(2012) Disappear

by Iain Edward Henn

NINETEEN

  ‘You’re to stop what you’re doing,’ the voice on the phone said, ‘or the police will be told all about you.’

  The jogger said nothing at first. The sound of his heart, an inner thunder, crashed against his eardrums. He felt the terror of discovery well up from within.

  ‘Do you understand?’ The menace in the voice was unmistakable.

  The jogger found a resolve he hadn’t known he possessed. He was desperate to retain his freedom and there was a fighter inside who wasn’t prepared to give up that freedom easily. ‘What are you going to tell the police? You have nothing on me. No evidence,’ he said, buoyed by the determination in his own voice.

  Something occurred to him. The owner of the voice on the phone was part of the surveillance of so many years. Whoever they were, they were still out there. They knew he’d killed again. Yet the shadows hadn’t returned to stop him.

  Just this warning over the phone. Why?

  ‘The police will investigate you. They’ll find you have no alibi for the time of the murders this past week.’

  ‘That isn’t evidence. It’s nothing and you know it.’

  ‘They’ll watch you, wait for you to make a move.’

  ‘Then I won’t make a move. I’ll lay low for a while. After all, I managed it for eighteen years, didn’t I?’ The jogger chuckled to himself. He thought: I’m handling this well. This time I’m the one calling the shots.

  ‘You can’t help yourself.’ There was anger in the mysterious voice. ‘You’ll do something to give yourself away.’

  ‘It isn’t going to work. Tell the cops what you want. I’ll be a real good boy. And when they give up on me I’ll be back, but I’ll change my methods.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘Of course, you could always start up the round the clock vigil again. But you can’t, can you? Something is different. What? Did I outlive all your people?’ He laughed aloud at the thought. ‘So tell me, who are you? Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘The police will be told,’ the voice said, calmer now, the anger subsiding. ‘We’ll make sure they stop you. That’s a promise. The choice is yours - stop, or we’ll make sure you’re caught.’

  The frustration in the jogger’s breast exploded. ‘How many of you are there?’ he shouted down the line. ‘Why have you been doing this all this time?’ The line went dead. The jogger hurled the phone into the air. It fell with a resounding crash.

  His worst fear had been realised. His faceless nemesis was back, only not as he expected. No shadowy sentinels this time. A threat of exposure to the police instead, the one thing they had not done before.

  How could he fight an enemy he couldn’t see, couldn’t find? They knew him though.

  They know everything about me.

  The jogger had to control his rage. He knew that. He sat down in the darkness. No lights. It was quiet. A good time to think. The minutes ticked towards midnight. Even when he’d travelled overseas, they’d known. The eyes had been out there, watching, waiting. Angels with all the time and resources of the heavens themselves. Was that it? Were they something otherworldly?

  No. There was a very mortal element to the whole surveillance operation. And now they were no longer there to physically overpower him. He sensed they wouldn’t do that again. Therefore, he was free to fight back. The first step, he decided, was to trap his enemy into revealing who they were.

  They know all about me. They must be close enough to observe me.

  Once he discovered who they were he would set out to eliminate them.

  Someone close.

  All of a sudden he was struck by an extraordinary idea. Could it be?

  Surely not. And yet …

  He was amazed he hadn’t considered the possibility before. The idea sickened him. This time the nausea tore through his insides like the sharp edge of a weapon. He raced to the bathroom, dry retching as he flung his head over the toilet bowl. He knelt there for some time, trembling.

  The thought stuck in his mind, an ugly intrusion, and with each passing moment it seemed to gain credence. Could it be?

  TWENTY

  For the past twenty-four hours, eighty-six police on the beat, working in pairs, stopped and questioned twenty-seven male joggers of varying ages. They discreetly watched and followed another twenty. Most of this activity occurred in the early morning or the evening.

  None of the twenty who were watched were considered worth pursuing further. The names and addresses of the other twenty-seven were taken down - routine matter, the police said, asking, ‘have you seen anything suspicious?’ All were thoroughly checked out. None were suspicious. There were no likely contenders.

