(2012) Disappear

by Iain Edward Henn

  He didn’t want to go near the corpse again. His pale face and watery eyes were testament to the fact he might throw up at any time.

  Not in the squad car for Chrissakes, Caseli had thought on the drive over to the park. He wondered whether his own appearance became pasty on these occasions.

  The woman lay face down in a manner Caseli had seen before. He glanced across at Harrap, a solidly built nugget of a man the other constables called Bulldog. Caseli noted that he didn’t look like a bulldog now. He looked the same as any young cop who’d seen his first murder victim. Ashen faced. Nauseous.

  ‘You gonna be okay?’

  ‘I can handle it, sarge,’ Harrap assured him.

  Caseli knelt beside the body. The woman was sprawled like a broken doll, arms all askew. Her shorts and panties were down around her ankles. Caseli didn’t need a forensic report to tell him that the victim had been viciously raped as well as garrotted.

  He turned to Harrap. ‘Get the area cordoned off,’ he said. ‘But first, call the lab. Tell ‘em to get their boys over here.’ He turned back to the body, checked the pockets of the shorts. ‘No ID. We’ll be relying on missing persons reports to identify her.’

  ‘I’ll make sure a bulletin goes out on that, sarge.’

  Harrap was a good man, Caseli thought. Solid. Reliable. And handling this well. It didn’t change Caseli’s opinion, minutes later, when he saw Harrap vomit into the bushes on his way back to the patrol car.

  The previous morning, Trent Dowding had woken with a start at 7.45. Damn! I’ll be late for work. He shaved and dressed quickly, wondering why Trish hadn’t woken him when she’d come in from her run. He was in such a hurry he didn’t notice the telltale signs. Normally, when Trish returned from the run, she left her sports gear on top of the bed.

  The shorts and tee shirt weren’t there that morning.

  Trent couldn’t understand why Trish hadn’t woken him. Getting even with him for not getting up earlier as he’d promised? Perhaps, but that wasn’t really like her. She didn’t have a cruel streak. He pondered the question on the train as he headed for his clerical job in the city.

  Later than morning he phoned Trish’s place of work. Alarm bells rang in his head when he was told that Trish hadn’t arrived. Had she come in from her run after he’d left? That was it. She was feeling ill and she’d stayed home. He phoned the apartment and allowed the ring to continue for several minutes.

  Where the hell was she?

  ‘Probably gone home to mother,’ one of his workmates said cheekily. ‘I’m only surprised it took her this long, after six months with a slob like you.’

  ‘Very funny,’ Trent said, but silently he worried that there might be something in it. Was Trish pissed off with him over something? Would she up and leave like that without a word?

  Arriving home that evening, he spent two hours phoning her parents, her friends, a few of her workmates. All to no avail. Trish’s parents were concerned and began making phone calls themselves to Trish’s friends.

  None of Trish’s friends were too concerned. Maybe she’d simply tired of Trent and was returning to her older, wilder ways. She’d been one hell of a party girl a few years back. They considered Trent Dowding to be, in one girl’s words, “wishy washy”, but they didn’t say too much to Trish about that. They didn’t want to spoil her happiness. Despite these comments, Trish’s parents weren’t convinced.

  That night, Trent lay awake for several hours, agonising over whether or not to call the police. He would look bloody silly if he did, and then Trish turned up.

  He searched his mind - had Trish told him she had something else planned for a day or two and he’d simply forgotten? She was always complaining that he didn’t listen properly to her, and she was right. He made a mental note not to make that mistake in future. He didn’t want to lose Trish Van Helegen. He was in love with her.

  By the time he reached the office the following morning, he knew the only option was to call the police. His mouth went dry when the Dural police sergeant, Joe Caseli, told him that his description of Trish matched that of a young woman whose body had been found earlier. Caseli asked him to come in to the station as soon as possible.

  Lachlan arrived earlier than usual at his office. He intended to phone Marcia straight away to discuss the problem with Todd.

