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How do you stop a killer who appears and disappears like a wraith?
For readers who enjoy Tess Gerritsen and David Baldacci, Jagged Night by Iain Edward Henn is a novel that will leave you breathless as the countdown races towards zero.

Don’t miss today’s KND Thriller of the Day

Jagged Night

by Iain Edward Henn
4.4 stars – 25 reviews
Everyday Price: $3.99
Currently FREE for Amazon Prime Members
FREE with Kindle UnlimitedLearn More
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
An action-packed thriller from the author of the Amazon charts bestsellers ‘The Delta Chain’ and ‘Disappear’
How do you stop a killer who appears and disappears like a wraith?

For ex-adman Tom Coulter, it’s personal.
His protégé is the first victim of a medieval-style assassin. A phantom who is targeting corporate and political high-flyers.
Each attack is counting down to a terrifying moment-of-truth called ‘The Dawn.’
When Tom’s investigations unwittingly place his own child in danger, Tom and his wife Amy are pitted against the killer in a spectacular wilderness.
The clock is ticking. Wide-spread panic is erupting.
Tom and Amy are locked in a race-against-time to stop a devastating event.
What is the ‘jagged night before The Dawn?’

For readers who enjoy Tess Gerritsen and David Baldacci, ‘Jagged Night’ is a novel that will leave you breathless as the countdown races towards zero.

Praise for Iain Edward Henn’s novels ‘The Delta Chain and ‘Disappear’:
“A stylish, craftily-worded thriller…crossing time, social class, love, loss, indulgence, greed, and…pure evil…fantastic read.”-Huffington Post
“…fast paced thriller…hooks readers into caring about the chase…”-Publishers Weekly
“…both a whodunit and a howdunnit. Is the mystery…natural or supernatural? The only other author(s) I can think of who write this way is the team of Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child.”-Hamilcar’s Books
“Disappear is one of the best page turners I’ve read in years. In The Delta Chain, an array of characters, good and evil, lead to one of the longest, most harrowing climactic scenes I’ve ever read. Both are fantastic reads.”– Pat Hernandez, author, palmaltas.com
“The driving characters had me hooked into their lives and conflicts.”-Martin Treanor, author of The Silver Mist
“Top notch suspense. Mr Henn handled a fistful of plot threads very effectively…tension racheted up nicely in the climactic scene…I didn’t see the final twist coming.”-Linda Bonney Olin, author

If the “Mystery of the Somerton Man” fascinates you, then today’s Kindle Thriller of The Day is right up your alley: Detective Adam Bennett discovers a pattern of similar cases – unidentified bodies found along the coasts of Australia and the United States…
The Delta Chain by Iain Edward Henn

Don’t miss today’s KND Thriller of the Day

The Delta Chain

by Iain Edward Henn
4.0 stars – 49 reviews
Everyday Price: $3.99
Currently FREE for Amazon Prime Members
FREE with Kindle UnlimitedLearn More
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
Over two years on UK Top 100 lists
No. 1 in Technothrillers
Mysterious drownings…unknown victims…who were they?

The body of a young woman is washed ashore on a secluded beach.
She does not fit the description of anyone on Missing Persons lists. Fingerprints, dental records and DNA provide no leads.
Detective Adam Bennett discovers a pattern of similar cases – unidentified bodies found along the coasts of Australia and the United States.
Six young men and women who seem to have never existed.

When her brother meets a terrifying death in the wilderness, Kate Kovacs is determined to use her IT skills to help track the killers.
A baffling link is found between these two cases, leading Adam and Kate on a labyrinth trail to hidden places, powerful forces and to a secret reaching back over thirty years.
A ruthless group is ready to strike – and Adam and Kate just became their targets.

”A fast-paced thriller…hooks readers into caring about the chase.”-Publishers Weekly

“An array of characters, good and evil, lead to one of the most harrowing climactic scenes I’ve ever read.”-Pat Hernandez, author, palmaltas.com

“High action…with good connections to high-tech investigation.”-from Goodreads.com>

”The driving characters had me hooked into their lives and conflicts.”-Martin Treanor, author of The Silver Mist

“Dialogue is realistic and convincing…enlightens as it entertains.”-Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award review

“Top notch suspense. Mr Henn handled a fistful of plot threads very effectively…I didn’t see the final twist coming.”-Linda Bonney Olin, author

An Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Quarterfinalist

Authors and Publishers: How to Sponsor Kindle Nation Daily

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Disappear by [Henn, Iain Edward]A vicious killer … a mind-bending mystery … a woman’s search for answers….

Disappear

by Iain Edward Henn
On a rain-drenched night, a young husband runs to the corner shop – and never returns. Eighteen years later, his body reappears.

Iain Edward Henn is today’s giveaway sponsor! Subscribe FREE at bit.ly/KND-SignUp and check daily newsletters for entry links!

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Categories: All Mystery, Crime & Thrillers; Bestsellers

Iain Edward Henn’s suspenseful and riveting Jagged Night will having you guessing to the very end. Who is behind the modern assassin, who utilizes medieval techniques to kill the power people of the world?

Jagged Night

by Iain Edward Henn

Jagged Night
4.7 stars – 11 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled

Here’s the set-up:

A gripping psychological thriller from the author of the Amazon bestsellers ‘The Delta Chain’ and ‘Disappear’

Ancient weapon…Modern assassin…Ultimate fear

Using the skills of a medieval warrior, an assassin targets corporate and political leaders with weapons from another age

With each attack comes an untraceable, mass email, blending the ancient world with the modern and counting down to “the jagged night before The Dawn.”

Former CEO Tom Coulter suffers survivor guilt when his protégé is the first victim at a high profile Boston business convention.

Police face a dead end. Despite armed security and video surveillance, no one saw the killer enter or leave.

Together with his estranged wife Amy and her brother, FBI special agent Nick Carmichael, Tom is drawn deeper in to the mystery as more high-flyers are murdered.

In the north of England, a professor learns that his son’s murder on an archaeological dig is linked to a gang of tomb thieves.

