Authors: Vicki Tyley
Megan’s insides churned. What could she say to this husband and wife
that wouldn’t sound superficial? Hoping the words would come to her, she opened
her mouth. Unfortunately, all that she managed were a pile of ums and ahs.
Then she heard Greg’s voice – soft and low – from behind her right
shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. The
pain is all encompassing. It’s not just emotional, it’s physical…”
Mrs Barrett’s fingers locked together in a stunted prayer. Her eyes
brimmed with tears. Mr Barrett’s head moved in a barely perceptible nod, his
arm tightening around his wife’s shoulders.
“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal. Love leaves a memory no
one can steal. Your daughter will always be your daughter. May her soul rest in
peace.”
Megan swallowed hard, the emotion in the room overwhelming her. It
took everything she had to fight the instinct to flee. She shouldn’t have come,
but now that she was there, she couldn’t leave.
Whether it was intended or not, Greg came to her rescue.
“Mrs Barrett, how about we get Megan to make us all a nice cup of
tea?”
As if suddenly remembering her manners, Mrs Barrett went to stand
up, but her husband’s steadying hand stopped her. He whispered something in her
ear and she nodded, sitting back in her chair.
Ordinarily, Megan would have resented someone offering her services
before asking her first, but not this time. Leaping at the chance to do
something constructive as well as have the time to compose her thoughts, she
headed in the direction Mr Barrett pointed.
Unlike the living room, the kitchen was spartan with no knick-knacks
cluttering the windowsills or pink marble-look benches, but like the living
room, it was spotless. She filled the kettle, setting it to boil before going
in search for the rest of the tea-making accoutrements.
The kitchen drawers and cupboards soon yielded teaspoons, cups and
saucers. In the pantry, she found a white plastic canister containing teabags
and an opened bag of white sugar. Dreading the thought of having to go back and
ask each of them how they took their tea, she kept foraging in the hope she
would come across a sugar bowl and milk jug. She found both, plus a short
spouted stainless steel teapot that looked as if it probably hadn’t been used
for quite some time.
She rinsed the teapot in hot water and set it, along with the cups
and saucers, on the floral enameled tray she found under the sink. The only
thing left to do was to fill the milk jug.
She was about to open the fridge door when two photographs tacked to
the side of the fridge, both with slightly curled edges, caught her attention.
Glancing over her shoulder, she slid her hand down the side of the
fridge and removed the photos. The first photo was of a young woman sitting
cross-legged on a bed surrounded by what looked to be textbooks, laughing and
poking her tongue at the photographer. Clean-faced and with her long
strawberry-blond hair tied back in a ponytail, she looked a picture of
innocence.
Even before she turned the photo over, Megan knew that this girl had
lost more than her innocence. “Tina pretending to study,” read the inscription.
No date was recorded.
The next photo appeared to be taken in a restaurant. Tina sat
between her doting parents, all three smiling cheesily at the camera. Megan’s
heart sank when she flipped the photo over, read the date and realized it
must’ve been taken not long before Tina disappeared. She turned back to the
photo. Megan found it hard to reconcile the bright-eyed, middle-aged man and
woman in the photo with the wizened couple in the next room. In the last two
years, Tina’s parents must’ve aged twenty years or more.
With a heavy heart, she returned the photos to their rightful spot
and opened the fridge door. Each shelf was laden with casserole pots and
microwave containers. Friends and neighbors, Megan guessed. Or, God forbid, leftovers
from the wake…
She tried not to think about it and finished making the tea. After a
couple of deep breaths, she found her way back to the living room, her sole
focus on the heavy tray she carried.
Although Mr and Mrs Barrett hadn’t moved, Greg was now perched on
the sofa next to Mrs Barrett’s armchair. He was passing her what appeared to be
the photos from the brown envelope one at a time. She in turn was handing them
to her husband.