  The senior men on the force had seen this sort of thing before. A line of enquiry that had to be followed, a watch that needed to be kept. They didn’t expect anything to come of it, though. Too much of a longshot, unless they got very, very lucky.

  All police had been instructed not to let on they were specifically looking for a male jogger acting suspiciously. Not even over police radio. Razell and Rosen were adamant that they wanted no chance of leaks.

  In this respect, the investigation was successful. The reporters didn’t get wind of it. They could only surmise that the police were following leads. There was no mention of the eyewitness, Dianne Adamson, who had seen Bill Dawson’s death. The commissioner was pleased. That meant the killer didn’t know his pursuers were looking for a jogger in sports gear. There was no reason, therefore, that he wouldn’t continue to adopt that role when he went out to kill.

  It was becoming increasingly apparent to Razell that this one piece of knowledge was their only hope of finding the murderer.

  It was unusual for a senior detective-sergeant to arrive at Sydney HQ, demanding to see the deputy commissioner. Lachlan had been persistent, making an issue of the fact that he had highly sensitive material in his possession. It may have seemed unusual for Razell to agree to see Neil Lachlan at such short notice, but in fact it wasn’t. He’d made a point to make himself available to all the men on the force, regardless of rank. Something like this allowed him to prove it.

  It was early evening, the building still a hive of activity.

  Razell listened patiently as Lachlan explained the situation. He leaned forward across his desk and cast his eye over the computer printouts. He felt some irritation to Lachlan’s maverick approach, but showed it only in the trace of rebuke in his voice. ‘Sit down, Lachlan, let me explain a few things to you.’

  As Lachlan sat, Razell rose and strolled to the window, hands clasped behind him. ‘Back in 2004, I sat down with all the division heads, including John Rosen, and we decided to form a special unit to handle cases that simply couldn’t be successfully assigned to the normal channels.’

  He returned to his seat and leaned back in the large, leatherback chair. ‘There are similar units in Britain, the US, some of the European countries. We often consult with those units, seeking information or documentation.’

  ‘I’m well aware of the unit, sir.’

  ‘Of course you are. It’s no secret. But it’s also given a very low profile on the force. Let me level with you, it’s the intention of the unit to kill public focus on certain issues. For that reason it’s possible to get the idea that someone in the unit, Rosen for example, is up to no good when it simply isn’t the case. There are two types of cases the unit specialises in. Firstly, politically-sensitive hot potatoes that are investigated quietly. A recent example was the investigation into a number of senior police and public servants involved in a computer fraud.’

  Lachlan nodded, recalling the outcome of that case. The deputy commissioner had paused for effect, something he was known for, stroking his chin and jowls with thumb and forefinger. He grunted, cleared his throat. ‘God, I feel like a cigarette.’

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked, sir.’

  ‘I don’t. Gave it up, finally, three years ago after many attempts.’

  ‘You still get the urge?’

&nbs
p; ‘Every day of my life. But I won’t turn back now, I’ve come too far.’ He cleared his throat again, signalling a return to business. ‘The second type of case the unit handles, Lachlan, is the one with a bizarre element to it. We may not get results on such cases. Nothing unusual about Rosen keeping these particular cases under wraps if he feels there will be wild media speculation about people who don’t age or some such nonsense.’

  ‘But you’re kept fully informed of the unit’s work?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘There’s a connection between these recent garrotte killings and the six missing persons cases taken on by Rosen. He hadn’t acted on that connection and when I queried him I got the impression I was being stonewalled.’

  Razell cast his eyes over the printouts again. A lengthy pause ensued before he spoke again. ‘I hadn’t been made aware these particular missing persons cases involved garrotting.’ His irritation subsided. He recognised that Lachlan’s concerns were well founded.

  ‘Five had been,’ Lachlan corrected him. ‘The sixth, Brian Parkes, was run down. Isn’t this connection something you’d expect John Rosen to bring to you?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Razell continued to read through the information on the sheets of paper. ‘Simply doesn’t make sense,’ he said presently. ‘But Rosen is a good man. And you and John go back a long way.’

