by J. A. Kalis
It was getting on towards evening and there was still no reply from Sandy. The more he thought about Sandy’s last email, the more he gravitated towards the idea that she hadn’t written it. But what did that mean? Why would anyone else send such a message? How had they managed to access her email account? And what about her two travel buddies. Unfortunately, he didn’t have their email addresses or phone numbers. He even didn’t know their surnames.
He checked Sandy’s bank account. There had been quite a few substantial withdrawals in the last two days. Why would she suddenly need so much money? Something was definitely wrong.
Perhaps the three of them had been attacked, robbed, and maybe even injured? Yes, that’s what must have happened. It was the most plausible explanation for the money withdrawal and her prolonged silence. He still refused to think the worst.
The thought that Sandy was out there somewhere and needed help swirled in his mind all day, pushing away all other thoughts. Finally, he decided he was unable to wait any longer for his daughter to call or write. He had to do something, be a man of action.
‘I’m going to look for her,’ he announced to Karen.
She was just preparing the evening meal in the kitchen. She stopped chopping the vegetables on the cutting board and looked at him, perplexed.
‘What do you mean, look for her? Where? Go to Georgia?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean: go to Georgia. I can’t stand doing nothing. I can’t keep waiting while she might need my help.’
‘You shouldn’t go there alone.’
‘But you can’t go with me. Your father needs you; you must help your mother take care of him. And Karen … better not say anything to your parents when you see them. No need to upset them at this stage. We don’t know what’s happened yet.’
‘Dad, I’ll go with you.’ Carol entered the kitchen. She must have heard their conversation from the hallway. She’d visited in the afternoon to wish her mother a happy birthday and give her a present, and they’d asked her to stay for supper. ‘I’m on holiday. It’s only July and my teaching job doesn’t start until September. Please, Dad, let me go with you. I want to do something useful. You can’t do it on your own. And … you know … I feel guilty that I didn’t go with her. She asked me to, but I refused. I had other holiday plans. I must do something, go with you and look for her. I really must. I’d never be able to live with myself if something bad has happened and I didn’t try to help her.’
‘We need to find out what’s going on first. And I have to do it alone. We don’t know much about this country. How safe it is. The situation there might be quite dangerous. I can’t put my second daughter at risk. I can’t lose you both.’
‘But Dad, what kind of danger can there be for me? I’m not risking anything—’
‘That’s enough, Carol.’ He held up his hand in a stop gesture, impatience and determination clear on his face. ‘It’s no use arguing. My decision is final. I’ll go there alone. I’ll call my office Monday morning, then book a seat on the earliest possible flight.
‘But, Dad…’
‘Okay, fine. I promise if I don’t find her soon and I see for myself that it’s safe for you to be there, I’ll let you join me.’
CHAPTER 3
It was only two days later that Patrick was able to leave for Georgia. By then, almost six days had already passed since they’d last heard from Sandy. Six days of an eerie, inexplicable silence. No emails, no text messages, no calls. Nothing. It was like she’d disappeared off the face of the earth. Both his and Karen’s distress grew with each passing day.
Evening had already fallen when Patrick’s plane landed at Tbilisi international airport. It was a long flight from London with a few-hours stopover in Istanbul, giving him enough time to think. Throughout the journey emotions boiled inside him. He wavered between hope and anguish. One moment he expected to find Sandy quickly, her smiling face wondering why he’d been so worried about nothing. The next he was convinced she was dead and he would never see her again.
Despite all the discomforts of the long voyage, he didn’t feel tired. The adrenaline rushing around his body made every muscle feel tense and ready for action. He could hardly wait to get out of the airport and start looking for his daughter. But he had to tell himself to slow down. The hour was late. He would have to be patient and wait until the next day.
