Disappear (26 page)

‘Okay. It’s a bit like a holiday. We’re flyin’ home the night after tomorrow. Mum wants to know if you could pick us up at the airport.’

‘You bet I can.’

‘Ace. We’ll see you then.’

‘Hold on, matey. What time does the flight get in?’

‘Uh … Mum’s not here right now. Hold on.’ There was some frantic shuffling away from the phone. ‘Mum wrote the details on a pad earlier. Here it is. Flight 911. Arrives in Sydney at quarter past six.’

‘Which airline?’

‘Oh … uh …’

Lachlan laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I can figure it out. See you then, tiger.’

‘Bye Dad.’

Lachlan hung up the phone and laughed again. Kids. He went back to his meal and it occurred to him that this was the first time since the separation that Marcia had asked a favour. Was this a good sign?

At 9.45 p.m. he received another phone call. Stuart James. The private investigator, driving back to his office, had called on his mobile phone. He suggested Neil meet him at the Australia Tower building.

The jogger left his car and sprinted to the parking bay stairwell. He’d noted the space allotted to James when he’d been in here minutes before. Level Two. He headed straight for it and moved quickly, cautiously, not wanting to be seen, a large iron crowbar in his hand. There were cleaners moving around the building.

James was parking his car at the far end of the level. The jogger wondered, briefly, why the investigator had returned to his office at such a late hour? Whatever the reason, the jogger’s impulse to hang around for a few minutes had paid off. For once, luck or intuition or both, were on his side.

There was still the odd car scattered around the level. The jogger raced to the older of the two vehicles nearest the stairs, one that he was certain did not have an RFID chip. He removed a slotted screwdriver from his pocket. Tonight he was dressed in a staid, nondescript business suit, which served the purpose of helping him blend in with the city streets and offices.

Modern cars could not be hotwired in the old fashioned way, but the jogger was aware of the little known fact that a screwdriver could sometimes work when there was no RFID chip. He had done this before. With the crowbar he smashed the driver’s side window, pulled open the door, leapt in and quickly manipulated the screwdriver into the ignition. He jiggled until he managed to turn it. The motor spluttered into power and the lock on the steering wheel snapped.

Luck is with me, the jogger thought. If the screwdriver trick hadn’t worked, then he would have had to find another way, perhaps another time.

Stuart James was locking his car door when he heard the sound of smashing glass. His head whipped about, his eyes scanning the other cars. At first he couldn’t see any disturbance. Then he noticed a shape moving in the interior of the red car at the far end of the level. James figured a theft was occurring. Instinctively he sprinted towards the other vehicle.

The wheels screeched as the red sedan shot forward and headed towards the exit. James ran after the car, trying to glimpse the driver, wondering how the thief intended to get out of the parking level. Did he have a security key?

The jogger spun the steering wheel. Without warning the sedan made a sudden turn, wheels still screeching, rubber burning across the concrete. Stuart James was caught unawares and without cover. The nose of the sedan ploughed into him. There was a sickening thud as his body lifted into the air and was thrown aside like a rag doll, arms flailing.

He came down hard on the concrete. Another thud. The snap of breaking bones boomed in his ears. In a state of shock, he regarded his predicament as someone might from afar. Blood poured from his nose and mouth and he raised his hand to his head as though that might stem the flow.

There was a monstrous ache in his neck and shoulders - piercing, but he sensed further danger. He tried to push himself to his feet but the pain down his left side and through his left leg was excruciating. Broken leg, broken ribs, he thought dazedly. The roar of the engine and the screech of wheels filled the air again. He cocked his head to the right, saw the shadow fill his vision, the grille of the car hurtling towards him at breakneck speed.

The car smashed into him, carrying him along pinned to its grille. It squashed him like some rubbery figure as it hit the brick wall, its entire front end crumbling into a mass of twisted metal and glass, meshed with human limbs.

The jogger stepped from the car. He didn’t bother to cast his eye over his victim. He ran to the other end of the level. James’ car key remained in the door of the Falcon. The jogger took the key set and examined the others. It appeared that the office keys were on the same ring, just as he’d hoped.