  Superintendent John Rosen, who was coordinating special projects between the various squads of the State Crime Command, was waiting for him. Rosen, normally operating from the S CC at NSW Police HQ in Parramatta, was currently working from Sydney’s local area command in the city.

  He’d made a special trip across town to see Lachlan.

  ‘Hello, Neil. I thought I told you to keep in touch.’

  Lachlan laughed heartily and shook the hand of his old friend. ‘John! Haven’t I been keeping in touch?’

  ‘Only if you call a rushed phone call every few months being social.’

  ‘You’re old enough to make a call yourself, you old bugger.’

  ‘One better. I’m here in person. So how’re you finding homicide in the suburbs?’

  ‘I’m happy with the change.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear about you and Marcia,’ Rosen adopted a serious tone, ‘if there’s anything I can do to help, Neil, shoulder to lean on, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I have another reason for this visit.’

  Rosen was a ruddy-faced bear of a man who always struck Lachlan as something akin to a military figure with his clipped moustache and greying, silvery hair. A commanding figure, he spoke in a rich baritone, more like an international diplomat than a policeman.

  ‘I’m here to discuss a sensitive matter. This Parkes case. Hit and run. Been missing twenty years.’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Whatever. It would be a fairly straightforward case if not for the widow’s claim her husband hadn’t aged. You’ve drawn considerable attention to that in your report.’

  ‘Right. Something bizarre about the state of the body, including the incision to the throat.’ It was clear to Lachlan that Rosen had been over the HQ copy of the report. That was standard procedure. This visit wasn’t.

  ‘I have a small unit of special investigators at HQ who work on unusual cases. Like this one. I’m taking the investigation away from the Homicide Squad, Neil, and assigning it to that unit. Your squad commander will inform you officially, of course. I wanted to tell you in person myself, though, because it’s got nothing to do with you personally or the squad. This is purely about the sensitivity of the case.’

  ‘There’s nothing sensitive about this case.’

  ‘The word from above is, they want this one kept under wraps. And I agree. We don’t want the media getting hold of it. The way your report reads we’re dealing with an accident or murder victim who’s stepped through time, or who has a Dorian Gray type painting stacked away somewhere. Imagine if the reporters get hold of something that gives that impression, there’ll be widespread curiosity. Half the community will believe it, the other half will think the widow and the police force have gone balmy. Next think we’ll have a flood of UFO sightings and haunted house reports in the area.’

  ‘I can keep a lid on my investigation,’ Lachlan insisted.

  ‘I know you can, Neil. But you’re working out of a suburban station, with people in and out, phone calls overheard, local news guys hanging about desperate for angles. It wouldn’t be unusual for something to get out.’

  ‘Aren’t you over-reacting, John? After all, there’s nothing speculative in the autopsy papers. It’s routine. The coroner wasn’t prepared to dispute the fact that Parkes was forty-three years old.’

  ‘No reason a coroner would buy into something like that, not without conclusive evidence. Only make him look stupid. As you know, they can’t say for certain what age a body is.’

  ‘No. But they can determine if a body is closer to thirty than, say, forty. McIntyre wasn’t even prepared to do that for the rec
ord. Only to say the body’s condition prior to death was excellent for it’s age.’

  Rosen nodded. ‘I’m inclined to agree with the coroner’s assessment.’

  ‘But it isn’t just a matter of the body’s appearance. There’s the clothing. The eighteen-year-old driver’s licence, still in pristine condition. The fact that he re-appeared in the same spot he went missing.’

  ‘Which brings me back to the original point. These are all details the press could get hold of.’

  ‘You really think there’d be a circus over something like this?’

  ‘The big boys at SCC have seen it happen before, mate. They don’t want anything that rocks the boat, not after the recent corruption and efficiency enquiries. You know that the force is going through a cleansing and rebuilding phase.’

  ‘I still think it’s an over-reaction. After all, it’s just another case. The sooner it’s solved, the less chance of speculation and ridicule.’

