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On 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. And 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.

5-star praise for Disappear:

“Different, intriguing, mysterious, great story…”

“…The story line was exceptional, characters believable and their actions true to character. Very well told…”

“Complex mystery…I guessed and second guessed myself throughout.”

an excerpt from

Disappear

by Iain Edward Henn

Copyright © 2014 by Iain Edward Henn and published here with his permission
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 pommy accent. ‘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.

Two large men in dark, nondescript gear had attacked him. One man kept him restrained, pinning his arms to his sides. The other man stooped to pick up the wire, pocketed it and looked towards the woman.

‘You okay?’

‘I think so.’ She gulped in lungfuls of air.

‘Then go. Get away from here.’

‘But …’

‘Get out of here. Now.’

The woman stumbled to her feet, paused momentarily as she glanced wide-eyed at the three men, then ran off along the path.

The man holding the jogger released him, and with a powerful lunge pushed him off his feet. The jogger sprawled in the scrub at the edge of the path. He looked up at his two assailants. Who were they? Passers-by? Police? He didn’t expect what happened next.

The men turned and strode quickly away across the reserve towards the street.

The jogger rose to his feet and sprinted back to where he’d left his car, several blocks away. He drove cautiously, one eye fixed on the rear vision mirror to see if he was being followed. He’d broken out in a cold sweat and it stung the recently shaved area of his neck.

It didn’t take him long to regain his confidence and he cursed aloud the strangers who had foiled his plan. Inside he ached more than ever with his need. He would have to forget about that woman now and seek a new victim in a new locale. This process normally took a couple of weeks. He would cruise the outer lying areas of Sydney, choose a convenient place, and commence looking for someone – anyone – who had a routine he could get a fix on.

This time, however, he would need to fast track his selection process. He wanted to strike again, within days.

It was three days later when the jogger attacked again.

Late evening.

A middle-aged, pot bellied businessman was leaving his office late, as he had the previous two nights, walking towards a flat, open air parking lot at the back of the suburban office block. It was deserted. The businessman reached his car and placed his key in the door. As he turned the key a wire was looped violently around his neck and pulled tight.

Once again the intended victim was saved by the arrival of two large men. Once again the killer was restrained until after the shaken businessman had driven away, warned off by the mysterious figures.

The two men then strode off into the darkness, shadows eaten up by the night.

‘Who are you?’ the jogger screamed after them. There was no answer, just as there wasn’t the next time or the time after that.

At first, it seemed impossible to the jogger that these shadows were watching him and following him day and night. Yet that appeared the only possible way they could always be on hand to stop him whenever he undertook a murder.

Who were they? How did they know about him? Why did they always walk away and leave him free, unharmed?

None of it made any sense at all.

The jogger was in his apartment, his lean frame settled into the centre of the three-seat lounge, feet spread out on the coffee table in front. The ring of the doorbell startled him. He wasn’t expecting company. He opened the front door and surprise showed clearly in his expression.

The girl on the doorstep couldn’t have been any more than sixteen but she had a hard look that was decades beyond her years. The short, short skirt, low cut lace top and provocative stance made her profession obvious.

The jogger glared at her, confused. ‘Yes?’

A half smile, half sneer stretched across the girl’s face but there was no expression in her eyes. Just a dull, glazed look. ‘It’s party time, mate.’ She strode confidently into the apartment, pushing past him. ‘Where’s the bedroom?’

‘What the hell is going on here?’

‘I told you, lover. Party time. For you, anyway. And don’t worry. It’s all paid for. You’ve got me ‘til midnight. But that’s not the good news.’

‘Oh?’

‘The good news is you get to do whatever you like to me. With a few exceptions.’

The jogger stared at her, speechless. She was beautiful, with long auburn hair that fell below her shoulders. Her lips were of the thick, sensual kind and they were in a permanent pout, even while she spoke.

‘Well, don’t you want to know what the exceptions are?’

‘Okay.’ He decided to be cautious, watching the girl closely. He had no idea what this was about and he didn’t like being caught unawares.

