by Philip Cox
‘Right; thanks for the heads-up.’
‘How was the vacation, by the way?’ asked Larry. ‘Do anything particular?’
‘Nah. Just a few things around the house.’
‘Ruth off too?’
Matt shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. Catch up lunchtime?’
‘Sure. See you later.’
Matt nodded and started to shuffle some paperwork. Once Larry had gone, he put down the paperwork and pulled out his cell phone. He looked around: the part of the branch where his desk was situated was quiet. The longer than normal line of customers was around the teller area. He could see that only two positions were manned: normally there were four. Perhaps the missing two were stuck in traffic. Larry was talking to one of the customers waiting in line, and José Vasquez, the third Personal Banker, was missing. Larry lived in the Forest Hills district of Boston and used the Orange Line subway; Matt had forgotten exactly where José lived, but remembered him saying that he was having to use a replacement bus service as his branch of the T was being refurbished; so he would be stuck in traffic too.
While he was looking at the line of customers, he noticed his manager, Debra Grant Barber, walk past the line. One of the customers attracted her attention and from what Matt could hear was complaining about the length of time he was having to wait in line.
Debra Grant Barber was the bank’s New Business Manager, Matt’s supervisor. Early forties, she was always immaculately presented, with not a hair out of place. Heavily lacquered, Matt always assumed; and he was in no doubt how she had gotten to the position she was in at such a comparatively young age. The two surnames: not yet forty-five and already two husbands under her belt.
Allowing himself a brief smile, Matt found Ruth’s cell number on his phone, and used the office landline to dial. A trick he had learned from Larry: if you use the office landline, as well as not paying for the call, it would not look like a personal call.
Matt could hear the dial tone, and then the click as it went over to voicemail. Rather than just hang up as he did the last couple of times the day before, he left another message.
‘Ruth, it’s Matt. Again. Look, what’s going on? I’m worried. Nathan keeps asking where you are. Give me a call as soon as you pick up this message.’
He pressed the red key, then retrieved her office number. Dialled. A few rings, a click, then a recorded voice saying the call could not be completed as dialled. He had forgotten the number stored in his cell was wrong, but he couldn’t remember the correct number.
He called directory assistance and got the number for Cambridge Pharmaceuticals. He was just about to dial when his cell phone rang. His heart missed a beat. The caller was showing as unlisted.
‘Matthew Gibbons?’
‘Mr Gibbons, my name is Sergeant Paula Edwards. I work for the Missing Persons Unit of the Boston Police Department.’
‘Oh, hello.’
‘Good morning, sir. How are you this morning?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. How are you?’
‘I’m good, thank you sir. Mr Gibbons, I have been passed your details by Captain O’Riordan of the Department -’
‘O’Riordan?’
There was a brief pause. Matt could hear some papers being shuffled.
Edwards continued, ‘Yes, although I understand you filed your report with Lieutenant Weber last night.’
‘That’s right. He said to expect a call from you’
‘Sure. I was just -’
‘Have you any news yet?’
‘Not as yet, sir. I was just about to say, this is a preliminary courtesy call to you to let you know the report of your wife’s failure to return home has been passed to us here at the MPU. No news yet, I’m afraid, but the Lieutenant’s report was very thorough.’
‘Do you need any more information from me? He did pass you the photograph of Ruth, didn’t he?’
‘He did, absolutely. I just want to let you know that I will be acting as your point of contact with the Unit, and will keep you up to date with what’s happening.’
‘How often?’
‘Unless there is anything specific to report, I’ll give you a call every couple of days.’
‘Okay.’
‘Mr Gibbons, I’m going to give you a contact number for the Unit, for you to use if Mrs Gibbons returns, or if you hear from her. Or have any more information above that which you gave the Lieutenant which would be of interest to us.’
‘Okay.’ Matt jotted down the number Sergeant Edwards gave him.
‘So I’ll call you in a couple of days, Mr Gibbons.’
