39.

In fact it took Amelia and me an hour to reach the travel fixer’s office. There was a protest against the government going on that day, and our route took us straight into it, or it would have if we’d carried on blindly. Amelia wanted to cut through the crowd. But the chanting and jumping up and down had an electric, unpredictable feel to it, and the silent police chaperoning the march, with their sunglasses, batons and Perspex shields, made the whole atmosphere seem more rather than less volatile. We doubled back, cut across a dual carriageway baking in the sun and made it to the scraggy street the office was on eventually.

Sadly the metal grille fronting the little building was pulled down, the window behind it opaque with dust. The letter box in the front door was choked with flyers, some of which it had spat back out into the street. Never mind shut, it didn’t look as if anyone had been here for days. I wouldn’t have bothered, but Amelia, apparently oblivious to the signs, pressed the door buzzer. Surprisingly, this prompted a woman to exit the next-door shop. She was smoking a cigarette. ‘Oui?’ she said, without taking it out of her mouth.

Amelia replied, explaining in French who we’d come to visit. Had Monsieur Mugalia been here recently?

The woman dropped her cigarette and ground it into the pavement with her flip-flop. She then began a long monologue, speaking very fast and waving her plump hands as if swatting away flies. I couldn’t follow much of what she was saying – the longer she spoke, the less I seemed to get – but I caught one phrase that she repeated: ‘tragédie familiale’. She looked agitated, angry almost. Why hadn’t I concentrated in French lessons! I was desperate to understand her. Was the woman somehow talking about a family tragedy for me? It couldn’t be possible. I turned to Amelia for help, but she was listening with her head cocked on one side, concentrating. The woman went on and on. When she finally stopped speaking, Amelia was ready with a question: ‘Ce guide, est-ce qu’il s’appelle Innocent?’

‘Oui! C’est Innocent, le pauvre.’

With that the woman turned heavily on her heel and banged back through her shop’s front door. Looking at the display in the window, it seemed she sold second-hand electrical goods, mostly ancient TVs.

‘Innocent?’

‘He is – was – Yannick Mugalia’s brother,’ said Amelia quietly. ‘They ran their travel company together. It makes sense. Your parents organised the safari. Why wouldn’t they turn to the same outfit for help with their own trip?’

‘But where is he? Did she know?’

‘The last she heard he’d gone to Goma.’

I tried to piece together the timeline. Mum and Dad had set off on their own research trip – with Yannick, presumably – before we got back. He might have heard about his brother’s tragic death en route or when he arrived in the east of the country. Could he have abandoned Mum and Dad in his grief, or even blamed them for what happened? Might he have handed them over to the kidnappers on purpose? There had been nothing about Innocent in the ransom note or on the phone, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a link. The police hadn’t been able to find Yannick yet. If he’d been taken hostage too, the note would have mentioned it, surely. And if he’d been released, wouldn’t he have raised the alarm? I smelled a rat! Standing on the dusty step in front of the Mugalia brothers’ office, I spelled my thoughts out to Amelia, only pausing when a cement mixer with the loudest exhaust pipe I’ve ever heard trundled past, blotting out what I was saying.

She brought me down to earth with a bump when it rounded the corner: ‘That racket made more sense than you were making,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve no evidence Yannick was involved in the kidnapping. His brother died. He’s gone missing. Your parents employed both brothers and they’re missing too. That’s it – the facts.’

‘Yes,’ I admitted, ‘but until we find him we can’t rule it out.’

‘How are you going to do that?’

‘Marcel,’ I said. ‘He worked with Innocent. So he’ll know Yannick too. He may be able to give us a steer.’

‘Good point,’ said Amelia, and followed it up with something I’ve rarely heard her say: ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘What’s his number?’ I said, pulling out my phone.

‘He gave his card to you, not me,’ she said.

‘Didn’t you see it?’

Looking sheepish, she said, ‘No.’

I couldn’t help grinding my teeth. The one time Amelia’s photographic memory would have been useful, it turned out she hadn’t looked at Marcel’s contact details when he handed them over. ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘His card is with my stuff at the hotel. Let’s get back there.’

We set off more or less at a run, headed straight for the hotel. But the demo was still going on. Maybe the crowd was quieter now, or didn’t look as intimidating, or perhaps I just thought the risk worth taking to avoid another delay: either way, this time I ignored my better instincts, grabbed Amelia’s hand and ploughed straight into it.

Big mistake.

We had indeed arrived during a lull. I didn’t realise how tightly packed the crowd was, or even that it was virtually all men, young and strong, and facing the same way, waiting for somebody important to start speaking at the head of the square. We’d sidestepped ten or fifteen people into the throng before the speaker emerged on the platform. The crowd erupted. It became one pulsing, cacophonous animal with Amelia and me caught in its throat. A surge from behind pulled us apart. I heard her scream, saw her stumbling sideways, her orange top immediately blotted out by a rush of protestors pushing forward. I dived after her, but I was pushing against a current of jumping, shouting people. I glimpsed Amelia’s hair and pale neck swishing between dark heads and yelled out to her, but she either didn’t hear me or couldn’t turn around. Desperately ramming my way against the flow to reach her, I was knocked to one knee by another crowd surge. For a terrifying moment I thought I was about to be trampled, but strong hands gripped me under the armpits and hauled to my feet.

‘Attention!’ yelled the smiling face in front of me, and the hands holding me actually lifted me from the ground. I was bouncing with the crowd, swept along with it. With my second or third jump I caught one last glimpse of Amelia heading the other way, and then she was gone.