The Wrong Kind of Clouds

by Amanda Fleet

  ‘Kate. Paul. Patrick. But none of these are likely to have talked, are they? Not Kate and certainly not Patrick, and Paul would be shooting Kate in the foot.’

  ‘Not the action of a loyal husband.’ LB glanced across at her.

  Summer caught the look on his face. ‘He’s moved out. Not very loyal this side of the election either. You really think Paul would do that, though?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know him personally. He may have done it in a fit of anger and revenge. He may have done it cold-bloodedly. He might not have anything to do with it. He might have everything to do with it and not know Patrick’s missing. That’s why I’m talking to him and Kate this afternoon.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’

  Summer opened her mouth and closed it again, her temper tickling with navy and pink. ‘What else are you not telling me?’

  ‘Lots.’ He kept his gaze on the road.

  ‘That doesn’t seem very fair.’

  He didn’t respond. Summer waited him out.

  ‘How do you manage to read so many books?’ he said finally.

  She blinked at the change in topic. ‘Er. Well, quite often photography involves a lot of sitting around and waiting. Waiting for the light, or for the clouds to develop or clear, or for sheep to move in or out of pictures. I read while I’m waiting.’

  ‘But you keep all the books. So, do you expect to read them again or are you just a hoarder?’

  She shrugged, still piqued. ‘Just a hoarder. I’ve always got more books that I want to read and rarely return to ones I’ve finished. You’re right. I could clear most of the bookcases in the house and give myself another few square metres of wall space. I like to look at them, though. It reminds me of when I read them. Sometimes the edges of a book are wrinkled because I read it in the mizzle at The Old Man of Storr, waiting for the cloud base to lift. Sometimes the spines are shattered because I dropped it, or used it to wedge a leg of the tripod or something.’

  ‘Don’t the photographs themselves remind you of these times?’

  ‘They do. But they’re in albums that need taking off the shelves and opening. The bookcases are just there. Do you read much?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not as much as I’d like. Certainly not as much as you. I don’t have the time. Okay, you need to start directing me. How do we get to Patrick’s?’

  To Summer’s relief there was no sign of the nosy neighbour when they got there, though presumably LB would deal with him if he appeared. She swung the door open, distracted momentarily by the squealing hinges and then looked into the flat, eyes widening as she did so, orange fear flashing through her whole body.

  ‘Holy shit!’

  ***

  The air was cool and fresh inside Ryalls Hotel. Moyenda felt shabby and out of place, the dust from his trip to the community coating his shoes. He nodded to the doorman as he entered, greeting him in Chichewa. The doorman smiled and greeted him back, but without the warmth reserved for guests. Moyenda walked in and turned right, passing a wicker sofa and a brass-bound wooden trunk that served as a table. As usual, staff from the College of Medicine were here, drinking coffee and using the wi-fi—the strongest signal in the town. He continued past a line of small round tables, his eyes darting as he looked for the man he was meeting. The ground floor opened out to create a small dining area and beyond that was a bar with more sofas and wide, comfortable, wicker chairs. Mzondi Malilo was seated at the back wall, next to the French windows that opened into the courtyard. He had a cafetière of coffee in front of him and his eyes were on official-looking papers in his hand. He looked impeccable in a cream linen suit that was barely creased, his skin smooth and almost glossy, and his hair cropped very short. At thirty he was still young, a junior member of the government who kept a house in his home town of Blantyre. He was also one of the board members of Samala and someone Moyenda hoped he could trust.

  Mzondi glanced up and waved, beckoning Moyenda over and indicating the free chair.

  ‘Ah, Moyenda. Good to see you. You are looking well. And how is Chifundo? When are you going to have children of your own to worry about?’

  Moyenda smiled. ‘We have more than enough children in Samala to worry about! How are you? How is Malita?’

  Moyenda took the free seat, waiting while Mzondi told him about his wife and family. The waiter came over and Mzondi raised his eyebrows at Moyenda.

