Disappear (30 page)

Doolan worked the 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. shift in the newest and deepest of the tunnels, Shaft Number Twelve. When he’d come on duty this afternoon, no one had any reason to suspect that the duffle bag, which usually contained his lunch box, newspaper and towel, also contained a compact black box. A sophisticated, miniature explosive device.

Doolan took his usual place in the open rail transport car with a group of men from his shift. As it descended along the makeshift track into the mouth of the shaft, Doolan thought back to the visit he’d received earlier in the day.

His visitor had been a small, dark haired man with a dangerous look. He’d called himself Smith and said he was a life insurance advisor sent by the union. They strolled into the back yard of the tiny fibro cottage, out of earshot of Doolan’s wife, Sandra.

Dreydon came right to the point. ‘We know you’re in a dreadful financial state, Barry,’ he said without a trace of sentiment.

‘We?’

Dreydon raised the palm of his hand. ‘Hear me out. Too much money on the horses, not enough put aside for the bills.’

Doolan became agitated. He always did over money matters. ‘Man’s got a right to some relaxation.’

‘We can put an end to your money worries,’ said Dreydon, grinning like a shark. ‘We have a little job we’d like you to do.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Relax and hear me out. I have a client who wants to cause the Kaplan Corporation some real financial pain, a mission I’m sure you can relate to. Not for your own satisfaction, but for the memory of your mates, the ones from Shaft Number Five, and the ones who are still suffering.’

‘I don’t know …’

‘Fifty thousand dollars, in cash. In advance.’

Doolan’s eyebrows shot up in to perfect arches. ‘Fifty grand.’ He whistled. ‘When..?’

‘Right now. Suitcase is in my car out the front.’ Dreydon paused for effect. ‘There’s no danger to you, Barry, and no one needs to get hurt. We have a very sophisticated explosive device-’

‘Explosive!’

‘You simply hide it, set the timer, walk away. Easier than operating a Blu Ray Player, Barry. I understand the last shift finishes at 11 p.m. Set the timer for 3 a.m., dead middle of the night, and leave it towards the centre of the shaft you work in.’

Dreydon stopped and waited for the full implication of all he’d said to sink in. He loved this kind of work and felt like laughing out loud, but restrained the impulse. He could almost hear the cogs shifting in the neanderthal brain of the down and out compulsive gambler before him.

‘Middle of the night,’ Doolan repeated, mumbling. In his mind’s eye the fifty thousand dollars shone like gold at the end of a rainbow. ‘And no-one gets hurt.’

‘That’s right.’

Dreydon saw the subtle shift in Doolan’s expression. A decision had been made.

‘Switch if off,’ said Lachlan. Bryant leaned across the table and pressed the “off” panel on the department’s TV set. The news report faded from the screen. Lachlan sat, unmoving, staring at the blank screen.

‘Hard to believe he’s gone,’ said Aroney.

‘Why the hell would he do such a thing?’ Bryant wondered aloud. ‘John never showed any signs of depression or anxiety. Wasn’t the type.’

‘Whether he was the type or not,’ Lachlan snapped, ‘he’s gone.’

The other two looked at him in surprise. Neil Lachlan was one of the most contained men they’d ever known, and even the mildest expression of emotion was out-of-character

‘I’m sorry.’ Lachlan leaned back, sucked in deep lungfuls of air. ‘It’s such a blasted shock. I knew John for twenty years.’ His mind wandered back over two decades of memories. How could something like this happen to someone you thought you knew so well?

Bryant stood up and paced the room. ‘This damn thing gets weirder and weirder. Rosen takes on the missing persons cases, sits on ‘em, then you’re brought in and Rosen goes and…’ He didn’t finish making the obvious statement, reminding himself of Lachlan’s long association with the superintendent. ‘Is there a connection?’

Lachlan told them about his final conversation with Rosen.

‘So someone out there knows who the killer is, and blackmailed John to ensure the police investigation ran into a dead end,’ Aroney summarised. ‘But they also said the killer would be taken care of. What do you think they meant by that?’

‘Sounds as though it’s a vigilante thing,’ Bryant pointed out.

‘I’ll follow that through with Internal Affairs,’ Lachlan said, ‘they’ll be investigating the suicide. In the meantime we carry on, full steam ahead. John would have wanted that. Winterstone..?’

