what? Something about Lawson perhaps?
“I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming.”
See what coming?
“His disgusting revolting clammy hands were all over me. His
tongue—” Brenda’s voice broke. “Bastard!”
As anxious as she was to find out what’d happened, Megan stayed
mute, mentally willing Brenda to continue. They were the longest few seconds she’d
ever endured.
When Brenda did start talking again, she did so in a flat monotone
drone. Sat at opposite ends of the sofa, an imaginary screen separating them,
Megan felt like a priest in a confessional box. She listened in dismay as
Brenda recounted what’d happened in the warehouse earlier that day.
All Megan’s initial instincts were confirmed. It hadn’t been just
some exaggerated distaste for his ginger moustache after all. She angled her
body in Brenda’s direction, no longer the confessor. “I sincerely hope you’ve
reported it to the police. The bastard needs to be locked up. Better still,
strung up and castrated.”
“It’s my word against his.” Brenda’s voice sounded small and
defeated. “Besides what could he be charged with? He didn’t actually rape me,
you know. Maybe I led him on somehow without realizing it. Maybe it’s my
fault—”
Megan couldn’t believe her ears. “Don’t be ridiculous. You didn’t
lead him on. Just having tits is enough of a come-on for that bastard.” The
intensity of the outrage engulfing Megan’s body made her feel she possessed the
strength of Samson. If the lowlife had been standing in front of her at that
very moment, she’d have easily torn him limb from limb. How dare he think he
could get away with it.
Greg’s cappuccino
sat untouched, the milky froth slowly dissipating as he gazed out the window
down into Bourke Street Mall. His eyes roved back and forth across the crowns
of the milling Saturday morning shoppers. An approaching tram obscured his view
of a couple of buskers juggling fluorescent orange balls and other curiously
shaped objects.
Picking up the cup of now lukewarm coffee, he glanced back down into
the mall. His arm froze, the cup suspended halfway between the table and his
lips. Though the tram had gone and the buskers were still merrily entertaining
the crowd, it was the blonde woman and her darker haired male companion
standing between the tram tracks that had grabbed his attention. Without
averting his eyes from the two people below, he set the cup back in its saucer,
the coffee still untasted.
Something about the couple struck him as familiar, but it wasn’t
until the woman glanced up, almost as if she knew she was being watched, that
he recognized her as Pauline Meyer. He switched his gaze to the male. The man
she was so deep in conversation with had to be Lawson or at least someone who
bore a strong resemblance to him.
Endeavoring to gain a better vantage point, Greg edged closer to the
window and leaned over the sill. The way Pauline constantly touched Lawson and
their close proximity to each other reinforced Greg’s impression that theirs
was more than a strictly business relationship. But what was their connection?
Were they related somehow? Perhaps they were just good friends. Or had their
relationship developed into something deeper? Pauline and her toy boy Lawson?
The veritable odd couple indeed. Greg almost laughed out loud at the absurdity
of the image in his head. Gigolo then? Chuckling to himself, he continued to
watch as the drama unfolded.
Oblivious to the scowling looks and sidelong glances they were
receiving, Pauline and Lawson’s actions became more animated. If Greg had been
able to hear what was being said, he was sure the volume and intensity of their
voices would be getting more heated. Lawson’s arms flailed up and down and from
side to side. He appeared to have trouble standing in one spot, hopping from
foot to foot as if barefoot on hot sand. Pauline kept trying to grab his arms,
her failure to pacify him clearly distressing her.
Then one of Lawson’s thrashing hands connected with the side of
Pauline’s face. It hadn’t looked intentional, but even at a distance, the shock
in Pauline’s widened eyes and gaping mouth was apparent. People slowed as they
passed the couple as if deliberating whether to become involved. No one
actually stopped.
The arrival of another tram scattered the mall pedestrians. By the
time the tram had offloaded passengers, picked up more and moved on, Pauline
and Lawson had disappeared from sight. Greg scanned the mall, fixing on blonde
heads in his search for Pauline and Lawson. Were his eyes playing tricks on
him? Lack of sleep did strange things to people. He shook his head, no longer
able to trust his own judgment. Even so, he continued to scrutinize the crowd
unwilling to believe he’d imagined it.
His BlackBerry beeped. He had less than ten minutes to make it
halfway across the city. Berating himself for losing track of the time, he
abandoned his cold coffee, becoming flustered when the woman in front of him at
the cash register started counting coins from her wallet.
Finally, he was out of the coffee shop and bounding down the
escalator to the mall. Negotiating Melbourne’s streets on foot, the traffic
lights were in his favor, but the pedestrians were another story. He grew
increasingly impatient with the dawdling shoppers and tourists congesting the
footpaths. They kept getting in his way and at one stage, he almost collided
with two teenage girls who’d suddenly stopped in the middle of the footpath for
a impromptu chat.
Despite the hindrances, Greg arrived outside the multistory office
block only a couple of minutes past the appointed time. The building’s
automatic glass doors parted as he passed under the sensor, giving him entry
into the functional but featureless lift lobby. He pressed the lift button and
straightened his shirt collar, confirming the floor number from the building
directory while he waited.
Exiting on the fifth floor, he found himself in a bleak windowless
corridor. A metal strip high on the wall indicated suites 501 to 521 were along
the left hand passageway. As he traipsed down the carpeted corridor, he noticed
the metal plates on nearly every door he passed had the word “consultant”
engraved somewhere on it: engineering consultant, IT consultant, catering
consultant and even a color consultant – whatever that was.
With his luck, it came as no surprise to find Rickman Investigations
occupied the furthermost office. Though surprisingly the word “consultant”
didn’t appear anywhere on the door. Before entering, he peered through the
glass panel into the small reception area. The front desk was unattended. Nor
did he see any other signs of life.
The latch click as Greg opened the door seemed unnaturally loud in
the stillness. Clearing his throat, he called out.
“Be right there!” The answering bellow came from somewhere in the
back office’s depths.
Greg heard the clanging of what sounded like metal filing drawers
being slammed shut. A moment later, a giant of a man with a beer belly to match
filled the narrow opening off to the side of the reception desk. Life
experiences, etched deeply in the crevices of his face, gave it that lived in
look. Greg wasn’t a small man by any stretch, but the man advancing on him
positively dwarfed him. He certainly wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley.
“Greg Jenkins, I presume,” the giant boomed as he continued to
advance. Fe-fi-fo-fum… The man grabbed Greg’s hand in a bone-crushing
handshake, a broad grin softening his features. “Neville Crooke at your
service.”
Greg coughed, the irony of the investigator’s surname not going
unnoticed. He extracted his hand and followed Neville back to the rear of the
office.
He rubbed his shoulder, wondering whether the vigorous shaking had
dislocated it. The man obviously didn’t know his own strength.
Greg hesitated at the door. In contrast to the reception area’s
sparseness, this office was cluttered. A large desk in keeping with a man of
Neville’s stature took centre stage. It and every other available surface was
stacked with files of all sizes and descriptions, books, wads of paper and what
looked to be every type of electronic gizmo ever invented. No space was spared.
Even the computer monitor squeezed into a corner on the desk was plastered with
yellow and pink Post-it notes.