The Wrong Kind of Clouds

by Amanda Fleet

  DS Stewart stirred his coffee. ‘Let’s take this more slowly. He’s not your husband, but your lover? Boyfriend?’

  ‘No. No. Neither of those. Not any more. In fact, I’m surprised he called me.’

  ‘Why?’

  Summer paused. ‘Er, well… we were lovers but not for a long time now. Er…’

  ‘It didn’t end well?’ He shifted his mug so the handle was on his right.

  ‘It could have ended better.’

  ‘But nonetheless, he called you and you think he was being attacked.’

  ‘Mmm. And the background sounds—I thought it could have been in his flat, and I told the police that, but then when I called and asked for an update, nothing had happened so I went down to see if there was anything there.’

  ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘I still have keys.’

  His eyes widened; his expression hardened. ‘Does the phrase crime scene mean nothing to you?’

  ‘There was no tape up,’ she retorted. ‘And Edinburgh certainly don’t seem to be treating it as a crime.’

  ‘They’re busy.’

  ‘With two murders, I know. They could have three soon!’

  He said nothing, his brows creeping up. ‘And what exactly did you find at his flat?’

  Summer told him, and then outlined what she’d found on Patrick’s laptop. There was a long silence from him.

  ‘Well?’ prompted Summer.

  ‘Well what?’

  Summer sucked her teeth, shaking her head fractionally. ‘Something has obviously happened to him!’

  He was staring at her, making her uncomfortable. She produced the pack of prints she’d made.

  ‘I took all these. Maybe they’ll be helpful. And the phone and the shoe—they’re still in the plastic bags in my car.’

  He placed a long index finger on the prints, drawing them slowly towards him, his jaw hard. He cleared his throat before speaking.

  ‘Let me get this straight—you think your friend was attacked at or near his flat, you go there, it looks as if your suspicions are right because you find the back door left open, a damaged phone and a single shoe, and instead of calling the police, you decide to photograph everything and remove these pieces of evidence from the scene? The only help that’s been is to ruin the chance of any kind of conviction based on forensics, if indeed there has been a crime committed. Courts are quite picky about chain of evidence, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, with hindsight, that wasn’t the right thing to do. I wasn’t thinking. But at least I photographed everything,’ she flashed back, feeling sick and lime-green.

  ‘Mmm. Why did you do that?’

  ‘I thought it would be helpful.’ She sounded suspicious even to herself.

  ‘But calling the police wouldn’t be?’

  ‘I’d already called them! They weren’t doing anything. No one was taking me seriously.’

  DS Stewart pinched his lips together as he breathed deeply. ‘So why might your friend have been attacked?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t think of any reason why he would be. I mean, he can seriously piss people off, but… no. I don’t know why someone would attack him.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s taller than me but not as tall as you, has blond, floppy hair, grey eyes, longish face, quite good-looking. He’s er… thirty-four. Birthday was March.’

  ‘And personality?’

  She thought for a moment, staring out of the window, watching the pigeons while she marshalled her thoughts.

  ‘He’s a chameleon. He blends in, whatever circumstances he finds himself in, whether it’s a posh dinner or playing with street kids in the dirt in Malawi.’

  ‘Malawi?’

  ‘He works for the Malawi–Scotland Alliance. He’s a communications officer. He used to be a journalist. We went out to Malawi together last year to do some articles for them. I’m a photographer.’

  ‘Ah.’

  He looked down at the photographs as if they suddenly made sense. Just as he was about to ask another question, Summer grabbed the photos back and started rifling through them.

  ‘The carving’s not there.’ She put them back on the table.

  ‘What carving?’ DS Stewart watched her, unmoving. His stillness was making Summer’s stress veer towards bolting level. She blinked away the fracturing colours and tried to breathe freely.

  ‘The one of the chameleons. I hadn’t realised until I described him as one. He bought it when we were at the Mua mission in Malawi. I remember the carvers were surprised, and glad to sell it.’

