because I’m her boss.
‘You are late,’ she added, still smiling.
Not much respect there. But she wasn’t being critical, she was just stating a fact. I was normally in the shop by nine and it was now nine-thirty.
‘There was a mango queue,’ I said.
‘I see,’ she said, even though she didn’t.
‘All the way down Soi Thonglor.’
‘I told them you wouldn’t be long.’
‘I see,’ I said, even though I didn’t.
‘They’re waiting, in your office.’
I frowned. ‘And they would be…?’
‘An American couple. They need your help.’
There was a coffee maker by the cash register and I poured myself a cup and took it upstairs. The door to my office was open and my two visitors looked up, smiling hesitantly. He was a big man run to fat, in his mid to late forties. His wife was half his size, with wispy blonde hair, and probably five years younger. He pushed himself up out of his chair and offered me his hand. It was a big hand, almost square with the fingernails neatly-clipped, but it had no strength in it when we shook. ‘Jonathon Clare,’ he said in a Midwestern accent. ‘This is my wife Isabelle.’
‘Nice to meet you, Mr Clare,’ I said. Mrs Clare smiled and offered me her hand. It was a child’s hand, milk- white skin with delicate fingers as brittle as porcelain. ‘Mrs Clare,’ I said, shaking her hand as carefully as possible. I went and sat behind my desk and flashed them a reassuring smile. ‘So how can I help you?’ I asked.
‘Matt Richards at the embassy said that you might be able to find our son,’ said Mr Clare, dropping back into his chair. It creaked under his weight.
I nodded. Matt Richards was an attache at the US Embassy. He was an acquaintance rather than a friend, someone I bumped into from time to time on the cocktail party circuit. He was an affable enough guy but hard to get close to. I kind of figured he was a spook, CIA or maybe DEA. Whatever, he was cagey enough never to let his guard down with me and I never really cared enough to do any serious probing. It wasn’t the first time he’d sent along people who needed help that the embassy couldn’t – or wouldn’t – provide.
I picked up a pen and reached for a yellow legal pad. There were a whole host of questions that I’d need answering, but from experience I’d found that it was often better just to let them get it off their chests as quickly as possible. ‘I’m listening,’ I said.
Mr Clare looked across at his wife and she nodded at him with raised eyebrows. He was twice her size but I got the feeling that she was the one who ruled the roost in the Clare household. ‘We’re Mormons,’ he said, slowly. ‘From Salt Lake City. Utah. I’m telling you that because I want you to know that Jon Junior is a God-fearing boy who has honoured his mother and father since the day he was born. He’s not a boy to go wandering off without telling us where he’s going and what he’s doing.’
Mr Clare reached inside his suit jacket and slid a colour photograph across the desk. I picked it up. It was a graduation photograph, Jon Junior grinning at the camera with an all-American smile, his wheat-coloured hair sticking out from under a mortarboard, his blue eyes gleaming with triumph, a diploma in his hand.
‘Second in his class,’ said Mr Clare proudly. ‘Scholarships all the way. A man couldn’t ask for a better son.’
‘The apple of our eye,’ said Mrs Clare, nodding in agreement.
‘How old is he?’ I asked.
‘Twenty-one,’ said Mr Clare.
‘Twenty-two next month,’ added his wife.
Mr Clare handed me a sheet of paper. ‘We have a photocopy of Jon Junior’s passport. We also told him to photocopy all his important documents. You can never be too careful.’
‘Indeed,’ I said.
‘We’ve already got his birthday present,’ said Mr Clare. ‘A digital camera. State of the art.’
Mrs Clare reached over and held her husband’s hand. He smiled at her with tight lips.
‘And he’s in Thailand?’ I asked.
‘He came two months ago,’ said Mr Clare. ‘He wanted to take some time off before joining me in the family business. Janitorial supplies. Cleaning equipment. We’re one of the biggest in the state. There’s barely a hospital or school in Utah that doesn’t have our soap in its dispensers.’
I decided it was time to cut to the chase before I got the complete Clare family history. ‘And when was the last time you heard from Jon Junior?’ I asked.
‘Three weeks ago,’ said Mr Clare. ‘He phoned us every week. And wrote. Letters. Postcards.’
‘Do you remember when exactly he phoned?’
Mr Clare looked over at his wife. ‘March the seventh,’ she said. ‘It was a Sunday. He always phoned on a Sunday.’
‘And when did he fly in?’
Mr Clare looked over at his wife again. ‘January the sixteenth,’ she said.
’Did he apply for a visa in the States?’ I asked.
‘Why does that matter?’ asked Mr Clare.
‘If you apply for a tourist visa overseas then you get sixty days, which can be extended for a further thirty days,’ I explained. ‘If you arrive without a visa, immigration will give you thirty days in which case Jon Junior will have overstayed.’
‘Is that bad?’ asked Mrs Clare.
‘It’s not too serious,’ I said.
And in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t.
Mr Clare was nodding. ‘He applied to the Thai Consulate in Chicago. He had a visa.’
I made a note. ‘And which airline did he use?’
‘Delta,’ said Mr Clare. ‘He flew through Seattle.’
I made another note, then looked up, smiling reassuringly. They seemed less worried now that I was asking for specific information. ‘The letters that Jon Junior sent, do you have them?’
Mr Clare nodded and looked across at his wife. She clicked open a small black handbag and handed me half a dozen airmail envelopes. I put them down next to the photograph.
‘And since the phone call, you haven’t heard from him?’
The Clares shook their heads. ‘Not a word,’ said the father. ‘And we’ve spoken to our bank in Salt Lake City and he hasn’t used his credit card since he spoke to us.’
‘What sort of phone did he have? Did he use a local Sim card? With a Thai number?’
Mr Clare nodded. ‘He bought it soon after he arrived. We’ve called it several times. The first time it was answered by a Thai man but since then it’s been switched off.’
I pushed a notepad towards him and asked him to write down the number.
‘What about emails?’ I asked. ‘Did he email you?’
‘We’re not big fans of emails,’ said Mrs Clare. ‘I also say that if it’s important enough to write, then it’s important enough to put down on paper.’
‘He did have an email account, but that was just for friends,’ said Mr Clare. ‘With his mother and I, he wrote or phoned.’
I asked him to write down the email address. ‘He came here as a tourist, right? He was just here on vacation?’
‘He was a tourist, but he said he was going to get a job teaching English,’ said Mr Clare.
I sat back in my chair. ‘I thought you said he was just taking a break before joining you in the family firm.’
‘He changed his mind. He said he’d fallen in love with the place.’
‘With the place? Or with someone?’
Mr Clare frowned. ‘What are getting at?’
‘He might have met a girl. Or a boy.’
‘Our son is not gay, Mr Turtledove,’ said Mrs Clare, icily.
‘I bet he could have teamed up with a guy he’d met. Maybe gone up country, trekking with the hilltribes. It’s
