Top 5 Bestseller on Amazon UK – Crime Thrillers & Mystery
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Amazon US – Top 40 in Suspense ThrillersOn a rain-drenched night, a young husband runs to the corner shop – and never returns.Eighteen years later, his body reappears.-Reappears, wearing the same clothes, and on the same street from which he went missing.
-Reappears, and is the victim of a hit/run driver.He looks exactly the same now as when he vanished.His widow, Jennifer Parkes, is determined to solve this enigma once and for all.

Other bodies are found, all missing eighteen years. None seem to have aged.

On the trail of a vicious killer, Jennifer and homicide detective Neil Lachlan are drawn into a human minefield of deception and terror; into the depths of a mystery that baffles the police and defies logic. Investigating at the forefront of scientific and medical technologies, they confront a threat that is closer than either of them could ever have imagined.

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

PROLOGUE

 

 

It was the perfect time and the perfect place for the killing.

The first soft sweep of dawn light, the air crisp. The reserve was a large, sprawling tangle of green, sections of park, sections of natural bush. The running track circled the grounds, obscured from view in several places by overhanging willows and over-reaching ferns.

The jogger’s blood lust was running at fever pitch, his senses singing with exhilaration. Most people would wake this morning feeling good to be alive. The jogger had woken feeling reborn, his all-consuming, dark need re-energised. His moment had finally arrived.

The time.The place.And the perfect victim.

For the first time in eighteen years he was free to kill again. The watchers were gone, he was certain of that.

He’d driven the perimeter of the reserve, stopping at random to scan the area with binoculars. No cars in the immediate vicinity. The reserve itself was empty, except for the young woman, keeping to her usual routine.

He joined the track on one of the hidden stretches and began to jog. His timing was precise, so that the woman was a dozen metres in front of him. She covered the ground in long, casual strides.

He couldn’t have wished for a finer specimen. Long legs, athletic physique, electric blue shorts in a tight fit.

The urge coursed through his veins like a drug as he closed the distance between them.

He was going to make up for the long years of frustration and denial; of trying to satisfy his desires with fantasies and memories; of practically being driven mad on occasion by the inexplicable restraints.

That was over now.

The woman was almost within reach. He imagined the thin strip of wire looped around her throat, pulling tight, biting into flesh. Her panic; her gasping for breath. She’d be unable to scream, unable to break free of his iron grip.

And then acceptance as her hands fell limply to her sides and her knees sagged, life draining away.

The jogger reached for the wire that lay in the pocket of his tracksuit pants. Its cold steel felt reassuring against his fingers.

The woman was within arm’s reach now. He noticed the slight tilt of her head as she became aware of another runner on the path. It was almost time.

For the young woman it should have been the start of one of the most exciting times in her life. She’d woken that morning feeling good to be alive. Instead, it was to be the end of everything.

ONE

 

 

Eighteen years earlier

 

 

Thunder rolled across the sky, nature’s soundtrack to the dark clouds that blanketed the city. The night was lit only by the occasional flash of streak lightning. There was steady rain, not a deluge, just the promise of one, and the wind howled like a pack of hounds.

Hell of a night, thought Brian Parkes.

He’d been stuck on the train for two hours, any hint of rain and the blasted things slowed down. Give them a full blown electrical winter storm and they threw in the towel completely, stopping and starting with a familiar, grinding mechanical wheeze. Then came to a complete standstill.

On a number of occasions during the two hours the train had stalled for up to fifteen minutes at a time, before lurching on a little further. Stop-starting all the way.

At the end of the long journey Brian learned from a station assistant that the delays were caused by overhead lines coming down under the force of the strong winds. Many decades earlier Neil Armstrong had set foot on the moon. But in Sydney, the train system defied the fact that, elsewhere, Man was reaching for the stars.

It was a twelve-minute walk from the station to his home. His umbrella had been pushed inside out by the wind and the metal sprockets had snapped. The thin strands of metal stood upwards, away from the inverted cloth, like a creature on its back with its legs in the air. He dumped it in a roadside bin as he ran, pulling the collar of his coat tighter. He sprinted the first two blocks, and then slowed to a walk for the third. After all, what was the point of racing? He was already soaked to the bone. He wasn’t going to be any less wet when he walked through the front door.

