Disappear (18 page)

Jennifer knew she was going round in circles, covering old ground. She felt she was going to burst a blood vessel and her voice rose sharply. ‘Why do I feel I’m getting the runaround?’

‘It’s hard, very hard to have patience in a situation like this. Believe me, Ms. Parkes, I do understand that. Because this case is so unusual, and lacking in any leads at all, it may be a long time before we get any results.’ It wasn’t the first time Rosen had given such a speech. He’d faced anxious relatives before whom he’d needed to placate. Jennifer Parkes worried him, though. She had more resolve than many of the grieving relatives in difficult cases.

‘I’m not the kind of person to be a cowering, whimpering victim in all this, inspector. That was my problem eighteen years ago. This time I intend to ensure every possible avenue of enquiry is sought. Look, I’m practically going crazy just trying to imagine an answer. Maybe what that means is that we have to think this through laterally … take a different approach …’

Jennifer cast an unrelenting gaze over the senior policeman. She sensed she was wasting her time, but it felt good to make her feelings clear. She moved to the doorway. ‘I’d appreciate it if I could be given a daily update on how the investigation is progressing, and I’ll be taking whatever other steps I feel are necessary to advance the investigation.’

‘Ms Parkes …’

She strode out abruptly, not wishing to exert any more energy where it wouldn’t get the necessary response. That had been her credo in business. That was the way she felt about this Superintendent. She wished that Neil Lachlan, who’d been genuinely intrigued by the case, was still working on it.

She drove across the city to her office. What could she do? She had an appointment, this coming afternoon, with Doctor Katrina Wells. With Roger. That was a start, but it was hardly enough.

Cindy stood in the reception area, chatting with office coordinator Carmen, when Jennifer arrived. ‘Morning, boss lady,’ said Cindy with a mock salute. ‘Don’t look so serious. The good news is that it’s all systems are go on the GB’s order.’

‘We’re going to make it?’

‘We’re going to make it,’ Cindy confirmed. ‘I’ve just got off the phone from the factory. They don’t think they’ll need to call in outside suppliers.’

‘Terrific.’ Jennifer exchanged a wave with Carmen. She hoped she was hiding the fact that her enthusiasm for the business had all but evaporated. She trod the familiar corridor to her office, reached for the phone and called the Hurstville Police Station. ‘Detective Senior Sergeant Lachlan, please.’

‘He’s out of town this morning,’ came the reply, ‘due back this afternoon. Can I take a message?’

Damn, Jennifer thought. ‘Yes. Ask him to call Jennifer Parkes.’ She replaced the handset, noticing that the additional lines on her phone system were lit up with incoming calls on hold.

Cindy entered the office, her arms laden with documents. Jennifer reminded herself she had a business to run, whether she felt like it or not, and resolved to get on with it. People were depending on her.

She had no idea what she was going to say to Neil Lachlan, anyway. As the day progressed her mind kept returning to Brian’s body on the morgue slab the previous week. She saw her hands turning over the wallet, and the driver’s licence with the long-ago expiry date.

Eighteen years earlier, Henry Kaplan had hired a private detective to search for Brian. This time, she had the money to hire a private investigator herself. She decided that was the only course left for her to follow.

Depression descended on Neil Lachlan, like a dark cloud eclipsing the sun, whenever he returned Todd to Marcia at the end of a weekend. The feeling came - a churning sensation in the pit of his stomach. This was worse though, ten times worse.

He waved to Todd and Marcia. He watched as Marcia’s car rounded the bend in the road, quickly becoming obscured by traffic.

Lachlan walked back into the terminal at Brisbane Airport, to the lounge and downed a beer as he waited for the next flight to Sydney.

He was breaking one of his strictest rules, drinking during the day when he would soon be on duty again. He’d hoped it might help to dull his pain, but instead it seemed to bring on a headache. He’d only ever been a social drinker - except for that one period when he’d been consumed by the Narcotics Squad work and his marriage had begun to fail. Lachlan had seen other coppers drift into alcoholism, and he’d been determined not to make the same mistake.

His flight was called and his head swam through murky waters as he boarded the aircraft.

