The Wrong Kind of Clouds

by Amanda Fleet

  Summer looked up, bemused. Ed pointed at the paper. Splashed across the front page was the news that Kate Hampton, minister for health in the Scottish Parliament, and her husband had separated. It didn’t sound like the decision was mutual. Paparazzi had taken shots of her husband Paul leaving the house with packed bags and a look of absolute fury on his face. Ed was pointing to the small, official-looking picture of Kate Hampton.

  ‘She’s the health minister. Of course you know of her.’

  ‘No. Know her. Not know of her. Course I know of her. I’m not thick! I met her. I’m sure of it. She was at a party I went to. Few weeks back.’

  Summer crumpled her brow in disbelief. Ed picked up the paper and squinted at the picture.

  ‘Yeah. It was definitely her. And this is the least of her worries, frankly.’ He waved the paper before tossing it back down on the desk.

  ‘Why?’ Summer was still trying to comprehend that Kate Hampton could have met Ed.

  ‘Cos she should hope that no one from the party wants to make a bit of money for themself.’

  ‘The party? SNP? Or—’

  ‘No, the party I saw her at.’ Ed rolled his eyes. ‘If it came out what she was up to there, her career would be in tatters!’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  Ed clamped his lips together, still chewing. Something clicked in Summer’s mind. The voice had been familiar from the television, not because she knew her personally.

  ‘Did Patrick know Kate Hampton?’

  ‘Well, he knew her at that party! He brought her to it.’

  ‘Were they together?’

  Summer was trying to imagine the free-spirited Patrick with the tightly buttoned Kate Hampton. Ed paused theatrically, then his nonchalant veneer dropped away and he leaned forward, bursting to share the gossip.

  ‘Well, that’s one way of putting it. If he wasn’t in her knickers by the end of the night, I’m fuckin’ blind! In fact, I’m pretty sure he was in her knickers during the party. They certainly went off together for long enough and came back looking… fulfilled, shall we say?’

  ‘Kate Hampton? You’re sure? She seems a bit too… conservative.’

  ‘Huh? She’s SNP! And it was definitely her, and he was definitely shagging her. Looks like her bloke’s found out. Tarnished goods.’

  He nodded at the paper again. Summer was still trying to take the information in when Ed added, ‘And she certainly did inhale!’

  ‘Inhale?’

  ‘You know. Not like Clinton. You know, “Hey, I tried marijuana once. I did not inhale.”’ He put on a phoney American accent.

  Summer blinked. This all sounded totally unbelievable. Not that Patrick was smoking dope or that he was screwing around with someone else’s wife. Just that the wife was Kate Hampton. Was he stealing from her too?

  She blinked away a surprising flash of pink-tinted jealousy. Christ, Patrick could shag whoever he wanted. It was none of her business.

  Had they overlapped?

  ‘Hang on. You’re absolutely sure Kate Hampton was there and that she took drugs?’

  ‘Yeah! I’m telling you!’

  Summer was still sceptical. Ed bit his lips together.

  ‘What was the party for?’

  ‘For? What do you mean? It was just a party. Oh, hang on, yeah, it was for Tiny. He was off to Oz.’

  ‘Tiny?’

  ‘Tiny Chris Jones. Huge guy. Works in finance here. Well. Did. He’s gone to Oz. And it was definitely her. I’m amazed nothing’s come out about it. She’s got enough enemies wanting to bring her down and she was pretty stupid to have gone. Anyone could have snapped her with their phone. Guess we were all too wasted to care.’

  He smacked the gum round his mouth again. Summer’s mind raced, trying to join the dots between Kate’s call, the headlines and this latest revelation.

  ‘Anyway, what was it you came to ask me about?’

  She dragged her mind back. ‘Oh. Samala. Did Patrick talk about it much? As I said, he’s asked me to chase up some stuff about the boys with Moyenda, the project manager, but I don’t really know what he wants me to ask.’

  Ed sniffed and chewed. ‘Dunno. He said he was worried about some of the boys going missing, but then, they’ve got no family, right? How d’you know they’re missing?’

