by Amanda Fleet
‘Hey. You’ve not been useless and you haven’t screwed it all up either.’ He hoped he was right on that last point. ‘Look, I’ll talk to the guys in Edinburgh again tomorrow. You never know, they may give the case to me to get on with since they’re so busy. Either way, I’ll push for something to start happening with this.’
‘Thank you.’
LB glanced at his watch and was surprised to see how late it was.
‘Unless you have more you want to talk to me about, I should go.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve told you everything I’ve found out. Thank you for agreeing to help.’
He smiled, gathered his pen and notebook together and slipped them into the attaché case. In the hall, she helped him into his jacket and he turned to face her.
‘Thank you for a very tasty and interesting dinner. You’re right, you can cook very well. I’ll keep in touch.’
He moved towards the door.
‘Ben?’
He turned.
‘Mmm?’
‘Is Ben your middle name?’
‘Almost. Benedict.’
She smiled. ‘Benedict suits you better than Ben.’
‘Then feel free to call me Benedict.’
‘What’s the L?’
He locked gazes with her, his eyes soft. ‘Goodnight. Thank you again for dinner.’ He pressed his palm against her cheek, kissed her other cheek and left.
Friday Morning
LB awoke early and stared at the ceiling, allowing his sleep-leaden body to emerge into full wakefulness. When his limbs became light enough for him to contemplate moving, he rolled out of bed, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and hit the shower. His brain was still sifting through the night before. How many of Summer’s suppositions and leaps of faith were true? She had made some pretty serious accusations.
Back in the bedroom, he dressed slowly, matching his tie and cufflinks carefully to his shirt, and put in his contact lenses. Strolling into the kitchen, he switched on the radio and started cooking his holiday breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, his day beginning to settle nicely.
It was about to be derailed.
As he sat down to eat, the seven o’clock headlines came on. His attention was only half on the news but he stopped abruptly when he heard Patrick Forrester’s name.
‘News just in this morning. It’s been revealed that Kate Hampton, the minister for health in the Scottish Parliament, was having an affair with Patrick Forrester, a journalist working for the Malawi–Scotland Alliance.’
There was no mention that he was missing. The news rattled on to the two murders which were no closer to being solved, and then to the elections, before finishing with the weather forecast. LB breathed deeply. So, the news about Patrick and Kate was out. The question was, how? Who had leaked that? Summer? Yet there was no mention that Patrick was missing, which slimmed the likelihood that it had been her. So, if not her, who? And why? Did he genuinely believe it wasn’t Summer who’d leaked the story, or was he just hoping?
He ate slowly, thinking over what he knew about Patrick Forrester. Once his breakfast was over, he took the plate and cutlery back to the kitchen, chunking through a well-ordered regime of tidying while his brain worked on other things. Another cup of coffee poured, he settled back at the table with his notes from the night before.
On the windowsill next to the table sat a pot of pencils alongside a mechanical pencil sharpener and a sheaf of clean paper. LB put them all on the table before methodically sharpening each pencil to a perfect point, taking his time, letting his mind run back over the previous evening. When the entire pot of pencils was done, he replaced the sharpener on the windowsill and started writing on a fresh sheet of paper. He worked steadily, mulling over each piece of information that Summer had revealed. Until hearing the headlines, he’d been leaning towards Patrick going missing because he’d discovered a child-trafficking ring and had possibly been stupid enough to try and blackmail someone about it. But if Summer hadn’t been the one to reveal that Kate and Patrick were having an affair, someone else had. Maybe she was right and Patrick’s disappearance was linked to that.
He gathered all the sheets together and slipped the pile into the attaché case.
Merde.
***
‘Some holiday, Ben,’ said Sandy over the top of his computer screen as LB sat down at his desk.
‘I know.’ LB logged in, smiling wryly at his partner.
‘You still hooked on the photographer’s missing friend?’
‘Mmm.’
