Authors: Vicki Tyley
Multiple dead
ends later, her efforts were rewarded. Rebecca’s sister, Marilyn Wetherspoon,
had placed a remembrance notice on an online memorial site. Megan’s grip
tightened around the computer mouse. How many M Wetherspoons could there be in
Australia?
As it turned
out, only two. Megan jumped to her feet and closed the study door, shutting out
Brenda and what sounded like a travel documentary on television. Then praying
that Rebecca’s sister didn’t have an unlisted number, she called the first M
Wetherspoon.
“Hi, it’s Miles.
Sorry, I’m not in—”
She hung up and
tried the second number.
“Good morning,”
greeted a refined woman’s voice.
“Marilyn?” Megan
held her breath.
“Yes…”
“Rebecca’s
sister?”
“Who is this?”
Marilyn demanded. “How do you know my sister?”
“My name is
Megan Brighton. I never knew your sister, but I met her husband.” She heard a
sharp intake of breath. “Only briefly, though…” She paused, searching for the
words that wouldn’t come. “I’m so sorry you had to lose your sister in such
tragic circumstances. I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult that must’ve
been for you.”
“What do you
want?”
Megan swallowed.
“Your help.”
“My help?”
“I don’t
normally interfere in my friends’ love lives, but I have a friend who’s been
through a lot lately. She doesn’t need more heartache.”
“What’s this got
to do with my sister?”
“Nothing
directly. More her husband. Bren… my friend is considering dating Nick. I’m
concerned she may be getting involved with a man who’s—”
“A narcissistic,
controlling son-of-a-bitch?”
Megan breathed
out. “You didn’t get on with your brother-in-law?” she asked, no longer walking
on eggshells.
“That’s an
understatement. I was so happy when Bec told me she was leaving him, that she
couldn’t handle his possessiveness any longer. Of course, Nick convinced
himself there was another man.”
“They were
separated?”
“She’d planned
to move out that day… the day she died.” Marilyn’s voice cracked. “She’d just
signed a lease on an apartment.”
“Was there
anything suspicious about her death?”
“The coroner
said not. He ruled her death an accident.”
“But you don’t
think it was?”
“I’m not
convinced, no. Bec was a strong swimmer and she knew that beach like her own
backyard. And if she did run into trouble, why didn’t the bastard rescue her?”
“Why do you
think she agreed to go swimming with him on the day she was moving out?”
“My thoughts
exactly.” Marilyn sighed. “Pity perhaps. He had a knack of playing on her
sympathies. Nick is one of those poor-me people. His mother left when he was
very young – supposedly – leaving his father to raise him the best he could.
Then when he was eighteen, his father died from a heart attack. Bec thought she
could fill the void.” Her tone turned wistful. “She was always the one to bring
home strays. I miss her.”
“Oh, Marilyn,
I’m so sorry to have dragged it all up again.”
“If I can save
just one woman from his clutches…”
“I really
appreciate you being so open with me. If I could ask one last question: do you
know the names of any girlfriends he’s had since your sister’s passing?”
“No. After the
funeral, I never heard from him again. Tell your friend to stay well away. He’s
bad news.”
Megan hung up.
Plumbers used cable ties. Why hadn’t she seen it sooner? Someone on the
peripheral. Someone who was there but wasn’t. She’d been looking at it from the
wrong angle. Like one of those abstract pictures that you could stare at for
hours and never quite make out what it was supposed to be, but when you turned
it on its side, it all made sense.
Only one slight
hitch: she needed hard evidence to back up her suppositions. Throwing
unsubstantiated allegations around wouldn’t endear her to anyone. Least of all,
the police.
For what she had
in mind, she’d need a lookout. No way was Brenda up to it and she wouldn’t have
asked anyway. Besides, someone with a bit more muscle might come in handy, she
thought as she picked up the telephone in the hope of roping Greg into her
plans.
He answered just
as she was about to hang up, then listened without interruption, as she outlined
her plan to gain entry and search Nick Poulus’s residence.
“First, why are
we whispering?” He cleared his throat, then continued in his normal voice. “And
second, what you’re proposing is highly illegal.”
“And murder
isn’t?" she retorted.
Greg leaned
forward. “Have you never heard of neighborhood watch?” he whispered, as Megan
levered the end of a screwdriver between the two French doors at the rear of
the Victorian cottage.
Megan ignored him, her face fixed in concentration as she continued
to jemmy the doors. His first instinct when she’d phoned him was that her
theories were way off base. But the more he thought about it, the more they
made sense. However, that didn’t give them the right to break into private
property. Although, come to think about it, it did seem to be becoming a habit.
Ends justifying the means and all.
But was a hunch justification enough? Megan thought so and nothing
Greg said had swayed her from her intended course. He’d wanted to call the
police; she was adamant they didn’t. In the end, she’d told him she would do it
with or without him. He believed her.
The crack of timber splintering jolted Greg. Megan’s housebreaking
skills were evidently far superior to his. He didn’t stop long enough to work
out if that was a good thing or a bad thing. With a little joggling, the door
swung in. Megan stepped over the sill. After one last quick glance around at
the neighboring properties, he followed.
Closing the fractured door the best he could, he stepped away from
the glass panes, pulling Megan with him. She shook him off, but stayed away
from the doors.
They moved from room to room, not touching, just looking. The air
reeked of stale cigarette smoke and old wallpaper. The cottage’s small rooms,
though neat and tidy, felt cramped. Contemporary furniture not in keeping with
the house’s era was crammed in every room. It was as if the homeowner had
downsized from a larger more modern home.
His BlackBerry rang. Megan yelped. He jumped. They were both on
edge. Without looking at who the caller was, he turned off the phone. He wasn’t
exactly in a position to be taking calls.
