The Wrong Kind of Clouds

by Amanda Fleet

  ‘Full details of what Ms Morris has told me. I suggest you read over it before we talk to the Hamptons this afternoon. It looks as if forensics are almost done here. What time are the interviews scheduled for? And are they at the station or at the Hamptons’ house?’

  ‘The station. She’s at two thirty. He’s at three.’

  ‘Good. Keep them apart?’

  ‘Don’t tell me how to do my job, LB.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Andy,’ he said, full of disdain.

  He stood back and waited for the forensics team to pass by. The constable reappeared and told Watson that the neighbours who were in hadn’t seen or heard anything. Watson nodded and then glared at LB.

  ‘Get to the station for two. I need you to tell me everything you know.’

  ‘Yeah. Read the fucking email,’ LB replied, his voice mocking over the expletive.

  He followed them out, careful to keep the key. Watson stared at him as he pocketed it.

  ‘The key’s Ms Morris’s. See you at two.’

  LB walked to his car, got in and waited until the team from Edinburgh had left, and then pulled out his phone.

  ‘Drink up. I need you back here,’ he texted. Then he leaned back and watched the road in the direction he assumed Summer would come from.

  ***

  LB met her outside the flat and offered to take one of her bags from her. She shook her head.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked, thinking that she looked pale.

  She nodded unconvincingly. He pulled a pair of surgical gloves from an inside pocket and handed them to her.

  ‘They might be a bit big. Forensics have dusted and taken what they want. The flat was a palimpsest of prints so I doubt we’ll get anything useful and we’ll need to take yours for elimination. You probably don’t need to wear gloves, but I’d rather you did.’

  ‘To cover your back, right? Because I shouldn’t really be here?’

  He nodded. Summer put on the proffered pair. They were indeed too big.

  ‘You got copies of all the photos with you by any chance? The ones you took the first time you came round?’

  ‘Yeah. Hold this.’

  The weight of her camera bag surprised him. She rummaged in the large shoulder bag, pulling out a wallet of photos then swapped him the wallet for the camera bag.

  ‘I need your eyes. We’re going to walk through the flat and you’re going to tell me what’s missing.’ He opened the door and let her walk ahead. ‘Tread carefully. There are seeds or something all over the floor. Any idea what they are or why they would have been thrown here?’

  Summer leaned over and looked at them. ‘They’re from the bao board.’

  ‘The what?’

  LB closed the door behind them. Summer pointed to a piece of wood on the floor. It was a long, narrow chunk of a dark reddish wood with thirty-four hollows carved in it—thirty-two small ones making up four rows of eight and two larger ones, one at each end. LB examined it.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s a game. Unless there are any missing, there should be sixty-four seeds on the floor.’

  ‘A game?’

  ‘Mmm. I can teach you if you like, although I only know the basic version. The full version in Malawi is the most complicated form of the game. The version I know doesn’t make use of these two holes being different.’

  She pointed to two hollows towards the middle of the board which were square rather than round.

  ‘Patrick knows that version.’ She turned away as her voice caught.

  LB reached over and rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on. Let’s work through these photos.’

  She waited for him to shuffle them into a logical sequence and the two of them started. LB held up a photo and they both scanned the room, checking off items in the pictures against what was scattered around the room. They were on the third photo when Summer frowned.

  ‘Where’s the phone?’

  ‘Where should it be?’ LB scrutinised the photo. ‘Oh, here on this table.’

  Summer tiptoed through the items on the floor to peer behind the table.

  ‘It’s on the floor. Here. There are new messages,’ she said, her voice excited.

  LB leaned past her and retrieved the phone, muttering under his breath.

  ‘Shouldn’t forensics have noticed that?’ asked Summer as he placed the phone back on the table.

  ‘Yes.’

  He was too professional to criticise them openly. Summer pulled her phone out of her bag, readying it to record the new messages. LB unconsciously copied Summer’s earlier trip, pushing the play button with the end of a pencil.