‘Okay. Fine.’
‘You have a good day now, sir,’ she said, then hung up.
Matt replaced the phone. He looked around: the line at the other side of the branch was shorter now; it looked as if four tellers were on duty now. He checked the clock: he should just have time before his client arrived to make this call.
He dialled the number for Cambridge Pharmaceuticals. After a few rings a female voice answered.
‘Thank you for calling Cambridge Pharmaceuticals. My name is Roxanne. How can I help you this morning?’
‘I’d like to speak to Ruth Gibbons please.’
‘Hold the line, please sir.’
There was a click and Matt was put on hold. A moment later, Roxanne returned.
‘Sir, can you repeat the name?’
‘Ruth Gibbons.’
‘I’m sorry sir, I can’t trace her. What department does she work in?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t -’ said Matt. ‘Wait a minute – she works in Product Control?’ The end of his sentence was more of a question.
‘Product Control,’ Roxanne repeated. ‘I’ll try again.’
A minute on hold and then, ‘I’m sorry sir; I can’t find her under Product Control.’
‘She might have moved departments again. Could you check again, please?’
‘Hold the line, sir.’
Matt was on hold again, for two minutes this time before Roxanne came back to him.
‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, sir, but I still can’t locate her.’
‘Can’t locate her? What does that mean?’
‘Sir, I’ve trawled through the entire employee database, and haven’t been able to find the name.’
‘I – I don’t understand. What does that mean?’
‘Sir, it means nobody by the name of Ruth Gibbons works here.’
Chapter Seven
Matt ran along State Street towards the subway station. He had considered getting in the Toyota and driving down to Cambridge Pharmaceuticals, but the traffic problems he had experienced that morning made him decide against it. After his conversation with Roxanne, his mind was going every which way. How on earth could nobody by Ruth’s name work there? Surely she wouldn’t be using her maiden name? They had been married three years now. She would have used her maiden name of Levene before they were married: maybe she was still using it.
He reached the station, paid his $2.50 for a ticket, and then ran down the escalator to the platform. He checked at the indicator: 5 minutes for the next Orange Line to Forest Hills. Out of breath, he collapsed onto the metal bench. An Oak Grove train arrived at the northbound platform: Matt stared at the faces looking out of the windows.
As the train pulled away for the short journey to Haymarket, Matt thought back again to what Roxanne had told him. After hanging up on her he barely had time to gather his thoughts when his ten thirty client arrived. It was a Mrs Hyman, a widowed lady in her early seventies who, after losing three husbands to cancer, heart failure and a traffic accident, had a considerable amount of wealth. All of her money, as far as she would reveal to Matt anyway, was already with Bank of New England in various accounts and trusts: the purpose of her visit today was to review whether any other accounts Matt could offer her would pay her more interest. They could not. Mrs Hyman was a regular client of Matt’s, paying him a visit every thre
e months or so. Nine times out of ten Matt confirmed to her that her savings were in the best place. He suspected that Mrs Hyman knew this all along, and that she was a little lonely, and just came in to see him for the company and a free coffee.
He tried not to prolong his interviews with Mrs Hyman unnecessarily: he felt it was necessary to keep her happy so he could retain her business, but all the time he spent listening to her talk again and again about her three husbands, he could be getting new business. He needed the commission. Normally, unless there was some actual business to transact, their meetings would last no more than an hour; today he was showing her out after half that time.
After he had seen her out he looked around. No sign of Debra, Larry was sitting talking to two of his clients, and José was standing by a brochure stand checking the literature.
‘Hey man,’ said José as Matt approached him. ‘You get stuck in that traffic too?’
Matt nodded.
‘Some gridlock,’ José went on. ‘All down to a wreck on the expressway.’
‘So I heard,’ said Matt. ‘Look, José – when’s your next appointment?’
‘Not till one. That’s why I’m goofing around here.’
‘Can I ask a favour?’
