The Wrong Kind of Clouds

by Amanda Fleet

  Summer… Why would she help? She probably hated him. If only he’d been able to explain, but she hadn’t been there and she found out the money was gone before he’d had a chance to talk to her.

  He closed his eyes, remembering a lazy afternoon with her, when things had still been good.

  ‘Yeah, well, they didn’t stay good for long, you fucking bastard.’ Her voice rang in his head.

  ‘I did it for a good reason. You never let me tell you.’ He opened his eyes. He was still alone.

  ‘So tell me now.’

  His eyelids drooped and he succumbed to fatigue. ‘I promised Moyenda. I thought I’d sold some articles. It fell through. I’m sorry I stole from you. Bevan wouldn’t lend me all of it.’

  His voice rasped, his throat dry. He was too tired to tell her all of it. The floor looked comfortable. More comfortable than the chair. If only he could lie down and sleep.

  Was that paint he could smell? Was the man redecorating the place? Why? To get rid of forensics? But he hadn’t got rid of Patrick yet. It didn’t make sense.

  Patrick rubbed his face gingerly with his wrists. His stomach knotted at the sound of the bolts being drawn. Was it time to die? He was too exhausted to open his eyes.

  ‘You’re a lucky lad.’

  Patrick peeled his eyes open. The man was standing in front of him, a smirk on his face. Patrick gazed greedily up into the room beyond the top of the stairs, seeing kitchen cabinets and bright light. He looked back at his captor, trying to see if he had a knife or a weapon on him.

  ‘Have you come to kill me?’ He fought hard to keep the terror out of his voice.

  ‘Change of plan. Again. What a fucking carry-on.’

  Patrick stared at him. ‘Whose plan?’

  The man laughed. ‘No one you need to know. I’ve told him you’re sick but he doesn’t care. Thinks his boss is mad not to have had you offed already, instead of havering over what to do. Twat.’

  The man crouched down to look at Patrick’s ankles, and then up at Patrick’s face.

  ‘I’d better find something for these, in case he finally settles on wanting you alive. Don’t go anywhere.’

  He laughed sarcastically. Patrick watched him leave, his vision receding from the edges, returning him to a blackness he was beginning to find reassuring.

  ***

  Helen locked the door to her flat, her mobile clamped to her ear by her shoulder. Still no reply from Rob. Could he really have done something to Patrick? Surely not. Surely?

  She still hadn’t got an answer by the time she reached the shop and she sank down in a chair, her head clasped in her hands. Rob had been so mad! Not just about Patrick cheating on her, but over his suggesting she get an abortion. He couldn’t bear the thought. After losing his own child like that—aborted by his first real love while he was fighting in Iraq. Put in a clinical waste bag like it was just a lump of meat, with Rob only finding out after the event. Mind you, Robbie would have stood by the mother, poor as he’d been at the time, but she’d said she was better off without both of them. He hadn’t seen it the same way.

  Was he really at Archie’s place? Had he taken the keys with him when he went off fishing? Why? He didn’t normally plan so far ahead. She didn’t even have a number for Archie—just his name and the address in Skye on a scrap of paper that Rob had stuck to the fridge.

  ‘Oh Jesus, Rob,’ she muttered. ‘What have you done?’

  ***

  The two policemen picked their way up the rough drive to the house, inching the car around potholes.

  ‘This it?’ asked the driver. His colleague nodded grimly.

  They parked next to a white van and rapped on the front door of the house. There was a long delay before there was any response and the two men were about to start walking around the outside, checking windows.

  ‘Hello?’

  A man with short-cropped light brown hair answered the door, wearing overalls that were shrugged off his torso with the arms knotted around his waist. Under them he wore a paint-splodged khaki T-shirt. The two policemen flashed badges at him.

  ‘Oh, hello, sir. We’re looking for either Archie Finlay or Rob Wright.’

  The man’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m Rob Wright. This is Archie Finlay’s house. I’m doing it up for him as a holiday home.’

  ‘Could we come in and have a look around?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just a routine enquiry, sir.’

