‘Surely you don’t suspect Roger or Harold,’ Jennifer protested, confused by the possible link between a Kaplan company file and this murderer.
‘I don’t have any suspects,’ Lachlan admitted, ‘but I don’t want any chance of this leaking out - through anyone.’
They saw Lachlan to the door. It was humid. There was heavy cloud and a light rain had started.
‘Looks like a storm could be brewing for later on,’ Lachlan commented, walking to the driveway.
‘Did I ever tell you,’ Jennifer said to Carly as they went back into the house, ‘there was a massive electrical storm the night your father vanished?’
‘No. Only that he went out to buy a packet of cigarettes.’
‘I wanted him to give them up,’ Jennifer recalled. In her mind’s eye she recreated the scene yet again. Brian coming through the door. ‘Blasted train ran late,’ he said. His curly hair plastered down by water. ‘It only takes five minutes to walk to the shop, less if I run.’
There was something else.
One thing that had been just out of memory’s reach since the forensic lab visit the day before. Something to do with Brian’s clothes and personal effects. The comment about the approaching storm had pricked her memory. But the answer was still out of reach. Damn.
‘I’m heading to the flat for another change of clothes,’ Carly said.
‘You’re coming back later?’
‘If that’s okay.’
‘Of course it’s okay. I’d much rather have you here with me right now.’
‘I really don’t see how Detective Lachlan can be right, Mum, about this killer being someone we know. Do you?’
‘I … really don’t know.’
‘But you’re scared. I can tell.’
‘Yes. For both of us. But at least we’re starting to get somewhere.’
‘I might just as well be here while this investigation is going on. Otherwise I’ll phone up every five minutes to find out what’s happening.’
Jennifer wondered if that was the only reason, or whether Carly was avoiding Rory. Was she tiring of him? God, she hoped so.
Outside, the rain suddenly became a downpour.
‘Mind if I borrow one of your brollies?’ Carly asked.
‘Go ahead. You’ll find one in my bedroom cupboard.’ Jennifer waited by the door as Carly went to fetch the umbrella. There hadn’t been a cross word between them since she had been staying at the house. Was this the softening up Jennifer had longed for? Carly came bouncing along the hall and Jennifer caught just a glimmer of the carefree girl of yesteryear.
‘Back later.’
‘Okay.’ And then, as Jennifer watched her daughter step out into the rain, she remembered what was different about Brian’s belongings. She knew what had been missing.
TWENTY FOUR
Hans Falkstog did not believe in things supernatural, but he’d always felt he had something inside him that could sense trouble. He’d recognised the familiar sense of foreboding on many occasions. It had helped him avoid situations that were potentially destructive to him. It had a lot to do with his success, a lot to do with his power.
He felt it this morning, on a cool, clear day when he should have been feeling positive. He had stripped down to his swimmers and gone jogging along the beachfront. Everything was as he liked it: the open, blue horizon, the crisp air against his skin, the crash of the surf. This was always such a tonic to him, an alternative to his other activities. He did his best thinking, his most effective strategic planning, at moments like this. But this morning the sense of trouble was too strong, it dragged him down like the undertow of a storm-tide.
He remembered the first time he’d felt this way, many decades before.
He’d returned home to find that his father had left his mother and run off with another woman. Hans Falkstog was a hard and emotionless man, but to this day he’d felt his mother’s pain at that betrayal. The following years had been grim and hard.
Why was his foreboding so strong this morning? He could only conclude it stemmed from the recent changes. It was always a concern when the structure of things altered after a long period of time. And eighteen years was a very long time.
He’d made enquiries over the past twenty-four hours, discovering that Brian Parkes’ widow was making waves. He didn’t like that. He ran harder and faster, working up a sweat, and determined that he would be ready to meet the impending threat, as he had many times before.
It was Lachlan’s first meeting with Roger Kaplan. The first thing he noticed was the resemblance to the father - a strong physical resemblance but one that lacked the older man’s presence.
