Times of Trouble

by Victoria Rollison

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  Did written statements really go on the public record? I doubted it. But he was the lawyer, so he must know better than I did. It was time to change the subject.

  ‘Ok, then what if, instead of going to the police, we made a public appeal for Sophie through the media, like on TV, or in the newspaper? We could ask them not to give any information about us, but to tell Sophie that friends are looking for her, and if she wants us to find her, she needs to get in contact again. Why wouldn’t that work?’

  Now Liam looked even more exasperated than before. ‘Ellen. Think about what you just said. How is that not going to lead these people straight to us? Or to Sophie, when she tries to get in contact? That’s not a smart suggestion.’

  Maybe he was right. I had to remember what I had been worrying about myself last night. These people could be more cunning than I thought. And the longer we went without them knowing about us, the safer we were.

  ‘I find it hard to be scared of people who are completely unknown to me,’ I said.

  ‘I know what you mean. We know they have killed people, but there’s no face or name to put to them, so they are just nobodies who can’t possibly hurt us.’

  ‘Do you think Sophie thinks of them like that?’

  ‘Depends how much she knows about who they are. We have to assume she and the others did something, or know something, that makes them a target. I still think she must have some idea who they are. But it’s really impossible to say what she knows.’

  We got to the first hotel, which was a block from the airport. Memories of staying at places like this with mum came flooding back. I remember the way we laughed when we opened the door to our room, discovering it was the size of a walk-in wardrobe. The bed was so close to the bathroom that you could leap off it, straight onto the tiles next to the toilet. This really would have been a stretch for Sophie, compared to a penthouse apartment.

  Liam led the way into reception.

  ‘Would you like to book a room?’

  The receptionist looked very young; she couldn’t have been over 18. Her starched uniform was oversized, which made it look like her small frame was drowning in collars and sleeves. Her voice was high-pitched, well suited to her pixie-like face.

  ‘We don’t want a room. We are enquiring about the whereabouts of this missing person. Have you seen this woman before? Do you recognise her face?’

  Liam’s investigative work obviously brought out the lawyer in him, but his authoritative tone seemed out of place, and his well rehearsed script cold and wooden. Not surprisingly, he scared the girl, and she stammered as she tried to focus on the three photos shoved under her face.

  ‘I… don’t…think… so… are you the police?’

  I stepped closer to the desk, not wanting Liam to completely ruin our chances of unearthing a possible sighting. I smiled at the girl, and tried to speak as softly as possible.

  ‘Look, we’re not the police or anything. We’re just looking for my sister. She’s in trouble, and we need to find her so we can help her.’

  The girl’s face relaxed, and she looked harder at each photo.

  ‘Why do you think she might have been here?’

  She still sounded scared; it was obvious she had never come across anyone at the desk before who wasn’t just booking a room. Liam glared at me as I continued speaking to her.

  ‘We don’t know for sure she was. We’re just checking as many places as possible.’

  Still staring at the photo, she shook her head.

  ‘No, I’m sure I haven’t seen her. I can check the guest database. I’m sure it’s probably against the rules, but she is your sister…’

  I turned and smiled at Liam, who was still fuming at my intrusion.

  ‘Oh, that would be great. I’d really appreciate it. She arrived in Sydney on the 10th of December, so if you could just check since then, her name is So…’

  ‘Yasmine Phillips,’ Liam interrupted in the nick of time.

  The girl gave us a strange look as she went to the computer, and started typing in commands. She started shaking her head, and kept shaking it, as she scrolled through pages and pages of records. I was sure there must be a quicker way to search for a guest’s name, but didn’t want to suggest this in case she gave up all together.

  ‘No…there’s no Yasmine Phillips coming up…’

  ‘Do you need ID to book a room here?’ Liam asked, still sounding too imposing for my liking.

  ‘No, we don’t ask for ID.’

  ‘And you can pay with cash?’

  ‘Yes, of course, we accept cash, eftpos, Visa.’

