(2012) Disappear Page 3

  This time, however, he would need to fast track his selection process. He wanted to strike again, within days.

  It was three days later when the jogger attacked again.

  Late evening.

  A middle-aged, pot bellied businessman was leaving his office late, as he had the previous two nights, walking towards a flat, open air parking lot at the back of the suburban office block. It was deserted. The businessman reached his car and placed his key in the door. As he turned the key a wire was looped violently around his neck and pulled tight.

  Once again the intended victim was saved by the arrival of two large men. Once again the killer was restrained until after the shaken businessman had driven away, warned off by the mysterious figures.

  The two men then strode off into the darkness, shadows eaten up by the night.

  ‘Who are you?’ the jogger screamed after them. There was no answer, just as there wasn’t the next time or the time after that.

  At first, it seemed impossible to the jogger that these shadows were watching him and following him day and night. Yet that appeared the only possible way they could always be on hand to stop him whenever he undertook a murder.

  Who were they? How did they know about him? Why did they always walk away and leave him free, unharmed?

  None of it made any sense at all.

  The jogger was in his apartment, his lean frame settled into the centre of the three-seat lounge, feet spread out on the coffee table in front. The ring of the doorbell startled him. He wasn’t expecting company. He opened the front door and surprise showed clearly in his expression.

  The girl on the doorstep couldn’t have been any more than sixteen but she had a hard look that was decades beyond her years. The short, short skirt, low cut lace top and provocative stance made her profession obvious.

  The jogger glared at her, confused. ‘Yes?’

  A half smile, half sneer stretched across the girl’s face but there was no expression in her eyes. Just a dull, glazed look. ‘It’s party time, mate.’ She strode confidently into the apartment, pushing past him. ‘Where’s the bedroom?’

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’

  ‘I told you, lover. Party time. For you, anyway. And don’t worry. It’s all paid for. You’ve got me ‘til midnight. But that’s not the good news.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The good news is you get to do whatever you like to me. With a few exceptions.’

  The jogger stared at her, speechless. She was beautiful, with long auburn hair that fell below her shoulders. Her lips were of the thick, sensual kind and they were in a permanent pout, even while she spoke.

  ‘Well, don’t you want to know what the exceptions are?’

  ‘Okay.’ He decided to be cautious, watching the girl closely. He had no idea what this was about and he didn’t like being caught unawares.

  ‘No broken bones. No cutting me. If I even think you’re going to try and kill me I’ll scream and, quicker than you think, two big bozos - I believe you’re familiar with the type - will come crashing through that door and pulverize you. Got it?’

  The jogger looked towards the door.

  ‘Yeah,’ the girl said, ‘they’re out there.’

  ‘Who sent you?’ he asked. His gaze returned to the girl’s face, watching her, sizing her up. He could imagine himself doing all sorts of vicious things to her. The thought of it excited him.

  ‘Wrong question, mate. Can’t tell. Let’s just say it’s someone who knows you’re frustrated. Knows you need an outlet for your … uh … needs. So I’m it.’

  ‘They must be paying you a lot of money.’

  ‘That’s none of your business. Well, I’m ready when you are, big boy.’

  ‘Take off your clothes,’ he said.

  ‘Hey, original.’

  He glared at her. Smart-mouthed bitch.

  The clothes seemed to slip away from her body as though cast off by magic. The jogger reached out and ran the tip of his finger down the middle of the girl’s flat belly. Her skin was smooth, like satin. She had solid thighs, a slim waistline and large, round breasts.

  ‘Remember the rules, sweetie?’

  ‘No breaking bones, no cutting or killing,’ he replied matter-of-factly. ‘Bruises are okay?’

  ‘Within reason. Otherwise, anything goes. Like, y’know, sex - remember that one? - is fine. Preferable, actually.’

  The jogger grunted. He raised his right arm, his palm open, and swung it towards the girl, slapping her hard across the face. She reeled backwards, began to topple, and then regained her balance quickly.

