by L. A. Larkin
Msiza shrugs. ‘What truth? It is already too late.’
Wolfe blinks twice. ‘Too late?’
‘Choose! Leave here a free woman or stay a murderer. Which is it to be?’
Wolfe closes her eyes. If she can get back to England safely, she can continue her investigations. Msiza can’t reach her there.
‘I need an answer.’
‘Tell me one thing. Are Camila and Jacob safe?’
‘They are.’
Relief floods through her. ‘All right, I’ll leave.’
Msiza nods. ‘And one last thing, Ms Wolfe. Do not think you can return to your country and continue to interfere in the affairs of others. You think you cannot be reached in England? You are wrong.’
52
People point and stare. Wolfe can’t blame them, handcuffed as she is to a plain-clothes officer and escorted by a uniformed one. They frogmarch her to the front of the British Airways check-in queue, the passengers next in line grumbling at the delay. The plain-clothes officer, Sergeant Erik Johansson, shows his warrant card and presents two tickets and their passports.
‘You’re not serious,’ Wolf says to Johansson, ‘you’re escorting me all the way to London?’
Johansson ignores her. The ground crew makes a phone call, then checks them in as quickly as possible, clearly keen to get rid of her. They are swept through passport control and security.
‘Can I have my phone?’ she asks Johansson who carries her day-pack over one shoulder.
‘No calls.’
Wolfe wants to phone Camila to say… what? How sorry she is? How she blames herself? Promise Camila she’ll find his killer? But it will have to wait. Standing a few feet away behind them is the uniformed cop, his hand resting on his holster. Johansson cannot take his Vektor Z88 service pistol on board.
Boarding commences. Passengers with young children and those needing assistance go first.
‘We’re last on,’ says her travel buddy.
‘Great,’ she says, ‘so everyone gets to look at the woman in handcuffs.’
Johansson yanks her cuffed hand his way, the metal cutting into her skin. She grits her teeth.
‘If I had my way, you’d be dead in your cell.’
Ignoring him, Wolfe watches the queue of people boarding, willing them to get a move on. As long as she’s on South African soil, Msiza can change his mind.
‘You try anything on the flight, I’ll break your arm.’
She’s planning on sleeping, if he’ll let her.
The last stragglers race to the gate. The departure lounge is almost empty, save for a backpacker who dashes past them, late for the flight.
‘Move,’ orders Johansson, walking forward and handing both their boarding passes to the gate staff.
‘Sergeant?’ somebody says behind them. ‘I’ll take her.’
53
Casburn holds up his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Casburn, Metropolitan Police. I’m escorting this woman back to London.’
‘Sir, I have my orders. I’m being met at Heathrow by one of your lot.’
‘The orders have changed,’ replies Casburn.
Casburn notices Johansson’s uniformed colleague closing in.
‘Don’t embarrass yourself, son,’ says Casburn. The officer stares at his senior for direction.
‘It’s okay,’ says Johansson, ‘everyone stay calm.’
The flight attendant glances nervously between Casburn and Johansson. ‘Umm, we have to close the flight,’ she says.
Casburn looks at Wolfe. ‘Trust me.’
Wolfe nods. She’d rather take her chances with Casburn.
Johansson makes a call. He scowls, undoes the handcuffs, and drops Wolfe’s day-pack at her feet.
‘My passport?’ she says, hand out.
Johansson slaps it into her hand.
‘She’s all yours. But I stay until that plane leaves.’
‘That would be a waste of your time.’ Casburn cuffs Wolfe to his left wrist. ‘I have a charter flight waiting.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ mutters Johansson, who gets his mobile out of his pocket.
Casburn takes Wolfe’s arm. ‘Come with me. We’re late.’
He leads her away from the gate. ‘Come with us if you want,’ Casburn calls over his shoulder.
The force of Casburn’s rank and authority drags the SAPS officers along without further argument.
‘This feels familiar,’ he says, leaning close.
Not so long ago, Wolfe was handcuffed to Casburn on a flight to the USA.
‘It’s not necessary,’ Wolfe says.