  He paused, and then indicated for them to come in. ‘Sorry about the mess.’ He waved his hand at the dust sheets and brushes in the hallway.

  ‘Do you have any ID?’ asked one of the policemen.

  ‘Oh. Yes. Of course. Hang on.’

  The man left them in the hall, returning a moment later with a wallet. He took out the driver’s license and handed it over.

  ‘Had my hair cut since then!’ He laughed as the men looked at it.

  ‘Can you confirm your date of birth?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He trotted out the date, the words coming easily.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Could we have a look around the place?’

  ‘Of course. Help yourself. Just mind the mess.’

  Again, he waved his arms at the empty house. The policemen nodded and picked their way through the building before returning to the hallway.

  ‘Sorry to have troubled you, sir. We were asked to check it out. As we said, just a routine enquiry. I’m sure it’s just crossed wires somewhere. Thank you.’

  Rob showed them out, smiling broadly. ‘I bet it’s that nosy neighbour up the lane. She does love to know everything! Did she think I was a burglar?’

  The policemen laughed. ‘Thank you again, sir. Nice set of tattoos! Army?’

  ‘Black Watch.’

  The policeman nodded, smiling. ‘Well, sorry to have disturbed you.’

  The police car bounced its way back up the lane, the driver watching the receding figure in his rear-view mirror. The man gave a wave, but stayed in the doorway.

  ‘He strike you as okay?’ he asked his colleague.

  ‘He struck me as washed-up ex-army. Just like my mate’s brother.’

  ‘Hmm. Maybe. Call it in.’

  Saturday Afternoon

  Summer was huddled into the corner of the sofa but only two minutes earlier she’d been pacing the room. LB sat next to her and coiled his arm around her, his brain full of platitudes he knew she’d hurl back at him if he voiced them. She met his gaze and leaned against him, resting her forehead on his neck.

  ‘I can’t bear waiting like this.’

  They sat in silence for a moment before Summer jumped up and started walking round the lounge again. ‘We should have gone to Skye!’

  ‘There’d be no point.’ He kept his voice soft and soothing. ‘We could never have got there before the police.’

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’

  He was awash with coffee, but he recognised her need to be doing something. ‘Yes, please. That would be great.’

  Summer nodded briskly and left him to his thoughts. LB leaned forward, grasping his hands together, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘If he’s not in Skye, where is he?’ he murmured, turning things over in his head. His phone rang, causing Summer to shoot back into the room, eyes agog.

  ‘DS Stewart. Oh, hi… okay… okay… Well, thanks for letting me know. And I meant it when I gave you my card earlier. You’re an intelligent cop. I would gladly have you on my team and put in a good word for you.’

  He rang off and looked up at Summer. ‘Young constable from Edinburgh, chasing up Keir Bevan. Bevan said he was owed a lot of money by Patrick—thousands—but that he had no idea he was missing. Which would fit with him calling Patrick after he vanished. DC Price seemed sure he was, well, let’s not go so far as calling him innocent, but not involved with the disappearance.’

  Summer nodded and turned silently back to the kitchen. LB knew how she must feel. All alleyways seemed to be turning into
cul-de-sacs.

  LB’s phone rang again as Summer returned with the drinks, causing her to spill the coffee. LB juggled his phone and fished a pristine white handkerchief out of his pocket which he threw to her to mop up with while he answered the call.

  ‘DS Stewart… Oh, hello. Hang on a moment?’ He switched his phone on to speaker and put it on the table. ‘Okay. You’re on speaker phone.’ He motioned to Summer to sit down. ‘Also listening is the woman who reported Mr Forrester missing, Ms Morris. What can you tell us?’

  ‘We checked the house for you. A Mr Rob Wright was there, decorating it for a friend, Archie Finlay, who’s turning it into a holiday home.’

  Summer’s lips trembled.

  ‘We went into the house and looked around. There was no one except Mr Wright there. We checked his ID and he is who he says he is. Sorry not to have more news for you, but your missing person isn’t here.’

