where it passes west of Belvidere Mountain, but became lost or had an accident. They will also be checking the areas around the trail for several miles north and south.
Stephanie had been staying in the town of Bleakwater Ridge with her grandfather, local resident Edward Markham. Mr Markham was unavailable for comment yesterday, but friends said they were helping him cope with his granddaughter's disappearance and that they were praying for her safe return.
I wondered whether anyone else had noticed Flint's self-contradiction. He hadn’t wanted to follow ‘wild guesses’ about her whereabouts, but jumped straight on the Long Trail theory. Maybe the State Police had had access to information not in the press report, and that's what had sent them haring all over the mountains.
Four days after the last article, there was one final piece on the story, further from the front page than before.
VSP Launch Flyer Campaign For Missing Hiker
by Elijah Charman
The State Police are printing flyers of missing hiker Stephanie Markham in the hope of turning up fresh information. Search teams have found no trace of the 20-year-old despite scouring the area in which she was last seen.
Detective Sergeant Karl Flint said: 'We'll be distributing flyers with Stephanie's photo and description all over the northern half of the state in the hope of jogging people's memories. We're hoping someone saw her after she left the town of Bleakwater Ridge and maybe they can shed light on her whereabouts.’
The VSP had been concentrating on a section of the Long Trail until yesterday morning, when the hunt was scaled down. Officials would not comment on the chances of finding Stephanie alive.
I copied down the phone number of the paper’s editorial department and hoped that Elijah Charman still worked there. If anyone knew any details that weren't in the stories, it’d be him. Or Flint, but I didn’t rate my chances of getting information out of him.
As luck had it, Elijah Charman not only still worked at the Press , he was also in town and free to meet me for coffee. I was on my third double espresso and starting to get a little buzzed when the journalist bustled in, round and swaddled in bright winter clothing like a beach ball topped with a pudgy bald head beneath a woolen hat. He shed several layers and eventually sat opposite. I asked him what he wanted to drink.
“Large chocolate with vanilla,” he said, then sneezed. "Sorry, think I'm going down with a touch of flu.”
I placed the order. Said, “Right time of year for it.”
“So you're interested in Stephanie Markham, Mr Rourke. What's a private detective from Boston want with a two-year-old missing persons case? I wouldn't have thought your agency did much work up here.”
“I’m a friend of Ed Markham,” I told him. It was a slight exaggeration, but not an outright lie. “Someone told me what happened to his granddaughter and I thought there was a chance it was connected to a case I'm working on, so I'm checking it out.”
Elijah's chocolate arrived. “You're lucky I don't often trash my notes. Without them to push my memory, I wouldn't have much to say that you wouldn't already have read. Not that there's a lot worth adding, I should warn you.”
“So warned.”
He pulled a wad of folded paper out of his coat and started skimming over the ballpoint scribbles that covered the pages. “Let's see... I don't think there was anything much on the actual disappearance that wasn't in the paper. The last person to see Stephanie alive was a woman called Brenda Ingledow; all she could really give us for a quote was, ‘Yup, I saw a young woman walk up the highway past my house about ten in the morning,’ so we left her out of the story. I got her name from an officer at the Sheriff's Department. No one around town knew Stephanie. There were some who knew the grandfather, though, and that she was staying with him for a couple of weeks.” He flicked forward,
Stephanie had been staying in the town of Bleakwater Ridge with her grandfather, local resident Edward Markham. Mr Markham was unavailable for comment yesterday, but friends said they were helping him cope with his granddaughter's disappearance and that they were praying for her safe return.
I wondered whether anyone else had noticed Flint's self-contradiction. He hadn’t wanted to follow ‘wild guesses’ about her whereabouts, but jumped straight on the Long Trail theory. Maybe the State Police had had access to information not in the press report, and that's what had sent them haring all over the mountains.
Four days after the last article, there was one final piece on the story, further from the front page than before.
VSP Launch Flyer Campaign For Missing Hiker
by Elijah Charman
The State Police are printing flyers of missing hiker Stephanie Markham in the hope of turning up fresh information. Search teams have found no trace of the 20-year-old despite scouring the area in which she was last seen.
Detective Sergeant Karl Flint said: 'We'll be distributing flyers with Stephanie's photo and description all over the northern half of the state in the hope of jogging people's memories. We're hoping someone saw her after she left the town of Bleakwater Ridge and maybe they can shed light on her whereabouts.’
The VSP had been concentrating on a section of the Long Trail until yesterday morning, when the hunt was scaled down. Officials would not comment on the chances of finding Stephanie alive.
I copied down the phone number of the paper’s editorial department and hoped that Elijah Charman still worked there. If anyone knew any details that weren't in the stories, it’d be him. Or Flint, but I didn’t rate my chances of getting information out of him.
As luck had it, Elijah Charman not only still worked at the Press , he was also in town and free to meet me for coffee. I was on my third double espresso and starting to get a little buzzed when the journalist bustled in, round and swaddled in bright winter clothing like a beach ball topped with a pudgy bald head beneath a woolen hat. He shed several layers and eventually sat opposite. I asked him what he wanted to drink.
“Large chocolate with vanilla,” he said, then sneezed. "Sorry, think I'm going down with a touch of flu.”
I placed the order. Said, “Right time of year for it.”
“So you're interested in Stephanie Markham, Mr Rourke. What's a private detective from Boston want with a two-year-old missing persons case? I wouldn't have thought your agency did much work up here.”
“I’m a friend of Ed Markham,” I told him. It was a slight exaggeration, but not an outright lie. “Someone told me what happened to his granddaughter and I thought there was a chance it was connected to a case I'm working on, so I'm checking it out.”
Elijah's chocolate arrived. “You're lucky I don't often trash my notes. Without them to push my memory, I wouldn't have much to say that you wouldn't already have read. Not that there's a lot worth adding, I should warn you.”
“So warned.”
He pulled a wad of folded paper out of his coat and started skimming over the ballpoint scribbles that covered the pages. “Let's see... I don't think there was anything much on the actual disappearance that wasn't in the paper. The last person to see Stephanie alive was a woman called Brenda Ingledow; all she could really give us for a quote was, ‘Yup, I saw a young woman walk up the highway past my house about ten in the morning,’ so we left her out of the story. I got her name from an officer at the Sheriff's Department. No one around town knew Stephanie. There were some who knew the grandfather, though, and that she was staying with him for a couple of weeks.” He flicked forward,
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