Prey

by L. A. Larkin

  Wolfe dry retches. Her whole body trembles.

  It’s a while before she notices a man kneeling between two parked cars, a Beretta pointing straight at her.

  24

  In a lonely side street Wolfe freezes, a gun trained on her. Only a few feet away on the main drag of the Fourways entertainment district, revellers chatter and laugh, a car horn honks, the pounding beat of jazz pulses. Competing aromas of cooked food, some pungently spicy, some doughy, some fatty, others sweet like pancakes, carry on the chilled night air, but Wolfe is only aware of the sour smell of her fear.

  ‘Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.’

  The gunman crouched between two parked cars, a silhouette in the shadows, makes a strange sobbing sound. He stands, takes a step forward.

  ‘I couldn’t do it,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Mike? Is that you?’

  ‘I couldn’t fucking do it!’

  Thusago waves the pistol around. His finger on the trigger. Does he even have the safety on?

  ‘Mike, it’s me, Olivia. Just put the gun down. Please.’

  Thusago stares at the pistol as if he has only just noticed it.

  ‘Mike, listen to me. Put the gun away. Nice and slowly.’

  ‘He had a gun to your head and I froze. I froze!’

  His gun-hand hangs at his side.

  ‘Please give me the gun. Everything’s fine now,’ says Wolfe, getting off her knees.

  She inches closer, her movements smooth, despite the pain in her gut.

  Wolfe lays her hand on his and loosens his grip, one finger at a time, then flicks the safety catch and shoves it into her waistband.

  ‘Come on, Mike, let’s get you home.’ She loops her arm through his.

  He stumbles like a drunk. ‘I was in the club. Saw you. Saw your text. I was afraid, so afraid. I ran from the club, saw you walking down the street. Pulled myself together enough to follow.’

  ‘Everything’s okay, Mike. Stop giving yourself such a hard time.’

  It takes an age to get Thusago back to the car park and into his car. She finds his car keys and drives away, tyres screeching.

  ‘He saw you outside the warehouse. He knows who you are.’

  Thusago screws up his face as if about to bawl. ‘He’ll come after my family. What have I done?’

  ‘We’ll make sure they’re safe.’

  ‘I can’t do this anymore. You see that, don’t you?’

  ‘I do. I’ll find a motel in the morning. I won’t involve you anymore; I don’t want to put your family in danger.’

  She’s on her own now, in a country she knows little about.

  ‘If the offer still stands,’ she says, ‘I’ll take the CZ 75.’

  25

  The black and silver BMW R1200 GS Adventure motorcycle Wolfe hired first thing in the morning is a dream to ride.

  Without Thusago to guide her, and unsure where her investigation will lead, she hired a bike that is comfortable in both the city and off-road. The satnav directs her to Mazwi Ximba’s house. Reference to ‘circles’ and ‘robots’ had her initially confused until she worked out they were roundabouts and traffic lights. Hoping the headmaster hasn’t yet left for school, she dismounts, hastily padlocks the bike and helmet to a lamp post, then rings the doorbell.

  Funani, in a pink dressing gown, twitches a floral curtain away from a window by the door.

  ‘Mrs Ximba? I’m a journalist,’ Wolfe calls out. ‘Can I speak to your husband, please?’

  The curtain drops back across the window and Funani disappears.

  ‘Mr Ximba?’ calls Wolfe. ‘Please can we talk? I’m Olivia Wolfe from The Post in London. We met yesterday.’

  Inside the house, there’s an angry exchange.

  ‘The neighbours!’ says Funani. ‘Shut her up.’

  A scowling Ximba opens the door as far as the security chain will allow. He’s dressed for work in a suit.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ says Ximba. ‘I’ll call the police.’

  ‘I don’t think you will,’ says Wolfe.

  She holds up her phone and presses play. The video she shot last night at Tanz Café runs. The loud music in the background is distracting, but Ximba can clearly be heard to say, I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore. His companion, Terry Blunt, replies, Grow a spine, will you. Wolfe fast forwards. Blunt says, Don’t be stupid, man. He won’t let you go.

