The Wrong Kind of Clouds

by Amanda Fleet

  ‘I agree she might not have done you any favours on the flat but maybe you should have investigated it when it was called in.’

  ‘Fuck off. We have two fucking murders to solve that aren’t getting any fresher. And those two stink like week-old fish but we’re no fucking closer to knowing where Forrester is.’

  LB breathed out heavily. ‘No. Dead in some wasteland somewhere, ready for someone’s dog to discover probably.’

  ‘There’d be no chance of a conviction after Ms Morris’—Watson mocked her name—‘has stomped all over the fucking crime scene.’

  ‘How many messages were there on the answerphone today?’ asked LB, his patience finally snapping.

  ‘What? What answerphone?’

  ‘Exactly. The one that had been knocked down the back of the table. The one you and your team missed. Ms Morris isn’t the only one who’s affected this case.’

  He walked off, leaving Watson staring after him. He’d really had enough of him: his language, his sloppiness, his keenness to pass the blame on. The Hamptons had been the best lead and it had got them nowhere.

  Outside, LB found a quiet bench, retrieved the number from the answerphone out of his pocket and dialled it.

  ‘Good afternoon. Wright Interiors.’

  ‘Oh, hello. Who am I speaking to please?’

  ‘Helen Wright. Who’s calling?’

  ‘This is DS Stewart of Police Scotland, ma’am. Do you know a Patrick Forrester?’

  He heard a slight gasp on the other end.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do. Why?’

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that Mr Forrester has gone missing. Can I ask how you know him?’

  ‘I was his girlfriend. Until a few weeks ago. Oh God, I didn’t know he was missing. When? What’s happened to him?’

  She sounded genuinely distressed and LB tried to soothe her. ‘We don’t know, ma’am. We think he went missing earlier this week. We saw that you left a message for him yesterday and wondered if we’d be able to talk to you? See if you could help in any way?’

  ‘Oh. Er, of course. When?’

  ‘Well, as soon as possible really.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I’ve an appointment with someone in a few minutes and then having dinner with some other clients. Is first thing tomorrow okay?’

  ‘First thing tomorrow would be fine. Where can I find you?’

  She gave him details of how to get to her shop, still sounding upset. LB knew there was nothing he could say to calm her and arranged to see her at nine the next day. He rang off and leaned back heavily. Was Helen Wright another woman in Patrick’s life who he’d treated like shit? The man seemed like scum. Exhausted, he called Summer.

  ‘Anything left in the shops?’

  ‘Plenty. How are you?’

  ‘Tired and needing to leave. Where shall I pick you up and do you still want to have dinner?’

  ‘I’m in Princes Street Gardens and yes please to dinner. Where’s the easiest place for you to stop?’

  They sorted out a location and hung up. LB stretched his back and debated whether to pop his head back into Watson’s office. In the end, he couldn’t bear to. Anyway, Watson knew everything that he did, if he could be bothered to read his emails. LB shrugged and made his way back to the car.

  Friday, Early Evening

  Helen Wright stopped hunting around the flat and sighed, sinking down on to the bed and clutching her head in her hands. She would lose her marbles soon. Must be the hormones. She was normally so careful about things, but then, ha, wasn’t that an ironic thing to say. Where the hell were those letters and that photo? She couldn’t have lost them. She mustn’t have.

  How had she ended up in this state? However she looked at it, she couldn’t see how she could run the business with a baby. She scraped her hair back and tried to call her brother again, but just as it had all the previous times, it cut straight to voicemail. He must be out of range. Network coverage on the west coast could be shocking.

  She tossed her phone on the bed beside her and tried to focus on the evening ahead. Should she wear magic knickers to hide the bump when she went out? It would make the choice of clothes easier but was it okay for the baby to be all scrunched up like that? They were very important clients. She couldn’t mess up. She did a quick search on the internet, finding out that Mrs Adamson was on the church council and judging by the ‘likes’ on her Facebook page, was a strong believer in marriage. Unless she could produce a wedding ring pronto, she would go for the magic knickers, she decided, just in case.

