(2012) Disappear

by Iain Edward Henn

  Jennifer agreed to this, then hung up. She lingered for a moment before heading out to the garage, sensing Lachlan had been holding back when he’d spoken of John Rosen. Why? What were they hiding from her?

  Late night phone calls weren’t unusual in John Rosen’s home. It was part of the lifestyle of a divisional police superintendent.

  Margaret Rosen, fifty years old, pleasantly plump, was a placid woman who cast a calm and steady influence across the private world of the senior policeman. She flashed a glance at her husband as the phone rang, a glance that effectively said, ‘It’ll be for you.’ She’d used that look for many years, one of the many silent snatches of communication that pass between a man and a woman after a quarter of a century of marriage.

  It was 9.45 p.m. Rosen hadn’t been home more than an hour after another hectic day. He pushed his newspaper aside, rose from his favourite chair and reached for the cell phone on the coffee table. When he heard the muffled voice on the other end he shifted his body so that his back was to his wife. He didn’t want Margaret to see the expression on his face.

  ‘Rosen. We need to talk.’

  ‘Hold on. I’m going through to the den.’ The glance to his wife was the one she knew as “police business”. Private. Won’t be long. He went through to his study and gently closed the door behind him. ‘What do you want this time?’

  ‘Lady luck must be on my side,’ the caller said. ‘You’ve been placed in charge of the garrotte murders case. I couldn’t have asked for better.’

  ‘Why?’ Rosen felt the prickle of the hairs on his neck. He sucked his cheeks in, expunging air through his nose with a quiet, indignant rage. It was several months since he’d first heard from the caller. He’d hoped never to hear from him again.

  ‘I need you to frame these garrotte killings on someone.’

  ‘What? This is beyond the pale. I can’t …’

  ‘You can and you will.’ The muffled voice was final. ‘I can’t have this investigation go on. Wrap it up very quickly. Pin it on someone.’

  ‘But who..?’

  ‘Who the hell cares who? Pick a homeless bum who drifts around Central Park every night. Or some petty criminal. You’re the copper, you find someone.’

  ‘But the media is going berserk. When the murders keep happening …’

  The phantom voice cut across his again. ‘They won’t. That will be seen to.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Not your affair, Rosen. It shouldn’t have happened but it has. It will be fixed. We’ll make certain of that.’

  ‘Who -?’

  ‘You know better than to ask that, Rosen.’

  Rosen tried to stifle his anger. ‘I’ve done what you asked up to now. You assured me-’

  ‘… That you wouldn’t hear from us again,’ the mysterious caller completed the sentence. ‘True. But shit happens. We couldn’t foresee the current sequence of events. You must act quickly on this, Rosen. We don’t want the real killer caught. We will deal with that.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  The muffled voice boomed down the line, angry now. ‘We’ve had this conversation before. Do you want your wife, and your superiors, to know about your particular little vice.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then move quickly, Rosen. Understand?’

  ‘It will be difficult.’

  ‘Find a way. I don’t think you could live with the alternative.’

  There was a click and the voice was gone, but in the wake of this threat even the dull tone left on the line carried an air of menace. Rosen wiped his brow and found he was drenched in sweat.

  A couple of hours after the dinner with Conrad Becker, Henry Kaplan, Roger and Masterton returned to the offices.

  ‘Deep in thought,’ Harold Masterton noted, entering Kaplan’s office a little later in the evening.

  Kaplan turned away from the view of the city skyline. From up here it was a quiet world, dancing in neon. He faced his long time CFO. ‘Yes. I don’t think I’ll be sleeping much over the next few nights. That’s why I’m here. And you?’

  ‘The same. Where’s Roger. Home?’

  ‘Probably stalking the corridors himself. We’re all tense.’

  ‘Yes. But I’m confident it’s a foregone conclusion. Aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ll kick back once the deal’s set in stone. Not until then.’

  ‘Becker will buy,’ Masterton said. ‘He can’t resist a killing like this. The price is too good. He’ll play the game for a few days because he enjoys it too much not to. By the end of the week we’ll be back on the rails.’