Ultimately, Tom and Amy’s search crosses paths with the professor’s hunt for his son’s killers. The more they learn, the closer the links they find between the two cases, leading them to a terrifying moment of truth in a spectacular wilderness. Pitted against a brilliant killer, they are ensnared in a conspiracy that has greater and far more devastating consequences.

Reviews:

“A stylish, craftily-worded thriller…crossing time, social class, love, loss, indulgence, greed, and…pure evil…fantastic read.”-Huffington Post

“…fast paced thriller…hooks readers into caring about the chase…”-Publishers Weekly

“…both a whodunit and a howdunnit. Is the mystery…natural or supernatural? The only other author(s) I can think of who write this way is the team of Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child.”-Hamilcar’s Books

“Disappear is one of the best page turners I’ve read in years. In The Delta Chain, an array of characters, good and evil, lead to one of the longest, most harrowing climactic scenes I’ve ever read. Both are fantastic reads.”– Pat Hernandez, author, palmaltas.com

“Dialogue is realistic and convincing…enlightens as it entertains…”-(Quarterfinalist) Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award reviewer

Fan of Iain Edward Henn, learn more about him on his BookGorilla author page

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#1 AMAZON UK BESTSELLER
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A vicious killer…a mind-bending mystery…
a woman’s search for answers.
“…stylish, craftily-worded thriller…a
fantastic read.”

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Disappear

by Iain Edward Henn

Disappear
4.1 stars – 185 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

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

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THE SILVER CHAMELEON

One

His diary was not really a diary at all – the term implies a certain order and structure – but instead a written whirlwind of names, dates, places and subjects that seemed, at a glance, to defy the physically possible.

And yet that was the very thing about Matthew Carpenter, thought Nancy Yates, the man simply defied the physically possible.

October 4th. His ‘official’ day began at 7.45 a.m. at a breakfast meeting with the three congressmen who were his strongest allies.

At 9 a.m. he was on the other side of the city for an interview in the Washington studios of the nation’s highest rating TV morning program.

At 9.30 he was several streets away for an interview on a nationally syndicated radio talk show.

10 a.m. and he was back on Capitol Hill for no less than fifteen meetings – some of them lasting less than ten minutes – with key legislators. These meetings were held in various rooms as the politicians went about their normal day, in and out of hearings and voting sessions.

Many of these meetings were conducted on the run as congressmen ran late or were called upon for urgent matters.

Matthew Carpenter knew how to improvise, tracking legislators down, strolling with them as they were called from one meeting to another.

Lunch with an influential senator from New York was wedged in between 12.45 and 1.30.

In these recent weeks, Carpenter’s days had been more chaotic than ever. He was no longer just a well-known face in the lobbying crowd, vying to attract the attention of the political heavyweights. Now he was the cause de jour, sought out by many of the bandwagon jumpers around him.

As a Washington DC lobbyist, he represented the interests of many corporate and community clients, but this project was his own personal creation, and he was its best advocate.

His anti-drug initiative was the talk of the town, and was harnessing more and more media space. Carpenter ran it the same as any of his lobbying campaigns.

As a result Nancy Yates had hardly seen her boss this past week.

She was firmly positioned in Carpenter’s office suite, in a building on the outer rim of the city’s main circle. Volunteers came in to assist from time to time, but she was often alone, manning the phones, conducting meetings with those interested in the Initiative.

She was forever organizing and re-organizing his “diary.”

Somehow Carpenter made the impossible schedule work.

That was just one of the things that amazed and impressed his feisty, matter-of-fact office manager. Nancy spoke to her boss constantly throughout the day. Like most high-flyers, Carpenter’s cell phone was almost permanently glued to his ear.

It was perhaps fortuitous then, that Carpenter had set aside half an hour from 2 p.m. in the office, for a catch-up, prior to heading across to the Senate building.

Nancy had received a media request that she believed was of particular interest.

‘You remember that LA woman who interviewed you briefly, oh, about six months ago?’

‘Of course. Good journo. Nice girl.’

‘Down, boy-’

‘I meant nothing by that, Nancy-’

‘I know, I’m joking. Goodness, we are touchy today. You’re as bad as my husband. Anyway, I’ve had her on the phone this morning, rabbiting on.’

‘About?’

‘She’s based in DC now. She wants to spend a week with you, fly-on-the-wall doco stuff, a week-in-the-life series of segments for her news show. But she stressed something very special about her proposal, she’s emailing the details, wanted to know if we’d consider it as soon as possible.’

Carpenter cast his mind back to that earlier interview. ‘She had a brother who died of an overdose. Revealed it on-air during that interview.’

‘Yes,’ said Nancy, ‘it carried a lot of emotional impact at a time when we were still trying to get real attention.’

‘Do you know what she has in mind?’

‘She wants to shoot film of drug victims, and/or their families – telling their stories – and to splice that in between the interviews with you as she follows you on the campaign trail.’

‘Sounds strong.’

‘We’ll have her notes on this soon-’

‘No need to wait.’

‘You want me to set up a meeting?’

Carpenter glanced at his watch.

In just two hours he was due back on the Hill.

Senators supporting Carpenter had introduced his Initiative to a Senate Sub-Committee with the intent of having a bill drafted. Investigating the validity of such a bill, the Sub-Committee had already held several hearings, calling testimony from experts. For today’s meeting, the senators had arranged for Carpenter’s testimony to be broadcast live to television and radio, in addition to the regular webcasts.

To galvanize the swell of public and media interest, they were treating Carpenter’s appearance as a special event.

‘No. Tell her we’ll do it – and if she can meet me at the Capitol before my speech she can start filming her story straight away.’

Two

Alison Reslin was hot and she knew it.

Honey-haired, blue-eyed, vivacious, beaming with West Coast charm. She was the most popular reporter on the national political program, Capitol Views.

Men hit on her all the time but Alison swatted the male attention aside. She hadn’t dated for over a year, she was wedded to her job, always on the go, and truth be told no-one was kindling her romantic interest.

In her role she often mingled with high flying politicos and businessmen, sports stars and showbiz celebs. She should have found them intoxicating.

