Missing Louise: A missing backpacker, a body and a mystery buried in the revolution

By Nicholas Frankcom

Louise Pemberton goes missing backpacking in South East Asia.  With no leads there is only one person left who can possibly help.  Her ex-boyfriend. Set against the magnificent backdrop of Thailand and Laos, an epic search begins via treacherous pitfalls and double twists.  A search that will ultimately lead to a quest for a lost icon buried in the embers of a revolution.  With rising stakes it seems everyone wants them to fail.  Missing Louise is a fast paced thriller which twists and turns its way towards an unexpected climax.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: May 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781783330508

Book preview

heroic.

One

I got them to put extra whisky in.

Louise looked around to peer at the figure behind her. She was met with an unflinching gaze directed through two yellowing eyes. The gap between the two front teeth suggested that a high annoying whistle would accompany any dialogue, though in this she was wrong. The pale skin seemed largely unaffected by daytime temperatures pushing over forty Celsius. Sun-bathing was evidently not a strong hobby, nor walking out in daytime hours given the pasty exterior. His fledgling beard was made uneven through tufts of growth sprouting from several facial moles, as if fertilised. Under most circumstances, the ugly geek would have drawn either pity or derision from her, but here he flustered her. She was out of her own environment and had little idea how to handle certain situations. A guy easily swept under the carpet back home could present a real problem out on the road. Deep within she clenched, determined to keep a strong presence against her growing uncertainty. She disliked him all the more for making her do this. The guy might not be an immediate physical threat, though he had that unpredictable weirdness streak running through him.

His scrawny arm held out the small aluminium bucket, a lone hair dancing on his wrist as he did so. Two straws protruded from the ice filled bucket’s top, tempting Louise to pick one and draw in the sweet intoxicating mix of coke and local whisky. She searched her memory for a name, and thought she remembered it as being John or Jonathan. She was sure it was a J. Now fully turned to face him, she had the time to take in all that she had remembered. This guy put her on edge, his burrowing eyes almost looking to lick her body. Earlier in the day there was that involuntary shudder. She had first spotted him earlier that afternoon on Lonely Beach, the last remaining traveller enclave on Koh Chang, itself the largest of the Thai Islands. The skeletal creep had been walking along the water line, taking time to letch over any female figure wearing less than a long sleeved top and knee-length shorts, which was pretty much most. It was just Louise’s luck that she should look up just when he had been passing her stretch of beach. Even when eye contact had been made, she still had not expected him to wander up and crack some one-liner about there being a crap surf, as if he had been drinking in a wooden fronted Bangkok club, not sauntering along the edge of paradise. Given the sheltered nature of the cove, there was never likely to be any surf, leaving her in the belief that the creep was either totally insane or wasted when surfing. Probably both. A polite smile and return to her paperback had not dissuaded him. Seating himself within the rim of her shrinking comfort zone, he had first introduced himself (she felt sure that it had been John now) and then gone on to talk at length about a conspiracy theory involving the Thai army building a road straight through neighbouring Cambodia’s porous border. Any interesting points were lost in a sea of irrelevant diversions and unnecessary foot movements. He had used breaks in his story to push his toes through the sand, each time ebbing closer to her outer thigh.

Unnerved by his unwanted and persistent attention, Louise had taken her leave shortly afterwards, seeking solitude in her wooden stilted cabin, halfway up a steep vegetated hill leading out of the cove. Tired from the strong afternoon sun, she had allowed the rhythm of the fan to lull her into a short, deep sleep. A beach bar-b-q several hours later consisting of squid and skewered tiger prawn revitalised her enough to seek out company and more than a few Chang beers. A couple of Kiwi girls encouraged her to watch some late evening fire juggling at a makeshift beach bar. The Thai bar crew had skilfully hurled the lighted batons in the air to the accompaniment of old school dance music, lines of pink scar tissue testament to the hours of practice needed. She carefully allowed herself a few more beers, happy in the company of the Kiwis, even accepting a joint rolled with intoxicating Thai sticks. Wholly relaxed, she had found herself giggling to the most benign comments and jokes, content to draw back on the joint and allow life to temporarily wash over her. The tropical beach, fire show and peaceful atmosphere were savoured and committed to memory. She was old enough to appreciate the comparative rarity of such an evening. Even those lucky enough to be on the road still had timetables and structures to follow, sights to see with buses and accommodation to arrange, agendas to be set.

