Authors: Vicki Tyley
His hand inched across the table, but stopped just short of Megan’s
fingers. “I really do understand, Megan.” Withdrawing his hand, he picked up
his wine glass. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the police will be checking it out
thoroughly.”
For a few moments neither spoke.
Greg twirled his fork in his meal, watching the strands of
fettuccine as they coiled and then uncoiled. “Then there’s Wayne McGurk, your
property entrepreneur: twice divorced, no children, two sisters, parents
deceased. More than a few speeding tickets, a couple of credit defaults.
Nothing really of note to report. Ditto Nick Poulus, the guy whose surname and
occupation you couldn’t recall. Widower, no siblings, father deceased, mother’s
whereabouts unknown, good credit rating. For the record, he’s a plumber.”
“Haven’t you forgotten someone?”
“Adam…” He closed his eyes for a moment, trawling his memory. “Adam
Tennyson: Car salesman, never married, one brother, two sisters, parents alive
but divorced, nothing untoward financially.”
“And?”
He glanced up, bringing his fork to a standstill. “And what?”
Megan glared at him, her lips pressed together in a thin line. “What
about Mr Ginger Moustache?”
“I was getting there.” He set his fork down and picked up his wine
glass. “If you mean Robert Lockwood then I can tell you he’s never been
married, lives at home with his elderly parents and is currently unemployed.”
She leaned forward, her gaze fixed on his.
He wavered, trying to read her face as he contemplated whether to
continue. “Please keep in mind what I’m about to tell you is all hearsay. It
seems your Mr Ginger Moustache left his last employer, a landscaping firm,
under a bit of a cloud. There was some suggestion of sexual harassment, but it
was all hushed up and no charges were laid.” He paused, taking a breath.
“Remember none of this has been substantiated,” he quickly added when Megan
frowned. “But, of course, there is the assault on your friend Brenda to
consider.”
Megan’s face turned grey. Greg could just imagine the scenarios
playing in her head and none of them were good. In retrospect, sharing what
he’d learnt from Neville Crooke with Megan had not been the wisest of moves.
Her bottom lip trembled.
Instinctively his hand reached across the table and covered hers.
“Forgive me. This was a bad idea. I should have kept it to myself.”
Megan shook her head. “No. No, it wasn’t. Please don’t ever hold
anything back. I need to know. We have to work together.” The corners of her
lips twitched. “Remember?”
He remembered, but he still wasn’t convinced. In his desperation to
trace his sister, he had been prepared to use every means at his disposal.
Megan had been one of those means. He saw now that his motives had been
selfish.
She read his thoughts. “It’s not up to you, so don’t even think of
shutting me out of this investigation.” Jutting her chin forward, she added,
“With what’s at stake you can’t afford to.”
“Please, please…
I’ll do whatever you want, but please just let me go.”
“Shut up! Shut up. I have to think.” With his hands clamped firmly
over his ears, he paced in tight circles in the space between the bed and the
door.
It’d taken some doing, but Brenda had eventually persuaded him to
remove the handcuffs from her wrists. However, the reprieve had been
short-lived. While her hands were freed, he’d shackled her left ankle to the
bed end with a heavy metal chain and two massive padlocks. He wasn’t taking any
chances.
“You can’t keep me here forever—”
He turned on her. “Just shut up, would you! Oh shit, don’t cry.
Please don’t cry. Here.” He stepped forward and shoved a crumpled rag at her.
“Wipe your face.”
She did as commanded, smearing the tears and days of accumulated
grime around her face. Her body, her hair, her teeth, her tongue, her clothes,
the bedding, the concrete floored room, everything, was coated in a layer of
grunge. With no escape from the filth of her own unwashed body and its wastes,
her sense of smell soon shut down. Yet her jailer, who spent more time away
from the room than in it, seemed unaffected by what now had to be a nauseating
stench. Every day she begged him for soap and water, but so far he had failed
to fulfill her request. The bottles of water he did bring were barely enough to
stave off dehydration.
The pressure points on her pelvis and back throbbed. She’d been
lying in the one position for far too long. She tried to sit up, but the effort
required was too much for her weakened body. She slumped back, knowing if she
didn’t get out of that room soon, she may never get out.
She’d tried everything to get through to him, her efforts thwarted
at every turn. Playing the friendly card hadn’t worked and threats only made
him angry. She’d pleaded, coaxed, cajoled, all to no avail. She was at her
wit’s end.
His behavior was becoming increasingly irrational. At first, he sat
for hours on end on one of the chairs in the corner just watching her, mumbling
words she couldn’t make out. Then without warning, he’d leap up and start
dancing around the room, his arms flailing in some witch doctor ritual.
Cowering on the bed, Brenda would close her eyes, waiting for the inevitable
pounding. But not once did he strike her. Instead he ranted, jumping from one
idea to another and talking so fast the words ran together. There’d be spells
when he seemed relatively calm, or at least stable, but they were becoming
shorter and less frequent.
Seizing the opportunity, she once again tried to reason with him.
“We’ll go to the police together. We’ll tell them what you know. They can stop
what’s happening. They’ll understand why you had to protect me.”
He delivered her a withering scowl. “They can’t stop it. Only the savior
can help you now.” With his arms outstretched above his head, he spun around
and around like a demented jack-in-the-box.
“Why are you doing this?”
Swaying, he came to a standstill. “Doing what?” He looked genuinely
puzzled.
“I’m not an animal. You can’t keep me chained up against my will.
What do you want from me?”
“It’s for your own good,” he replied, waving his hands as he once
again sent his body into a manic spin. “I am the savior.”
“Stop!” she screamed, wanting him to halt, but also hoping against
hope that someone outside would hear her. “Please.”
