by Amanda Fleet
She glanced down at his laptop next to the phone, debating whether she should look at it there or take it away with her. Taking it away would be easier, but could it be removing evidence from a crime scene? But since there was no tape up, was it actually a crime scene officially? She hesitated for a moment, staring at it, then unplugged it and put it in her bag. Behind her, someone cleared their throat, startling her out of her skin and she whirled around, realising she hadn’t shut the front door properly. She shoved her hands into her pockets to hide her gloves.
‘Hello?’ A skinny man in his late forties stood in the doorway, frowning at her.
‘Hello.’ Citrus scythed through her as her heart pounded.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m a friend of Patrick’s. I… er… he called me… I’ve come to feed Oscar. The cat.’
She sized him up. Surely this guy was too scrawny to be able to take out Patrick? But maybe there had been more than one? Her mind raced. If she ran to the back door would she get it open in time? And what was beyond the recycling bins? How did you get out of the yard? Did it back on to the train line? Or was it just a road?
Her attention snapped back to the man and to her relief, he nodded.
‘I’m Cameron—I live next door. I saw that the door was open.’
Summer sighed, her heart rate steadying. She wanted to ask him if he’d heard or seen anything odd but stopped herself. She was just here to feed the cat. She forced herself to smile.
‘Pleased to meet you, and I’m glad that Patrick’s neighbours are so careful. I’m just going. No doubt I’ll see you again.’
‘How long is Patrick away for?’
‘I don’t know. You know Patrick—never one for plans!’
‘I don’t really know him that well. Just to nod to. Pass the time of day and all.’
He smiled and left her alone. She picked up the list and the scrap of paper with numbers on and slid them into her bag, her hands still shaking, before she pulled her gloves off, dropped them into her bag and stepped through the open doorway. Cameron was waiting in the communal hall and he watched her while she locked Patrick’s door before nodding to her and returning to his flat. Summer breathed deeply, her nerves shot to pieces.
***
Back at her house, she brewed a pot of coffee and settled down in her study to look over the prints of the pictures she had taken. It barely looked like Patrick’s flat, it was so sparse. She read down the to-do list:
1. check out the blogs.
2. look at the accounts.
3. email Moyenda—tell him Limbani’s in Kent and Mabvuto’s in Chicago (Where are Henry and Tendai and when did they disappear?)
She remembered Moyenda from the previous autumn when she had been in Malawi with Patrick. An earnest, intense man, about thirty and slightly built, he was the project manager at Samala, a Malawian charity that worked with orphaned children. He was passionate about the work the charity did, always doing his utmost for the children there. She’d photographed them playing football and been mobbed by them, all of them desperate to be in the pictures, all of them shouting ‘Aunty Summer, Aunty Summer!’ She’d found it so old-fashioned for the children to refer to all older men and women as if they were related. It was not a notion her parents had entertained even when she was small. But she’d loved how the Malawian children had all happily accepted that she was named after a season. Certainly, alongside Happiness, Freedom and Godknows, her name was utterly unremarkable and not something for her to be teased or beaten up over.
Something about Malawi had captured Patrick’s heart and he became passionate about the country and determined to help the children as much as he could; this enthusiasm shone through in the articles he wrote for the Malawi–Scotland Alliance—the MSA—and in the fundraising talks he gave about Samala.
She leaned back in her chair, her brows crumpling. What the hell was he mixed up in? What had happened to leave his phone smashed on the ground and his shoe ripped off like that? Patrick was a communications manager for the MSA, he was a bit of a playboy and he enjoyed a drink. How did any of that lead to him going missing? Had he stolen something bigger than a bank card this time?
She plugged in his laptop and switched it on, hoping that Patrick wouldn’t have been sensible or secretive enough to have password-protected it. She was in luck.
She started to look through the files. There were a few spreadsheets which seemed to outline household expenses but they were badly laid out and Summer couldn’t make sense of them. The main folder contained files related to work or to Samala—articles or talks. He also had a series of electronic notebooks full of jottings and clippings—one for each article he’d written. There was work for a new piece but it seemed very preliminary and consisted largely of reminders to himself to email people in Malawi. She ran her eye over the list, recognising some of the people—Moses Chizuna, the government minister who’d helped to process the paperwork when Moyenda had been setting up Samala; Bradley Collinson, the minister of the local church; and Mzondi Malilo, another official at the government and board member of Samala—and wondered what the article was about. It didn’t seem as though he’d started writing it yet.
There was another folder on Samala. Inside were a series of letters applying for funding, a number of spreadsheets and some stories about the children and the history of the project. The accounts showed that the finances for Samala were healthy, with large deposits coming in at irregular intervals. Many of them were labelled—Unicef, Rotary, book sale etc.—but the larger ones weren’t and some of these had electronic highlighter around them. They were shown in kwacha rather than having been converted from pounds, so she assumed they were funds raised in Malawi rather than transferred from the UK. Maybe Patrick didn’t have the full details about them. Maybe that was what he’d have been checking with Moyenda.
