"Him. There's something about him.... I don't know what.... I've seen him, known him ... or maybe just passed him in the street somewhere."
Collins breathed a sigh of relief. Two of the pictures had been of rapists now safely stored away in jails. The chosen picture was not one of them.
"Known him?” he said. “Just how well do you think you knew him? Just knew his name? Seen him in passing? Known him well?"
"I tell you I don't know. I said I could just have seen him somewhere, passed him in the street, maybe."
"But you told the inspector most people you see these days are nothing but a blur."
"Did I? I don't remember. Maybe it was a long time ago. He's older in that photo than when I knew him, so maybe ... I don't know."
"Look,” said Collins, diving into his pocket and drawing something out. “I've got to be moving on now, but here's a postcard of the man you chose. The photo is from a CCTV picture, and we have no name for him. Look at it from time to time, and if anything occurs to you, write it down. You've got a notebook and pencil there, I see."
"Don't treat me like a b—” began Percy. Then he softened it to a mumble.
"Just get in touch if anything comes to mind. This is the best number to ring.” He put down a card, and he and the inspector made a quick exit. “I doubt we'll get anything from him,” he murmured, “but old people in that condition often come up with surprises. I've seen it happen."
Old Percy sat looking at the picture, and at the notebook he had taken exception to. Of course he had paper of his own, somewhere. He dozed off for ten minutes, then woke when Mrs. Harben came in with the vacuum cleaner. He took up the postcard and looked at it as if he was engaged on important business, as indeed he was. He looked, put it aside for a few minutes, then looked again. Five minutes later, Mrs. Harben, maneuvering the cleaner into a corner, heard a grunt and looked round.
Old Percy had seized the notebook and ball pen. He sat hunched over the table. Writing anything other than his signature was now a rare occupation with him, and he had never been much of a penman. Shielding the paper with his shoulder, he wrote:
THE MAN IN THIS PICTURE REMIND ME OF MY SON KEVIN
HAVEN'T SEEN HIM FOR YRS BUT THE MANS RUN WAS LIKE KEVINS
RUN TO
He sat back, exhausted.
Mrs. Harben switched the cleaner off and took from her pocket a bright duster. It was minutes later she heard sobbing. She generally tried not to involve herself with her clients’ lives, but she had a sharp mind and ear. She heard disjointed phrases.
"What am I doing? ... Who were those men who came here? What were they doing, why were they here? ... I don't understand.... The man who was running—why was he running? ... What did those men want? ... I don't remember what they want.... I don't remember what happened.... It's all a blank."
And he tore the page from the notebook, crumpled it up, and threw it across the room.
Mrs. Harben broke the habits of a lifetime. She came over to him, put her arm around him, and got him out of his chair and started with him for the bedroom.
"There, there. You've been tiring yourself out with this business. What you need is a good lie-down. Get your spirits up again. I've finished here now and I'll be off, so there won't be anything to disturb you. Look, I'll draw the curtains and you can really get some sleep."
She shut the bedroom door and marched across to the corner of the living room where the crumpled paper had landed. Then she tucked it into her apron pocket, retrieved the card from the table, and left the fourth-floor flat. She took the lift down and went out to her car. Then she took out her mobile and rang the number left by Superintendent Collins.
She had had a very nasty experience in those woods as a girl.
Copyright © 2009 Robert Barnard
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Department of First Stories: GONE MISSING by Ryan Daff
Ryan Daff has come up with the most unusual P.I. story we've seen in a very long time. If it doesn't surprise you, you're a step ahead of this magazine's editors! The author, who hails from the West Midlands, in the U.K., has previously contributed pieces of entertainment journalism to various magazines and webzines, but he has never before attempted to get any of his fiction published.
I am on the bus turning into Circadian Street when I see Marlow. Or I think I see Marlow, walking with his back to me on the opposite side of the road, carrying a briefcase and talking animatedly on his mobile as he passes quickly through the swarms of afternoon Christmas shoppers. I get up and fight my way to the front of the crowded bus, struggling past a young mother with a pram and an old man with a walking stick, all the while shouting for the driver to stop the bus and let me get off.
"I don't stop here,” he explains in an apathetic monotone. “You can get off in a minute."
By the time the bus slows to a standstill and I disembark amidst a line of slow-moving passengers, I have begun to lose hope that I will catch up with Marlow at all. But then I see him again, walking out of a High Street bank across the road and boarding the ramp up into Ward Street Station. He is on the phone again, or still on the same call as before. I quicken my pace, pushing rudely through the throngs of shoppers in the direction of Ward Street. Twice, I unintentionally slide forward on the thin ice that has formed underfoot, but regain my balance before I fall onto my backside. I reach the curb and see Marlow turn a corner inside the station and disappear out of sight, just as a bus and three black cabs drive into my line of vision, obscuring my view across the road.
Ten or so seconds later, when the convoy has cleared, I dart across the road in the midst of more pedestrians. I reach the pavement and push past a woman with a clipboard who wants to ask me some questions about Christianity. I then jog up the ramp, push through the crowd, and continue into the station in search of Marlow.
