Under a Dark Cloud

by Louisa Scarr

  Robin realises now how similar he is to his father. The same frown. The same introversion. But loyal to the people he loves, to the last.

  Robin sighs and pushes the thought away, then grabs the next box to look through.

  * * *

  After a few hours of digging, his headache has got worse, he is desperate for a litre of water and a fry-up, and he is starting to wonder why he came. There is so much crap. Robin is debating paying a company to get rid of it all, when he comes across a box – PHOTO ALBUMS is scrawled on the side. He heaves it out and pulls open the tape. There are five identical-looking albums in here, ones he remembers from his childhood. He gently runs his fingers over the blue fake leather cover of the first, tentative about the emotions that might be unleashed should he open it.

  He shuts the box again decisively, then pushes it out into the corridor outside the orange door to his unit. He’s starting to feel shaky – no food, no coffee in stomach – and has one last look inside before he flicks the light off. He shuts the door, padlocking it closed. He will come back and sort all this shit out, Robin promises himself.

  But one step at a time. And he hauls the box of photo albums into his arms and heads back to his car.

  37

  Sophie still hasn’t heard back from Robin. But what did she expect? The man has buggered off to Devon, Josie had told her, and at the one time when Finn needs him the most, so he’s hardly going to go out of his way to help.

  She’s sitting on her sofa, the news playing out in front of her. The media interest has faded now that there’s nothing new to report. Finn is still in hospital. Simon Sharp is still dead. She’s heard the BBC are going to be putting together a tribute Storm Chaser episode for Dr Sharp – some sort of ‘best of’ compilation to celebrate his life. She knows that will stir up interest again. For a while it was even trending on Twitter: #justiceforSimon. What about justice for Finn? she thinks, tears threatening.

  She knows she should go to the hospital, but what would be the point? Her company makes no difference to Finn, and it certainly doesn’t help him remember. He just repeats the same old crap, like an annoying broken record. His insane fabricated memories are becoming a respite from his inability to figure out the basics.

  So if he can’t remember, this missing video footage is his best bet. It’s key. She remembers the press coverage at the beginning of the week, cameras flocking round Justin White. If anyone’s going to know, Sophie resolves, it’s the bloody cameraman.

  * * *

  An hour later, Sophie stands outside the Malmaison hotel. BBC budgets have improved, she thinks, staring up at the posh white-painted walls, the lavish sash windows. This place is nice. But how to find out which room Justin White is in?

  She pulls her shoulders back and confidently walks into the plush lobby. A smiling, glossy-haired woman greets her warmly from behind the reception desk.

  ‘Sophie Hall, from Reading University, for the meeting with Justin White?’ she says, showing her Reading Uni pass. She hopes the woman won’t look too closely.

  ‘I wasn’t aware there was anything scheduled this morning,’ the receptionist says, rictus grin fixed on her face. ‘Shall I call?’

  ‘No, no, don’t do that,’ Sophie says quickly. ‘They’ll be filming and I don’t want to disturb them. I’ll just go on up. Room 516, right?’ she says, pulling a number out of thin air.

  ‘Oh, no, they were moved to a smaller suite. After…’ The woman’s face falls. ‘You know.’

  ‘I do. Such a tragedy. So…?’

  ‘Mr White is in room 308. Lifts on the right.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Sophie smiles warmly and quickly walks to the lifts, her heart beating fast. Calm down, she tells herself as she presses the button for the third floor. What did she think would happen? Escorted out in handcuffs for pretending to be a meteorologist?

  The lift pings and she follows the signs to room 308. But once outside, she hesitates. What’s she going to say? Still, she knocks. She hears footsteps and the door’s opened; Justin White stands in front of her dressed only in his boxers and a T-shirt.

  ‘Sophie,’ he says, surprised. ‘I thought… I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘Clearly not.’ Sophie doesn’t wait for an invitation and pushes past him into the hotel room. It smells of old beer and stale sweat. There are clothes and discarded plates everywhere, the room in darkness. ‘What have you been doing in here?’ she asks, swishing open the curtains.