  ‘Where? Why?’

  ‘The Mua mission? It’s a heritage centre we went to which also has craftsmen working there—they do some really beautiful things. Patrick saw this carving of two chameleons and just adored it.’

  He still hadn’t looked at the pictures. She slid them back towards him but he didn’t even glance down at them.

  ‘But the craftsmen were surprised by that and glad to sell it?’

  ‘Mmm. Chameleons are thought of as unlucky in Malawi—they’re thought to bring death.’ Her voice quavered and she gazed down at the muddy depths of her coffee.

  His eyes finally travelled over the pictures. ‘And you’re sure the carving is missing?’

  She nodded rapidly, not trusting her voice to hold.

  ‘When did you last see it?’

  ‘Oh God, the end of January. When I was last there.’

  He straightened the pictures, carefully aligning them with the edge of the table.

  ‘So it could have gone at any time between then and now?’

  ‘Well, yes, except that Patrick wouldn’t get rid of it. He loved it.’

  DS Stewart nodded. ‘Why do Malawians carve them if they’re considered unlucky?’

  Summer looked up and smiled for the first time. ‘Because stupid, rich, white people don’t know the myths and buy them?’

  His lips flickered into a smile and his expression softened for a moment.

  ‘Is the carving valuable? Could it have been stolen?’

  She shook her head. ‘It probably is quite valuable although Patrick didn’t pay a lot in real terms, I suppose, but I doubt if it was stolen. It’s too quirky for high art.’

  He drank his coffee. Summer waited, trying to figure out whether he believed her or not. He placed his cup carefully on the table.

  ‘Okay, I’ve heard enough. Let’s go back to the station and I’ll do a full report. Can I keep these photos? And can we have the things that you took from the flat, worthless as they will be as evidence now? I’ll be sending it all down to Edinburgh as it’s their case but I’ll try to push them on it.’

  He fished in his wallet for money and his business card, scribbling his mobile number on the back.

  ‘I have absolutely no doubt that you will continue trying to find your friend, but you go back to the flat once more and I’ll have you arrested for obstruction. Are we clear?’ He handed the card to her, the look in his eyes leaving her with no doubts over his sincerity. ‘Keep me up to date with anything you find out and I’ll keep you posted about developments from our end.’

  It wasn’t a question. Summer nodded, handing him her business card. DS Stewart put it in his wallet without looking at it and then ushered her out of the coffee shop.

  ***

  The office building was finally empty. Wilson, one of the volunteers, had taken the children to play football and although Moyenda was dismayed to be missing the match he was grateful to have some peace and quiet. He had plenty of paperwork to be getting on with and he always got side-tracked when the children or other volunteers were around. He sat at the rickety desk, pulled his satchel towards him and drew his notes out, piling them into a heap. Monday and Tuesday had been filled with school and community visits and he needed to file all his notes before he lost them.

  It was cool in the office, the Malawian winter creeping in early. Moyenda rubbed his hands together briskly then sifted steadily throu
gh the sheaves of paper. It took him over an hour to put the pages into order, augment his notes and file them. When he was finished, he stretched his neck and switched the computer on. It was old, slow and had an unreliable internet connection, but it had been free—a gift from a volunteer. It would be a good five minutes before he could log in, so he made himself a tea, stirring in a spoonful of powdered milk. Fresh milk would have been nicer but Samala couldn’t afford to run a fridge in the office and anyway, the electricity supply was unreliable.

  When the computer was finally perky enough to work on, Moyenda logged in and opened his email. More work. Several emails from a local NGO Samala liaised with that needed replies, some meetings that needed to go into the diary and a number of requests for reports that he hoped he could pass to Joy since her skills with a word processor far exceeded his.

  His eyes paused over a vaguely familiar name—Summer Morris—and he clicked to open the message. His eyes widened as he read.