  ‘Yes, coffee. Thank you,’ Moyenda said, still feeling like a fish out of water.

  Ryalls was the best hotel in Blantyre, one that most of the population of the city would never set foot in. It was where all the ex-pats met, where businessmen dined clients and customers, where foreigners with money stayed; it wasn’t the place for people like Moyenda, with the dust from the streets on his shoes. The tiled floors were always spotless, there was a swimming pool and a restaurant—21 Grill—which served the best food in town. The staff wore shirts the colour of egg-yolk and black trousers or skirts and sported brass name-badges on their chests. They were trained not to laugh at the guests’ pronunciation of their names and to recognise who was important and who wasn’t. Moyenda wasn’t.

  The waiter withdrew discreetly and Moyenda wondered how to start. Mzondi was looking expectantly at him, and Moyenda felt his mouth grow dry. How much should he trust this man?

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about Samala,’ he said.

  ‘How is it going? There seem to be fewer children begging than there used to be, so the work must be going well. And I read that the children are playing football. There is a match this weekend, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going to the recreation ground this afternoon. The children were delighted to get footballs recently. They have made up their own rules about using them—no football unless you have been to school.’

  Both men smiled and Moyenda relaxed slightly.

  ‘So what is it about Samala that you need to speak to me about?’

  ‘Nothing significant. Nothing that warrants coming to Ryalls.’ Moyenda had decided upon the story he would use.

  ‘I will pay, if that is what is troubling you. Ryalls is cool and quiet and it does excellent coffee. Malawian coffee.’

  Moyenda bowed his head. ‘I have to prepare the accounts for the half-year progress reports. To send to Unicef and so on.’

  Mzondi nodded, smiling at the waiter as he brought another cafetière of strong coffee and a cup and saucer over. The two men waited while the crockery and drinks were placed on the table, only continuing once they were alone again.

  ‘The accounts,’ Moyenda started again. ‘There are payments in them and I do not know where they have come from.’

  ‘You run a charity that has more money than you expected and you are worried? Most people would take the money and stay quiet!’

  Moyenda laughed thinly. ‘I am just a bit concerned that it is linked to something bad. There are some children missing and…’

  He tailed away. Mzondi’s eyes narrowed, the muscles of his face tensing.

  ‘The children run away from the orphanage all the time, Moyenda. You know that. They think that they will have a better chance in Zomba or Lilongwe, or they go to live with their grandmother or an aunt or uncle. Why are you worried about them?’

  ‘They normally tell me they are going.’

  Mzondi nodded, sipping his coffee. ‘I know that you worry about the children and see them as your responsibility, but if the children run away or disappear, it is the orphanage that has to account for them, not you or Samala. They might not have wanted to tell you because they would know that you would try and talk them out of it.’

  Moyenda nodded. He knew that was true.

  ‘Anyway, it is the money that you need to account for in your reports, not fewer children. Why do you think I can help you with that?’

  ‘You are on the board. You oversee the accounts. I thought you would be able to tell me if the money was good or not.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Have you brought
the accounts with you?’

  Moyenda nodded, fishing in his leather satchel for his printouts. He laid them on the table between them and pointed out the payments, indicated with a star in pencil at the side. Mzondi drew the papers towards him and Moyenda poured himself a cup from the cafetière. Suddenly, Mzondi tipped his head back, roaring with laughter.

  ‘Oh, Moyenda! You had me so worried! These payments. They are from my department!’

  Moyenda blinked.

  ‘Did Moses not tell you? There is a big push to try and reach at least some of the millennium goals. His Excellency the President thought that our goal for literacy was one that should be attained and is putting extra money into projects supporting schools and education. Moses spoke up strongly for Samala. These payments that trouble you, they are part of this literacy project. I cannot believe that Moses did not write to you about this!’

  He pushed the papers back, still chortling. Moyenda nodded, not sure whether to be reassured or frightened. He put the papers in his satchel and breathed out heavily, smiling widely, pretending he had been fooled by the lies.

