Missing Louise

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Missing Louise Page 5

by Nicholas Frankcom


  It was more than a lucky dice roll; this was their dream start. Louise Pemberton had made it to Koh Chang. Another incredible piece of fortune was that they also knew that she had been in the company of a couple of kiwis. The stars were definitely with them on this one. Perhaps after all she might have taken off into the sun, maybe even flying to New Zealand. They both upheld this view for a very short time only. A trip to the stilted bar on the hill drew out another witness. A Canadian guy called Luke had been mixing up potent cocktails since the end of the monsoon season, mid-September.

  “Sure I know her. Could hardly stand up when I looked at her. You get a few space cadet casualties, but she was topping out worse than most. Noticed she was with some creep, well not really with him, more trying to avoid him. As she left she was really staggering, holding the rail like she was afraid of tipping right over it. A minute or two later I noticed this slime-ball following down the steps. I had to finish off a round, but thought I should take a look, make sure she was all right. When I got out down the bottom there was no sign of either of them. She OK?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mike replied candidly. This last response placed a stone in his heart, a heavy weight of disappointment and anxiety. It was hard not to consider the genuine fear that Louise could be in real danger after all.

  Subsequent enquiries around Lonely Beach failed to produce any further leads. Most of the current influxes of backpackers were new arrivals, many cruising into gap years with a spell on the island to start their trip. Others might be simply taking a few weeks away from the office, happy to pick up a flight only deal and mingle with the backpackers to either recharge low batteries or escape the flow of everyday life for a rest bite. Few of the bay’s guesthouse proprietors expressed any keen desire to divulge any information. Generic silences and shrugs proved to be the norm. The turnover peak season probably ran well into the hundreds, enough to blur details of travellers, even the pretty ones. A few of the more forthcoming ones allowed Mike to pin hastily photocopied pictures of Louise on their communal boards, grainy images of her laughing poolside on a Spanish holiday. He imagined her beachwear attire to be similar to her casual island costumes she might have been wearing around the time of her disappearance.

  With the day falling into late afternoon, a joint decision was made to make an impromptu visit to the island’s tourist police. Approaching authority seemed the only sensible action to now take. Though offering little help when Pemberton had first made the call to them concerning his daughter’s whereabouts, there was the chance that further evidence could have come to light. At least now there were two witnesses to Louise visiting Koh Chang. Without doubt Louise Pemberton was on the island just before she disappeared. Through visiting the police in person, they might well react more proactively, sympathetically even. Mike hoped that pictures and stories might soften their hearts and trigger their mouths.

  The station was a modest affair, situated in the resort of White Sands a few kilometres away. A jeep shuttle service brought them to the reinforced double doors within the hour, tarpaulin flung over bars to keep the worst of the dust at bay. Approaching the counter, a lone police officer offered a non-committal smile to welcome their arrival. Large green potted plants lent colour to an otherwise clinical atmosphere. Although non-threatening, the plain utilitarian interior offered little comfort to the passing visitor. This was not the place to voluntarily spend any time, which was the intention. Few public buildings on the island offered the luxury of air-conditioning. Due to its recent age and functionality, the station boasted the best in modern air-con technology. Before they had toned down the appeal of the reception area, it was not uncommon for a dozen people or more to loiter around on the hotter days. Whilst noisy and to some degree unsightly for official premises, this was also dangerous, for if a perpetrator was pulled in that struck a chord of recognition with the loitering crowd, it was not unknown for them to intervene during the arrest process. Rather than tempting a riot situation, the officers preferred a cold and stale environment. In approaching the empty front desk, Mike had already decided to play his trump card provided by Kae. Should Rusty choose to delve into his acquired contact, he knew that he would play it down, so creating a smokescreen. This was wrong given Rusty’s sterling assistance so far, but somehow it seemed a necessity. Mike was unable to tell if this was through embarrassment for not telling Rusty about Kae or something more. With luck he would automatically presume that Pemberton had given him the name prior to his departure. A bigger piece of luck would be in Rusty not picking up on it at all.