Then his eye caught the box of folders on the back seat. He leaned in for a closer look. There was no doubting it, these were the business records James had taken from the Parkes house.

The killer swept the box up under his arm and walked briskly to the stairwell exit. He passed a cleaner at the next landing and kept his head down so his face wasn’t seen. Not that there was any need. The cleaner didn’t even glance at the commonplace sight of a business executive on the stairs. If they had, they would have seen the subtle but triumphant grin. The jogger’s task for the evening had been successfully completed. He no longer needed to go to the private detective’s office. James had obliged him by leaving the files in the car. The jogger had what he wanted.

At the same moment the jogger’s car turned right out of George Street, Lachlan pulled up across the road from the Australia Tower building. He was pressing the night security bell at the lobby doors when he heard the scream.

A small, Filipino woman burst out of the stairwell doors inside the lobby area. ‘Help. Please, help!’

Lachlan banged on the glass door, holding up his police badge.

The woman activated the security button on the inside wall and the lobby doors sprung open automatically.

‘Level Two,’ the woman croaked, gagging on her own words. She dropped to her knees, dry retching.

Lachlan bounded down the steps. As he approached the red sedan he saw the mangled remains of Stuart James. Bile rose in his throat. He stopped, sucked in air, and ran forward. As he did, he realised there wasn’t a single thing anyone could do to help the private detective.

It was late and the jogger was tired. He hurled the folders at the wall in a fit of rage and paced the floor like a wounded animal. He’d hoped to kill two birds with one stone tonight. James was dead but the records he wanted weren’t among the folders he’d taken from James’ car.

Perhaps this could be handled another way. He resolved then and there to make the most unexpected move of all. He would go to the home of Jennifer Parkes - and end her meddling once and for all. He was determined, one way or another, to sabotage the investigation of Brian Parkes’ disappearance and murder.

‘The word around the Kaplan Corp office,’ said Rory, ‘is that the sale of Southern Star will go through by the end of this week or the beginning of the next. That’s why we need to change the schedule.’

‘Bloody shame,’ said Harlan Draper. ‘I liked the idea of a series of three articles. The first two outlining Kaplan’s background and achievements, with the hint of something darker suggested. And then the final installment, with the personal and professional exposé that we’d supposedly uncovered in the meantime.’

Rory nodded his agreement. ‘Yeah. Would’ve been great. But I had no idea just how powerful the exposé would become, or how quickly Kaplan was moving to clinch this sale and save his shoddy empire.’

‘Agreed.’ Draper rubbed his hands together in delight. ‘A bashed wife he committed to an asylum and strong evidence he interfered with the inquiry into the asbestos poisoning at the mine. You want the whole thing out before the sale goes through.’

‘People deserve to know the truth, including Conrad Becker. I expect he’ll pull out of the deal, at least for now.’ Rory had been on his feet since his arrival ten minutes earlier. Impassioned by the material he’d gathered on Kaplan in the past twenty-four hours, he began to pace back and forth in the small, cluttered People Power office. ‘Kaplan Corp is big news right now. Once this issue is out, the media will jump on it. For once, Harlan, you’ll be leading the way.’ He chuckled. ‘Think of it, one of the dreaded alternative papers scooping them on a big news story.’

‘Those high and mighty bastards won’t come to us, though. They’ll just steal what they want from our published piece and send their own boys in to dig further.’

Rory smiled inwardly. Not quite, old boy, he thought. He intended to be right in the midst of the action, selling his services to all and sundry as a freelancer. It would bring in the bucks and hand him the platform for a reputation. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said to Draper, ‘what matters is we’re setting the agenda here, sending the tabloids off on Kaplan’s scent, setting one self-serving capitalist mob against one of their own. Poetic justice, don’t you think?’

‘Find a space and put the finishing touches to the article,’ Draper said. He reached for the phone. ‘I need to call the printer and hold ‘em off making plates.’

As he punched in the numbers, his eyes roamed over the beginning of Rory’s first draft, the pages of which were strewn across his desk. It read:

Skeletons in a Multi-Million Dollar Closet.

