of his crab creations. He brought them into the lounge before dinner and passed them around. He’d decided that twenty dollars would be a fair price.
It was probably a bit cheap, for he could have sold them several times over—they were very popular. Tomorrow he would collect some more and try to sell them before Christmas. That was two days away. For the first time that he could remember, he was looking forward to Christmas. He had some money to buy gifts, and he had some friends to give them to. This Christmas was going to the best ever.
After dinner, he sat at the computer to begin his detective work. First thing was to find when the French tourist went missing. That proved to be easy. He did a Google search for “missing backpackers”, restricted it to New Zealand and got five hits. The best was a site on unsolved crimes which had a whole section on missing tourists. Over the years several had gone missing. Sometimes a body was found, more often not. Most of them were women.
Monique Lafleur had been twenty-two when she went missing on New Year’s Day five years earlier. She had been travelling with a group of other French people, but had split from them to visit Charleston. Apparently some ancestor had come to the district during the gold rush and never returned. She was hoping to find something about him, somebody who recalled the name, something in the records, or even a gravestone.
She was listed as missing when she failed to rejoin her friends in Queenstown on the arranged date. Police traced her movements to Charleston where she was reported to have had lunch at the pub. There, she had studied the old photos and questioned the drinkers about a certain name. Nobody could quite remember what that name was, except it sounded French. One of the drinkers pointed her in the direction of the Catholic cemetery, and she set off up the road with her pack on her back. That was the last anybody saw of her.
At first the police were very hopeful of getting more information because she was wearing a distinctive, brightred dress. A dress was considered unusual wear for a backpacker. Yet the police had got no further information. She had walked up the road, and seemingly disappeared.
Despite ten days of searching, not a single clue was found. Eventually, the police abandoned the search. They had found nothing to suggest foul play. The general feeling was that she had fallen down a pit or water ditch, and the chances of ever finding her were remote. However, the file was still open and the police would welcome any newinformation. The site had file and telephone numbers if anybody wanted to make a call.
Tony wasn’t yet ready to call the police, but he was mighty suspicious. The woman had last been seen walking in the direction of Duggan’s shop. What if she had left the cemetery, and continued walking up the road? The only things further up the road were Tree Frog Lodge and Duggan’s shop. The shop could have been her next stop. If she’d gone in there and Duggan was by himself…
But Duggan’s shop might not have been there. That was the next thing to find out—when did Jamie Duggan arrive? Fred or Lofty were sure to know. He would ask them tomorrow. In the meantime he entered “Jamie Duggan” as a Google search and got hundreds of hits. He then added Charleston and got nothing. Next, he replaced the Charleston with French—hundreds again. This was getting nowhere. Yet he had a feeling that Duggan might have left his mark somewhere in the world. He tried “James Duggan” + “French Polynesia” and bingo he had a single hit. A newspaper report listed James Duggan, vanilla farmer of Mangareva, as being convicted of rioting in Tahiti. He was one of many arrested during a protest against French nuclear weapons in September 1995. The article said that France had just resumed testing bombs on Mururoa atoll.
Tony was well pleased—it had to be the man, and it supported the idea that Duggan hated the French. The
It was probably a bit cheap, for he could have sold them several times over—they were very popular. Tomorrow he would collect some more and try to sell them before Christmas. That was two days away. For the first time that he could remember, he was looking forward to Christmas. He had some money to buy gifts, and he had some friends to give them to. This Christmas was going to the best ever.
After dinner, he sat at the computer to begin his detective work. First thing was to find when the French tourist went missing. That proved to be easy. He did a Google search for “missing backpackers”, restricted it to New Zealand and got five hits. The best was a site on unsolved crimes which had a whole section on missing tourists. Over the years several had gone missing. Sometimes a body was found, more often not. Most of them were women.
Monique Lafleur had been twenty-two when she went missing on New Year’s Day five years earlier. She had been travelling with a group of other French people, but had split from them to visit Charleston. Apparently some ancestor had come to the district during the gold rush and never returned. She was hoping to find something about him, somebody who recalled the name, something in the records, or even a gravestone.
She was listed as missing when she failed to rejoin her friends in Queenstown on the arranged date. Police traced her movements to Charleston where she was reported to have had lunch at the pub. There, she had studied the old photos and questioned the drinkers about a certain name. Nobody could quite remember what that name was, except it sounded French. One of the drinkers pointed her in the direction of the Catholic cemetery, and she set off up the road with her pack on her back. That was the last anybody saw of her.
At first the police were very hopeful of getting more information because she was wearing a distinctive, brightred dress. A dress was considered unusual wear for a backpacker. Yet the police had got no further information. She had walked up the road, and seemingly disappeared.
Despite ten days of searching, not a single clue was found. Eventually, the police abandoned the search. They had found nothing to suggest foul play. The general feeling was that she had fallen down a pit or water ditch, and the chances of ever finding her were remote. However, the file was still open and the police would welcome any newinformation. The site had file and telephone numbers if anybody wanted to make a call.
Tony wasn’t yet ready to call the police, but he was mighty suspicious. The woman had last been seen walking in the direction of Duggan’s shop. What if she had left the cemetery, and continued walking up the road? The only things further up the road were Tree Frog Lodge and Duggan’s shop. The shop could have been her next stop. If she’d gone in there and Duggan was by himself…
But Duggan’s shop might not have been there. That was the next thing to find out—when did Jamie Duggan arrive? Fred or Lofty were sure to know. He would ask them tomorrow. In the meantime he entered “Jamie Duggan” as a Google search and got hundreds of hits. He then added Charleston and got nothing. Next, he replaced the Charleston with French—hundreds again. This was getting nowhere. Yet he had a feeling that Duggan might have left his mark somewhere in the world. He tried “James Duggan” + “French Polynesia” and bingo he had a single hit. A newspaper report listed James Duggan, vanilla farmer of Mangareva, as being convicted of rioting in Tahiti. He was one of many arrested during a protest against French nuclear weapons in September 1995. The article said that France had just resumed testing bombs on Mururoa atoll.
Tony was well pleased—it had to be the man, and it supported the idea that Duggan hated the French. The
Similar Books