  ‘How did you…? Dear God!’

  ‘I was there last night. Watching you with Terry Blunt.’

  Ximba squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath, and then reopens them.

  ‘He promised me,’ Ximba whines.

  ‘Promised you what?’

  ‘Nobody would know. Nobody would get hurt. We’d retire rich. The mayor would finally show me some respect.’

  Wolfe wonders which mayor and why his or her respect was so important, but she doesn’t want to get distracted from her mission. She wants to know how the millions of dollars are generated and who is in charge.

  ‘I’m not interested in embarrassing you, Mr Ximba. I imagine you’ve been pressured, maybe threatened? Talk to me now, and you won’t see me again.’

  He whispers, ‘Please, my wife doesn’t know. Come to the school later. Please?’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Midday,’ he whispers. ‘To my office. And tell the British policeman to stay away.’

  Casburn.

  ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘No, I have not,’ Ximba hisses. ‘I cannot. He’ll get me killed.’ Then he raises his voice, ‘Now go away!’

  26

  The motel room is clean and basic, and the rattling hum of the air conditioning drowns out most of the traffic noise. It overlooks the car park and street, which enables her to keep an eye out for unwanted visitors. An exterior walkway runs past her first-floor room, with steps at either end leading down to the car park. This gives her options if she needs to run for it.

  Wolfe is seated on the sagging double bed when her phone rings.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asks Casburn. He only contacts her when he wants something.

  ‘Mazwi Ximba is dead.’

  Wolfe inhales sharply. ‘What? No! I saw him only an hour ago, alive and well.’

  ‘Well, he’s very dead now. Car accident. Why did you see him?’

  She’s too shocked to answer. ‘Poor man. How did it happen?’

  ‘Hit side-on by a lorry. Smashed into a wall. Didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘And the other driver?’

  ‘Hit and run.’

  Wolfe puts a hand on the bed to steady herself. ‘It was deliberate. It has to be.’

  ‘How would you know that?’ There’s weary condescension in his voice.

  ‘We’d arranged to meet at midday. Somebody didn’t want us to talk.’

  ‘I told you to leave well alone.’

  ‘Blunt. It has to be,’ she says to herself.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Blunt knew Ximba was going to talk.’

  ‘Who the hell is Blunt?’

  Wolfe picks up her helmet. ‘Tell me where the accident happened. I’ll meet you there. Then I’ll explain.’

  After hovering around the crash site for an hour, getting only scraps from the local cops and the cold-shoulder from Casburn, Wolfe decides to move on.

  An accident, they say. The lorry was stolen. No leads on the driver. No CCTV camera. As Wolfe sees it, this is the work of a pro. No skid marks, so the driver made no attempt to stop. And he chose this section of road because there were no security cameras.

  Wolfe straddles her BMW motorcycle. She can’t help thinking she is responsible for what happened to Ximba. She’s angry. She wants to confront Blunt, but what would be the point? She has no proof Ximba’s death was suspicious, let alone that he was involved. And, if he was, confronting him would only serve to alert him that she’s suspicious. Her best option is to talk to Funani, his widow.

  ‘Hey!’ Casburn calls. He jogs over. ‘Leave
Terry Blunt to me.’

  Earlier she’d filled him in on her two encounters with Blunt and played the video footage of Blunt and Ximba at Tanz Café.

  ‘And you tread carefully with Msiza,’ Wolfe replies. She nods at the cops near the shattered vehicles. ‘It’s murder. You know that, right?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Wolfe rides away, glad to leave the wreckage behind. Whatever Ximba may have done, he didn’t deserve to die.

  When Wolfe pulls into Ximba’s street she is surprised to find a crowd of TV reporters and camera crews camped outside the deceased man’s house. Wolfe zeros in on the youngest, a black woman chatting to a photographer.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Wolfe asks.

  ‘You don’t know?’ says the reporter. She looks Wolfe up and down. ‘I guess you’re not from around here. His wife is sister to the mayor.’

  Now Ximba saying how much he craved the mayor’s respect makes sense.

  ‘Well connected then, huh?’ observes Wolfe.