  ‘There are hundreds of unsolved cases, much simpler than this one,’ Rosen pointed out.

  ‘You don’t think this will be solved?’

  Rosen sighed, frustration showing in the droop of his cheeks. ‘I hope it can. I want to find the driver who ran Parkes down. But the puzzle over his appearance will be difficult, especially with the coroner ruling out plastic surgery. As you said, it’s bizarre. Answer this: what kind of explanation can anyone come up with? You think this guy had a Dorian Gray picture tucked away somewhere?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You think he did a H G Wells and stepped through time?’

  ‘Those aren’t rational explanations.’

  ‘And there may not be any. But those are the sorts of things people will speculate about. The media will make a home grown version of the X-Files out of it, if they can.’

  ‘So what’s the point here, John? The big boys want to sweep the whole thing under the carpet?’

  ‘Not at all. My HQ special investigations unit will be calling in opinions from the boffins, and following up on those points concerning the make and model of the hit/run car, and any international crime records relating to Parkes. We just want to keep all the details under wraps for now. Access to information on the case will be strictly classified.’

  ‘Limit any possibility of a leak.’

  ‘Exactly. You understand, Neil. There are always some cases they want handled that way. And it’s the sort of thing my special unit deals with.’

  ‘I understand.’ Lachlan cast his eyes over Rosen’s features, still sharp and clearly defined even though he was approaching sixty-five. ‘You’re concerned that I don’t take the moving of the case as a personal affront.’

  ‘Damn right. Hell, how long have I known you? Must be twenty years since I coached you on the academy rugby team.’

  ‘Twenty years,’ Lachlan confirmed.

  ‘You’ve had a hell of a rough time lately. You’re still the new boy on the block in homicide. Didn’t want you getting the wrong idea.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Word is you’re creaming it here.’

  ‘I needed a new challenge. And the pace here is right. Busy, but I get to go home occasionally.’

  ‘Good. Actually, I blame myself partly for your troubles at home.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘I should’ve been on to you years ago, made sure you didn’t spend too long in narcotics. I’ve seen it burn up too many guys. But I made the same old mistake. Got out of the routine of staying in contact.’

  ‘It wasn’t your responsibility, John. You’re a superintendent with a wide brief at SCC, not a guardian angel.’

  ‘I’m talking about the personal side of things, about being a friend.’

  ‘I appreciate that, John. You’ll keep me informed on the Parkes case?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘As you can imagine, my curiosity has been piqued.’

  ‘And mine.’

  ‘There’s a widow …’

  Rosen nodded. ‘Jennifer Parkes. I’d like you to explain to her that a special team from HQ will be undertaking the investigation. Also, take her through the autopsy result, persuade her to accept the known facts. From there on, I’ll see to it she’s kept advised of our progress.’

  ‘There’s one thing you haven’t told me,’ Lachlan said, as Rosen stretched his legs, preparing to leave.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What’s your take on this, on why Parkes doesn’t appeared to have aged? On the apparent interference with the body post-mortem?’

  A grin spread across Rosen’s face, a grin Lachlan remembered well from the old academy football days.

  ‘Most obvious case of alien abduction I’ve ever seen. But don’t quote me on that.’

  Lachlan gave a half-hearted smile. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. We don’t want this turning into a circus.’

  After Rosen left, Lachlan ambled over to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup. Everything John Rosen said made perfect sense. Why then, did he have the feeling he’d been deftly manoeuvred by a master manipulator?

  He returned to his desk, sipped at the steaming hot liquid, then remembered his need to contact Marcia as soon as possible. Her phone rang and rang, until finally he hung up in frustration. Glancing at his watch, he realised Rosen’s visit had caused him to miss her. She must have already left to take Todd to school.

  Carly Parkes was an early riser. It was the one thing, she speculated, that she had in common with her mother. ‘It’s the sign of an achiever,’ her mother had told her repeatedly when she was young.