As the show had climaxed towards its finale, word was passed on that there was to be a half-moon party at the Jaba, a complex tree house that served as a bar on the wooded incline the other side of the single-track road. Casually walking with a mixed group of travellers, she had been totally absorbed in her own thoughts and found that several minutes had elapsed since she last checked on the Kiwis. Although dark, the beach’s only illumination being the crescent moon, with a brief glance she quickly satisfied herself that they must be some way behind. They were certainly out of her limited range. Giving little time for decision, she elected to push on towards the Jaba, safe in the knowledge that there was a small gang of revellers just in front of her plus the odd straggler behind. Her reasoning was that if the Kiwis didn’t show she could always latch on to new groups and conversations. Though far from shy, her confidence was brimming, spurred on by recent independence learnt through travel. Louise then took a further swig from the bottle that she had all but forgotten and moved on, giving more care to her footing in the soft white sand as the sea breeze tried to sway her. Moving over the road, she soon found herself clambering up the few remaining steps to the Jaba without having fully realised it. Her eyes now slightly out-of-focus, she gently pressed her way towards the crude bar, still firmly gripping her earlier acquired bottle of Chang Beer, it’s bitter tang warming her belly. It wasn’t until she selected a suitable isolated stool and was edging her way over that she heard the voice behind her. The two straws were inches from her face, enticing her to have the bucket with added whisky.

With her foggy recollections slowly labelling him weird and a possible threat, she tried to make sense of the yellow-eyed creep that she now remembered as John. The scrawny over eager figure before her hardly seemed to pose any immediate danger to her. Her reservations lay in becoming embroiled in a baloney conversation, something that the Kiwis would soon rescue her from. A vindictive part to her could see the three of them cut him down with jibes and belittling remarks, something he almost certainly deserved anyway. It wasn’t in her nature, but she had that streak in her this evening. This streak was less vicious than it was experimental. The confrontation could lead to any number of conclusions. In one sense it would feel good to see them all come up before them, an invisible barrier of tempting selections, then be able to watch which direction any exchange might take. She felt different, giddily reckless and somewhat argumentative. A further side to her personality jostled to be more risqué and adventurous. This enticing element now had the loudest, more persuasive voice within her head and won her inward battle of decisions.

Carefully placing the bottle aside, she approached the bucket, finally having decided that she should accept a free drink in most circumstances. It occurred to her that it might be spiked, but the thought quickly slipped by. Her generic carefree happiness blunted any sense of danger. She pulled the nearest straw to her lips, smelling the sweat cocktail as she did.

Just a bit will do me - thanks!

As she was taking a couple of long, smooth draws, John was anxious to fire-start a conversation. He began by speaking very quickly.

"I love these buckets! Just imagine if they sold them back in UK bars! It would be mayhem out there for sure. You could each sit with one at pub table and spit beer at each other all night! Actually it wouldn’t be beer would it? Not with this stuff. You’d all be stir-crazy on Thai Whisky and coke - don’t they put some of that home grown red bull stuff in as well? They reckon it would be banned back in the UK, five times stronger than the juice there. Gets you dancing though - look at those crazy left footed fools!"

Louise peered in the general direction of a small dance floor surrounded by ornate patched beanbags. A couple of backpackers were engaged in some kind of mock morris-dance, banging their buckets together each time that they passed. A further reveller looked to be shunting up one of the poles holding the roof up. As she took another leisurely sip, she found the climbing figure go slightly out-of-focus. She squinted her eyes, hoping that it was the distance and light, but felt increasingly light headed.

