Prey

by L. A. Larkin

  ‘That depends on what we find tomorrow morning.’

  Wolfe pulls the bedspread over her and curls up on her side, her back to Casburn.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she says.

  There’s a rustle of clothing, followed by a creak as Casburn gets into the wood-framed bed.

  ‘Cohen will forgive you,’ he says.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ It’s bravado. ‘Finding Mike’s killer does.’

  Wolfe waits for him to turn out the light, but he doesn’t.

  ‘Why?’ he asks.

  Wolfe turns to face him. He is propped up against the pine headboard shirtless, his SAS-badge tattoo on his arm visible. Wolfe had always thought it depicted a winged dagger, but she recently learned it is King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur, surrounded by flames.

  ‘Why what?’ she asks.

  ‘Why are you doing this? Risking your career?’

  ‘Same reason you are, I guess.’

  He cracks a smile.

  She continues. ‘And I gave you my word.’

  ‘Maybe I’ve underestimated you.’

  ‘Maybe. We’re in this together, Dan. I’ve got your back. I hope you’ve got mine?’

  ‘You have.’

  ‘Hey, do you snore?’

  ‘And what if I do?’ he asks. ‘Are you going to suffocate me?’

  Wolfe smiles. ‘Maybe.’

  64

  The rising sun is split horizontally, half cerise and half orange. In the distance, silhouetted giraffes move gracefully, their long necks rocking forward and back as they walk. Wolfe wishes she had time to enjoy the reserve’s magnificent animals. But the clock is ticking, and she and Casburn are running out of time. She finishes her black coffee, then puts her day-pack on her back. Casburn looks less haggard this morning. He grabs a bottle of water and heads for the door. Waiting in a patrol vehicle out front is Tumi and four men from the poaching patrol. Clarke leans against Hannah’s pick-up. He’s joining the search party.

  ‘Do you have a firearm?’ Hannah asks Wolfe.

  ‘No.’ The South African police kept Thusago’s pistol.

  ‘You need one,’ Hannah says. She goes into her bedroom.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ says Casburn, pausing on the doorstep.

  Hannah reappears with two rifles. One of them Wolfe recognises as the R1 Battle Rifle with wooden handle that was in Hannah’s vehicle yesterday, but not the other.

  ‘Have this. Swedish Mauser. Perfect for bushveld. It will take down a kudu or a person. Not good for bigger animals.’ Wolfe takes it. ‘Can you fire a rifle?’

  ‘Yes. I learnt in Syria.’

  Casburn raises a cynical eyebrow.

  ‘Do you want me to run through loading and firing?’ Hannah asks.

  ‘No need. Straight bolt action; it’s a cock on close.’ She puts out her hand. Hannah passes her a box of 6.5mm cartridges, and Wolfe slips a round into the chamber and flips up the safety towards the scope.

  ‘Impressive,’ says Casburn. ‘Let’s go. Hannah, I’d like to ride in the cabin with you. I have some questions.’

  ‘Fine, I’m sure Henry won’t mind sitting in the back.’

  Wolfe joins Tumi in the cabin of a Nissan Patrol pick-up, with the four other rangers in the back tray. They set off. The mood is sombre.

  ‘Does your wife live on the reserve with you?’ she asks him. He wears a wedding ring.

  ‘No, she is in my village, with our children. My people are Ndebele, from the Northern Province.’

  ‘How often do you see your family?’

  ‘Once a month.’

  ‘That must be very difficult for you. Why do you do this?’

  Tumi glances at Wolfe. ‘It’s money for my family. My kids can go to school. But it is more than this. These animals need protection. If we do not protect them, they will be eradicated.’

  ‘How can the poachers be stopped?’

  ‘Ah, that is a very big question. Everyone has a different opinion and they cannot agree. This is the real problem.’

  ‘I’d like to hear your personal opinion.’

  ‘Kruger is one of Africa’s biggest game reserves. It has excellent anti-poaching patrols. But when we arrest poachers, they do not go to prison. Many are freed, and they keep poaching. We need poachers convicted. They must know they will go to jail for a long time.’

  ‘There’s a ban on the trade in rhino horn, correct?’

  ‘Since 1977 there has been a ban on the international trade, yes. I believe this is the right thing to do, but Hannah thinks it is wrong. As I said, people who care for the rhino cannot agree on a way to save it.’