‘Shoot.’
‘I have someone coming in at eleven thirty, then two thirty. But I have to go out for a while. There – there’s some kind of emergency at Ruth’s place -’
‘Jeez, what’s happened?’
‘Not sure yet. But I need to go down there. Now. Can you cover my eleven thirty?’
‘No sweat man. But will you be back for two thirty?’
‘I hope so. But if I’m not, maybe you and Larry could -’
‘Sure, no problem.’
Matt looked around. ‘Do you know where Debra is?’ he asked.
‘Lying in her coffin somewhere, most like. No, I think she’s on a conference call.’
‘I’ve no time to wait. Can you let her know what’s happened? Say I’ll explain when I get back, and it’s an emergency.’
‘I will, man. Go on. Get off.’
‘Thanks José, I owe you.’
*****
Matt was brought back to the present by the sound of his train arriving at the station. With a screech of brakes and the hiss of air it pulled to a halt and the doors slid open. It was only a third full and Matt easily found a seat, one by the opposite window. With a warning horn, the doors slid shut and the train pulled away. Three stops later, after Downtown Crossing and Chinatown, Matt arrived at his stop: Tufts Medical Center. Matt left the train and made his way up the escalator to street level. Once on the street, he looked around. The Medical Center was on the opposite side of Washington Street. A large metal 800 was on the wall next to the entrance drive. Matt knew – or thought he knew – the address of Cambridge Pharmaceuticals was 1100, so he pulled his collar up as some protection against the biting wind, and began his walk three blocks down.
He proceeded down Washington Street, across the bridge which goes over the I-90 Massachusetts Turnpike, and after five or six minutes’ brisk walk he arrived at 1100 block.
Situated on Washington and East Berkeley, the Cambridge Pharmaceuticals Building was an imposing ten floor red brick structure. Matt pushed open the glass doors and walked in. The lobby was decorated in a cream coloured marble. There was a bank of four elevators across the lobby, a waiting area comprising a low table and five chairs on his left and a reception desk on his right. Apart from the young black woman sitting at the desk, the lobby was empty.
‘How can I help you, sir?’ asked the young woman as Matt approached her.
‘Are you Roxanne?’ he asked, immediately noticing her name badge showing she was called Ayesha.
‘Excuse me?’ she asked.
‘Sorry, I didn’t notice your badge. I was talking to somebody called Roxanne earlier. On the telephone.’
‘Oh, she must be upstairs. Do you want me to get her?’ Ayesha asked, reaching for the phone.
‘No, it’s all right. I’ve come to see someone else. Ruth Gibbons,’ said Matt, his palms sweating.
‘Ruth Gibbons,’ Ayesha repeated, tabbing down a list of names on the screen. ‘Sorry, no Ruth Gibbons here.’
‘Try Ruth Levene.’
Ayesha glanced up at him and checked again.
‘Sorry. No Ruth Levene either.’
‘But you must have. In Product Control. Look again. Please.’
Ayesha took a deep breath and looked again.
‘Nobody here, sir.’
‘This is ridiculous. I know she works there. I’m going up to see them myself.’
‘Sir, you can’t -’ Ayesha started to say, but Matt was already in the elevator. There was a display on the wall showing which department occupied which floor: Product Control was on the eighth floor. Matt stabbed at the button and the doors shut.
When they opened at the eighth floor he was met by a man in his thirties, in shirtsleeves, open shirt, no tie.
‘Sir, you must go back down,’ he said.
‘I’m looking for Ruth Gibbons,’ Matt said. ‘She may call herself Ruth Levene.’
‘No-one of that name here, sir.’
Matt looked around. ‘This is Product Control, is it?’
‘Yes sir, it is, but -’
‘Then Ruth works here.’
The man shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. You have the wrong place.’
‘Look,’ said Matt. He put his hand in his pocket and got out his phone. The man flinched as he did this.