‘I won’t keep you long,’ Lachlan said. ‘What can you tell me about a firm called Winterstone?’
‘Winterstone? Small firm, falls under the umbrella of our local professional services division. Odd division, lots of little firms, variety of services, not all that profitable.’ Roger paused a moment, giving further thought to the question. ‘You understand I don’t have much to do with that division, but let me think - storage facility if I remember correctly. Why do you ask?’
‘Brian Parkes was auditing the Winterstone books when he disappeared. According to his notes, he had some concern about a large discrepancy in the books. A sum of money secretly transferred from another division and spent on an equipment purchase from America.’
‘I didn’t know that. Are you sure?’
‘Stuart James advised me of the notes before he was killed. I believe he was murdered because of the files he’d taken. So, anything you can tell me will be of great assistance.’
Roger cupped his chin between his thumb and forefinger and stroked it slowly. ‘Well … I don’t actually know anything about it at all. It’s administered by our clerical division. As I said, a commercial storage unit, mostly utilised by our other divisions, I expect.’
‘The equipment purchase eighteen years ago?’
Roger frowned. ‘No idea.’ He spread his arms in a gesture of futility. ‘Not much help, am I? Perhaps Harold may know more.’ Roger called his secretary and asked her to locate Masterton. Lachlan didn’t tell Roger that his next visit would have been to Masterton’s office anyway.
‘I’ll want to see all the business records for Winterstone from its inception to the present day,’ Lachlan said.
‘No problem.’ Roger gave the appropriate instructions to his secretary. Then he turned his attention back to Lachlan. ‘It’s hard to believe the answer to Brian’s disappearance could be connected to one of our companies. The idea never occurred to me.’
‘No reason why it should.’
Harold Masterton arrived. Roger introduced the finance director to the detective senior sergeant. Lachlan repeated much of what he had already told Roger.
Masterton showed the same element of surprise Roger had. ‘Winterstone? Just a small storage warehouse.’
Which you set up, Lachlan wanted to say aloud, but he checked himself, preferring to see how things developed. He didn’t want to let on that he’d actually read the file, which was at Jennifer’s home.
Why hadn’t Masterton offered the fact that he’d set up the company?
Masterton glanced at his watch. ‘Can’t stay long, detective, I’m currently going through a rolling series of meetings with the finance men from the Becker group.’
‘Driving us all mad,’ Roger added.
Terry Carter, a short, plump man who was head of the clerical services division, arrived with a slim file marked Winterstone. Lachlan leafed through it. Very little documentation there for a firm that had been in operation almost nineteen years, just the occasional use of space by one of the other local companies owned by Kaplan. There was no bill of sale for the purchase just under two decades earlier. ‘I’ll need to take this with me for closer inspection,’ Lachlan advised the two men. ‘It will be returned in due course and in the meantime the department will issue you a receipt.’
Both men mumbled their understanding
. Lachlan noted that Masterton didn’t look pleased.
The Police LAC in Sydney’s Goulburn Street was a conservative structure, betraying no sign of the bustle within. A rabbit warren of non-stop activity, surroundings part modern, part older style, but housing in each section some of the most advanced electronic systems in Australian policing.
Lachlan’s visit to the Superintendent’s Special Task Force was a hurried one. He deposited the Winterstone file with senior detectives Ron Aroney and Max Bryant. Lachlan had chosen these two men to assist him on the case. Now he briefed them on the document.
‘There’s nothing there to indicate the name of the American company from which Winterstone made the purchase. Get on to Customs and track down their paperwork and the name of the company. I also want you to gather as much background as you can on Harold Masterton, the financial director of the Kaplan Corporation.’
Before he left, Lachlan listened to Bryant’s update on the investigation. ‘Interpol have absolutely nothing on file from any member countries that fits the description of Brian Parkes. And forensics couldn’t identify the make or model of the hit/run vehicle in that killing. There are no stolen car reports, either, to tie in with the night or the area in which Parkes was hit.’