Bryant pushed a sheath of papers towards him. ‘Despite all they say about the public service, the customs boys had their paperwork in order.’ He indicated the spidery scrawl on the faded document. ‘February, 1993. One container, total weight three tons, received at the docks for Winterstone Pty.Ltd. Classification of goods: Electrical equipment.’

Lachlan read the name of the sender out loud. ‘Lifelines Incorporated. From Burbank, California. What do we have on them?’

‘Nothing yet,’ Bryant replied. ‘Nothing relevant comes up when you google it. There’s a contact phone number on those Customs records. I’ve got a call to the US booked for later tonight, 9 a.m. their time, to see if I can raise that number or whether the local authorities over there can assist.’

‘Ring me at home, no matter the hour,’ Lachlan said, ‘the moment you know anything about them.’ He swung towards Aroney. ‘That warehouse is bugging me. It was too empty. No clues. Except for the yellow umbrella Parkes had with him the night he vanished. Ring the local council, Ron. I want the original building plans for that warehouse.’ He rose to leave. ‘I’m going to the lab with the umbrella. But first I want Jennifer Parkes to make a positive ID of it.’ He had one last thing to say before he left. ‘For the first time since I started on this case I feel there’s a solution. And it’s within reach.’

Bryant and Aroney voiced their agreement. Like distant lights in a thick fog, a pattern was slowly beginning to emerge.

Jennifer heard the car come screeching into her driveway. She peered between the drapes and was surprised to see Meg and her daughter rushing up to the front door.

She went out onto the front landing. ‘Meg …’ She was shocked by the sight of her old friend, chalk-white face, eyes glassy and wide with distress.

‘Just left Jason at the hospital,’ she blurted out, ‘but I don’t want Samantha stuck there with me all night. Could she stay overnight with you?’

‘Of course.’ Jennifer led the two of them into the house.

‘I didn’t like the idea of her being at home on her own, y’know. Not with this garrotte killer loose in the city.’

‘Meg, what happened?’

‘Jason fell on a rake in our neighbour’s yard. Impaled his left leg.’

‘Good God.’

‘It was terrible,’ Samantha added. She sat on the lounge, visibly shaken. ‘His screams sent shivers right through me.’

Carly came in. ‘Thought I heard voices. Hi.’

‘I’ve got to get back,’ Meg said.

‘Ring us. Let us know how he’s doing,’ Jennifer said. After Meg left, Jennifer went to comfort Samantha, explaining to Carly what had happened. The girl melted into Jennifer’s arms, weeping, and Jennifer, still reeling from the deaths of Stuart James and John Rosen, couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that everything was going horribly, terribly wrong.

Kaplan arrived back at his office at 7 p.m. after spending much of the afternoon with Becker. Harold Masterton sat in Kaplan’s office, waiting.

‘Becker is ready to fly to Queensland with us tomorrow to look over the mine,’ Kaplan announced excitedly. ‘He’s ready, Harold. We’re almost there. I can’t wait to see the look on that blasted liquidator’s face.’

‘What’s all this about Winterstone, Henry?’ Masterton snapped, oblivious to Kaplan’s comments about the impending sale.

‘Winterstone? What’s that?’

‘A business name we own. We hold the real estate for a storage warehouse in that company’s name.’

‘So?’

‘That cop, Lachlan, thinks there’s a link between Brian Parkes’ disappearance and a Winterstone audit he was carrying out eighteen years ago. I don’t know a damned thing about it and it’s not looking good, Henry.’

‘Calm down.’ Kaplan went to his desk and lit a cigar. ‘Whose name is on the company papers as director?’

‘Mine, damn it, and one of my assistants at the time who’s long since left.’

‘You remember signing them?’

‘Vaguely. I’m certain the directive must’ve come from Roger or yourself or one of the other directors at the time. Or even Hans Falkstog, who was consulting on certain projects back then.’

‘I don’t recall anyone ever mentioning it.’ Kaplan drew on the cigar, savoured the aroma, then released it. He often had a cigar in the evening when he was feeling positive about a business negotiation. ‘I’ll speak to the other directors, and get in touch with Falkstog. Let me see if I can shed any light on it.’

‘We don’t want any hiccups now, Henry, with Becker about to sign.’

Kaplan noticed that sweat had broken out on Masterton’s brow. ‘I’m sure there’s a satisfactory explanation to the whole thing. Let me worry about it.’

