Disappear (4 page)

He’d demanded the transfer after the irretrievable breakdown of his marriage but he knew the transfer would come through too late. The job was the reason why a wonderful relationship had turned sour. He realised, at that late stage, that if he was to have any life of his own, he needed the change.

Lachlan didn’t know why his mind was sifting through those memories now, as he stepped from the police-issued Holden Commodore. Then he realised it was because of the freckle-faced kid. The delivery boy stood on the fringe of the cordoned off area, watching the forensic team make their on-site inspection of the body. The boy was fascinated and watched with a naked curiosity. Lachlan figured the lad was a similar age to that of his own boy.

The local cop walked over and offered his hand. ‘Rick Crayfield. Glad to see you.’

They shook hands. ‘Neil Lachlan. What have we got here, constable?’

‘A hit and run, according to the forensic boys.’ Crayfield handed a black leather wallet to Lachlan. ‘The body had plenty of I.D. Local fellow, lived just up the street.’

Lachlan flicked the wallet open. It contained a driver’s licence and a local club membership badge. He took the licence out. The date of issue and the expiry date indicated it was close to almost two decades old. Lachlan checked the details. The address was 46 Claridge Street, Hurstville. The victim’s name was Brian Parkes and the birth date indicated the victim should be aged in his mid forties, though the picture on the licence was much younger.

Lachlan scanned the licence several times but kept returning to that date. Weird. Surely no one carried around an old driver’s licence for that long. Did they?

Crayfield noticed the detective senior sergeant’s quizzical expression. ‘Problem?’

‘Just that it’s an old licence,’ Lachlan told him. He didn’t elaborate. ‘Have you run a check on him yet?’

‘Yeah. Still waiting to hear back.’

Lachlan approached the senior forensic man.

‘Lousy night,’ Tim Baldwin said, yawning. ‘My three-year old. Toothache.’

‘Had a few of those nights myself. What’s the verdict?’

‘Gashes and contusions on the back and left sides, consistent with a hit and run.’

Lachlan peered over Baldwin’s shoulder at the corpse. ‘He doesn’t look smashed up badly enough.’

‘No. It seems internal damage is minimal. He was damned unlucky to croak.’

‘No other signs of possible cause?’

‘We’ll know better after the coroner does his thing.’

‘Time of death?’

‘Less than twelve hours ago. Early stages of discoloring. Of course, the autopsy will give a more precise time.’

Lachlan took a closer look over the body. He noticed the label on the man’s trousers - StyleSet. They’d been a successful and trendy label for some years, but had gone bust at least fifteen years earlier. Lachlan knew because he’d had some StyleSet gear himself.
Funny the things you remember. Way out of date now.
He’d worn that style in the days when he’d met Marcia. Reminiscing again.
Enough.
He pushed the thoughts of the past from his mind.

‘I want you to include in your report the make and year of manufacture of the victim’s clothing,’ Lachlan told the forensic man.

‘Sure,’ Baldwin said. ‘Unusual request.’

‘I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a day for ‘em,’ Lachlan commented. ‘There’s something weird about this body.’

‘How’s that?’

‘His driver’s licence is more than a decade out of date. His pants label is just as old but these trousers aren’t all that worn.’

‘Nostalgia buff or maybe he was going to a retro party,’ Baldwin said drily, ‘some guys take that shit very seriously.’

Lachlan couldn’t have missed the cynicism in Baldwin’s tone. Another forensic cop who’d seen too many strange and wonderful things to be surprised any more. Neil Lachlan had come across a few of those. ‘Maybe,’ he replied. He’d always made a point of exhaustive investigation of any and every small detail that puzzled him during a case. He’d been known for it throughout his years in the Drug Squad. Homicide work was no different in that regard. The license and the clothing simply didn’t make sense.

Crayfield approached. ‘An old fellow phoned in to alert us to the body. I’ve got his statement.’

‘He’s gone?’

‘Yeah. He was pretty distressed so I sent him home. The boy over there was first on the scene.’

They strode over to where the boy, wide-eyed, had been watching the action.

‘Hello, mate. What’s your name?’ Lachlan asked.

‘Rodney Harrison.’

‘I’m Detective Senior Sergeant Lachlan.’

The boy eyed him suspiciously. He saw a tall, lanky man, broad shouldered, with sharply etched features, a lived-in face, a wide grin. ‘Why haven’t you got a uniform?’ was the first thing that came to Rodney’s mind.