  When had Patrick gone missing? Before or after Rob got into such a rage about it all?

  She shook herself, appalled to think she could be so disloyal to her brother. He might not be the same man who had left for Iraq, and he might have a temper in him that put the devil to shame, but no, surely not. Maybe once, when he first returned, when he wasn’t right in his thinking and would throw himself to the ground at the sound of a car backfiring, white and shaking, his head full of flashbacks of fallen comrades and roadside bombs, but not now.

  So what had happened, then? Where was Patrick? Had his fears come true and the man he owed money to, claimed the debt in flesh?

  She blinked away the thoughts, dragging her mind back to the dinner ahead and hunted in the drawer for a pair of magic knickers, hoping she wouldn’t still be showing once she was in them. She really couldn’t afford to get it wrong with the Adamsons.

  But however hard she tried to lock her brain on to business, it was determined to stray to the same old questions about how she would cope once the baby was born. And now she wondered whether Patrick had done a runner from her. Had something horrible happened? It was a policeman who’d called her. Did they call if someone did a runner?

  She stared around at her beautiful home and wondered how impressive it would be with toys all over the place and a smell of baby sick and nappies. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Why had she not been more careful?

  ***

  Kate clapped her hand over her mouth as Bruce Macdonald marched into the lounge and her eyes flew to Paul.

  ‘I thought we were having an evening to talk? What’s Bruce doing here?’

  Bruce threw a bundle on to the table, glaring contemptuously at her. She still couldn’t look at him.

  ‘What have you done, Paul?’ she whispered.

  Bruce rolled his sleeves up, his tattooed arms the greenish hue of old bruises, and dropped on to the sofa next to her. She recoiled, cramming herself into the corner.

  ‘What has he done? Fucking slut.’

  Kate’s eyes shot to the table, resting on the bundle Bruce had tossed there. She gasped as she recognised the letters she’d written to Patrick.

  ‘What? How?’ She fought hard to lock her mask of professionalism back in place, breathing steadily.

  Paul started counting notes out, his gaze fixed on the letters. ‘Where’s the computer?’ he said levelly.

  ‘No computer. Weren’t one.’

  ‘Shit. Where the…?’

  ‘Not in the flat, I can tell you.’ Bruce leaned back, eyeing the money as it was counted.

  Paul looked as if he was hesitating over putting some of it back in his wallet. ‘No tape up? The place wasn’t cordoned off?’

  Bruce shook his head.

  ‘And you were careful? And it looks okay?’

  ‘It looks like any fucking break-in. And no, there weren’t no tape or nothin’. Place was deserted. Piece o’ piss.’

  Paul’s hand stilled. ‘What do you mean, “any break-in”?’

  ‘Trashed. Stuff on the floor. Like a fucking break-in!’

  ‘Why didn’t you just take the letters and leave?’

  Bruce stared at him, his face blank. ‘You told me to break in, steal his computer and the letters. So I broke in.’

  Paul breathed heavily. ‘You fucking idiot. If you hadn’t trashed the place, no one would know anyone had been there!’

  Bruce shrugged.

  ‘But
no sign of the computer?’

  ‘No.’ Bruce stared at Kate. ‘But there were a load o’ leaflets ’bout an abortion clinic. You been a bit careless?’

  Shock flashed across Paul’s face at this revelation. Bruce stared at Kate but she was too practised a politician to let any reaction into her face a second time.

  ‘Not me,’ she said tartly, wondering who they were for.

  Paul handed Bruce a wad of money.

  Bruce counted it slowly. ‘Where’s the rest?’ He glowered at Paul.

  ‘Where’s the computer? The job’s half done,’ replied Paul coolly. ‘And done badly at that.’

  Bruce’s gaze flicked from Paul to Kate. ‘I took copies of them letters. You really wouldn’t want me to lose them now, would you?’

  ‘I don’t have any further to fall.’ Kate’s voice was steady. ‘So they’re no use to you. If you’ve nothing else to deliver, perhaps you could leave me and my husband to talk?’

