Missing Louise

by Nicholas Frankcom

  Mike took the opportunity to jump out of the transit minibus and walk the last part of the bridge. Free from the weight of his rucksack, he happily ambled the short distance. The exposed height threw up a pleasant breeze, lifting Mike’s spirit as he studied the Mekong beneath him. Deep in thought, his single-minded focus prevented him from hearing Rusty approach from behind.

  “Kind of beautiful isn’t it?”

  Mike was forced into agreeing. “Awesome yes. You know, I can’t help think that Louise would have been struck by this. She wouldn’t stay around a city too long. Too much heat, crowds and flies for her. If she were able, she’d be out there, finding out what goes on further up this river.”

  Rusty too found himself studying the river, letting his imagination paint the picture of the mighty Mekong cutting its way through the mountains and narrow flood plains all of the way from the mysterious Luang Prubang, a world heritage centre city steeped in legend. Without further word they completed the trek across “Friendship Bridge” and re-joined the minibus. The bridge provided a highly visible frontier. The pace and feel of the land across it was very different to that of Thailand, a place they knew, however slight. Ahead was a rural country, isolated and unfamiliar. Rusty felt a genuine chill as he thought on what lay ahead.

  The capital city of Vientiane offered a tired French colonial feel, though a rejuvenated and lightly restored centre freshened up much of the appearance. The French presence in Laos had never remotely rivalled their occupation of Vietnam, though it was clear to see from the array of aging facades that they had spent plenty of time and money in putting their European stamp on the place. Leafy boulevards created a feeling of space, further reinforced by a relatively small population in comparison to other sprawling Asian cities. The result was a city with a surprisingly relaxing tone, plenty of room to move about without much hustle and bustle. The ambience on offer enticed many backpackers to stay longer. The three were very much taken by its obvious charm as the mini-bus sought out the centre. A passing Louise would have felt this pull as alluringly strong.

  The three travellers took a decision to stay central, close to the markets and the river. Several converted older houses in the district offered airy rooms with fans at highly competitive rates, more pleasant and far cheaper than some of the modern choices emerging close by. The location lay within easy walking distance of Wat Ho Prakeo, the old temple worshipped in by the long deceased royal family, imprisoned in a cave and killed following the revolution. Taking along plenty of loose change for luck, they decided a visit might bring some sort of providence in the course of their quest. It was generally agreed that another break was needed. Fortune had been on their side so far and they needed it to remain that way. Eastern thinking was gradually creeping into their daily judgement, influenced by their surroundings and cultural exposure. If they were of this it was largely on a semi-conscious level, seemingly happy to accept changes without actively acknowledging any gradual progression.

  The early afternoon visit to Wat Ho Prakeo was the first act of sightseeing Mike had entered into since his touchdown in Bangkok. The events since then had left him drained, more stressed than tired but in sore need of diversion. Barefoot he strolled around the temple, having to leave his leather trainers by the carved archway marking the grand entrance. He soon left the others to be with his own thoughts. In silent admiration of his teak surround, he reflected on how surreal the past few days had become. His fatigue dulled the senses, a giddying dizziness brought on from lack of sleep helping reinforce a feeling of complete strangeness. Looking at both tourists and worshipers alike, he wondered how many before him could have found themselves in a situation similar to his own, travelling with comparative strangers on a search for missing flames from the past. In the unlikely event that there were any, he would love for them to come to him now and explain just how he was supposed to carry out this nigh-impossible task. Often international agencies failed to locate individuals, especially those not wanting to be found. If Louise fell into this category, he doubted that their chances would rate too highly. The whole thing risked becoming a crazy charge across half a continent, slender chances and fluky promises ensuring that they didn’t give-up and trip until the very end. If Louise was of a free will and wanted to stay hidden, then that was where she would stay.

  Lost in his own tired despondency he failed to notice Jean approach from the side. Her naturally high eye-brows arched higher still in an open expression of empathy.

