Under a Dark Cloud

by Louisa Scarr

  ‘And how would you describe the relationship between Sharp and Dr Mason?’ Craig asks.

  ‘Colleagues. Friends.’

  ‘Colleagues or friends?’ Craig interjects.

  ‘Friends, I guess. Simon was excited to be working on this project. I know he’d been frustrated.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In the beginning, when Storm Chasers started out, it was all about the science. Simon got a chance to talk about what was going on, about the weather changes and the meteorological tech that means we can do what we do. But as time went on, the powers that be wanted more action and less talk.’ He frowns. ‘Better ratings. I know Simon missed it. He moaned once: “I’m not a scientist any more, I’m an entertainer.”’

  ‘And this was his chance to get back to the science?’

  ‘Yeah. Dr Mason is the best at what he does, but he’s not exactly…’

  ‘Charismatic?’

  White nods. ‘He needed Simon as a frontman. And Simon needed his new Doppler. But…’ He scowls. ‘They didn’t always work well together.’

  ‘How so?’ Craig asks, and Robin leans forward, closer to the monitor, desperate to be in the room.

  ‘They worked in different ways. Dr Mason liked things to be ordered and controlled. Simon was more… haphazard, I guess. He worked off the cuff and I know that annoyed Finn.’

  ‘Did they ever argue?’

  ‘No. Oh…’

  ‘What, Mr White?’

  ‘I… I don’t know why I haven’t remembered it before. I came in late, about a week ago, and they were both in Dr Mason’s office. They were arguing. Or rather, I could hear Simon shouting, and Finn was sitting at his desk. He looked upset.’

  ‘What were they shouting about?’

  ‘I think it was to do with the Doppler that Finn was working on. Finn said something, but I couldn’t hear what. Then Sharp shouted at him.’

  White starts to cry now, angrily wiping at his eyes with the edge of his shirtsleeve.

  Craig leans across the table towards him. ‘What did he shout, Mr White?’ she pushes.

  ‘He said… he said, “Only over my dead body…” then Finn stormed out. As he went, he was muttering something under his breath, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time.’

  Craig stares sternly at White.

  ‘What was Finn Mason saying?’ she pushes.

  Justin White looks up at Craig. There are tears in his eyes.

  ‘Finn said, “That can be arranged.”’

  18

  Freya, Josh and Mina don’t get much further that day. Still no ID on their victim, nothing back from the lab. And she hasn’t heard from Robin since he tried to call her the night before.

  He’s been on her mind. Ever since she saw Olivia at the college, she’s been debating what to do. He needs to know. Even though she’s certain he has nothing to do with it.

  She’s cooking dinner – pasta, again – when she hears a knock on the door. She opens it, and Robin’s there.

  ‘You’re back,’ she says, surprised. Then: ‘Come in, come in.’

  He frowns apologetically. ‘Sorry to come round unannounced. I just…’ But Freya knows what he’s saying. He’s had a bad day and he doesn’t want to go home to an empty house. She felt exactly the same. Last night she went to the pub with Josh to avoid it.

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’

  ‘God, yes. Please. All I’ve had is vending-machine shit for two days.’

  ‘And how’s Finn?’

  Robin slumps into one of her kitchen chairs. He runs his hands across his face. ‘Not good. No change.’

  ‘What do the doctors say?’ She goes to the fridge and takes the bottle of wine out of the door, pouring him a glass without asking.

  He takes it with a grateful smile. ‘They don’t know. Waiting for the MRI results to come back. The psychiatrist is still talking about psychotic breaks. Basically, they haven’t got a bloody clue, but they don’t want to say that.’

  He goes on to tell her about finding the vodka in his flat and office, her mouth dropping open in surprise.

  ‘You didn’t suspect?’ she asks.

  ‘Not a clue,’ Robin replies, the guilt clear on his face. ‘So now they’re dealing with the withdrawal symptoms from the alcohol addiction, too. The shakes, the headaches, the vomiting. He’s even had a few hallucinations.’

  ‘And he can’t remember what happened?’

  ‘No. And he can’t form new memories either. He doesn’t remember what we tell him or even what sodding day it is.’

