The Wrong Kind of Clouds

by Amanda Fleet

  ‘Can you cook?’ she mimicked.

  He snorted. ‘My mother’s French. Of course I can cook!’

  He steered the conversation on to photography, keeping it there until they cleared their plates. After they left the cafe, they stood on the pavement together, LB’s bulk dwarfing her. He suddenly thought that she looked so frail she might blow away.

  ‘I’ll call you when I’m finished,’ he said softly. ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘Still pounding. I’ll see you later. I’m going to sit in the park then wander around a couple of camera shops and try and keep my credit card in my wallet!’

  ‘Okay.’

  He coiled an arm around her shoulders, squeezed her warmly and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Summer sneaked her arm around his middle and squeezed him back.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll be fine. It’s just… the flat…’

  ‘Shh.’ He touched another kiss to her hair. ‘No need to explain. I’ll see you later.’

  She slid away from him and took her camera bag back. He watched her walk towards the centre of the city until she was out of view.

  Was he about to make a career-ending mistake?

  Friday Afternoon

  ‘That man has surely been behind me since I left Ryalls.’ Moyenda caught himself muttering out loud, startling himself almost as much as the people around him. He doubled back on himself abruptly, apologised to the woman he ran into and scurried down a side street. A moment later, he dared to peek behind him. The man he had thought was following him had gone.

  The streets were crowded with men in shiny suits and women in bright clothes with babies slung in cloths across their backs. A man who had obviously suffered from polio, scooted himself along on a crate with wheels attached, his lower limbs withered and misshapen, his grizzled beard unkempt, his outstretched palm asking for money. Two fat men brushed past the beggar, gold chains glinting around their necks. They didn’t toss him any coins. Moyenda slipped into another side street, avoiding the large holes in the road and dusty weeds growing in the cracks in the pavement, and cut past the small supermarket. The air was thick with the smell of frying from the guys selling chips, and people chattered loudly to one another in Chichewa.

  He cut through the path between two modern, concrete buildings, avoiding the men selling counterfeit electronics and side-stepping a young boy carrying a basket containing small bags of peanuts. He reached the edge of the market where a dozen or more white minibuses waited, their drivers yelling their destinations and helping passengers in. Moyenda kept his head down. The minibus drivers all knew him. A left turn after the market took him back to the main road and he glanced carefully up and down the road before he joined it. He moved into the stream of people heading to work and glanced over his shoulder again. The man Moyenda thought he’d evaded locked gazes with him. Moyenda’s heart battered his ribs and he turned away abruptly. He was far too well known to be able to lose this man in Blantyre. If he did manage to slip away, all the man would have to do was ask the shoe-shine boys or the boys peddling maps to tourists or the bead-sellers where he had gone and they would point him out. They all knew him. He had worked with the homeless and the disadvantaged for over a decade.

  He wove his way through the brightly dressed women carrying flat baskets of bananas and men in cheap, grey suits until he reached Samson’s tailoring shop. Samson was one of the boys who had been supported by Samala and given an apprenticeship and a sewing machine. Moyenda had wanted to see how he was getting on for a while now and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. The stocky young man was sitting at his sewing machine in the shade of the awning above the shop and he greeted Moyenda cheerfully, finishing a seam before putting the piece he was working on to one side, his broad grin running from ear to ear. The two exchanged pleasantries and Moyenda stood just inside the doorway and asked how the business was going.

  ‘Good! Business is very good, thank you. You know I will always be grateful for the belief you had in me!’

  He waved his hand towards the interior of the shop at the clothes hanging on the walls. Moyenda smiled. Samson cocked his head to one side, peering closely at his former sponsor and mentor.

  ‘Is everything okay, my friend? You look worried.’

  Moyenda looked back, his smiles all gone. ‘I think a man is trying to rob me. He has been watching me all morning.’

  Samson looked horrified. ‘How could anyone would want to do something to hurt you?’

  ‘I need to get away from him, but everyone will point me out.’