Greg scarcely glanced up when Megan set the tray down on the polished
coffee table in front of the sofa. Mr Barrett shuffled over to help, handing
the stack of photos back to Greg with a weary shake of his head.
“Thank you, anyway,” Greg said, dropping the photos back into the
brown envelope. “It was worth a try.”
What was worth a try? Will someone please tell me what’s going on, a
voice inside Megan’s head screamed. Keeping her thoughts to herself, she busied
herself pouring the tea.
She almost didn’t feel Mr Barrett’s light touch on her forearm. He
whispered something she didn’t catch and pointed at a collection of framed
photographs arranged on the narrow mantelpiece above the fake fireplace housing
an electric heater. Carrying her cup of tea, she accompanied him to the other
side of the room.
The expression on his face as he proudly showed her the numerous
photos of his beautiful daughter held more than the deep sadness so evident in
his eyes. There was a love there that Megan knew no monster could ever take
away.
“Tina was a very beautiful girl.”
Mr Barrett sniffed. “Smart, too,” he said propping up a larger
version of the same photo of his daughter studying that Megan had seen in the
kitchen.
She had so many questions she wanted to ask. Did Tina have a
boyfriend? Where was the boyfriend now? Had the police told them anything more
about how their daughter had died? Had Tina ever been part of a singles club or
had she at some stage joined a dating agency? She couldn’t imagine Tina
would’ve ever been short of suitable dates, but until Brenda and she had joined
Dinner for Twelve, she’d have said the same about her best friend. The list of
questions was endless, but standing there in the Barrett family home, Megan
knew it was neither the place nor the time. Her conscience wouldn’t allow it.
Returning to the coffee table, she set her empty cup on the tray
beside Greg’s full one. A thin film of milk skin had begun to form on the
untouched tea’s surface.
“Megan, Mrs Barrett has just been showing me Tina’s photo album and
telling me all about her study group. Look,” Greg supported the open photo
album on the front edge of the coffee table and pointed to one photo. “Doesn’t
he remind you of your cousin Lawson?”
Cousin Lawson? What was he on about?
She edged around the coffee table to join Greg on the sofa. Looking
at the photo upside down she’d been unable to make out details of the group of
people. Greg’s finger hovered over one of three young men sitting on a beach
with a group of four sunbathing women.
Megan shook her head. If Greg was referring to Lawson Green, then
she just couldn’t see the resemblance. Sure, the long flop of dark hair over
his forehead was similar. Ditto, the boy’s build, but no more than at least
half the young men around.
“You don’t think so?” Greg cocked an eyebrow in her direction.
She rocked her hand, palm down, from side to side in a so-so motion.
“Perhaps a little.”
“What does your cousin Lawson do, dear?”
Megan’s eyes widened, as much at hearing Mrs Barrett’s voice as the
question itself.
She shot a daggered look at Greg. “Uh… um…” she stammered. Her mind shifted
into overdrive. “Uh… He’s travelling overseas just now.”
“Tina was going to go abroad when she finished her study,” Mrs
Barrett said, her voice cracking. “When she disappeared the police suggested
that the stress of her study may have prompted her to go early. I wanted to
believe that so much…”
Within seconds, Mr Barrett was at her side.
Greg stood up, apologizing again for the intrusion. “Stay there. We
can let ourselves out.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help. We hope you find your friend
soon. For us,” Mr Barrett paused and looked down at his wife, “the not knowing
was the worst.”
The instant the
car doors closed, Megan pounced. “Okay, I played along, but would you mind
telling me what that stunt with the photo and,” she made quotation marks in the
air with her fingers, “‘Cousin’ Lawson was all about?”
Greg opened his mouth, but before he could speak Megan continued.
“And another thing. How about cluing me in about the photos you were
showing the Barretts.”
Greg reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, then changed his
mind and withdrew his hand. “You’re right. I should’ve told you about the
surveillance photos…”
“Surveillance photos? What the hell are you talking about? What
surveillance photos?”