The moment he walked out of the terminal building, a wave of warm, balmy air engulfed him. Then a crisp mountain breeze brushed gently against his skin, agreeably soothing it. It didn’t take him long to spot a line of empty taxis. To his relief, the first taxi driver he approached understood some English and quickly grasped where he wanted to go. The burly, balding man in his late forties or early fifties opened the boot of his vehicle and loaded Patrick’s bag into it before slipping behind the steering wheel and closing the door. In an instant, the taxi pulled away and joined the traffic, eliciting in the process a few angry shouts and honks from other drivers.
Comfortably seated in the back of the car, Patrick looked out of the window in an attempt to distract his mind from the upsetting thoughts about his Sandy. The blue grey evening light allowed just enough sight to discern the undulating hills surrounding the city, with its snaking streets full of twinkling lights.
The drive didn’t take too long. Soon they reached the hotel he had booked online – a charming art nouveau-style building, warmly illuminated. It was the same one Sandy had stayed in for her first two nights in Georgia.
On hearing the price for the short taxi ride, Patrick raised his eyebrows in surprise. It sounded so disproportionately high. Much higher than he expected in a country like Georgia. But wanting to get quickly into the comfort of his own room, he didn’t haggle. He paid fare and entered the hotel lobby.
‘Are you sure that’s the same room Sandy Morton stayed in?’
‘Yes, I checked it. It’s the same one.’ The desk clerk’s English was heavily accented.
Holding his luggage in one hand and the key to his room in the other, Patrick headed for the stairs. Halfway across the lobby he stopped, turned and went back towards the front desk.
‘She wasn’t here alone. A young couple accompanied her. Could you give me their names?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t give you this kind of information. It’s confidential. It’s not the same as telling you in which room your daughter stayed. We care about the privacy of our guests.’
‘You don’t have to care about it in this case. Sandy Morton is my daughter, and she’s missing. The young couple might be missing, as well. I have to find them. You must tell me their names.’
The clerk fixed him with a scrutinizing gaze without uttering a word, apparently mulling over his request. Tense seconds ticked away with no reaction from him. Then, slowly, his eyes turned towards the computer screen. With a few rapid keystrokes and mouse clicks, he pulled up some hotel records.
‘Lucien Chabert and Corinne Bonnet.’
‘Thank you.’
Once in his room, Patrick looked around. The room looked neat and was furnished in a modern style. Before entering it, he had secretly hoped he would find something his daughter had left there, an object or some piece of information that might guide him to her. To tell the truth he didn’t really know what he had expected. Maybe he hoped for some miracle, something that could only happen in a movie. But the moment he saw the place, his hopes were dashed. The room was small and looked spotless, thoroughly cleaned. Even so, he wanted to make certain it was empty. He checked the closet and two drawers, without forgetting to peer under the bed or inspect the adjacent bathroom. And of course, there was no trace of Sandy anywhere.
Not wanting to waste time going to the dining room, he ordered food via room service. While he waited he switched on his laptop and connected to the Internet. After he had checked his emails and found nothing of much importance, he opened a document in which he had gathered all the information about each place Sandy had visited, based on her e
mails. Every picture she had sent him was attached to it. Before he left home he had printed a few of them, some of his daughter alone, and a few more of her with the French couple, who he now knew were called Lucien and Corinne. Patrick intended to show the photos around and ask people if they recognized them. He located on a map the last place where his daughter had stayed before she went missing and calculated the distance from Tbilisi.
A loud knock on the door interrupted him. It was a room-service clerk. The food he brought didn’t look particularly tasty. Even so, its aroma made Patrick’s stomach rumble and he attacked it vigorously the moment the man left.
After he finished eating, he pulled out his mobile and called Karen to tell her he’d arrived safely, and then read for the umpteenth time all the assembled information, carefully planning his next move. He wavered between wanting to report his daughter missing right away and waiting until he’d checked all the places on his list. Eventually, he decided that he’d go to the police station and the Embassy to report Sandy missing and ask for help with the search. Then he would go to the last place she’d stayed – a small village in the mountains.