Casburn flicks a quick look at her. He smiles. ‘I know.’
He leads her through the arrivals hall. In the waiting zone, a hire car idles, the driver wearing a black suit, pristine white shirt and a thin black tie. SO24 clearly has a decent travel budget, Wolfe thinks.
‘Wait!’ calls out Johansson, jogging up to them.
Casburn doesn’t stop. ‘You want to see her leave the country? Get in,’ he says, gesturing to the black Audi A8. ‘You get in, the Major-General pays, though.’
The officers stop short, indecision and anger fighting for control of their expressions. The driver opens a rear door. Wolfe doesn’t hesitate. She dives in and sits behind the driver’s seat.
‘Which charter company?’ Johansson asks.
‘Private Air.’
Casburn shuts his passenger door and orders the driver to get moving. Through the tinted window, Wolfe watches the two officers run off, presumably to their car, with the intention of meeting them at the Private Air hangar.
‘Can we have music?’ asks Casburn. The radio is switched on. ‘Louder.’ He doesn’t want to be overheard.
‘I thought you’d left me in the shit.’
‘Tempting.’ Casburn’s normally deadpan face cracks into a genuine smile. ‘To think I could have been rid of you forever. I must be off my head.’
She nudges him in the ribs.
‘Thanks, Dan. Really. There was a moment there when I thought Msiza might go through with his threats.’
‘I know.’
‘How?’
‘I was watching.’
‘You were behind the mirror?’
Casburn nods.
‘He didn’t know you were there, did he?’ she asks.
‘Nope.’
‘He said you were leaving. He was lying, right?’
‘I’ve been given a good reason to.’
‘Are you crazy? We’re making headway.’
‘I can’t talk about it, Olivia.’ His voice is weary.
‘What’s happened? Something’s changed?’
‘I’m hardly going to tell you, am I? You’re a journalist.’
‘Forget what I am. This isn’t about The Post anymore. I’m going to find Mike’s killer. It’s the least I can do for his widow and son. So level with me, and I’ll do everything I can to help you.’
‘Have you levelled with me, Olivia?’ His look is penetrating. For a fleeting second, she wonders if he knows about her meeting with his old adversary, Yushkov.
‘Everything I said during my interview was true. The man behind these murders is a professional killer. Goes by the name of Samuel.’
‘We’re looking into him.’
‘We find Samuel, we find who’s giving the orders,’ Wolfe says.
‘As long as he doesn’t find us first.’
54
Seated next to Casburn in a chauffeur-driven car, Wolfe has a moment to observe his puffy eyes, his stubble and his open shirt collar, yellowed with sweat and grime – Wolfe guesses he hasn’t changed it for a while. The Casburn she knows is obsessively neat, his immaculate appearance an outward display of his self-control and eye for detail. None of this applies to the man next to her.
‘Level with me,’ Wolfe says, trying to ignore the yeasty sourness of last night’s beer on his breath. ‘Are you jacking th
is in?’
Casburn rubs a finger across dry lips. His hand has a tremor. ‘I’m stuck in the middle. Sackville’s mob wants me to stop. My commander wants me to keep going.’
‘What happens to you if you keep going?’
‘Not sure. SO24 could lose its funding and I lose my job.’
‘I’m sorry it’s turned out like this.’
Casburn rummages in his pocket. ‘You even think about publishing any of this and I’ll make you wish you had taken your chances with Msiza.’ He finds his Nicorette gum and starts chewing aggressively.
‘Of course I won’t,’ she says. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’ve warned my commander. He wants me to keep going, but he’ll still have a job if the shit hits the fan. And I won’t.’
‘Can’t he protect you?’
‘You know how it goes, Olivia. He’ll protect himself first.’
‘Sackville is behind all this. Whether directly or indirectly. We can’t let him get away with it.’
‘You don’t get it, do you? I’m not like you, Olivia. My life has been the army, the SAS, the Met. We get orders. We follow them. But I’m out on a limb here. And whatever I do, I’m going to piss off somebody who can seriously fuck up my life.’