‘Look, here’s her picture,’ said Matt as he retrieved a picture he kept of Ruth.
The man looked at the picture, then shook his head again. ‘Sorry, sir. I’ve not seen her.’
‘What about the others who work here? They might know her.’
‘Sir, I’m the office manager. I know everyone who works here. And I’ve never seen her before. Now please, sir; you must leave. Before I call security.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Matt, stepping back into the elevator.
He went back down to the lobby, back out to Washington Street and started to slowly walk back to the T station. He paused while he crossed over the expressway and looked down at the traffic below.
Things are getting weird, he thought. Apart from Ruth not coming home. The number he had stored in his cell last night was wrong. Very wrong, nothing like the number he had gotten from directory assistance. And that was the number Ruth gave him. And now he is told that she doesn’t work at Cambridge Pharmaceuticals. So where did she go yesterday? For that matter where has she been going every day?
Matt turned round and looked back down Washington. He could see the Cambridge Pharmaceuticals building on the next block. One question kept running through his mind.
What the hell was going on?
Chapter Eight
After getting off the T, Matt made his way along State Street back to his work. Even though he had to quicken his pace because of the rain, he was walking as if in a trance. His mind was searching for possible explanations: an explanation of where Ruth was and why she had failed to return home or even contact him; an explanation of why there was no record of her, even in her maiden name, at her place of work.
As he walked through the door to his branch, he caught Larry’s eye. Larry was standing talking to one of his clients. It looked as if he had just finished a meeting, and he was seeing the client out. Without breaking off his conversation, Larry glanced over at Matt and cocked his head slightly in the direction of Matt’s desk. Matt followed Larry’s eyes and to his dismay Debra Grant Barber was hovering around his desk.
‘Great,’ Matt muttered as he walked down to his desk. Debra noticed him arrive and looked up.
‘Extended lunch break?’ she asked, her voice thick with sarcasm.
‘Not exactly,’ Matt said, taking off his wet raincoat.
‘Not exactly? How so?’
‘I – er, had some personal business to take care of. Urgent personal bu
siness.’
She raised her eyebrows.
‘Oh, really? I wasn’t aware of that.’ Meaning you should have asked me first.
‘I said it was urgent,’ Matt snapped back. ‘You were in your room, with your door shut. Talking on the telephone. I am owed many hours. I arranged for Larry and José to cover my next two appointments.’
The sharpness of Matt’s reply took Debra by surprise. Momentarily.
‘Maybe we need to talk about it,’ she said.
Matt nodded. She was right. It was possible that Ruth’s disappearance might impact on his work, so he had an obligation to advise her.
‘Let’s go to my room,’ she said, leading him over to her office.
‘Shut the door, Matt. Sit down,’ she said from the other side of her desk. Matt did so.
Debra sat down. She took off her glasses and leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands steepled ‘So,’ she said. ‘From the top. What’s going on?’
Matt rubbed his temple.
‘It’s Ruth,’ he said. ‘My wife.’
Debra raised her eyebrows inquisitively.
‘She didn’t come home last night,’ Matt continued.
‘You mean you guys have split? She’s left home?’
Matt shrugged.
‘So what’s the situation now?’ Debra asked.
‘The situation now,’ answered Matt, ‘is that I’ve no idea where she is. I, or should I say our son and I, haven’t heard from her since yesterday morning.’
‘Is that where you have been today? Looking for her?’
‘In a way. She works down Washington, near the Medical Center. I caught the T down there to see if she was there.’
‘And was she?’
‘No.’ Matt decided not to give her the whole picture.
She sat back in her chair; rubbed the bridge of her nose.
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear all this,’ she said. Matt couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or sarcastic. ‘How much vacation time do you have left?’
‘I’ve no idea. Not without checking it out.’
‘Mm.’ She paused, thoughtfully. ‘And I guess with your wife not in the picture right now, you have to take your – son?’ - Matt nodded to confirm - ‘to and from school?’