It was late when he finally decided to go to bed. To make sure he wouldn’t lie awake half the night, he took a sleeping pill. He knew he shouldn’t make a habit of it but he needed something to stop the anxious thoughts whirling through his mind. Within minutes he was asleep.
***
Next morning, the piercing tone of his smartphone alarm clock woke him up just as the sun was rising over the hills. Despite feeling groggy, he immediately pushed himself up to a sitting position. His eyelids felt heavy and like sandpaper against his pupils. He rubbed them to ease some of the soreness and then in one brisk move got out of bed. He went to the bathroom to take a shower and shave his day’s stubble.
An hour and a half later he was on his way to the nearest police station. He chose to go there on foot thinking a walk would do him good, help clear his head. Besides it was only a short distance from the hotel and the weather was fine.
The city looked less glamorous during the day than in the bluish-grey light of the evening. Everywhere he looked wealth neighboured poverty. Four star hotels, sleek wine shops and luxury boutiques were wedged between dilapidated old-glory-long-gone buildings. It got even worse when he found himself in the residential backstreets. At first sight most of them looked quaint and charming: tree-lined, cobblestoned streets flanked by mansions with ornate wooden balconies and covered in creepers. But up close he could see that the houses were old, many of them crumbling, decrepit-looking. The view was further spoiled by clothes-lines hanging on the balconies, full of clothes and bed linen. A few times he glimpsed locals peeping at him curiously from behind them. They mustn’t have seen many tourists walking around here, he concluded.
Surprisingly, the police station was housed in a modern, all glass and steel building. It didn’t take him long to explain the purpose of his visit. To facilitate the search, he gave the police a few photos of the three travel companions and showed their detailed travel itinerary on the map.
Forty minutes later he was already sitting in a taxi taking him to the British Embassy. As they drove, he saw a few opulent medieval churches of pink-gold stone looming over the surrounding lower buildings. In the distance, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a ruined castle on a hill.
When he left the Embassy an hour later, he felt calmer. By officially reporting his daughter missing, he had set things in motion. Now he wasn’t the only one who was looking for her and her two new friends.
At first, both authorities didn’t seem to see much urgency in the case. Believing that the three travellers must have crossed the border as it said in Sandy’s email, and were walking in high mountains, in a region without network coverage, they thought there was no need to panic. It wasn’t until Patrick told them about the big sums of money that had been withdrawn from Sandy’s bank account that their attitude changed. They promised to investigate any possible sightings, try to discover some information about their whereabouts and check whether they had any reports of their possessions being stolen. Even so, he wasn’t sure if he should trust them. He was worried they would take too long to react.
Patrick glanced at his watch. It was still quite early. If his calculations were correct, it would take about four hours to get to the mountain village where Sandy had spent her last night before going missing. Determined to act fast, he went back to the Embassy building and asked where he could find a reliable car rental company. There was one within walking distance, and half an hour later he had already completed the car rental procedure and picked up a car. He drove back to the hotel to collect his luggage and then headed north.
By the time he reached the outskirts of the city the sun had climbed high in the sky. It seemed it was going to be another hot summer day. As he passed the last rows of houses, some drab looking, grey apartment blocks, he pressed hard on the accelerator and the car gained speed in an instant. To take his mind away from fretful thoughts, he put the radio on. After a few minutes of searching, he had managed to find a music station that wasn’t too bad.
Soon the city disappeared from view. Instead, an impressive countryside scenery emerged. Wherever he looked, his eyes encountered only the raw and natural beauty of the land. Not a house in sight. The almost deserted road wove through undulating hills that looked like wind-roughed waves in a sea of green velvet.
A short time later, the High Caucasus Mountains leapt into view, looming majestically in the distance. A few fluffy clouds were swirling playfully around their rugged, granite peaks, generously sprinkled with snow. It was one of the most beautiful views he had ever seen. At that moment, he could easily understand Sandy’s excitement and enthusiasm about coming to Georgia.