Was it just his imagination or was the rain driving harder since he’d left the train? That’d be right. It pounded the pavement like a battering ram. He broke into a run again as he rounded the corner into his street.

Inside number forty six Claridge Street, Jennifer Parkes watched her husband as he stepped into the front alcove. She felt herself tingle with contentment. She loved the rumpled look of his young face with his easy smile, snub nose and pointy chin. His curly brown hair was plastered to his head by the rain, but the lines of water that ran down his cheeks didn’t detract in the slightest from those handsome, cherubic features.

Their eyes connected and Brian beamed.

‘Hi, baby.’ He eased out of the wet jacket and ambled towards her.

‘I was starting to worry.’

‘Train packed up. Been stuck in a carriage for two hours.’

She winced. ‘Poor thing.Hot cuppa?Hot bath?’

‘Yes please. The works.’

She melted into his arms. The feel and smell of her made Brian’s senses soar. The firm swell of her breasts through the light cotton of her blouse, pressing against his chest, the gentle warmth of her body, supple and slender, fitting snugly against him. He brushed his fingers through the dark hair, shiny ebony black, centre-parted, that fell below her shoulders.

‘Cuppa first. I’ll make it while you get out of those wet clothes.’ She pulled away, headed for the kitchen.

‘In a sec.’ He flopped down on the lounge, shivered, reached for the packet of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. Flipped it open. ‘Damn. I’m out of fags.’

Jennifer’s head popped around the corner of the kitchen doorway. She made a face at him. ‘Silly, aren’t you.’

‘Bloody silly.’

She looked at the rain lashed window, then back to him. ‘You’re not going out in that again?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s only a coupl’a minutes to the corner store. Bill will still be open.’

Jennifer gave him a despairing look. ‘Good night to give them up.’

Brian shook his head. ‘No. Bad night to give them up.’ He retraced his steps to the door, pulling his coat back on again.

‘You’ll catch a chill.’

‘I’ll hop straight into a hot bath when I get back. Promise.’ He paused at the door, looking back at her. The dance of the rain on the roof became suddenly louder. ‘Of all the days to have the car in for service.’

‘One day we’ll look back on this and laugh. Or at least I will.’ She smiled again, winked at him, and he marvelled at how her smile lit the room.

‘Love you,’ he said.

‘Love you too. Be quick.’

‘Real quick.’ He blew her a kiss and stepped out into the storm.

‘Wait!’ she called. She took her small yellow umbrella from the hook on the hall wall and ran to the door, passing it out to him. ‘Take my brolly.’

‘Thanks, hon.’

Jennifer went back through to the kitchen to check on the vegetable stew. She placed four bread rolls in the oven to heat. This was going to be just the meal for a night like this. Despite the cold air outside, she felt warm and cosy in here. Before she knew it, twenty minutes had passed. It was only a five-minute walk, three if you ran, to the local store.

She went to the front door, opened it, and peered out into the rain. She couldn’t see a thing. What was taking Brian so long? Probably standing in that shop, dripping wet, chatting with Bill. Men. She went into the living room, placed her open palms in front of the electric heater, and waited.

Another fifteen minutes dragged by and she began to worry. Brian and his damned silly cigarettes.Where was he? She went to the door again and looked out. The rain had eased off considerably. A full moon glowed through a break in the night clouds and the wind had stopped.

Jennifer pulled a jacket on and marched off along the street towards the shop. The store was closed when she reached it but a light was still on inside. She banged on the front door and half a minute later it swung open.

Bill Clancy was a large, round, red-haired Englishman who, despite his ten years in Australia, had not lost any of his pommyaccent. ‘Ullo, luv. Lucky you caught me. Just closin’ up, I was.’

‘Hi, Bill. Sorry to disturb you but I’m worried about Brian. How long since he left here?’

‘Left here? I’m afraid you’ve lost me, luv. When’re we talkin’ about?’

‘He hasn’t been here for a packet of cigarettes?’

‘No, luv.‘Aven’t seen Brian at all today. ‘E say he was comin’ ‘ere, then?’