Initially, I see no sign of my old friend; only scattered groups of people carrying luggage and/or carrier bags full of Christmas shopping, moving at varying speeds and in different directions. The scene is chaotic and begins to fill me with hopeless resignation, but I continue onwards, past the shops and down the escalator.
On a whim, and in my desperation to catch Marlow before he leaves town, I ask the lady at the information desk where and when the next train to the city is due. She tells me platform 7A, but the train is at the platform now, and is about to depart. I take off again in the direction of 7A. Absorbed with my chase, I bump into a crouching busker tuning his guitar, who shouts some indistinct profanities after me.
Increasing my pace to a jog now, and panting, I fish my mobile out of my trouser pocket and frantically search through the Ms in my address book as I go. I dart down the steps onto the platform, and catch sight of the train—just as a muffled announcement is projected through the overhead speakers, stating that it is departing. The train begins accelerating away, and I jog alongside it as it starts to pick up speed. I push through yet another crowd, this time stationary people hovering on the platform to wave off relatives or friends. I peer into each carriage I pass, quickening my pace to match that of the train, and I receive some curious glances in reply from the seated passengers.
Finally stopping dead in my tracks, I ring Marlow's mobile number and hold the phone to my ear, my heart beating hard in my chest, my breath heavy. Surely this is hopeless? I've tried his number countless times before today. I hear an automated message stating that the person I am trying to reach is engaged with another call.
I start walking again, with the phone still held against my ear. I am muttering something into the phone along the lines of Come on, Marlow, hang up; come on. I have reached the end of the platform in a resigned stride when I do see Marlow—sitting by a rear window of the increasingly distant train, still talking on the phone, and smiling now with a distant look in his eyes. He catches my gaze and his jaw drops, the smile now vanished from his face. All colour drains from his previously healthy-looking complexion until he resembles a corpse. His lips stop moving,
but the phone remains next to his ear. I imagine the person speaking on the other end: Hello? Hello? Are you still there?
And then Marlow is gone again.
* * * *
I am sitting by the window in a trendy High Street coffee shop called the Wake Up Bar, when a bespectacled middle-aged man walks in, his shoulders hunched a little from the cold and the wet. He relaxes his posture, removes his glasses to wipe away the condensation that has formed on the lenses, places them back on, and surveys his surroundings. I recognise him from the picture in his advertisement, and I sit upright in my seat, gesturing to him with a wave of my hand. His eyes continue to dart around the room—presumably searching for a man in a red scarf—and then he sees me, as I'd described myself, surrounded now by hyperactively chatting students and solemn, suited businesspeople reading newspapers. He gestures that he's seen me with a brief nod of his head, orders a drink, which he requests to be brought over to him, and then walks over to where I'm sitting. He extends his hand without sitting down, and I rise out of my seat a little to shake it.
"Gregory, is it?” he asks with a slight smile. We shake hands, and I make a little subconscious note of his peculiarly weak grip. The handshake ends, and I notice that he wears a dreamy-eyed expression, which also strikes me as being somewhat out of place.
"Yes,” I reply, realising that I had hesitated. “Thank you for coming. Mr. P. Remsley, is it? Sorry, I'm useless with names."
"Yes, that's it,” he says, smiling softly still, but I am a little taken aback that he doesn't give me his first name.
He sits down. “How are things?” he asks casually, which again strikes me as peculiar, considering the nature of our meeting. My first impression of P. Remsley is that he is full of surprises.
"I'm ... confused,” I reply, and then manage a timid smile myself to match his slight grin, which now seems to be a constant mask.
"Well, yes. It's a confusing business, isn't it?” he asks rhetorically, removing his scarf and gloves without taking his eyes off me. “Give me some background information on Marlow, will you? I think that's the best course of action to begin with."
I nod in agreement, breathe deeply, and take a sip of my black coffee just as his decaf arrives. He thanks the waitress and then fixes his smiling eyes back on me.
"Marlow and I,” I begin, “we went to the same university, and studied for the same degree. We were good friends right up until we were in a serious car accident together one Christmas. Marlow went missing from the wreckage; I had blacked out in the passenger seat, and when I woke up, he was gone from the driver's seat."
"And how long ago was that now? Six years, you said?"
"A little over six years, yes. He's all but presumed dead now—all but declared legally dead, and last thing I heard, the case on him had been dropped."
"You haven't spoken to the police about it recently?"
"No. Not for about a year. Everyone seems to have moved on, including Marlow's family. It's surreal, really, considering that no body was ever found within miles of the crash."
I tell him a little more innocuous back story regarding my good friend Marlow and me. There is nothing remarkable to relate—nothing that has ever helped me to understand why he simply disappeared.
The man across the table from me sips his decaf. He's not what I had expected from a private investigator, with his lined face and his bookish demeanour—not to mention that calm, almost Zen exterior, which makes him appear lost in some distant reverie.
He asks: “Did Marlow ever live or work here in town, back when you knew him?"
"No. When I knew him, we both lived, studied, and occasionally worked in the city."
"But you're certain it was him? Walking away from Circadian Street and boarding a train at Ward Street Station?"
