Disappear (24 page)

‘Women?’

‘Hard to get much on his personal life. He’s had a succession of girlfriends, four that we know of. Each lasted about a year. Career girls, earning good money which he appears to siphon out of them for one of these causes he supports. The latest is -’

Kaplan beat him to it. ‘…Carly Parkes.’

‘Nothing more,’ Masterton concluded, ‘except that his family background was poor. Father shot through when he was ten. His mother raised him and she’s still living in Forthworth. A bit of a drunk, apparently. But, you’ve got the closet skeleton you wanted.’

‘Not the one I wanted. I wanted something juicy, but not as juicy as suspicion of murder.’

‘Because of Jennifer Parkes’ daughter?’

Kaplan nodded. ‘Exactly. What if McConnell did slit that girl’s throat all those years ago? For Chrissakes, Harold, he’s living with young Carly.’

Henry Kaplan lived in a split-level, fifteen-room house in the elite Sydney suburb of Vaucluse. Heavy with greenery and very private, it was set well back from the street and had spacious grounds and harbour views.

Helen Shawcross had lived with him for eighteen months. She loved the house and its grounds; the fleet of prestige cars; the expensive gifts; and the attention she received from high society. She might have loved Henry Kaplan had she been capable of real love. As it was, she was tiring of Kaplan just as she’d tired of all the men she’d been with. And she was aware, with Kaplan holding off bankruptcy, with an appeal hearing pending, that the good life might not continue. Not to the extent she’d known it. Of course, it wouldn’t be a problem to find another sugar daddy: they lined up for a woman like her.

She was in no hurry. The idea of a fleeting affair with a bohemian type like Rory McConnell appealed. Something different. Something exciting.

Helen was aware that Kaplan kept a stack of old personal records in a number of archive boxes in his basement. Knowing he wouldn’t be home until very late, she’d spent the entire evening going through those papers. If it hadn’t been for the dust, causing her to sneeze several times each hour, she would have thoroughly enjoyed this clandestine invasion of his privacy. She knew how guarded he could be about his background. He rarely even spoke to her about Roger, his only son, whom she’d only met, briefly, on a few occasions.

Helen imagined how much more exciting it would have been if Rory were here with her now. She felt a pang of desire for him, a fever in her loins.

She found what she wanted - communications between opposing lawyers over the issue of Kaplan’s divorce from his first wife thirty years before. She photocopied the relevant information on the copier in the study. Rory would grin like a Siamese cat when he saw these documents. None of it had ever been made public.

Helen wasn’t totally surprised by what she’d found. There was a side to Kaplan she’d caught glimpses of from time to time. This information confirmed there was even more than she suspected. She’d never seen a picture of Kaplan’s first wife. Until now. There were a number of faded photos of Henry and Monica Kaplan in the boxes. Before she left the basement, Helen gazed with curiosity at the dark haired young woman as she was in the 1980’s.

It was the middle of the night when Kaplan arrived home. Helen reclined on the living room leather couch. Wearing a long, black negligee that accentuated the smooth, sleek lines of her body.

‘Still up?’

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ Helen replied, rising gracefully from the lounge to place a kiss on his cheek. ‘You’re not the only one stressed about the current predicament. It affects me too.’

‘I know.’ He took her by the hand, squeezed it. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately. But I warned you it would be like this for a few weeks. When this sale to Becker is closed, we’ll get away for a weekend.’

She licked her lips. ‘Mmmm …’ She snuggled up close to him.

He smiled at her, stroked the beautiful head of golden hair, and then slumped down on the sofa. ‘I’m bushed.’

She sat beside him. ‘I think you’ll find I can take your mind off business for a while.’

‘Business isn’t the main worry I have at the moment, believe it or not.’

Helen eyed him curiously. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Not at all. I’ve had some disturbing news regarding Rory McConnell.’

‘Carly Parkes’ boyfriend?’

‘Yes. I’m worried about her.’

‘Why?’

Kaplan told her about the incident in Forthworth. She listened, expressing surprise, but was careful not to show too much. Was Rory a killer? She’d sensed something dangerous about him. That was part of the attraction. He liked playing it rough and his lovemaking could be kinky. But murder? She listened as Kaplan told her of his intention to discuss the information with Carly’s mother as soon as possible.