  ‘Very. We’re waiting for a comment from her, and for the mayor to arrive. I’m Busisiwe, Soweto Times. Trainee. Mr Ximba was my headmaster.’

  ‘So, you asked to cover this story?’

  ‘Yeah. Could be my big break.’ She tilts her head. ‘Is that an English accent?’

  ‘Yes. From The Post.’

  Busisiwe’s eyes open wide in recognition. ‘The Post? What are you doing here?’

  Perceptive woman.

  ‘Working a different story. In the neighbourhood. Have the police come and gone?’ Wolfe asks.

  ‘Just left.’

  ‘Anyone special turn up?’

  Busisiwe grins. ‘You know something, don’t you?’ Before Wolfe can respond, the reporter mouths a big, ‘Oh! I get it. It’s not an accident, is it?’

  Wolfe is guarded in her response. ‘Police say it is. Recognise any of the officers who came here?’

  ‘You want something, you got to give me something in return.’ Busisiwe folds her arms.

  ‘How about an exclusive with the widow?’

  ‘You could do that?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Okay. It’s a deal. The top guy, Major-General Msiza, turned up an hour ago. Probably paying his respects to the mayor’s sister. And…’ The young reporter pauses, frowning.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And then four officers went inside. No idea what they were doing because all the curtains and blinds were drawn.’

  With a sinking feeling, Wolfe guesses they were searching for Ximba’s laptop. Msiza is tying up loose ends.

  ‘Did they leave with anything?’

  ‘Maybe three, four boxes.’

  ‘Wait here. I’ll talk to Funani. And if anyone asks, you don’t know who I am.’

  27

  Wolfe jumps the back fence. Through the kitchen window she catches a glimpse of movement. Funani is on the phone, emphasising her point with jerky hand movements. Wolfe waits. As Funani’s call finishes, she looks up, sees Wolfe, and flings open the back door.

  ‘You! You were here this morning. You upset my Mazwi.’

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss–’

  ‘It’s your fault. You threatened him. He wasn’t paying attention.’

  ‘Mrs Ximba, please, can I come in. It wasn’t me he was afraid of.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Funani’s eyes are red and puffy from crying, but she is otherwise immaculate: white dress with pale green leaves on it, chunky white necklace and earrings, her straightened hair in a perfect bob.

  ‘The crash wasn’t an accident. I think he was murdered.’

  ‘You people will say anything for a story.’

  ‘My name is Olivia Wolfe, from The Post in London. I’ve been to the scene of the accident. There were no skid marks and it happened at a spot with no CCTV. He was about to tell me something important, and now he can’t. I think your husband was murdered.’

  ‘No, no, the police said it was an accident.’

  ‘I think they’re wrong. Please, Funani, let me explain.’

  ‘Why would anybody want my poor Mazwi dead?’

  ‘If I’m right, your life may be in danger too.’

  ‘Me?’ Funani steps aside to let Wolfe enter. ‘Five minutes. That’s all.’

  The house may have a tired exterior, but the kitchen is brand new with a gleaming stainless-steel refrigerator, polished stone countertops and even a Nespresso machine. Perhaps Ximba was spending some of his hidden fortune after all.

  ‘They left such a mess. Why?’ Funani shakes her head.

  Cupboard doors hang open, drawers removed, and their contents scattered over the floor. The hallway is equally littered with possessions cast onto the carpet.

  ‘Did the police do this?’ Wolfe asks.

  Funani raises a tissue to her eyes. ‘They took things. They wouldn’t tell me why. When my brother finds out, he will be furious. Msiza will answer for it. My brother’s the mayor, you know.’

  ‘What were they looking for?’

  ‘I don’t know. Mazwi’s study looks like a bomb’s hit it.’ Tears roll down her cheeks.

  ‘Do you have family?’ Wolfe asks. ‘Someone who can be with you?’

  ‘My sister is on her way.’

  ‘Shall I make some tea?’ Wolfe asks.

  ‘You British! Will tea bring back my husband?’

  Wolfe looks down, unsure what to say. ‘I’m sorry.’