Deputy Police Commissioner, Ed Razell, was a burly, ruddy-faced man with a gravelly voice and a gruff speaking manner. He was also articulate and persuasive, a diamond in the rough type who meant business and inspired confidence. He strode with an air of purpose to the podium, flanked by squad commanders - John Rosen amongst them.

‘We’re looking for a man of indiscriminate age,’ Razell said to the gathering of detectives. ‘Let me describe him to you. He’s reasonably fit and lean. He wears a tracksuit and running shoes, and most probably a peaked cap pulled over his forehead. He could be out for a run at any time, day or night. That was the part he played when he killed Bill Dawson, thanks to the testimony of an eyewitness. The fact that we have an eyewitness description is strictly confidential at this time. The media mustn’t get wind of it. We don’t want to alert the killer that we’re on to his physical description and his M.O., otherwise he’ll change both. If he strikes again, there’s a good chance he’ll use the same disguise, the same ruse, jogging. We contend he used that method when he murdered Trish Van Helegen days before. Catching him in the act, or while he’s stalking a victim, is the best chance we have of stopping him.’

A murmur broke out among the men and women gathered in the operations room.

‘Forensics confirm that a wire object was used to garrotte the victims,’ Razell continued, ‘so we’re specifically looking for a male jogger carrying such an object. As you know, Superintendent Rosen will head up the investigation.’ Razell turned to Rosen. ‘Superintendent?’

Razell moved aside as Rosen stepped up to the podium. ‘The first murder occurred early in the morning, the second late at night. Both in quiet areas. We can’t rely on that, but it does give us an insight into when and where the killer may strike next. We’ll have round the clock shifts of two person teams, in car and on foot, all over the metropolitan areas on the north side and the central coast. Seek out the quiet times and the quiet places. I expect that’s where we’ll find our man. Any lone male joggers fitting the general description are to be stopped and questioned and their particulars passed on to the command centre.’

Lachlan stood at the back of the room, having arrived just as the briefing session began. When he’d arrived at his station, earlier that afternoon, the head office circular had been on his desk. The homicide detectives from all branches were required to attend the Parramatta meeting for a full brief from Razell and Rosen. It was clear the Deputy Commissioner took seriously the possibility that a serial killer was on the loose, intending to strike again and again. He didn’t want an outbreak of the panic that resulted from other mass murder rampages, or the criticism sometimes levelled at the police work. Especially not so soon after the reign of the elderly man who had killed several aged widows.

There was no mention, however, of the other garrotte murder victim. Monique Brayson.

At the close of the briefing session, Lachlan pushed his way through the crowd towards the podium. Razell and Rosen were leaving the room by the large double doors to their immediate right. Lachlan stuck his arm past a throng of shoulders, tapping John Rosen on the upper arm. ‘Got a minute?’

‘Sure.’ Rosen looked around for a quieter spot. ‘Over there.’ He pointed to a far corner. ‘We need a larger room for these things.’

‘Tell me about it.’ They edged their way to the corner. ‘The bulletin last Friday about the Brayson girl’s murder. That was a garrotte killing. Why no mention?’

‘Could be a coincidence that the murder method was the same. Regardless, at this point in time it’s being treated as a separate case, by the same guys I’ve got following up on Brian Parkes, because both had been missing for such a long period. And before you ask - yes, the girl still appears youthful.’

‘You’ve never been one to believe in coincidence,’ Lachlan pointed out.

‘If it’s connected with the Van Helegen and Dawson murders, then the special unit boys will find the connection and then it will become part of this broader “jogger” investigation. My guys are assisting with the search for this jogger as well, so they’re well aware of the similarities. I don’t want
every
cop on the investigation in on the Parkes/Brayson thing - no need at this point.’

‘You still want to keep it classified because of the disappearance and the condition of the bodies?’

Rosen’s eyes darted about, scanning the immediate surroundings.

Lachlan got the impression Rosen didn’t want their conversation overheard.

‘Precisely, and I’ve already been over those reasons with you. Razell is aware of the secrecy surrounding those investigations. A follow-up circular was emailed this morning to all stations, advising that the special unit will be handling the Brayson case.’

‘Still buried in my Inbox,’ Lachlan supposed. ‘Just got in from Brisbane and saw the bulletin about this briefing in time to get over here.’