‘No broken bones. No cutting me. If I even think you’re going to try and kill me I’ll scream and, quicker than you think, two big bozos – I believe you’re familiar with the type – will come crashing through that door and pulverize you. Got it?’

The jogger looked towards the door.

‘Yeah,’ the girl said, ‘they’re out there.’

‘Who sent you?’ he asked. His gaze returned to the girl’s face, watching her, sizing her up. He could imagine himself doing all sorts of vicious things to her. The thought of it excited him.

‘Wrong question, mate. Can’t tell. Let’s just say it’s someone who knows you’re frustrated. Knows you need an outlet for your … uh … needs. So I’m it.’

‘They must be paying you a lot of money.’

‘That’s none of your business. Well, I’m ready when you are, big boy.’

‘Take off your clothes,’ he said.

‘Hey, original.’

He glared at her. Smart-mouthed bitch.

The clothes seemed to slip away from her body as though cast off by magic. The jogger reached out and ran the tip of his finger down the middle of the girl’s flat belly. Her skin was smooth, like satin. She had solid thighs, a slim waistline and large, round breasts.

‘Remember the rules, sweetie?’

‘No breaking bones, no cutting or killing,’ he replied matter-of-factly. ‘Bruises are okay?’

‘Within reason. Otherwise, anything goes. Like, y’know, sex – remember that one? – is fine. Preferable, actually.’

The jogger grunted. He raised his right arm, his palm open, and swung it towards the girl, slapping her hard across the face. She reeled backwards, began to topple, and then regained her balance quickly.

His heart was beating rapidly, the thump, thump, thump, hammering in his ears. ‘Get down on the floor,’ he commanded. He felt the electrifying rush. He was going to rape her as violently as he knew how. Beat her.

What he really wanted, though, was to kill her. But he knew that was the one thing he dare not try.

FOUR

Present Day

Rodney Harrison was eleven years old, a freckle-faced kid with a shock of curly, red hair. He had always wanted to have his own delivery run and today was his first day on the job, distributing leaflets to letterboxes. He was thrilled by the thought of having his own money, which he’d earned himself, to do with as he pleased. He intended to save up enough to buy an Xbox.

It was Wednesday morning, seven fifteen, and Rodney hoped to get in an hour both before and after school, five days a week, to complete delivery of his allotted number of leaflets. He rode his bicycle around the corner of Meson and Claridge in the southern Sydney suburb of Hurstville, the fifth street corner of his run, when he saw the man sprawled on the side of the road.

‘Hey mister, you okay?’ He braked, bringing the bike to a stop alongside the man. The body lay face down on the asphalt, and his coat appeared to be very damp. Rodney thought that was unusual, it hadn’t rained for weeks. ‘Mister?’

No sound or movement came from the man. Rodney was worried. Should he do something? He stepped from his bike and reached towards the man. ‘Hey mister, wake up.’ He shook the man’s shoulders. The body was heavy and didn’t budge. ‘Can you hear me?’

Rodney stooped down closer and his heart began to beat rapidly. Dead? Was the man dead? There was something eerie about the man’s stillness. Rodney walked around to the other side of the body, where the man’s face was partially visible. The eyes were open, unblinking, unseeing.

A car came along the street, driven by an elderly man. Bill Hartland was on his way home after an early morning trip to the newsagent. He pulled over to the side of the road when he saw the boy waving frantically to him. The kid was clearly in some kind of distress. It wasn’t until he eased himself out of the car that he saw the man’s body.

‘He’s dead,’ Rodney called, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. ‘His eyes are wide open, like dead people in the movies.’

Thirty minutes after the message had been radioed through, Detective Senior Sergeant Neil Lachlan arrived on the scene. At the age of thirty-nine, he was in his fourth month with the New South Wales Homicide Squad, and was working out of the Hurstville Police Local Area Command. People would have laughed, he imagined, had he told them he found the Homicide work less stressful than his previous position, so he kept the thought to himself. It wasn’t a form of black humour, however, just a simple fact considering that he’d spent the previous ten years with the Drug Squad. Ten years of traumas, late nights, undercover work, waging war against users, dealers and organized vice gangs.

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.