  ‘What do you think would happen if the trade ban was lifted?’

  ‘I think a legal trade would expand demand for horn and lead to even more poaching. And I think a legal trade is very difficult to regulate, because there is so much corruption.’

  ‘What does Hannah believe?’

  ‘Rhino horn can be harvested without hurting the rhino. They are anaesthetised, and the horn is removed by vets. Hannah could then sell it on the open market and use the money to pay for more resources to protect her rhinos from poachers. I understand why she thinks this. Private reserves like this one do not get government support. If Hannah can sell horn in a regulated market she will have the money she needs to stop poachers.’ Tumi glances at Wolfe. ‘Hannah struggles to pay us. She cannot repair the fence. I do not think she can keep going much longer.’

  Half an hour later, the vehicles halt a short distance from a kidney-shaped waterhole and a wooden box of a hide with a ramp leading up to it. On the other side of the waterhole is a camel thorn tree, the trunk split halfway up causing the branches to hang outwards, like the letter M. It’s the tree in the photograph.

  They all get out of their vehicles. Hannah has gone white.

  ‘Hannah, stay here,’ says Casburn. ‘You shouldn’t see–’

  Hannah interrupts. ‘I have to do this.’

  ‘It’s been a week,’ says Wolfe. ‘This isn’t how you want to remember him. I promise you. Someone I loved… died. Alone. When I found her, she’d been dead two weeks. I barely recognised her. You know the saddest thing?’ Wolfe takes Hannah’s hands. ‘I can’t remember her as she used to look, only as I found her. Don’t do this to yourself. Hang on to those happy memories.’

  ‘No, I…’

  ‘Please,’ says Wolfe. ‘Wait here. If we find him, we’ll tell you, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Casburn stares at Wolfe so intently she feels uncomfortable. She can’t read his expression. Curiosity? Sympathy?

  Casburn asks everyone to gather round. ‘This may be a crime scene and we should treat it that way. If we find something, anything that could relate to Pieter’s disappearance, you do not touch it. You step back and call me over. Is everyone clear?’ Everyone nods. ‘And put these on your shoes.’ He hands out blue slip-on booties. ‘I want to avoid our footprints getting mixed up with the perpetrator’s.’

  Once they have slipped on the booties, Casburn heads for the camel thorn, and everyone follows except Hannah, who leans against her dusty bakkie, arms folded.

  The tree is bigger than Wolfe imagined – the top would force an adult giraffe to stretch its neck.

  ‘Boot marks,’ Casburn says, pointing at the sandy ground beneath the tree.

  ‘We had students here three weeks ago,’ Tumi says.

  ‘Still. One print could belong to the man we’re looking for. I don’t want anybody coming near this.’

  ‘I can’t see any rope,’ Wolfe remarks.

  In the photo, Pieter is tied to the trunk with rope. Casburn leans close to the flaky bark and inspects it.

  ‘There are marks. Something’s dug into the trunk, possibly rope.’

  There are dark stains beneath the cuts in the bark.

  ‘Hyena,’ Tumi says pointing to paw prints.

  Casburn organises everyone so they form a wide circle around the tree. Clarke joins the circle. ‘
Walk outwards slowly, eyes on the ground. Shout if you find anything unusual. Okay?’

  They nod.

  ‘The hide?’ Casburn continues. ‘Locked?’

  ‘It should be,’ Hannah answers, appearing at their side. ‘I can’t stay away. I have to know.’ She holds up a chunky set of keys.

  Casburn doesn’t try to change her mind. ‘Who else has a key?’

  ‘I do,’ Tumi says.

  Tumi, his crew and Clarke set off searching the ground around the tree. Casburn hands Wolfe and Hannah a pair of latex gloves. They take the ramp to the hide’s door. It’s shut. There’s a padlock – unlocked.

  ‘Padlocks are easy to pick,’ Wolfe says.

  Through the door she hears buzzing. She swallows down a gag reflex. ‘You hear that?’

  Casburn nods. ‘Hannah, please. You don’t want to see this.’

  ‘I must.’

  Casburn opens the door. The smell is foul, but not as hideous as to be expected from a week-old dead body. Enough light penetrates the dark hide through the open door and the long rectangular slit of a window to know there is no corpse inside. Just a wooden bench.