  ‘Oh, I am so relieved. I had been wondering and wondering what they were for. I was very worried. But if it is from yours and Moses’ department, it is all fine.’

  Mzondi’s eyes bored into him, but Moyenda kept the smile on his face and laughed hard. Mzondi joined him.

  ‘These worries almost always have a simple solution. Chifundo tells me that I worry too much. Moses should have told me!’

  Mzondi nodded. A shard of ice pierced Moyenda’s heart as he saw the look that was too thinly veiled in the other man’s eyes.

  He had been wrong to trust him.

  ***

  ‘Damn it. Answer the phone!’

  Kate clicked the phone shut angrily and hurled it into her bag only to retrieve it a moment later to make another call.

  ‘Caroline? Hi. It’s Kate. Is Paul there? … In a meeting. Oh. Okay. Would you tell him to call me as soon as he can, please? Thanks.’

  The phone made another violent entry into Kate’s handbag. Was he really in a meeting or just refusing to take her calls? A copy of The Scotsman lay on her desk and she turned it over, hiding the headline. Of course he was refusing to take her calls. Why wouldn’t he?

  Her office was unnaturally quiet. Most of the staff who would normally be buzzing in and out were either avoiding her or had already been re-assigned to someone else. Someone who was worth their salary. Her meeting first thing with Douglas Rae had not gone as she’d hoped. He’d looked like she’d walked dog-shit into his office when she saw him, resignation back in hand, and he hadn’t made any pretence over his feelings. She’d brought shame on herself but worse than that, she’d brought shame on the party and her timing was diabolical. And she’d lied to him. He’d given her the chance to come clean about what was happening and she had lied to him. There had been no kind words or recognition of her hard work, just a grim face and a curled lip. All she could do now was make sure things were in a decent state to hand on to her successor. It was a pitiful end to what had been a promising career. She’d been dismissed to clear her desk and get the hell out of the building.

  She chewed at an already ragged thumbnail. Patrick was missing and the police wanted to talk to her about it. Why?

  She wracked her brain, trying to remember precisely what message she had left on his answerphone, grimacing as she recalled it. If he was missing and they had accessed his computer… Dear God, it didn’t bear thinking about. They must be needing to talk to her because of the message she’d left and the emails she’d sent, surely?

  Paul leaving had been bad enough but then the children had turned on her too. Shame and embarrassment—that was what she had scattered around herself. The children would never forgive her. Bethany was having a tough time of it at her boarding school and Henry had yelled at her down the phone, telling her that she’d ruined things for him at university and he was ashamed of having her as his mother. He might as well have stabbed her in the guts and turned the knife.

  Patrick telling Paul had been one thing. Patrick telling the papers was a step further than she’d ever believed him capable of. Well, he’d overplayed his hand surely. What else could he threaten her with? Oh, God forbid. Not that terrible party they’d gone to. Had Patrick been spiking her drinks there? And what the hell had she been smoking? More than a mere cigarette she was sure, but the whole night was a bit of a blur. She’d said no, but Patrick told her to live a little and badgered and nagged at her until she succumbed.

  She tipped the contents of a drawer into a cardboard box, feeling stupid and used. Tears were threatening to well and she blinked hard, squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. She only had herself to blame. Patrick had seen her as nothing more than a meal ticket and she’d been foolish and vain. If she’d stayed faithful to Paul, if she’d kept Patrick as nothing more than a business contact… If, if, if. However much she would like to shift all the blame on to Patrick, she couldn’t. She shook her head and slammed more files into the box.

  When had he gone missing? Surely not just today? People have to be missing for more than a day before the police are involved, don’t they? Should she call the lawyer? She knew nothing about him going missing but what if Bruce was behind Patrick's disappearance? Maybe she should give Kirsty a ring. No. Kirsty always said she kept out of these things and wouldn’t speak to her anyway. Blood will always be thicker than water.