  His heart was beating rapidly, the thump, thump, thump, hammering in his ears. ‘Get down on the floor,’ he commanded. He felt the electrifying rush. He was going to rape her as violently as he knew how. Beat her.

  What he really wanted, though, was to kill her. But he knew that was the one thing he dare not try.

  FOUR

  Present Day

  Rodney Harrison was eleven years old, a freckle-faced kid with a shock of curly, red hair. He had always wanted to have his own delivery run and today was his first day on the job, distributing leaflets to letterboxes. He was thrilled by the thought of having his own money, which he’d earned himself, to do with as he pleased. He intended to save up enough to buy an Xbox.

  It was Wednesday morning, seven fifteen, and Rodney hoped to get in an hour both before and after school, five days a week, to complete delivery of his allotted number of leaflets. He rode his bicycle around the corner of Meson and Claridge in the southern Sydney suburb of Hurstville, the fifth street corner of his run, when he saw the man sprawled on the side of the road.

  ‘Hey mister, you okay?’ He braked, bringing the bike to a stop alongside the man. The body lay face down on the asphalt, and his coat appeared to be very damp. Rodney thought that was unusual, it hadn’t rained for weeks. ‘Mister?’

  No sound or movement came from the man. Rodney was worried. Should he do something? He stepped from his bike and reached towards the man. ‘Hey mister, wake up.’ He shook the man’s shoulders. The body was heavy and didn’t budge. ‘Can you hear me?’

  Rodney stooped down closer and his heart began to beat rapidly. Dead? Was the man dead? There was something eerie about the man’s stillness. Rodney walked around to the other side of the body, where the man’s face was partially visible. The eyes were open, unblinking, unseeing.

  A car came along the street, driven by an elderly man. Bill Hartland was on his way home after an early morning trip to the newsagent. He pulled over to the side of the road when he saw the boy waving frantically to him. The kid was clearly in some kind of distress. It wasn’t until he eased himself out of the car that he saw the man’s body.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Rodney called, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. ‘His eyes are wide open, like dead people in the movies.’

  Thirty minutes after the message had been radioed through, Detective Senior Sergeant Neil Lachlan arrived on the scene. At the age of thirty-nine, he was in his fourth month with the New South Wales Homicide Squad, and was working out of the Hurstville Police Local Area Command. People would have laughed, he imagined, had he told them he found the Homicide work less stressful than his previous position, so he kept the thought to himself. It wasn’t a form of black humour, however, just a simple fact considering that he’d spent the previous ten years with the Drug Squad. Ten years of traumas, late nights, undercover work, waging war against users, dealers and organized vice gangs.

  He’d demanded the transfer after the irretrievable breakdown of his marriage but he knew the transfer would come through too late. The job was the reason why a wonderful relationship had turned sour. He realised, at that late stage, that if he was to have any life of his own, he needed the change.

  Lachlan didn’t know why his mind was sifting through those memories now, as he stepped from the police-issued Holden Commodore. Then he realised it was because of the freckle-faced kid. The delivery boy stood on t
he fringe of the cordoned off area, watching the forensic team make their on-site inspection of the body. The boy was fascinated and watched with a naked curiosity. Lachlan figured the lad was a similar age to that of his own boy.

  The local cop walked over and offered his hand. ‘Rick Crayfield. Glad to see you.’

  They shook hands. ‘Neil Lachlan. What have we got here, constable?’

  ‘A hit and run, according to the forensic boys.’ Crayfield handed a black leather wallet to Lachlan. ‘The body had plenty of I.D. Local fellow, lived just up the street.’

  Lachlan flicked the wallet open. It contained a driver’s licence and a local club membership badge. He took the licence out. The date of issue and the expiry date indicated it was close to almost two decades old. Lachlan checked the details. The address was 46 Claridge Street, Hurstville. The victim’s name was Brian Parkes and the birth date indicated the victim should be aged in his mid forties, though the picture on the licence was much younger.

  Lachlan scanned the licence several times but kept returning to that date. Weird. Surely no one carried around an old driver’s licence for that long. Did they?