The last file comprised a series of family trees drawn for seven of the children in the project. Summer remembered some of the boys, recalling the sadness she’d felt when they explained that most of their families were dead. She looked at the lists. Some of the family members were boxed in red—generally grandparents or distant relatives. Patrick had helped to draw up family trees like this when they’d both been out in Malawi last autumn, saying that it was important to find out who the remaining members of the family were. Moyenda would work with them to allow the child to stay with their community, adopted by these distant relatives. Orphanages could be appalling and Samala was keen for the children to remain with their family, however distant, as long as it was safe. She closed the file down, depressed by her memories and thoughts of these children’s lives.
She hesitated over opening Patrick’s email. Was this an invasion of privacy too far, like reading letters? Would it help to work out what had happened? She clicked the icon. The inbox opened, but prompted her for a password to check for new mail. She clicked on cancel, and scrolled through the existing messages. Unlike her email where the inbox could run to hundreds of messages, Patrick’s was almost empty. There were a couple of emails from Moyenda, some from a local Rotary club promising money for Samala, and a few from work. She opened the sent messages folder but it was as empty as the inbox—just a reply to the secretary of the Rotary club, a few emails to Moyenda asking if he’d seen various children and saying he was worried about them, and one message to a John Saunders asking if they could meet up. She didn’t find a reply. She checked the deleted messages folder but it was empty.
Summer closed the machine down, disappointed not to have learned more, and leaned back in her seat, considering everything. It turned out she knew almost nothing about her ex-lover. There were few clues in the flat, there was nothing out of the ordinary on his laptop, yet there was something happening in his life that was serious enough for someone to have made him disappear.
She produced the two scraps of paper she’d retrieved and stared at them. The numbers still made no sense—they weren’t long enough to be phone numbers and
they didn’t appear to add up in any way to be accounts. She put the paper aside and looked at the to-do list. Check out the blogs; look at the accounts; email Moyenda about some of the boys. All three items had also been in the jottings for the article. She opened her own laptop and started to compose an email.
‘Dear Moyenda, How are you? How is your wife? I hope that the rains have stopped and the grain is ripening well in Malawi.’
Summer gritted her teeth over all the pleasantries that were needed. She would far rather just get to the point but that wasn’t the Malawian way and she didn’t want to offend Moyenda.
‘I hope that you remember me. I’m the photographer who came out to Blantyre last October with Patrick—Summer Morris. How is Samala going? How are all the children? I hope they’re all well and enjoying school.
‘I’m emailing you because I’m worried about Patrick. I had a very strange call from him and I wondered if he was in trouble. He’s disappeared. When I went to his flat, there was a note to contact you about the boys and he seems to have been very worried about some of them according to other notes I found. There was a to-do list that said, “Check out the blogs; look at the accounts; email Moyenda—tell him Limbani’s in Kent and Mabvuto’s in Chicago (Where are Henry and Tendai and when did they disappear?)” Do you know what any of this means? You’re the person who I thought he’d talk to the most and I wondered whether you knew if he was in trouble?
‘If you can think of anything, please let me know. I’m very worried about him. Many thanks, Summer.’
She clicked on send and closed her laptop down. She clicked on her phone and listened to the messages again. The first woman’s voice was definitely familiar. She ran though all her female friends but came up blank.
She walked slowly to the kitchen and made a cafetière of coffee. While it steeped, she scrolled through the numbers on her own phone.
‘Hi Sandra. How are you? … Yeah, fine thanks… Have you heard from Patrick recently? … I know… I know! Have you heard from him? … A month? Really? … Do you know if anyone else has seen him or heard from him recently? … Okay, I’ll try them. Yes, I know he won’t want to talk to me… It’s just… Hey, it doesn’t matter. Thanks.’
She pushed the plunger on the cafetière, poured a mug of treacly coffee and dropped two lumps of sugar in. She tried four more mutual friends and got the same response from all of them. No one had seen Patrick for a while, they didn’t think he would want to hear from her, maybe he was working out in Malawi again. She called his office number. It went straight to answerphone, but it did give another number to try. Summer called it.
‘Grace Stephens.’
‘Hi. Er, this is a friend of Patrick’s. Patrick Forrester. I’ve been trying to get hold of him but with no success and I wondered if he was back in Malawi?’
‘No, not at the moment. He was out there at the end of last month but isn’t due there again for a while. Who’s calling?’
‘Sorry, Summer Morris. We met briefly last year, I think, but you probably don’t remember me.’
‘The Summer Morris who went out to Malawi with Patrick to take photos?’
‘How many people with as dumb a name as this can there be? Yes, the very same.’
Grace laughed. Summer imagined her sitting at her desk, her short grey hair curling around her face. She had the office just down the hall from Patrick’s and Summer wondered what Grace knew about her and Patrick.
‘When did you last see him?’ Summer tried to keep the emotion out of her voice.
‘Oh, er, two Fridays ago. He’s on holiday at the moment but he should be back on Monday. Is there a problem?’
‘Er… no. No. I just wanted to get hold of him but his mobile doesn’t seem to be working. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’
She desperately wanted to say, ‘Actually yes, there is a problem. Patrick rang me in a panic and then it sounded like he was being beaten up.’ Grace was a serious, sensible woman who would probably know exactly what to do, but something made Summer feel foolish and hesitant all of a sudden and she bit back the words.