  Wolfe follows the sound of the buzzing, using her iPhone’s torch to search the space. She kneels and studies the rust-brown floorboards.

  ‘I think it’s blood.’

  Flies whisk past Wolfe’s face. Her torch beam follows them to a dark corner. Something black and writhing is nailed to the wall. She moves closer. The stench is rancid. She gags and covers her nose and mouth. The black moving mass on the wall is hundreds of flies. Casburn swipes the insects away, but within seconds they cover every millimetre of the bloated zip-lock plastic bag. It’s full of gas and decomposing goo. Casburn takes photos, then carefully unpins the bag and takes it outside. The angry swarm follows him.

  ‘I’m calling this in.’

  ‘What is that?’ asks Hannah, her voice high-pitched. ‘For God’s sake, tell me.’

  65

  From a safe distance, Samuel watches the group through binoculars. It’s like watching reality TV, except he has a vested interest in the outcome. After all, Venter was his kill.

  The pittance he paid the guard at the main gate was worth it. He’d alerted Samuel to Wolfe’s arrival yesterday. This time, he’s a step ahead of her, and two steps ahead of Nguyen. Because Wolfe hasn’t left the country as Nguyen believes, and neither has Casburn. Msiza has fucked up. Samuel smirks. They’ve outsmarted the boss, and that doesn’t happen often.

  Samuel is parked inside Nokuthula, hidden behind a couple of moepel trees. He adjusts the sight on the binoculars and homes in on Wolfe. She has an arm around Hannah, consoling her. Samuel shifts his view to the detective. Casburn places the fly-blown bag containing the only remaining piece of Pieter Venter inside a cooler box.

  ‘You made the mess, sonny Jim,’ as his father used to say. ‘So clear it up.’

  That’s what happens when it’s a rush job. Mistakes are made. Samuel scratches his neck’s scar. He knew he shouldn’t have done it. But he just couldn’t resist. His fan club goaded him. This time, they said they wanted it to be funny. So, after he dragged Venter’s body into the hide to chop it up, Samuel had bagged Venter’s nose and hung it on the wall. He wanted Hannah to find it, and he can’t help feeling irritated with Casburn and Wolfe for spoiling his carefully prepared nasty surprise. He glances at the video camera on a tripod next to him, recording the activities around the hide. At least he gets to share this with his followers. Satisfied he has enough footage, he uploads it to his favourite chat room, via a proxy server. Comments are posted almost immediately.

  ‘Is that what I think it is? Cool, man.’

  ‘Nothing like a bag of decomposing gloop at breakfast time!’

  Feeling cocky, Samuel dials Nguyen, then waits for the callback – their usual routine.

  His phone vibrates. On the sixth ring, he answers, deliberately taking his time.

  ‘I thought you should know Wolfe hasn’t left South Africa,’ Samuel imagines a drum roll in his head, ‘and the British detective hasn’t either.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I’m watching them. At Nokuthula Reserve. They flew in last night.’

  ‘Flew?’

  ‘Chopper. Some tour guide by the name of Henry Clarke. He’s still here.’

  ‘How much do they know?’

  Samuel explains about the bagged body part they’ve found.

  His boss says something in a language he doesn’t understand. It doesn’t take an Einstein to realise he’s furious.

  ‘You told me their deaths were untraceable. No bodies.’

  ‘And you told me they’d left South Africa,’ Samuel snarls.

  ‘Your vanity has jeopardised my operation.’

  Samuel imagines slicing Nguyen. ‘Hey! I’m about to save your operation. Msiza messed up, not me. I’m the only one who knows where they are.’

  Nguyen is quiet. ‘Have they contacted the police?’

  ‘They were here yesterday. Poachers killed some rhinos. They kicked the dirt for a bit then left. Haven’t been back.’

  ‘I need to contain this. I can’t have my guests worried.’ He pauses. Samuel hates his silences. His shirt collar chafes his skin. He scratches. ‘Tell your man on the gate to contact Rustenburg police anonymously.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’ll plant evidence proving local poachers killed Venter.’

  ‘Consider it done. And?’

  ‘Sabotage the chopper so it can’t fly.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Disappear.’