Instead, for reasons she hadn’t fathomed, she found them boring.

Alison was rarely flustered, she wasn’t the type, but after she received the call from Nancy Yates, she took a moment to compose herself, took several deep breaths.

And then she launched into overdrive.

Not only had her proposal been accepted, but Carpenter was ready to start now. As in now.

She needed to be at the Senate in less than an hour, with a cameraman in tow.

She marched into the producer’s office.

‘You know that 24/7, fly-on-the-wall, talk-as-he-walks series of segments on Matthew Carpenter I proposed?’

The boss looked at her expectantly.

‘It’s on,’ she said.

Three

Ricardo Guiterrez entered the ‘situation’ room, as he liked to call it. Schematics of Carpenter’s home covered the wall. His eyes wandered over these and then he turned to the two men who’d been waiting.

These two were the leaders of a military-style killing unit. But they were not military.

‘How much does his nightly routine vary?’ Guiterrrez asked.

The two men, and the members of their elite unit, had been observing the home, and the comings and goings of its occupant – Carpenter – for two months. Waiting for word on when this “hit” was on.

‘Very little,’ the key observer said. ‘This man is a creature of habit. His days appear designed so that he’s home at around 7 p.m. On occasion this varies due to late running meetings or evening functions, but they are surprisingly rare for a man like this. We’ve observed him in his kitchen, usually fixing a drink. At around 7.30 all the lights go out except for exterior security lights and a muted light in the kitchen.’

‘There’s no further movement?’ These details had been reported to Guiterrez before – but after eight weeks of surveillance and now with the mission close to being green-lighted, it was time for final confirmation on all the details.

‘No, sir. He retires at that time. We believe he may remain in the sitting room for a short while and then go up to the bedroom. Apparently he must always dine out before heading home.’

‘No visitors or phone calls, no signs of any activity whatsoever within the residence?’

‘None.’

‘And on those days when he has no business activities organized?’

‘He doesn’t leave the house.’

‘And those days of non-activity are regular?’ It was more a statement than a question.

‘Correct, sir. Usually one day a week, sometimes for a couple of days in a row, and on those days he remains alone in the house.’

Another three men entered, carrying large cases. They placed these on the table at the far end of the room and removed compact sniper rifles and night goggles.

‘Latest-issue, military order,’ Guiterrez said, ‘heat sensors to lock-in on human targets, infra-red night viewing gear with inbuilt communications, but you won’t need to use the rifles unless you meet with something unexpected – police, neighbours, visitors, all highly unlikely.’

The three men with the cases now removed another item, a small pistol.

‘These are the weapons of choice,’ Guiterrez continued, ‘and they don’t fire bullets.’

The two men examined the equipment.

‘When do we move?’

‘There’s no time like the present,’ Guiterrez said.

‘Tonight?’

‘All being well, yes. I’ll give the final “go-ahead” when you’re on site.’ Guiterrez’s next stop was the conference room along the hall.

Under his influence and guidance, final agreement would be just a formality.

The cartel members were waiting.

Four

In the Senate Public Reception area, Alison met with Carpenter. It was shortly before he was due to give his televised address.

Her cameraman/sound guy, Sam, was set up, and had special permission to continue behind-the-scenes filming after the interview, when Carpenter entered the hall and took to the specially arranged podium.

Alison was seated on the large, plush visitor lounge, across from her interviewee, and for the first time in a long time something was stirring those inner fires. She was drawn in by his eyes, brown and hazel-flecked, the strong jaw, the light brown hair with just a few premature specks of grey, the lanky frame and the open-necked, slightly crumpled designer suit.

He had a natural, easy charm.

‘Ready to rock and roll,’ said Sam.

Alison nodded to Sam and then focused on Carpenter.

‘Thank you for inviting us into your world, Matthew.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘Congratulations on the rapidly growing support you’ve been getting.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s a bold concept, one that must mean a great deal to you, not just in a professional sense, but personally and emotionally, given the inspiration.’

‘It’s certainly gratifying to see true bi-partisan support, Alison.’

‘I hope you won’t mind me touching on old wounds, Matthew, but I believe it was the deaths of your parents, when you were just a teenager, that set you off along this path.’

‘I don’t mind at all. It’s a very important part of my story. Perhaps the most important part. My parents loved DC and they were passionate followers of its art scene – true bohemians,’ he broke into a broad grin at this memory and the reporter returned the smile ‘-my Mom was an artist and she ran a small but highly regarded gallery, my Dad was a jazz muso. They were the ones who originally launched the annual Riverside Arts Festival.’

‘They’d be amazed to see what it’s grown to today.’

‘Yes, they would.’ Carpenter paused momentarily, a far-away look in his eyes as the past projected its images before him. Great happiness. Terrible tragedy.

‘But my parents were both drug users and they had been most of their adult lives. It started with weed, but later they got into cocaine. They were addicts and as the years rolled on it became more and more a part of their lives. Initially it didn’t stop them doing what they did. It didn’t prevent them from being the best parents they could be. But over the years it took its toll. It ravaged their health, their moods became increasingly erratic, the financial pressures of maintaining the habit caused chaos.’

Carpenter looked as though he was going to continue, but then he stopped. There was a silence as he stared off.

‘And your father died from a drug overdose when you were fourteen?’

‘Yes. It plunged my mother deep into depression and even deeper into the coke. She overdosed herself, eighteen months later.’

‘Go on.’ Alison’s voice was gentle. Right then and there on camera, for the millions of viewers, was an intimate moment, rarely captured in a news show of this type.

‘I went to live with my aunt. She was terrific. But as I got a little older, Alison, I looked at the world around me, at the politicians, at the media, at the health professionals, at the law enforcement and legal systems – there was a loud, broad, ongoing dialogue agreeing that something had to be done about the drug problem – but there were no new ideas, and little or no progress. It seemed to be one huge merry-go-round, lots of noise and smoke and mirrors, but no real action. The problem grew, the statistics got worse, the drug lords got richer.

