Disappear (16 page)

‘You’ve got no business making arrangements like that without checking with me!’

‘Carly –’

‘Don’t cut across me. I’m surprised at you. Kaplan isn’t your style. What’s this all about, anyway?’

He walked into the living room, plaintive look, shrugged. Playing it his way. ‘If you’ll let me explain, baby …’

She glared at him. Challenging him to soften her mood. ‘Go on.’

‘I told you last week about the articles I planned for People Power. Harlan wants this series on Kaplan. If I can gain some access to his people and his firms …’

‘While there’s still something left.’

‘Exactly. I’m a journo for Christ’s sake, meeting the Kaplans of this world is my job. Journos use the connections they have, in this case your mother. Besides, she wants us to join them for lunch. And you have things you want to ask your mother.’

‘I can make my own arrangements with my mother,’ Carly said.

Rory noticed that some of the fire had gone out of her. Always a master at timing, he inched forward, came round behind the couch, reached down and massaged her shoulders gently. ‘Sorry, babe. I didn’t think it would be such a big deal. I just thought, y’know, two birds with one stone. Lunch with your mother and broach the idea on this article to Kaplan.’

She didn’t reply. Just pouted. Rory kept massaging. ‘How’s that?’

‘Good.’

‘Listen, we don’t have to go to this damned lunch, if you’re dead-set against it. I can ring, call it off, say I’m ill.’

‘No, we’ll go.’

‘Sure?’

Carly shrugged. ‘I need to ask her about Dad. Perfect chance, I suppose.’

‘It isn’t going to get too heavy?’

‘No. It’ll be fine.’ She allowed her body to relax and enjoy the massage. She couldn’t see the smug, satisfied expression on Rory’s face, nor the cold gleam of intent in his eyes.

The seafood restaurant was on the shores of Sydney Harbour, elevated, with a glorious view of the flotilla of boats - all kinds, yachts to cabin cruisers. A clear, calm day prevailed, strong sun, and the gentle roll of the ocean was dappled by brilliant speckles of sunlight.

Henry Kaplan had arranged a table on the open-air balcony. He introduced Carly, Rory and Jennifer to his live-in girlfriend, Helen Shawcross.

Jennifer knew he had a young lover but was shocked to see how young she actually was. Twenty-five, Jennifer guessed, and a classic beauty. Long, long legs, hourglass figure, toothy smile, blonde hair. Helen wore a strapless, blue cotton dress, very short. She worked as a cosmetics consultant for one of the department store chains, promotional work, moving from store to store.

‘I keep telling Helen she should be a model,’ Kaplan said, directing his comment to Jennifer and Carly. ‘You two should have an opinion on that, you’re in the business.’

‘I think that’s up to Helen,’ Jennifer said pointedly. ‘She should do whatever she wants.’

Helen nodded towards her in silent approval.

‘Touché,’ Kaplan conceded the point, allowing himself a chuckle. ‘The Sisterhood. I left myself wide open for that one.’ He focused his attention on Carly. ‘I hear you’re doing some modelling. How’re you finding it?’

‘It’s not a long-term thing. I really want to do something more worthwhile.’

‘What would you do that was more worthwhile?’ Helen reached casually for her wine glass, staring Carly down with her large, blue, cat-like eyes. Something in her tone made her question more of a challenge than a simple enquiry.

‘Perhaps writing for a publication that has a concerned voice, as Rory does,’ Carly said, ‘or working with an organisation that has a strong social agenda.’

‘And you think you could do that?’ Helen Shawcross’ tone was cool, the inference one of belittlement.

‘Whatever I do, it will be something with more substance than fashion,’ Carly snapped. She’d picked up on Little Miss California Dream’s attitude, and she wasn’t about to be talked down to by such a vacuous glamour puss.

Kaplan seemed to enjoy the exchange. ‘Oh, come on girls, relax, drink up and be merry.’ He wore a wide grin as he picked up the bottle of chardonnay and re-filled their glasses. ‘Always a small fire whenever this little capitalist,’ he angled his head toward Helen, ‘gets together with someone whose ideals are strictly left of centre.’

Rory saw his chance. ‘Speaking of the political left,’ he said to Kaplan, ‘there’s something I’d like to put to you. An article, very leftish I’m afraid, but not at all unsympathetic to your organisation, and others like it.’

