“Less than a week, though, wouldn’t you think?”
“Trowbridge here can check that for you, and let you know,” he said.
From the look on Trowbridge’s face, I figured he could probably rattle the figures off the top of his head. Not now, though, with his superior firmly in the lead.
“And, so,” said Inspector Whitcomb, “we must be going. We’ll be certain to notify you immediately if there’s any change in the case.” He stood, as did Trowbridge. “No need to see us out,” he said, with a smile. “You can reach us at the same number, if there’s a need.”
After they’d gone, Carson and I stayed to finish our coffee. It was really pretty good stuff, and gave the lie to the reports I’d had that the Brits could only brew tea.
“Well, they were really nice,” said Carson. “I feel much better about this whole thing, now. Don’t you?”
“Not really,” I said.
“You don’t?”
“Oh, they were nice enough, but I get the impression that we’re going to be kept at arms length by New Scotland Yard. That’s why they changed the meeting from there to just meeting us here. From the timing of the two calls, I’ll bet that Inspector Whitcomb thought all of us meeting at New Scotland Yard would lend an official air of acceptance to us. They don’t want to consider us as colleagues or co-investigators, and if it comes to that, absolutely not part of a joint investigation team. They want to consider us as potential witnesses, no special privileges, no access to anything other than this report here, and press releases. So we meet in the lounge instead.”
“Don’t be paranoid, geeze, Carl.”
“Yeah. But it’s just exactly what I’d do if I was Inspector Whitcomb.” I shrugged. “Well, like we’ve been saying, there is not a bit of evidence for a case except a simple missing person. Which isn’t even a crime. Just a problem.”
“Sure. But doesn’t it seem to us that . . .”
I held up my hand. “Right, and there’s the crux of the matter, I think. It seems to us. We have a hell of a lot less evidence than they do, and I honestly don’t think they have all that much.” I thought for a second. “But I definitely got the impression from watching Trowbridge that he has a lead, or at least the beginnings of one.”
“Really? You think they know something they aren’t sharing with us?”
“Bet your ass.”
“Okay. Oh, well. You think they have a hot tub in this place? Maybe a sauna?”
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
15:01 Greenwich Mean Time
Back in our room, we looked over Sergeant Trowbridge’s report. It was pretty thorough, considering. He listed the basic facts, gave locations, such as they were, and did the times and dates. What made it frustrating was that all last names other than those of Jane, Vicky and Emma had been blacked out. That was not going to be a help, but it wasn’t the end of the world, either. At least we had first names to go on. I strongly suspected that, if we’d given Trowbridge enough warning, he’d have taken out the last names, as well, and simply numbered the witnesses.
“Hey,” said Carson, when I handed him the first page, “they blacked out all the names.”
“Yeah. But only the last names. Well, you know. It’s an ongoing investigation that could easily turn out to be criminal. They’re just being safe . . . just read it. It’s a pretty good report.”
The last place Emma was seen alive was in a public house called The Gatehouse in Highgate. According to a Constable Gullford, who was the first reporting officer, five male subjects had arrived at the pub between five fifteen and six fifteen. They all knew each other, and had jobs that varied from school teacher to civil engineer. As far as we were being permitted to know, they were named Hugh, Todd, Martin, Walter and Peter.
“Ah, we’re gonna need some last names, here,” I said, “regardless.”
“Huh?”
At least he was reading. “I said, we’re going to have to get these last names.”
“You really think we need to?”
“We do if we’re gonna interview ’em,” I said.
“Oh. Sure. This could take a lot longer than I thought, Big Guy.”
I sighed. “Me, too.” But for different reasons.
According to Constable Gullford, the next witness to arrive was our Vicky Bergin, at approximately six twenty or so. She had come from doing homework in their shared apartment, with a prior arrangement to meet with Emma and Jane around six thirty, for their Friday supper. Emma and Jane arrived together, at almost exactly six thirty. Emma was coming from her last class which ended about an hour before and Jane from a routine appointment with her academic advisor, one Robert. It was really hard without last names. Anyway, Emma and Jane had traveled to Highgate from downtown London together, having hooked up at Great Portland tube station, taken the Underground to Highgate, and had walked from the Highgate tube station to the Gatehouse pub, which was about a quarter mile. They had, according to Trowbridge, seen nothing out of the ordinary.
According to the accounts provided Constable Gullford by both Jane and Vicky, the Friday night arrangement was sort of a week’s end treat they gave themselves, and was usually their only night out as a group. Both remembered eating fish, and said that all three had a couple of pints of beer apiece. Neither Jane nor Vicky said they thought they had consumed an excessive amount, and believed that Emma had not, at least in their presence.
By eight pm or so, Jane and Vicky left, Vicky because she had to do some laundry, and Jane because she wanted to get a start on a paper. They left together, and both had stated that Emma had begun a conversation with one of the men at a table near them. They had all met before, and Emma had taken sort of a shine to the one called Martin. Martin who? Just Martin somebody: boy that was irritating. Anyway, he was the teacher.
I handed the next page to Carson. “Not much yet,” I said.