‘Because I’m a plain clothes detective from the Homicide Division.’

‘Really?’ The boy sounded incredulous.

‘Yes. I am.’ Lachlan cocked his head towards the spot where the body lay. It was now being removed, draped in a cover. ‘This must have been quite a shock for you, son.’

‘Shock? Well, yeah.’

‘Are you feeling all right? Nothing to be ashamed of if you’re not.’

‘Oh no, I’m fine. It was real cool finding a dead body. Just like in the movies. I mean, it’s not so cool for the man, not really but …’

‘I know what you mean, Rodney. Not the sort of thing that happens every day.’

‘No.’

‘Why don’t you let me stick your bike in the boot and I’ll drive you home?’

‘In the police car?’

‘Yes. In the police car.’

The boy’s excitement was obvious. ‘All right!’

Lachlan was certain his own boy would have reacted in just the same way. He placed his hand on Rodney Harrison’s shoulder and walked with him to the car.

The plaques lining the reception area wall were a chronology of success. Australian Excellence In Fashion Awards from various intervals over the past ten years. The carpet was a burgundy plush pile, the walls a montage of pastel shades and strips of polished redwood oak that matched the reception desk. Cindy Lawrence swept past the area and along the adjoining corridor to Jennifer Parkes’ office.

Jennifer was at her desk, returning her phone to its hook. ‘That was Freddie Jamieson at Myers,’ she said, ‘he’s just ordered ten thousand of the new range of
Bellisimo!
skirts and tops.’

‘Great,’ Cindy enthused.

‘Don’t say great, say when.’

‘When?’

‘By the end of the month.’

‘Impossible.’

‘Since when did we start saying that word around this place?’

‘Just thought I’d give it a try.’

‘He has to have them. And he’ll pay full factory floor, no volume discounts, if we can deliver.’

‘We’ll deliver. I’ll get right on it.’

‘If Ken doesn’t think the factory can handle the full order, even with overtime, tell him to look at farming some of the work out,’ Jennifer instructed. ‘It shouldn’t be a problem with the market the way it is right now.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Cindy retraced her steps to the door, paused. ‘Oh Jen? It’s eleven o’clock. You wanted to be reminded.’

Jennifer followed Cindy out of the office. ‘That’s right. Come and watch.’

‘More on Kaplan’s?’

‘Yes. A judgment is expected this morning.’

At thirty-nine, Jennifer was still tall and slender but the girlish gawkiness had long since been replaced by the graceful carriage of an independent woman. The innocent, wide-eyed look was more focused now, her features more pronounced, knowingly serene.

The LED screen was built into the wall of the oval shaped meeting room. Cindy reached for the remote on the conference table and the screen flicked to life with the morning news program. Familiar theme music and the electronic logotype came together with a series of well known recent news scenes, then altered just as quickly to the presenter. ‘Minutes ago in the Macquarie Street courts, Judge Roland Hetherington handed down his judgment on the crumbling fortunes of the Kaplan Corporation. The decision came as no surprise to the business community. The financial empire founded by Henry Kaplan has been declared insolvent. Judge Hetherington appointed chartered accountant Warren Stokes, of Parkhill Stokes, as receiver.’

Jennifer gave a long, low sigh. ‘I never thought I’d see the day.’

‘Despite everything that’s happened over the past twelve months?’ Cindy queried.

‘Despite everything. If you’d followed Henry Kaplan’s career as long as I have, then you’d understand. He had an answer for everything, and he always bounced back from every possible predicament.’

‘Do you think he will this time?’

‘See what he has to say himself,’ Jennifer said, indicating the screen. The image of Henry Kaplan strode defiantly down the steps of the courthouse, flanked by aides. At sixty-one, he still cut a dashing figure, as robust and dynamic as he had been twenty years before. Broad features, tanned, with the attractive roughly hewn lines that age brings to some men, doing them even greater justice than in their younger days. The iron-grey hair was perfectly cut and styled. He could have been a statesman or a legendary actor. Perhaps the millionaire businessman was a bit of both, Jennifer thought, and more.

Despite the bankruptcy, Kaplan beamed at the cameras, not at all flustered by the dozens of TV and radio microphones pushed towards him.

‘Any comment, Mr. Kaplan?’

‘Is this the end, Mr. Kaplan?’