  “Is Sergeant Virote here please?”

  The officer spoke fluent English, presumably a mandatory requirement in his job, due to his role in dealing with a daily dose of distressed tourists.

  “Certainly. Can I first take your name and nature of business please?”

  “Sure,” Mike replied, “it’s about a missing girl - Louise Pemberton. I’m Mike Harwell. Her father sent me over to see if I could trace her. I came to Koh Chang, as we knew that she intended to visit after Bangkok. I’ve already spoken to some people who saw her at Lonely Beach. It seems that she then simply disappeared.”

  “Please wait here a minute.”

  The Police Officer seemed to react quickly to this information, and with a curt formal nod was gone. There was almost a sense of urgency in his hasty departure. Mike fought back a growing sense of anxiety and started to look for a seat. He felt the need to sit down. He was stopped short in the process by a door being opened and a plump, middle-aged Thai walking briskly towards him, hand outstretched in a formal gesture of welcome.

  “Good afternoon. My name’s Sergeant Virote. I understand that you were asking for me?”

  “Um, yes,” Mike hesitantly replied, already taken aback by the pace of events and a growing sense of foreboding.

  “Please, perhaps you and your friend should take a seat.” The sergeant indicated towards a table surrounded by several hard plastic chairs. Mike and Rusty took a seat without another word, waiting in anticipation of what news the sergeant was obviously about to deliver.

  “I was thinking of calling this Mr Pemberton, but as you are here looking for the missing girl it will be best if I tell you first. I’m afraid that the news that I have heard from my colleagues in Trat is not good,” he took a pause before continuing. “A body was found in the river last night, a western female in her mid-twenties.”

  Six

  Trat was a dusty border town, the closest community of any size to the Cambodian customs gate. Given its location, it was inevitably a busy place, where trade (both legal and otherwise) flourished and drew merchants both sides of the border. With much of the trading taking place beyond the eye of authority, the police were stretched in their pursuit of both taking bribes and gaining convictions for those not playing their game. Likewise the morgue kept its staff busy, a brisk murder rate amongst drug dealers and gun runners partly accounted for the high numbers, though the network of rivers and a fast moving highway provided a high number of occupants. The following evening a local bus ran through a makeshift shelter erected to house residents rendered homeless by a recent typhoon. The flimsy walls offered little protection. When the bus came to an eventual stop, ten victims had been mown down in its path. Most died where they sat, huddled around makeshift open fires, unaware of the runaway bus bursting through the canvas. This took its toll on poorly funded and stretched local services. With body numbers higher than anticipated, it had taken administrators several hours before they could investigate the identity of the pale young body pulled from the river. No identification was yet forth coming, but they were hoping that a farang on his way from Koh Chang could shed some light and help them sign the necessary forms to release the body. They badly needed the space.

  A restless night was spent on Koh Chang, where Mike stood Rusty to a number of beers and several cheap whiskies. He steered Rusty away from the infamous Koh Chang
buckets, despite knowing that he owed him for a growing list of services. When the time came he would be willing to reach far deeper than the asking price for an intoxicating bucket. After leaving the White Sands station they needed to return to Lonely Beach, which left it far too late to catch the last ferry. Instead they decided to console and numb their feelings with drinks at the nearest bar. The hope that it might help them sleep better failed, though it stopped them from pacing around the cabin. At first Mike reasoned that he should contact Pemberton, though Rusty brushed aside any such notion. He argued that until they saw the body they might as well leave the Pembertons to a relaxed evening in blissful ignorance. Mike had never before been called upon to identify a body, nor seen one close up (his great aunt chose an open coffin for her funeral, though Mike only glimpsed a white made-up face) which in some way sickened him, especially since it had been trawled out of the river. He wondered how the skin might look. Forget the make-up for starters. The thought that it might be Louise terrified him. The evening ended with a joint sat on their crude wooden balcony overlooking the magnificent Lonely Beach. Normally it would prove the ideal end to a day for Mike. For both the view was lost as they withdrew to their own thoughts and fears. Talk was minimal, largely subdued. Rusty gave Mike the space he needed. The next morning was likely to become very testing.