‘Yes. He left home forty minutes ago.’

Bill lifted his arms in a gesture of bewilderment. ‘Doesn’t make sense.’

‘You’ve definitely only just closed up?’ Jennifer asked.

‘Yes, luv. Look, maybe he decided to try another shop. He’s probably back home now, snug an’ dry an’ all.’

‘No Bill. You’re the closest shop by far. Why would he go somewhere further?’

‘Well, let’s go look for ‘im then.’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s all right. I’ll just go home and wait. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon enough.’

‘Bound to be a reasonable explanation,’ the shopkeeper said.

‘Of course there is.’ Jennifer waved as she headed for the door. ‘Thanks anyway, Bill.’

‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ he called after her.

Jennifer walked back home and noted that the storm had passed. Suddenly she was annoyed with her husband. He’d probably changed his mind, gone to a different shop and got held up for one reason or another. Didn’t he realise I would be worried? Why didn’t he think?

She arrived back home to an empty house. Normally she liked the quiet, but now the silence of their home seemed menacing. ‘Brian!’ How silly of me, to call his name as if he were here. Then again, maybe he was. Anything was worth a try.

‘Brian!’ He’s snuck back in, she speculated, and he’s hiding somewhere, playing a game. Stupid bloody game, not like Brian at all. The silence, in reply, was deafening.

She sat down to wait. An hour inched by and Jennifer had no doubt it was the longest hour of her life. She went to the laptop, accessed the local directory, and called the Hurstville Police Station on her cell. The senior constable on duty, Ken Black, listened as she explained the situation.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Parkes,’ he said, ‘we’ve seen this sort of thing before. Hubby decides to sneak down the local for a coupla’ beers.’

‘My husband doesn’t drink,’ Jennifer protested, inwardly aware that she needed to keep her cool. ‘He went to the corner shop for cigarettes. That was almost two hours ago. He was wet and tired. He could be lying somewhere, hurt …’ Her voice trailed off.

Forced to put her fears into words she realised all of a sudden the reality of it: Something was wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.

‘Very well, Mrs. Parkes, I understand,’ Constable Black said. ‘Please stay calm. I cannot list your husband as officially missing until he’s been gone for twenty-four hours. But I’ll take down the particulars from you, and drive by the area as soon as possible, keeping an eye out for anything unusual.’

‘How long is as soon as possible?’

‘Twenty minutes or so. Now, let me take some details. Your husband’s full name, Mrs. Parkes?’

Jennifer gave him the details. Height, weight, hair colour and so on. Then all she could do was wait. Again.

After a while the rain began falling heavily once more. Jennifer, restless, walked out to the covered garden rockery that stood immediately outside the back door. She and Brian had spent much of the past few weekends out here, building the rockery, planting the flowers and ferns. Roughly hewn bamboo cross-beams held up the green tinted, clear fibreglass covering.

She listened to the steady rhythm of the rain. Normally it had a calming effect on her. Not tonight though. She felt a great, deep, dark chasm opening up inside. She was nauseous.

What’s happened to you, Brian? The thought buzzed inside her mind like an annoying insect. Something must have happened because it just isn’t like you to go traipsing off for hours without saying something. That just isn’t you.

She wandered over to the rock pool she and Brian had fashioned out of rockery stones. The moonlight, tinged by the green tones of the covering, glinted off the dozens of five-cent coins that lay on the bottom of the tiny pool.

It had been Brian’s idea on the first day they’d completed the rock pool. ‘I’m going to make a wish,’ he’d said, and had tossed a coin into the water.

‘A wish?’ Jennifer giggled.

‘This is going to be our own private wishing pool,’ he pronounced. ‘My first wish is that you and I will always be together.’

‘That won’t work, will it? Telling someone aloud what your wish is.’

‘Why not?Our pool. We make the rules.’

‘My turn, then,’ Jennifer said. ‘Got a coin for me? My purse is inside.’

Brian handed her a five-cent piece and she dropped it into the water. ‘I wish for our love to keep on growing and never stop.’

He screwed up his face. ‘Corny.’

‘No cornier than yours.’ Jennifer laughed and punched him lightly on the shoulder.