  ‘Basement? Outhouses?’

  ‘No. Neither. We had a good look around. No one other than Mr Wright there.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks very much for checking that out for us.’

  The call ended and LB switched his phone off. ‘I’m sorry. It had seemed like a decent possibility.’

  Summer turned away.

  ‘I’m here if you want me,’ said LB quietly.

  She shook her head. LB was torn between wanting to comfort her and wanting to be on his own to be able to think.

  ‘If he’s not on Skye, and he’s not in one of Bruce Macdonald’s lock-ups and the loan shark hasn’t done anything, where the fuck is he?’ She turned back to him.

  LB bit back the truth. They were hunting for a corpse who would probably only turn up when a dog-walker called it in.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said softly.

  ‘Is it linked to Malawi?’ she asked, with more hope than certainty lacing her voice.

  LB sighed. They had no leads at all in that direction. ‘I don’t know,’ he said again.

  Summer nodded, her lips bitten together. ‘Excuse me.’ She picked up her coffee and left.

  LB heard her feet on the stairs, wondering what she would manage to bury herself in to get through this. It could be days or weeks before Patrick’s body was found. Maybe even years. The chance that he was alive four days after going missing was slim; the fact they had no leads at all for finding him was just nailing the coffin lid down.

  He picked his phone up and called Sandy. ‘Hi. You busy? I mean, I know you’re always busy, but…’

  ‘Jeez, you sound rough. What’s up?’

  ‘We just ran out of leads on the Forrester case. I have no idea who’s made him vanish or where the man can be. Our best leads were that he’d been taken to Skye or that Bruce Macdonald had him but both of those have just fizzled out.’

  ‘Shit. I would have put money on Macdonald having had him. You checked all the properties?’

  ‘As far as I know. Several lock-ups and garages in Edinburgh.’

  ‘What about the one under his other name?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Er, oh hell, the one where he stashed all that knock-off stuff. Shit, it was years ago. Don’t think you worked the case. God, what was the name? Something like Frankie…’

  ‘Frankie?’

  ‘Hang on. Shush. Frankie, Frankie, Frankie… Frankie Belmont! You checked that name?’

  ‘No. Thank you, Sandy. You’re a star!’

  He hung up promptly and called Watson. ‘Check out properties owned by Frankie Belmont.’

  ‘Hello to you too. Who?’

  ‘Frankie Belmont. It’s a name Macdonald used several years ago—he had a property registered under that name where he used to store stolen goods. Just check it, will you!’

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line and LB could hear the clicking of computer keys.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ muttered Watson down the line. ‘You’re fucking right. It’s a place out by Kinross.’

  He relayed the address and LB tried to place it. ‘Can you get someone out there?’

  Watson sucked his breath in noisily. ‘Not my area. Ask Fife!’

  LB tipped his head back, biting down his annoyance. ‘Okay. Thanks for your help.’ He didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

  He hung up before Watson could respond and dialled Sandy again. A few minutes later he’d organised a backup team to be sent out there, although he thought that because the case was Edinburgh’s it probably wouldn’t be the A-team getting called out. LB closed his phone, strode out to the hallway and bellowed up the stairs.

  ‘Summer! Get your coat!’

  Summer popped her head out of her study door and peered over the banisters.

  ‘I’ve pulled?’ she joked.

  ‘New lead. I would tell you to stay here but you’ll only do yourself a mischief pacing about and climbing the walls. Come on.’

  Summer pounded down the stairs, her face suddenly wreathed with light. LB hoped it wasn’t another false dawn.

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Another property owned by Macdonald. Out by Kinross.’

  ‘Where?’

  He showed her the address, shaking his head. ‘Not entirely sure. Have you got a map?’

  Summer pushed past him to the lounge, grabbed an OS map from one of the shelves and opened it out. After a moment scouring the sheet, she jabbed her finger on a tiny black square, up a track, well off the beaten track.

  ‘There,’ she said triumphantly.

  LB took the map and ran his eyes over it, working out the best route to follow.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. I don’t know he’s there. It’s a pretty slim possibility.’