‘My situation was, admittedly, an unusual one. Instead of being a parent who lost a child to drugs, I was a teen who lost both his parents. I was young enough, and perhaps silly enough, to think I could set out and do something – something that really could make a difference.’

‘And after graduating college,’ Alison said, referring to her notes, ‘while studying law, you began seeking financial support for an organization that would do just that. Ultimately, while you practiced law, and later became a fulltime Washington lobbyist, you created what you call The Initiative, but which the media have labelled The Carpenter Initiative.’

Carpenter grinned. ‘I don’t mind what it’s called. As long as it’s put into operation. As long as it starts getting results.’

Occasionally, as he spoke, Carpenter raised his right hand to chest level, briefly running his fingers across a silver medallion that he wore around his neck.

Alison leaned in a little closer, recognizing the engraved image of a lizard-like creature with large, inquisitive eyes. ‘Is that a chameleon?’

‘Yes. Belonged to my father. He had something of a fascination for exotic creatures. This was his favourite and he always wore it.’

‘So it’s obviously very special to you.’

‘Oh yeah.’ He lifted the medallion up level with his chin, affording Alison a better view and a sliver of light sparkled off its silvery surface. ‘And I certainly take after my Dad where the chameleon is concerned. Intriguing creature.’

‘I have to confess some ignorance here, I don’t know too much about them,’ Alison said. ‘They can change color.’

‘Their skin can take on many different colors, enabling them to blend into any background. The perfect disguise from predators. And their eyes rotate fully, giving them a 360 degree view. So they can move at high speed with vista-like observation and the ability to hide in plain sight.’

‘Sounds like a politician.’

He laughed.

‘Or maybe a lobbyist,’ she added with a mischievous wink.

‘Or perhaps a TV reporter,’ he countered, and the comment caught her off guard and she threw her head back with a hearty laugh of her own and said, ‘Touché.’

‘Or just maybe, ‘he said, ‘in life, to get by, to achieve, we all have to be chameleons from time to time.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said, raising an imaginary glass.

It was another great moment, she reflected, caught on camera, offering a glimpse of the real man behind the public persona.

That was when the Secretary of the House Sub-Committee approached. ‘Mr. Carpenter, it’s time.’

Five

Guiterrez took his place at the head of the boardroom table.

His instincts had never been wrong, and his guidance had ensured the success of one project after another for the cartel members. They had flown in from all over North and South America. There were a number of items on the agenda, but on this occasion everything else paled by comparison to the Carpenter problem.

None of them had foreseen just how much support there would be for the Anti-Drug Initiative.

Guiterrez knew when he and his colleagues were facing a formidable enemy.

Growing up, Guiterrez had spent time on both sides of the border, the son of an American mother and a Mexican father. The family owned a transport business, a cover for a drug smuggling operation. Guiterrez had been a young man when he took over the business, expanding the distribution, moving into manufacturing, creating the cartel with other drug runners.

Ambitious and ruthless, he knew the sure-fire way to success was to eliminate your enemies before they became too great a threat.

Carpenter represented just that. Charismatic and driven, with extensive contacts throughout the political parties, the media and the Fortune 500.

He’d slowly been building his profile over the years, but to many it seemed like he’d appeared out of the blue, stepping magically into the light.

He wasn’t just flavour of the month, he was the man of the year. Everybody and their dog wanted to leap up onto his blasted bandwagon.

‘There are three options for how we could dispose of Carpenter,’ Guiterrez addressed the group.

To each and every one of these men it was essential the Initiative was derailed. And quickly.

‘The first option is we simply send our “kill” team to Carpenter’s house and leave his body behind as an example of what happens if you rise against us. But Carpenter has too high a profile, his murder would simply make him a martyr. I expect the media would elevate him to saint status. Support for his plan would continue.’

‘Agreed,’ said a bald-headed man at the end of the table. ‘Effective most of the time, but not in a case like this.’

‘The second option,’ said Guiterrez, ‘is that we remove the body and make certain it’s never found. But the effect of this would be similar to the first, if not worse. The media will speculate forever on the mystery of what happened to him. The search for Carpenter, and the speculation that he was murdered, will keep support for his Initiative alive. He’ll be a cause celebre in absentia.’

‘And the third option?’ asked one of the newer members, the son of a Cuban family who’d long been major players in the trade.

‘The third option is we call on one of our associates, a lower-tier brothel owner that operates just outside the city. He will choose one of his girls to be our patsy.

‘We send in our “kill” team – not to kill Carpenter but to render him unconscious with tranquilizer darts. They will spirit him away from his home to the brothel and pump him full of drugs. He’ll be placed in a room with the girl, who will also be doped up to her eyelids.’

Guiterrez took a breath and cast his gaze over the men at the table. All eyes were fixed on him in anticipation.

He continued: ‘We then have Carpenter stabbed to death and the knife used placed in the hands of the prostitute, with his blood smeared over her. The brothel owner will testify that Carpenter was a regular customer, that this time he’d been out of his mind on drugs, attacked the girl when they were alone in the room, and that she’d murdered him in self- defence. The girl herself will have no memory of what really happened. She’s a whore and an addict and she’ll attract no pity. What happens to her is of no further consequence to us.

‘The “revelation” that Carpenter himself was a drug user and a sleaze will dominate the media, his reputation will be in tatters, the politicians and the do-gooders will quietly step back and dissociate themselves from him. His campaign won’t be dropped. It will still have strong vocal support, but of course it will be subtly and slowly abandoned over time.’

The bald-headed man, energized by the plan, stood and addressed the group. ‘If this plan can be staged effectively, then this Initiative will eventually be dead-in-the-water.’

‘Precisely,’ Guiterrez responded. ‘He simply becomes, not a symbol, not a hero, but just another high-profile imposter who dies a tawdry and pathetic death, an embarrassment to all those who’d supported him.’

‘I say we take a vote on the third option,’ said the bald-headed man.

The vote was unanimous.

‘One question,’ said a stern-faced, bespectacled man near the head of the table. ‘Carpenter is due to give a televised address to a Senate Sub-Committee this afternoon. Aren’t we running too far behind to stop this runaway train?’

