Ryan charged out of the house behind her, fuelled by his own fury. ‘Dianne!’
Dianne kept running. She didn’t want another confrontation with Ryan tonight. They both needed time to cool off. She rounded the corner at the end of the street. Marcos Avenue, long and winding and lined with trees, stretched before her. Wide, gnarled tree branches, awash with canopies of leaves, obscured the full glow from the streetlights. There were many deep wells of darkness along the way.
She knew how headstrong and petulant Ryan could be. Halfway along the avenue she diverted her direction and stepped over the front fence of a large brick house. No lights shone from within. She planted herself beside a sprawling rose bush, hiding herself from view.
I’ll wait awhile, until the coast is clear, before I start out again.
From behind the bush she peered out onto the street. There was no movement, very few house lights showing. From further along she heard the barking of a dog, followed by the sudden, sharp meow of a cat, then silence.
Minutes later she heard footfalls on the pathway. She held her breath, expecting to see Ryan. Instead, a lone jogger glided by.
Half a block around the corner, Ryan stopped at his front gate, fuming, debating whether to follow Dianne back to her place. He decided against it and went back into the house, slamming the door behind him.
At precisely 10 p.m. Bill Dawson, a creature of habit, left his house with an eager Max prancing in front of him, straining at his leash. Every day Bill took Max for a twenty-minute walk in the morning, the early afternoon, and finally last thing in the evening. To train a show dog, routine was an essential part of the day, and that went for relaxation as well as for teaching and practicing tricks and movements. Bill enjoyed these walks as much as Max did. He loved the peace and quiet, and the sky full of stars.
Bill paid fleeting attention to the figure in a tracksuit and sports cap, jogging along the footpath on the opposite side of the road, heading back in the direction from which Bill and Max had come.
At the end of the block, the jogger crossed the road, then resumed running. This time heading back the way he’d come, quickly closing the gap between himself and the old man.
Bill Dawson heard the footsteps approaching hurriedly from behind and threw a casual glance over his shoulder. He saw the jogger. He chuckled to himself.
These fellows are keen. And why not? Good for the health.
His dog, trotting along happily in front of him, also glanced back. The dog reacted differently. It stopped, began barking.
‘You are excitable tonight, aren’t you?’ Bill yanked at the leash. ‘Come on, matey. Stop making a fuss.’ Sudden shock gripped him as the coil of wire snapped into place around his neck.
Immediately he was choking. His whole body throbbed with sharp pain as the metal cut the thin flesh of his throat. The end of the leash dropped from his fingers as he vainly attempted to raise his arms to his throat. He staggered back, barely conscious of the strong male presence that pressed against him from behind.
His thoughts, in those few final seconds, were chaotic. His lungs were about to burst, his mind on fire, his vision unfocused and blackening, slipping away. The jogger! He pictured the runner, a blurred mental image.
Why doesn’t he help me? Can’t he see … what’s happening?
The obvious answer didn’t register with him.
Max flung his tiny body at the feet of the attacker, barking wildly, teeth bared, jaws snapping at the jogger’s ankles. The killer threw his left leg out, the side of his foot pummelling the dog square on its underside. Max reeled back, stunned.
From across the road, behind the rose bush, Dianne Adamson watched in horror as Bill Dawson’s limp form crashed to the ground. Her gaze followed the man in the tracksuit, pocketing the coil of wire, continuing his run along the street. The killer looked about briefly as he ran. Satisfied he was alone, he rounded the next corner without another backwards glance.
The dog scampered around the body of its owner, whimpering, rubbing his nose up against the corpse.
Dianne’s breath came in short, ragged bursts. Fear paralysed her. When the barking dog had alerted her, minutes before, she had peered out from behind the bush. It took only seconds for the shadowy scene before her to fully register - one man attacking another - but by then the lifeless body of the elderly man was dropping. There was a fleeting instant in which the jogger, beginning to move again, glanced about. The glow from the nearby streetlight touched his face. That brief moment was all she needed to see the firm jaw and the shape of the mouth. The upper half of the face remained in shadow, obscured by the cap’s peak. Then he was gone.