  ‘Go through the shop. You can cut through from the backyard on to Henderson Street. If he comes and asks, I will say you left and went east down Haile Salassie Avenue. What does he look like?’

  Moyenda glanced around but could not spot the man in the crowds. He described him as fully as he could and Samson nodded.

  ‘Look, there is a large group of people coming. Slip through the back while they pass the shop.’

  Moyenda smiled, thanking his friend. He waited until the gaggle of people drew level with the shop and slipped into the dim interior and out into the yard at the back. He jogged to Henderson Street, before heading towards a quieter part of town. When he looked behind him, there was no sign of the man who had been following him.

  The fact didn’t reassure him. Everyone knew where he worked. Everyone knew where he lived. The boys had disappeared. Patrick had disappeared.

  He was in danger.

  ***

  Shadowy figures circled him. Patrick peered at them, trying to make out their faces, but they were always turned away. A bonfire burned nearby, scorching the skin of his face.

  ‘You had it coming.’

  Kate? His eyes prickled from trying to see.

  ‘Thief.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘Cheat.’

  They surrounded him, keeping just out of sight, taunting him.

  ‘Kill him. Kill him now.’

  He tried to cry out but his throat wouldn’t work. They circled closer, burning torches in their hands. He glimpsed Kate’s wavy hair, Helen’s profile. A clicking, whirring sound distracted him and he turned his head. Summer leered at him, then brought her camera up again, taking shot after shot as he lay there.

  ‘Help me?’ he whispered to her, but she turned away, laughing.

  He looked back to the other two women in time to see them raise their arms, ready to thrust the torches into his body. He tried to bring his arms up to protect himself but he was in heavy chains, pinning him to the ground. The flames stabbed towards him.

  He woke with a jolt, biting his tongue, the coppery tang of blood filling his mouth. Sweat ran from him and his breathing was laboured. Slowly, his vision cleared and his heart rate slowed.

  At least he could wake from a nightmare. He wasn’t sure he would ever escape from reality.

  ***

  LB let the cool water trickle over his wrists. He stared at his image in the mirror above him, calming his breathing. He knew he could be over-zealous about detail, meticulous to the point of obsessive, but recognising this as a drawback in himself and not being irritated by others who weren’t equally thorough didn’t automatically go together. Andy Watson was at the opposite end of the spectrum from LB—he was sloppy, lazy, promoted above his ability—and that irritated the hell out of him. He still hadn’t read LB’s email by the time he arrived. In fact, despite instructing LB to be there sharp at two, Andy rolled up nearly eight minutes late, munching on a disgusting-looking sandwich and then asked for a précis of what was in the email and information on why they were seeing the Hamptons. It took all of LB’s patience to work through the detail while Watson shovelled food down his throat.

  At the end of the summary, Watson suggested that he should lead the questions as it was his patch. LB didn’t agree. The discussion developed into a debate over whether LB would be tactful enough to handle the questions, at which point LB almost boiled over. He caught his temper just in time, knowing that losing it
would play right into Watson’s hands. Instead he insisted on leading the questions since he knew more about the case. He also used his size to intimidate Watson—standing up fully and imposing into Watson’s space—something he felt slightly ashamed of. Right now, he was trying to reconcile that feeling by muttering something about ends justifying means.

  He shook the water off his hands and dried them briskly, balling the paper towel tightly and dropping it into the bin. Most other people had left their towels unscrunched and with a sigh, LB used his foot to compact the bin and stop it from overflowing. He glanced at himself in the mirror again, checked his tie and his cuff-links and re-joined Watson in the corridor.

  ‘How long before they’re here?’ he asked Watson.

  ‘A while yet.’

  A young constable approached LB, flushed with excitement.

  ‘DS Stewart? I might have found something.’

  ‘Oh, run along, boy. The grown-ups need to talk,’ said Watson.

  ‘He was talking to me.’ LB was more curt than he’d intended. ‘DC Price, isn’t it? Did you get the warrant?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Friends in the right places. I got access to the accounts.’

  ‘Whose?’ snapped Watson.