‘No problem, Summer. If he pops in, I’ll tell him you were after him. Can I help with anything else?’
‘No. No thank you. Hang on. Yes. If you see him, could you ask him to call me? He should have my number, but just in case, here it is.’
She trotted out the digits thinking that if her phone got stamped on, she would have no idea what most people’s numbers were. She made a mental note to back up her SIM card and rang off. Under the notes she’d scribbled after every call, she added the dates when each person had last seen Patrick. The most recent had been Grace, eleven days earlier.
She breathed deeply, the threatening phone messages replaying in an endless loop in her head. What was he mixed up in? And why weren’t the police doing something?
Wednesday Afternoon
‘I’m sorry, Ms Morris, but I can’t help you. The matter has been passed to Edinburgh who’ve been asked to keep you informed of any developments. Since you haven’t been informed of any developments, presumably there’s nothing to tell you.’
Summer could have screamed. It had taken her ten minutes of staring at the door to the police station before she’d summoned the strength to cross the road and approach the reception desk and her anxiety was almost overwhelming her.
‘But, as I’ve already told you, they aren’t actually investigating it.’
‘There are two murders to be solved there,’ said the desk sergeant drily.
Summer watched as his expression switched from irritation to relief and glanced over her shoulder.
‘Problems?’ asked the newcomer.
‘No, sir,’ said the desk sergeant, just as Summer said, ‘Yes.’
The man who’d arrived glanced from one to the other, humour twitching in his lips. His close-cropped dark hair was just on the long side of severe and his bitter-chocolate eyes settled on Summer.
‘What seems to be the matter?’
‘What seems to be the matter is that I reported an incident yesterday and no one seems to be interested.’
‘An incident?’
‘A friend of mine called me and it sounded like he was being attacked and no one knows where he is.’
The dark eyes swung to the desk sergeant, brows raised.
‘He’s gone missing in Edinburgh, sir. Not near here.’
‘And Edinburgh don’t give a toss!’ interjected Summer.
‘You haven’t exactly given them much to go on, and they do have two murders to investigate,’ flashed back an exasperated sergeant.
‘Are you his wife?’ The newcomer looked at her left hand.
‘No, just a friend. But he called me and now he’s missing and I’m worried something terrible has happened and no one seems in the least bit interested.’
He nodded, his eyes boring into her. She blinked away old memories of raised batons and shouting, her stomach knotting as she forced herself to hold her ground in the face of his penetrating stare. Finally, his gaze swung away, allowing her some respite and for mauve to join the kaleidoscope of orange and black sweeping through her.
‘I’ll take this, sergeant.’
The sergeant looked relieved. The newcomer held out his hand, his expression suddenly soft.
‘Detective Sergeant LB Stewart.’
She hesitated, and then took his hand. His grip was firm but not aggressive. ‘Summer Morris.’
His lips hesitated on the brink of a smile then stepped back.
‘Shall we go and have coffee somewhere and you can tell me what’s worrying you? Then if it seems as if I should be kicking Edinburgh up the arse about it, we can come back here and make a full report. How does that sound?’
It wasn’t really a question as he was already gesturing for her to accompany him out of the station. Summer shouldered her bag and followed him. He didn’t speak to her until they were both seated in a quiet nearby cafe and had ordered two coffees, giving her time to study h
im. He was a big bear of a man, broad-shouldered, well over six feet tall and with stubble that if it were two millimetres longer would be classed as a beard. For some reason, his bulk reassured her rather than raised old ghosts.
‘So, what’s happened?’ he said as the coffees arrived.
‘Could you tell me again who I’m talking to please?’
‘Detective Sergeant LB Stewart.’
‘LB?’ She arched her eyebrows but there wasn’t a flicker in his face. ‘Is it okay for you to be out of the station, Detective Sergeant LB Stewart?’
He canted his head. ‘I’m on holiday. I was only popping by to check on something, but if I need to, I’ll give Edinburgh a shove for you. What’s happened?’
‘You’re off duty?’ Summer sighed irritably and folded her arms. She should have followed her instincts and left it alone.
‘Do you want to tell me what’s happened or not? If you don’t, you can buy your own coffee.’
His face remained neutral but his eyes spat out, I’m on holiday. I’m doing you a favour. I don’t have to. Summer swallowed. Could he actually be willing to help her? Or was it lip-service as usual?
Only one way to find out.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I’ve been given the brush-off by everyone and just when I think someone might listen to me, they say they’re on holiday.’
She tore the top off a packet of sugar and poured the contents into her mug, repeating the action with a second sachet.
‘Tell me what’s happened.’ His voice was soothing.
Summer flicked her eyes up to meet his. He nodded for her to talk. Maybe it wasn’t just lip-service then.
‘Yesterday, I got a phone call from a friend. All he said was “Summer, please, you have to help me.” And then he cried out as if he’d been hurt and there was a horrible crunching sound and the line went dead. And I’ve been to his flat and he’s not there, and it doesn’t look like a burglary, and his phone was all smashed up outside the flat and there was a shoe on the floor too. I took pictures of it all.’