  Freya stands next to the cooker, watching him. He looks knackered, black rings under his eyes, his face drawn. Over the last few months, she’s watched her boss look better and better – losing weight after taking up running, colour returning to his cheeks from being outdoors in the spring sunshine. Eating more healthily, drinking less. But tonight he looks back to square one.

  ‘Sorry, how are you?’ he asks, looking up with a wan smile.

  ‘I’m fine, don’t worry about me.’

  ‘Smith okay to work for?’

  She smiles. ‘Yeah. Nicer than you.’

  ‘That’s not hard.’

  ‘Better-looking, too.’

  ‘Again – low bar.’

  The beeper goes off and she drains the pasta into the sink. She enjoys this easy banter. Unlike with others in the office, his manner with her is relaxed and self-deprecating, and she likes being around him. She’s missed him these past couple of days.

  She stirs pesto sauce into the pasta and plonks a bowl in front of him. It’s hardly MasterChef, but she knows he won’t mind. She lets him eat a few mouthfuls in silence, steeling herself.

  ‘Robin,’ she says, and he looks up, chewing. ‘I bumped into Olivia Cross today.’

  ‘Liv? Where?’

  ‘At Eastleigh College, when we were doing the witness statements for those boys. She’s studying for a beauty therapy course.’

  ‘Really? Good on her.’

  Freya pauses. His tone seems light. ‘Have you seen her since… you know?’

  She can’t bring herself to say the actual words. Since Amy Miller died. Since we covered up our involvement in her death.

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘It’s just…’

  He clocks her tone and looks at her. His forehead furrows. ‘What?’

  ‘She’s pregnant.’

  He stops, fork hovering above his bowl. ‘Okay…’ The word is long and drawn-out; he knows she’s waiting to say more.

  ‘Nine months pregnant. So the baby would have been conceived—’

  ‘Around last October.’

  ‘But that’s nothing to do with you, is it, Robin?’ Freya blurts out. ‘I mean, you never slept with her?’ Her boss is still silent. ‘Robin?’ she asks again, a bad feeling coming over her.

  ‘That first night, when I met her at the bar?’

  ‘Yes…?’ Freya says slowly.

  ‘I got drunk. I mean, really drunk. And she had to take me home. She stayed the night.’

  ‘Robin!’

  He holds his hands up in defence. ‘She said that it was all innocent. That I puked, and she stayed to make sure I didn’t choke on my own vomit, but…’ His face is pale. ‘I don’t know. Anything could have happened.’

  ‘You would have known! Surely?’

  He shakes his head slowly. ‘I’d have thought so, yes. But I can’t remember anything.’ He stops. ‘No. No, I would have remembered if I’d slept with her. There is no way it’s mine.’

  But Freya knows what he’s thinking. The dates. They tally. Exactly.

  They eat another few mouthfuls in silence. Freya feels awful for making his day even worse than it was already.

  ‘Should I have kept quiet?’ she asks, softly.

  Robin shakes his head, finishing his dinner and resting his cutlery on the bowl.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sure it’s not mine.’ But he sounds un
certain, like he’s trying to convince himself. Freya picks up his bowl and tidies everything away to avoid having to continue the conversation.

  Robin’s phone beeps. She looks back and sees that he’s reading a message.

  ‘Simon Sharp’s autopsy has been completed. Results back tomorrow.’ He looks up at Freya. ‘You ever watched this Storm Chasers programme?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Want to take a look?’

  * * *

  They carry their drinks into the living room. Freya is still finishing off the white, while Robin has moved on to a cup of tea, his car parked in the street outside.

  Freya logs onto iPlayer and does a search. She’s glad of the distraction, to be able to move on to easier topics of conversation. She finds Storm Chasers – two series, ten episodes each – and loads up the first.

  They slump back on the sofa. Freya quickly sees the reason why the programme reached its levels of popularity. It’s fast and exciting, the team driving across huge, wide, desolate American landscapes. One large shiny four-by-four, and a larger van, equipment poking out of the top. There are three main men – all in tight T-shirts, caps, sunglasses and shorts. They clutch laptops, patterned coloured graphs on the screen, as they charge down long roads.

