The Disappearance of Anna Popov

by Gabriel Farago

  His face could hold three days’ rain, thought Jack, sizing up the fascinating Aboriginal man, and is no stranger to hardship. ‘This is really something,’ he said, pointing to the painting.

  ‘Is that what you’re looking for?’

  ‘Actually, no. I’m looking for Andrew Simpson ... I rang this morning. I was told he’d be here ...’

  ‘You must be Mr Rogan. You called from Sydney,’ replied the man, extending his hand. ‘You spoke to my assistant. I’m Andrew Simpson.’

  Jack smiled to hide his surprise. He had expected a retired European police officer, not an Aboriginal elder. ‘Call me Jack.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Don’t worry, I get this often. I’m used to it,’ said Andrew, laughing. ‘What can I do for you, Jack?’

  ‘Countess Kuragin sends her regards.’

  ‘Oh.’ The expression on Andrew’s face changed abruptly. The smile disappeared and a sad, melancholy look clouded his dark eyes.

  ‘Let’s go out the back. I’ll make us some tea.’

  Sitting on the shady back veranda, Jack recounted his extraordinary discovery at the deserted farm. He showed Andrew a photo of the desktop inscription, but didn’t mentioned the Wizards of Oz. Listening quietly, Andrew watched the setting sun light up the red cliffs of the Western MacDonnells that rippled like a giant caterpillar across the ancient landscape behind the cottage.

  ‘The clincher is this here,’ said Jack, pulling the silver bracelet out of his pocket. ‘Countess Kuragin has identified it as belonging to her daughter. Anna had it with her when she came to Australia. I found it at the farm, hidden in the old secretaire with the inscription. It’s almost as if I was meant to find it. Strange, isn’t it?’ Jack held up the bracelet, letting the fading light play with the links.

  ‘Perhaps you were, Jack,’ observed Andrew, looking dreamily at his visitor.

  ‘You don’t seem surprised.’

  ‘Nothing about this case would surprise me ...’

  ‘The countess told me you were convinced Anna was still alive,’ said Jack, changing direction, ‘even after the investigation was closed. How come?’

  ‘Something about the case just wasn’t right. Thirty years in the police force does teach you something. You get hunches ...’

  ‘Was that all?’

  ‘No. There was more.’

  ‘Can you tell me?’

  Taking his time, Andrew rolled a cigarette with nicotine-stained fingers. ‘As you can imagine, we left no stone unturned,’ he said. ‘We followed every possible lead and threw almost unlimited resources at the investigation. Whole teams of detectives came up from Sydney and Melbourne with forensics guys, mobile labs, tracker dogs, the lot. The pressure was enormous, with the press reporting every move we made. We interviewed just about everyone who was at The Shed that night. Everyone, except ...’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy with the snake.’

  ‘The bloke who decked the truckie just before the girls walked out of the bar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t find him?’

  ‘No. It was as if he didn’t exist. A figment of the imagination, a phantom, a shadow man. We even called him that – “Shadow Man”. He disappeared, just like the girls, yet he was there ...’

  ‘And you think he had something to do with it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Andrew took off his hat and ran his fingers through his thick white hair. ‘Towards the end, I brought in a psychic, a good one, and was ridiculed for it. I ended up wearing the blame. Every failure needs someone to blame – right? Well, in this case, it was me. In the beginning, I was the officer in charge. But I didn’t act quickly enough, they said. I let the scent go cold and was barking up the wrong tree. Bullshit! Bringing in a psychic was seen as an act of desperation, yet I believe we were actually getting close ... very close.’

  ‘Tell me about the psychic. What was he like?’

  ‘Not he, she. It was a woman. She had the gift ...’

  Jack sat up, a cold shiver tingling down the back of his neck. ‘She was getting close?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. She kept seeing things. She was convinced that a bikie gang was involved ...’

  ‘What?’ Jack almost shouted. ‘Did she say which one?’

  Andrew shot a surprised look at Jack. ‘No. But somehow, the press got wind of it and went wild. Soon after that, she refused to go on and withdrew from the case – no explanation. It was all very sudden and quite strange. We hit a wall. The investigation was closed and a year later, I retired. Well, I was told to go.’