‘It’s true there’s been a rapid escalation this past fortnight,’ said the leader, ‘which is why I suggest that the time to put our plan in to action is right now. Tonight.’

‘Tonight?”

‘Our team is in place, awaiting the order to strike. Carpenter’s immediate fall from grace will overshadow any influence his speech will have.’

The cartel members grunted their approvals.

Occasionally, Guiterrez liked to create a dramatic effect. Right then and there, standing at the head of the table, he tapped a number into his cell phone, placed it to his ear, and said, ‘Proceed.’

He pocketed the phone. ‘You’ve watched the rise of Matthew Carpenter,’ he said, ‘now get ready to enjoy his spectacular fall.’

Six

The Secretary of the Sub-Committee introduced Carpenter to the meeting. He announced that this testimony would outline reasons for turning the Initiative in to a draft bill.

From the moment he strode to the podium, Matthew Carpenter owned the audience. His gaze was penetrating. His voice commanded attention.

He’d trained himself for years for moments like this.

The hearing was attended by the public, the media, and members from the House of Representatives and the Senate.

‘For as long as I’ve been alive,’ he announced, ‘there has been a war going on.

‘I’m not talking about a war against a foreign country, or against a military dictatorship. I’m not talking about a war because of an invasion, or a war over land, or a war against slavery or racism.

‘I’m not even talking about the gender wars.’

Carpenter paused after that last comment, with just the hint of a smile on his face. It was a moment this audience hadn’t expected. There was a subdued ripple of laughter around the chamber, but that was to be the only light moment.

Within a beat Carpenter resumed his serious air.

‘I’m talking about the War Against Drugs, a term with which we’re all familiar. I grew up with it. It’s been woven into our country’s social fabric for four decades.

‘A number of years before I was born, in ‘73, President Richard Nixon created the Drug Enforcement Administration. The DEA was part of, and I quote, his “all-out war on the drug menace.”

‘Thirty five years later President Bush signed the Mérida Initiative, to provide Mexico and other countries the partnership and funds to disrupt organized crime. So, how are we doing? Are we winning the War?’

Carpenter paused again.

There wasn’t a sound.

Every thought in that room was paralyzed by the unspoken answer to that question.

All eyes were riveted on the speaker.

In offices and homes around the country the effect was the same.

‘Over the past forty years our government has spent over two and a half trillion dollars on this War. It’s estimated that in our country today, there are more than nineteen million illicit drug users. The current estimate on the annual income to the drug cartels, from U.S business alone, is more than sixty four billion dollars.

‘Sixty four billion.

‘I lost my parents to drugs. You may have known a friend, a neighbour or a family member whose life was lost to drugs. Their memories deserve better than this.’

Carpenter looked restless. He turned from the podium, took a few steps to his left, nodded to the dignitaries who sat to the side, looked out on his audience, almost forlorn in his expression, and then purposely strode back to center stage.

All of this took less than ten seconds.

Carpenter was just getting warmed up.

Another speaker might not have been able to convincingly pull off a momentary pause and walk gimmick like this, but to Carpenter it came naturally, and struck a chord with his audience.

‘Here’s what I believe with every ounce of my heart and my soul. We can win this War but we have to be utterly ruthless and obsessively one-eyed.

‘The first major change we have to make is to the way we perceive the problem. The War On Drugs isn’t just a slogan. It really is a war, but like no other war that’s ever been fought. It has no boundaries. It has no armies. The enemy is, to most intents and purposes, invisible.

‘Our police forces are equipped to investigate and combat crime – but our police, our SWAT teams, our DEA and other law enforcement agencies – whilst they are doing an excellent job – do not have the military prowess or funding to fight a global assault against the international drug cartels.

‘We need less emphasis on prosecuting the victims, and more on going after the manufacturers, the distributors and the corrupt officials.

‘This war has to be fought as if were fighting the Nazis, as though we were fighting to abolish slavery or to hunt down terrorists.’

There was a thunderous wave of applause. This crowd wasn’t waiting for the address to be over. They were reacting now.

Seven

‘I want to change tack here and look at some images from our drug enforcement history.’ Behind Carpenter three men moved a large viewing screen in to place.

There was a slight dimming of the lights and the screen came to life with news footage. Armed troops moved around the exterior of a large building. Loudspeakers, placed around the perimeter, blared heavy rock music at thunderous volumes. A helicopter hovered.

The legend across the foot of the screen read: Panama, 1989.

‘The Panama Canal Treaty granted US forces access to protect the canal, and they were there to arrest and remove a drug kingpin, Panama’s military governor, Manuel Noriega.

‘Noriega had retreated and taken sanctuary, out of reach, in the Embassy of The Holy See.

‘The Army used psychological warfare. They secured the area, set up helicopter landing pads and used loudspeakers 24/7 blaring heavy rock and US propaganda. The intent was to wear Noriega and his guards down. Eventually, Noriega surrendered.

‘Is this an operation that can be mounted at any time in any place? No. But it’s a stunning example of what can be achieved by combining psychological tactics and military force.

‘There have been missions where our Navy Seals were deployed to infiltrate powerful offshore drug syndicates. Just recently, after a long-term covert investigation, the DEA swooped and made over twenty arrests in Chicago. These are just a couple of random, off-the-top-of-my-head examples of resources currently being used.

‘Now imagine merging the best of all those resources into one super powerful organization

‘My Initiative is for the creation of an Anti-Drug Army to fight – and win – this war.

‘This is not an army that will invade countries, fire missiles or undertake combat that causes destruction and collateral damage. It will not place the lives of innocents in danger. This is an intel-gathering, search, infiltrate and arrest operation on a global scale, bringing together skills from our crime detection agencies and our Armed Forces, backed by diplomatic treaties.

‘Just as we have armies that undertake peace-keeping missions on foreign soil, so we need a specialist army that undertakes Drug Offensive missions both at home and abroad.