You know, it’s the heat as well, John continued, people spend most of the day running at half-steam trying not to fry, saving themselves to live by these balmy hot nights, just chuck your T-shirt on and off you go and party! You interested in a smoke?

Louise realised that John was now looking back at her. Her rationalisation was fast deteriorating, though she knew that she should get out. The situation promised to get out of her control. With reflexes and general awareness speeding downwards she knew she must take her leave imminently. A growing top-heavy dizziness as she stood reinforced her desire to get out and away from the wirily shadow stood over her.

I’m fine thanks, she quickly replied. Listen, I’d better be off now, want to get my head down.

Before she had even finished the sentence, Louise was already starting back down the steep decent on her way back to the beach where her welcome cabin awaited. The whisky was fast going to her head, enough to raise a few warning bells from within. It had affected her fast, though she thought that earlier drinks must have played their part in her current predicament. Gingerly feeling for a piece of rope attached to the side of the path, she made her way down, passing a small sea of people still making their way up, their numbers inflated by the narrow path. She remembered the two Kiwi girls from earlier, but found her eyes too heavy and unable to pierce the darkness enough to read faces. All she saw were the feet of many people dancing to a song on the edge of her memory.

Thankful that she had reached the bottom of the slope without mishap, Louise found herself confronting her next obstacle homeward bound. A shallow swamp separated the road from her part of the beach. The murky waters were bridged by a wooden walkway, supported by a series of timber poles, which served in pushing it several feet above the brown swamp. Each pole varied in height from the other, making the walkway resemble a rickety dinosaur’s spine. With the absence of a rail, she gingerly started her slow and calculated passage, groping for any obstacle which passed for a branch. Her logical side argued that a fall would not be met with instant death, but this did little to reassure her. What if she banged her head or forgot to open her mouth? Did snakes swim? The walk, so easy with a clear head in the day, was proving to be her tightrope of ruin. Her legs took each step with less accuracy as a slight shake progressed into a noticeable swagger, running beyond her hips into the lower reaches of her abdomen. With all her focus switched to staying upright, Louise failed to notice the uneven join between two intersections on the walkway. She began to fall. Stubbing her toe in the process of tripping, her arms branched out, flailing wildly in the optimistic wish that a tree branch might offer a chance to stop her going down. She hit the wooden planking as a dead weight. With her arms still outstretched, she failed to protect herself. The impact winded her, knocking the last remnants of coherence quickly away. On instinct her hand reached out, seeking reassurance. Instead of any firm grip she found nothing and felt a dizzy panic build as her body slipped towards the edge. Her cotton top was torn as long, spidery hands pulled her back. The grip was firm and dug into her. A knee pushed down hard on her chest, stopping further movement, pinning her to the walkway. A face above the knee cut through her confusion. John grinned as he bent down over her.

Two

Is that you Michael?

Mike visibly jerked, kicking his duvet as he did so. From the comfortable depths of slumber, he now found himself upright and awake. He scratched at a recent tattoo, the colourful pincers of a scorpion flaking under the taunt vest. The etchings were a permanent reminder of downtown Rangoon, his souvenir to never forget a different life, colourful and spontaneous in equal measures. He drew a deep breath. Checking the time his pulse slightly quickened as the new state of alertness placed him on edge. Pemberton often had this effect on him. The older man was often short and direct in a very crisp, formal type of way. The English class-system would probably classify him as old school, the type of person unable to express emotion or sentiment without a constant watch on who might walk in. An aura of strong, silent control had to be portrayed at all times. Standards needed to be maintained. The accompanying bluntness put Mike on edge and he hated himself for it.