Rory may have a wild streak, but he’s no killer, she decided. She was thrilled she had something extra now to tell him. She’d make sure he earned his information by pleasuring her the way she liked for as long as she could stand it.

Kaplan removed his coat and placed his feet up on the coffee table. Helen tucked her legs up beneath her, kneeling beside him on the sofa. ‘Don’t underestimate me,’ she teased, ‘I can even take your mind off a worry like that.’ Her fingers moved with a slow, seductive rhythm over his body. As she worked to arouse him, she thought of the documents in those archive boxes, of the faded photographs of Monica Kaplan.

It pleased Helen that she was not like that woman. When it came to powerful men like Kaplan, Helen was the one in control. She had what Henry Kaplan needed. She had what Rory McConnell wanted. She intended to enjoy the next couple of days as she played one against the other, ending one affair, igniting the next.

Jennifer phoned her office at 8.30 a.m. the following morning. ‘Cindy, I’m going to be tied up most of the morning with police matters. Can you take the reins?’

‘That’s what I’m here for,’ Cindy said cheerfully. ‘Don’t worry about us. You do what you have to do.’

‘You’re priceless. Thanks, Cindy.’ Jennifer hung up. It occurred to her that when this matter was resolved, she should take some time off. For years she’d had an expert team in place, quite capable of running Wishing Pool Fashions in her absence. Perhaps she just never wanted to consider her company running without her. The fact was, she could afford to take things a little easier. A trip away - with Carly - would be perfect, if she could persuade her daughter to be in it.

Carly had stayed overnight. She wanted to be there when Stuart James arrived.

They’d watched TV together and done a little talking.

Part of Jennifer’s morning would be taken up, with Carly, assisting Stuart James with the files in the garage. James had already phoned to say he was running a few minutes late - and to advise Jennifer he’d sent a copy of Brian’s photo and particulars to all the youth preservation groups on Gleitzman’s list.

The rest of her morning would be taken up with a visit to the police forensics lab. Neil Lachlan had phoned only minutes before to ask her to accompany him, hence Jennifer’s call to Cindy. Lachlan had offered to pick her up. The lab visit was to follow up on Lachlan’s request that she take a closer look at Brian’s clothing.

With both Stuart James and Neil Lachlan working the case, Jennifer felt more positive.

God, how she wanted to put all this behind her once and for all.

Jim Howell was a short, wiry, bespectacled man and clearly passionate about his forensic work. His hands moved continuously, illustrating his words in frenetic movements that Jennifer found distracting.

‘Fascinating case,’ Howell commented. He gestured to the articles of clothing, neatly folded and placed on the bench beside the wall. ‘A thorough testing of the fabric shows that the material has had only a short period of ageing due to usage or exposure. The same is true of the leather of the wallet and of the printed items in the wallet.’

Lachlan turned to Jennifer. ‘Did you recognise these clothes, at the morgue, as those your husband wore the night he vanished?’

‘I didn’t take particular notice at the morgue,’ Jennifer said. ‘But yes, they did look the same.’

‘Take a closer look,’ Howell suggested. ‘Take your time.’

Jennifer gazed down at the neat piles. Lachlan and Howell stood by patiently. Neither spoke.

Jennifer would never forget the last time she’d seen Brian alive - walking out the door into the driving rain of that blasted storm. She could still picture the white shirt with its blue stripes, the coat, the navy blue trousers, the water streaming in rivulets down his cheeks. ‘As best I can remember,’ she said, ‘these were the clothes he wore.’

She recalled the report Lachlan had typed the day the body was found. It had stated that the clothes were damp. ‘It was raining heavily the night I last saw him,’ she added.

‘Which ties in with the state of his clothing when he was found,’ Lachlan said.

‘The suit was an Excelsior brand,’ Howell said, ‘manufactured by StyleSet. I’ve confirmed they haven’t been in business since the late 90’s.’

‘How can a suit made at least eighteen years ago show no more wear than if it were made just a few months ago?’ Lachlan asked Howell.

‘Only by ensuring the articles had no contact with the environment. For instance, sealing them in air-tight plastic bags.’

‘But the clothes were still damp,’ Jennifer pointed out, ‘and it didn’t rain during the night before Brian’s body was found.’

‘Any unusual properties in the water in the clothing?’ Lachlan asked.