Standing there, staring into the pool, always made her feel good. There’d been so many good times already and they’d hardly even begun.

She rummaged in her skirt pocket and, to her surprise, found a lone five-cent coin. Maybe not such a surprise, she realised. Since Brian had started this wishing pool thing she’d got into the habit of leaving the coins in her pockets. There was no particular reason for always using five-cent pieces. Just another one of Brian’s crazy “rules.” There had to be rules, he’d insisted, for the magic to work.

She and Brian had often strolled out here, impulsively, and made their wishes. It was fun.

She dropped the coin into the pool. My wish is that nothing has happened to you, Brian. Please, please, come home safely to me.

 

TWO

 

 

‘Come round and take a seat, Mrs. Parkes,’ Senior Constable Ken Black said from behind the long, wide front desk. Jennifer nodded and went through the narrow front opening.

It was 11.30 a.m. on Wednesday morning and the suburban police station was a hive of activity. Two or three calls at a time lit up the switchboard. Each being handled swiftly by a feisty, no-nonsense woman, middle-aged, who wore a constable’s uniform.

Jennifer realised she’d never been inside a police station before. From the open doorway of the radio room, a few feet away along the left wall, came a non-stop series of garbled messages over the police radio frequency. Every voice seemed to quote a series of numbers, tens and fours and so on, a kind of numerical shorthand that reminded Jennifer of the many police drama shows.

She took a seat facing the senior constable.

‘As I told you on the phone,’ Black said, ‘normal procedure with adults, is that twenty-four hours must elapse after a person has vanished before they’re listed as officially missing. The exception is when it’s immediately probable that a missing person may be in danger.’

Jennifer nodded. ‘My husband isn’t the kind of man to go off without telling anyone, Constable Black.’

‘I’m sure he isn’t. Hence our decision to move early and bring in the Missing Persons Bureau.’ He turned towards his PC. ‘I’m going to take a statement from you, and I’ll need all the particulars on your husband.’

‘Didn’t we cover that on the phone last night,’ Jennifer said. Her eyes felt as though they had knives sticking through them. She hadn’t slept. The constable’s return call the previous night, around eleven, had advised her that his drive around the area had revealed no sign of Brian.

‘Yes, but we’re going to need a great deal more than that with which to initiate a thorough search.’ Senior Constable Black typed, firing questions at her as he went along. He took down Brian’s physical description, hobbies, interests and personal habits. The questioning included the names of Brian’s family members and personal friends and, where possible, contact phone numbers and addresses.

Jennifer answered the questions mechanically. In her mind’s eye the words “thorough search” flashed on and off like a neon sign on a garish, night-time city strip. How could this be happening, out of the blue, to her and Brian? Missing Persons Bureau … thorough search …

‘Who does Brian work for?’ Black asked.

‘He has his own accountancy practice. He set up an office in the city just a few months ago.’

‘Do you have access to his office?’

‘Yes, I have a key.’

‘I’ll arrange for you to meet me there later, Mrs. Parkes. The Bureau will want a list of his clients and any other business associates.’

The questioning continued. Medical history, family history. Was theirs a happy marriage? Had there been an argument the previous night?

‘Please understand that I have to ask some highly personal questions,’ Black explained apologetically.

‘All right.’

‘Does your husband have a drug dependency, or had he ever to your knowledge?’

‘No.’

‘Do you and your husband have financial difficulties of any kind?’

‘No.’ To her own ears, Jennifer’s voice sounded like a watered down version of itself, swept away by a torrent of fears.

 

 

Meg Roberts was sitting on the steps outside the house when Jennifer arrived home. ‘I thought I’d hang around in case you weren’t going to be too long,’ Meg said, springing to her feet as Jennifer came up the front path.

‘I’ve been with the cops.’ Jennifer unlocked the front door and Meg followed her through to the living room.

Jennifer was moving as though in a trance. Going through the motions. The police had run a thorough check on all Sydney hospitals. No one matching Brian’s description had been admitted. She’d started to wonder if she was partly to blame. Perhaps she should’ve phoned the police earlier. Why had she waited so long?

Brian had only gone to the local shop, just minutes away. If she’d acted sooner Brian might’ve been found.