The call was half-expected, though perhaps was coming a few weeks late, official news rolling in a poor second to the hot channels of speculation. Mike had read the local paper and heard the gossip merchants hypothesise on likely reasons and outcomes. A string of urgent phone calls and emails had already been exchanged. Over at the Blue Moon Café Sarah Bexley held Mike’s ear the Monday before over a frothing cup of cappuccino. Louise Pemberton, fresh into her belated travelling gap year, had dropped off the horizon and gone missing. It was a trip that they most certainly would have taken together, had Louise not dumped him eight months previously. At the time she cited the desire for more independence and space, though Mike sensed it was more to do with her never having truly fancied him, leave alone any overtures for anything approaching love. Although unspoken, both had known this throughout their year of courtship. It was a surprise that it had gone this long. Despite their split they loosely maintained some contact afterwards, a few drinks after work on occasional Fridays, though the frequency of these had rapidly tailed off. Since Louise had jetted off for South East Asia there hadn’t been a single peep, something that irked Mike considerably, given his interest and expertise in all things travelling. In all things South Asian he sometimes figured that he was as good as any talking guide book, better when modesty permitted such thoughts. He could pour enthusiasm and animation over topics where printed pages could not. As it was he felt side-lined, having spent many an evening elaborating some of his own travel stories, hoping that she found them of use and would come back for more. Now she had gone missing. To a large extent this racked him with equal measures of guilt and pain. His first thoughts were that if it weren’t for his enthusiasm and storytelling of Asian travel she might never have gone. Later he came to reason that knowing Louise she would have gone anyway. Her self-determination and adventurous spirit would have won over and fuelled a burning she had undoubtedly felt to travel. This he couldn’t help but admire her for and felt both pleasure and jealousy on learning of her trip. In a sense she probably needed it. From what he knew, Louise wasn’t ready to settle into the groove of a solid career or relationship. Probably never would be come to that, certainly on the vocational side of things. Given her persona, she would probably hook up with Mr Right when the time suited her. Now her stuffy father Pemberton was on the end of his phone, no doubt demanding to know if or when he last heard from Louise.

Mike pulled himself near to the bedside table and fidgeted around for an unfinished rollup whilst he replied. He would never smoke in the morning, especially a yellowing stale end, but this conversation promised to fret away at his nerves.

Morning, I errm really am sorry to hear about Louise. I’m sure things look worse than they are though. Mike was conscious that each word was carefully pronounced.

It’s been a terrible time for us, Pemberton replied. Louise’s mother and I have been doing all we can to help locate her. I’m sure that there’s a simple explanation, though it’s highly unlike Louise not to stay in touch. One can’t help but worry. The Thai authorities say they are doing all that they can, certainly the Police have no evidence of foul play and the hospitals have drawn a blank. Not sure how seriously they are taking it. Lord knows, we’ve tried to push as much pressure as we can muster on them. The truth is that she could be anywhere. I’m sure you would have told us if you had heard anything?

Quickly realising it to be a question, Mike nervously inhaled the musty smoke as he answered. The inhalation felt unusually harsh and dry against his throat.

Not a thing. She phoned before she left, promising that she would email me her travelogue, but that was the last I heard from her. Took a quick look through some internet sites she liked, but nothing there either. Was half hoping she might leave an online blog on her experiences?

A what? Oh never mind. I’m quite sure that you would have told us. Listen, Pemberton continued, Could you get yourself over here this afternoon. It’s important. Say about 3:00pm?

This last question stumped Mike. Something about the commanding tone told him that this was not a request he should take lightly or ignore. An afternoon with the Pemberton’s held as much appeal to Mike as taking on an actuary career with any public utilities provider. It would be as much uncomfortable as it would be an exercise in multi-layered conversations linked in with topics he cared little about. Often he allowed paranoia to cloud his usual clarity of judgement when seated with the Pembertons, suspecting most questions were set to unwittingly dig past secrets or set a hidden challenge. Just this once he allowed these concerns to be spiked with a dusting of excitement, wondering what on earth it could be about. He knew that in some way it concerned Louise and that coupled with an insatiable sense of misplaced duty towards the Pembertons would compel him to go.