  Summer remembered the long, hot day of outreach she’d done, following Moyenda as he walked around Blantyre, looking for the kids, making sure they’d eaten, checking if new children had appeared. She remembered having to choke back tears when they found a boy of about seven who was crying; he’d been left abandoned on the steps of a bank by a mother who could no longer afford to keep him. What orphanages there were, were appalling by Western standards and probably wouldn’t notice if the kids came or went, but Moyenda would know if any of the children were missing.

  ‘Who else was Patrick working with recently?’

  ‘Just me and Grace really.’

  Summer was too annoyed by Ed to want to stay in the room with him any longer. ‘Okay. Thanks for your help. I’ll let you get back to whatever you were working on.’ She smiled thinly.

  Ed didn’t even blush.

  Back at Grace’s office, Summer asked if she could disturb her again for a few minutes.

  ‘Of course. Was Ed any help?’

  ‘Mmm. Sort of. I see what you mean about not being front of house though!’

  Grace smiled, putting down her pen.

  ‘Has Patrick seemed… odd… at all over the last few weeks?’

  ‘Odd? In what way?’

  ‘Has he seemed anxious? Upset? Distracted?’

  ‘He got himself into a complete state about Malawi, in general, a couple of weeks ago, saying he was fed up of red tape and officials that were on the take and so on. Why?’

  ‘He’s been a bit strange with me for a while and I wondered whether it was me or whether it was something else,’ she lied uneasily, wishing the colours would settle.

  ‘Are you two back together? After… well, you know.’

  ‘No. No. We’re not back together.’ Summer struggled to find an explanation that fitted all her lies.

  Grace studied her silently. Summer cursed herself for not saying what was troubling her and why she was here right at the start. It would have been easier.

  ‘Patrick did come in a few weeks back, all battered and bruised,’ Grace said slowly. ‘He was obviously very sore and moving carefully. I asked him if he’d got into a fight, but he laughed and said he’d drunk too much and fallen down the stairs in his flat.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Ooh. Maybe a month ago? Maybe a little more?’

  Summer nodded. Patrick’s flat was on the ground floor but maybe he’d slipped at someone else’s. Kate Hampton’s? Or had Paul Hampton come home early and given him a beating? Was this linked with the leaflets in the desk? A wave of queasiness ran through her stomach. Election day was next Thursday and no politician could cope with the scandal of drugs, affairs and unplanned bastard children. Her mind ran back over other things.

  ‘Patrick seem skint recently?’

  Grace nodded, the creases around her mouth deepening. ‘You think he’s in trouble for that?’

  ‘Don’t know. I mean, Patrick’s always skint… His flat’s on the ground floor.’

  ‘Oh. I guess he could have been beaten up, not fallen, but he made very light of it.’

  Summer nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Grace looked at the clock. ‘I should get back to work. Can I help you with anything else?’

  ‘No, thanks. Thanks for your time. Let me know if you think of anything?’

  Summer collected her things together quickly, waved and left, her mind in overdrive.

  ***

  ‘Thought you were on holiday!’

  Detective Sergeant LB Stewart smiled and shrugged at the desk sergeant, a pretty young woman who’d joined the force only recently and always seemed to be looking out for him.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.
You know how it is.’

  He kept walking, not entirely sure himself why he was in, and cut through to his desk. The open-plan office was a sea of paperwork and files, with LB’s desk presenting the only two square feet of clear surface in the room. Like the man, his work area was immaculately presented, with crisp, clean lines and a sense of order. He pulled out his chair and booted up his computer, his enamelled cuff-links clacking on the desk as he jotted notes on a fresh piece of paper while the computer warmed up.

  ‘Hello, Ben. What are you doing in?’ Sandy Davidson, LB’s partner at work, sat down opposite, clearing a space on his cluttered desk just big enough for a polystyrene cup of coffee.

  LB reached into his wallet and fished out a tenner, handing it across with mock resignation. Sandy smiled, pocketing the money rapidly.

  ‘I’m not in. Not officially. My curiosity has been piqued.’

  ‘Oh aye. Is she pretty?’

  LB leaned back in his chair, considering. ‘No. But she does her best with what she’s got.’