‘This is not an Initiative that’s to be used for anyone’s personal political agenda. The passage of this Bill needs genuine bipartisan support, transcending political parties and transcending any of the agencies already fighting the drug menace.

‘This is a new Army for the 21st Century, with new methods to fight a very old enemy.’

The applause was deafening and continued for what seemed forever. Carpenter waved, acknowledging the response, and each time the applause began to fade, it would suddenly resurge again, even after Matthew Carpenter had left the podium.

Eight

Carpenter’s Georgian-style house, an easy drive from Capitol Hill, was in the historic area of Georgetown on the Potomac River. Built a hundred years earlier, it was set well back from the street, with a parkway and biking trails running alongside it. The property’s stonework fence and heavily landscaped garden created an idyllic privacy.

These affluent, tree-lined streets, close to the river and to nearby Washington Harbor, were home to many politicians and lobbyists.

But to the men who watched the house, it made no difference whether their mission was undertaken in quiet, privileged surroundings, or in a chaotic, poverty stricken ghetto. They simply adapted their operation to suit.

Efficiency was never compromised.

The unit leader had coined his own particular catchphrase, a variation of a theme, one that his men often repeated with their own sense of pride: ‘Failure is not on our list of options.’

Six teams, each consisting of two men, were stationed at the front, rear and side of the property.

They also had contacts within the Senate building, keeping track of Carpenter after his address to the House.

The unit leader received a message on his communicator. ‘Carpenter dined near the Hill with a TV newswoman and cameraman. They are driving him back to Georgetown in the news station wagon.’

‘Roger that.’ The unit leader relayed the message to his teams.

Carpenter was minutes away.

*

Closer to the city, another team arrived at the brothel. The owner, a weedy little man whose manic eyes made him look much more dangerous than most men twice his size, led the team to a room at the back of the establishment.

‘The girl’s drink was sedated earlier, as you instructed.’

The girl, skinny with pouted lips, lay on the bed.

‘Give her the drugs,’ the older team man said.

They were expecting the other teams to arrive, with Carpenter, within the hour.

*

Sam pulled the station wagon up on the street outside Carpenter’s home. A long driveway sloped down toward the house.

Alison got out of the car with Carpenter. Although the house was partly obscured by foliage, she could see enough to make out it was a two-storey structure of timber, stone and terra cotta.

‘Nice digs,’ she said.

‘My parents managed to take out a mortgage on this when they were in their 20’s, at a time when they were both doing well financially.’

‘And you were able to hang on to it.’

‘After they died my aunt had it rented out, kept the mortgage going until the time when I’d be able to take it over myself and move in. Paid out that mortgage just last year.’

‘How’s that incredible aunt of yours doing?’

‘She died last year.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Matthew.’

‘She was in her 80’s, a grand old dame if ever there was one. I owe her a hell of a lot of everything. Miss her as much as I miss my parents.’

Sam was out of the vehicle, prepping his equipment. ‘We’ll finish up today’s footage with you heading down your driveway, a quiet, reflective close to a day of intense activity.’

‘Hey, I’m the one supposed to be coming up with the good lines,’ Alison quipped. Turning back to Carpenter, she said: ‘It would be really great to have the camera follow you, take a visual tour of the house, not that I totally want to invade your privacy or anything.’ She flashed that winning smile.

‘I don’t know about you, but I’m beat. But we definitely should do that one day this week. Nancy’s the best one to find a spot in my schedule where we can fit that in.’

‘Sounds great.’

‘It’s a terrific old house,’ Carpenter said. ‘And like all the older homes around here, it’s part of the history of the riverside area. You probably knew that the harbor was a bustling port back in the 19th century.’

‘Oh yeah. I’m a bit of a DC history buff. And all this background stuff will add a personal angle. We want to see other sides to Matthew Carpenter, not just the side the public already knows about.’

‘Hey gang, I’ve got an actual life I need to get back to,’ Sam said.

‘My ride’s getting anxious,’ Alison said, grinning. She felt like she could hang around with this man all night.

‘On my way inside, then,’ Carpenter said to both of them. ‘You ready, Sam, for these arty, moody scenes you want?’

‘At last, recognition for my work. I’m ready.’

‘We’ll see you tomorrow morning,’ Alison said, ‘back on the Hill, second day of the shoot.’

‘Take care.’ Carpenter gave a wave and headed down the driveway to his front door.

*

Through his telescopic lens, the unit leader watched as Carpenter entered the house and the TV news vehicle drove off.

‘Carpenter’s inside. Coast clear.’ His voice was loud and clear on the communicators of each member of the team surrounding the house.

As he had every other night for the past two months, the leader observed the front and side window. The shadow seen through the curtained windows enabled him to discern Carpenter’s regular routine, as he went first to his kitchen, and then walked past those windows through to his living room.

They would wait a short while, just enough time for Carpenter to unwind, his energy levels relaxed, and then they would pounce.

The leader called his employer.

On the other side of the city, Guiterrez’s phone rang.

‘The target’s in place. We’re ready.’

‘Let me know when it’s done,’ Guiterrez said.

Nine

Carpenter fixed himself a Scotch with ice, took a sip, savoured the taste and its calming effect, and then walked through to the spacious lounge area. Double glass doors led out onto a rear balcony that had a partial view of the Potomac River.

Carpenter stood at those doors for a moment, looking out at the moonlight dappling those waters.

He’d made a real connection with Alison Reslin. It wasn’t hard to sense she was drawn to him. The feeling was mutual.

He glanced around the room, at the paintings on the wall that had once hung in his mother’s gallery. As always, his eyes settled last on the painting that hung, pride of place, above the main mantelpiece.

The painting, his favourite, was an ethereal depiction of a chameleon. The artist had captured, in the creature’s eyes, a look that was simultaneously wild, majestic, intelligent and mysterious.

The skin colour changed from one tone to another, matching the brush strokes of shifting colors in the mosaic-like background.

Carpenter briefly stroked the surface of his medallion, his right forefinger tracing the finely engraved ridges of its silver chameleon.

*

The unit leader gave the command.

One of the two man teams would enter the premises while the others maintained their positions, guarding the exits.