  “Hey Mike, you look a million miles away!”

  “Yeah,” his reply was slow and drawn, reflecting his current mood. “I guess that we’re still chasing our tails on a hopeless search. Look at this place - it could swallow an army. I mean it did didn’t it! Look at what happened in the 70’s. With all the stuff across the border in Vietnam the men in green were able to melt away at will. You know, we had a very lucky break bumping into you. Even so, all we know is that Louise came to Laos, we have sod all else to guide us anywhere. I just feel that we’re up against it. The only positive I have is that we know that she is alive, or at least was!”

  “What do you mean was,” Jean replied. “Come on Mike, what about a bit of your earlier optimism, some of that energy you had. We’re still on her trail aren’t we? In the good news stakes we’re still doing OK. Something will come up - you’re just drained from the trip and feeling down. Anyway, this should be our time out. It’s beautiful here and will give us all a chance to think. Relax a bit, besides, there are far worse places to wind up in!”

  Mike felt compelled to agree. Taking time out to relax and think could well rejuvenate their faltering quest. Niggling at his mind though was an obsessive feeling that their best hope was going to be further piece of luck. In the land of temples and charms this seemed perfectly natural. Earlier he had thrown coins and even made a wish for good fortune over a lighted candle. Away from lady luck they still held no coherent plan, other than asking around the odd backpacker. Looking at Jean he realised that he knew very little about her at all, but here she was keeping him going, injecting his fatigued spirit. It still seemed slightly odd that his two travelling companions should wish to throw themselves at the cause so energetically and positively. Perhaps Jean had more of a reason, for she had met and befriended Louise. Rusty surprised him all the more. The situation must be so alien to him, searching for a girl he had never met. Perhaps he might have done the same thing, the faint whiff of an adventure enough bait to follow along.

  As the afternoon heat faded into a pleasant evening breeze, the three ambled around from bar to bar. The visit to the Wat had helped relax them with its serene setting and oasis calm, prompting Rusty to suggest a siesta back at their colonial guesthouse, before returning to the task in earnest, hence the evening was drawing on before they got around to conducting any serious enquiries. A series of waterfront café bars lined the river, offering plenty of opportunity to combine their investigation with a sunset beer or two. The mood became leisurely as time wore on, slowing the pace as they asked around and put up messages where possible. In all cases nothing showed up, leading to a resignation that the search would start afresh the next day, with daylight hours helping to light up the streets in a vague hope that they might spy her sauntering around one of the faded boulevards.

  With all agreed that the night was at an end, they made their way back up the promenade and took a right to head back towards the central market. Vientiane was much less of a party town than the Thai cities, the communist culture encouraging only pockets of nightlife, though loud and sometimes wild, the venues were very closely monitored by undercover police and often concealed from main roads. This left the streets largely quiet and calm before eleven. Casually loitering past dormant shops and stalls, they peered through into darkened rooms, happy that the absence of western style security grills made it easy to peer in at the silhouetted shapes of merchandise within. Sheaves of silk hung alongside wicker ware and cop
ies of designer clothing. One boasted original US military hardware, barrels of spent shells and obsolete fatigues from the Vietnam era. Most displayed local interest posters and adverts, plastered haphazardly around any windows and walls. Others had wooden shutters and lay closed like dormant boathouses waiting for the first sign of summer. Closer to the guesthouse they passed a travel agent’s, a small single-storey affair specialising in budget services to passing backpackers. Photographs with hand-written descriptions reached out to grab attention, most prices shown in US dollars, the most liquid of foreign exchanges. Mike was distracted by a shrill noise from behind. A passing taxi had pulled up on his moto, a small motorcycle often substituting as a family limousine with both children and animals clinging on. The rider was trying to grab their attention, his husky voice hissing broken English.

  “You like weed? Maybe gun? Man need gun. I get you anything, you like boom boom? You like good time? I know plenty women?”