  Good question, he thought as he finished, I wish I knew where those two waifs were. But what did she mean—Patrick might be in trouble? ‘Check out the blogs; look at the accounts.’ What blogs? Which accounts? Samala’s accounts? No, surely not. He read the email from Summer again. No, she had copied a to-do list she’d found and only some of it was linked to him in all probability.

  He tried to remember Summer Morris. The lady who had come to take the photographs. He left the desk and walked slowly along the wall, scanning the pictures hanging there. He finally found the one he was looking for—a bright picture of Patrick, this Summer Morris and himself, taken last October. Yes, the photographer lady. He smiled. She had been nice and spent time talking to the children when others would have shuddered at their rags and filth. He returned to the computer and read her email a third time. What did she mean, Limbani is in Kent and Mabvuto is in Chicago?

  He opened some old messages from Patrick. Patrick had been upset when Moyenda had told him about the boys disappearing and had asked lots of questions. He had asked for a full list of which boys were missing, and Moyenda had sent it. Then he said he thought that he had found some of them, but hadn’t said where. Moyenda had asked him how he could have found them when he was in Scotland and the boys were missing in Malawi, but Patrick hadn’t answered. Instead, he had asked about a series of dead people—distant relatives of the boys—asking where they were. Moyenda had written back to say that they were all with the Lord and had passed on many years ago and asked why he was interested. Patrick only replied to tell Moyenda to be careful and keep a close eye on the children.

  Limbani is in Kent; Mabvuto is in Chicago. Did Patrick really think he had found these two boys overseas? How was that possible? And why was Patrick now in trouble?

  He tried to think rationally. If the boys really were overseas, how had they got there? Certainly not under their own steam—neither of them would have a passport or be able to get visas, even if suddenly, miraculously they could have afforded to leave Malawi. It was surely impossible to stow away on a plane and the nearest port was in Mozambique, hundreds of kilometres away. So, if they did not get there by themselves the only other option was that someone had taken them there. So why did no one know where they were?

  He stared at the screen, suddenly fearful. All of these emails were on the shared office computer and anyone could have read them. It was not set up with separate accounts because so many people needed to access all of the documents for Samala. He swallowed, his mouth dry, and took a gulp of his tea. He accessed the internet, hoping the connection at the office would stay up long enough for him to do what he needed to. He worked quickly, creating a new Yahoo account for himself and then forwarding all the emails from Patrick to it, along with his replies. He also forwarded the email from Summer. Once he was sure they were all safely in the new account he started deleting them from the shared email. In the novels he read, spies always seemed to be able to retrieve deleted files from computers but he wasn’t sure any of the volunteers had those kinds of skills. Satisfied that he had done all he could, he closed down the machine. If he hurried, he would be able to catch the last of the football match. Maybe it would take his mind off things.

  He locked up the offices and started to walk towards the playing fields, his brain churning over Summer’s email and what everything might mean. Every now and then, he looked over his shoulder. Was he being followed?

  He shook himself. Of course he wasn’t being followed. He was just being paranoid. The emails had made him jittery. He would talk to Chifundo tonight and she would be able to reassure him he was making a mountain out of nothing.

  Nonetheless, as he walked through the market, he stopped at one of the stalls and bought three new SIM cards, just in case.

  ***

  Summer flopped down in the corner of her sofa, exhausted. The police station had been everything she expected and hated—colourless, soulless, bureaucratic, rigid. It had taken an age to go through it all again while DS Stewart made copious notes and the pitiful room they’d been in with its hard, wooden chair and melamine-topped table had left Summer feeling grey and grubby. She had left the shoe and the phone, still in their plastic bags, along with the photos and a promise to bring Patrick’s laptop in as soon as was convenient. As she had left, DS Stewart had repeated his belief that she would continue to investigate Patrick’s disappearance, a fact she was far less certain of.

  She stared at his card, turning it over and over. She was way too busy to do anything. It wasn’t her job to investigate. She was already behind with work. The police had everything they needed from her. She’d done what she could; fulfilled his request.