‘No. Just plain, pure water.’

Jennifer sifted through the clothing, focusing intently on each item. Something niggled at the back of her mind, staying just out of memory’s reach. ‘There’s something not quite right.’

‘What is it?’ asked Lachlan.

‘It’s on the tip of my tongue. I just can’t seem to …’ Her voice trailed away as she strained her mind, searching for mental pictures of that night from so long ago.

‘Take your time,’ Howell repeated.

Jennifer went to the chair beside Howell’s desk and sat down. It was hard to think on the spot, under pressure, like this. Think back. Go back to that night. Heavy rain. Lightning. Brian at the door, still drenched. She’d urged him to take a hot bath; she didn’t want him to catch a chill. She remembered that much. What had he said? ‘I’m out of fags. The shop will still be open. A few more minutes won’t make any difference.’

She looked down at the clothes again, the wallet, the money inside it. The five-dollar notes were still crisp. Like the items you’d find in a time capsule. Remnants of another age. But something was different, missing. What was it?

Why, oh, why in God’s name can’t I remember what it was?

‘Where would you like me to drop you off?’

‘My place,’ Jennifer said. ‘I’ve got things covered at the office.’ She clicked the seat belt in to place as Lachlan pulled out from the curb. He drove on to the distributor spanning Darling Harbour, which linked directly to the Harbour Bridge, heading north. ‘If anything does come back to you, day or night, call me. Don’t worry about the time.’

‘Okay.’

They drove in silence for a while. Presently Jennifer said, ‘I’m actually starting to wonder if my husband did fall through a hole in time. Crazy, eh?’

‘That’s strictly Doctor Who stuff. Listen, we’re going to get to the bottom of this.’

‘We’re no further advanced than we were a week ago when Brian’s body was found.’

‘Not true. You have Stuart James working on this. Your angle on the youth preservation movement is worth following.’

Jennifer shook herself out of her moment of self-doubt. ‘Yes …’

‘There’s more,’ Lachlan said. ‘I didn’t mention this on the way over because I didn’t want to distract you before we met with Howell. Five other people went missing eighteen years ago, and they’ve also turned up over the past month or so. The main difference is these others were murdered by garrotte. Now, there may not be a connection …’

Jennifer’s head snapped about, her eyes connecting with Lachlan’s. ‘Others. Like Brian. You knew this?’

‘I found out late yesterday,’ Lachlan explained. They were on the bridge. Sunlight glinted off the steel girders. It was a bright day, the water in the harbour a vibrant blue. Lachlan moved the car into the left lane, following the Pacific Highway exit. ‘I saw the deputy police commissioner late last night which is why I’m back on the case. I’m just starting to put it all together. The last one was a girl named Monique Brayson. I’ve organised her clothing to be analysed today.’

‘You’re expecting the same results?’

‘Yes.’

‘These others-’

Lachlan cut in, anticipating the question. ‘There doesn’t appear to be any connection between these people with each other, or with your husband. Nevertheless, I’m running checks all over the place to make doubly certain, Ms Parkes.’

‘Please, detective, call me Jennifer.’

Lachlan nodded. It pleased him that they were communicating so well.

‘Did these others also appear to have remained - young?’

‘I’m looking into that. But from my initial enquiries - yes, it seems so.’

‘No clues? Nothing?’

‘No. Well, there is one thing of interest. The other five all vanished from Sydney’s north-west. Your husband was the only one from the other side of the city. There may be nothing in that …’ He left the sentence incomplete.

Lachlan turned left off the Pacific Highway and less than a minute later the heavy traffic and endless line of office blocks seemed a world away. The streets of Chatswood were wide, leafy avenues, with well established homes, quiet and serene.

Something else occurred to Jennifer. ‘Those two murders over the past week. The woman and the old man. They were garrotted.’

‘There could be a connection,’ Lachlan conceded, pulling in by the curb outside Jennifer’s house. ‘There’s two common threads. First, all appear to be random killings; second, the killing method is the same.’

‘But those two never went missing years before.’

‘That’s the one, major puzzling difference.’ Lachlan would’ve liked to reveal more. But he couldn’t tell her about the eyewitness to Bill Dawson’s death, or that the police knew they were looking for a male jogger. That was strictly police business.