  Bruce levered himself up. Paul ushered him back towards the kitchen and Kate could hear raised voices. Exhausted to the core, she closed her eyes, half hoping she would never open them again. The voices became heated, then quiet, and the back door banged sharply. When she peeled her eyelids open, Paul was standing in front of her.

  ‘What the hell have you done, Paul? The police asked me if Bruce was involved and I told them he wasn’t. We are surrounded by paparazzi and you have him come here? What were you thinking?’

  ‘Sorting out some of your mess,’ he muttered through clenched teeth.

  She sighed wearily. ‘To what end? The only thing to salvage is me and you, and those’—she flicked the envelopes with her foot—‘won’t achieve that.’

  Paul sank down in a chair, his eyes burning. ‘I’ve had more than enough humiliation from you without them getting published as well. And judging from the emails from you to him that I read on your machine, cleaning his computer would have been a good idea.’

  Kate trembled over her next question. ‘Did you ask Bruce to make Patrick disappear?’

  He stared at her, leaning on his knees. ‘Is that what you think?’

  She didn’t answer. His face darkened as her silence deepened and he stood abruptly.

  ‘I can’t stay. We have nothing to talk about.’ He snatched up his jacket.

  Kate tried to remonstrate, but he was gone, slamming the door behind him as he dashed through the paparazzi camped at the front. She stared after him, stunned. Had he really got Bruce to make Patrick disappear? Permanently? No, Paul didn’t have the guts for that. In any case, he seemed to hate her. The fact he’d refused to stick by her made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t going to do anything to help her out of this mess.

  She stood up, put the bundle of letters in the fire grate and held a match to them, watching as the flames licked through her words.

  ***

  Moyenda took a final look around the building before locking up for the night. Two boys in their late teens were kicking a football around in the other part of the grounds used as a playground.

  Moyenda waved to them. ‘Tionana! See you later!’

  Big grins came back along with waves, and their attention returned to their game. Moyenda smiled, put the office key in his pocket and turned to walk back to his house, his heart rate already climbing. If he was lucky, he would make it back before the light failed. He didn’t want to think about the consequences of walking back in the dark.

  His mind was full of the seven missing boys. Had they been sold? Where in the world were they? Were they safe? Happy? None of them spoke much English, having been out of school at key times. Could they get help if they needed it? Were they lonely in their new lives, unable to communicate their needs and wishes? He hoped they were somewhere safe and that they hadn’t been sold into the sex trade or child slavery. Bile rose in his throat at the thought.

  He turned on to the main road and joined the throngs of people on the roadside. Seven boys and now Patrick. The thought of what it could mean terrified him. Moyenda glanced over his shoulder, nervous even thinking about this. Was he being followed again? He thought he was.

  The look in Mzondi’s eyes at the end of their meeting had shaken him to his core. Mzondi, his friend, had lied to him. Moyenda had trusted him enough to share his worries, only to realise too late that Mzondi knew all along. How high did this go? Obviously as high as Moses. Higher?

  He felt sick to his stomach. Moses had been so helpful. He had cleared the paperwork through the government and made sure that Samala had been granted its community-based organisation status without hiccup. He had praised Samala for the work it did, lauded Moyenda for his dedication. He had always been a great friend to Samala. Had he been planning it all along? Had he helped to set Samala up so that he could benefit from selling some of the homeless orphans? Since he didn’t know how high this corruption went, how on earth could he stop it? There was no guarantee that ministers above Moses weren’t involved. He couldn’t go public, even if he had enough proof, because Samala would be the victim, not the ministers. They were untouchable. No. Samala would bear the brunt of the public’s fury, losing funding and respect faster than the wind. It had taken him years to build up Samala to where it was now, and every step of the journey had been difficult; every victory hard-fought and hard-won. He could not bring it all down, but he despised himself for that decision.