  ‘You keep giving me these impromptu little speeches. Sure you aren’t trying to convince yourself?’

  ‘Part of my job description.’ He grinned and was pleased to see he’d raised a smile in Kaplan. ‘I’m not just here haunting the halls, though. I have something for you. That discreet matter you asked me to look at. I had our legal department get onto it and this report was on my desk this evening.’ Masterton offered a matt finish black folder to Kaplan, but the latter waved it away. ‘Just tell me what’s in it. This is the dossier on Rory McConnell?’

  ‘Yes. We had to dig back twenty years to really come up with something. When he was sixteen years old, McConnell lived on the north coast, a small town called Forthworth. He was a suspect in a murder case.’

  ‘What!’ Kaplan’s head snapped to attention. ‘Murder?’

  ‘Bunch of teenagers at a beach party one summer night. The following day one of the girls, fifteen years old, was found buried behind a sand dune. Her throat had been cut.’

  ‘And the police thought it was McConnell?’

  ‘He was the last one seen talking to the girl. She was pretty keen on him and he had a reputation for chasing the ladies. He also had a bad boy image, small town rebel. The police questioned him several times but no arrest was ever made. No evidence. Time of the girl’s death was 1.40. McConnell’s mother said her boy was home at around 12.30.’

  ‘Was the murder ever solved?’

  ‘Five years later a truckie was arrested for three hitchhiker murders. The police believed him to be responsible for several other killings, including the one in Forthworth, although the guy never admitted to any one of them.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Still in prison.’

  Kaplan stroked his chin. ‘So it could have been McConnell?’

  ‘Could have been. Whether it was or not, it’s hardly the sort of thing he’d want known nowadays.’

  ‘I was looking for a skeleton in his closet,’ Kaplan said, ‘something I could use if I needed to.’

  ‘You don’t trust him?’

  ‘Since when do I trust people? What else did you find on him?’

  ‘Not much. He came to Sydney, landed a job as a cadet journo on a daily newspaper, went freelance about ten years later, writing for these indie rags like People Power. Got involved in underground socialist groups, greenie groups, anything that attracted the ratbag element.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Hard to get much on his personal life. He’s had a succession of girlfriends, four that we know of. Each lasted about a year. Career girls, earning good money which he appears to siphon out of them for one of these causes he supports. The latest is -’

  Kaplan beat him to it. ‘…Carly Parkes.’

  ‘Nothing more,’ Masterton concluded, ‘except that his family background was poor. Father shot through when he was ten. His mother raised him and she’s still living in Forthworth. A bit of a drunk, apparently. But, you’ve got the closet skeleton you wanted.’

  ‘Not the one I wanted. I wanted something juicy, but not as juicy as suspicion of murder.’

  ‘Because of Jennifer Parkes’ daughter?’

  Kaplan nodded. ‘Exactly. What if McConnell did slit that girl’s throat all those years ago? For Chrissakes, Harold, he’s living with young Carly.’

  Henry Kaplan lived in a split-level, fifteen-room house in the elite Syd
ney suburb of Vaucluse. Heavy with greenery and very private, it was set well back from the street and had spacious grounds and harbour views.

  Helen Shawcross had lived with him for eighteen months. She loved the house and its grounds; the fleet of prestige cars; the expensive gifts; and the attention she received from high society. She might have loved Henry Kaplan had she been capable of real love. As it was, she was tiring of Kaplan just as she’d tired of all the men she’d been with. And she was aware, with Kaplan holding off bankruptcy, with an appeal hearing pending, that the good life might not continue. Not to the extent she’d known it. Of course, it wouldn’t be a problem to find another sugar daddy: they lined up for a woman like her.

  She was in no hurry. The idea of a fleeting affair with a bohemian type like Rory McConnell appealed. Something different. Something exciting.