  ‘And how many receptionists do you have working here?’

  The girl didn’t like this question at all, but she answered, probably in the hope it would get rid of us. ‘There’s me and another girl during the week and two others on weekends.’

  Liam snatched the photos off the desk, and strode outside. I quickly thanked the girl for her help, and followed him, amazed at how aggressively his investigative persona acted.

  ‘That girl was a complete waste of time.’

  He slammed the car door, as if angry with the poor girl for not having seen Sophie.

  ‘Look, you’re the one who told me you have to be patient with this investigative stuff. I never thought we’d get a hit straight away. You’re the one who has already visited all the hotels in the city. What do you expect?’

  ‘I know, I know. I just got frustrated when I realised Sophie could be booking into these places without even giving her fake name. She might be giving another name altogether. At least in the bigger hotels you have to leave a credit card number, with a name on it, when you book a room. If she’s paid with cash, and given a fake name, we’ll have to show her photo to every receptionist at every hotel. It’ll take forever.’

  ‘It’ll take even longer if you play the mister baddy detective act you had going in there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He looked hurt.

  ‘You can’t speak to people like that, and expect them to respond in a positive way with the information you need.’

  ‘That’s how I investigate. I am a professional. I make people realise I’m not there to waste their time. I’m doing a job! And it’s got me this far hasn’t it?’

  ‘I just don’t think it’s the right attitude to use with some people. You scared that girl. She hardly looked at the photo until I talked to her.’

  ‘Are you here to help me or criticise me?’

  ‘I’m here to find Sophie. And I think you should take the advice on, rather than get your back up about it, because we’ve got a lot more people to talk to. The more personable you can be, the more likely we’ll get results.’

  The last thing I wanted was more sulking like yesterday, but I also didn’t want to let Liam think I wouldn’t tell him when I thought he was doing to wrong thing.

  ‘Look, I’ve been used to working alone,’ Liam conceded. ‘I appreciate you are trying to help me, and you have come up with a couple of good suggestions. Can we just agree that we are both doing our best, and try not to argue about every single thing? It’s exhausting.’

  ‘Fine. Where’s our next Formule 1?’

  The day went on in a similar manner, both of us frustrated at each dead end, both of us trying our best not to take our frustrations out on each other. I conceded by mid afternoon that Liam’s style was quite useful with people who didn’t take the situation seriously enough without the formal approach. But with many, especially the women, my softer tone was much more welcome. And as much as he tried to hide it, Liam absolutely hated me taking control of the questioning. He was too polite to say anything, but he looked irritated every time I beat him to the reception desk, and started a conversation. I found myself racing him to the front door; he was really bringing out my competitive side. It was quite thrilling to prove to Liam that I deserved to be the one calling the shots as much as he did. And even though I conceded that he had done qui
te well getting the search this far, I was definitely now offering as many helpful suggestions as he was.

  The competitiveness between Liam and me reminded me of the fights I had with Sophie in the months before she left. I was tired of her taking everything out on mum, and I had no tolerance for the bad mood she seemed to wake up in every day. Little things set us off, like when she commented on how much time I spent playing the piano, or when she ate the last slice of bread. Sometimes she was really cruel, paying me out for not having a social life. I started to lie, telling her I was going out with friends from my class when I was really just having an extra piano lesson. Back before dad left, she was really proud of my musical ability. She came to all my concerts with mum and dad, clapping and cheering when I finished playing. But about the time he left, her interest vanished.

  In the same way that Liam got under my skin when he tried to decide what was best for us both, Sophie upset me by telling me there was something wrong with the choices I made for my life. I didn’t want her to think I was a loser. I wanted to prove my choice was the right one, and that she had no idea what was best for me. I retaliated by calling her lazy or un-ambitious, because she wasn’t working as hard as I was. But looking back, maybe she was a bit jealous of how much time mum and I spent talking about my piano career. Maybe we didn’t show enough interest in what was happening in her life.