He’d never seen Megan this riled before. Although she’d come close
the day before when they’d been walking in circles, temporarily lost in the
Yarra Ranges National Park. “I’ll explain everything, but I don’t think this is
the place to do it, do you?” he asked, gesturing past Megan at the house they’d
just left.
She nodded, the steam coming from her ears a little less visible.
Selecting a Jamie Cullum CD from his stacker, he pressed play.
Anything to ease the prickly silence that’d descended on the car.
On the drive back to his office, Greg stole the occasional glance at
Megan. Deep in thought, her gaze focused on some invisible spot on the
dashboard. What did he think he was proving by not showing her the surveillance
photos Neville Crooke had taken? What’d he been trying to protect her from? The
increasingly heavy traffic in combination with the wet roads gave him little
time to dwell on the answers.
Greg pulled into a car park outside his office, yanked on the
handbrake, and angled his body toward Megan. “I’m sorry about the Cousin Lawson
thing. I just didn’t want the Barretts getting wind of whom I was really
referring to. They have more than enough to deal with.”
For a couple of seconds Megan said nothing. “Greg, I know how much
you want to find Sam’s killer, but don’t you think you might be becoming a
little obsessed with Lawson Green? You seem to have set your sights on him to
the exclusion of all other possibilities. You’re seeing things that aren’t even
there.” She paused, drawing breath. “Have you thought he might just be a convenient
scapegoat?”
Thrown by Megan’s forthrightness, Greg took a few moments to gather
his thoughts. Had he become fixated on Lawson? But he was pivotal to everything
that’d happened. Greg was convinced of that. Then again, what if Megan was
right? What if he wasn’t seeing the whole picture?
“All right, I concede I’ve had Lawson in my sights, but he’s been
the one common denominator in all this. You surely don’t believe it’s all
coincidental.”
Megan shrugged. “I don’t know what to believe, but I do think there
is a lot more to it than we’re seeing. I must admit that going to see the
Barretts was not one of my brightest ideas. I can’t believe how selfish and
naïve I was to think that they would be up to answering questions.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to follow up Melanie Armstrong’s
family?”
Megan turned to face him, her eyebrows drawn together in a deep V.
“Don’t you agree?”
He nodded. “Just checking. Have to make sure we’re thinking along
the same lines. The Barretts didn’t recognize anyone from the photos, anyway.
We’ll just have to assume that the Armstrongs wouldn’t either.” He drew out the
envelope of surveillance photos from his jacket pocket and handed them to
Megan. “These are the photos Rickman Investigations shot when they were
checking out the Dinner for Twelve crowd.”
Megan took the envelope from him and shuffled through the photos,
stopping briefly on a photo of her and Brenda standing on the footpath talking.
After replacing the photos in the envelope, she passed them back to Greg. “You
had
me
under surveillance?” she asked, her words laced with incredulity.
“Nothing personal.” Idiot, you should have removed that photo, a
little voice inside his head rebuked. He smiled, trying to make light of it.
“They were just covering all bases. Hey, I even featured in one of them.”
Megan rolled her eyes, giving him a look that told him she was past
caring. He was about to suggest adjourning to somewhere more conducive to
talking, perhaps even lunch, when a tap on the fogged-up driver’s side window
stopped him. He lowered the window and watched as Neville Crooke’s bushy
two-tone eyebrows materialized, followed by a pair of deep-blue eyes, a
slightly twisted Roman nose and finally his mouth and chin.
The private investigator peered in the window past Greg to Megan.
“Is it any of my business where you two have been?”
Greg and Megan glanced at each other, shaking their heads in unison.
“Didn’t think so,” Neville said, his voice reverberating in the
confines of the car. “So are you going to leave me out in this bloody drizzle
or are you going to offer me a nice hot cup of coffee in that swank workplace
of yours?” He gestured in the direction of Greg’s office. “Well then, hurry up
you two. I don’t have all day.”