Disappear (23 page)

Lachlan raised his eyebrows. ‘Rosen?’

‘Rosen, like his special unit men, will simply be advised they’ve been given extra manpower. And that you’re it, on a temporary basis, because of your prior involvement with the case.’ Razell then shifted the focus of the conversation back to the specifics. ‘Tell me more about this theory of yours, that the clue to these recent garrotte murders lies with these long-term missing people.’

‘One of them in particular, Brian Parkes.’

‘Parkes?’ Razell referred to the printouts.

‘The only one not garrotted. Parkes was a hit and run victim. That’s not the kind of murder this killer likes to commit.’

‘But you believe it is the same killer?’

‘More than likely. All the other details are too similar to be coincidence.’

‘Report directly to me on this, Lachlan. Every morning, seven sharp, I want a full rundown. Here’s my direct line.’ He wrote the figures on a pad, removed the sheet and pushed it towards Lachlan. ‘If you think there’s an answer there, bring it to me.’

After excusing Lachlan, Razell spent the next few hours on the phone. First he spoke to the men in Rosen’s unit. Then he spoke with the various local officers who’d discovered the missing people, before Rosen had stepped in and his unit had absorbed the cases.

Then he referred to the specific details of the recent garrotte murders. Like Lachlan, he couldn’t ignore the similarities. Or the fact that Rosen had kept the missing persons details under wraps. Razell didn’t like the pattern. The next painful step was to interview John Rosen.

Jennifer arrived home late, exhausted. Running from her business affairs to the private detective, wedging in her visit to Roger, the endless phone calls, the fashion shows, the huge order from GBs. She felt wrung out and realised she’d been operating on sheer nervous energy.

Her Chatswood home was a large, solid, rambling four-bedroom brick and sandstone house, originally built in the 1920s but totally refurbished throughout in recent years.

The interior style was modern, open plan, spacious. Jennifer’s favourite area was the family room at the back of the house with its glass walls looking out across the lush, multi-level terraces of the garden. During the days the room was filled with natural light. On a clear night, like this one, with the drapes parted, Jennifer could gaze upwards, through the web of greenery, and see the stars.

The chimes on the front door resounded through the house. Jennifer went to the front to find Carly on her doorstep.

‘Been at a shoot all day, wanted to stop by briefly on my way home.’

‘Of course. Come in.’

Carly stepped inside. She followed the front hallway as it curved into the main lounge room.

‘Won’t stay. It’s about my father. I want to find out what happened to him.’

‘No more than I do, Carly. Believe me.’ They stood beside the lounge, neither wanting to be the first to sit; a mother and daughter forced by the anxieties of their past meetings to square off against each other.

‘I want to help.’ Carly’s manner was flat, straightforward. No hint of her tone from the luncheon, but no remorse either. Jennifer chose not to raise the emotion of their previous get-together. She was thrilled enough that her daughter had come to her, prepared to work with her on a common cause.

‘I’d love you to help. What’s more I’ve already started. I’ve put wheels of my own - our own - into action. I’ve hired a private detective named Stuart James.’

‘What can he do?’

‘I’m not sure, Carly. It’s too early to say.’

She told Carly about the ideology in Gleitzman’s book and DVD. Jennifer had managed, very late the night before, to track the surgeon down at his Massachusetts hotel room. Although pressed for time, he indicated he’d like to discuss Brian’s case when he returned from the US. In the meantime he’d emailed a list of known immortalist groups to Jennifer’s office. She, in turn, had passed them on to Stuart James for investigation.

‘James has some good ideas of his own,’ Jennifer continued, ‘beginning with your father’s old business records.’

‘Those ancient boxes in the garage..?’

‘Yes. I was resting up, but after that I’m going to pull the boxes clear of everything else, sort through them, make them accessible for him.’

‘I’ll help you.’

Jennifer flashed a wide, toothy grin. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’ She thought: Come on, Carly, smile back. Open up a little. When is the daughter who started vanishing two years ago going to come back?

Carly’s expression, however, was all purpose and determination. ‘I’ll go out and start now. I’m anxious to do something.’

‘I know the feeling …’ The phone rang, cutting Jennifer short.

‘I’ll be in the garage,’ Carly said. She headed for the side door.