  Washed her hands of him?

  She closed her eyes, wishing that the crunching sound and the yells and the death threats on the answerphone would stop playing in a non-stop loop in her head, and that the lime green feeling in the pit of her stomach would go away and life could become indigo again.

  It wouldn’t.

  She opened her eyes and dialled the number.

  ‘LB Stewart.’

  ‘Hi. It’s Summer Morris.’

  ‘Hi. What can I do for you?’

  She hesitated and he waited.

  ‘Edinburgh won’t do anything, will they?’ she said at last. ‘They’ve got their hands full with those murders and he has to be missing for three days or something, doesn’t he? To become an official missing person?’

  ‘It won’t be a priority.’ His tone was careful. ‘Not at the moment. But I will try and push them. He’s lucky to have a friend like you, though.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  She hung up and stared at the wall of books opposite her, the loop still playing incessantly through her mind. Why had he called her, of all people?

  Because he knew she would help.

  Wednesday Evening

  ‘Well, not our best day out there, but it wasn’t a complete disaster.’

  Thomas looked pointedly at Kate as they walked across the office. Kate ignored him. She was exhausted to the bone and still trying to work out whether she’d be able to talk Paul round this evening. So much hung on her getting him to move back in. Their marriage, obviously, but also her entire political career. She rubbed a hand over her face.

  ‘Thank you, Thomas. You did a great job today.’

  ‘It’s what I’m paid for,’ he replied, unsmiling.

  Kate nodded. Most other people’s reflex would have been to say ‘my pleasure’ but he was just being honest. No one could take pleasure from diverting questions away from her private life the way he had today.

  ‘Well, it’s been a long day, with another ahead of us. Let’s debrief in the morning.’ She collected her things together.

  The others looked equally relieved to be leaving the office at a reasonable time. Penny shot Kate a look that said ‘good luck’ and smiled encouragingly as she packed her belongings. Kate wished she hadn’t—it just reminded her what a Herculean task lay ahead.

  She walked out of the office w
ith the others, leaving them in the foyer while she sneaked out of the back entrance again to her car. On her way, she checked the messages on her phone—still no reply from Paul. She would call him again once she was home.

  There was one solitary journalist hanging around her gate when she arrived home and she smiled through gritted teeth at him but didn’t answer any of his questions. Inside the house, she quickly drew all the curtains, even though it wasn’t yet dark, and poured herself a large gin and tonic. She kicked her shoes off and collapsed on to the sofa, gulping down a mouthful of the gin. Her answerphone was blinking, indicating a full memory of messages and she leaned over and clicked on play. The vast majority were journalists. She rubbed a tired hand across her head, loosening her hair and letting it tumble over her shoulders. How had they got her number? It wasn’t listed. She supposed they always had ways. The messages chirruped on. Buried in the middle was one from Douglas telling her that he hoped things would be back on track soon and that he was counting on her. She groaned. The hoped-for message from Paul did not appear. Keeping one finger on the delete button to wipe the lot, she pulled her mobile out and dialled with her free hand. To her amazement, Paul answered.

  ‘Paul? Oh, I’m glad you’re there.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I was hoping that we might be able to talk? Over dinner?’

  ‘Have you finished for the day? Already?’

  ‘Yes. Douglas shifted some of my appointments to Phil.’

  ‘Bet Phil was happy!’

  ‘Don’t know. I haven’t seen him. But I’m probably going to have to be nice to him forever now.’

  Paul laughed and Kate’s heart leaped. They were talking like old times—like they had when she’d been on the campaign trail in the past and away from each other.

  ‘So how come Douglas shifted your load to Phil?’

  Kate stumbled. ‘I had to tell him you’d moved out. I was being doorstepped this morning.’

  The moment between them was gone. Kate could almost hear their connection snap as Paul remembered why he hated her.