  ‘I’ll get my keys.’

  ‘Your keys? Mine’s out the front. And, forgive me, it’s going to get us there faster than your tin can on wheels.’

  Summer laughed. ‘On these roads? Your shiny beast will get stuck in the mud. My tin can on wheels has four-wheel drive.’ She turned sharply and headed into the hallway, grabbing her keys and her bag.

  ‘You can navigate,’ she said, nodding briskly at the map in his hands.

  ‘Summer…’ But she was already out of the door.

  ***

  Patrick’s eyes opened enough to allow him to see a sliver of his surroundings. His head hummed like a Tibetan singing bowl. He raised his cuffed hands to his ears and felt dried blood on his fingertips. He wanted to sit up but couldn’t move, so lay sweating and shivering on the cold concrete. He could hear noises above him but it sounded as if he was listening from the bottom of the ocean. He closed his eyes again. Perhaps he could go back to sleep? Perhaps he could just drift away?

  The blackness stripped slowly back to grey when he opened his eyes. He stared dully at the steps about four feet from his nose, letting his eyes follow them upwards until his gaze rested on the doorway. Was the door open? Just a crack? He still couldn’t move. Everything was such an effort.

  He had to escape. He didn’t want to die here. If the door was open a crack, he could get out.

  And then what? From the lack of traffic sounds, the house was far from any road and he had no idea where he was.

  Defeat washed through him.

  ‘Your choice is to die here on the concrete or die in the fresh air,’ he said to himself, screwing his eyes shut again.

  He summoned all his strength and forced himself to sit up. Instantly, dizziness swirled and his vision turned to fireworks but he stayed upright. It took another ten minutes before he could drive himself up on to his feet, steadying himself on the chair. His mouth filled with thick saliva as nausea welled but he swallowed it down and breathed deeply until it passed. The steps were five paces away. He looked down at his arms. The skin on the underside of his forearm was speckled with tiny dots, scarlet against a greying background. He looked away, turning his focus to the steps. His eyes were too swollen to open properly. He wondered what he would do if he made it to the top of the steps and the door was still locked, and forced himself n
ot to think about that.

  He grasped the rail on the wall with his hands and climbed the first stair, gripping tightly as the world tilted and swayed. One step. Nine more to go. The climb took him twenty minutes. Finally, he stood on the top step. He leaned his head towards the door, trying to listen but the ringing in his ears made it impossible. Trembling, he took hold of the door handle. He turned it slowly until it reached its limit and pulled it.

  It didn’t move.

  He tried again to no avail, before collapsing on to the top step, sinking his head into his arms and sobbing, his salt tears stinging. He sat there, his last hope dashed and his resources drained, not having the strength of body or mind to return to the concrete floor and wooden chair below. Utterly defeated, he leaned his head back against the door. Through his tinnitus he suddenly heard a voice. A female voice.

  ‘Help,’ he said. His voice was inaudible. He swallowed, licked his cracked lips and tried again.

  ‘Help.’

  This time someone in the same room could have heard him but certainly not whoever was in the kitchen above. More tears rolled down his cheeks and his head lolled to one side. He sobbed and took a deep a breath, trying to summon every atom of remaining strength and focus it into one last attempt.

  ‘Help!’

  The effort emptied him and his head collapsed back on to his knees, the edges of his vision starting to disappear. He heard footsteps, a man’s voice snarling, and then the bolts being drawn back.

  ‘Help,’ he whispered again.

  The door opened inwards, smacking hard against Patrick and pitching him back down the stairs to his prison. With his hands still bound he could do nothing to break his fall, even if he’d had the strength. His head ricocheted off the steps and he tumbled, legs flailing, before landing on the concrete with a thud. He opened his eyes and had the sensation of being above himself and looking down quite dispassionately. His captor ran down the stairs and rolled him over. The woman’s voice came more clearly from the doorway and with a sinking heart, Patrick realised it was coming from a radio. The ringing in his head got louder and yet the sounds became muffled.