‘I get it, Dan. Believe me. Moz wants to publish the ‘four murders’ story. I won’t give it to him. At least not until I’ve found Samuel. Moz will go off his rocker. He’ll find some way to punish me. Maybe even fire me.’
Casburn leans forward and asks the driver, ‘Got any water, mate?’
‘Yes, sir, in the seat pocket,’ the driver replies.
Casburn drinks in great gulps.
‘Big night?’ Wolfe asks.
‘Butt out, Olivia.’
‘Okay, then how about this? You find an excuse to stay here a day or two. Tying up loose ends, that sort of thing. We team up. If we get nowhere, you fly home.’
Casburn looks away, then back to her.
‘I can’t believe I’m saying this.’ He finishes the last of the water and pops the empty bottle back into the seat pocket. ‘If we do this, I have to know that nothing I say, nothing we learn, gets published without my say so. And I mean nothing.’
Wolfe plays with her tongue stud, thinking. Moz will hate this.
‘Moz already has the murder victim photos. He could publish them, but without me the story will be weak.’
‘You’ve got to make sure he doesn’t, Olivia.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Casburn makes a phone call. Tells the woman from Private Air there’s been a change in plan.
55
The driver pulls up at a guarded gate. Beyond the wire mesh fence are small planes and helicopters, and a sign on one of three Portakabins announcing Private Air. No SAPS car. No Sergeant Johansson or his side-kick.
Casburn unlocks her handcuffs, gets out of the parked limo, takes her arm and leads her into the Private Air reception.
He signs some papers. The lady behind the counter is wearing a pale blue suit and a name badge with Amelia on it. She points at a four-seater Robinson R44 helicopter in the same shade as her suit. Wolfe notes that next to it is the Gulfstream G650 that Casburn was due to take to London. It seems the powers-that-be are very keen to get him back to London, no matter what the cost.
‘Keep your head down when you get in,’ says Amelia. ‘You said you needed to leave immediately. The pilot is waiting.’
‘Where are we going?’ Wolfe asks Casburn, following Casburn out of the Portakabin.
‘Nokuthula Reserve.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Eighty miles from here. Pieter Venter’s wildlife park.’
‘Who is Pieter Venter?’
‘One of the four photographed victims.’
‘He’s South African? I knew it!’
‘You were right,’ Casburn says. ‘Pieter Venter, sixty-three, reported missing a week ago by his daughter, Hannah.’
A marked police car pulls up outside. Sergeant Johansson gets out, watches them. They both pick up the pace. The pilot gives them a wave from inside the chopper. The two-bladed main rotor and tail rotors start moving. They duck low and climb in, Casburn at the front, Wolfe in the back. They are told to buckle up and wear headphones. Outside, Johansson races to the fence, grabs hold of the links, and shakes it, yelling at them. The rotor noise drowns him out.
‘So, you do listen to me?’ Wolfe shouts at Casburn.
‘Sometimes.’
Casburn turns around and gives her a wink, then puts his headphones on.
56
Even though Wolfe’s headphones protect her ears from the pounding beat of the helicopter’s rotors, she still feels the sound waves reverberating in her chest. She tunes in and out of the conversation as she thinks through Casburn’s decision to stay in South Africa. He’s taking a huge risk. As she is. Cohen wants a story. He won’t wait forever. The pressure is on both of them to prove Sackville’s guilt and find Thusago’s killer.
Her thoughts move to the killer. Are Ximba and Thusago his fifth and sixth kills? Even though the MO is different, she’s convinced it’s him. Perhaps Hannah Venter, the deceased’s daughter, knows something useful.
‘Does Hannah know I’m coming?’
The pilot, Henry Clarke, replies, ‘Ja. I let her know.’ He points out the town of Rustenburg far below. ‘Not far now.’
‘Henry,’ says Casburn. ‘I have to be in Zimbabwe some time tomorrow. Can you take me?’
‘Zimbabwe? That’ll take a bit of organising. Got a visa?’
‘Yes.’
‘I should be able to. Let me see what I can do.’
Why Zimbabwe? Wolfe wonders.
‘There’s Nokuthula,’ Clarke says.