Eighteen years had passed since Jennifer had seen that face. The memories came flooding back. She felt a catch in her throat and a shiver ran down her spine like a lone teardrop, lost in the wrong part of her body. Eighteen years, yet his face was just as she remembered.

‘Is this your husband?’ Lachlan asked gently.

‘It looks just like him,’ Jennifer said.

‘I need a positive ID from you, Ms Parkes.’

‘It can’t be Brian, Detective.’

‘But is it?’ Lachlan carefully retained the gentle quality to his tone. He could imagine how difficult this would be for any man or woman.

‘Of course not, detective. If he’d been alive up until yesterday then Brian would have been forty-three years old. This man looks to be in his twenties. Mid twenties.’

Lachlan nodded in agreement. ‘I can see that.’ This is the age Brian Parkes was on the night of his disappearance. He regarded Jennifer. The same thought must have been running through her head. ‘So, apart from the age discrepancy, this man appears to be your husband?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any distinguishing marks you can recall?’

Jennifer thought for a moment. ‘A mole,’ she said, ‘right in the centre of his shoulder blades.’ She remembered telling Brian that he should have it looked at; that she thought it was getting bigger. ‘Everyone has funny little moles that look like they’re getting bigger.’ That had been so typical of Brian’s gentle, cheeky humour. ‘I’ve only got one so you just leave it alone.’

Lachlan gestured to the attendant, who turned the body over and lifted the sheet further. A mole rested in exactly the spot described by Jennifer. There was a slight drop to her jaw, and a gasp, but she said nothing.

Lachlan escorted her into the adjoining office and invited her to sit. He took another seat, facing her across an interviewing table. He noted that her eyes were glassy, her expression unmoving, as if cast in stone. ‘Going by the physical description, and the personal effects he was carrying, it seems certain that the deceased is in fact your missing husband. I realise the shock-.’

‘But the body in there isn’t forty-three years old. Nowhere near it.’

‘I agree. Rest assured, I’ll be looking into that. I’m certain there’s an explanation. In the meantime, a match of dental records will be completed by this afternoon and, given your comments, I’ll wait for those records before finalising the identification. The dental check will confirm one way or another whether that man was your husband, or an imposter.’

An imposter, thought Jennifer, that must be it. Someone who looked just like Brian had. But why would a look-alike be carrying Brian’s wallet? Where would he have got it? Why had he been run down on the same street where she and Brian had lived way back then?

‘You’ll let me know the result?’ Jennifer asked.

‘As soon as it comes through.’

Jennifer left the building. She wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and the morgue. She felt a dozen tiny shivers, like icy pinpricks, stabbing at her insides. None of this made any sense and she expected the dental check wouldn’t help, confirming that the body on that slab was Brian.

Deep inside she knew it was Brian. This didn’t make any sense at all.

And what would it mean to her daughter Carly, born almost eight months after Brian’s disappearance, to learn that the father she’d never known had been alive, somewhere, all these years? Carly, the living proof of Brian and Jennifer’s love for one another, the single greatest treasure that Jennifer had been blessed with these past eighteen years.

How would Carly react to news as devastating as this? The thought made Jennifer shiver with an old despair.

FIVE

Roger Kaplan, at forty-two, was a younger version of his father. Not as handsome, nor as athletic, or as suave, but with the same characteristic traces of all three. What he lacked most was the inner fire, the charisma that made his father, up until now, one of Australia’s most successful businessmen. Roger flashed an insipid smile at his father’s secretary as he strode across the office and into the spacious corner suite.

Henry Kaplan stood at the window, arms behind him, surveying the view of Sydney Harbour. The sunlight sparkled across the water, clusters of tiny jewels riding the swells. A helicopter flew over the Sydney Opera House. This suite of offices was the Australian headquarters of the Kaplan Corporation.

Kaplan turned when he heard the footfalls at his doorway. ‘You weren’t in court.’

‘I don’t get my kicks parading around courthouses in front of TV cameras,’ Roger said. ‘That’s more your style.’

‘I didn’t enjoy it any more than you would have.’ Kaplan’s tone echoed disdain. ‘As the Chief Executive in Australia, you should have been there for the decision.’