  ‘The Hamptons’.’ LB kept his eyes on Price.

  Watson opened his mouth to start tearing strips off the constable. LB held up his hand.

  ‘All above board, right?’ Price nodded quickly. ‘So what have you found?’

  Price brightened visibly. ‘Mrs Hampton drew five thousand pounds out of her personal account on Monday lunchtime.’

  LB’s eyes widened and he jotted a note in his pocketbook. DC Price handed him a printout confirming the transaction. There was another sheet in his hands and LB nodded at it.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Mr Hampton also drew several thousand pounds out of his personal account on Monday. Both withdrawals were in cash.’

  He handed LB the papers, ignoring his boss who was steadily turning purple. LB scanned the sheets.

  ‘Good work, DC Price. Thank you. I genuinely didn’t expect you to get so far today.’

  ‘As I say, sir. Friends in the right places.’

  DI Watson harrumphed, glowering at the two. ‘Watch your step, son,’ he snarled.

  LB stared at Watson, slowly drawing his height up, and then turned back to the younger man, handing him his business card.

  ‘You have a bright future. Feel free to call me.’

  ‘Are you fucking poaching my staff?’

  DC Price pocketed the card with a small smile and made his escape.

  ‘No. Just giving a smart constable some encouragement and some options. We need to talk about this.’ He waved the printouts.

  Watson ushered them to one of the interview rooms and sat on the chair nearest the door, forcing LB to walk round him to the far side. LB said nothing, but rolled his eyes as he passed behind Watson. Once seated, he made some more notes.

  ‘It’s not looking good for them.’ He read over what he’d written.

  ‘Don’t forget who you’re talking to and that it’s election day next week. She might have trashed her reputation but she still has connections.’

  LB raised his gaze, unsmiling. ‘And don’t you forget that a man has been missing for over three days and that no one, not even the Hamptons, are above the law.’

  ‘What do you reckon the money’s for?’

  ‘Paying off Forrester? So that he’ll keep quiet about the affair? Paying to have Forrester removed from the picture? Let’s see what they say.’

  DC Price tapped the door lightly and poked his head in. ‘Mrs Hampton is here.’

  LB nodded. ‘Put her in Interview Room Two and offer her a tea or coffee.’ He wanted her relaxed.

  Watson’s breath snorted in his nostrils but he didn’t cavil. LB continued to read through his notes, preparing his questions. Watson glared at him. Eventually, LB capped his pen and looked up.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Watson sarcastically.

  ‘Of course.’

  The two returned to the corridor. LB brushed past Watson and grasped the handle to the interview room, squaring his shoulders.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Hampton. Thank you for coming in.’

  Mrs Hampton was thin-lipped and holding herself with a frosty self-control. LB smiled warmly and slid into the seat opposite her, Watson took the free chair next to him. A cup of weak tea squatted next to her folded hands. Watson introduced them before LB leaned forward, wresting back control.

  ‘We need to ask you a few questions about Patrick Forrester’—LB watched Kate’s face carefully—‘who was reported missing earlier this week.’

  Kate said nothing, looking as if she was waiting for something.

  ‘Do you know Patrick Forrester?’ asked LB.

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know he was missing until you called me though.’

  ‘What is the nature of your relationship with Mr Forrester?’

  Kate’s lips thinned further and she swallowed. ‘As I am sure you are aware from the newspapers, I had an affair with him. Which is over.’

  LB jotted a note. ‘Could you talk me through that? How did you meet? When was it over? Why is it over?’

  ‘It’s over because I came to my senses after being foolish,’ she snapped, her words brittle.

  LB waited, his face open. Watson shifted uncomfortably in the seat next to him and he tried not to let that distract him. Kate stared at him for a moment before eventually continuing.

  ‘We worked together on a project. It was about health in Malawi. He was an adviser to the committee that I was chairing. We started out as friends, colleagues. It should never have developed into more.’

  ‘When was this committee formed?’

  ‘February.’

  ‘And it developed into more than a working friendship?’ LB tried to keep his voice warm to offset the arctic chill emanating from across the table.