Sure. If there’s a problem I’ll get back to you.

The 3:00pm appointment gave him little time to tie up the loose ends he had hoped to get done. Currently he was temping with a telemarketing company and found that most Saturdays required his attendance in the company’s open plan Bristol office. He hated it. The hours sucked and the pay sucked. Having this Saturday off was a rarity, one he had hoped to savour and enjoy. Last night there was an air of happy relaxation, a blend of good friends and live music tempting him into tipping his pint glass back to his mouth with increasing enthusiasm. The day’s plan was to sleep off the hangover, then potter about getting some odd jobs sorted. He even hoped to squeeze a spot of reading in before going out and repeating the sequence. Now instead he was required to sit on the Pemberton’s sofa and face a hidden agenda and a torrent of questions concerning their head-strong daughter. This could not be done with a foggy head. His percolator was primed in readiness for a stronger than normal dose of coffee. It would be the first of several.

He decided a walk up the hill towards the Pemberton’s was his best option. It wasn’t a long walk and the ten minutes or so would give him time to clear his mind and not over speculate on what they wanted him in attendance for. If they were going to relay bad news or poor out any anger or grief they could easily do so over the phone. Their mock Tudor style house lay down a quiet cul-de-sac near to where the radio masts of Portishead used to prop up the skyline. Portishead offered some old charm character as a satellite town within Bristol’s commuter belt, despite the peripheral sprawl of new estates that had increasingly expanded over the past decade or two. The comparative distance from the urban pace of Bristol helped foster a mind-set that sometimes led to travel plans. It helped incubate ideas about backpacking in countries with dusty roads and chaotic markets. The lack of bright lights and big city probably led to people needing to see beyond their own backyard. Travel ideas spread and could become infectious. If you weren’t off on a travelling adventure you felt left out. So many people Mike had known had made the trip overseas, usually with a stamped holiday working visa for Australia, but invariably with a lengthy stop-off in an Asian hotspot. Whatever Mike’s relationship with her, Louise would have gone anyway. Her curiosity and sense of adventure demanded it.

Confronting the Pemberton’s door, Mike was quick to remember that they hated him rapping too hard on the door with their weighty brass knocker. He was equally glad that the roll-up he had previously been enjoying was hastily tossed aside into a convenient storm drain before he had appeared in full view of the bay window. Such things shouldn’t matter, but counted for much in the judgemental eyes of Mr and Mrs Pemberton. It was best to start on the right foot.

Before having had any chance to take a deep breath and mentally compose, Pemberton had opened the door and was swiftly ushering him in. A firm arm guided him. He was wearing one of his hideous ties, a striped affair popularised in the fifties. If Pemberton were decorating he would doubtless be straightening a knot in the mirror beforehand. To Mike’s surprise he was led past the lounge door (the only room he had previously ever been invited to) and into the dining room, now serving a dual role as Pemberton’s study, with an open Edwardian bureau elegantly occupying a far corner. Two leather chairs were waiting, with Pemberton quickly taking the one nearest his seated wife, adding an air of formality. Intentional or not, it pushed Mike firmly onto his back foot. He took the remaining seat and sat down. He could see the older man had chosen a white shirt and blue tie for the occasion, far from a homely or casual look.

Pemberton cleared his throat and began at once as if dictating to a hapless secretary at the family firm. It was now transparently clear that he meant to become the public voice for the concerns of the Pembertons. His wife had yet to even acknowledge him. She sat and looked on, her face held the look of silent authority. Fixing on every word, it was as if she might quickly interject if a wrong phrase or description were used. It appeared to Mike that this was part of the well-rehearsed script.

"Thank you for coming Michael. We very much appreciate it. I’ll endeavour to make this as brief as possible, so please leave any questions until the end. I hope that by then things will be a lot more apparent. As one can well imagine, this is a very sensitive matter that we have you here