  Sandy laughed and sipped his coffee, waiting for his partner to elaborate. LB twirled a pencil around his fingers.

  ‘Missing person. Friend of this woman, Summer Morris; gone missing in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Summer Morris?’

  ‘I know. Almost as shit a name as mine.’

  ‘No. The Summer Morris? Photographer?’

  ‘Er yes. Is she famous?’

  ‘Not famous famous, I guess. She won an award a few years ago for her photography of Scottish landscape and did a calendar of the pictures afterwards. Read an article about her just after she won the award. She’s got synaesthesia. Sees emotions as colour or something like that. Not seen much from her recently but she’s good. And fairly pretty.’

  ‘If you like blondes.’

  Sandy laughed. Anya had had long blonde hair.

  ‘So how come you’re involved if the chap’s gone missing in Edinburgh?’

  LB sighed and shook his head. ‘Long story. She seemed genuinely concerned about something happening to this guy while she was on the phone to him and of course, Edinburgh are running around like blue-arsed flies right now and not interested. Something about her doesn’t quite add up, though, and I wanted to check a few things.’

  His computer blinked at him, waiting for a password. LB leaned forward, jabbed his fingers over the keys and then sat back, scratching the back of his head with the blunt end of a pencil.

  ‘What you checking?’

  ‘Him. Her. See if there’s anything in the system.’

  ‘What’s not adding up?’

  LB typed again briefly, not answering, and then looked up. ‘Your Isobel watches telly, right? How many police dramas are there on these days?’

  ‘Hundreds. Why?’

  ‘If she came across a crime scene, what would she do?’

  ‘Call the police, not touch anything—’

  ‘Exactly,’ cut in LB. ‘She wouldn’t go through the place, taking photos and removing things she thought were suspicious and that indicated she was right to be worried. She’d have pulled her mobile out of her pocket and called someone, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Is that what this Summer Morris did? Photo everything and take things?’

  ‘Yep. She went to the guy’s flat after he went missing. If anything has happened to him, it’ll probably be impossible to get any kind of conviction on forensics now… Oh, hello. That’s very interesting.’

  His eyes scanned the screen in front of him, reading rapidly. Sandy waited. LB jotted notes then glanced across his desk to his partner.

  ‘Patrick Forrester, the missing guy, had a complaint of theft against him this February. Never formally charged, though.’

  ‘Oh aye? Who made the complaint?’

  ‘Summer Morris.’

  Sandy’s brows shot up. LB pulled up the case file and read. ‘Summer Morris and Patrick Forrester were in a relationship that, claims Morris, was sound. However, while she was away for a few days, over a thousand pounds was withdrawn from her account, using her card and PIN. The card had been left at Forrester’s flat.’

  ‘Any previous history of theft?’

  ‘Just checking, but I don’t think so. The only other thing on file about Forrester is that he reported a bike stolen a year ago. Never been recovered.’

  ‘Insurance job?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What about Summer Morris?’

  LB’s fingers rattled over the keys. ‘Nothing.’

  He cupped his chin in his hand, his eyes flicking over his notes and back to the screen. ‘Sandy, why do people disappear?’

  Sandy shrugged. ‘Sex… money…’

  ‘Why call her?’

  ‘She’s still on speed-dial?’

  LB acknowledged the idea with a tilt of his head. ‘Does this all seem odd to you?’

  ‘It all seems like Edinburgh’s problem to me. And you should piss off and enjoy your holiday.’

  ‘Yeah. Point taken.’ He printed off the information he’d found, folded his page of notes crisply and shut the machine down.

  ‘Okay. See you when I’m back.’ He waved his hand loosely over the top of his head.

  Sandy grinned. ‘Leave that to Edinburgh.’ He pointed at the piece of paper in LB’s hand. ‘And enjoy your break!’

  LB nodded, but his brain was fidgety. It all felt wrong.