  ‘What was her name?’ asked Jack, his mouth going dry.

  ‘Cassandra.’

  ‘A small woman in her thirties? Islander, walking with a limp?’

  ‘How do you know?’ demanded Andrew, almost choking on his tea. ‘This isn’t in the files, and the press wasn’t told.’

  ‘How did you find her?’ asked Jack, ignoring the question.

  ‘Come to think of it, I didn’t find her. She contacted the police and offered to help ...’

  ‘Interesting ...’

  ‘Come on, Jack, how do you know all this?’

  Jack held up his empty cup. ‘A little more tea?’ he said. ‘And then I’ll tell you about the Wizards of Oz.’

  18

  Sydney Mardi Gras Parade, 27 February

  Jack checked his watch impatiently. It was exactly 6 pm. He knew they’d be cutting it fine. The Mardi Gras Parade was due to start in two hours. Rebecca’s flight had been delayed – engine trouble. Instead of coming in at two in the afternoon, it had just landed.

  ‘Sorry, Jack, there was nothing I could do,’ apologised Rebecca. ‘There were no other flights.’ Tanned and glowing, she looked like a celebrity in her high heels and designer shorts.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll make it, but only if we hurry. We can park at a mate’s place in town. We’ll walk from there.’

  ‘Where would you be without your mates, Jack Rogan?’ asked Rebecca, shaking her head. ‘A mate for every occasion. Unbelievable.’

  ‘I’m a popular guy. Is this all yours?’ asked Jack, pointing to the mountain of shopping bags on the luggage trolley.

  Rebecca nodded sheepishly.

  ‘Where are we going to put all this stuff? I’ve only got a small sports car – remember? I should have sent a limousine ...’

  ‘Don’t fuss, Jack, and hold this.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your present.’

  ‘Oh? What is it?’

  ‘Later – it’s a surprise. We both know your wardrobe desperately needs an overhaul, don’t we?’

  ‘But I’ve got all the new stuff from London ...’

  ‘You can’t live in a pair of shorts all summer.’

  ‘Steady on ...’

  Rebecca held up her hand. ‘Being your publicist goes beyond peddling your books to the world, Jack. Image, perception, impressions ... And don’t look at me like that!’

  ‘I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘You didn’t have to. I know what you’re thinking. You’re as transparent as a glass of water, buster.’

  Jack decided to go on the attack. ‘Wardrobe Nazi,’ he mumbled.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And what have you been up to while I’ve been away?’ Rebecca asked. ‘Polishing more furniture?’

  ‘Not quite. Whilst his posh publicist was being pampered in beauty parlours and soaking up the sun on the Gold Coast, this busy little author was hard at work adding another chapter to his latest story.’

  ‘Oh really? And how did he do that?’

  ‘Later. It’s a surprise.’

  ‘Tease.’

  ‘Look who’s talking.’

  The Wizards of Oz were assembling behind the church, the polished chrome of their huge bikes gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Wearing their distinctive club vests and black leathers, they looked like a private army: disciplined and dangerous. There we
re twenty-four of them plus the Sergeant-at-Arms bringing up the rear with his trademark motorcycle – a vintage bike with a sidecar. Cassandra, the only woman, would be riding in it.

  ‘We’ll form three columns of eight riders each,’ announced the Wizard. ‘I’ll lead the middle column, Carlos here the one to my right and Sladko the one to my left. Any questions?’

  There were none.

  ‘Have you got your masks? Good. We’ll meet at the assembly point in front of the obelisk in an hour. Don’t be late.’

  The traffic from the airport to the city was almost gridlocked. Everyone seemed to be flocking into town to watch the parade. Inching slowly forward, Jack told Rebecca about his trip to Alice Springs and the meeting with Andrew Simpson.

  ‘This is unbelievable, Jack,’ said Rebecca, barely able to see over the shopping bags piled on her lap. ‘Are you saying that Cassandra and this psychic are one and the same person?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she’s now a member of the Wizards of Oz? It doesn’t make sense!’