  When Wolfe looks up, Funani is studying her face. ‘Why do you think it wasn’t an accident?’

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this, I’m afraid. I think your husband was involved in something illegal. He probably had no idea how dangerous it was. And when he tried to get out of it, he was killed.’

  ‘Illegal? No, no. He’s a law-abiding man. That can’t be right.’

  Wolfe doesn’t want to hurt her needlessly, but she has to ask the next question. ‘I saw your husband meet a man called Terry Blunt at Tanz Café at eleven thirty last night. Do you know this man?’

  ‘No, no, you are wrong. Mazwi was working in his study. He was here.’

  ‘You were with him?’

  ‘No, I was asleep. He was catching up on paperwork.’

  ‘I’m sorry to say he left the house at eleven.’

  Funani frowns. ‘You were watching him? Why?’

  ‘Because I want to find out who is behind this.’

  Funani raises her hand to her heart. This is clearly very hard for her to take in. ‘I don’t know this Terry Blunt.’

  ‘Did Mazwi have any connection to England?’

  Funani laughs. It’s a bitter, sad laugh. ‘We have never left this country.’

  ‘Any friends in England?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Just dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s.’ God, I sound like Casburn, she thinks. ‘Did the police take his laptop?’

  ‘Yes.’

  And the Major-General will wipe it clean.

  The doorbell rings. ‘That will be my sister.’

  ‘Funani, can you go stay with her? It would be safer.’

  ‘You’re frightening me.’

  ‘Please, stay with your sister. At least until the funeral.’

  ‘What did he do? You must tell me.’

  ‘He was getting paid by some dangerous people. I don’t know why. But I’m going to find out.’

  ‘It’s me!’ calls the visitor from the other side of the front door. ‘Let me in.’

  ‘Here,’ says Funani, jotting down her mobile number and handing it to Wolfe. ‘I have to know. Call me as soon as you know anything. And leave the back way.

  ‘One more thing. There’s a young reporter from the Soweto Times outside. Name of Busisiwe. She went to your husband’s school. She wants to write a feature on him. She’s a lovely girl. Will you give her the chance?’

  ‘Funani!’ The sister bangs on the door. ‘Who’s there with you? Let me in!’

  ‘She will say nice things about Mazwi?�
� Funani asks.

  ‘I will ask her to.’

  Funani nods. ‘Mazwi would want me to encourage his students. I will see her.’

  Wolfe leaves by the rear door and joins Busisiwe at the front, just as Funani’s sister enters the house.

  ‘Funani will do the interview,’ says Wolfe. ‘Make him shine, for her sake. She needs something good in her life right now.’

  28

  Samuel watches a small but athletic young woman with short, dark hair talk briefly to a reporter, then head for her motorcycle. She walks past his pick-up, unaware of his presence on the other side of tinted windows. If he were to unwind the window he could reach out and touch her leather jacket. He senses her strength. Her resilience. She will be a challenge when the time comes. Why else would his client want her watched?

  He usually receives a detailed brief on each target. This time it was just a blurred photo of an unidentified white woman in a black baseball cap and sunglasses, shot outside Moeta High School on a cheap phone. No name, no address. Only that she was in Johannesburg and working with a screwed-up Soweto cop named Mike Thusago.

  As soon as Samuel landed in Johannesburg, he’d dealt with Ximba. Crushing his car had been an adrenaline rush, but over too fast. The police fell for it, of course. He later returned to the crash site and waited. If the woman was a reporter as he suspected, she’d turn up. Sure enough, there she was. Then he followed her here, to the dead man’s house.

  He taps the name of his client on his phone. It only rings once before it’s picked up.

  ‘I have her in my sight,’ he says. ‘You want me to take her?’

  ‘Not yet. There’s a British detective sniffing around too. Asking questions about Ximba. I don’t want him getting suspicious. Have you worked out who she is yet?’

  Samuel scratches the dark stubble on his cheek, irritated. He doesn’t like being played with. ‘You pay me to kill, not write bloody CVs.’

  ‘She’s Olivia Wolfe, a London journalist. Some might say infamous journalist. Ximba’s grieving widow gave us the heads up.’