Jennifer answered the phone and recognised the voice of Neil Lachlan.

‘Sorry to disturb you in the evening, I was interstate when you rang yesterday, I’ve been tied up since then …’

‘Thanks for returning the call. When I phoned I had some things on my mind. But it’s okay now.’

‘Sure I can’t help? It’s about your husband’s case?’

‘Yes. But I’ve hired a private investigator to assist me with that.’

‘Your prerogative, of course. But there’s really no need.’

‘I beg to differ, Sergeant Lachlan,’ she interjected. ‘I was disappointed with the feedback I got from the special unit. I know it’s only been a short time, but with something like this isn’t it important to move quickly?’

‘Yes …’

‘That man, Rosen, was hard to contact, and when I spoke with him he was too negative. Seemed to me to be acting cagey. I know the public can’t expect to treat the police force like a department store where you go in, expecting service on every aspect on their daily investigations, but as the widow of the victim, I did expect to be kept abreast of what was going on – not to be deliberately kept in the dark, and patted on the head with platitudes. ‘

‘The trouble with policemen is that we make lousy diplomats. Some of us could use more training in how to deal effectively with the public. I’m sure you simply caught John Rosen at the wrong moment.’ Lachlan suspected that wasn’t the case here but he could hardly say otherwise.

‘Be that as it may, my mind is made up about the PI.’

‘I have some news,’ Lachlan said. ‘As of now, I’m taking over once again on the investigation.’

‘What’s going on?’ Jennifer’s suspicions were raised further. Her tone made her annoyance clear. ‘It doesn’t sound normal to keep switching a homicide case from one detective to another.’

‘It isn’t. This is a highly unusual situation. Superintendent Rosen has become embroiled on another case so I’m stepping back into the fray. But I’ll have the resources of his special unit at my disposal. Let me assure you, Ms Parkes, I’m determined to get answers on this.’

Jennifer was glad Neil Lachlan was back on the case, but she was in no mood to praise the police. ‘I see.’

‘It will help, of course, if I compare notes with your private investigator.’

‘I imagine it would. His name is Stuart James. He’s coming by in the morning to sift through my husband’s old business records.’ She also told him, briefly, about Doctor Gleitzman’s list of youth preservation groups.

Lachlan conceded this was an interesting development - and he knew of Stuart James. ‘He has a good reputation. I’ll keep in touch with Mr. James and, of course, I’ll be in touch with you further. I’d like you to have a good look over the clothes your husband was wearing when he was found.’

Jennifer agreed to this, then hung up. She lingered for a moment before heading out to the garage, sensing Lachlan had been holding back when he’d spoken of John Rosen. Why? What were they hiding from her?

Late night phone calls weren’t unusual in John Rosen’s home. It was part of the lifestyle of a divisional police superintendent.

Margaret Rosen, fifty years old, pleasantly plump, was a placid woman who cast a calm and steady influence across the private world of the senior policeman. She flashed a glance at her husband as the phone rang, a glance that effectively said, ‘It’ll be for you.’ She’d used that look for many years, one of the many silent snatches of communication that pass between a man and a woman after a quarter of a century of marriage.

It was 9.45 p.m. Rosen hadn’t been home more than an hour after another hectic day. He pushed his newspaper aside, rose from his favourite chair and reached for the cell phone on the coffee table. When he heard the muffled voice on the other end he shifted his body so that his back was to his wife. He didn’t want Margaret to see the expression on his face.

‘Rosen. We need to talk.’

‘Hold on. I’m going through to the den.’ The glance to his wife was the one she knew as “police business”. Private. Won’t be long. He went through to his study and gently closed the door behind him. ‘What do you want this time?’

‘Lady luck must be on my side,’ the caller said. ‘You’ve been placed in charge of the garrotte murders case. I couldn’t have asked for better.’

‘Why?’ Rosen felt the prickle of the hairs on his neck. He sucked his cheeks in, expunging air through his nose with a quiet, indignant rage. It was several months since he’d first heard from the caller. He’d hoped never to hear from him again.

‘I need you to frame these garrotte killings on someone.’

‘What? This is beyond the pale. I can’t …’

‘You can and you will.’ The muffled voice was final. ‘I can’t have this investigation go on. Wrap it up very quickly. Pin it on someone.’