  With luck still on their side, Trat was only a short distance from the ferry terminus on the mainland, ensuring their arrival at the morgue by late morning. The journey passed without incident and very little conversation. Both were withdrawn, tired from a poor night’s sleep and emotionally drained. Even the ancient ferry stirred few nostalgic thoughts, past and present. On arrival at a modern flat roofed building the staff were efficient and keen to begin the identification process, ushering them into the white tiled mortuary room before they had a chance to compose themselves. The air was thick with the unusually sweet smell of preservatives, with just a hint of detergent lingering in the background. In a country given to incense and flowers it was a cold, clinical smell, unsettling in its polar opposite. Mike wanted to run so much, might have if Rusty had not clasped his arm in a reassuring gesture, the grip firm, almost commanding him to stay rooted to the spot.

  A spectacle wearing lab assistant came straight over, once again impressing Mike with his fluent English. His white coat held remarkably few stains, given the volume of work within Trat’s morgue. “This shouldn’t take too long - then we can take you for a quick cup of tea. I’m sure that you will need one. We can do any paperwork later.”

  Mike’s mouth felt dry and he found himself in a position of being able to do little else other than to nod, an attempt at a faint smile to show he was OK failed. He followed the lab assistant to one of the freezer doors and waited whilst a retractable trolley was pulled from the void within. He felt rather than saw the presence of Rusty right behind him. Barely noticing a slow nod from the assistant the green sheet was peeled back revealing the body beneath. Mike took in a sharp intake of breath and looked away. Peering over his shoulder, Rusty looked down at a young female below him, the eyes closed over a grey face, pale blue lips parted to draw a last drop of air, only to inhale the pungent river waters. He didn’t look too closely, instead turned to help his friend.

  “Do you recognise her?” The question asked of Mike was direct and authoritative, yet spoken with an understanding softness, a dialect of someone used to administering bad news.

  “Sorry I...” was all Mike could muster, his voice hoarse, though he pushed on, beating back the need to hesitate and draw breath, “I don’t .... know, sorry, no it’s not Louise”.

  Rusty simply used an arm to gently guide Mike away, as the assistant pushed the trolley back into the frozen draw. He decided to skip the offer of tea and instead directed Mike out through the reception door, towards the promise of fresh air and warm sunshine. It was good to lose the lingering smells of embalmment.

  “How’re you doing mate?” He kept an arm wrapped around Mike as he spoke, as if to hold him in case he fell.

  Mike didn’t reply at first, was still gradually composing himself, giving it time for his voice to re-emerge. He waited until they were firmly outside before replying.

  “Not too bad”, clearly understating things. “I guess I should feel relief, which in a way I do, but it’s more shock...possibly a bit of confusion as well. You know, I built myself up, expected the worst. Just can’t get that poor girl’s face out of my head now, so pale, so sullen.”

  “I know mate. Guess we’ll never get to know who she was. Some poor sod will have to travel over and take her away with them. Come on. Let’s get ourselves out of here and get a cold beer. We have to decide on what next to do as well.”