‘Another dead end,’ Lachlan said more to himself than to either detective. ‘One further thing,’ he added, ‘assign a team of uniformed men to a round the clock surveillance of the Winterstone warehouse. I want photos of anyone seen entering or leaving the building. Except me.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll be conducting a search out there later today.’
Before he went to the storage building on the industrial site at Dural, Lachlan had one more stop to make.
Margaret Rosen hugged him, told him it was good to see him again. She smiled but behind the smile Lachlan was aware of the sad, wistful eyes.
John Rosen appeared at the doorway to his study. ‘Saw your car pull up. Come on through.’
Lachlan entered the den, a sedate room of dark colours. ‘Before you say anything, Neil,’ Rosen said, ‘I want you to know there’s no resentment. Not on my part. You did the right thing going to Razell. In a way I’m glad.’
‘Why, John?’ Lachlan’s voice was plaintive, not what he might have expected of himself. But then, he wasn’t there as the head of the homicide investigation, he realised that now. He was there as the pupil, shattered by the betrayal of the teacher. He had simply come to ask the question, as much for himself as for any other purpose.
Rosen’s eyes flittered about the room, avoiding Lachlan’s and he leaned against the narrow desk. ‘Four months ago,’ he said, ‘I received a package of photos in the mail. I would never have believed in my wildest dreams, Neil, that anyone could have known about me, had me followed and taken those pictures with a tele-photo lens.’ He paused for a moment, searching for the right words to continue. ‘That same night I received a phone call. I have no idea of the caller’s identity. I was told to do as ordered or copies of the photos would be sent to Margaret, the commissioner, and the press. I practically threw up all over the phone while I was listening.’ Another pause, longer than the first.
It tore Lachlan apart to see his old friend and father figure like this - broken, beaten, shamed. He spoke gently. ‘Go on.’
Rosen sighed deeply. ‘I was told that a number of people who’d been missing for eighteen years would be found, all would be dead. I’d receive a phone call just as each body was likely to be found. They’d all be located in north-west Sydney, except one.’
‘Brian Parkes, the odd man out.’
Rosen nodded. ‘I was told to use my position to take over each case, ensure they were kept isolated so that no one made the connection between them. It was also made very clear that my investigations of these cases should go nowhere. But that’s not all, Neil. The caller assured me that after six had been found, that would be all, and I wouldn’t be contacted again.’
‘And the recent garrotte killings?’
‘I was contacted again. Told to frame someone for those murders. The caller told me there wouldn’t be any more, that something was being done about it.’
Lachlan shook his head. ‘Doesn’t make any sense.’
‘No,’ Rosen’s voice was a croak, ‘no sense at all.’ His face was longer than usual, drawn, the cheeks and jowls sagging as though weighed down by the burden of guilt. ‘So, you have the answers you came for.’
‘John, couldn’t you have found another solution-?’
Rosen didn’t let him finish. ‘We’re not talking about another woman here. The pictures would have ruined me, but then I deserve that. It’s Margaret, Neil. I couldn’t do it to her. She must never see the pictures.’
‘John …?’
‘Please don’t ask me any more. Not about that.’
‘Okay,’ Lachlan conceded. ‘About the case. Did you unearth any clues at all? Surely you have something. A theory …’
‘Very little. I pursued some matters, on my own, I was too curious not to. I spoke to the police psychologist, Hawkins, presenting it as a hypothetical case. Two interesting bits of information came out of my talk with him. He theorised that if five people vanished from the same area, then turned up eighteen years later, then there had to be something beneficial about that area to the killer. Less distance to travel maybe? Less chance of discovery? He also theorised that if a sixth victim wasn’t garrotted like the others, then it could be because the killer knew him personally. The other five were snuffed out for the thrill of it. But if the killer knew Parkes, perhaps even liked him, then he wouldn’t be able to murder him in the same vicious manner. Much less personal to run him down in a car.’