‘It wouldn’t have made any difference. The decision was made; it was made months ago.’

‘I never should’ve allowed you to extend our credit on Fenwicks and Sharvin Glass. They were never strong. You should have sold our holdings in those companies.’

‘So it’s all my fault, is it? Wake up, Dad. Blaming me isn’t going to wash anymore. You’ve been paying six figure salaries for years to a bunch of financial advisors who’ve warned you to stop diversifying. You haven’t listened to a bloody word they’ve said.’

‘It’s the local operation that’s let us down, Roger. Reduced profits, expensive loans. Your financial status reports have been bullshit for years. I should’ve seen it coming.’

‘And what do you call Southern Star Mining. That was your baby. Fifteen million borrowed from Hong Kong. That’s what brought the whole thing crashing. Or don’t you read the comments in Business Weekly anymore?’

‘The financial journos can write about companies but they can’t run them. They can’t even manage their own petty cash accounts. Southern Star was the victim of the GFC and erratic high interest rates.’

‘So if anything’s a success around here it’s because of you. If anything fails it’s because of a stock market correction and greedy banks. The great Henry Kaplan’s recipe for business acumen.’

Kaplan exploded. ‘I’ve had it up to here with your blasted sarcasm. I’ve given you a million and one chances. You’ve never lived up to one of them, not one.’

He made a visible attempt to control his fury, sucking in deep breaths. He turned his back on his son, looking once more to the magnificent view of the water and the coat hanger shaped bridge that was famous all over the world. ‘I called you in to ask if you had money put aside for yourself; money the receivers won’t be able to trace.’

‘I’m touched by your concern. Yes, you know I have.’

‘Whatever you’ve done to keep your money hidden, I suggest you do doubly from now on. As officers of the corporation you and I, along with Johnson, Kopins and Masterton are personal bankrupts, or will be if the appeal fails. All our known and traceable assets will be frozen.’

‘I know that.’

‘The receivers and the corporate affairs people will be watching us like hawks in the meantime.’

‘What about you?’

‘Don’t concern yourself with me.’

‘What’s next, then? What does Masterton think can save us? A break up and sell off of the companies?’

‘That won’t come anywhere near clearing the amount of debt to discharge the bankruptcy. The only chance we have is Southern Star. A buyer for the mining operation will put us back in business.’

‘You could’ve put Southern Star on the market a year ago.’

‘I’m doing it now.’

Roger sat on the three-seat leather lounge in the corner of the office. ‘Do you think we can come back from this?’

‘Can and will,’ Kaplan said gruffly. ‘I called you in for another reason as well. I need you to work closely beside me and the other directors, to project a united front. I have a potential buyer for Southern Star. Blue Ridge Corporation, the Canadian mining and munitions operation.’

‘Of course. Conrad Becker’s mob.’

‘Becker and his chief executive, Wilfred Carlyle, are flying in late next week. They’ll spend a couple of days here, speaking with our accountants and with the receivers, and specifically going over the details of buying out our holdings in Southern Star. After that we’ll fly them up to Queensland to look over the mines and meet our key people there.’

‘You think this will go through?’

‘It has to. Everything hinges on this sale. Everything.’ The phone on Kaplan’s desk buzzed. He picked it up. ‘Yes?’

‘Excuse me, Mister Kaplan,’ said Jodie Lenton, his secretary, ‘I have a Ms Jennifer Parkes on the line for yourself or Roger.’

Kaplan beamed. It was a long time since he’d spoken to Jennifer. Speaking with her would be a refreshing change on this, the worst day of his life. ‘Put her through, Jodie.’ He covered the mouthpiece momentarily. ‘Jennifer Parkes.’

Roger nodded. ‘I thought she’d get in touch when the news came out.’

Kaplan switched the incoming call to conference mode. Jennifer’s voice boomed out clearly over the loudspeaker. ‘Hello, Henry?’

‘Jennifer, always good to hear from you. It’s been too long.’

‘Must be close to a year. You’re never in the country these days.’

‘I wish I hadn’t been today,’ he sai