  Mike had now turned to face the torrent of dubious questions. They were spat out like a machine gun, droplets of saliva substituting the bullets. The man was being more forceful than most and was quickly becoming annoying. His natural caution put him on edge and he didn’t at first notice the wild exclamation from Rusty. His sleeve was grabbed, pulling him slightly off balance. He was still facing the moto rider and hesitated, before turning around. He didn’t want to turn his back. It was difficult deciding who he should give his full attention to, but Rusty was proving the more urgent.

  “Mike, Mike, take a look at this!”

  Rusty was clearly excited, which took Mike by surprise. He was usually calm under most circumstances, including the attempted mugging in Bangkok.

  “What is it Rusty?” Mike replied, none the wiser for Rusty’s excitable outburst.

  “Look there, it’s her! It’s the same girl you showed me the picture of.”

  Mike’s eyes followed the direction of Rusty’s finger. He could feel Jean huddle in close to his side. She too was focusing on the object of Rusty’s sudden animation. Pinned to a board behind the window was a crudely written poster advertising bus services to Vang Vieng and Luang Prabang to the North. An enlarged digital print had been stuck on to the poster. The scene depicted a mixed group of locals and backpackers boarding a battered Chinese coach with hand-painted logos. At the front of the queue a confident looking girl with long tied back hair was climbing the steps to board. Mike froze as he took in the familiar features. He was looking at Louise Pemberton.

  Nine

  The colourful cat lay on the floor, smashed into small, bright pieces. Most of the head remained intact, leaving the beautiful Moorcroft eyes looking up in mournful contemplation at the injustice of being thrown to the ground. Pemberton’s great aunt had passed the antique ornament on to him. He never liked it, not nearly enough. The garish vibrant colours reminded him of “Titan”, the sly cat illustrated in a series of books from his childhood. Until his teens he occasionally had bad dreams and nightmares on the adventures of “Titan”, usually tormenting him into crossing a freezing river or running into a dark forest. In adulthood he still disliked the Moorcroft cat, though had come to recognise its rarity, the piece attracted much attention from the varied visitors to the Pemberton house. And naturally he was aware of the cat’s growing value. Now his great aunt’s precious heirloom lay beyond repair, waiting a digital picture, insurance claim and undignified sweep into the kitchen bin. The pieces were too small to stick together again. The whole thing puzzled Pemberton. This was an act of malice, deeply personal, the next best thing to pushing Pemberton to the floor. Whoever did this had no sense of the cat’s value; anonymously sold on E-bay it would easily top a thousand or three. It could be that they had panicked and dropped it, or perhaps they never intended to steal, though if this were true it confused Pemberton. What could possibly be the intention! Were they victims of some hate crime? There was nothing obvious about the break-in, nothing purposeful.

  Constable Lane returned to Pemberton’s study to find the balding businessman deep in thought. He had been on the scene now for over forty minutes. Soon he must begin to wrap things up, filing a report that would be mopped into the crime statistics for the local paper. The call came in over three hours ago, a tearful Mrs Pemberton reporting the broken Moorcroft cat and suspicion of forced entry. With no clear indication of the perpetrator remaining on the scene, the call was downgraded and Constable Lane pulled up once his pressed schedule allowed. His initial summary was that the burglar was in some way disturbed, either by the postman or perhaps a passing friend buzzing on the doorbell. Sometimes a ringing phone was all that were need to send the amateur thief scurrying back over the garden fence. Very little seemed out-of-place and nothing of value was reported as missing, though very often things could show up as stolen some time later. He took out a cheap biro, standard police issue it seemed, and prepared to note anything further the Pembertons could readily remember.

  “Right sir, so as far as you know nothing has been taken?”

  “Not that I can tell,” Pemberton replied, his tone slightly muted. “They seem to have done little else other than breaking the cat.”

  “You have checked your bureau draws?” the constable added, keen to ensure the Pembertons were at least methodical in their hastily scrambled search, emotions understandably running high given the circumstances. “Cards and a growing trend for identity theft are becoming the choice for the modern thief. Birth or marriage certificates; anything like that can turn a tidy profit to the black marketer on certain websites.”