  Rusty ensured that any mortuary paperwork was completed before hastening off in search of somewhere to seek refreshment. Mike was in no state to be signing his autograph. An interesting bar boasting a colourful hand-painted Lambereta scooter on the sidewalk, more decorative than functional, proved the enticing decider. The light and inviting interior was a welcome comparison to the oppressively chilling morgue. The talk was reserved and subdued, reassembling a family wake. Brooding silences punctuated the conversation as they collected their thoughts. Preferring a seat nearer the door where they could peer out of the window at the passing traffic snaking its way to the border, they took a Cambodian stout beer and attempted to lighten their moods. They both agreed that it could have been so much worse and started to put together what they had. Gradually the air of desperation lifted and they decided on going back to square one - asking around and passing on descriptions. They knew that Louise had been on Koh Chang, they had their witness. Given the size of the island and the timeframe it was safe to assume she was no longer there. If she had since left the island, and this was almost certainly the case, it made sense that she would have come via Trat. It was the only transit point for onward travel in the whole region. For now they ignored any niggles they harboured about her current condition, whether she had either met with accident or worse, instead choosing to believe that she must have got away from Koh Chang, that she had fled any dangers lurking on the island and it was simply a case of pre-empting her next move. What would Louise do next?

  Immersed in conversation, they almost failed to notice a lone female backpacker enter the bar, pausing to check the tariff before ordering a Chang beer. Wearing cotton shorts and a loose Thai silk top, finished with large Asian gold loops through her ears, she was probably not dressed to hop on the next bus out of town, sporting more of a going out feel, which meant that she might be established in one of the towns’ ubiquitous guesthouses, her lack of baggage added weight to the idea. Taking a cigarette from a local brand packet, she made eye contact before making her way to their table, the cigarette now lit and hanging between her generous lips. She was neither suggestive nor coy. The gesture gave the easy confidence of someone willing to chat. Mike and Rusty closed their conversation and waited for the introduction. This was somebody that they wanted to talk with on several levels. The hectic schedule for the day had not so far included booking a room. A few hostels lay around the corner, it would be good to know if the bathrooms included rats or not. Picking her brain on the local accommodation scene should draw out welcome information. Mike was already thinking that they should also throw in a few questions about Louise, start picking up any threads again. A female perspective could also uncover new angles which they may have overlooked. With few other people in the bar, the girl was more than happy to take a seat with them and join in the conversation.

  “I’m Jean by the way, how’re ya doing?” She was already pulling over the ashtray, secure in her new environment. The cigarette was pulled from her rounded lips as she did this. Perhaps there was an air of relaxation, though Jean was already decided that the well-lit bar offered a good enough spot to fix a conversation with any passing travellers. Her hair was tied back, revealing a pleasant rounded face with high eyeb
rows. A small moonstone on the end of a simple chain complimented her top and seemed to fit well with her pale blue eyes. She definitely knew how to coordinate, which probably aided her confident manner.

  “Good! I’m Mike and this is Rusty, where are you from?” It was a standard question posed time and again when backpackers met up, though Mike was already working on the accent, almost certainly a Kiwi.

  “Auckland, though I should say Cambodia - crossed the border yesterday.”

  “Thought it was down that way, I’m over from England and Rusty here originates from Oz, though he’s been in Bangkok quite a while. Any tips on where to stay?”

  Jean took a deep drag from her fast burning cigarette before continuing, “Plaza Guesthouse is pretty cool - no air-con though. Just has those fans which waft the warm air and smoke around a bit. What are you guys up to?”

  The temptation for Mike was to volley the question with an evasive answer. For starters it would get him out of a long explanation, though he also felt an obligation to keep an air of secrecy surrounding their quest, as if it were a classified assignment. Instead he caught Rusty’s serious glance and went on to reveal their true purpose, ending with their earlier trip to the morgue. He skipped Pemberton’s involvement and his being sent over to act as private investigator. This whole episode seemed somewhat unlikely, even unbelievable, so instead he concentrated on the facts and events since touching down at Bangkok. He hung the words out in a very matter-of-fact way, trying not to over dramatize the past few days. He reasoned that such were the circumstances that they needed no sensationalized play on the story. If he added any more colour it could all start sounding too much like a tale reserved for beach parties only. Much for Rusty’s benefit, Mike was careful to omit any mention of Kae. It was almost too late to bring the Thai into the narrative now. Rusty would doubtless be hurt that he was not told about Kae much earlier.

 

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