Page three was a summary of the interviews conducted by Trowbridge with the five male subjects the day after they were first interviewed by Constable Gullford. . . . They all recollected events basically the same as Jane and Vicky did, and all remembered Emma sitting down at their table after “the other two Yank girls had left.” She apparently had at least one more pint, and spent most of the time talking with Martin. What Emma apparently had not known was that subject Martin had just gotten engaged on Wednesday. He apparently hadn’t come right out and told her, either.
There was great reluctance on the part of Hugh, Todd, Walter and Peter to speculate on any prior relationship between Martin and Emma, but an “in-depth” interview Trowbridge did with Martin later, (appended, I looked ahead and it was there) had revealed that he and Emma had slept together on two previous occasions.
I stopped reading, and looked out the window. Well. If nothing else, it meant that we were probably going to have to edit the already edited report before we showed anything to Emma’s mother.
Back to page three, I discovered that Emma had apparently made some fairly clear suggestions to Martin, on the evening she disappeared, that they spend some more intimate time at Martin’s flat later on. Martin, apparently trying to be “diplomatic” according to Trowbridge, finally revealed his change of status to Emma just as he and his friends were preparing to leave the pub.
“There was an exchange between subject Martin and subject Emma that was somewhat acrimonious,” was the exact quote in Trowbridge’s report. “At one point, according to the statement of subject Mary, pub employee, subject Emma referred to subject Martin as a ‘sly son of a bitch,’ and further as a ‘weasel,’ and then expanded on the point that he, subject Martin, had failed to notify her, subject Emma, that he had any sort of a relationship with any other female at all. Subject Emma further appeared to have been quite concerned about subject Martin being less than forthcoming with his fiancé.”
The five male subjects left the pub, and at that time Emma was still in the establishment, and had moved back to the table she and Vicky and Jane had originally shared. The
five all remembered the time as “between half eight and nine.”
“Hmm,” I said, to myself. I handed the page to Carson, and continued onto the fourth sheet. A motive for subject Martin? Slim, but if he thought his fiancé was going to be told by Emma. . . .
Trowbridge proved to be just at thorough as I had hoped. He’d interviewed several employees of the Gatehouse, in fact all of them who were working that evening, and had found that only one, subject Mary somebody, described by Trowbridge succinctly as “female, 23, Caucasian, a two year employee of the Gatehouse, and a bar maid in that establishment at the time in question,” had any memory of any of the events. Apparently subject Mary had indicated that she thought that subject Emma might have had a bit too much to drink, that she had conducted herself in an “argumentative fashion” and had “sulked” alone at her table for about fifteen minutes after the five male subjects had departed, before gathering up her jacket, paying her tab, and leaving alone. That was approximately nine o’clock, give or take half an hour. According to subject Mary, subject Emma had not left a tip.
As far as Trowbridge was able to tell, subject Mary was the last known person to see subject Emma within the confines of the Gatehouse, and was the last known person to see her at all.
The next page was a list of the Principal Witnesses, with dates of birth, addresses, telephone numbers, and places of employment. Unfortunately, all the data except the first names had been blacked out.
The three that I did know, the young women from Nation County, were spaced on the list in alphabetical order by last name, with other witness names intervening. Just a guess, but I thought it likely that if some of the persons on the list were in alphabetical order, so were the rest.
“Well, they’re in alphabetical order,” I said. “For all the good that does us.”
“What?” asked Carson.
I handed him the sheet. “The girls are in alphabetical order,” I said, “by last name. No reason to think the others aren’t as well.”
He glanced at the list. “Oh, yeah.” He went back to reading page three.
The last page of the report proper was a summary, which stated that: “There is no evidence available to this officer at this time to indicate that there has been any foul play in this matter. This officer, along with Sergeants Givens and Constable Gullford have interviewed all identifiable witnesses in this matter, and have canvassed the route between the Gatehouse and the residence of Subject Emma, and have been unable to locate any persons who recollect seeing her on the night in question. Members of the public throughout the Village of Highgate have been notified via press releases and posters strategically distributed.”
I thought that was pretty good police work, myself. His summary continued: “The particulars of this incident have been vetted by homicide and sex crimes units, and there are no indications that known offenders were, or are, in the vicinity of the area where the subject Emma was last seen, or was known to frequent. There is no indication of the involvement of any known offenders, although with the conspicuous lack of evidence there can be no comparisons of possible modus operandi. It is the recommendation of this officer that this investigation be held open until such time as the missing person has been located.”
The last paragraph was completely blacked out. Judging from the size of the blackened area, it was about eight lines long. Shit.
There were two appendices, the one I’d already referred to, and another that was completely blacked out except for Trowbridge’s signature. Well, it was more than I’d expected. And it gave us some pretty good places to start, really. Hard to top that. I handed the summary to Carson. “It’s short but sweet,” I said. “As far as I can tell, they’ve done a perfectly good job, especially considering what they have to go on.”
When he finished the Summary page, he agreed. “You really think there’s anything we can do?” he asked.
“I dunno, like I said. We just start checking around ourselves. We might turn up something. The deleted parts tell us that Trowbridge’s gotta have some sort of information he’s keeping quiet. But I have no idea what it might be.”