  By three o’clock, we had visited six of the eight Formule 1 hotels in Sydney. With or without my helpful suggestions, no one had seen Sophie, and there was no listing of Yasmine Phillips in their guest lists. The driving was what was eating up our time; the conversations with each receptionist hardly took long at all. These places were so spread out, it took almost an hour to get to one of them, and over an hour to get to the next. Was there a more direct route that Liam didn't know about? But Liam was in no mood to accept suggestions.

  As we drove through the city to the second- to-last hotel on the list, I recognised the suburb ‘Kings Cross’. I remembered mum had said we weren’t going to stop there on one of our trips to Sydney, as it was full of ‘low lifes and criminals’. Liam was less judgemental in his description of the suburb as ‘the red light district and quite a good nightclub strip’. If there was anywhere in Sydney where Sophie would fit right in, it would be here, I thought to myself uncharitably. The street the hotel was on was busy with city traffic, and there were no car parks. Liam pulled up right outside the hotel and undid his seatbelt.

  ‘This is a no standing zone, I really don’t think you should park here,’ I said, not budging from my seat.

  ‘You are such a worrier! We’ll be five minutes!’

  ‘I’ve heard what parking tickets cost in this city. Can you afford a $200 fine? Because I sure can’t.’

  ‘Ok, ok! I’ll wait here. You take the photos in, and talk to them. If I have to move, I’ll go round the block, and meet you back here.’

  I jumped out of the car and hurried into reception. As much as I tried to be optimistic that each hotel held the chance of a sighting, it was hard not to remember just how long a shot it was. The man behind the desk looked bored. He was staring at a TV screen with a shot of the empty lobby on it, the same view he would have for real if he sat up straight, and glanced out over the desk. He didn’t look up until I started to speak, not even bothering to ask if I would like anything.

  ‘Excuse me. I’m looking for my sister. She is missing, and I think it’s possible she stayed in this hotel in the last couple of months.’

  ‘We’ve had hundreds of people through these doors. There’s no way I’d remember her.’

  His voice lacked any emotion; the monotone manner sounding like it came from a recorded message.

  ‘I know, but there’s always a chance.’ I tried to remain polite. ‘Can you at least look at her photo, just to make sure you’ve not seen her?’

  He grunted, and glanced at the photos, desperate for me to leave him to his boring solitude.

  ‘I’ve seen her.’

  What! He was pointing at the photo. I was so surprised by his response I almost thought I misheard him.

  ‘You’ve seen her? When?’

  But just as my hopes rose, I noticed his thick, grubby finger was pointing at Katie in the photo with Sophie.

  ‘Oh, hang on, you’ve seen the dark skinned girl? Not the one with the long hair? Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I said, I’ve seen her.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah, sure I’m sure. She was hot. I remember her. Hot mamma. She had a kid.’

  It was definitely Katie then, if she had Charlie with her.

  ‘When was it that she stayed here? Do you remember?’

  ‘I saw her last week, maybe Thursday, Wednesday, can't remember?’

  So this must have been where she was staying just a few days before she was killed.

  ‘Do you remember anything about her? Did you ever speak to her, ask her where she was going, or anything?’

  He looked like he regretted saying anything at all, and kept peering back at the empty foyer on the screen, hoping that I’d be gone when he turned his head again.

  ‘I don’t know nothing. I just saw her. She stayed here for a few days. She was hot.’

  He’d said that already. I wanted more information, but he wasn’t keen on talking, and it wasn't clear how anything he told me could help find Sophie. But I gave it one last try.

  ‘So you never spoke to her, you only saw her, and you think she stayed here for a few days during the last week. Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah. I told you. I don’t know nothing else. She had a kid. She was a hot mamma.’

  Ok, ok! She was hot!

  ‘Do you remember if she paid with a credit card? Did she show any ID? Would her name be on your guest list?’

  ‘You don’t know her name?’

  He was starting to look annoyed, and about to reach his limit of concentration.

