The Clouds Beneath the Sun by Mackenzie Ford

There’ll be no work today, of course, but We’ll meet later, when it’s quieter, and the shock has worn off, to decide what to do.”
    She looked at her watch. “Natalie, Christopher and Russell can cope here, I should say. I think you should go back to your tent and write an account of what you saw last night. Sign it and date it and I will then witness it. A fast, contemporary account will be much more impressive as evidence. Do you understand?”
    Natalie nodded. She had been up for barely an hour and already she felt exhausted.
    “Good.” Eleanor looked from Natalie to Christopher, her gaze lingering on Russell. “There’s a lot more I could say, but now is not the time.”
    •   •   •
    Eleanor, Natalie, Christopher, and Russell North stood halfway down the Kihara airstrip and waved as the Piper picked up speed, lurched forward, and began to raise a cloud of red-yellow dust behind it. The noise grew, the plane’s tail lifted, and just as it drew level with the waiting group, its wheels left the ground. A few eland grazing near the strip ran away from the noise.
    Eleanor led the waving as Dr. Ndome, the coroner, in the pilot’s seat, waved back. The plane gained height, banked, and turned off, away from the sun, on a bearing for Nairobi. The foursome on the ground climbed into the Land Rover for the drive back to camp.
    “Three planes in one day,” said Christopher. “I can’t remember the strip being so busy.”
    It was true enough. The plane carrying the police and the coroner had been followed by another small plane carrying three journalists. Aggressive, skeptical men who had smoked too much, brought their own beer, and poked around for a few hours, then flown back to Nairobi to file their stories. No one had bothered to see them off. And, shortly after lunch, the air ambulance had arrived. The ambulance men had remained on the ground barely an hour before they had flown back to Nairobi with the body.
    During the day everybody in the camp had been interviewed by the police, exact measurements had been made of the scene, a plaster cast made of a footprint of a Wellington boot found outside Richard Sutton’s tent, and endless photographs taken. The police had taken away Natalie’s written statement, though she had also been questioned closely by the most senior of the three police officers who had accompanied the coroner, and he had made a careful record of her answers. To cap it all, one of the other police officers had found a small piece of cloth snagged on one of the dead thorn bushes that formed the fence of the camp near Richard Sutton’s tent. It was part of Mutevu Ndekei’s apron.
    For most of the way back to camp they drove in silence, each alone with his or her thoughts. But then Eleanor said, “I’ve informed the next of kin.” She rubbed her eyes. “That’s not something I’ve ever had to do before or want to do again. And I’ve told the foundation. I expect we’ll get reactions over the next few days. Maybe a visit.”
    “It’s a pity we can’t release the news about the discoveries,” said Russell. “I mean, it’s something positive.”
    Christopher, in the front passenger seat, next to his mother, turned swiftly to him in the backseat. “How can you say that? What have you got in your veins, Russell—ice?” He lowered his voice. “Someone’s just died, horribly. Choked on his own blood. It’s not a question of one press release or another.”
    Natalie stared at him. She had never known Christopher to display so much emotion over anything.
    “I’m sorry,” breathed Russell to the others after a pause. “I didn’t mean it in that way. Come on. I’m as upset as anyone. After all, I’m at risk too.”
    “Yes,” said Eleanor, hissing the word. “I’ve been thinking about that. How do you feel, Russell? I mean, if this crime was committed for the reason we think it was, there is no question but that your life is also in danger. How do you want to manage