  ‘I’m not playing games, Patrick. End of the week. You don’t want to let me down again. I’m not a patient man. … Wednesday: 4.06 p.m.’

  Summer visibly paled. The machine continued playing.

  ‘Patrick? Are you there? I know you’re probably screening, but please, pick up? Please? … Okay, well, the scan went well… I’m sorry about what I said… I’m just scared. I would have helped you, but now with a baby coming… I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I did. Please, Patrick, call me back? We really need to talk. … Thursday: 2.22 p.m.’

  LB’s eyebrows shot up, his gaze raking over the abortion clinic leaflets scattered on the floor.

  ‘Who’s that? It’s not Kate Hampton.’

  Summer shrugged. The machine clicked off and she waved her phone at LB to indicate she’d recorded it all. He leaned over to the phone and found the last caller number. It was an Edinburgh number and he wrote it down, reading it out to Summer as he did so.

  ‘Recognise it?’

  ‘No. I don’t know. I’m not good with numbers. If I’d photographed it, I’d remember!’ She smiled apologetically.

  LB nodded and then held up the next photo in sequence. They checked off each of the items, the only thing missing being the laptop.

  ‘That’s still at my house.’

  ‘I’ll need to get that from you.’ He noted her disappointment.

  They completed their comparisons and stood in the centre of the lounge.

  ‘Just the laptop then? Nothing else.’

  Summer closed her eyes, holding her hand up. For a moment, LB wondered what she was doing before it dawned on him that she was mentally walking through the flat again, comparing the rooms with how they were during her earlier visit that week.

  ‘No. There’s a bundle of letters missing.’ She opened her eyes again.

  ‘Which photo?’ LB shuffled through them.

  ‘It’s not in a photo. I didn’t photograph them. They were in the drawer of the desk, along with the leaflets for the clinic.’

  She hunted around the flat but the bundle wasn’t there.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  She closed her eyes again. ‘There were three letters. White envelopes. Nothing special—the sort you get everywhere. The size where an A4 sheet can be folded into thirds and just fits. Handwritten address, not typed. They were towards the front of the drawer with the leaflets underneath, so you could see what the leaflets were for without moving the envelopes. First class stamps. Edinburgh postmark.’

  When she opened her eyes, LB was looking expectantly at her.

  ‘I didn’t read them.’ She sounded offended.

  ‘You took his laptop and read his emails!’

  ‘Mmm. Anyway, they’re not here.’

  ‘Okay.’

  LB crossed his arms and swivelled slowly. ‘Does this look right to you?’

  Summer glanced around the room. ‘It’s the first break-in I’ve seen. I don’t know.’

  ‘Look. Just look. You look at scenes for a living.’

  Her eyes wandered over everything uncertainly. ‘Not scenes like this! I don’t know what I’m looking for.’

  ‘And I can’t tell you. It’s a feeling. Just look for me, will you?’ He nodded at the room.

  The two of them stared at it silently for a few minutes.<
br />
  ‘It’s in layers,’ she said suddenly.

  LB looked across to her, rubbing his chin. ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s a methodical layer and a trashing layer on top. It feels like the chaos is too chaotic. It’s the wrong colour. I can’t really explain.’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘It’s as if the place was being made to look as if it had been burgled. That the person wanted just some specific things but to take those would be too pointed, so the place got trashed to hide that.’

  LB nodded. ‘Except by only taking one thing, it makes it all wrong.’

  ‘And the fact the door’s not forced.’

  ‘The lock’s too rubbish to need to bother. I wonder what was in those letters?’

  ‘Confirmation of Kate and Patrick?’

  ‘And with Patrick out of the way, it could all be deniable.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Who’s the woman on the phone? And who was the impatient man?’

  ‘Two people who don’t know Patrick is missing.’

  LB nodded approvingly. ‘Very true. What time is it? Okay. I have to be at the station at two to brief a colleague on everything. Let’s have an early lunch.’

