32.

Since Xander’s leg was aching I suggested he wait in the hotel. If Langdon or anyone else turned up with news, he’d be there to field them. I’d paid close attention as we’d driven to and from the police station and was confident I could find my way there on foot. It wasn’t that far anyway. At one point the car had dog-legged around a big market. Now we cut straight through it. Everything about the market was a screamingly bright colour. There were stacks of fluorescent flip-flops alongside trays of oranges and mangos and cherries, and pink buckets full of blue plastic straws set out on bright green plastic tablecloths next to trestle tables piled with dark red gobbets of meat. To keep the sun off everything the stallholders had stuck striped beach umbrellas at jaunty angles everywhere, and the light pouring through was like one of those crazy Snapchat filters that makes everything look unrealistic.

‘Have you ever actually tried to do that?’ Amelia asked.

‘What?’

She pointed at a woman weaving through the throng towards us, carrying a tray of bread rolls on her head.

‘Er, no.’

‘I have. It’s impossible. Well, obviously not for everyone. Her, for example. But for me, even trying with a book, sitting still, no distractions, the thing kept sliding off. How she’s wandering round a market chatting with all that balanced on her head, I don’t know.’

‘Practice?’ I said.

We pushed on through the market. One stall sold goats’ hoofs, the next wire mesh, the one after that fake Nike trainers. This one here, beneath a pink-and-yellow umbrella, had nothing but battered old motorcycle helmets, that one there sold seeds. In among the general scruffiness, one person stood out. He was tall, he walked towards us like he was stepping onstage to sing a song and he was dressed in an immaculate purple corduroy three-piece suit and bowler hat. In that heat! He was also wearing a monocle and carrying a cane. As he passed us he twirled it and gave me a nod. I realised my mouth was hanging open.

‘I’ve read about that,’ said Amelia. ‘It’s a thing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A fashion thing here, known as Sapeurs, which means “Society of Ambience-Makers and Elegant People”, in French. It’s a sort of competitive bling spiffiness. Dates back to the Second World War, when the men who had fought for France came back to Brazzaville, across the river, with fine bits and pieces of posh clothing to wear or sell. It spread to Kinshasa later. The Sapeur attitude is no-matter-how-hard-life-gets-I’m-going-to-look-the-bomb. Those guys spend masses on clothes, even though some of them barely have enough left over to buy food. Stay cheerful and look-like-a-god-at-all-costs – that’s their motto.’

I took the guy’s photograph. He gave a little bow. We watched him swagger away. Pretty much everyone else was in shorts and a T-shirt, or a simple dress. He must have been boiling! But he got a lot of appreciation – high fives, whoops, fist bumps – for his efforts, and there was something about his attitude I liked.

Once we made it through the market the police station was round the corner, as I knew it would be. I walked into it with my shoulders back and head high, hoping that some of the Sapeur’s confidence might have rubbed off on me. I even managed to talk to the desk sergeant in French. Obviously it wasn’t very good French as he replied in English, saying that Detective Hubert was on his lunch break but would be back soon. He invited us to take a seat. We did so, but not before I’d noticed that he was playing chess on his mobile phone.

He put the game aside a few minutes later when the door banged open and two of his colleagues hauled a young guy inside. His T-shirt had a huge rip down the back and his skin was cut beneath it. Blood had soaked into the waistband of his jeans. He was unsteady on his feet, mumbling in French. I don’t know what he was saying, but it evidently annoyed the bigger of the two officers manhandling him: out of nowhere the policeman hit the guy so hard in the stomach that he left the floor for an instant before crumpling to the ground. I was flabbergasted. But the officer looked almost bored. He followed up the blow by rolling the guy over with a kick. When he didn’t get back up the two policeman dragged him away down the corridor by his feet!

‘Wow,’ breathed Amelia.

The casual brutality of what had happened was underscored by the fact that the desk sergeant went back to his chess game as soon as the commotion in the corridor was over. Not long after that Detective Hubert appeared, his sympathetic smile already in place.

‘You got my message?’ he said as he approached.

This threw me. ‘No?’ I said.

‘It was just to say that we’ve tracked down the guy who helped your parents arrange their trip out east.’

Immediately my scepticism evaporated. I checked my phone. Sure enough, there was a text. It must have landed just now when I was distracted. The detective had even given me the travel fixer’s name. I showed my phone to Amelia, who read it aloud: Yannick Mugalia.

‘If you didn’t get the message, what are you here for?’ he asked gently. ‘Do you have some information to tell me?’

I didn’t know how to answer. Amelia did however. ‘There were things we wanted to know about your missing-persons protocol, but since it’s already turning up results it sounds as if it’s fit for purpose.’

Detective Hubert smiled. ‘I’m glad if you think so.’

‘We also wanted to suggest you trace anyone Nicholas and Janine might have rubbed up the wrong way with their environmental activism. They were meeting with businessmen, other activists, government officials, and –’

The policeman cut her off. ‘We’re well aware of all of that,’ he said emphatically. More gently again he added, ‘We’ve drawn up a list and we’re working through it. True: they were due to meet with some … unsavoury people. But I still think the most likely explanation for their lack of communication is a lack of signal wherever they’ve gone exploring. Let’s not lose sight of that.’

‘Of course,’ I heard myself say.

‘Have faith,’ the detective said with a smile. ‘Our country gets a bad press, but many – most – among us are doing our best to make things work.’

He had such pride in what he said that I could not disbelieve him. In fact, I felt borderline sleazy for having doubted him in the first place.

‘We’re doing our best to get hold of this Yannick Mugalia, and when we’ve talked to him I’ll be sure to update you. How about that?’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

Detective Hubert had been steering us towards the exit with these last words. Amelia drew up short of the door, swivelled on the heel of her trainer, and asked point blank, ‘How long have you known Langdon Courtney?’

The detective’s head bobbed back on his thin neck, but his smile stayed in place. ‘I was introduced to him yesterday. You were there.’

‘And before then you’d never heard of him?’

‘I’m afraid not. No. Should I have?’

‘That’s not the point,’ said Amelia bluntly. I fought back a shudder at her rudeness. Perhaps she noticed, since she backtracked lamely with, ‘For what it’s worth, I believe you.’

Detective Hubert’s smile thinned to a sarcastic line. ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ he said.

I was worried that he’d taken offence and wished I could rewind Amelia’s little interrogative outburst. But I had to make do with, ‘Thanks for all you’re doing. I’ll be sure to keep a closer eye on my phone from now,’ as I reached for the door. When my fingers closed on the handle – a silver bar running the length of the door – I recoiled. It felt sticky. Glancing at my hand I saw that it was stained red. The cut-up guy whom the two officers had shovelled through the door earlier must have rubbed up against handle, bloodying it. For some reason I didn’t want Detective Hubert to feel bad about that. Not that he should have done: it wasn’t his fault. Either way, I pretended it hadn’t happened, held the door open for Amelia with my foot and said goodbye to the detective over my shoulder as I followed her out onto the street.