‘Do you have anything to say to your shareholders, sir?’

The questions came thick and fast.

‘They really don’t want answers,’ Jennifer commented to Cindy. ‘They just want to be heard to have asked the question.’

‘The same old questions,’ Cindy added.

‘Oh yes. The same. No wonder Henry always knows the answers.’

Both women laughed. God, thought Jennifer, am I really this cynical at thirty-nine? Then she heard Henry’s reply to the media and she smiled inwardly. Just what she expected.

The irascible old devil.

‘I’ll be back,’ he declared triumphantly. ‘Down for the count but certainly not out.’ He waved as he and his aides clambered into the back of a waiting limousine. A moment later it sped away like a knight in shining armour retreating from the battlefield.

‘I think we both knew he’d treat this as only a temporary set-back,’ Cindy said. ‘What do you think? Can he come back from this?’

‘I’m sure he can.’ Jennifer’s tone was reflective. ‘And if there’s anyway I can help him, I will.’ She gestured to indicate the business around them, ‘After all, he’s the one who made Wishing Pool Fashions possible.’

‘Excuse me, Jennifer.’ The receptionist, Carmen Tucker, was at the doorway. ‘There’s a Detective Senior Sergeant Lachlan here, asking to see you.’

‘To see me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Send him through to my office, Carmen. I’ll be along in a moment.’ Jennifer exchanged a curious glance with Cindy.

‘No idea what it’s about?’ Cindy asked.

Jennifer shrugged. ‘None.’

‘Something to do with this Kaplan thing, perhaps?’

‘I doubt it. Kaplan’s had no financial stake in Wishing Pool for years.’ Jennifer headed out of the room. ‘You’ll handle the Myers order?’

‘You just leave that with me.’

Neil Lachlan stood just inside Jennifer’s office, admiring the view her window afforded of Hyde Park. It was a clear day, no clouds. A flock of birds moved swiftly over the treetops of the large city park, a patch against the distant blue. The birds were too far away for Lachlan to tell what kind they were.

Jennifer strode in and offered her hand. ‘Good morning, detective.’

Lachlan took her hand. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Ms Parkes.’

‘Quite all right. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m here to ask about your husband, Brian Parkes.’ Lachlan referred to his pocket notebook. ‘I understand he was listed as missing eighteen years ago and has since been declared officially deceased.’

‘That’s correct.’ Jennifer was incredulous, so much so that she could find no other words. What on earth was this about? Now. After all these years. She glared at the plainclothes policeman, waiting for him to continue.

‘A man answering the description of your husband was fatally injured in a hit and run accident last night, Ms Parkes. I understand this must come as a great shock, but we need you to assist us by identifying the body.’ Lachlan wondered whether he sounded as uncomfortable as he felt. He’d done this many times before but it never got any easier – not for him, anyway. This was one of the worst tasks for any police officer, asking the spouse of a deceased person to help with identification. There was more to this, though, an eerie feeling of … displacement. It wasn’t as though this woman had last seen her husband the night or day before.

‘I think someone must have their wires crossed,’ Jennifer said. ‘This hit and run victim can’t possibly be my husband. He would have died a long time ago.’

Lachlan reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the wallet. He handed it to Jennifer. ‘This was found on the victim. Do you recognize it?’

Jennifer flicked through the contents of the wallet. The color drained from her cheeks as she glanced over the drivers licence. ‘This can’t be …’ Her voice trailed away, lost.

She felt a sudden stabbing pain in her temples.

‘As I said, Ms Parkes, I know this is an enormous shock. Perhaps it’s best to clear the matter up as soon as possible.’

Jennifer nodded, slowly. She felt numb all over, simply numb. Part of her mind insisted that this was a ridiculous, dreadful mistake; but another, deeper part had always known that this day would come. It should have come eighteen years before. Not now.

Why now?

Jennifer had done her grieving for Brian a long time ago. So why did she feel a stinging, watery sensation at the corners of her eyes.

I was over you a long time ago, Brian, wasn’t I?

At the city morgue, Jennifer was ushered into a large, nondescript room. Long, flat tables and metal cabinets jutted out from odd corners and rows of small metal doors lined the far wall.

The attendant opened one of those doors and pulled out the tray containing a covered body.Jennifer was oblivious to the attendant. Her eyes were fixed on the body. She took a deep breath as the cover was folded downwards, revealing the face.