It had been close to midnight when Jennifer had phoned Brian’s parents. They lived on the Central Coast, north of Sydney. The anguish in Brian’s mother’s voice had stayed with Jennifer through the long, sleepless night.

‘Jen! I thought I told you to call me. That I’d go down to the cop station with you.’

‘It’s okay, Meg. I’m handling it.’

Meg looked closely at her friend. Jennifer’s eyes were dry but glassy; her face set rigid in an expression of firm resolve. She’s mustered together all her reserves of strength, Meg thought, and steeled herself to face the trauma and get through it. That, in Meg’s opinion, did not mean she was handling it okay. ‘I don’t want you handling it on your own. I’m here for you. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ Jennifer conceded.

Meg felt like rolling her eyes. Jennifer was her oldest, closest friend, and she was always insistent, no matter what came along, that she was “handling it.”

‘So what are the police doing?’

‘They took down a lot of details. Just about everything you could think of.’

‘And?’

‘Checked the local hospitals and emergency services.Nothing. So they’ve called in the national Missing Persons services.’

‘They’ll find him, Jen. There’s bound to be a reasonable explanation for all this.’

‘Maybe.’

‘This is not the time to get pessimistic on me. Fashion designers are positive, forward thinking people, right? That’s what you told me.’

‘Point taken. What would I do without you?’ Jennifer gazed gratefully at her old friend. Meg Roberts had always had a bright, breezy personality. She was a pleasantly plump girl with large, expressive eyes, a wide smile and reddish brown curls.

They had been close since their school days, despite the differences between them. In comparison to Meg, Jennifer was often seen as quiet and intense.

Meg grinned. ‘Don’t go getting all buddy buddy now. I don’t think I could stand it. And it’s way too early for alcohol. How about coffee?’

‘Make it strong.’

‘I don’t make it any other way, honey.’ Meg went through to the kitchen and placed the kettle on the stove. ‘So how’s the dress designing coming along?’ she called out as she reached for the coffee jar.

Jennifer sighed. ‘Slowly. I’m still picking up a bit of freelance work with that small fashion warehouse at Surry Hills. There’s not a lot around at the moment.’

When Meg returned to the lounge she found Jennifer, head in hand, crying freely. Meg dumped the two steaming hot mugs on the table and sat down beside her friend. There was so little she could do to help. So little anyone could do.Except wait.

‘It’s good to let those feelings out.’ Meg placed her hand on Jennifer’s shoulder. ‘Cry it all out, babe.’

‘Where is he, Meg? What on earth could have happened to him?’

‘He’ll turn up, Jen. Has to. Whatever happened, he can’t be too far away, surely.’

Jennifer wiped the tears from her eyes and took a deep breath, an attempt to regain her composure. ‘There’s something Brian didn’t know. Now … he may never know …’

‘What could he possibly not have known?’

‘I think I’m pregnant,’ Jennifer blurted out. ‘I’m two weeks overdue. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in the morning for the test.’

‘Listen honey, with any luck your old man will be back and he’ll be able to make that doctor’s appointment with you.’ Yeah, so why don’t I feel convinced, Meg thought, and she hoped her doubt didn’t show. She hated this feeling, the same one she was sure Jennifer had, that Brian wasn’t coming home.

 

THREE

 

 

One foot after another hit the pavement in quick succession. There was an acquired art to this, for the sole of each foot to touch the ground only lightly and briefly, the result of the powerful sweeping strides of the runner. One movement passing fluidly into the next.

Jogging in the early mornings and evenings had long since become a popular pastime. Exercise and nutrition had swept the youth culture of the western world, a fad to some, a serious concern to others. These days it was a multi-faceted industry. It suited the jogger’s purposes nicely.

He wore a blue tracksuit lined with a single white stripe. He had matching gloves and sports shoes with thick rubber soles. His sports cap, with rounded peak, was pulled down low on his forehead and with his head tilted downwards as he ran, his face was mostly obscured.

The thin, pliable piece of wire was looped round and round itself, wound into a compact ball, and stuffed into his pocket.