  Justin winces at the fresh influx of light. ‘My best friend died. What do you think I’ve been doing?’

  ‘Why haven’t you gone home?’

  ‘The police asked me to stick around, until… until their investigation is complete.’

  ‘Well, it’s not, is it? Where’s the footage, Justin?’

  ‘What?’ He’s still standing in the middle of the floor, barefoot and confused.

  ‘The camera footage from the inside of the van. Where is it?’

  He glares at her. ‘I don’t know. I told the police the same thing. Just… give me a moment.’ He picks up a pile of clothing from the nearest chair and goes into the bathroom.

  Sophie sighs. While he’s gone, she busies herself moving the dirty plates into an orderly pile on one tray, then clears a chair to sit on. There’s a knock on the door, and Sophie looks towards the bathroom.

  ‘Answer it,’ comes the voice. ‘It’s room service.’

  A smartly dressed man waits on the other side, a selection of plates arranged on the trolley. ‘Where do you want it, madam?’ he asks, and she points inside.

  Sophie hastily clears the table, the breakfast is placed neatly down and the man is dispatched, dirty plates in hand.

  Justin emerges from the bathroom, now fully dressed, hair combed and tied back into a ponytail. He sits down in front of the food, and Sophie does the same, opposite him.

  It’s quite a spread – a full English, toast, croissants, coffee and two mugs. Sophie pours herself a coffee without asking.

  ‘You’re not exactly starving then,’ she remarks.

  ‘Got to make the most of it while I can,’ he mumbles through a mouthful of fried egg. ‘Going to be out of a job soon. Storm Chasers is hardly going to continue without its star,’ he adds bitterly.

  ‘Where’s the footage, Justin?’ Sophie repeats.

  He sighs. ‘I don’t know. There were two cameras in the van – one mounted in the top-left corner, filming the interior, and a Sony FS5 that Simon would use for close-up interviews.’ He puts his fork down and picks up his mug, taking a sip of the black coffee. ‘Both cameras upload via satellite to NAS – network attached storage,’ he adds in response to Sophie’s blank expression. ‘And that NAS was set up to back up every hour to a server. In this case, the main BBC one back at Reading Uni.’

  ‘The one in the lab?’

  ‘Right.’ Justin reaches over his breakfast to his bag on the floor and pulls out a page of numbers and letters, putting it in front of her. ‘This is the read-out from the NAS. It shows that backup was working – see here, that’s the name of the BBC server – but there’s nothing there.’

  ‘The file’s been deleted?’ Sophie says, shocked.

  Justin frowns. ‘That’s my best guess, yes. All the data from the Doppler is there, but the folder where the footage should have been stored is empty.’

  ‘What about the original files on the… the network thingy?’

  ‘The NAS. That’s gone, too.’

  ‘So who deleted it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Could have been anyone with access to the server.’

  ‘It’s not very secure, is it?’

  ‘We didn’t expect it to record a murder!’ Justin’s face falls. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I should have checked it Wednesday morning. But with Finn locked in the van, and the shock of Simon being dead. I just…’ He puts his head in his hands. ‘Oh, fuck.’

  Sophie wants to cry. There was video, something that could have cleared Finn’s nam
e, but it’s gone.

  ‘Can’t someone who knows something about computers recover it?’

  ‘They’re trying,’ Justin says quietly. ‘But they said it’s not looking good. Apparently, this person knew what they were doing.’

  They both sink into silence. After a moment, Justin seems to regain his appetite and starts buttering a slice of toast. Sophie envies his hunger. All she can feel is a constant gnawing anxiety; the idea of eating makes her feel sick.

  Justin takes a bite of his breakfast, and Sophie feels him watching her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘And you’re sure…’ he starts.

  ‘Sure, what?’ Sophie challenges.

  Justin swallows. ‘You’re sure he didn’t do it?’

  ‘What? Kill Simon?’ Sophie can’t believe he’s asking her this. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘It’s…’

  ‘What, Justin? Please share what’s on your mind,’ she snaps.