  ‘Yes, we do.’

  ‘ I’ve no doubt he knows exactly what he’s doing and has good reason.’

  ‘How are you going to handle it, sir?’

  ‘I’m going to look into the matter myself. Immediately. In the meantime your suspicions don’t go beyond these four walls. I don’t want rumours. I don’t like unnecessary and unfounded speculation. When I came to this position, Lachlan, I promised to purge the force of corrupt officers, malcontents and bunglers. A passion I share with the Chief Commissioner. We’ve come a long way down the path towards that. And the community is reacting favourably.’

  ‘You don’t want that blown away.’

  ‘You’re damn right we don’t want it blown away. I appreciate you bringing your concern to me, and I’m going to let you know my findings as soon as possible.’

  ‘Sir, I’d like permission to continue my own investigation into the missing people and their possible connection with the current wave of garrotte killings.’

  ‘I thought you’d get round to that. Very well, you clearly have a handle on the case. I expect you’ll need some back up. I’ll advise the men in Rosen’s unit that you’ll be handling the Parkes case and that they’re to assist where required.’

  Lachlan raised his eyebrows. ‘Rosen?’

  ‘Rosen, like his special unit men, will simply be advised they’ve been given extra manpower. And that you’re it, on a temporary basis, because of your prior involvement with the case.’ Razell then shifted the focus of the conversation back to the specifics. ‘Tell me more about this theory of yours, that the clue to these recent garrotte murders lies with these long-term missing people.’

  ‘One of them in particular, Brian Parkes.’

  ‘Parkes?’ Razell referred to the printouts.

  ‘The only one not garrotted. Parkes was a hit and run victim. That’s not the kind of murder this killer likes to commit.’

  ‘But you believe it is the same killer?’

  ‘More than likely. All the other details are too similar to be coincidence.’

  ‘Report directly to me on this, Lachlan. Every morning, seven sharp, I want a full rundown. Here’s my direct line.’ He wrote the figures on a pad, removed the sheet and pushed it towards Lachlan. ‘If you think there’s an answer there, bring it to me.’

  After excusing Lachlan, Razell spent the next few hours on the phone. First he spoke to the men in Rosen’s unit. Then he spoke with the various local officers who’d discovered the missing people, before Rosen had stepped in and his unit had absorbed the cases.

  Then he referred to the specific details of the recent garrotte murders. Like Lachlan, he couldn’t ignore the similarities. Or the fact that Rosen had kept the missing persons details under wraps. Razell didn’t like the pattern. The next painful step was to interview John Rosen.

  Jennifer arrived home late, exhausted. Running from her business affairs to the private detective, wedging in her visit to Roger, the endless phone calls, the fashion shows, the huge order from GBs. She felt wrung out and realised she’d been operating on sheer nervous energy.

  Her Chatswood home was a large, solid, rambling four-bedroom brick and sandstone house, originally built in the 1920s but totally refurbished throughout in recent years.

  The interior style was modern, open plan, spacious. Jennifer’s favourite area was the family room at the back of the house with its glass walls looking out across the lush, multi-level terraces of the garden. During the days the room was filled with natural light. On a clear night, like this one, with the drapes parted, Jennifer could gaze upwards, through the web of greenery, and see the stars.

  The chimes on the front door resounded through the house. Jennifer went to the front to find Carly on her doorstep.

  ‘Been at a shoot all day, wanted to stop by briefly on my way home.’

  ‘Of course. Come in.’

  Carly stepped inside. She followed the front hallway as it curved into the main lounge room.

  ‘Won’t stay. It’s about my father. I want to find out what happened to him.’

  ‘No more than I do, Carly. Believe me.’ They stood beside the lounge, neither wanting to be the first to sit; a mother and daughter forced by the anxieties of their past meetings to square off against each other.