It was a cool, clear morning, one of the last days of winter. Six- fifteen. The jogger had been here for a run on two previous occasions that week, to get his bearings. This wide, leafy reserve in a semi-rural district north west of Sydney was ideal. A narrow path ran along the perimeter of the reserve, amidst hedges and trees that looked as though they’d been there forever.

The jogger had noticed the young woman on both of those previous visits. Fair-haired, plump, wearing a tee shirt and slacks. He noticed her running had improved. She had an easier, more natural pace, a rhythm she’d lacked before.

He’d passed her and now she was several metres behind him on the track. After a while he slowed his pace, allowing her to gain on him again.

He thought back to the previous kill, two weeks before, picturing the quiet street in the nearby suburb. An attractive, middle-aged woman had arrived home in the middle of the day. She carried her bags of groceries into the house. There was no one else on the street.

Plenty of trees in the front yard for cover.

He simply walked, unseen, into the open side door of the house, twenty seconds or so behind her.

He had stood behind the open door between the kitchen and the lounge room, the thin stretch of wire at the ready in his hands. He felt the flood of excitement. Blood coursed through his veins, pounding in his temples. Not too soon, he thought. Control it. Concentrate on the task at hand.

He’d always been this way. Feeling pleasure while inflicting pain on others, though it was getting out of control and he was aware of the need to be careful. The time lapse between each of the past few kills had been less and less and he felt he should taper back.

After this one, he decided.

The third time the woman passed through the doorway, the jogger pounced. His method was always the same. He struck suddenly and swiftly from behind, snapping the looped wire around the neck of the victim, and then pulling tight. The deceptively smooth, thin wire cut into the flesh of the woman, an ugly red welt at first, then a pencil thin crevasse, weeping with blood as she fought for breath.

Now he felt the blood coursing through his veins like an electric current, igniting every nerve end with its voltage, as though stretching out every fibre of him with the power.

He wanted to scream out, for release, at the sheer ecstasy of it.

Strangulation by garrotte didn’t take long. Sometimes, when the jogger could regulate the flow of strength through his arms, and manipulate the struggling of his victim, he made it last longer, which lengthened his enjoyment of the act.

At the surprise of the attack, the woman’s shock gave way to an overpowering fear so strong it was like an odour in her nostrils. She could neither scream nor run though she tried desperately to find a way to do both. As the seconds ticked by her horror became an anchor in the pit of her stomach, plunging down, ripping apart the fabric of everything she had ever been. She began to weaken, her strength slipping away as the world around her darkened, her terror so great that even tears would not form in her eyes.

Afterwards the jogger left the house as he’d entered, unseen, by the side. His car was close by.

He pushed those memories, as exciting as they were to him, from his mind. Control it. Concentrate on the task at hand. The young woman was adjacent to him now on the narrow path.

She glanced in his direction and caught his eye. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

‘You’re a sucker for punishment. Third time this week, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m here every day. Determined to get in shape for summer.’

I know you’re here every day, you stupid bitch.

She moved ahead of him. He slowed his pace further, shifted his position so that he was directly behind her. He allowed the pace of his stride to match hers.

Same speed, same rhythm.

He was certain their breathing and the beats of their hearts were in tandem and the idea thrilled him. She was his.

For two weeks he’d longed for this moment. The exhilaration soared through him like a mad, demonic song. Savour it. The jogger knew he was different, he’d always known that. He simply couldn’t help himself.

The two runners approached a bend in the track, which was completely hidden from view by hedges on either side. His hand slid into his jacket pocket, removed the ball of wire, his fingers deftly allowing it to uncoil. The young woman was oblivious to him. He was close enough to hear the pant of her breath. He ached inside with the irresistible urge.

Now.

He lunged forward. One simple, single movement. He looped the wire around her neck, pulled it tight, heard her gasp, heard the air expunged from her lungs.

At first, the jogger didn’t know what the cold, clammy sensation was on the back and side of his neck. He was pulled backwards in a swift, savage movement by what he now realised was a large, meaty pair of hands. Another arm came from the side in the same instant, delivering a karate blow to his knuckles, destroying his grip on the wire. It fell from his grasp and he became briefly aware of the young woman tearing it from her throat, coughing, then falling to her knees.

Continued….

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