  Helen was aware that Kaplan kept a stack of old personal records in a number of archive boxes in his basement. Knowing he wouldn’t be home until very late, she’d spent the entire evening going through those papers. If it hadn’t been for the dust, causing her to sneeze several times each hour, she would have thoroughly enjoyed this clandestine invasion of his privacy. She knew how guarded he could be about his background. He rarely even spoke to her about Roger, his only son, whom she’d only met, briefly, on a few occasions.

  Helen imagined how much more exciting it would have been if Rory were here with her now. She felt a pang of desire for him, a fever in her loins.

  She found what she wanted - communications between opposing lawyers over the issue of Kaplan’s divorce from his first wife thirty years before. She photocopied the relevant information on the copier in the study. Rory would grin like a Siamese cat when he saw these documents. None of it had ever been made public.

  Helen wasn’t totally surprised by what she’d found. There was a side to Kaplan she’d caught glimpses of from time to time. This information confirmed there was even more than she suspected. She’d never seen a picture of Kaplan’s first wife. Until now. There were a number of faded photos of Henry and Monica Kaplan in the boxes. Before she left the basement, Helen gazed with curiosity at the dark haired young woman as she was in the 1980’s.

  It was the middle of the night when Kaplan arrived home. Helen reclined on the living room leather couch. Wearing a long, black negligee that accentuated the smooth, sleek lines of her body.

  ‘Still up?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ Helen replied, rising gracefully from the lounge to place a kiss on his cheek. ‘You’re not the only one stressed about the current predicament. It affects me too.’

  ‘I know.’ He took her by the hand, squeezed it. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately. But I warned you it would be like this for a few weeks. When this sale to Becker is closed, we’ll get away for a weekend.’

  She licked her lips. ‘Mmmm …’ She snuggled up close to him.

  He smiled at her, stroked the beautiful head of golden hair, and then slumped down on the sofa. ‘I’m bushed.’

  She sat beside him. ‘I think you’ll find I can take your mind off business for a while.’

  ‘Business isn’t the main worry I have at the moment, believe it or not.’

  Helen eyed him curiously. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve had some disturbing news regarding Rory McConnell.’

  ‘Carly Parkes’ boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes. I’m worried about her.’

  ‘Why?’

  Kaplan told her about the incident in Forthworth. She listened, expressing surprise, but was careful not to show too much. Was Rory a killer? She’d sensed something dangerous about him. That was part of the attraction. He liked playing it rough and his lovemaking could be kinky. But murder? She listened as Kaplan told her of his intention to discuss the information with Carly’s mother as soon as possible.

  Rory may have a wild streak, but he’s no killer, she decided. She was thrilled she had something extra now to tell him. She’d make sure he earned his information by pleasuring her the way she liked for as long as she could stand it.

  Kaplan removed his coat and placed his feet up on the coffee table. Helen tucked her legs up beneath her, kneeling beside him on the sofa. ‘Don’t underestimate me,’ she teased, ‘I can even take your mind off a worry like that.’ Her fingers moved with a slow, seductive rhythm over his body. As she worked to arouse him, she thought of the documents in those archive boxes, of the faded photographs of Monica Kaplan.

  It pleased Helen that she was not like that woman. When it came to powerful men like Kaplan, Helen was the one in control. She had what Henry Kaplan needed. She had what Rory McConnell wanted. She intended to enjoy the next couple of days as she played one against the other, ending one affair, igniting the next.

  TWENTY ONE

  Jennifer phoned her office at 8.30 a.m. the following morning. ‘Cindy, I’m going to be tied up most of the morning with police matters. Can you take the reins?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for,’ Cindy said cheerfully. ‘Don’t worry about us. You do what you have to do.’

  ‘You’re priceless. Thanks, Cindy.’ Jennifer hung up. It occurred to her that when this matter was resolved, she should take some time off. For years she’d had an expert team in place, quite capable of running Wishing Pool Fashions in her absence. Perhaps she just never wanted to consider her company running without her. The fact was, she could afford to take things a little easier. A trip away - with Carly - would be perfect, if she could persuade her daughter to be in it.