  And then they see it. A huge cone-shaped grey cloud, swirling, moving fast across the field next to them. Rain peppers the windscreen. The men exclaim loudly, clutching cameras. The tornado sucks up everything in its wake, yet they drive towards it, windscreen wipers on full blast. Dramatic music plays; Freya finds herself holding her breath as the men shout, ‘Go, go, go,’ driving faster into the chaos.

  And Dr Simon Sharp is as much of an attraction as the storm. Chiselled jawline, wide Hollywood smile. He bounces excitedly in his seat as they approach the tornado. Shouting to be heard above the noise, he explains in detail what they’re seeing, explaining complicated scientific terms in a way that even Freya can understand. She’s completely caught up in the drama.

  Sharp gets out of the car, his T-shirt blown tight against his broad chest as he points at the tornado. It’s moving away now, blue sky visible in the background, but his childlike wonder at the storm is something to behold. His enthusiasm is infectious.

  Neither of them says a word throughout the thirty-minute episode, Robin as transfixed as she is. The team of three – Sharp, the cameraman and another guy with a laptop – seem tight. They joke happily between themselves, dispensing handshakes and slaps on the back as they track down twister after twister.

  ‘That’s Justin White,’ Robin says, pointing at the cameraman. ‘They interviewed him today.’

  ‘Any motive?’ Freya asks.

  ‘Doesn’t seem like it. And he was nowhere near the van when it all happened.’

  ‘So he says.’

  ‘Waiting for the footage to confirm,’ Robin agrees. ‘I don’t recognise the other guy, though – they must have had a change in the team.’

  The reason for the switch soon becomes clear. The series is addictive, and they watch without pause. Then tragedy strikes.

  A disclaimer appears at the beginning of an episode: This contains scenes of a distressing nature. Viewer discretion is advised. It starts out much the same as the others: a crop-filled field in America, rain and wind buffeting the car in which Simon Sharp and another guy sit, being filmed. And suddenly there’s a huge bang, and the footage shifts to darkness. There’s shouting, panicked cries, and then the camera comes back up.

  A voice shouts, ‘Keep filming, keep filming!’ and Freya and Robin can see the problem. The four-by-four has been hit by something, the windscreen smashed. Sharp has a bloody cut on his forehead and is bending over a prostrate man on the concrete. A small crowd has gathered around them.

  ‘He can’t breathe,’ a voice behind the camera shouts. ‘Call 911.’

  ‘I can’t open his mouth! His jaw must be broken,’ Sharp says. The unconscious man is pale, his lips turning blue. Blood pours from his nose; his chin looks twisted and deformed. ‘He needs an emergency crike.’

  Freya watches, her hand over her mouth, as Sharp takes a penknife out of his pocket and opens out one of the blades.

  ‘You can’t do that here!’ someone exclaims, and Sharp looks into the camera, eyes intense.

  ‘If I don’t try, he’s not going to make it,’ and with that, he leans over the man, pushes his chin back, tentatively runs his fingers down the windpipe, then cuts. A trickle of blood runs down the injured man’s neck, as Sharp’s muscles visibly tense. He removes the penknife, then pushes his finger into the bloody hole. ‘Pass me that,’ he says, pointing towards a biro in a man’s pocket. He removes the ink, then thrusts the body of the pen into the hole. Even on the screen, it’s hard to watch, and Freya feels her heart racing. People cheer as the injured man’s chest starts to move again. Sharp turns to the camera, a relieved expression on his face, blood streaked across his cheek.

  It’s almost Oscar-worthy, pulled from the pages of a screenplay.

  ‘Quite the alpha male, isn’t he?’ Freya remarks.

  ‘Just makes me wonder,’ Robin says, the perpetual crease on his forehead. ‘How did a guy like this get overpowered by someone like Finn? I mean, look at him.’ He points to the screen, and Freya knows exactly what he’s referring to. Sharp is fit: a wide chest, impressive arms.

  ‘Not your average scientist,’ Freya agrees.