Sandy tossed a selection of newspapers over the desk to him. ‘Not surprised.’
LB read over the headline article in The Scotsman. The key facts were as Summer had surmised—Kate Hampton had been having an affair with Patrick and her husband Paul had found out, which was why he’d left. The tabloids were more salacious, embroidering the basic story with racy comment. None of the papers that LB looked through mentioned Patrick was missing, although a colleague from the MSA was quoted as saying he was currently away on holiday. Each article showed a variation on the same paparazzi shot of Kate going into work, shielding her face with a folder. LB flicked to the editorial section. The tabloid didn’t think that Kate could possibly be re-elected given the situation and was scandalised that Kate, 48, was having an affair with a man fourteen years her junior. LB shook his head. If the roles had been reversed, it would barely have raised comment. The Scotsman was more reserved but also wondered how Kate could come back from a scandal like this so close to polling day.
LB started searching the police database.
‘So, are you interested in this guy’s disappearance because that photographer is cute, or because you think there’s something in all that?’ Sandy pointed to the pile of papers.
LB smiled at his partner and printed out the results of his search. ‘There’s more going on than this.’ He tapped his finger on the newspapers. ‘Last night she also outlined a potential child-trafficking racket out of Malawi.’
‘Last night? Aye, aye?’ Sandy raised his eyebrows, smirking.
‘She cooked dinner for me, if you must know, to tell me her latest theories about Forrester’s disappearance.’
‘Oh aye? Don’t let the fact she’s a fine lassie cloud your judgement.’
LB shook his head. He retrieved the search results from the printer and held them up to Sandy.
Sandy scanned the paper. ‘Bruce Macdonald? Jeez, he’s a nasty piece of work. What’s he got to do with this?’
‘Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Blood ties.’
Sandy frowned but LB didn’t enlighten him. Instead, he picked up the phone.
‘Good morning. Could I speak to Andy Watson please? It’s DS Stewart, Fife Division. Thanks.’
He fiddled with his cufflinks while he waited on hold. ‘Hello? Andy? It’s LB. How are you doing?’
‘Running round like a blue-arsed fly with these fucking murders! What can I do for you?’
‘You’re the name to contact on a misper. Patrick Forrester.’
There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘Yeah. Haven’t given it much thought, to be honest. Called in by someone who doesn’t seem to have any relationship to the guy. All sounded a bit weird and the guy’s probably just gone on holiday and forgot to tell anyone. And I’m also meant to be helping out on these murders, so it hasn’t exactly floated to the top of my to-do list. Why are you interested?’
‘Seen the headlines today?’
‘What, Kate Hampton dropping her knickers for some toy boy? What about it? I wasn’t going to vote for her anyway.’
‘Look at who the toy boy is.’
‘Hang on… oh shit.’
‘Yeah. You know who Bruce Macdonald is?’
‘Oh fuck. You’re shitting me. I don’t have time for this.’
‘I do. Want to second me on to the case?’
‘Why the hell would you want me to do that?’
‘I know the woman who called it in. She thin
ks that Forrester was blackmailing Kate Hampton over their affair.’
There were more expletives on the other end of the line and LB held the phone away from his ear. Sandy laughed.
‘So, will you second me to the case? Because I’d like to talk to Kate and Paul Hampton but it’s not in my jurisdiction.’ He held the phone to the side again and waited until it went quiet. ‘Fine. If you’ve got time to go into it, then do it. I was just offering to help out. The woman lives in my jurisdiction, the guy’s missing in yours. I thought it would be a good example of those cross-boundary collaborations that the big cheese is always wanting us to get into. I’m happy to do the leg-work. I know you’re busy.’
There was a long silence on the other end of the line before Watson responded. ‘Let me run this past my boss and get back to you. He won’t want you going near Kate and Paul Hampton, though. Not this close to the election.’
‘I understand that, but I’ll be tactful and discreet.’
‘If you go anywhere near them, you won’t be talking to them alone, LB.’
