by L. A. Larkin
‘Can we talk about your father?’ Casburn begins.
Clarke, returned from refuelling the chopper, moves his chair close to Hannah as if trying to shield her from what’s coming.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘As I mentioned on the phone, I’m from a specialist unit known as SO24. We investigate potential overseas threats to London, but my remit covers threats to the whole of the UK as well.’
‘I don’t understand,’ says Hannah. ‘What has this got to do with my dad? He’s not a threat to anybody.’
Good question, Wolfe thinks.
‘I’m investigating a series of murders, committed in different countries–’
Hannah’s breath catches in her throat, like a hiccup.
Casburn continues, ‘–by a serial killer.’
‘What are you saying? Is Dad… is he one of…?’
‘We haven’t found his body. But I have a photograph of a man we believe may be your father and I’d like you to take a look at it.’
‘Photograph?’ Hannah repeats.
Casburn produces an A5 sized envelope. ‘I need to know if this is Pieter Venter. But I have to warn you, you’ll find it distressing. The man in the photo has been… disfigured.’
‘God in Hemel,’ Hannah whispers.
Both dogs sense her anguish and jump down from the back of the sofa and onto her lap.
‘Wait,’ Clarke says. ‘I know Pieter. I can identify him. Don’t make Hannah do it.’
‘No,’ says Hannah. ‘I must.’
Casburn lays a print on the table.
Hannah leans closer and blinks, a puzzled expression on her face.
‘What am I looking at?’
She picks up the photo, her hands and the photograph trembling. A sharp intake of breath and the colour drains from her face. ‘Dad?’
‘What in God’s name have they done to him?’ Clarke says.
Wolfe is seated opposite Hannah, so the image is upside down for her, but every detail is etched on her mind. A man tied to a camel thorn tree, his nasal cavity a gaping wound, into which his two severed fingers have been inserted in what Wolfe now realises is a mockery of a rhino’s two horns.
‘What… what did they… do to him?’ Hannah asks, her voice barely audible.
‘Hannah, I need you to be clear. Is this Pieter Venter?’
She nods.
61
Hannah Venter drops the photo of her murdered father as if it’s burnt her fingers.
‘I knew. Just knew. But not like this.’ Clarke tries to put his arm around her, but she pushes it away. ‘No, Henry.’ She picks up the photo from the wicker table and waves it at Casburn. ‘Why did you lie, Detective? Why tell me you didn’t know? Of course he’s bloody dead. Look!’
‘Hannah, we have photos. No body,’ Casburn says. ‘And we needed verification.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I was hoping you would recognise the location in the picture. Can you take another look?’
‘I’ve already searched everywhere. Phoned everyone we know. Put up posters in town.’
‘Do you recognise that tree?’ Wolfe asks, drawing Hannah’s attention back to the photograph.
‘The camel thorn? So what? They’re everywhere.’
‘Where did you last see your father?’
‘Here. He has a house down by the campsite’s watering hole, but he usually eats with me here. We had breakfast as usual, then he headed for Rustenberg. He needed a new part for a water pump.’
‘Can anyone confirm he left the reserve?’
‘Yes, the guard said he did.’
‘I’d like to see his cabin and talk to that guard.’
‘Of course.’
‘Did Pieter get any death threats?’ Casburn asks.
‘Plenty. Dad frequently got anonymous phone calls, threatening to cut his throat, kill me, that sort of thing.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘There’s a poaching gang in the village, half a mile from our northern perimeter. A man called Fezile leads it. He poaches smaller mammals. Antelope, impala. But it’s not him. Fezile doesn’t have enough guts to follow through, or to… mutilate like that.’
Casburn jots down the name on a small notepad. ‘Anyone else?’
‘Let me explain what we’re up against. There’s a war going on. A war we’re losing. We’re fighting a faceless enemy, thousands of miles away in Vietnam and China. They drive the trade in horn. Fund it. They supply weapons, vehicles, helicopters. They bribe officials, the police, our government, their government. My father dedicated his life to this reserve. It’s been a haven for endangered rhino for twenty-two years. I’ll tell you who killed Dad. A poaching syndicate.’