  ‘I know. It’s too weird.’

  ‘And she just walked away from it all without an explanation? Just as they were getting close?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Apparently, while she was in Alice assisting the police, her son had an accident coming home from school. A hit and run. He’s been in a coma ever since. You know the rest.’

  ‘How sad. But why this notorious motorcycle club and this strange way of life? She’s a virtual prisoner there ...’

  ‘I don’t know. But there has to be a good reason. There always is, we just can’t see it. Well, perhaps I’ll find out on Monday. I’m meeting her at Bleak House, remember?’

  ‘Have you arranged a photographer for the parade?’

  ‘Sort of ...’

  ‘What do you mean, sort of?’

  ‘I’ve asked Will. He’s pretty handy with the camera. He’ll meet us in town.’

  ‘Jack ... you can afford professionals, you know.’

  Jack didn’t tell Rebecca the real reason he’d asked Will to take the photos: he was reluctant to involve outsiders. Something about the Mardi Gras Parade made him feel very uneasy.

  No one paid any attention to the tall, broad-shouldered man in the faded black jeans and tee-shirt. Carrying a sports bag under his arm, he followed the crowd across the park. The excited spectators lining the street were jostling for the best positions to watch the parade. The man, however, was more interested in the trees behind them. Going from tree to tree, he evaluated each one and finally settled on a large Morton Bay fig with massive roots. Satisfied, he leant against the huge trunk of the tree, adjusted his baseball cap, and looked around: no one appeared to be watching. With one easy, fluid motion he lifted the sports bag high above his head and placed it on top of a branch. Looking around once more, he reached for the branch with both hands, pulled himself up like a gymnast and disappeared into the shadows.

  Every year in February, thousands of visitors from around the globe flock to Sydney to see the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. From its humble beginnings as a controversial call for gay rights in 1978, it quickly grew into a popular event until it became the biggest parade of its kind in the world with thousands of participants and dozens of colourful floats, many of them with a political edge.

  Always on the lookout for new talent, the organisers welcomed the Wizards of Oz with open arms as a new star attraction. The Wizards were allocated a prominent marching position in the parade between the popular police float and the boys from the fire brigade.

  In their three columns of eight at the assembly point, the Wizards were an impressive sight. Even while idling, noise from the Harleys all but drowned out the police band playing ‘YMCA’. Each of the riders wore a spectacular mask made of papier-mâché – half bearded man, half human skull with a conical black hat on top. Representing the club emblem, all the masks were identical except for those worn by the three men leading the columns. Heading the centre column, the Wizard wore the mask of the Emperor, Carlos on his right, the mask of the Devil, and Sladko on his left, the mask of Death. Zoran, the Sergeant-At-Arms, brought up the rear with his sidecar. Usually, it would carry firearms, ammunition and a first aid kit. Sawn off shotguns were the club’s weapon of choice. That night, however, the Wizards’ arsenal had remained in the armoury, making room for Cassandra. The club’s ‘surgeon’ – a struck off doctor who had been to jail for assaulting female patients – sat on the pillion seat behind the Sergeant-At-Arms. This was the club’s traditional riding formation for all its outings. The Wizard insisted on strict discipline.

  ‘Don’t you think we’re a bit overdressed?’ asked Carlos, pointing to the police float in front of them. Apart from wearing g-strings, leather boots and their police uniform caps, the young officers marching behind the float were completely naked. Their muscular, meticulously waxed bodies had obviously spent more time in the gym than on the beat.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll give these wussies something to talk about. Just wait and see,’ replied the Wizard, laughing.

  Turning around in his saddle, he raised his right hand. ‘Okay, guys,’ he shouted, ‘let’s roll!’

  ‘Sorry, Jack, I can’t walk any faster,’ apologised Rebecca, struggling in her stilettos on the uneven pavement. ‘I had no idea there would be so many people. Where’s Will?’

  ‘There,’ replied Jack, pointing to the obelisk at the edge of the park. ‘On top of the wall.’

  ‘About bloody time,’ said Will, his voice almost drowned out by the roar of the engines. ‘Up here, quick! They’ve started.’