“So you think, maybe, we can turn up the same thing?”
“Nope. Not a chance. He’s got resources and we really don’t. Not if he’s lookin’ at something he got from a snitch, anyway. He’s got those. He’s got records. He’s got access to prior cases, too. Not to mention about a billion cops.”
“Can’t we develop one? A resource? Like a snitch?”
“Carson,” I said, “imagine this . . . somebody from London comes to Maitland, looking for some information that might be crime related. Who you think they’re gonna get for an informant, anyway?”
“Beats me,” he said, cheerfully. “That’s your territory.”
“You bettcha. And I’ll go on record right now that the best he’s gonna be able to do is somebody like . . . Georgia Benson, for example.” Georgia was a perfectly nice person, a waitress, and about the biggest gossip in Maitland. She was renowned for being wrong about ninety-nine per cent of the time.
“Ewww . . . you think so?”
“You see the problem. We find ourselves with a snitch over here, and I’ll bet it’s about that quality. Especially since we don’t have anything budgeted to pay for information with.” I was keeping Allen the Banker’s offer to myself.
“So, what do you think? We sightsee for a couple of days and go home?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “We’re just getting started, here. We go talk to people. There’s always a chance. Always. You never give up. And regardless, we’ll sure be able to give Trowbridge a different perspective.”
I looked at my watch. “Just about time for the girls to show up,” I said.
“Do we let them read the report?”
I thought about that one for a second. “Sure. Why not? They ought to be able to give us . . .”
“Insights?” asked Carson, with a big smile.
“Good a word as any,” I said.
“I wonder if we should take them to dinner, or anything?”
“That’s a damned fine idea,” I said. “Let’s go to this pub . . . the Gatekeeper. We might as well talk business.”
“Isn’t that the Gatehouse?”
“Didn’t I say that?”
“No, you said Gatekeeper.”
We were beginning to sound married.
Chapter 9
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
16:14 Greenwich Mean Time
Jane and Vicky called from the lobby at about 16:00 on the button. I was ready to go on down when the phone rang, but Carson had to spruce up. Or, as he put it, “I always like to make a good impression on the ladies.”
A good ten minutes later, with Carson all combed and cologned, we met “the ladies” in the lobby. I gave Jane a big hug. I was really glad to see her.
“Hey, dad,” she said, “boy are we glad to see you . . . Is this Carson Hilgenberg? My God, it is!”
She shook his hand, and both girls smiled at him. “You were what?” asked Vicky, “Five or six years behind us in school?”
“Six, I think . . .”
“Well, look at you,” said Jane. “An attorney now and everything.”
“Yeah,” said Carson, “who’d a guessed.”
“I was your baby sitter a couple of times,” said Vicky. “Wow.”
“Me, too,” said Jane. “When I was in eighth grade . . . you would have been about 4th or 3rd grade then, wouldn’t you?”
“I guess,” said Carson.
“Do you still like Spagetti O’s?” asked Vicky.
“Not for a long time.”
“They still call you Lowly?” asked Jane.
“No.”
“Lowly?” I asked. “Why’d they call you Lowly?”
“Remember those children’s books by Richard Scary?” asked Jane. “The ones you used to read to me?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember the character called Lowly Worm?”
I
laughed. “No kidding?” I figured Carson was about as uncomfortable as humanly possible, so I said, “We were thinking, why don’t we take you out to supper? Maybe up at the pub at Highgate?”
“The Gatehouse?” asked Jane.
“Sure. We have to go there soon anyway . . .”
She glanced at Vicky. “That okay with you . . . or would you prefer The Angel?”
“Oh, the Gatehouse is fine. That’s all right.”
I must have looked puzzled, because Jane said, “We haven’t been back since Emma disappeared.”
“Oh, then hell, we can just as easily go to the Angel.”
“No, no,” said Vicky. “It’s okay. Fine. Really.”
“You sure?” asked Jane.
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “How do we get there? Cab?”
It was explained to me that the Underground was the only way to go in London. It was less expensive, and almost as fast as a cab.
“We just need to get you and Carson your tube passes,” said Jane, “and then it’s just a few minutes from here. The nearest station is Kensington on High Street. Come on.”
It might have been the nearest, but it was a good ten minute walk. I wasn’t used to that.
As we headed in what I thought might be a westerly direction, I pointed to the big rectangular brick building in the park. “What’s that? We can see it from our room.”
“That’s Kensington Palace,” said Jane. “You know, where Princess Diana lived before she died.”
“Oh, sure . . .” It looked nice, but it wasn’t exactly my idea of a palace. I guess I’d seen too many Disney movies.
Traffic was interesting, to say the least. The first thing I had to do was learn to look in the right direction as we crossed the street. In the US, cars on your side of the street approach from the left. In London, they sneak up on you from the right. I suspected the streets in popular tourist areas were paved with dead Americans.
We passed a cluster of small shops, and then found ourselves in an area of clothing and department stores. “Your mother would love this,” I said. “Don’t tell her unless we have to!”
November Rain Page 10