‘Razell is very edgy about these latest killings,’ Rosen explained. ‘Has a bee in his bonnet about Sydney becoming some kind of crime capital. He’s driving hard to have the city cleaned up, street violence, break-ins, underworld activities - and now he starts getting these blasted thrill killers.’

Lachlan changed the subject back to the Parkes case. ‘Has the Brayson murder shed any new light on the Brian Parkes disappearance?’

‘No. And I don’t expect it will. In both cases there’s absolutely nothing to go on. I believe there have been cases like this before, Neil, cases that appear to deal with a range of … inexplicable phenomena. They’re classified top secret, investigated by special units. Eventually the files are closed. Unresolved.’

‘Phenomena?’

‘I don’t like to say it, but the only obvious fact or clue we have is one that makes no sense. Can’t officially be considered by the department. Parkes and Brayson simply appear to have slipped through time in the blink of an eye, like characters from a H.G. Wells novel.’

Lachlan had watched episodes of the old Twilight Zone TV series, but such things had never been to his taste. A practical man, he hadn’t considered the realm of inexplicable phenomena in relation to Brian Parkes’ body.

Movement through time. Immortality. These were ridiculous concepts, the stuff of Todd’s comic books and computer games.

He was back at the Hurstville Police Station, sitting at his desk and immersed in paperwork. He ran his fingers through his hair, it needed trimming. He was tired. It had been a long day, a lot of travelling, the beer and the headache hadn’t helped.

An obvious thought occurred to him. What if there were others like Parkes and Brayson? Looking for similar cases would provide a starting point. What if, despite Rosen’s comments, there was a connection between the murder of Monique Brayson and the garrotte killings of Trish Van Helegen and Bill Dawson? Lachlan decided to do some digging of his own, starting with Parkes and Brayson, without the involvement of Rosen’s special unit.

Something about the case was nagging at him.

This kind of digging meant delving into the archives, into files long buried in the memory banks of the police computers.

It was a while since he’d been in touch with Teddy Vanda. If he remembered the joke correctly, then his mate at the Head Branch Data Communications division owed him a favour.

Henry Kaplan welcomed Conrad Becker with a firm handshake and a wide grin, beaming with the air of a world-beater - not a bankrupt staving off the final blow.

‘How was the flight?’

‘Too long,’ said Becker with a conservative smile that suited his cautious nature. His smooth and suave style was evident from the cut of his tailored suit to the controlled, bass tone of his voice. Everything about Conrad Becker was perfectly balanced. He was physically attractive because nothing about him was too large or too small. His nose and chin were prominent with a rugged manliness, but not overpowering to the smooth, firm flesh of his cheeks or the expressive green eyes flecked with hazel. ‘Long plane trips can be a waste of vital business time.’

‘Not if used to do homework on potential purchases.’

‘We’ve already done our homework,’ Becker assured him. He introduced Wilfred Carlyle, his associate, to Kaplan and Roger.

There were two other men with Becker - minders, Kaplan assumed. Becker didn’t introduce them. Kaplan acknowledged their presence with a nod, but offered nothing further.

‘Come through to the board room,’ Kaplan said. ‘We’ve light refreshments and Roger is set up to talk us through the screening of a short video on Southern Star. It’s a good, capsuled history of the project.’

They took their seats. One of Kaplan’s aides poured the coffee. Lights were dimmed for effect and the video flickered onto the wall mounted television screen. ‘Our corporate communications division compiled this video especially for your visit,’ Roger informed them, ‘using existing footage together with new material filmed just a few weeks ago.’ He enjoyed being the focal point. Earlier that morning, his father had strode into his office, wearing a determined expression.

‘You and I have to project a united front from now until the sale is made,’ Kaplan had said. ‘You, Harold and I are going to be solid, persuasive, organised. I don’t want either of you out of my sight for any longer than necessary.’

‘I hardly think that’s necessary.’

‘If I say it’s necessary, Roger, then it’s necessary. The three of us, when we’re with Becker, will be a show of strength. It’s essential we’re in complete unison every step of the way, and if that means living in each other’s pockets, then that’s exactly what we do. This is one deal we have to close quickly. It’s our salvation. And when we’re not with the Canadian, we’ll have our heads together, analysing his responses, drawing up contingencies for any aspect of the sale that’s not looking good.’