‘But who..?’

‘Who the hell cares who? Pick a homeless bum who drifts around Central Park every night. Or some petty criminal. You’re the copper, you find someone.’

‘But the media is going berserk. When the murders keep happening …’

The phantom voice cut across his again. ‘They won’t. That will be seen to.’

‘But how?’

‘Not your affair, Rosen. It shouldn’t have happened but it has. It will be fixed. We’ll make certain of that.’

‘Who -?’

‘You know better than to ask that, Rosen.’

Rosen tried to stifle his anger. ‘I’ve done what you asked up to now. You assured me-’

‘… That you wouldn’t hear from us again,’ the mysterious caller completed the sentence. ‘True. But shit happens. We couldn’t foresee the current sequence of events. You must act quickly on this, Rosen. We don’t want the real killer caught. We will deal with that.’

‘And if I refuse?’

The muffled voice boomed down the line, angry now. ‘We’ve had this conversation before. Do you want your wife, and your superiors, to know about your particular little vice.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then move quickly, Rosen. Understand?’

‘It will be difficult.’

‘Find a way. I don’t think you could live with the alternative.’

There was a click and the voice was gone, but in the wake of this threat even the dull tone left on the line carried an air of menace. Rosen wiped his brow and found he was drenched in sweat.

A couple of hours after the dinner with Conrad Becker, Henry Kaplan, Roger and Masterton returned to the offices.

‘Deep in thought,’ Harold Masterton noted, entering Kaplan’s office a little later in the evening.

Kaplan turned away from the view of the city skyline. From up here it was a quiet world, dancing in neon. He faced his long time CFO. ‘Yes. I don’t think I’ll be sleeping much over the next few nights. That’s why I’m here. And you?’

‘The same. Where’s Roger. Home?’

‘Probably stalking the corridors himself. We’re all tense.’

‘Yes. But I’m confident it’s a foregone conclusion. Aren’t you?’

‘I’ll kick back once the deal’s set in stone. Not until then.’

‘Becker will buy,’ Masterton said. ‘He can’t resist a killing like this. The price is too good. He’ll play the game for a few days because he enjoys it too much not to. By the end of the week we’ll be back on the rails.’

‘You keep giving me these impromptu little speeches. Sure you aren’t trying to convince yourself?’

‘Part of my job description.’ He grinned and was pleased to see he’d raised a smile in Kaplan. ‘I’m not just here haunting the halls, though. I have something for you. That discreet matter you asked me to look at. I had our legal department get onto it and this report was on my desk this evening.’ Masterton offered a matt finish black folder to Kaplan, but the latter waved it away. ‘Just tell me what’s in it. This is the dossier on Rory McConnell?’

‘Yes. We had to dig back twenty years to really come up with something. When he was sixteen years old, McConnell lived on the north coast, a small town called Forthworth. He was a suspect in a murder case.’

‘What!’ Kaplan’s head snapped to attention. ‘Murder?’

‘Bunch of teenagers at a beach party one summer night. The following day one of the girls, fifteen years old, was found buried behind a sand dune. Her throat had been cut.’

‘And the police thought it was McConnell?’

‘He was the last one seen talking to the girl. She was pretty keen on him and he had a reputation for chasing the ladies. He also had a bad boy image, small town rebel. The police questioned him several times but no arrest was ever made. No evidence. Time of the girl’s death was 1.40. McConnell’s mother said her boy was home at around 12.30.’

‘Was the murder ever solved?’

‘Five years later a truckie was arrested for three hitchhiker murders. The police believed him to be responsible for several other killings, including the one in Forthworth, although the guy never admitted to any one of them.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Still in prison.’

Kaplan stroked his chin. ‘So it could have been McConnell?’

‘Could have been. Whether it was or not, it’s hardly the sort of thing he’d want known nowadays.’

‘I was looking for a skeleton in his closet,’ Kaplan said, ‘something I could use if I needed to.’

‘You don’t trust him?’

‘Since when do I trust people? What else did you find on him?’

‘Not much. He came to Sydney, landed a job as a cadet journo on a daily newspaper, went freelance about ten years later, writing for these indie rags like People Power. Got involved in underground socialist groups, greenie groups, anything that attracted the ratbag element.’