  ‘I want to help.’ Carly’s manner was flat, straightforward. No hint of her tone from the luncheon, but no remorse either. Jennifer chose not to raise the emotion of their previous get-together. She was thrilled enough that her daughter had come to her, prepared to work with her on a common cause.

  ‘I’d love you to help. What’s more I’ve already started. I’ve put wheels of my own - our own - into action. I’ve hired a private detective named Stuart James.’

  ‘What can he do?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Carly. It’s too early to say.’

  She told Carly about the ideology in Gleitzman’s book and DVD. Jennifer had managed, very late the night before, to track the surgeon down at his Massachusetts hotel room. Although pressed for time, he indicated he’d like to discuss Brian’s case when he returned from the US. In the meantime he’d emailed a list of known immortalist groups to Jennifer’s office. She, in turn, had passed them on to Stuart James for investigation.

  ‘James has some good ideas of his own,’ Jennifer continued, ‘beginning with your father’s old business records.’

  ‘Those ancient boxes in the garage..?’

  ‘Yes. I was resting up, but after that I’m going to pull the boxes clear of everything else, sort through them, make them accessible for him.’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  Jennifer flashed a wide, toothy grin. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’ She thought: Come on, Carly, smile back. Open up a little. When is the daughter who started vanishing two years ago going to come back?

  Carly’s expression, however, was all purpose and determination. ‘I’ll go out and start now. I’m anxious to do something.’

  ‘I know the feeling …’ The phone rang, cutting Jennifer short.

  ‘I’ll be in the garage,’ Carly said. She headed for the side door.

  Jennifer answered the phone and recognised the voice of Neil Lachlan.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you in the evening, I was interstate when you rang yesterday, I’ve been tied up since then …’

  ‘Thanks for returning the call. When I phoned I had some things on my mind. But it’s okay now.’

  ‘Sure I can’t help? It’s about your husband’s case?’

  ‘Yes. But I’ve hired a private investigator to assist me with that.’

  ‘Your prerogative, of course. But there’s really no nee
d.’

  ‘I beg to differ, Sergeant Lachlan,’ she interjected. ‘I was disappointed with the feedback I got from the special unit. I know it’s only been a short time, but with something like this isn’t it important to move quickly?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘That man, Rosen, was hard to contact, and when I spoke with him he was too negative. Seemed to me to be acting cagey. I know the public can’t expect to treat the police force like a department store where you go in, expecting service on every aspect on their daily investigations, but as the widow of the victim, I did expect to be kept abreast of what was going on – not to be deliberately kept in the dark, and patted on the head with platitudes. ‘

  ‘The trouble with policemen is that we make lousy diplomats. Some of us could use more training in how to deal effectively with the public. I’m sure you simply caught John Rosen at the wrong moment.’ Lachlan suspected that wasn’t the case here but he could hardly say otherwise.

  ‘Be that as it may, my mind is made up about the PI.’

  ‘I have some news,’ Lachlan said. ‘As of now, I’m taking over once again on the investigation.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Jennifer’s suspicions were raised further. Her tone made her annoyance clear. ‘It doesn’t sound normal to keep switching a homicide case from one detective to another.’

  ‘It isn’t. This is a highly unusual situation. Superintendent Rosen has become embroiled on another case so I’m stepping back into the fray. But I’ll have the resources of his special unit at my disposal. Let me assure you, Ms Parkes, I’m determined to get answers on this.’

  Jennifer was glad Neil Lachlan was back on the case, but she was in no mood to praise the police. ‘I see.’

  ‘It will help, of course, if I compare notes with your private investigator.’

  ‘I imagine it would. His name is Stuart James. He’s coming by in the morning to sift through my husband’s old business records.’ She also told him, briefly, about Doctor Gleitzman’s list of youth preservation groups.

  Lachlan conceded this was an interesting development - and he knew of Stuart James. ‘He has a good reputation. I’ll keep in touch with Mr. James and, of course, I’ll be in touch with you further. I’d like you to have a good look over the clothes your husband was wearing when he was found.’