  ‘Exactly. Finn is tall but built like a matchstick. If those two got physical, there’s no doubt who would come out on top. And it’s the guy currently in the mortuary.’

  He falls back into silence. Freya doesn’t know Finn, but she can imagine that Simon Sharp wouldn’t have had to work hard to defend himself. Unless Dr Mason took him unawares, Freya thinks, but doesn’t say it.

  They watch a few more episodes. But Freya’s struggling to get the image of the broken man on the concrete out of her head. She keeps on imagining Amy Miller. How she died. She’d seen the final crime scene photos: the blood on the kitchen floor.

  The familiar guilt returns. The fluttering panic in her chest, the knowledge of what she did. Freya forces herself to take a long breath in. She focuses on Robin next to her. His solid presence.

  It’s been getting bad for a while now. And she doesn’t know what to do about it. Somehow she feels her boss has been putting his life back together while hers has been falling apart. And there’s nobody she can talk to about it but him.

  ‘Robin?’ she whispers. In her head she rehearses the words. I need to tell you how I am, how I’m feeling. I need you to help me.

  She looks over. But her boss is asleep. His head is tilted to one side, his body slumped against the cushion.

  He can’t have slept well last night. She can’t imagine what he’s had to deal with.

  She can wait. Her problems can wait.

  Freya knows she needs to go to bed, get some sleep, same as Robin. But she clicks on to another episode of Storm Chasers. She watches the men as they charge around, driving fast after the tornadoes. Actively running towards danger. The episode Josh mentioned in the car comes on, the team stranded in the middle of the Mojave Desert – big grins on dry, cracked lips when the helicopter comes to rescue them.

  She curls her legs up on the sofa. Next to her, Robin mumbles slightly in his sleep. Her eyes feel tired and scratchy, her body exhausted. But she doesn’t close her eyes. She doesn’t go to bed.

  She doesn’t dare.

  Because when she sleeps, the nightmares come.

  19

  Christ, again? Olivia wakes in the night, her bladder close to bursting. She feels a small foot move and silently curses the baby in her tummy.

  She rolls awkwardly out of the bed, then waddles to the toilet. This is becoming an unwelcome habit. The ultimate irony: depriving her of sleep when she needs it the most.

  In the dark, she sits and pees, her bare feet cold on the tiled floor. The baby shifts and kicks, awake. Liv places a reassuring hand against a protruding foot
; who’d have thought this is where she’d be now? Fat as a house, arse still steadily expanding from all the extra Ben & Jerry’s she’s been consuming – but happy.

  She gets back into bed, lying on her side, tucking one pillow under her bump, another between her legs. It’s the only way she can get comfortable now. But she still can’t sleep.

  The surprise meeting with DC West thrums in her head. It was strange seeing her after all this time. She looked the same: the long blonde hair, tied up in a tidy bun. The steely blue eyes. She’d known. Liv watched her doing the maths in her head, taking her back to that terrible October when her sister had died, freeing the way for Liv to have this life now.

  She’d cast off her old job. Nobody wanted to sleep with a pregnant hooker, and the ones who did were too disgusting to consider: that wasn’t a fetish she was prepared to explore. For a while she’d worked a few waitressing shifts at the strip club, but the moment the probate cleared and that inheritance hit her bank account, she’d quit.

  Free. Free to work out what she wanted to do. Free from her psycho sister. And free to bring up this little baby the way she wants. But her thoughts keep on coming back to Robin Butler.

  Amy had always been mean, joking nastily that Liv was no Julia Roberts. Robin wasn’t going to turn up and sweep her off her feet. But he’s always been in her thoughts – a low-level hum, distracting her when she wants it the least. She’s always had a soft spot for him – that frown, the silent, haunted expression.

  But he is no innocent. Liv knows that Robin has his secrets, too.

  Thoughts of sleep evaporated, Liv reaches up and switches the light on. She swings her legs round to a sit, the baby bouncing happily on her bladder again, then leans uncomfortably to open the bottom drawer in her bedside table. She takes it all the way out, then pulls at the piece of Sellotape holding something tight at the back. A black memory stick.