‘I understand. Run it past your boss and call me back.’
‘Why the hell would you want to add to your load anyway?’
‘The woman’s cute.’ LB winked at Sandy. ‘And I’m on holiday and bored.’
‘Right. Let me get back to you. She really worth the effort or are you finding it that difficult to get laid these days?’
LB laughed. ‘Call me back.’
***
Rob smiled as he flicked his eyes over the headlines. That would teach that little bastard. And that stuck-up bitch. If it hadn’t been for her, things could have been okay. He put the paper down on the counter and paid for it and his fuel, adding a chocolate bar to the bill at the last moment. The cashier smiled prettily at him as he handed over his credit card.
‘Haven’t seen you for a while, Robbie. How’s it going? You got work here again?’
‘Still the same job as before. There was a cash-flow problem so my services were on hold for a bit. I’ll be here for a while now, I reckon. Did you want to meet up for a drink sometime?’
She nodded eagerly and Rob smiled to himself. He was a good-looking man, still with the physical fitness he’d had in the army. She should be flattered to receive the attention.
‘That’d be great. You got my number?’
‘Write it on the paper, then I’ll be sure I have it.’
She scribbled her number in the top corner of the paper and handed it back. Rob thanked her, grinned and waved as he gathered his things and left. Outside, he tossed the newspaper on to the passenger seat of the van and tore the wrapper off the chocolate bar, taking a bite as he pulled away. He headed north, his mind still on the headlines.
His mobile rang and he checked the caller display before answering.
‘Hello, sis, how are you doing?’
‘Feeling sick again, but that’s as expected. Where are you?’
‘Why?’
‘I wondered if you’d be able to start on the painting this weekend at the Crail house? Shall I pick the paints up this afternoon?’
‘Ah, I’m not going to be back in Edinburgh before next week. I can do the Crail house next weekend.’
‘Sure. No worries. That was the original date they agreed to. I just wondered if we could start early.’
‘Not and be done by Tuesday. Did you tell the McKays I could start on their hall then?’
‘Of course. No problem. Where are you?’
‘West coast. I’m catching up with a couple of old pals.’
‘Whisky and solitude?’
Rob grimaced. ‘Hang on, I’m driving. Let me pull over so I can talk.’
‘So, how’s the fishing going?’ she asked, sarcastically.
Rob stared out of the window at the thin rain that had started. Trust her to read him so well.
‘Crap. Given up on it. I’m going to head to Skye tonight. Archie’s place. He’s still overseas, but I’ve got the keys. I can work on it while he’s away.’
Archie was in the same regiment as Rob, but had stayed in when Rob had left. Rob knew Helen wasn’t sure if their continued friendship was healthy. Too many reminders of things past. It was good to be able to talk to someone who really understood, though.
‘Okay.’ She broke his train of thought. ‘Are you back Sunday or Monday?’
‘Monday. Look, I’ve got to go, I’m blocking the road a bit. Talk to you later. Hope you feel better soon.’
Rob ended the call, pulled away and headed for the islands.
***
Summer’s phone buzzed. She looked at the number. Malawian. Not anyone she knew; not the same number as the last text from Malawi. She clicked to open it. The message had just one word. ‘No’. She frowned. What was the last question she’d asked Moyenda? She checked her email. ‘Have any of the missing boys been adopted? If so, when? And by whom?’
She made a clucking sound with her tongue and sat down at the table to rummage through her notes. Seven boys were missing. One of them was Limbani—the boy who’d been adopted by the Saunders. Something clicked in her brain and she opened Patrick’s laptop to pull up the file of family trees he’d drawn. Limbani was one of the children whose family tree had been mapped out and his great-aunt’s name was boxed in red. Summer flicked through all of the family trees, the names connecting, firing like gunshots, citrus orange and lime billowing through her as she realised what was happening. The seven missing boys were all in the files. All of them had relatives with red boxes around a name on the tree. Summer printed the whole file out, adding it to the collection of notes she already had. Then she stared at it. The great-aunt, Asala Kalanga, would be about seventy. Not unheard of in Malawi, but rare enough. She picked up her phone.