  He glanced over his shoulder again. The light was failing fast and he still had a long way to go. Many of the faces behind him were the same as the last time he had looked. He reached the outskirts of Blantyre, glad to finally be somewhere with street lights, and turned down the road that led to the old part of town, with its faded grandeur and British-built houses. Many of the colonial buildings had been demolished in the sixties and seventies—an act now largely regretted, especially since tourism was booming—but some remained, an odd blend of grace and authority. The people thinned, but two faces behind him stayed constant. He hurried on, trying to convince himself they were simply going the same way as him.

  He turned on to an unlit road. There was no alternative. Only some of the roads were lit in the city and the remainder of his route home was largely going to be dark. Dusk was thickening and he quickened his pace. The two men behind him quickened their pace to match. As soon as they were out of sight of the main street, Moyenda broke into a trot and then a run. Behind him, pounding footsteps matched his racing heart rate and fear flooded his veins. Who were they? What would they do to him?

  He skittered round a corner but they were almost on him. As he stole a glance behind him, the first punch landed, catching him in the shoulder and sending him staggering. Moyenda brought his arms up to shield his face. The second blow hammered into his stomach. He doubled up, nausea washing through him just as a savage kick to his knee brought him to the ground. He screamed out in pain. Would anyone help him? Even as he prayed for respite, he was conscious of the grit of the road gouging his face, and then his body spasmed as a boot landed with a hideous thud in his back.

  Oh, God, he was going to die. They were going to kill him. Chifundo…

  He rolled, avoiding a kick to the head. I must get up. I can’t let them kill me…

  He tried to push himself up on to his knees, still shielding his head with one arm. For the first time, he caught a glimpse of his assailants, even as one sent him sprawling into the dirt with a kick to the ribs. Smart clothes. Shiny, new shoes. These men did not need to mug him for his money; they were richer than he by a large margin.

  ‘Get his cell,’ snapped one of them. ‘And get his wallet. Make it look right.’

  More kicks and blows landed and the men shoved rough hands into Moyenda’s pockets, seeking out his mobile and his money. Someone had seen what was happening from the street and shouts were ringing out. One of the muggers bent down, grabbed Moyenda by his shirt and hauled him up to hiss in his ear.

  ‘Take that as a warning. Stop meddling in things that don’t concern you.’

  He
let go and Moyenda slumped back, bleeding and stunned. People were running down the path towards them and, dazed and scared, he feared they were coming to join in. But the two muggers had taken flight and one of the newcomers started to run after them while the others clustered around Moyenda.

  ‘It’s Moyenda Mkumba!’ cried one of them, crouching down to minister to him. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was mugged. They took my cell and my wallet.’

  The man who had given chase returned, gasping for breath. ‘They were too far ahead. Moyenda?’

  Moyenda smiled through his bruises, glad to be so well known and loved. He knew many of these people by sight, even if he didn’t know their names. His vision started clotting.

  ‘I think I need to go to hospital.’ He touched his head gingerly, feeling sick, before slowly collapsing into the dust.

  Friday Evening

  LB was nervous. The whole of the journey back from Edinburgh he’d been debating whether it was foolish to invite Summer for dinner. If she was involved with Forrester’s disappearance in any way, how would it look for them to have had dinner together, not just once but twice? Thankfully she hadn’t wanted to talk in the car as her head was still pounding, leaving him space to go over everything. He was sure she wasn’t involved but if a body was found, would she be able to provide any valid evidence given her visits to the flat? Would any of his work stand given that it wasn’t his case, wasn’t his jurisdiction and he’d invited her back to his place for dinner?

  He parked in front of her house, grim-faced.

  ‘Are you regretting asking me?’ Summer startled him out of his thoughts.

  He looked across and realised she must have been watching him steadily for some time.

  ‘Possibly. I don’t want to jeopardise any potential prosecutions.’

  ‘Of me?’ Her voice was brittle.

  He smiled to reassure her, shaking his head. ‘I wasn’t thinking that you’d be prosecuted, no. I would like any evidence you might potentially give to be able to stand up to cross-examination by a bastard of a lawyer, that’s all.’