  “It all looks to be in order,” Pemberton answered. “Though we’re no experts. What would you begin to look for?” Growing frustration was edging his monotone voice up a pitch.

  From his searching tour of the downstairs, all that Constable Lane could conclude was that the cat had been broken, either dropped in a hurry or clumsily knocked to the floor from its perch on the Victorian dresser. His trained eye had noted a professional entry. The front Yale lock displayed few surface scratches as a steel pick was skilfully plied within the standard keyhole. Most break-ins were more basic. Youths or addicts tended to prefer a firm boot against weakened timber doors, or an elbow through a side-window. This entry showed a high element of know-how, a professional job. Luckily his beat encountered very few specialised break-ins. To his mind, the Pembertons had been very fortunate not to have had their house stripped bare and ferried directly to market in a white van.

  “Thanks sir, if you don’t mind I’ll just take a look upstairs before completing my report.”

  “Sure, though I’ve obviously taken a quick look myself” Pemberton replied.

  Passing a pale and angry looking Mrs Pemberton seated with a tea in the hallway, the two men proceeded to the upper level. An open door revealed a tiled bathroom sporting an elegant Italian sunken bath. The choice of floral patterns indicated the predominant female influence prevalent throughout the house. Constable Lane methodically peered into each room, briefly noting the general appearance and signs of any disturbance. The final door at the end of the landing opened into a smaller bedroom, a single bed pushed against the back-wall lay covered with a red duvet swathed with Bristol City FC logos. The plywood picture board above was crammed with snap-shots of a young woman’s recent life - a group wearing formal gowns dressed pouting for the camera before a ball, beach scenes and a snow topped alpine lodge with goggled girls waving their ski poles. At the foot of the bed sat a Dell PC resting on an old school desk. The constable noticed the idle light blinking, causing him to pause for thought. Given that the room appeared undisturbed, it seemed odd that someone was until recently hacking away at the computer. He felt sure that the Pembertons were not the type to needlessly leave electrical equipment burning up the planet’s resources. Besides, during his earlier search downstairs he had noted a laptop in the study. This clearly belonged to a sibling, presumably the happy girl with the confident smile in t
he pictures by the bed. A further scan of the room revealed cupboard doors left slightly ajar, desk draws not fully closed. A bundle of letters looked to have fallen to the floor, most of them opened.

  “Whose room is this?” enquired Lane, cheap biro poised to add anything further for his report.

  “It’s our daughter’s, Louise. She’s been away some time - over in Thailand. It’s a belated “gap” year. In fact we’re trying to locate her ...she’s not been in contact you see. Thought she might be missing, but, well...you know how children can be sometimes. She’ll turn up. Probably wonder what all the fuss is over!”

  The constable nodded with empathy and understanding. His growing offspring would forever be children to him. Even on leaving home they seemed so young, still in need of some guidance and protection. His own father had been the same. It had annoyed the hell out of him, emotions of his long since forgotten.

  “I’m sorry to hear that Sir. I’m sure that you’ll hear news very soon. Kids just don’t realise the importance of keeping in regular contact.” “Anyway,” Lane continued, “it’s probably nothing, but whoever broke into your house appears to have only focused on this one room. They even took the trouble to try their luck with her PC, though it will be near impossible with my technical competency to tell exactly what they found or indeed if they were after anything. You were lucky they did not decide on carting the computer away with them. I would check that she had no online bank accounts and the like, make sure there has been no cyber theft. The desk draws look to have been opened up and given a rummaging as well. I’ll have to take a closer look, though I can tell from here that they’ve probably been thoroughly searched. I’ll need a list of any personal items of value, anything that they might have taken. It all just seems to be very odd. Why take the trouble of putting them back! Normally they’d tip the contents over the floor. Makes it easier to spot the trinkets, so to speak!”