Hannah stands suddenly, dropping the photo, the dogs tumbling off her lap. She races into the house.
‘Let me talk to her,’ Wolfe says, picking up the print.
Wolfe finds Hannah sitting on the edge of her bed, a box of tissues beside her. ‘How will I tell Nathan?’
‘Nathan?’
‘My son. At university.’
‘Perhaps wait until we know more?’
‘Oh God. This is so terrible.’
‘It must be such a shock,’ Wolfe says. ‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through.’
Hannah dabs her eyes with a tissue. She nods. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to react like that. I…’
Wolfe sits on the bed next to her. ‘Casburn wants to find whoever did this. He can’t do it without you.’
Hannah blows her nose. Dabs her wet face. Tries to compose herself. ‘I think I know where… he died,’ Hannah says.
‘Where?’
‘The tree. I know it. That particular one was hit by lightning. It split the trunk.’
Wolfe holds up the photo.
‘You see the way its trunk divides in two,’ Hannah says, ‘and the wide, low-hanging canopy? We used to have a tented hide there. To watch wildlife drink at the waterhole. Last year we built a proper hide – wooden, with reed roof and benches to sit on. It’s more comfortable than a tent.’
‘This tree is on your reserve?’ Wolfe asks.
‘It is.’
62
Wolfe sits in Hannah’s Land Rover. It’s parked in the front yard. Beyond the wire mesh fence the reserve is pitch black. Wolfe needs privacy, and this is the only place she can talk without being overheard. Hannah has left the windows down and the cool night air makes her shiver.
Inside the house, Hannah argues with Casburn. Hannah wants to find the split camel thorn tonight, but Casburn insists they go at first light. Stumbling around in the dark is a great way to compromise a crime scene.
Wolfe’s mobile phone rests on the dashboard. Through their FaceTime connection she sees Moz Cohen’s long face. Her editor has his phone lying at a forty-five-degree angle which gives her an unflattering view of his scraggy neck and hairy nostrils. Behind him, there’s a glimpse of blond wood panelling on the wall and a large framed sepia photo taken around 1900 of King’s Cross and the Regent’s Canal. In it, horse-drawn carts carrying goods to market clog up the narrow streets. Wolfe knows the picture well. Cohen is in The Post’s executive boardroom.
‘How kind of you to finally make contact,’ Cohen says, sarcastically. ‘I get you a damn good lawyer, she turns up at the cop shop, and you’ve buggered off!’ he gripes.
‘I never saw her.’
‘Where are you?’
‘A wildlife reserve near Rustenburg owned by the South African victim, Pieter Venter. Casburn is with me. He’s risked his career to keep me in the country.’
‘I hope he’s also paying your expenses.’
Why is Cohen in the boardroom? He hates the boardroom. Hates kowtowing to the directors. So why is he there?
‘Is somebody with you?’ she asks.
Cohen waves a hand about as if signalling to people in the room. ‘I thought the directors might like to say hi.’ He leans close to his phone. ‘Of course there’s nobo
dy with me. Sheesh!’
‘So why the boardroom?’
‘My office is bugged.’
‘What about your mobile phone?’
Cohen rolls his eyes in exasperation. ‘I’m not using my mobile. It’s a burner phone.’
‘Who’s bugging you?’
‘Take a guess.’
‘SO24?’
‘Nope.’
‘Somebody high up in government?’
Cohen gives her a nod. ‘Got it in one. Had a visit from the Men in Black today, doing their best to look intimidating with their gelled, pansy hair and their clichéd stern faces. Flashed badges like they were the keys to the Holy Grail. Wanted to search my office. Told them to go fuck themselves.’
‘I’m guessing you’re not using your laptop either?’
‘Nope. Using a brand spanking new one.’
‘Did they get a warrant?’
‘Yup. Came back. Did the search.’ Wolfe feels her stomach squirm. ‘But as you’ve given me half of fuck all, they left with very little intel. Apart from–’
‘The photos of the four murder victims?’