  Crayfield noticed the detective senior sergeant’s quizzical expression. ‘Problem?’

  ‘Just that it’s an old licence,’ Lachlan told him. He didn’t elaborate. ‘Have you run a check on him yet?’

  ‘Yeah. Still waiting to hear back.’

  Lachlan approached the senior forensic man.

  ‘Lousy night,’ Tim Baldwin said, yawning. ‘My three-year old. Toothache.’

  ‘Had a few of those nights myself. What’s the verdict?’

  ‘Gashes and contusions on the back and left sides, consistent with a hit and run.’

  Lachlan peered over Baldwin’s shoulder at the corpse. ‘He doesn’t look smashed up badly enough.’

  ‘No. It seems internal damage is minimal. He was damned unlucky to croak.’

  ‘No other signs of possible cause?’

  ‘We’ll know better after the coroner does his thing.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘Less than twelve hours ago. Early stages of discoloring. Of course, the autopsy will give a more precise time.’

  Lachlan took a closer look over the body. He noticed the label on the man’s trousers - StyleSet. They’d been a successful and trendy label for some years, but had gone bust at least fifteen years earlier. Lachlan knew because he’d had some StyleSet gear himself. Funny the things you remember. Way out of date now. He’d worn that style in the days when he’d met Marcia. Reminiscing again. Enough. He pushed the thoughts of the past from his mind.

  ‘I want you to include in your report the make and year of manufacture of the victim’s clothing,’ Lachlan told the forensic man.

  ‘Sure,’ Baldwin said. ‘Unusual request.’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a day for ‘em,’ Lachlan commented. ‘There’s something weird about this body.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘His driver’s licence is more than a decade out of date. His pants label is just as old but these trousers aren’t all that worn.’

  ‘Nostalgia buff or maybe he was going to a retro party,’ Baldwin said drily, ‘some guys take that shit very seriously.’

  Lachlan couldn’t have missed the cynicism in Baldwin’s tone. Another forensic cop who’d seen too many strange and wonderful things to be surprised any more. Neil Lachlan had come across a few of those. ‘Maybe,’ he replied. He’d always made a point of exhaustive investigation of any and every small detail that puzzled him during a case. He’d been known for it throughout his years in the Drug Squad. Homicide work was no different in that regard. The license and the clothing simply didn’t make sense.

  Crayfield approached. ‘An old fellow phoned in to alert us to the body. I’ve got his statement.’

  ‘He’s gone?’

  ‘Yeah. He was pretty distressed so I sent him home. The boy over there was first on the scene.’

  They strode over to where the boy, wide-eyed, had been watching the action.

  ‘Hello, mate. What’s your name?’ Lachlan asked.

  ‘Rodney Harrison.’

  ‘I’m Detective Senior Sergeant Lachlan.’

  The boy eyed him suspiciously. He saw a tall, lanky man, broad shouldered, with sharply etched features, a lived-in face, a wide grin. ‘Why haven’t you got a uniform?’ was the first thing that came to Rodney’s mind.

  ‘Because I’m a plain clothes detective from the Homicide Division.’

  ‘Really?’ The boy sounded incredulous.

  ‘Yes. I am.’ Lachlan cocked his head towards the spot where the body lay. It was now being removed, draped in a cover. ‘This must have been quite a shock for you, son.’

  ‘Shock? Well, yeah.’

  ‘Are you feeling all right? Nothing to be ashamed of if you’re not.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m fine. It was real cool finding a dead body. Just like in the movies. I mean, it’s not so cool for the man, not really but …’

  ‘I know what you mean, Rodney. Not the sort of thing that happens every day.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me stick your bike in the boot and I’ll drive you home?’

  ‘In the police car?’

  ‘Yes. In the police car.’

  The boy’s excitement was obvious. ‘All right!’

  Lachlan was certain his own boy would have reacted in just the same way. He placed his hand on Rodney Harrison’s shoulder and walked with him to the car.