  She tried to call Paul again. His mobile cut straight through to voicemail and she hung up. Sinking down into her chair, she buried her head in her hands, her hair sticking up between her fingers. Stupid, stupid, stupid woman. She deserved everything she got.

  Friday, Late Morning

  LB leaned forward, glancing into the flat, and grabbed Summer by the shoulder.

  ‘Out.’

  She hesitated for a moment but he kept up the pressure on her arm until she stepped back.

  ‘Out. Go find a coffee shop and wait for me there. I’ll call you.’

  He pushed her away, watching her until she’d left the building, his hand fishing in his pocket for his mobile. He stepped back from the door to call Andy Watson, scanning the surroundings. The call over, he drew a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket and pushed the door open fully. He walked through the flat carefully, checking for any intruders, picking his way through the carnage. The contents of the shelves and drawers had been transferred to the floor and LB had to tiptoe between it all to preserve the scene. Whoever had turned the flat over was long gone, though. LB checked the back door. It was shut and locked. He turned to the front door. No signs of forced entry, but then the lock wouldn’t withstand being prised open using a credit card.

  LB peeled his gloves off, stuffed them back in his pocket and prepared to wait for the team from Edinburgh.

  Andy Watson arrived about twenty minutes later with a young constable and a forensics team. He shook hands with LB, a scowl on his face.

  ‘Trouble just follows you, doesn’t it, LB?’ he said, by way of a greeting.

  LB said nothing. The description was not earned but he wasn’t about to start trading jibes.

  ‘I’ll leave you guys to it, shall I?’ He stepped back. ‘Not my jurisdiction.’

  The forensics team started their work, the constable was despatched on a door-to-door and Andy Watson glowered and turned his back. LB walked out of the building and pulled his phone out.

  ‘Hey,’ he said when Summer answered. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah. What’s happened?’

  ‘Break-in by the looks of things. Could be nothing to do with the case.’

  ‘You don’t believe in coincidences any more than I do.’

  ‘No. Where are you?’

  ‘Not far. There’s a coffee shop about three blocks away. Want me back there?’

  ‘No. A team from Edinburgh are here processing the scene. I’ll call you again when they’ve finished.’

  ‘Can I do anything?’
r />   ‘Not right now. Enjoy your coffee.’

  He ended the call and killed time sauntering around the block several times before eventually returning to the flat. He had no intention of being in the way while forensics got on with their job. Andy Watson welcomed him with as much warmth as before but deigned to share his opinions.

  ‘No indication of force, so either someone had keys or it was a pro.’

  ‘Or a ned with a credit card. You seen the lock?’

  Watson sniffed. ‘True. I guess we won’t know if anything’s missing.’

  LB shook his head. Not without Summer they wouldn’t but he wasn’t about to offer her up to Watson as a sacrifice.

  ‘So what do you know about Patrick Forrester? Other than he’s AWOL? What’s that bird who called it in said?’

  LB stepped aside as a photographer came to take pictures. ‘Er. He’s a complicated guy. He was having an affair with Kate Hampton. Allegedly. He works for the Malawi–Scotland Alliance. Is a bit of a playboy. Might have been short of money. Might be involved in child trafficking.’

  Watson stared at him. ‘What the fuck? Child fucking trafficking?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe he just uncovered it. Maybe he’s involved. Not sure.’

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ, LB. You need to start talking.’

  ‘Can I point out that you wouldn’t need me to start talking if you’d picked up the case properly and talked to the bird’—his lip curled as he said it—‘who called it in.’

  ‘No, you fucking can’t.’ Watson’s eyes bulged and he looked as if he’d just eaten a lemon. LB waited. ‘Was all this in that email you sent me this morning?’

  ‘Yes. I see you’ve not read it then.’

  Watson jammed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. ‘I should never have said you could come on to the case.’

  ‘Fine. Good luck solving it then.’ LB turned to leave.

  ‘Hey! No, you fucking don’t!’

  LB looked back calmly, keeping his irritation with the man out of his expression.

  ‘What’s in this email?’