Wolfe looks down and sees an expansive, parched landscape and a road scored across it, partially obscured by wind-blown rust-coloured sand. Running parallel to the road is a high mesh fence – at least twelve feet, if not taller – topped with several horizontal rows of wire.
‘Is that an electric fence?’ Wolfe asks.
‘Ja. Not that it does any good,’ says Clarke.
‘How do you mean?’ Wolfe asks.
‘Poachers get in anyway.’
They fly low.
Just inside the padlocked main gate, a man sits on a milk crate, smoking, his rifle leaning against the trunk of an African wattle. Clarke loosely follows a dusty unsurfaced road that meanders through the savannah. A tower of giraffes strip the leaves from the upper branches of a stand of acacias, their lithe pinky-grey tongues unperturbed by the three-inch-long thorns. A herd of impala scatter ahead of the chopper, fleeing from the rotor’s noise. Wolfe spots four rhinos grazing serenely a few feet from the perimeter fence, ignoring the aircraft passing over them.
‘Hannah won’t be happy,’ says Clarke.
‘Why?’ Wolfe asks.
‘They’re too near the fence. Easily shot. I’ll tell her so they can shoo them away.’
‘You know Hannah well?’
‘Grew up round here. We went to the same school. Her father is a legend. His murder is a tragedy.’
Casburn looks at Clarke. ‘What makes you say it’s murder, Henry?’
‘Pieter would never just disappear. This place is in his blood. And Hannah is his only child.’ The pilot shakes his head. ‘Somebody killed him, for sure.’
‘Who do you think did it?’ asks Casburn.
‘Poachers. And not the local villagers. I mean mercenaries. Ex-soldiers mostly, from Mozambique. Pieter stood up to them, patrolled day and night. Even shot one of them on his property. It was self-defence, but he had one hell of a time proving it.’
‘What about the police?’ Wolfe asks.
‘They don’t give a shit.’
‘Who runs the reserve with Pieter gone?’ Wolfe asks.
‘Hannah. With Tumi, the reserve manager. They’ve got four guys from Zimbabwe who help with night patrols, and some rangers who work during the day. Then there’s the ove
rseas volunteers and university students who come and go, but they’re doing research or projects and don’t have anything to do with the day-to-day running of the place. Oh, and Rudy and Ben.’
‘Rudy and Ben?’
‘Rudy’s the night-time guard dog and Ben is the handler.’
‘One guard dog for all this?’
‘They can’t afford more.’
‘Hannah’s not married?’ Wolfe asks.
‘Widow.’
‘How big is the reserve?’
‘Thirty thousand hectares.’
‘That’s a lot of ground to cover.’
‘Too much. They’re fighting a losing battle, what with poachers and the drought.’
Nokuthula isn’t what Wolfe imagined a game reserve to be. It’s not thick with trees or lush vegetation. It’s not open grassland with endless thousands of wildebeest. It’s an undulating series of low hills and shallow valleys, with sparse clumps of tough grass and thorny trees puncturing the iron oxide-stained sandy soil. The main watercourse through the reserve is virtually exhausted, as though suffocated by the dry season. A series of man-made waterholes serve to support the reserve’s inhabitants.
‘When we get rain,’ says Clarke, ‘this place is lush and green and brimming with wildlife. You’re not seeing it at its best.’
Clarke flies over a couple of large wooden huts that remind her of community halls with expansive deck areas, and half a dozen khaki canvas tents that look to be permanent fixtures.
‘Visitors’ camp,’ says Clarke. ‘Where students and volunteers stay. Empty at the moment.’
The banks of the adjacent waterhole are scarred with wide cracks and have baked in the sun like clay, the water level half what it clearly should be. A black-backed jackal and some warthogs drink the murky water.
‘The drought looks bad,’ she says.
‘Ja. Worst in fifty years. Our farmers are going bankrupt. Food prices are through the roof. Reserves like this struggle to keep their animals alive. And without the animals, they have no visitors and therefore no income. Problem is Nokuthula has to spend almost all its funds on protecting the rhinos. When their water pumps break, they can’t afford to replace them.’