‘Sounds different,’ Kaplan said. ‘Go on.’

Rory outlined his idea. As he did, he couldn’t help his gaze being diverted from time to time to Helen Shawcross. She watched him, flickers of agreement to his points showing in her eyes. Nothing innocent about this one, Rory thought. Her body language was unmistakably seductive. It wasn’t hard for Rory to return the vibe, smiling back occasionally with a casual, seemingly innocent wink. Warm glances, friendly chatter - but a silent invitation to something far more intimate.

While the People Power article was discussed, Carly spoke to her mother, her voice low, her expression intense. ‘There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you. The funeral wasn’t the right time for it.’

‘Ask away.’ Jennifer was glad Carly had a question. It would serve as an icebreaker, help to get them talking. She realised, very quickly, that this wasn’t the question that would serve that purpose.

‘You always told me things were fantastic between you and my father. That he never would have walked out.’

‘That’s right.’

‘But he did, didn’t he? He was alive all these years, yet he never contacted you - or me.’

‘He wouldn’t have vanished voluntarily,’ Jennifer replied. ‘I’m certain of that. There has to be some other explanation …’

‘What could have stopped him contacting us for eighteen years? There has to be more to this than you’re telling us.’

This is the reaction I feared most, Jennifer thought, the idea that if Brian walked out on me then I must be holding back on something.
How do I respond when I’m just as much in the dark myself?

‘I want the answers more than anyone, Carly.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ Carly’s eyes flashed early warning signs of her anger. Her voice rose. ‘Something was wrong between you, wasn’t it?’ She felt the frustration rising up from deep inside. Her mother always had pat answers to everything. Now she was giving pat answers to this.

‘No, Carly-.’

‘Why are you holding back on this? I never knew my father, and now he’s been killed, back in the street where you used to live. He must’ve been looking for you.’

Kaplan, becoming aware of the conversation between Jennifer and Carly, interrupted his dialogue with Rory. ‘Whoa,’ he said, holding up the palm of his hand. ‘This doesn’t sound good.’ The comment was directed towards Carly. ‘Carly, what’s this all about?’

‘It’s about what really happened between my parents. There’s more to this whole damn thing than meets the eye. I think I’ve a right to know.’

‘Then let me assure you your mother doesn’t know any more than the rest of us. I know that much. I employed two top-notch private investigators for two years to find out what happened to your father. If he’d been in contact, during that time, with anyone he’d known previously, including your mother, the investigators would’ve been on to it. There was no trace of him. Nothing, until he was run down on Claridge Street last week.’

Jennifer’s eyes met Carly’s, and she held the gaze. ‘The police are giving the case special attention,’ Jennifer assured her. ‘I’m determined to get to the bottom of this, for both our sakes. Be with me on this, not against me.’ To herself she thought: Oh Carly, if only you could see that I’m feeling the same frustration as you, the same anger as you.

A lone tear formed in the corner of Carly’s eye. She shrugged, averting her gaze to look out over the water, willing the moment to pass.

Bill Dawson liked to keep busy. That wasn’t hard, his garden flowerbed had produced three award-winning petunias in as many years - and then there were the three small dogs he groomed and trained for the district dog shows. The wall of his study boasted certificates for first and second places in more than a dozen shows.

At sixty, Bill had taken early retirement twelve months before, bringing to a close a forty-three year career in the printing trade. These days, gardening and his canines absorbed most of his energies.

His wife, Beatrice, stepped into the back yard with a lunch tray. Open ham sandwiches, salad bowls and coffee. She set it down on the timber garden table. ‘Are you going to take a break from that and eat?’ she called out.

‘You betcha.’ He tossed aside the clump of weeds he’d extracted from the soil and ambled over to the table. ‘The sun is magnificent today,’ he commented, reaching for a stick of celery as he sat down.

‘It always feels best this time of the year,’ Beatrice said matter-of-factly, sliding one of the plates towards Bill. ‘Are we working with Max this afternoon?’

Bill munched on a sandwich. ‘Yeah. Take him through the motions. We’ve got one week to brush up on his routine before next week’s show.’ Max gave a high-pitched yelp from his fenced-in area of the yard. He pranced around in a perfect circle, the born poseur, and then strutted into his kennel.

‘I swear that dog knows when he’s being talked about,’ Beatrice said.