‘Oh, good morning. Mrs Saunders? Hello. It’s Susan Morris again. I wondered if you’d managed to have a word with your husband about the article I’m doing?’
‘Er, yes. We’re happy to talk about it as long as it’s a positive story. We’d hate to see even more negative press about Malawi. And we would like to see a copy of it before it’s published and be able to correct anything that’s wrong or misleading.’
‘Of course! That’s no problem at all.’ Summer drew a notebook towards her and pulled the cap of a biro off with her teeth. ‘It’s definitely going to be a positive article. We wanted to do something about adopting Malawian children, but cover what the realities of the process were for ordinary people rather than celebrities, and, of course, how beneficial it all is for the children themselves.’
Summer paused and heard a begrudging assent on the other end of the line.
‘What do you want to ask?’
‘Oh, just about what processes you had to go through, that sort of thing. You know, with everyone saying that actress, Saffy Latimer, basically just bought that little girl she adopted. But that’s not how it would happen for most people, right? It’s a good-news story, don’t worry! It’s going to be more about the new lives the kids have now; trying to put a positive side forward after everyone has been so negative about celebrity adoptions.’
‘Okay.’ Mrs Saunders still sounded unsure.
‘Would you mind telling me about how hard or how easy the process was, to start with?’
There was a hesitation and Summer wondered if she’d gone in too quickly.
‘Well, it wasn’t what Saffy Latimer went through. John and I, we’d been out to Malawi with the church and the little boy we have now was in an orphanage attached to the church, you know. Anyway, we both fell in love with him and wanted to help him and asked the minister at the church what we had to do; whether it was even possible, really. He was very helpful, actually. He really helped out at the Malawian end. We needed to get agreement from his remaining family—a great-aunt—to even start the process. Once we had that, there was an official in the government who had to sign the papers.’
‘Which church was it in Malawi?’
‘St Agatha’s Church in Blantyre.
We have long-standing links with it from our church.’
‘Thank you.’ Summer scribbled furiously. ‘And who is the minister there? The one who helped you?’
‘Er, Bradley Collinson.’
Summer caught her breath and quickly hid her reaction as a laugh. ‘Gosh, that doesn’t sound a very Malawian name.’
‘No. He’s American. He’s working as a missionary there.’
‘Oh, right. Thank you. And which minister in the government had to sign everything?’
‘Er… let me think… Moses. Moses Chizuna. Sorry, the Malawian names are a little tricky to remember sometimes.’
Again, Summer swallowed, blinking hard. She had met both Bradley Collinson and Moses Chizuna when she was in Malawi. They’d seemed nice guys. Moses was a bit flashy and wore a lot of bling, and Bradley was very evangelical and irritating, but did any of that make them into child traffickers?
‘That’s great. Thank you for all this, it’s really helpful. And was it expensive? I mean, did you have to pay for the processing of the paperwork and all that?’
She could hear ice beginning to form again on the other end.
‘Well, there were some fees of course. And we made donations both to the church and to the orphanage. It was very hard to leave the other children there, so we tried to help all of them at least a little. But we didn’t buy Limbani, if that’s what you’re implying.’
‘Not at all, not at all! I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to imply that. I was just trying to get the full picture. And how have things turned out? Is your little boy enjoying the UK? Has he made friends here? How long has he been here now?’
‘We adopted him at the end of last October. It’s still hard for him, I’d say, because he doesn’t speak English fluently yet, but he’s certainly gained some weight and height since he arrived!’
Summer looked at the accounts file on Patrick’s laptop. Large donation in late October. Unlabelled.
‘And of course,’ Summer said, ‘Limbani will be getting a good education and the love of a family, which is what’s really important. It’s so good that you were able to give him all that.’