  Thursday Afternoon

  Summer sipped her coffee, watching the passers-by on The Royal Mile. Still a little early in the year for the main tourist mobs, it was nonetheless busy. The wind was fresh and she was glad to be behind the plate-glass window of the cafe. She flicked her notebook open and stared at her scribbles. Her eyes ran over the list of messages from Patrick’s phone. Someone, possibly Kate Hampton, arranging a meeting; a different woman calling about an appointment; a threat about money it seemed; another angry man—Kate Hampton’s husband? Last Saturday at the latest, according to the day and time stamp on the answerphone. Then another one from Kate Hampton, also now angry. Was she pregnant?

  How did the bruises fit in? A month or so ago. Too early to be from Kate’s husband? Loan shark? Certainly, Patrick could rarely balance the books. Could he have been blackmailing Kate? Did that fit in with when the party was? Was he blackmailing her about the affair and taking drugs? Did he sell all the stuff from his flat to pay off a loan shark or was it missing for another reason?

  Summer shook her head and dropped another cube of sugar into her coffee, stirring slowly, ignoring the hum and bustle of the crowded cafe. She was sure that Kate Hampton was involved somehow. Election day was exactly a week away and Kate Hampton, minister for health, was having an affair, taking drugs, and might need an abortion, and the person who could bring her down was Patrick, who sounded like he was being threatened by heavies. Had he threatened to tell her husband? Had he told her husband? Is that what her second message had been referring to? How much of all this should she tell the police? It was all supposition and gossip.

  She tapped the spoon on the side of the cup and picked up her phone to check her emails. She dumped several spam messages into trash and skipped a couple from the shop on Skye that sold limited edition reprints of her photos, scrolling down to open a message from Moyenda. It had been sent from a personal email account and not the one at Samala where she’d emailed him. Her message was copied at the bottom—so he’d forwarded it on to this other account.

  ‘Dear Summer, Of course I remember you. How are you? How is your business? Are you still taking pictures of mountains and water? My wife Chifundo sends her best wishes to you and hopes you are well. She is pleased that you remembered her!

  ‘I am worried to hear your news. The boys and now Patrick. I think that bad things are happening. I cannot write about them. But you should be careful who you talk to. Do not look into the boys. Please. I do not want you to disappear too.

  ‘I pray, my sister, that you will stay safe. I will try and phone you if I am able to, but I do not want to wri
te things. Please do not use my old email address. I hope that Patrick returns safely. Your brother, Moyenda.’

  Summer’s eyes widened and her fingers clicked over the keys of her phone.

  ‘Dear Moyenda, Why do you think Patrick has disappeared? Do you know where Tendai and Henry are? Please tell me what you know? I’m desperately worried.’

  She signed off then caught the eye of the waitress and ordered another coffee, her mind spinning.

  Just as she was finishing the second coffee her phone bleeped to indicate a new text message. It was a Malawian number, but not Moyenda’s. Summer’s brow creased. She didn’t know anyone else in Malawi. She opened the message. There were just two words: child trafficking. The sugary coffee in her stomach turned to bile and her hand covered her mouth, flame-orange unease rippling through her.

  ‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.’

  ***

  Helen had always prided herself on her organisational skills and time management. She might prefer an old-fashioned Filofax to a modern electronic organiser but she never missed an appointment, her to-do list was always cleared, and the business was prospering. Right now, though, she was sitting in her office at the shop, staring at the accounts with her mind on the grainy black-and-white image from the morning.

  She’d blocked the morning off for the scan and this afternoon she’d written, in ink, that she would go through the accounts and make sure they were up to date. Writing things in ink usually made sure they got done but her method just wasn’t working today.

  She sighed and tried to focus, her fingers tracing along the creases in her brow as she stared at the screen. But the numbers were just symbols and she was making no progress whatsoever. She closed the files down, pulled her organiser towards her and looked for the next free slot when she could finish going through the accounts. She knew there wasn’t one for a while, which was why she’d put it in for this afternoon, despite suspecting that her mind might not be on the task in hand. Eventually finding a free evening, she uncapped her fountain pen and wrote ‘accounts’ in the space and underlined it.

  Resigned to the fact that she wasn’t going to get anything done until she’d cleared her head, she called her oldest friend, Megan—a woman she could rely on for clear thinking and sensible advice.