‘You bet he does,’ Bill beamed with pride, ‘and I tell you, come next Saturday, he’s gonna be a winner. I feel it in my bones.’

Two streets away, on Palms Avenue, sixteen-year old Dianne Adamson arrived at her boyfriend’s place, having walked over from her home five blocks away. Taking advantage of the warmer spring weather, she wore a light cotton blouse and denim shorts. She was slim and dark-eyed with skin that always gave the impression she’d been out in the sun.

Ryan Paisley bounded out the front door, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’ She leaned towards him, gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Your olds home?’

‘No. They’re out ‘til late. Real late. I got a stack of DVD’s. Popcorn. The works.’

She followed him into the house.

‘And I got these.’

He flashed a packet from his pocket, returning it so quickly she didn’t see it, just the blur of colour. But she knew what they were. She wasn’t sure how to react. ‘Great,’ she said uncertainly.

‘You’re okay about it, aren’t you?’ Ryan asked, aware of her coyness.

Dianne shrugged. ‘I guess.’

He stepped towards her, placed his long, sinewy arms around her tiny waist. ‘It’s gonna be okay. I promise. And you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.’

‘I know.’

‘Let’s pig out, eh, and watch a movie. What do you feel like seein’?’

‘What have you got?’

Ryan flicked through the stack of rentals beside the TV. ‘Terminator Two, Predator, Die Hard, Transformers … any of those appeal?’

She winced. ‘Ah … no. I kind of had in mind … well, something a little more romantic, y’know.’

Ryan frowned. ‘Oh.’ He fumbled around in the stack. ‘How about this one? Sleeping With The Enemy. That’s got romance, hasn’t it?’

Dianne pouted. That was hardly the romantic mood setter she had in mind. ‘No. Look, Transformers will be fine.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Ryan grinned, glad to be back on familiar turf. ‘Megan Fox. Good one.’

Dianne sighed as she sat on the sofa. Ryan loaded the DVD, then dropped down beside her, awkwardly placing his arm around her shoulders. His breath was hot on her face, and Dianne realised she had completely lost the excited, elated sensation she’d felt on the way over. She’d dreamed for weeks of being alone with Ryan, of having a place to themselves. The thought of losing her virginity had made her tingle all over with anticipation. But now she was here she felt anxious and confused. Being alone with Ryan just wasn’t what she’d expected.

‘Feelin’ okay?’ Ryan asked, taking a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the armrest.

‘All good.’ But she knew the monotone of her voice betrayed her real emotion. Maybe I’ll snap out of it, she thought. Maybe I’ll feel better as the afternoon wears on. Then she felt Ryan’s fingers groping at her breasts and she tensed up. ‘Not yet, Ryan.’

‘No worries. No rush.’ He reached for another handful of popcorn.

Early evening. The last, fading strips of light retreated towards the city skyline like ghosts in the twilight. The jogger paced his home, glancing at the view each time he passed the glass doors of the balcony.

All his senses were heightened in anticipation of what was to come. Tonight. Around 10.30 p.m. He knew he was tempting fate, a second murder within a week of the first since his resurgence. At the same time, he needed to fuel his blood lust after so long.

This would be the last killing for a while; it was necessary to lay low from time to time. Not only that, it was becoming difficult to find the time to seek out his prey. It had been easier before, when he was younger, when his time had been more his own.

He had a couple of hours to fill before he drove to the Central Coast. He was in the right frame of mind to write to his mother. Several months had elapsed since his last letter.

For the first time in a long while he had something to tell her.

He’d wanted to write since the morning he’d killed Trish Van Helegen, but a shortage of time and the overwhelming desire to seek a new victim had stalled him.

Dear Mother,

It can be a frustrating thing, this need to inflict death, because it is such a secret thing, one that can’t be readily shared. I have to be careful: so much can go wrong, and the smallest detail can give me away. In many ways it’s a curse. The curse was doubly so during the years I was watched. I’ve written to you about the girls before, but they were never enough to fully satisfy my urges.

Well, Mother, this was one of those weeks when it all seemed worthwhile. Something extraordinary happened.

None of us really know the meaning of freedom until we’ve had it taken from us, and then returned. This week, I regained the freedom to kill.

I don’t know why. Perhaps I’ll never know. But I’m free again, and I can’t begin to explain the sheer, unadulterated elation of it.