Deaf to her pleas he continued. “I am the savior, I am the savior, I
am the savior,” he sang at the top of his lungs before swinging around and
lunging towards her, bringing his face within millimeters of hers. “I am
your
savior.”
Standing on the
front steps of Brenda’s home, Megan felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck
stand up. The fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach warned her she
wasn’t alone. She turned slowly, scanning left and right, expecting at any
moment to be accosted. Nothing. Not a soul to be seen in either direction.
Except for the line of parked cars, the street was deserted.
Deciding it was only her nerves getting the better of her, she
stepped up into the small porch. Patches of fine black powder stood out against
the white painted front door, the only evidence that all was not as it should
be. The fingerprint powder raised Megan’s spirits a little; the police were
taking Brenda’s disappearance seriously, after all.
Wiping her feet on the rubber doormat, she rummaged in the side
pocket of her shoulder bag for Brenda’s spare key. They each had a key to the
other’s place, but Megan could only recall using it once before when Brenda had
been too sick to get out of bed. Megan had neglected to tell the police she had
the key. Not that they’d asked. And even though Megan thought hers was the only
spare key to Brenda’s house, she didn’t know for sure. Had Brenda hidden a key
outside somewhere in case she locked herself out? According to the police,
there had been no sign of a struggle. Though that assumed she had been abducted
from inside the house and not somewhere else.
Megan knew she shouldn’t be there, but if the police turned up, she
already had a story worked out. She was there to water the indoor plants. It
wasn’t a total lie. Brenda’s precious African violets weren’t exactly drought
tolerant. Brenda would never forgive her if she let them die.
She was about to insert the key in the lock when she heard a noise.
Freezing, all her senses alert, she tried to pinpoint the direction it came
from. This time she wasn’t imagining it. With the key clasped firmly between
her fingers acting as a makeshift knuckleduster, she turned her back to the
locked door.
A different noise, a loud creak and then a metal clang she recognized
as the side gate leading to the rear of the property being opened and closed,
spooked her.
“Who’s there?” she called out with an assertiveness she didn’t feel.
There was no answer, only the sound of approaching footsteps. Struck
dumb, she remained motionless, unable to tear her gaze away from the corner of
the path where the interloper would first appear.
“You! Pauline, what the fuck are you doing here?” Megan demanded,
using language that only ever came to the fore when she was at her angriest.
“You have no fucking right to be here.” She was shaking, the shock of seeing
Pauline Meyer resonating through her body. The Dinner for Twelve proprietor was
the last person she’d expected.
No longer feeling threatened, Megan stepped to the edge of porch and
stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at Pauline. Fortunately, the steps up
from the path gave her a height advantage. She probably wouldn’t have felt so
cocky if their positions had been reversed.
The first thing that struck Megan about Pauline was how haggard she
looked. The burden of the murder and missing person investigations was clearly
wearing on her, or perhaps it was because she had never seen Pauline in broad
daylight before. Whatever, it aged her ten years. Dressing like a
twenty-something in tight low-rise faded jeans and a frilly white open-weave
blouse that did nothing to hide her pink bra didn’t help either.
“What do you want, Pauline?”
Pauline’s eyes narrowed. “Lawson.”
“Lawson? Why the hell would Lawson be here of all places?”
Pauline shrugged. “Do you know where he is?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t you think if I knew where he was I would
tell the police?”
“Police? What’s it got to do with the police?”
Pauline’s response caught Megan unawares. “You mean you don’t know a
warrant has been issued for his arrest?”
Pauline swayed, clutching at the rail for support. “No, you’re
lying.” With one foot already on the bottom step, she moved to step up.
“Don’t come any further. I want you to go. I suggest you contact the
police if you want any information.”
Pauline stepped back and stared up at Megan, as if what she’d just
heard had yet to sink in. Then without a word, she turned and walked away.
Megan waited, breathing a sigh of relief as she watched Pauline
cross the road and get into a dark-blue sedan. It’d been all bluster on her
part. If Pauline had wanted to take her on, Megan wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Whilst the weight differential wouldn’t have been much, Pauline’s body was all
muscle. Not to mention the extra twenty centimeters in height Pauline had on
her.
Still shaken from her encounter, Megan quickly let herself into the
house, locking the door behind her. The only light in the narrow hall came from
two open doorways on the left. Breathing in the heavy stale air, she advanced
to the first room and stood just inside the doorway taking in the scene. Lace
curtains, in keeping with the house, screened the large front windows, but the
main drapes, a pair of heavy burgundy brocade curtains, were open. With the
covers on Megan’s king-size bed thrown back, the magazine lying face down on
one of the pillows and the half glass of water sitting on the bedside table, it
looked as if Brenda had only just popped out of bed.
Without touching anything, Megan left the room and continued down
the hall. At the back of her mind was something Pauline had said. Pauline must
have had her reasons for thinking she might find Lawson there. The thought that
Lawson could be hiding out in the house had crossed Megan’s mind. It’d
certainly be the last place anyone, except Pauline, that is, would bother to
search. She prowled around the house, expecting at any moment to see Lawson
leap out of a wardrobe or from behind a door.
In the laundry, she filled the watering can, hoping the cold tap
water wouldn’t be too much of a shock to the temperamental African violets.
Tending the neglected plants made her feel she was doing something
constructive, minor as it was.
She noticed the clothes dryer was full, so opened it and, without
thinking, started shaking out its contents, folding the items neatly and
placing them in the white plastic wash basket sitting on top of the washing
machine. A temporary distraction.
She had almost finished when she heard a sound coming from the front
of the house. She paused, listening. There it was again. Somebody was banging
on the front door.