Masterton nodded, but the haunted look in his eyes told Kaplan that the finance man was in for a sleepless night. What was he most worried about? Kaplan wondered. The possible effect on the sale of Southern Star? Or the implication that he was involved in the murders being investigated?

And why had he brought up the name of Hans Falkstog?

The killer who strikes again and again normally has a preference for his victims to be male or female. The jogger was different in this respect. His focus had always been on the right place, the right time, the routine of the chosen,
not their gender
. For him, the thrill was the same, regardless.

Except when he had to kill for a purpose. The excitement was replaced by pressure that wound itself around his temples, like a steel band. It was essential that nothing go wrong, that he wasn’t recognised. It was imperative to be successful. He didn’t enjoy that kind of pressure.

That’s how it was tonight with his planned attack on Jennifer Parkes, and how it would be tomorrow for his blow against the meddling detective. The jogger promised himself that after that he would kill simply for pleasure again - and quickly. His killings should be a thing of pleasure, not of business.

He drove by the house and saw the Parkes bitch at the mailbox, removing flyers and catalogues. She was wearing the blue nylon jacket with the red trim. He’d seen her wear it before.

The rain, which had been drizzling down throughout the day, momentarily stopped. An occasional roll of thunder crackled in the distance. The streets were wet, shiny. It was twilight, minutes away from total nightfall, and the jogger knew he was too far away to be identified. Despite this, he tilted his head away and allowed the peak of the sports cap to slip lower, shielding part of his face.

His vehicle wasn’t one she would know. It was his second car, always kept garaged, used only when his darker half went out to hunt and kill.

He turned the corner, parked half way along the connecting street, alighted and began to jog. The fall of night was complete now, the shadows of the late afternoon transformed into long, deep stretches of ebony between the pools of light cast by neon. He passed two other joggers.

Perfect. He liked it best when he could blend in completely with the environment. It was a good omen.

He knew Jennifer was in the house, alone. The plan was crystal clear in his mind. All he needed to do was to lure her outside and strike swiftly from behind. He didn’t want to see her face. He didn’t want to think about who she was.

He’d thought long and hard about this. He would pretend she was a stranger, a victim chosen at random. Perhaps if he could force himself to believe that for just a few minutes, if he could ignore the pressure he felt to be successful, then he’d be able to enjoy the sensation after all.

After Carly had moved her car into the garage behind her mother’s, she’d announced she wasn’t hungry and that she was turning in early. Jennifer had looked in on her twenty minutes later. Carly was fast asleep. Unlike her, Jennifer thought. Something about Rory was really troubling her. It was as though placing her car in the double garage signalled her intention to stay awhile.

‘I can’t eat either,’ Samantha said. ‘But don’t worry about me, Mrs P, I’ll just sit here and flake out in front of the tele.’

‘I’ll be buzzing around the place,’ Jennifer said. ‘Just holler if you need anything. If we haven’t heard from your mother a little later on, we’ll phone up to see if there’s any news.’

‘Thanks.’

The rubbish bin, close to a metre high and army green in colour, stood between the side of the garage and the rear right corner of the house.

The jogger stepped from the footpath and onto the driveway, still jogging. He could have been just another fitness freak returning home to the eyes of any passer-by. The houses on either side were quiet.

He took the bin in both hands, tipped it on its side until it was almost horizontal, and then slid it along the ground, leaving it on its side in the middle of the driveway. Next, he knocked firmly on the side door entrance before retreating to the rear.

Jennifer didn’t hear the knock. She had decided to take a shower and at the precise moment the jogger rapped on the side door, the warm, refreshing needlepoint of the spray was gushing over her.

Samantha lay sprawled on the lounge, attempting to concentrate on an American sitcom. Her mind kept wandering and every time it did she could hear her brother’s high-pitched screams.

The knock at the side entrance came as a welcome intrusion. She opened the door, peered out, saw the bin lying across the driveway.

‘Dogs …’ she muttered to herself. She assumed there’d been no knock, that she’d just heard the clatter of the falling bin. It had started raining again, heavier this time, so she reached back, grabbed hold of the blue nylon jacket Jennifer had left draped across the back of the lounge, pulled it on and stepped out to pick up the bin.

At the rear right hand corner of the house, the jogger saw the tall, slim figure with the long, dark hair and the blue jacket with red trim. The wire lay at the ready in his hands.