I pause, and try to gather my thoughts so that they don't come out in a jumbled mess. “It was him,” I say. “I ended up seeing his face, and I know he saw mine too. There's really no doubt about it being him; but there is something that struck me as rather odd."
"Go on,” says Remsley, blowing on his decaf to cool it down.
I say, “The reason I wasn't sure it was him at first, was because he had his back to me and he was on the phone. So I tried phoning his number, rather pointlessly, because that number has been disconnected for a long time now, since the police stopped trying to track him down—not that I believe they ever did try that hard. My train of thought at the time, was that when I called him, if it was him walking into the station, his number would be engaged—giving me some kind of proof it was him, see? It's ridiculous, I know."
"But you did get an engaged message?” asks Remsley.
"Yes, I did! I got an engaged message, right before I saw him in the train carriage. It wasn't until the whole thing was over that I realised I had dialed his old number by mistake—the one he only used occasionally, socially, and which only his close friends knew about."
"So, despite leaving his old life behind, he still uses an old phone number?” the smiling man named Remsley inquires, attempting to clarify things, but with a pointedly sceptical tone.
"Apparently, yes,” I say. “Although I've been unsuccessful in trying to reach him a second time; I suppose he's finally had that number disconnected too."
"And you think that he's in town on business?"
"Hard to say. I only think that because he had a briefcase, and carried out some kind of transaction inside a High Street bank.... It crossed my mind that he might have relocated to town, like me, but then of course I saw him on the city-bound train."
The smiling man nods.
"That's something I was going to ask you to look into actually,” I say. “Could you try and find out what name he was using at the bank? Maybe track down his account details—can you do that with your resources?"
"I'll certainly try,” he says, but somewhat dismissively, I feel. He even shrugs his shoulders a little, as if what he's really saying is, It's pretty hopeless, Gregory. Then, standing up, he shakes my hand and says, cryptically: “You and Marlow are in my hands now. Don't worry."
* * * *
I am in a taxi heading away from Jung Street when I see Marlow again. He is on foot, wearing a long trench coat and carrying an umbrella to shelter from the falling snow. He is on the phone again. This time he carries no briefcase, but I see him in full profile for five seconds or so, and it is unmistakably my old friend.
"Follow that man,” I say to the taxi driver, too preoccupied to care about the terrible cliché.
"What man?” he replies in a heavy Asian accent.
"That man on foot, with the umbrella and the phone, just across the road...” I lean forward and attempt to point Marlow out, just as he enters into a melee of people, mostly rowdy students let loose to survey the local nightlife.
"Never mind,” I say. I pay him quickly and exit the car. I chase after Marlow on foot again.
I follow him through the whole of town, through various clusters of people who look dressed up for whichever bar, club, or performance they are attending. There are multiple occasions when it is just Marlow and me, walking down a side street or along a main road, beneath streetlights that illuminate my friend in a veil of falling snow; and yet I follow only from a discreet distance. I need more information. I need to compile, to research, to study the facts here. If I apprehend Marlow now, he will never simply give me those facts; I need to extract them from him against his will, without him knowing. I need to play detective myself, if I ever hope to uncover the mystery of his disappearance.
I hear his familiar slow and steady murmur as he continues his mysterious phone call, but the distance between us, plus the sounds of the wind and our own squelching footfalls on the snowy ground, all prevent me from distinguishing any words.
* * * *
I continue to follow him until he reaches a small hotel on the outskirts of town called the Sleep Easy, and walks inside. Standing outside, I see a light go on in the foyer, and assume that the scene i
s just my old friend and a member of the hotel staff, and if I were to follow him inside, my cover would be blown. Instead I wait five minutes, while Marlow presumably collects his room key and climbs the stairs up to his room.
I am contemplating following him inside, having allowed a sufficient break in my pursuit, when I see another light come on—on the fourth floor, on the west side of the hotel. Ten minutes later the light goes off again, and I am confident in my assumption that that is Marlow's room, and that he has gone to bed.
I begin to brainstorm. Marlow's hotel stands adjacent to another on the same side of the road, the Bedside Manor. The Bedside Manor has rooms on the east side, with fairly sizeable windows from which I might get a good view into Marlow's room—if I also book into a room on the fourth floor. At the very least, I will be able to keep track of Marlow when he leaves the Sleep Easy in the morning.
* * * *
Ten minutes later, I am lying in bed in my darkened hotel room. I glance to my right, out the window, and inwardly delight at how well my plan is coming together. All I see now, by the glow of an outside streetlight, is Marlow's own dark room. But neither of us has cared to draw our curtains shut, so if I arise when he does, I should be able to observe his movements. I start to wonder why I ever involved P. Remsley at all.
* * * *
It's daylight. I am brushing my teeth with my finger and some toothpaste, whilst pacing near the window of the bedroom—and so is Marlow. It's a miracle he doesn't see me, frankly. A little later, he is sitting on his bed reading a discarded newspaper, so I sit and pretend to read a newspaper I found, too, so that he doesn't catch me watching him. He then watches television. I also turn on my television, in the hope of finding out what he's watching. But there are only seven channels to choose from, and there's nothing revelatory or sufficiently distracting on any of them.
EQMM, December 2009 Page 9