From his vantage observation point at the front, the unit leader activated an alarm signal jamming device. It generated a signal that prevented the sensors from transmitting to the alarm panel.

The team that moved forward to the side entrance used specialized tools to dismantle the lock cylinder while it was still in the door.

When they retreated, with Carpenter, they would simply close the door, reconfigure the lock, and the alarm signal jam would be de-activated.

There would be no sign of forced entry.

The team wore dark, nondescript outfits, designed with materials that didn’t shed fibres.

There were no CCTV cameras in the street.

There would be no indication that there’d been anyone other than Carpenter in the house.

They moved with the speed and the stealth of panthers and were inside the house within minutes.

The house was dark but their night goggles gave perfect vision. Their tranquilizer guns were at the ready.

As always, surprise was the best form of attack. Carpenter would be knocked out by the drug before he even knew there was anyone else in his home.

The team leader moved to the side of the living room entryway, and peered in to the room.

No sign of his target.

Gun raised and aimed, he swept into the room, swivelling as he did so and covering all points.

No-one.

There were remnants of Scotch and ice in the empty glass on the coffee table.

Damn. Carpenter was somewhere else in the house.

The second man was by the entryway, keeping vigil on the area behind them.

No sound.

They pulled out the heat sensors. The devices detected body heat within a wide radius, taking in the whole of the house.

‘Not possible,’ muttered the second man.

Apart from the two of them, there was no other body heat detected in the house.

‘Faulty,’ the senior man said.

He indicated the floor above and the other man nodded.

They searched every room in the house, every cupboard or potential hiding space, the balcony, the basement, the attic, the garage, and the interior and trunk of Carpenter’s car.

The unit leader was rarely surprised by anything but he didn’t expect the report that came over his communicator from the team leader.

‘No sign of Carpenter in the house.’

‘All teams report,’ the unit leader snapped.

Each team responded the same. Carpenter had not been sighted at any of the exit points nor on the grounds, and all of the heat sensing equipment gave the same results.

Carpenter had been in the house for less than half an hour. There was no other way in or out.

Across town, Guiterrez was stunned when he received the call. ‘Search again,’ he barked into his cell phone, ‘and have the teams scan the surrounding streets and parkway, just in case.’

The result was the same.

The unit leader had never seen anything like this before.

Carpenter had simply vanished into thin air.

Where the hell was he?

Ten

It was not the morning Nancy Yates was expecting but it was one she would never forget.

Within fifteen minutes she received three calls, one from the chauffeur booked to pick Carpenter up from his home at 7.30. He’d waited but Carpenter hadn’t come out of the house or responded to calls. The second call from the congressman, who’d been expecting Carpenter for a breakfast meeting. The third call from Alison Reslin, due to start filming, wondering where he was.

Nancy tried calling him over and over, leaving messages. This wasn’t like Matthew. Something unexpected must’ve occurred, but why hadn’t he phoned her?

By 9a.m. she started to panic and was placing calls to every single colleague that Carpenter had, to see if he’d been in contact with any of them. Then she called the police.

Alison and Sam were on the spot, filming – with Nancy beside them – as the police forced entry to the house, fearing Carpenter had suffered a collapse and was lying alone in one of the rooms.

The regular practice of waiting twenty four hours before acting on a missing person was cast aside. This was a high priority case and the Chief Of Police intervened. An APB was issued and a city-wide police search was underway.

By late morning the news media erupted with the first reports that Matthew Carpenter had disappeared, and speculation began that he’d been the victim of a “hit” by the drug cartels.

Eleven

‘This is the precise result we didn’t want,’ said the bald-headed man. ‘Carpenter’s name and his Initiative being taken up and championed to even greater levels, a martyr to the cause.’

It was a week since the disappearance that had become one of the biggest news stories of the year.

This meeting had been hastily reconvened, with just a few of the key members. The others had returned to their respective States and countries several days earlier.

‘Could he still be in that house? In an attic or a hidden safe room?’ the bald-headed man pressed the point.

‘The heat sensing equipment is definitive,’ Guiterrez said. ‘Neither Carpenter or any other living human being, apart from our team, was anywhere in the house or on the grounds. We had detailed long-range surveillance on the nearby parkland and surrounding streets, homes and vehicles, and we’ve kept all of that in place. And the police are, of course, conducting their own searches and maintaining a watch on the house.

‘There is no sign whatsoever of Carpenter.

‘In the week since he vanished he hasn’t accessed his bank accounts or credit cards. He hasn’t secretly been in contact with the woman who runs his office or with any of his colleagues. We’ve got extensive monitoring throughout the Capital to make certain we know if he surfaces.’

‘What about relatives?’ asked one of the others.

‘Carpenter has no living relatives,’ Guiterrez said. ‘No girlfriend, no particularly close friends, and he hadn’t been in contact with any of his old uni buddies for at least a few months.’

‘Could he have known we were coming for him that night?’

‘No. There are no leaks in the operation, and our surveillance ops are the best. Undetectable.’

‘This thing is the biggest national news story in years,’ Bald Man said. ‘How do we contain it?’

‘Our best and it seems our only remaining option,’ said Guiterrez, ‘is to find out what happened to Carpenter. Once we do that we can formulate a plan.’

‘And how the hell do we do that when the man vanished into thin air?’

‘We’re bringing in an international team, best of the best, who work for the European cartels. They claim they can track anyone, anything, anywhere. In the meantime, we can only hope the support for Carpenter eventually dies down. We all know this past week hasn’t been good. Carpenter is a martyr, a national hero.

‘His Initiative has been very publicly embraced by a group of senators, from both sides of politics, led by Senator Bill Harris from Ohio.

‘Nancy Yates, the woman who runs the Initiative office, has announced the campaign will continue, drawing on the strength of Harris, and from the pro bono contributions of a group of lobbyists and lawyers, all colleagues and friends of Carpenter. They intend to see the Bill drafted and passed through the Senate.’

‘And all we can do is bring in some alternative black ops mob to search for a ghost?’ The bald-headed man was ready to explode with frustration.