  ‘Yeah, of course I do. But I wanted to know if she had changed it.’

  ‘No, I’m not looking up no guest list. I don’t know how she paid. I didn’t check her in. I never spoke to her.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have checked her in?’

  But he’d had enough.

  ‘No, no…how would I know that? I don’t know nothing. Piss off, I’m busy’.

  Busy doing nothing. I thanked him for his help and left, relieved to see Liam hadn’t left his illegal parking space and driven round the block. I had already learnt that a ‘block’ in Sydney can turn into a 20 minute round trip.

  As I climbed back into the car, Liam could tell by the expression on my face that I’d found out something.

  ‘What is it? Did she stay there?’

  ‘Katie did... Just in the last few days before she was killed. She had her baby with her.’

  I could see the cogs in Liam’s brain whirring, trying to work out how this information could help us. But like me, he couldn’t think of a way.

  ‘Well at least it proves she was trying to save her dollars, not spending up big on a proper hotel. It makes it more likely Sophie is doing the same thing,’ I said, hoping to find some optimism in the situation.

  ‘Yeah, I guess. Also proves for sure they weren’t together. He probably would have remembered Sophie if she had been with Katie.’

  Liam looked disappointed; my expression must have lifted his hopes more than I meant to.

  After visiting the last Formule 1 hotel on the list, and again getting nowhere, we had to concede there were hundreds of other cheap hotels Sophie might have come across, and plenty of Formule 1 receptionists who we hadn’t showed the photos to, many who wouldn’t work again until the weekend. The thought of repeating our journey enough times to cover every hotel, every shift, filled me with dismay. This mammoth task would take forever. Liam’s last couple of months must have been spent much like today. Starting off with hope, and then living through each dead end, moving to the next one, a little more disappointed than a
t the last one. How did people do this for a living? It must be hell! And Liam didn’t even seem too concerned about getting paid.

  Chapter 15

  Detective Inspector Peter Wolcott, of the London Metropolitan Police’s Serious and Organised Crime Command, was not having a good day. His work load had been light over the last couple of months, not because there wasn’t much work to do, but because he had become quite adept at passing off cases he had been given to younger detectives in his unit. After all, they were keen for as much experience as possible. His days of working for promotion were long gone. Some wondered if he would even make it to retirement, or if he would quit before then. He was well liked amongst his team, and they respected the words of wisdom he was forever subjecting them to. But he didn’t hide his cynicism about his job. His junior colleague, Detective Sergeant Pradesh Singh, often said he would love a quid for every time Wolcott exclaimed: ‘Why wasn’t I a pilot like my mother wanted me to be!’

  Today Wolcott had planned to spend his time sorting out the paperwork that had been slowly accumulating in piles on his desk, but he had been called into his Chief Inspector’s office, and told he had to attend to an urgent case. Before Wolcott had a chance to suggest another detective who might benefit from the complexity of the situation, he was told this was not a case he could hand over to anyone else, as it concerned a senior Tory politician. This meant it not only needed immediate attention, but Wolcott would also have to report back to his Chief Inspector on all matters relating to his enquiries. The more Wolcott heard about the case, the worse his day was looking.

  As he and his sergeant negotiated rain and the London traffic in search of the suspect’s address, he shuddered as he thought of the interview he had just had. Wolcott hated Tory politicians, and since this one was not only a very senior Tory, but also encapsulated everything he disliked about the party, he was none too pleased to have to treat the man with the compassion and patience required when speaking to a victim of crime. Why couldn’t he have gone to his local nick, like anybody else? He probably played golf with the Assistant Commissioner. The man, Matthew Harrison-Brown, was tense throughout the interview, but he still spoke to the detectives with an arrogant air of superiority which was quite obviously innate. And even when talking about extremely private and sensitive matters, the man spoke as if the detectives were fortunate to be in his presence. He didn’t show any of the humiliation or awkwardness that should have accompanied his statement. Wolcott now resented the case, the victim, and in turn the suspect he was on his way to interview.