Dianne steeled herself against the plummeting sensation in the pit of her stomach. She forced herself to her feet and crossed the road. Several streams of blood were lazily forming into pools around the body. Bill Dawson had fallen on his back and his ashen face, illuminated like a ghostly visage under the neon, was frozen into a grimace of sheer horror. The eyes were wide-open, bulging, pleading.
Dianne ran to the nearest driveway and fell to her knees. She vomitted. She vaguely wondered why lights weren’t turning on inside the houses? Why people weren’t running out onto the footpaths, raising the alarm. The reason, she understood later, was simple. There had been very little noise.
The man in the tracksuit, she later told police, moved swiftly and silently, like a panther, taking his prey completely by surprise. The actual act of killing was very fast, and then the killer went, like a phantom, into the darkness.
There had only been the bark - and then the whimpering, of the victim’s pet. For years to come, that was what Dianne Adamson remembered most about that night - the soundtrack to all her nightmares.
The pathetic, mournful whine of that small dog, grieving for its master.
FIFTEEN
The murder of Trish Van Helegen, just a few days before, made the early news sections of the Sydney newspapers. Reported on the evening TV news, on balance, it received no more or less than most other violent crimes that are, sadly, commonplace in a city of several million people. Bill Dawson’s murder by identical means changed all of that. The front page of The Telegraph screamed to the city in bold banner headlines that a madman was on the loose. Two identical murders in less than a week.
Society needs to rid itself of these monsters, proclaimed the editorial. Why is it that in the last fifty years there seems to have been more and more of these mass murderers? It is clearly a phenomenon of our age, and it is not restricted to the cities of Australia, America or Britain. The serial killer knows no boundaries, no restrictions with language or race or colour or age. He, or she, could be anyone, anywhere.
The editorial closed with a prayer that this was not the work of a serial killer - that there would be no more killings.
9.15 a.m. Monday morning. At Mascot Airport, Neil Lachlan read the newspaper reports quickly. There had been another garrotte killing since Monique Brayson. He’d seen the internal police circular on Friday about her. There had been no media reports of that over the weekend. Had a shroud of secrecy formed around Brayson’s death, as it had for Brian Parkes? If that was the case, then why hadn’t the same been done about the death of Bill Dawson?
Todd was standing at the wall-length window, watching the runway. ‘Hey Dad, look!’
Lachlan joined his son at the window. A 747 Melbourne bound flight was hurtling along the runway. It lifted effortlessly off the ground, nose pointed skywards.
‘That is ace,’ Todd said excitedly.
‘Ace,’ Lachlan agreed.
‘Will we be on a plane like that, Dad?’
‘I’d say so.’ Lachlan’s mind wandered back to the news reports. Random killings. There appeared to be no connection between Bill Dawson and Trish Van Helegen. If the murderer struck again, anyone, anywhere could be the next victim. It was the stuff policemen’s nightmares were made of.
For what reason might Monique Brayson’s murder have been kept from the public? The
difference struck him. Like Brian Parkes, the girl had been missing for eighteen years. The other two victims had not. He had to assume there was some significance to that.
‘I won’t be a minute,’ Lachlan told his son, ‘just going to make a phone call.’ He flipped open his cell. He hoped John Rosen could satisfy his curiosity.
The pleasant female voice over the loudspeaker interrupted his thoughts. She was calling for passengers to board the 9.50 a.m. flight to Brisbane.
Todd grabbed hold of his father’s sleeve. ‘Come on, Dad, that’s us!’
Lachlan grinned. The boy’s enthusiasm was contagious. The phone call would have to wait.
It was an hour since Jennifer had spoken to John Rosen on the phone. She had sensed the man’s reluctance to meet with her. Nevertheless she’d pushed the issue and he’d agreed to “squeeze her in” at 9.30 a.m.
‘We have a situation developing here,’ Rosen said, ushering Jennifer into his office. He gestured at the spread of newspapers fanned across the large oaken desk. ‘It’s all hands on deck. We believe this killer will strike again so you’ll understand I’m pressed for time.’