  The plaques lining the reception area wall were a chronology of success. Australian Excellence In Fashion Awards from various intervals over the past ten years. The carpet was a burgundy plush pile, the walls a montage of pastel shades and strips of polished redwood oak that matched the reception desk. Cindy Lawrence swept past the area and along the adjoining corridor to Jennifer Parkes’ office.

  Jennifer was at her desk, returning her phone to its hook. ‘That was Freddie Jamieson at Myers,’ she said, ‘he’s just ordered ten thousand of the new range of Bellisimo! skirts and tops.’

  ‘Great,’ Cindy enthused.

  ‘Don’t say great, say when.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘By the end of the month.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Since when did we start saying that word around this place?’

  ‘Just thought I’d give it a try.’

  ‘He has to have them. And he’ll pay full factory floor, no volume discounts, if we can deliver.’

  ‘We’ll deliver. I’ll get right on it.’

  ‘If Ken doesn’t think the factory can handle the full order, even with overtime, tell him to look at farming some of the work out,’ Jennifer instructed. ‘It shouldn’t be a problem with the market the way it is right now.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Cindy retraced her steps to the door, paused. ‘Oh Jen? It’s eleven o’clock. You wanted to be reminded.’

  Jennifer followed Cindy out of the office. ‘That’s right. Come and watch.’

  ‘More on Kaplan’s?’

  ‘Yes. A judgment is expected this morning.’

  At thirty-nine, Jennifer was still tall and slender but the girlish gawkiness had long since been replaced by the graceful carriage of an independent woman. The innocent, wide-eyed look was more focused now, her features more pronounced, knowingly serene.

  The LED screen was built into the wall of the oval shaped meeting room. Cindy reached for the remote on the conference table and the screen flicked to life with the morning news program. Familiar theme music and the electronic logotype came together with a series of well known recent news scenes, then altered just as quickly to the presenter. ‘Minutes ago in the Macquarie Street courts, Judge Roland Hetherington handed down his judgment on the crumbling fortunes of the Kaplan Corporation. The decision came as no surprise to the business community. The financial empire founded by Henry Kaplan has been declared insolvent. Judge Hetherington appointed chartere
d accountant Warren Stokes, of Parkhill Stokes, as receiver.’

  Jennifer gave a long, low sigh. ‘I never thought I’d see the day.’

  ‘Despite everything that’s happened over the past twelve months?’ Cindy queried.

  ‘Despite everything. If you’d followed Henry Kaplan’s career as long as I have, then you’d understand. He had an answer for everything, and he always bounced back from every possible predicament.’

  ‘Do you think he will this time?’

  ‘See what he has to say himself,’ Jennifer said, indicating the screen. The image of Henry Kaplan strode defiantly down the steps of the courthouse, flanked by aides. At sixty-one, he still cut a dashing figure, as robust and dynamic as he had been twenty years before. Broad features, tanned, with the attractive roughly hewn lines that age brings to some men, doing them even greater justice than in their younger days. The iron-grey hair was perfectly cut and styled. He could have been a statesman or a legendary actor. Perhaps the millionaire businessman was a bit of both, Jennifer thought, and more.

  Despite the bankruptcy, Kaplan beamed at the cameras, not at all flustered by the dozens of TV and radio microphones pushed towards him.

  ‘Any comment, Mr. Kaplan?’

  ‘Is this the end, Mr. Kaplan?’

  ‘Do you have anything to say to your shareholders, sir?’

  The questions came thick and fast.

  ‘They really don’t want answers,’ Jennifer commented to Cindy. ‘They just want to be heard to have asked the question.’

  ‘The same old questions,’ Cindy added.

  ‘Oh yes. The same. No wonder Henry always knows the answers.’

  Both women laughed. God, thought Jennifer, am I really this cynical at thirty-nine? Then she heard Henry’s reply to the media and she smiled inwardly. Just what she expected.

  The irascible old devil.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he declared triumphantly. ‘Down for the count but certainly not out.’ He waved as he and his aides clambered into the back of a waiting limousine. A moment later it sped away like a knight in shining armour retreating from the battlefield.