Cohen nods.
‘Shit!’
‘I got the feeling they didn’t know about the murders, which is odd. I guess Casburn isn’t sharing?’
This is awkward. Wolfe hates holding out on Cohen, but she must keep her word to Casburn.
The larger of the Jack Russells has followed Wolfe and whimpers to be let into the vehicle. She opens the door and he jumps in, then onto her lap. The dog attempts to lick her phone. Cohen gets a close-up of the dog’s tongue.
‘I see you’re taking your assignment seriously.’ Cohen’s upper lip is curling into a sneer. He isn’t exactly known for his love of animals. Or of people, for that matter. Wolfe picks up the Jack Russell and puts him gently on the seat next to her. Cohen taps his skeletal fingers on the polished tabletop. ‘Bored now. Are you going to tell me why my office has been trashed by MI5’s Batman and Robin, or do I have to ask Casburn?’
Keeping her voice low, Wolfe explains her theory that the Chancellor is linked to an Asian crime syndicate operating in South Africa, involved in the illegal trade of rhino horn. Her theory is that Ximba was the money launderer and that Major-General Msiza ensures law enforcement turns a blind eye.
‘From what I know of Pieter Venter,’ she says, ‘I think he and the three other victims were a problem for the syndicate and were killed because of it. I don’t know why yet.’
Wolfe explains the similarity between the mutilated murder victims and the butchered carcasses of the rhinos she’s seen.
Cohen interjects. ‘Perhaps the killer was making a point. Sending a message – oppose rhino poaching and I’ll butcher you?’
‘Possibly, but I don’t think so. So far, there are no bodies. The photos were in a highly-encrypted email. I don’t believe they were meant to be seen by anybody, apart from the killer and Ximba. If their deaths were a warning, their bodies would have been easily found and the photos widely distributed.’
‘And Mike Thusago?’ Cohen asks.
‘Made to look like a robbery gone wrong.’ Wolfe winces, the memory of his bloody body hits her like a migraine. ‘I got Mike killed, Moz. I shouldn’t have involved him.’
‘Rubbish. You didn’t force him to work with you.’
‘I know, but–’
‘But nothing. He chose to do it. Just like he chose to ignore your warning. Stop blaming yourself.’
‘But his wife and son…’
‘Will be well taken care of, I’ve made sure of that.’
Wolfe falls silent. Her boss is a bad-tempered slave driver most of the time, but occasionally he surprises her. ‘Thank you, Moz.’
‘I don’t want thanks. Those photos are bound to leak. I want The Post to break the story. No mention of the Chancellor. For now. Keep that powder dry until we know more about his involvement.’
Wolfe clears her throat. Cohen isn’t going to like this. ‘I can’t do that. Not yet.’
Cohen’s wiry eyebrows meet in the middle. ‘And why the hell not?’
‘Because we made a deal,’ says Casburn, his interruption making Wolfe jump. Casburn leans in through the vehicle’s open window. She turns the phone so Cohen can see Casburn, who continues, ‘Olivia is helping me with my investigation. Nothing will be published till I say so.’
The last time Cohen and Casburn crossed paths was when Casburn’s team raided The Post’s offices.
‘With the greatest of respect, Dan–’ Cohen begins.
Casburn talks over him. ‘I need to ask you to sit on the photos, Moz. Don’t publish. It’s a matter of national security.’
‘National security, my arse,’ says Cohen. ‘Why don’t you add a terrorist threat while you’re about it? That’s the one you lot usually use to keep the media from publishing, isn’t it?’
‘Olivia has given me her word.’
‘Total bollocks, she wouldn’t do that. Olivia?’ says Cohen.
‘It’s true,’ Wolfe replies.
She has seldom seen Cohen so livid. He loves play-acting the tyrant. He gets a kick out of scaring his green reporters. His favourite trick is to storm up to someone’s desk, slam down a rival journalist’s printed story and yell so everybody can hear, Why didn’t we get this scoop?