  With Will pulling from above, and Jack pushing from below, Rebecca managed to climb on top of the wall.

  ‘Thanks Will. Wow!’ said Rebecca, ‘you can see the lot from up here; fantastic! Here they come now, look at that!’

  19

  Mardi Gras Parade, 27 February, 7:30 p.m.

  From the ground, the man in the tree was invisible, his black jeans and tee-shirt blending perfectly into the dense foliage. His field of vision through the branches wasn’t quite as good as he had hoped: the window of opportunity would be small, with little margin for error. Unzipping the sports bag that hung from a broken branch beside him, he reached inside and began to assemble the rifle, never taking his eyes off the parade. The music from the marching bands bouncing off the tall city buildings echoed eerily across the park. Mingling with the roar of a thousand cheering revellers, it rose like thunder from below every time a new float appeared.

  The Aids Awareness float led the parade. Its giant condom with the caption, ‘No erection without protection’, was lit up in red from inside and looked like a ramrod ready to assault the enemy: apathy and complacency. It was followed by the ever popular police contingent of scantily clad, bum wiggling young bucks, and right behind them marched two tall transvestites wearing knee high boots and little else. Their banner read ‘A little magic goes a long way’ – the motto of the motorcycle club’s courier business – and announced the arrival of the Wizards of Oz.

  The sniper in the tree watched the parade through the powerful scope attached to his rifle. If he had wanted to, he could easily have counted the wrinkles on the make-up-covered faces of the men parading below. But immune to such distractions, he was only interested in one thing: the appearance of his target. He didn’t have to wait too long.

  ‘Here they are!’ shouted Rebecca, pointing as the first row of bikes rumbled into view. The crowd applauded and cheered.

  ‘What a spectacle!’ said Jack. ‘No wonder the Wizard wanted us to take pictures. Just look at them.’ Jack turned to Will clicking away next to him. ‘Go for it, mate. This is a photographer’s dream. We should get some great shots out of this.’

  ‘You bet,’ said Will, reaching for his wide angle lens.

  Every sniper has his own technique. The sniper in the tree began taking deep breaths to calm himself. He knew that the next few minutes demanded total concentra
tion and steady hands. Moments later, the riders leading the three columns came into view. Adjusting his scope, the sniper moved the gun barrel slowly from one rider to the next. Death was closest to him, then the Emperor. The Devil was partially hidden on the far side.

  ‘Damn!’ mumbled the sniper. It would be a tricky shot. Suddenly, the Emperor slowed down, letting the Devil move a little ahead. The sniper smiled and was about to pull the trigger when he heard a twig snap behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. A possum was staring at him with big eyes, surprised to find an unexpected intruder in its lofty domain. The sniper lined up the rifle for another shot.

  Sweating profusely behind her mask, Cassandra clutched the edge of the sidecar until her knuckles turned white and her fingers began to ache. Not knowing where or when sent icy shivers of uncertainty and doubt tingling down her stiff neck. The moment she had dreamt about for so long was coming closer. But had she read the cards correctly, or had her anguish pushed aside intuition and clouded the art of reading the signs? She knew she was about to find out, and the realisation filled her heavy heart with dread.

  Another twenty metres and they’ll disappear behind the wall; fuck! thought the sniper in the tree, his palms turning sweaty. Remember the rules: keep calm and wait. With the target moving, everything was constantly changing. Anything could happen. Then suddenly, the column stopped and the Devil’s face came into focus. Holding his breath, the sniper took aim. The tip of his index finger had begun to press against the cool steel of the trigger when the back of another head moved into his line of sight from below. Standing on a park bench, a man had lifted his girlfriend on top of his shoulders, the young woman’s head blotting out the face of the Devil. Christ, that was close, thought the sniper, lowering his rifle. Five more metres and they’re gone. The window of opportunity was closing. Slowly, the column began to move forward again. The sniper took aim for the last time. He had the Emperor’s head clearly in his sights, but the Devil was hiding behind it. Imminent defeat sent the sniper’s pulse racing. The front wheel of the Emperor’s bike had already disappeared behind the wall when the unexpected happened.