  He puts his knife down, then leans back in his chair, holding his coffee cup. ‘Simon was my best friend. I spent months with him, I knew everything about him. And some of the stories he told me about Finn? Well, they weren’t flattering.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like the story about Simon’s penknife. It was a gift from one of his professors, his PhD supervisor, some in-joke between them. You know – that Simon was the only meteorologist you’ll ever meet that would know what to do with a penknife?’

  ‘So what?’ Sophie’s barely tolerating this conversation. It’s clear whose side Justin White is on, and it briefly crosses her mind that he might have deleted that footage himself.

  ‘So, Finn was jealous. They’d both worked with that professor, and he had never given Finn anything. The rivalry between Simon and Finn was intense. To the point that I questioned why Simon wanted to work with him.’

  ‘Well, we know why. Because Simon wanted to steal his research.’

  ‘I don’t know about that—’

  ‘It’s obvious. Simon’s name is on the draft paper. You sent it to Finn – the detectives told me. Why would you do that, if it wasn’t to show Finn what Simon was doing?’

  ‘I…’ He looks down miserably at the remains of his toast. ‘I found it by accident. And I felt bad for Finn. Simon was an incredible guy, but I knew he was ruthless, and he’d stomp all over Finn, given half the chance. I thought he’d just have a conversation with Sharp. Clear it up, make sure both their names went on the paper.’

  ‘Well done you,’ Sophie says, sarcastically. ‘Look what happened next.’

  Justin’s expression changes. His face contorts, his eyes flash with anger. ‘So you agree then, Sophie?’ he says, his voice steely. ‘Isn’t that motive? A man who’s been torn up with jealousy towards Simon since their PhD days. Who’s harboured a grudge against him for nearly twenty fucking years. A man who sees Simon getting all the recognition and celebrity that he has always been denied discovers that Simon’s taking his crowning achievement. His last bid for success.’ Justin leans forward. He’s so close to Sophie that she can smell the coffee on his breath. ‘And you still think he didn’t kill him?’

  ‘Piss off,’ Sophie hisses. She pushes away from the table and stands up so fast that her chair falls over with a crash. ‘You barely know Finn. You have no idea what he’s like.’

  She turns and walks away quickly, her hand pushing the handle down on the door.

  ‘Do you, Sophie?’ Justin shouts after her. ‘You didn’t know he’s an alcoholic. You didn’t know he was drinking so much that some days his hangovers meant he had to puke in the wastepaper bin. That the only way he could stop his hands from shaking was to top himself up with yet more vodka.’

  She turns. ‘You knew?’ she shouts back. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘Because we needed him, Sophie! Sharp said everything would be fine. He said he had everything under control. But he didn’t, did he? And Finn killed him.’

  The tears come thick and fast now. Sophie can’t hear any more. She pulls the door open and rushes into the corridor, slamming it shut behind her. She can barely see as she runs out of the hotel, back to her car.

  And all the while, the thought runs through her head: is Justin right?

  Is he right?

  38

  Freya wakes by herself – without an alarm, without her phone jerking her awake. She lies in her bed and stretches. She actually feels good. Rested.

  She looks at her phone, set to silent. It’s past ten; she can’t remember having slept this late for ages. The text from Robin makes her smile – she doesn’t know when he’s ever used an emoji. He must be feeling bad about his state last night. She wonders where he’s gone, but forcefully pushes it out of her head. She can’t think about Robin all the bloody time. More importantly, what should she do this morning?

  She runs a bath and spends far too long lying in the hot water. It’s hardly luxury – no bubble bath, no candles, only a bland white bathroom suite – but it’s more relaxing than anything she’s done for a while. She takes her time blow-drying her hair, sticking on a bit of make-up. What now?

  She remembers that Sandra has the morning off and decides to buy some flowers to thank her for the meal last night. Plus, a walk round the village in the sunshine will do her good.

  A taxi takes her swiftly to Kingskerswell and drops her on the main road, next to the Co-op. She pops in to buy flowers, then heads to Sandra’s house.

  The curtains are open in the front window, so Freya decides Sandra must be up and rings the bell. The door opens, and Sandra exclaims happily when Freya presents her with the bouquet of tulips.