Jennifer gave a slight nod but chose not to acknowledge Rosen’s comments any further. Why was he being so evasive? There may be a killer on the loose, she understood the urgency of that, but at the same time she deserved some input on the case concerning her husband. After all, the unusual circumstances surrounding Brian’s case had caused this man to assign the case to his special investigations unit.
‘I want to know if there’s been any progress with my husband’s case.’ There was no mistaking the edge to her voice.
‘As I said on the phone, Ms Parkes, nothing further at this stage …’
‘It’s been almost a week.’
‘Ms Parkes, a murder investigation can take weeks, sometimes months …’
‘This isn’t just a murder investigation. There’s something extraordinarily strange about my husband’s disappearance and the physical condition of his body. I wasn’t sure at first but now I’m certain the whole thing is being handled with kid gloves. Do I have to run to the media to get any action?’
‘Turning the investigation into a media sideshow isn’t going to help you or us,’ Rosen said. ‘Please, I understand your frustration.’ He raised his hands in the air and, with a shrug, illustrated the enormity of the problem they faced. ‘I’m sure you understand just how difficult this is. There’s no rational explanation for your husband’s missing years, his death or his unusually youthful appearance. We have established for certain that he was run down and killed the evening prior to being found. We’re currently going back over old ground, cross checking information with the Missing Persons Unit, checking overseas records, trying to establish where he was. But we have nothing, absolutely nothing to go on.’
Jennifer knew she was going round in circles, covering old ground. She felt she was going to burst a blood vessel and her voice rose sharply. ‘Why do I feel I’m getting the runaround?’
‘It’s hard, very hard to have patience in a situation like this. Believe me, Ms. Parkes, I do understand that. Because this case is so unusual, and lacking in any leads at all, it may be a long time before we get any results.’ It wasn’t the first time Rosen had given such a speech. He’d faced anxious relatives before whom he’d needed to placate. Jennifer Parkes worried him, though. She had more resolve than many of the grieving relatives in difficult cases.
‘I’m not the kind of person to be a cowering, whimpering victim in all this, inspector. That was my problem eighteen years ago. This time I intend to ensure every possible avenue of enquiry is sought. Look, I’m practically going crazy just trying to imagine an answer. Maybe what that means is that we have to think this through laterally … take a different approach …’
Jennifer cast an unrelenting gaze over the senior policeman. She sensed she was wasting her time, but it felt good to make her feelings clear. She moved to the doorway. ‘I’d appreciate it if I could be given a daily update on how the investigation is progressing, and I’ll be taking whatever other steps I feel are necessary to advance the investigation.’
‘Ms Parkes …’
She strode out abruptly, not wishing to exert any more energy where it wouldn’t get the necessary response. That had been her credo in business. That was the way she felt about this Superintendent. She wished that Neil Lachlan, who’d been genuinely intrigued by the case, was still working on it.
She drove across the city to her office. What could she do? She had an appointment, this coming afternoon, with Doctor Katrina Wells. With Roger. That was a start, but it was hardly enough.
Cindy stood in the reception area, chatting with office coordinator Carmen, when Jennifer arrived. ‘Morning, boss lady,’ said Cindy with a mock salute. ‘Don’t look so serious. The good news is that it’s all systems are go on the GB’s order.’
‘We’re going to make it?’
‘We’re going to make it,’ Cindy confirmed. ‘I’ve just got off the phone from the factory. They don’t think they’ll need to call in outside suppliers.’
‘Terrific.’ Jennifer exchanged a wave with Carmen. She hoped she was hiding the fact that her enthusiasm for the business had all but evaporated. She trod the familiar corridor to her office, reached for the phone and called the Hurstville Police Station. ‘Detective Senior Sergeant Lachlan, please.’
‘He’s out of town this morning,’ came the reply, ‘due back this afternoon. Can I take a message?’
Damn, Jennifer thought. ‘Yes. Ask him to call Jennifer Parkes.’ She replaced the handset, noticing that the additional lines on her phone system were lit up with incoming calls on hold.