The road steadily became rougher and more difficult. The tarmac gave way to ragged and rutted dirt road, washed-out in places. He slowed down round the hairpin bends. There were hardly any cars on the road apart from his rental. If the vehicle broke, it wouldn’t be easy to get help. It meant he could be stranded for hours or even days on the deserted roadside.
After six hours of driving – longer than expected – he finally arrived at his destination. The mountain village, nestled in a green, gently-sloping valley was a cluster of roughly twenty-five homes, some of them huddled beneath tall and slim slate towers, others around jagged rocks. All the houses were made of slate stones, weathered and darkened with time, and had grey- or red-tiled roofs. Most of them were adorned with ornate, semi-enclosed wooden balconies. He could make out a flock of sheep grazing on the sloped meadows, but apart from a couple of big sheep dogs and old women – all dressed in traditional black clothes – the village seemed deserted.
It was getting late. Although one side of the valley was bathed in warm afternoon sunshine, the other was already enveloped in shadow.
After pulling up outside the only guesthouse in the hamlet, Patrick went inside and glanced around the modest, rustic-style interior. Although quite simple, all wood and stone, it had a cosy, homely feel to it. Roughly in the middle of one of the walls sat an old fireplace with a pile of firewood neatly arranged on its left. A big woven, oriental carpet hung on the adjacent wall, against which a pair of armchairs and a small table were placed.
Patrick had wondered if he’d find anyone who spoke English in such a remote place. But fortunately, the young woman on reception spoke good English. Her name was Mariam. She told him she’d spent four years in the UK, supporting herself by doing odd-jobs at various hotels. Three years ago she had returned to her home village and got married, and the newlyweds had bought a house and turned it into a guesthouse.
‘How many nights do you wish to stay here? If you love mountain walks there is enough to do and there are plenty of magnificent views to see around here. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed. And it’s very quiet. Perfect if you want to relax. There are no guests at the moment and no reservations. You can stay as long as you wish.’ Mariam fixed him with her sta
rtling brown eyes.
‘Actually I wasn’t planning to stay here. I came to look for my daughter. Her name is Sandy Morton. She and her two travel companions – Lucien Chabert and Corinne Bonnet – stayed at your guesthouse about a week ago. Do you remember them? Wait! I’ve got their pictures. Here. Take a look.’
Mariam glanced at the pictures he had put on the counter. ‘Of course I remember them. You know, we don’t have many foreign visitors around here. They stayed two nights at the guesthouse. But why are you looking for them?’
‘I’m afraid they went missing. I haven’t heard from my daughter for seven days, and she’s not answering her phone. We’re worried something may have happened to her. To her and the other two. Did they happen to tell you where they were heading next?’ His voice was filled with cautious hope.
‘No, they didn’t tell me. As a matter of fact, I only talked to them briefly when they first arrived. They asked me to recommend a hiking route. I told them that the one climbing from the northern side of the village offers the best views of the area. The next day, the three of them took the trail and went up the mountains. I didn’t actually see any of them coming back. I just heard them climbing the stairs. I was in the kitchen preparing supper. The next morning, they left quite early, as if they were in a hurry, without even having breakfast. I didn’t meet any of them. I found the key to their room lying on the counter.’
‘How did they leave?’
‘There is a man in the neighbouring village who works as a private hire driver. My guess is they went with him.’
‘Are you sure? How would they know about him?’
‘Oh, on the first day the young man asked if I knew somebody who could drive them to their next stopover. I gave him the man’s address and phone number. The driver speaks some broken English because he has a few foreign customers who come here every summer to walk in the mountains. And I know he is always ready to take them wherever they desire, because they pay him well for his services. If you wish I can try to contact him and ask whether he picked them up? But it may take some time as he might not answer his phone right away. You see, he doesn’t like to carry his mobile with him.’