  66

  Casburn paces up and down outside the crime scene tape set up by local police. He’s on the phone talking to Clarke. Beyond the yellow tape, surrounding the hide and the area leading to the camel thorn tree, a crime scene manager and a forensic team are busy photographing and collecting evidence.

  ‘Can it be fixed?’ Casburn asks Clarke.

  Earlier, Clarke had gone back to Hannah’s house, getting a lift with Tumi and the poaching patrol guys. He’d wanted to do pre-flight checks for their trip to Zimbabwe. Wolfe still doesn’t know why he has to go there. He’s keeping her in the dark and it makes her uneasy.

  Casburn listens to Clarke’s response and clearly doesn’t like it. ‘I can’t wait that long, Henry. I’m sorry. Can you do me a favour? Can you find another chopper pilot who’ll take me?’ A pause, as he listens. ‘If not, I’ll drive.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Wolfe asks, his phone conversation over.

  ‘His chopper’s out of action. Something to do with the rotors.’

  ‘Why the urgency, Dan?’

  ‘I have to be somewhere tonight or latest first thing tomorrow.’

  Wolfe rolls her eyes in exasperation. ‘When are you going to trust me?’

  An officer named Jackson calls the crime scene manager away. ‘We’ve got something.’

  Wolfe and Casburn can’t cross the tape, but they can follow the men as long as they stay outside the perimeter.

  Jackson bends his knees and points at the gap beneath the hide. The structure is raised up on bricks at each corner, leaving a space beneath large enough for a man to crawl through. A much younger officer lies underneath on his belly. His torch illuminates a machete, lying in the dirt.

  ‘The murder weapon,’ Jackson says, smugly.

  Wolfe leans close to Casburn. ‘I searched there earlier. There was nothing.’

  The younger officer wriggles out from the gap, the machete gripped by a gloved hand. The blade is clean.

  ‘If it’s the weapon, it’s been wiped,’ says Casburn.

  Hannah squints at the blade. ‘This is pointless.’ She walks away.

  ‘Do you recognise it?’ Wolfe asks catching up with her.

  Hannah keeps walking. Wolfe grabs her arm. ‘Well, do you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she snaps.

  ‘Whose machete is it?’

  ‘It belongs to Mpande Khoza. He carves a snake onto the handle. It�
�s his way of claiming it.’

  ‘And who is Khoza?’

  ‘Local poacher. Small time stuff. Gazelle and zebra. Sells it to butchers.’ Hannah shakes her head. ‘He didn’t do it. Not Dad.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘All this,’ she gestures to the hide. ‘Too calculated. Too detailed. Khoza wouldn’t bother leaving trophies. Anyway, he doesn’t kill people.’

  ‘Is it possible he travelled overseas recently?’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding! He can barely afford to feed his family. I doubt he even has a passport.’

  Wolfe doubles back and pulls Casburn aside. ‘Hannah thinks it’s a set-up.’

  Casburn’s mobile rings. He answers with a brusque, ‘Yes?’ Then he turns his back on Wolfe and walks away, his tone softer. ‘Oh, you know, had a bad morning. What have you got for me? … Good work. Email me everything.’ He ends the call.

  ‘I could do with some good news,’ Wolfe says.

  Casburn keeps his voice down. ‘Not here. Look, I can’t stay. I’ve got things to sort out.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ says Hannah. ‘I can’t bear to watch this anymore.’

  ‘I’ll come too,’ says Wolfe, keen to keep close to Casburn. ‘I need to clear my head. I’ll get in the back.’

  She climbs into the vehicle’s tray of tiered seats and takes a back seat. It’s a crisp, sunny April morning and the cool air is energising.

  Wolfe’s phone rings. The caller ID is blocked. She answers.

  ‘I believe you are a woman who values her privacy.’

  The voice is male, educated, the hint of an accent.

  ‘Who is this?’ she says, instinctively looking around the savannah for the assassin.

  ‘Someone who also values their privacy. And you are threatening it.’

  67

  Wolfe doesn’t hear the rusty chassis squeak or feel the jolt as the pick-up sways in and out of potholes. The vast expanse of bushveld has disappeared. She doesn’t even notice the giraffe’s ungainly lurch as it canters across their path. She sees nothing, hears nothing, but the handrail she grips and the voice on the other end of the line.