For the past thirty years well-known Australian entrepreneur Henry Kaplan has built a business empire, with a diverse range of interests here and overseas. Kaplan is not, however, the man his publicists would have us believe.

Medical records obtained by this paper show conclusively that his first wife, Monica Kaplan, was the victim of constant bashing which led her to file for divorce. That action, hushed up at the time, was not completed before her husband had her committed to a hospitable for the mentally disturbed. People Power asks: is this the real face of the man who presents himself to the public as a champion of enterprise and a supporter of popular charities?

The article then shifted to industrial matters, detailing the evidence that suggested Kaplan had killed off the asbestos investigation after he’d bought a controlling interest in Southern Star. It was strong stuff and Draper beamed unashamedly. He enjoyed nothing more than bringing the fat cats down.

Mid-morning. John Rosen walked the streets aimlessly. Shattered. His head was filled with the moment of his suspension that same morning. The deputy commissioner had come straight to the point. ‘I’m in possession of evidence, John, that indicates you’ve deliberately suppressed information that links these garrotte murders with those odd missing person cases.’

‘What evidence?’ asked Rosen.

Razell told him about Lachlan’s visit, and about the enquiries both of them had made. ‘I need an explanation.’

‘There’s nothing to explain, Ed. I’m on top of both cases and I’m not convinced there’s any link.’

‘This is hardly a set of coincidences, John.’

Rosen was silent. He simply avoided Razell’s stare.

‘Come on, John,’ the deputy commissioner pressed.

Rosen’s eyes were glazed, his expression one of a man who had lost his spirit. Suddenly he didn’t have the steel to fight for himself. He knew the game was up. A part of him was glad, but it wasn’t something his pride would allow him to admit. ‘I don’t believe there’s a connection there,’ came the lame reply.

‘For Chrissakes, John, you’ve given the families of these victims the runaround and kept the facts from them.’ He stood. After a brief pause he spoke again. ‘Help me out here. We’re on the same side. Tell me what’s really going on?’

Rosen also rose to his feet. ‘I’ve given you an answer.’ His voice lacked the fire Razell would’ve expected. ‘I’m not prepared to say anymore without legal counsel.’ He headed for the door.

‘Then I’ve no choice but to stand you down pending an inquiry by Internal Affairs.’

‘Do what you have to do,’ said Rosen.

He’d walked out without further comment and wandered the streets. Returning home he said nothing to Margaret. How could he hurt her now after so many years? The truth was simply too painful. He couldn’t fool her, of course, and didn’t even try.

‘What are you doing here at this time of day? Something wrong, dear?’ she asked.

He grunted, then continued to ignore her. No doubt she expected he’d confide when ready, as he had so many times before. Only this time it was very, very different. This was the one thing John Rosen could never confide to anyone.

The phone rang at 10 p.m. that night and Rosen knew, before he lifted the receiver, it was his phantom caller. He checked over his shoulder to ensure that Margaret was out of the room before he replied. ‘I can’t help you anymore. I’ve been suspended.’

The muffled voice at the other end of the line was angry. ‘There’s been no such announcement!’

‘It happened today. The commissioner will probably keep it quiet for the time being.’

‘Don’t play me for a fool, Rosen. You know what to expect.’

Rosen checked the doorway again. No sign of Margaret. He heard the rattle of pans in the kitchen. ‘I’ve helped you up to now, haven’t I? For Chrissakes, they know I’ve been suppressing information.’

‘You must do what I’ve ordered.’

‘I can’t-’

‘You know the alternative,’ the mysterious voice cut across him. ‘Tomorrow, the world learns what kind of man you really are.’

‘Look, give me more time.’ Rosen heard the click on the line. He raised his handkerchief to his brow, dabbing the cold beads of sweat. He turned and his eyes connected with his wife. Margaret stood in the doorway, regarding him with a mournful, puzzled expression.

Rosen looked away and shuffled awkwardly from the room, closing the door behind him as he entered his study.

Those scenes replayed in his mind the following morning, as he walked the streets until his legs ached. He returned home. He’d tell Margaret he was too ill to go to work and that he’d be resting in the study.

He wondered whether he had the courage to go ahead and do what was on his mind.