Guiterrez stared back. He could barely contain his anger that this derailment had occurred on his watch. If he could have found Carpenter, right then and there, he would have happily placed his hands around the lobbyist’s neck and strangled him to death.

Twelve

Three years later

The Capitol Views program went to air with ‘live’ coverage from Capitol Hill, where people lined the streets outside the Senate, quietly holding up small flags imprinted simply with a photograph of Matthew Carpenter.

The footage was accompanied by Alison Reslin’s voice-over: ‘Today, on the third anniversary of Matthew Carpenter’s disappearance, thousands of people attended the annual vigil, a tribute to the dynamic lobbyist whose influence has spread far and wide.’

The image on nation-wide screens switched to Alison in the studio.

‘And it’s a historic moment, as the Government this morning made a special announcement regarding The Carpenter Initiative.

‘While controversy still rages around the proposed Bill, the Senate has passed an interim proposal for a special project – a trial run – for a smaller-scale Anti-Drug Military Unit. Operating within the existing armed forces, the Unit – comprising specialists in law enforcement, psychological profiling and foreign diplomacy experts, will undertake a series of targeted investigations. A further analysis will then be made for a larger-scale operation.

‘Whilst it is a watered-down version of Carpenter’s vision, supporters say it nevertheless represents an important first step.’

After the program, Alison walked back into the office she now occupied as the lead reporter and the ‘face’ of the high rating Capitol Views.

Sam was lounging in the corner, looking over the printouts strewn across a side bench.

Alison and cameraman Sam had been a team for a long time.

Sam worked with Alison on all her upcoming news stories, but he hadn’t seen these papers before.

‘You planning something on DC’s prohibition-era history?’ he said, looking up as Alison entered.

‘You remember when we started shooting that week-in-the-life on Carpenter?’ she said. ‘As part of that I was planning a look at Carpenter’s early years, at his family’s history, and the history of that old house and the Georgetown area.’

‘Yeah, I remember. The week-in-the-life that ended up being the last-day-before-he-vanished doco.’

‘I’ve been thinking of going back to that idea, doing it as part of a new special on Carpenter.’

‘And it would be a good time,’ Sam said, ‘third anniversary, and now this Government announcement.’

‘Exactly.’

Sam cast his eyes back over the papers. ‘Fascinating period. I’ve just been looking at some of this Prohibition stuff you’ve amassed.’

‘I was interested in the illegal liquor at the speakeasies, particularly Chicago and Jersey, where there was a lot of police corruption.’

‘Why the interest?’

‘Because my research uncovered an interesting fact. Back in the 20’s the Carpenter home was owned by a powerful Washington councillor, John Rogerston, who ran a speakeasy in the house. I believe he copied many of the practices being used in those other cities. The Georgetown area was nowhere near as built up back then, and no-one suspected reputable politicians of anything illegal. It looked from afar that he was just fond of having parties there.’

‘But it was a full-on speakeasy, probably frequented by all sorts of his luminaries,’ Sam suspected.

‘You got it. Later on, 1932, he was exposed and arrested for a whole host of things, bootlegging, tax evasion, money laundering.’

‘I can see the irony,’ Sam said. ‘Ninety odd years later the same house’s owner is the creator of the Anti-Drug Initiative, one of the biggest news stories of the decade. What an angle. And it’s being used as a halfway house for ex-addicts now, isn’t it? Run by the woman who used to run Carpenter’s office?’

‘Yes. I’m heading over there a little later to have a catch-up with her.’

On his way out of the office, Sam was aware of Alison scooping the papers up and into a folder, which she placed in her briefcase.

Alison was always discussing her ideas with him, pitching angles to him for his reaction, using him as a sounding board. But she hadn’t mentioned this.

He shrugged it off, and headed on to his next assignment with one of the other reporters.

Thirteen

‘You’re going to have to excuse me, Alison. We’re taking our young charges here on a walk through the parkway, along the old canals and the aqueduct, down to the river and back. Big hike, we do it a couple of times a week.’

‘Go for it. And thanks for your time today, Nancy.’

‘Never a problem.’

‘Would you mind if I hung around here for a while and took a good look over the place. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.’

‘Of course. You never did get to film that video tour with Matthew. Take your time. Relax.’

Alison watched as Nancy, the counsellors and the young people headed off.

Carpenter would not be declared legally deceased for another four years. However his will stated that should he be unable to attend to his own affairs for any reason, then Nancy was to be his executor. At her discretion, his house should be used to set up and run a halfway house and rehab retreat for young people who were trying to find their feet after beating drug withdrawal. He’d known it was a long road. The fight didn’t end just because health authorities said you were clean.

Nancy had been running the place for a year now, after handing over the running of the Initiative office to another administrator.

Alison felt a pang of guilt for deceiving Nancy, but she cast the feelings aside quickly. She had to do what she had to do.

She looked about at the spacious living area and adjoining balcony. She tried to imagine the speakeasy that operated here in the 1920’s – the bar, the lounges, the dance area, the smoke, the gaiety, but somehow she couldn’t fully picture it. Everything was so different now.

Instead her gaze was drawn to the painting above the mantelpiece. A moody swirl of colors depicting a chameleon as its skin color shifted, adapting to its surrounds.

Her mind was cast back to her memories of that day with Matthew Carpenter, the interview, his fingers gracing the etched image of the chameleon on his silver medallion. He’d said: ‘We all have to be chameleons from time to time.’

Alison made her way down to the basement. It, too, was spacious, and was now used for storage.

This was where the illicit liquor would have been stored in that bygone era. And where, she guessed, it had been brought into the house.

She took a short, solid piece of wood that she’d had hidden in her oversize handbag.

She knelt down on the plush, carpeted floor and slowly but steadily, inching from one side of the room to the other, she tapped the wood on the floor.

It was solid.

… Continued…

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***

A mind-bending mystery…A woman’s search for answers


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.

He looks exactly the same now as when he vanished.

His widow, Jennifer Parkes, is determined to solve this enigma once and for all.

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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.
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