  ‘What am I doing while you go to the station?’

  ‘Staying out of trouble? Shopping? Catching a train back? Whatever you want.’

  Her face fell. ‘But not coming to the station with you.’

  ‘Trust me. You’d rather not be there. The guy who’s the lead at this end will drive you bananas. You’re better off being out of his way.’

  ‘And I wasn’t supposed to be here either?’

  ‘Bingo. Come on. Let’s go. We’ve seen all we can here.’

  ‘Let me just feed Oscar.’

  ‘Oscar?’

  ‘The cat. He’s semi-feral. He’ll be fine if I just put stuff out for him.’

  Summer scooted through to the kitchen, shook some food into the bowl and returned. LB shouldered her camera bag, leaving her with the lighter tote, and handed her the wallet of photos.

  ‘Know anywhere good to eat?’

  ‘Nice place around the corner.’

  LB nodded. Summer glanced around the room again, her shoulders sagged and her eyes began to glaze. LB touched her arm making her jump.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ She raked her hand through her hair.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  He extended an arm out to the side and she leaned against him. He squeezed her lightly.

  ‘You’re doing all you can,’ he murmured.

  ‘And he still might be dead, right?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He squeezed her again, and then propelled her out of the flat, his hand between her shoulder blades.

  ‘Come on. Lunch. My shout since you cooked dinner last night.’

  He shepherded her out of the building and let her direct the way to the cafe.

  They sat at a wooden table decorated with plastic flowers in a plastic vase and read the menu in silence. LB periodically checked on his companion, concerned that she looked so pale. She didn’t look up at him. Once their orders were in, he pulled a small notebook out of his jacket pocket, feeling awkward.

  ‘I know you’re still shaken about things but I need to ask you some questions.’

  Summer met his eyes. He could tell in a trice he’d gone from someone she was beginning to think of as a friend back to a copper, and he cursed himself.

  ‘Sure. Fire away.’

  Her voice was flat and thin so he tried to keep his tone gentle. ‘When were you last at the flat? Before today.’

  ‘You know that. Wednesday morning. I promised you I wouldn’t come back. Why don’t you trust me?’

  ‘I do trust you. I just have to ask these things. What time were you there?’

  ‘Before lunch. I suppose it would have been about half eleven when I got there.’

  ‘And when did you leave?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. Maybe half an hour later at most.’

  ‘And you locked the door behind you? And the back door in the kitchen was locked?’ He was dismayed to see her looking so hostile.

  ‘Yes. I locked the back door after it had been left open. I thought it wasn’t safe to leave it unlocked like that. I definitely closed the front door after me too. In fact, the neighbour, Cameron, can confirm that. He stood in the hall and watched me while I did it.’

  ‘And you’re sure there was a bundle of letters in the drawer of the desk and they’re now missing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You never mentioned the leaflets for the clinic.’

  ‘I forgot. It wasn’t a deliberate omission.’

  He looked carefully at her. She seemed weary to the bone and he wished he didn’t need to ask her so many questions. Better him than Watson though.

  ‘Who do you think is pregnant?’

  ‘The second woman on the phone. The one whose number you wrote down.’

  ‘Not Kate Hampton?’

  ‘Well, the woman talked about a scan. It wasn’t Kate Hampton’s voice.’ Summer rested her cheek on her knuckles, settling grey eyes on him.

  ‘I’m guessing that Patrick’s views on fatherhood wouldn’t have been positive? Judging by the leaflets.’

  ‘Got it in one. He’s too free-spirited to have children. And still not committed enough to monogamy it would seem.’

  ‘Rough on whoever it is who called if she is pregnant. Not only is Patrick not supportive, but today she finds out he’s also seeing another woman. Not ideal father material.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anything else you can think of, before I meet the guy heading up the case here?’

  ‘You mean the guy who missed the phone being on the floor? He needs all the help he can get.’ She sipped at her glass of water, then rested the glass against her forehead. ‘Sorry. I have a storming headache. No, there’s nothing else I can think of right now.’