‘Hawkins didn’t suspect these talks were about a real case?’
‘I was too clever for that, Neil. I dressed the details up differently. Spoke to him about different aspects on two separate occasions.’
Lachlan realised the theories made perfect sense. And now something else gelled for the first time. He told Rosen about Parkes’ audit of Winterstone. ‘Winterstone owns a storage warehouse in Dural, smack dab in the middle of the far north-western suburbs.’
‘There’s a connection there,’ Rosen agreed. ‘And if Brian Parkes knew something then the killer would’ve wanted him out of the way. If the killer was connected in some way to the Kaplan Corporation then he most likely knew Brian, hence the difference in the mode of killing.’
‘What about the fact that the victims hadn’t aged? Did the psychologist have any theories on that?’
‘No. He suggested an intensive autopsy would confirm the actual chronological ages of the bodies, and whether drugs or surgery were involved. But we’ve already been down that road with Parkes and the others and there is no evidence of that with any of them.’
Lachlan glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll have a word with Hawkins myself. We need a full psychological profile based on the current information.’
‘I’m glad you’re on the case,’ Rosen said. ‘You’re every inch the cop I always knew you’d be.’
Lachlan offered his hand. They shook. ‘Why didn’t you tell the commissioner you were blackmailed?’
‘That means I’d have to come clean about the nature of the photos. It’s best left in the dark, Neil.’
‘Tell him, John. And tell Margaret. Give them the chance to show they can forgive. Margaret deserves that.’
Rosen cleared his throat, gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘Maybe …’
Lachlan was heading across the Harbour Bridge when he received the message from HQ on the police car radiophone. Call Jennifer Parkes urgently, the dispatcher told him. He pulled over to the side of the road to make the call on his cell.
He felt a stab of anticipation as Jennifer came on the line and said, ‘Neil. I know what was different about Brian’s belongings when I saw them at the morgue …’
It could have been any one of a thousand warehouses on any one of a thousand industrial estates around Sydney. A squat, lengthy red brick building with a
few small windows on each side. It had a loading dock area and a long, wide driveway at the rear.
The interior had seen little use. A vast expanse of smooth concrete floor, multi-level rows of industrial shelving, dust and cobwebs and a thick, musty air which hung like an invisible veil - a shroud to the long years of secrecy. In the front of the building stood a glass cubicle-cum-office with a desk and an old-style telephone. The phone was disconnected and the dust covering everything made Lachlan sneeze several times.
Lachlan had the feeling it was a long, long time since anyone had been in this part of the building. To the administration section of Kaplan Corp this was a forgotten relic, buried among the files of the clerical archives.
He walked the length and breadth of the warehouse. Without the interior lights being switched on it was a dark, seedy, subterranean place. Lit up, the phosphorescent glow bounced off the brick walls, and cast shadows behind the willowy cobwebs.
The loading dock was the usual recessed area of floor into which trucks could back up to unload materials. More dust, more cobwebs. Lachlan glanced around the dock, then turned to leave. A flash of colour glinted in the corner of his vision. He turned back, focusing on a spot at the far end of the curved concrete mini-wall, around the recessed floor.
The object was dotted with thick, sooty specks of dust and partly obscured by the curvature of the wall. Lachlan stepped down into the recessed area and walked towards the object. With each advancing step he heard Jennifer’s words replay in his mind. ‘Neil … I know what was different … something missing …’
The night Brian Parkes had left his home he’d borrowed his wife’s small yellow umbrella, a token shell against the rain. And here it was, lying in the corner of a disused warehouse owned by a company that was a forgotten entity among the dozens of firms owned by the Kaplan Corporation.
Lachlan knelt before the umbrella. It was clearly in near-new condition. He looked back at the scattered pattern in the dust where he’d walked across the floor of the dock. A similar pattern appeared on another section of the floor, stopping in front of the large double panel doors of the building’s rear exit.
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