Greg wasn’t sure how much more his nerves could take. There was a
right way and there was a wrong way; this was the wrong way. “There’s nothing
here. Let’s get out of here.” He reached for Megan’s arm.
“No. Not yet. We haven’t even started looking.” She stood in the
doorway to the master bedroom. “Check the front.” She slipped from his grasp
before he had a chance to respond.
If he stood on his toes behind the lace-curtained lounge room
window, he could just see over the cream painted brick front fence into the
street. A couple of teenage girls sauntered down the footpath in one direction.
In the other, he spotted an olive-skinned youth walking hand-in-hand with his
blonde-haired girlfriend. The car parking space outside the house was empty.
His BMW was parked on the other side of the street five houses up.
Dropping back down on to his heels, he headed back across the faded
Axminster carpet out into the dark narrow hall. Approaching the bedroom door,
he could hear the sound of drawers being opened and closed.
Then he heard Megan gasp. His pace quickened. He found her standing
open-mouthed next to the bed, staring at something in her hands. He rushed
across the room and looked over her shoulder.
The object she held in her hands was a small intricately carved
jewellery box, its hinged lid wide open. But instead of jewellery, the box
contained photographs. Greg saw instantly what had caused Megan’s reaction. The
top photo showed Megan’s friend, Brenda, getting out of her car, obviously
unaware someone had a camera lens trained on her.
Megan set the box down on the bed, removing the photos. Perspiration
beaded her upper lip and forehead. She quickly shuffled through the remaining
photos, dumping them back in the box before turning her attention to the
bedside table’s drawers.
Now convinced Megan was on to something, he made a start on the
freestanding wardrobe in the corner. Not knowing what he was looking for, he
searched the wardrobe systematically, starting from the top shelf and working
down. Blankets, men’s clothes, women’s clothes, shoes.
It wasn’t until he knelt on the floor to close the stiff bottom
drawer that he thought to look under the wardrobe. With the side of his face
against the carpet, he peered into the dark recess. There, pushed to the back,
was a black box. He reached in and, snagging it with the tips of his fingers,
dragged it out.
He opened it. Newspaper clippings – some old and faded, some new –
packed the box. He flicked through them, his heart beating harder and faster
with each one.
The murder of Linda Nichols.
The discovery of the skeletal remains.
Sam’s murder.
The disappearance of waitress Melanie Armstrong.
The disappearance of TAFE student Tina Barrett.
Greg sat back on his haunches, his insides twisting into knots as
the sickening realization set in. They’d found the missing link. But what did
it prove?
Nothing.
He kept digging through the box, his fingers stopping short of the
assorted driver licenses at the bottom of the box. Breathing hard, he fumbled
in his pocket for his BlackBerry and switched it on. He glanced around. Megan
was bent over the bottom drawer of the tallboy on the other side of the room,
intent on what she was doing. With no time to waste and without a word to her,
he called DS Dave Abraham.
Oh God, be there. Answer, he silently pleaded, as the phone rang.
The detective answered the phone on the fifth ring. Greg didn’t pause for
breath, blurting out where he was and what he had found.
“Leave everything. Get out,” Dave Abrahams ordered. “Now.”
Greg hung up and turned around to see Megan standing white-faced
next to the tallboy, clutching a bundle of what could only be assorted plastic
cable ties. He felt physically sick, his feelings reflected in her face.
Shoving the box file under his arm, he grabbed Megan’s hand and
tugged. Her feet remained rooted to the floor, her unblinking eyes wide.
He yanked harder. She might have been made of stone for all the good
it did. “Megan!” He started to panic. “We have to get out of here.”
“Not so fast,” said a male voice from behind him.
Greg whirled, dropping Megan’s hand.
Nick Poulus stood in the bedroom doorway, arms crossed, legs apart.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
As Greg edged in front of Megan, Nick’s gaze dropped to the box he
was holding. His eyes narrowed and with a bellow of rage, he threw himself at
Greg, winding him and knocking him to the floor. Lashing out with his foot,
Nick’s boot grazed Greg’s head. Oblivious to the pain, Greg rolled and sprang
back on his feet.
Nick launched into another attack. Ducking to his left, Greg rammed
his elbow into the other man’s flank then swung his fist. Bone cracked as the
punch connected, the skin splitting open on Greg's knuckles. Nick staggered
backwards, and Greg grabbed him, slamming him against the wardrobe. The mirror
exploded.
Pain sliced Greg’s face, one eye closing on a fragment of glass. His
grip on Nick slackened. Taking advantage, Nick punched Greg’s chest with a
force so violent Greg crashed backwards into the metal headboard.
For an instant, everything went black. He blinked. Megan was on
Nick’s back, stabbing at him with the screwdriver she’d used on the back door.
Both screamed like Tasmanian devils. With one almighty roar, Nick bucked Megan
from his back.
Megan flew through the air, her head striking the doorframe with a
resounding whack. She fell and didn’t get up, lying motionless with her head
bent forward, a trickle of blood running down her cheek.
Nick was grunting, almost twisting himself inside out in his efforts
to remove the screwdriver jutting from his back. Then without warning, he
charged straight for Greg, his teeth bared like a wild animal. Greg lunged
sideways, narrowly avoiding Nick’s outstretched hands. Hurtling past, Nick
smashed into the wall. He rebounded, falling backwards onto the screwdriver,
driving it deeper into his bloodied back. Lying there, his mouth opened, but
nothing came out. He looked unseeing at Greg before his face settled in a death
mask and his limbs gave one final twitch.
Greg rushed over to Megan, hearing the sound of approaching sirens
as he sank down onto the floor beside her. “Oh God, Megan. Please don’t die…”