  ‘What are you going to do while I’m at the station?’

  She looked up. Would she ever let him be a copper and a friend, he wondered?

  ‘Go to a couple of camera shops, I think. Sit in Princes Street Gardens until my head clears.’

  ‘Do you want to travel back with me?’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah. That would be nice. Will you be able to update me on how things go with the Hamptons?’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not making any promises though.’

  Summer sighed. ‘When we were driving in, I didn’t think it had anything to do with them. I thought it was all to do with Patrick finding out about things in Malawi. My pecking order had been Malawi, then maybe the loan shark, then things with Kate Hampton, but now I have no idea. I don’t think it can be the loan shark because of that other message, which implies he didn’t know Patrick was missing, so presumably he’s not behind it. But who trashed the flat? And what was in the letters? God, I wish I had read them now!’

  ‘I would guess they were linked to the reason why Patrick’s disappeared. They probably hold evidence of whatever Patrick was about to say or what he knew that made him vanish. That might be his affair with Kate, it might be Malawi. I agree that what had seemed quite plausible—that he owed a lot of money to a nasty piece of work who was reclaiming it with interest—is somewhat less plausible now that the person still seems to be asking for his money.’

  There was a TV on mute in the corner, showing a twenty-four-hour news channel. LB glanced up, idly reading the scrolling message along the bottom of the screen.

  ‘Kate Hampton’s resigned.’ He nodded to the set. ‘Which removes the blackmail leverage. She was never going to be able to withstand the scandal in the papers, so I guess the key question is, who told the papers?’

  ‘Who knew? The people at that party?’

  ‘Not reliable enough unless there was a photograph and the papers would have run that.’

  ‘Patrick?’

  ‘Who’s missing and not voluntarily from the call he made to you.’


  ‘Kate?’

  ‘Who might be foolish but presumably isn’t stupid.’

  ‘Paul?’

  ‘Hell hath no fury… okay, he’s a man, not a woman scorned, but same thing. Let’s say Patrick was blackmailing Kate and to stop him, she told Paul about the affair. He could play it one of two ways—support her or not. Let’s work this through. Say he supports her and Kate goes back to Patrick to say she’s told him. His next threat could be to tell the press. She relays this to Paul and he makes Patrick vanish. Why would he then tell the press himself? That wouldn’t make sense. So, let’s imagine he wasn’t supportive. He could ruin her without needing to make Patrick disappear.’ He leaned back, irritated. ‘It just doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Maybe another, more reliable third party knew?’ offered Summer. ‘They tell Paul and the press and Paul does something to Patrick as revenge?’

  LB’s mind skidded over a name. ‘That’s a very serious accusation against Paul.’

  ‘It’s just an option. Maybe none of this has anything to do with Kate and Paul Hampton and Patrick has been kidnapped by someone linked to the Malawian child disappearances.’

  LB’s eyes narrowed. ‘Could the letters have come from overseas?’

  Summer shook her head vehemently. ‘UK stamps. First class. Edinburgh postmark. I’ve told you that. And posted mail takes so long to get to or from Malawi you’d email someone or text them, not write a letter. But the MSA is in Edinburgh. What if it’s not either/or, though. What if it’s to do with Malawi and the Hamptons? Maybe Patrick’s disappearance is linked to the Malawian angle, but the flat was broken into by Paul or someone Paul could employ, to retrieve incriminating letters before they’re made public and cause even more embarrassment?’

  LB chewed the idea over. ‘What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  ‘Let’s talk about things once I’ve seen the Hamptons.’

  ‘Won’t your colleague here be pissed off about that?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not if he doesn’t know. He’ll be too busy trying to solve the murder cases anyway.’

  He caught the flicker of anxiety in her face. It was now three days since her friend had disappeared. In all likelihood, this was a murder case too and he knew that she knew that.

  ‘Let’s talk about all this tonight. Cook you dinner?’