  ‘Thank you, my love. Robin not with you?’ she asks, glancing behind Freya.

  ‘No, he’s on an errand,’ Freya replies vaguely.

  Sandra escorts her inside. ‘Tea, coffee? These are gorgeous, let me find a vase.’ Sandra bustles around her kitchen, making the requested cup of tea. ‘I have some biscuits here, too. Come, sit. Sit.’

  They both take chairs at Sandra’s kitchen table, all signs of the dinner last night cleared away. Sandra places two mugs of tea in front of them, plus an already opened packet of chocolate digestives. Freya takes one gratefully.

  ‘So, does your work often take you on trips down to where your boss grew up?’ Sandra asks. She has a smile on her face, bluntly asking a question she knows the answer to.

  ‘No,’ Freya replies. ‘But Robin wanted the company, and I needed a break.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Sandra says. ‘Sure there’s nothing going on between the two of you?’

  Freya returns the smile. ‘No. Not at all. We’re just friends.’ But Freya remembers the misjudged kiss last night and can’t stop a slight flush making her cheeks turn red.

  ‘You must be a good friend,’ Sandra comments, taking another biscuit. ‘Robin’s fussy about the people he hangs out with. Always has been, even when he was a kid.’

  ‘Tell me about him,’ Freya can’t resist asking.

  Sandra laughs. ‘From what I see now, much the same. Always serious, always taking the weight of the world on his shoulders. Had a real sense of right and wrong and fairness, so it made sense that he went into the police force. And he and Finn were as thick as thieves. The two of them were always together, even though they were so different. Robin was sporty, into rugby and football and cricket. Finn was the clever one. But I’d often see them kicking a ball around together or working on their homework. I guess you could say they complemented each other, and that’s why they worked so well.’ Sandra has that twinkle in her eye again. ‘Why do you think you and he work well now?’

  Freya dismisses the question. ‘Because he’s in charge,’ she says.

  ‘That’s not it at all,’ Sandra replies, pouring more tea from the pot. ‘I saw you last night. You have a connection. Something very natural. You understand him, and with Robin, that’s hard.’

  ‘We’ve been through a lot together in the past year,’ Freya says, and Sandra nods.


  ‘It’s nice he has someone looking out for him. I’ve worried about that boy since Georgia died. You know we got in touch after the funeral?’ Freya shakes her head. She’d wondered where Josie and Finn and Sandra had been when Robin had needed them the most. ‘We even drove up to see him, Josie and I. But he was having none of it. Said he was fine, even though we knew he wasn’t. Looking back, I wish we’d done more,’ she says, pensively. She takes a sip of her tea. ‘Robin’s always been the same: so busy saving everyone he forgets about himself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Sandra laughs. ‘That boy’s biggest strength is his weakness. He did it with Finn when they were kids, and he’s doing it again now. His protector. Robin sees someone in trouble, and he has to rush to their aid.’ She reaches for another biscuit then holds the packet out to Freya, who takes one. ‘A shrink would probably say it comes from his mum dying so young. That he couldn’t save her, so he has to try with everyone else.’ She shrugs. ‘But what do I know about that? My only worry is what happens when he fails.’

  She smiles at Freya warmly. ‘It’s a big relief that he’s doing so well now. Being around you must be good for him. Now,’ she adds before Freya can interject, ‘another cuppa?’

  * * *

  After three cups of tea, half a packet of biscuits and a trip to the toilet, Freya eventually pulls herself away from Sandra’s cosy kitchen. She’s wonderful company, warm and funny, and Freya considers Robin lucky to have grown up around such a woman. Lucky to have had a childhood like this, she thinks, walking out into the village.

  She takes a turn up School Road, past a large white corrugated-iron community centre, down past a Scout hut and over a railway bridge. She keeps walking, sun on her face, a spring in her step, until she finds herself outside an old church. She stops, looking at the graves. Some are old; large stone monoliths. Others are new, small, shined granite plaques, marking where ashes must be buried. And sat on a wooden bench is Robin.