Now, Cohen’s deep-set eyes are glassy with fury, his lips pursed into a tight line.
‘Olivia, what the hell have you done?’
‘This is more important than a story,’ she says.
‘You’re a journalist. Not a cop. Do your job.’
Her heart races. Her job is everything. She has no husband or boyfriend, no family. The Post is her family. Her promise to Casburn means she’s crossed a line and she may not be able to cross back. But she owes Thusago’s family. And she can’t find his killer alone. Like it or not, she needs to work with Casburn.
‘I can’t do that, Moz. Not until we find Mike’s killer.’
63
Clarke has offered to sleep on the sofa, which leaves Casburn and Wolfe sharing a room. Fortunately, there are two beds. Wolfe chucks her backpack on the bed nearest the window, turns her phone to silent, plugs in the recharger, then sits on the edge of the bed. Her boots connect with an old pair of man-sized running shoes. On shelving opposite, various trophies and a framed photo of a teenager, perhaps eighteen, playing rugby. Tall and dark, like his mother. On a lower shelf, textbooks on civil engineering. It’s Hannah’s son’s room.
Wolfe is desperate to sleep, but her mind is buzzing. Pieter Venter’s body could be on this very reserve. He is the key to solving the mystery: what connects the four victims?
Wolfe pulls out her laptop and does a search on Hannah’s father. Pieter Venter came to wildlife conservation late in life. Born in Zimbabwe, he ran a successful garden centre until one night it was torched, and his family home attacked. That same night, he fled his homeland with his wife and children. His bank account was frozen. He arrived in South Africa with just US$5,000. He took the first job he could get – insurance sales. Not surprisingly, he hated it. Four months later he saw an ad for a security role on thirty thousand hectares of land near Rustenburg upon which were several factories that were being closed down. He took the role and negotiated with the landowner a lease which allowed him to set up a wildlife reserve on that land. Wolfe found herself admiring Pieter’s intrepid spirit and his determination.
Pieter became a champion of rhino conservation and a regular speaker at the Global Regulation of Wildlife Trade convention, better known as the GROWT convention, in which representatives from countries all over the world vote on the status of endangered species and agree on measures to ensure their survival.
Was Venter killed because he was outspoken about the need to save the rhino?
Wolfe is distracted from her thoughts when Casburn’s hushed phone conversation outside the bedroom window gets louder.
‘So, she is Russian,’ Casburn says. ‘Do we have a name?’ He jots do
wn some details. ‘That makes it more complicated.’ Certainly does, Wolfe says to herself. The Russian police are not known for being co-operative.
He is quiet for a while.
‘Under investigation? What in God’s name for?’ A pause as he listens to the response. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
Wolfe keeps reading up on GROWT. The next meeting of member nations is in Johannesburg on Sunday – in three days’ time. Venter was due to speak.
Casburn again. Louder. ‘No, sir, I won’t. Not yet. This poses a very real threat, and not just to London.’
Wolfe closes the laptop, then slides her comb-knife under the pillow. She undresses down to her T-shirt and panties and gets into bed. There’s a knock on the door: three knocks in fact, firm and evenly spaced.
‘Come in.’
Casburn drops a black duffel bag on the floor. She watches him place his pistol under his pillow.
‘So, she’s Russian?’ Wolfe asks.
He shakes his head. ‘You were listening. Why aren’t I surprised.’
‘You were going to tell me anyway, right? What else do you know?’
‘Marta Ramazanova, Russian, twenty-eight, reported missing four days ago by her boyfriend.’
‘Is she connected to rhino poaching?’
‘Not that we can see.’
‘That’s my theory blown then.’
‘I’m under investigation,’ Casburn says.
‘For what?’
‘Looks like Msiza has made a formal complaint. Intimidating and reckless behaviour, jeopardising a SAPS investigation.’
‘So, Sutton has caved in to pressure?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘I’m sorry, Dan. What are you going to do?’
‘Nail Msiza. Nail Samuel. Nail the syndicate. You?’
‘The same.’
‘Are you going to Zimbabwe tomorrow?’ she asks.