  Carly had stayed overnight. She wanted to be there when Stuart James arrived.

  They’d watched TV together and done a little talking.

  Part of Jennifer’s morning would be taken up, with Carly, assisting Stuart James with the files in the garage. James had already phoned to say he was running a few minutes late - and to advise Jennifer he’d sent a copy of Brian’s photo and particulars to all the youth preservation groups on Gleitzman’s list.

  The rest of her morning would be taken up with a visit to the police forensics lab. Neil Lachlan had phoned only minutes before to ask her to accompany him, hence Jennifer’s call to Cindy. Lachlan had offered to pick her up. The lab visit was to follow up on Lachlan’s request that she take a closer look at Brian’s clothing.

  With both Stuart James and Neil Lachlan working the case, Jennifer felt more positive.

  God, how she wanted to put all this behind her once and for all.

  Jim Howell was a short, wiry, bespectacled man and clearly passionate about his forensic work. His hands moved continuously, illustrating his words in frenetic movements that Jennifer found distracting.

  ‘Fascinating case,’ Howell commented. He gestured to the articles of clothing, neatly folded and placed on the bench beside the wall. ‘A thorough testing of the fabric shows that the material has had only a short period of ageing due to usage or exposure. The same is true of the leather of the wallet and of the printed items in the wallet.’

  Lachlan turned to Jennifer. ‘Did you recognise these clothes, at the morgue, as those your husband wore the night he vanished?’

  ‘I didn’t take particular notice at the morgue,’ Jennifer said. ‘But yes, they did look the same.’

  ‘Take a closer look,’ Howell suggested. ‘Take your time.’

  Jennifer gazed down at the neat piles. Lachlan and Howell stood by patiently. Neither spoke.

  Jennifer would never forget the last time she’d seen Brian alive - walking out the door into the driving rain of that blasted storm. She could still picture the white shirt with its blue stripes, the coat, the navy blue trousers, the water streaming in rivulets down his cheeks. ‘As best I can remember,’ she said, ‘these were the clothes he wore.’

  She recalled the report Lachlan had typed the day the body was found. It had stated that the clothes were damp. ‘It was raining heavily the night I last saw him,’ she added.

  ‘Which ties in with the state of his clot
hing when he was found,’ Lachlan said.

  ‘The suit was an Excelsior brand,’ Howell said, ‘manufactured by StyleSet. I’ve confirmed they haven’t been in business since the late 90’s.’

  ‘How can a suit made at least eighteen years ago show no more wear than if it were made just a few months ago?’ Lachlan asked Howell.

  ‘Only by ensuring the articles had no contact with the environment. For instance, sealing them in air-tight plastic bags.’

  ‘But the clothes were still damp,’ Jennifer pointed out, ‘and it didn’t rain during the night before Brian’s body was found.’

  ‘Any unusual properties in the water in the clothing?’ Lachlan asked.

  ‘No. Just plain, pure water.’

  Jennifer sifted through the clothing, focusing intently on each item. Something niggled at the back of her mind, staying just out of memory’s reach. ‘There’s something not quite right.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Lachlan.

  ‘It’s on the tip of my tongue. I just can’t seem to …’ Her voice trailed away as she strained her mind, searching for mental pictures of that night from so long ago.

  ‘Take your time,’ Howell repeated.

  Jennifer went to the chair beside Howell’s desk and sat down. It was hard to think on the spot, under pressure, like this. Think back. Go back to that night. Heavy rain. Lightning. Brian at the door, still drenched. She’d urged him to take a hot bath; she didn’t want him to catch a chill. She remembered that much. What had he said? ‘I’m out of fags. The shop will still be open. A few more minutes won’t make any difference.’

  She looked down at the clothes again, the wallet, the money inside it. The five-dollar notes were still crisp. Like the items you’d find in a time capsule. Remnants of another age. But something was different, missing. What was it?

  Why, oh, why in God’s name can’t I remember what it was?

  ‘Where would you like me to drop you off?’