  5.45 a.m. Early spring. The first rays of dawn, warm and ethereal, filtered through the partly open floral curtains. It gave the bedroom an old-world ambience, all the surrounding colours soft and muted, welcoming.

  Carly slipped out from beneath the fawn coloured quilt cover, the short, creamy negligee clinging to the slender lines of her body. She went to the vanity unit. Her hair, raven black like her mother’s, had a tendency to develop knots while she slept. She loved this part of the morning, the serenity, the soft light, so she sat at the vanity unit mirror, combing the knots from her smooth, fine hair, all the time watching the man who had slept beside her.

  Carly had left the corner of the cover drawn back from him, and, as she did every morning, she watched the rise and fall of his chest. She loved the look of his suntanned skin, and the firm, oval shape of the muscles in his long legs. She loved to watch him in the early mornings as he slept. She could feast her eyes on his body without him being aware, without her feeling self conscious about her lust. And that, she knew, was exactly what it was.

  At six o’clock his clock radio came alive. The chirpy, high-speed voice of the FM breakfast DJ resounded around the room, bouncing from the walls. Rory stirred, one eye opened first, then the other. He focused on Carly. She rose from her stool, reached across and switched the radio off. ‘Can’t stand it so early in the day,’ she said.

  Rory sat up, yawned and stretched, sending ripples across his shoulder blades.

  ‘Hi,’ said Carly.

  ‘Running?’

  ‘You ask me that every morning.’ She grinned.

  ‘And you always say no.’ He wiped a thin seam of sleep from his eye.

  ‘So you know my answer.’

  ‘Typical.’

  ‘I get plenty of exercise from my aerobics classes.’

  He made an exasperated face. ‘Aerobics.’

  ‘It’s my one vice,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Point taken …’ He yawned again. ‘Well, not the only vice.’ He laughed, his voice still husky from sleep.

  He had dark hair, longish, dark eyes and a lazy droop to his eyelids. His boyishly handsome face was very 1960’s Paul McCartney, but his dry wit and arrogant resolve were pure John Lennon at his most rebellious. They were both into retro, and were Beatles fans. She had said that to him once - McCartney look, Lennon spirit - and he’d laughed, making a face and dismissing her comment as childish, her v
iews tainted by commercial pop culture imagery. She suspected that, secretly, he’d been flattered. She liked to flatter him, it was one of the ways she could exercise influence over him.

  Normally he was totally in control of his life and his emotions, always the organiser, the decision maker. She liked that, up to a point. He was thirty-five, seventeen years older than she was, but she often felt that his zest for living and his passion for social issues were those of a much younger man. Rory was her soul mate. She wished she had his knowledge, his maturity, his ability to translate his anger at the injustices of the system into clear, concise lines of attack.

  ‘What’s on today?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m meeting with Harlan later this morning,’ he replied. ‘He wants to discuss another assignment with me.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Catwalking again,’ she said, turning her eyes upwards, disgusted, ‘it’s really not me, not what I’m about.’

  ‘Keep it up a little longer, baby. The organisation needs the money. What better place to get a little help, than from the purses of the idle rich, the miserable bastards who care for nothing but themselves.’

  ‘You’re right, of course.’

  He stood up, naked, yawned again. Carly rose from the stool, allowed the negligee to slide from her shoulders and fall. She wiggled out of it as she moved towards him. ‘You’re not really going to go for that run this morning, are you?’

  ‘I need my exercise,’ Rory protested. His tone was definite, but his eyes, taking in her body, told a different story.

  Carly placed her open palms against his chest and pushed. He fell backwards across the bed, pulling her down on top of him.

  ‘You’re getting sexier and sexier,’ he said, his breath heavy.

  ‘You’ve created a monster.’ She lowered her lips to the skin stretched taut across his belly, swept her tongue lightly over the matted hairs, felt the shiver that passed through him. Then she pressed her tongue firmly against his flesh, dragging it downwards, following the shiver to the point where all his senses gathered, ready to erupt. The groan that escaped his lips, a grunt of true ecstasy, was music to her ears.