Cindy entered the office, her arms laden with documents. Jennifer reminded herself she had a business to run, whether she felt like it or not, and resolved to get on with it. People were depending on her.
She had no idea what she was going to say to Neil Lachlan, anyway. As the day progressed her mind kept returning to Brian’s body on the morgue slab the previous week. She saw her hands turning over the wallet, and the driver’s licence with the long-ago expiry date.
Eighteen years earlier, Henry Kaplan had hired a private detective to search for Brian. This time, she had the money to hire a private investigator herself. She decided that was the only course left for her to follow.
Depression descended on Neil Lachlan, like a dark cloud eclipsing the sun, whenever he returned Todd to Marcia at the end of a weekend. The feeling came - a churning sensation in the pit of his stomach. This was worse though, ten times worse.
He waved to Todd and Marcia. He watched as Marcia’s car rounded the bend in the road, quickly becoming obscured by traffic.
Lachlan walked back into the terminal at Brisbane Airport, to the lounge and downed a beer as he waited for the next flight to Sydney.
He was breaking one of his strictest rules, drinking during the day when he would soon be on duty again. He’d hoped it might help to dull his pain, but instead it seemed to bring on a headache. He’d only ever been a social drinker - except for that one period when he’d been consumed by the Narcotics Squad work and his marriage had begun to fail. Lachlan had seen other coppers drift into alcoholism, and he’d been determined not to make the same mistake.
His flight was called and his head swam through murky waters as he boarded the aircraft.
Deputy Police Commissioner, Ed Razell, was a burly, ruddy-faced man with a gravelly voice and a gruff speaking manner. He was also articulate and persuasive, a diamond in the rough type who meant business and inspired confidence. He strode with an air of purpose to the podium, flanked by squad commanders - John Rosen amongst them.
‘We’re looking for a man of indiscriminate age,’ Razell said to the gathering of detectives. ‘Let me describe him to you. He’s reasonably fit and lean. He wears a tracksuit and running shoes, and most probably a peaked cap pulled over his forehead. He could be out for a run at any time, day or night. That was th
e part he played when he killed Bill Dawson, thanks to the testimony of an eyewitness. The fact that we have an eyewitness description is strictly confidential at this time. The media mustn’t get wind of it. We don’t want to alert the killer that we’re on to his physical description and his M.O., otherwise he’ll change both. If he strikes again, there’s a good chance he’ll use the same disguise, the same ruse, jogging. We contend he used that method when he murdered Trish Van Helegen days before. Catching him in the act, or while he’s stalking a victim, is the best chance we have of stopping him.’
A murmur broke out among the men and women gathered in the operations room.
‘Forensics confirm that a wire object was used to garrotte the victims,’ Razell continued, ‘so we’re specifically looking for a male jogger carrying such an object. As you know, Superintendent Rosen will head up the investigation.’ Razell turned to Rosen. ‘Superintendent?’
Razell moved aside as Rosen stepped up to the podium. ‘The first murder occurred early in the morning, the second late at night. Both in quiet areas. We can’t rely on that, but it does give us an insight into when and where the killer may strike next. We’ll have round the clock shifts of two person teams, in car and on foot, all over the metropolitan areas on the north side and the central coast. Seek out the quiet times and the quiet places. I expect that’s where we’ll find our man. Any lone male joggers fitting the general description are to be stopped and questioned and their particulars passed on to the command centre.’
Lachlan stood at the back of the room, having arrived just as the briefing session began. When he’d arrived at his station, earlier that afternoon, the head office circular had been on his desk. The homicide detectives from all branches were required to attend the Parramatta meeting for a full brief from Razell and Rosen. It was clear the Deputy Commissioner took seriously the possibility that a serial killer was on the loose, intending to strike again and again. He didn’t want an outbreak of the panic that resulted from other mass murder rampages, or the criticism sometimes levelled at the police work. Especially not so soon after the reign of the elderly man who had killed several aged widows.
(2012) Disappear Page 14