  ‘Yes. That was a mistake and I’m trying to rebuild things with my husband. This questioning isn’t helpful.’

  ‘I understand that, Mrs Hampton, but Mr Forrester is missing and we’re trying to put together a picture of his life, to see if we can locate him.’

  ‘I have nothing to do with that. I had no idea he was even missing until you called me. I don’t see how raking up the past is at all helpful.’

  LB ignored her outburst, keeping his voice calm and low. ‘When did the relationship end?’

  There was a pause. ‘At the weekend. Sunday.’

  ‘And could you tell me why?’

  Kate hesitated, folding her fingers together. ‘I came to my senses. The thing had run its course. I realised that I’d been very foolish and that the relationship with my husband was more important.’

  LB nodded, thinking, ‘Save it for the papers,’ but said nothing for a moment. Watson leaned back in his chair and scratched his neck.

  ‘When did you last see Patrick Forrester, Mrs Hampton?’ asked LB.

  ‘When I called things off with him—Sunday.’

  ‘And when did you last speak to him?’

  ‘The same time.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘At his flat.’ Kate shifted her weight in the chair.

  ‘What time was that, please?’

  ‘The morning. About eleven.’

  ‘Could you tell me more about that meeting, please? What did you say? How did Mr Forrester respond?’

  ‘I told him that things between us were over.’

  ‘And how did he respond?’

  ‘He was disappointed. We argued.’ Kate swallowed, her gaze flicking away.

  ‘Have you ever threatened Mr Forrester?’ LB glanced down at his notes. He looked up when his question received no reply and raised his brows.

  ‘In a message on Forrester’s phone,’ he prompted, ‘you called him a little shit and asked how he could have done that to you. What was “that”?’

  Kate’s face hardened suddenly. ‘I don’t
recall. I was upset.’

  ‘You went on to threaten to kill him.’ LB’s voice was soft. He could almost hear Watson’s attention snapping on.

  ‘As I said, I was upset. I didn’t mean anything by that. I was upset.’

  ‘Did Patrick Forrester ever threaten to blackmail you over your affair?’

  He heard Watson cough slightly as if startled but he kept his focus on Kate. A flash of fear shot through her eyes.

  ‘No.’

  LB held her gaze until she shuffled uncomfortably in her seat and looked down at her hands.

  ‘When did your husband find out about the affair? When you told him?’

  ‘At the weekend. He got a letter telling him about the affair and confronted me.’

  ‘A letter? Who from?’

  ‘Patrick. Possibly. Though he said it wasn’t.’

  ‘And how did your husband react to the news?’

  She sighed angrily. ‘Where is this going? It was an imprudent message. Neither Paul nor I know anything about Patrick disappearing. I don’t understand why you think we do.’

  ‘We don’t necessarily. We’re just trying to find out some background. How did your husband Paul take the news?’

  ‘How do you expect? He was upset.’

  ‘Angry?’

  ‘Yes. With me.’

  ‘Not angry with Mr Forrester?’

  ‘Paul has nothing to do with Patrick going missing! Is Patrick even really missing? He’s probably just gone away without telling anyone. He was like that!’

  Watson flashed LB a glance.

  ‘We know that Mr Forrester is genuinely missing and have reason to believe that violence was involved,’ LB continued.

  Kate blanched. The moment was fleeting before she became defensive again. ‘Paul has nothing to do with any of that!’

  ‘Does Bruce Macdonald? Your husband’s brother-in-law?’

  Again, a look of fear shot through Kate’s eyes and she hesitated before collecting herself. ‘Bruce may have done some foolish things in the past but he’s a reformed character now. He’s left all that behind. He has nothing to do with this.’

  LB pursed his lips, sure she was lying. ‘Foolish?’ he said, his voice crisp. ‘I’m not sure that any of his victims would agree with that word. The man who lost an eye in a beating from him wouldn’t think that Bruce was being foolish. Or the man with six broken ribs and a skull fracture. Or—’