The Last Hunt

by Deon Meyer

  He said no, thank you, he just wanted a quick look at the painting. Disappointment showed in her eyes, but she nodded. ‘Bien sûr.’ Of course. He started wondering about her again, who she was, what story lay behind her. The aura of loneliness surrounding her. On that first evening she had revealed very little, just busied herself with the camera and the photos.

  He followed her into the studio.

  The painting of him was on the easel, huge, two metres high. The outline of his body was drawn, his face already complete. It felt odd seeing it, how she had captured him. There was life in it. His life. And his longing. He was amazed at her skill.

  ‘Ça vous plaît?’ she asked. Do you like it?

  ‘Oui,’ he said softly.

  ‘Vraiment?’ Really?

  How could she doubt it? ‘C’est . . . formidable.’

  She smiled in a way that he hadn’t seen before, true joy. ‘Then you must drink a glass with me. Champagne.’

  How could he refuse?

  They sat down in the salon. ‘When did you start painting?’ he asked her.

  ‘After my husband died,’ she said. ‘I painted him over and over until I had him back.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He was a professor of paleontology. He was a wonderful man. I miss him every day.’

  She stood up suddenly. ‘One moment, please.’ Quickly she left the room, her bare feet stepping silently. She was back with a framed photo, held it out to him.

  He wasn’t a handsome man, her late husband. Tall and painfully thin, with heavy-rimmed spectacles and a moustache that couldn’t completely hide a partially restored hare lip. But there was something gentle and compassionate in his smile.

  He wondered for a moment, then asked: ‘Did you take this photo?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘He loved you very much,’ said Daniel Darret.

  An intense look in her eyes. ‘And I loved him.’

  The art of making and restoring furniture had captivated Daniel since the day he’d begun working with Lefèvre. The loving attention, the careful work, systematic process of transforming the worn and broken into magnificent and valuable. He gradually began to develop the desire to be able to do it too. He had watched Lefèvre, inconspicuously and patiently, through every phase.

  Nearly two years ago he’d begun buying his own set of tools at the Saint Michel flea market, hand-picked, to measure and saw, plane and chisel, hammer and sand. He brought the pieces one by one to his corner of the workshop. Said not a word.

  Two months ago when he’d brought in the oak planks and put them down in his corner, Lefèvre had looked up. The old man stood, ran his fingers along the grain, bent and sniffed it. Picked up each plank and measured it with an eye. Put it down again. Said nothing. His way of granting his approval.

  Daniel started making the table slowly. He worked on it when he had an idle half-hour. Sometimes he stayed after hours. Occasionally he would come in over a weekend. He took his time, aware that he had much to learn, ready to pay his dues.

  Now and then Lefèvre looked over at him at his task. Expressionless.

  It was a table de ferme, a farmhouse table. He had chosen this design deliberately – patterned on a beautiful example that Madame had sold in the front shop – because it was so simple. Just over two metres long, eighty-eight centimetres wide, seventy-five centimetres high, a top, four tapering legs, a frieze on all four sides. And two basic drawers at the front.

  A few days before the August holiday, he arrived at work in the morning to find that Lefèvre had dismantled his right-hand drawer. He knew why. The joints were not good handiwork. He just nodded to le génie when the old man entered, and later Daniel refashioned the drawer.

  He had almost finished now. He was busy with the final sanding, in some discomfort as the bandage on his hand was troublesome. But he liked the work, the rhythm, the smell, the mechanical repetition. He thought he would make six chairs for it, his next project. He had enough wood.

  By four o’clock the heat of the August afternoon drove him to finish. He swept up the fine wood dust, cleaned the tools and diligently packed everything away, as if Lefèvre were looking over his shoulder. He locked up and left.

  The rue Notre Dame was quiet. Only at the Monument aux Girondins was there any activity, tourists taking photographs, two children seeking relief in the water of the fountain. It took him between twenty and thirty minutes to walk home. His route was never precisely the same, but always zigzagged past his favourite spots. He knew the history of most of the buildings, squares and streets. Nearly every day he very deliberately walked past the Grand Théâtre, breathing in the atmosphere of the square.

  Today he walked down the pedestrian street of the rue Sainte-Catherine: as most of the people of Bordeaux were at the sea, it wasn’t the usual crowd.

  Five hundred metres before the cours Victor-Hugo he saw Lonnie May. Later he would wonder whether it was his heightened state of awareness since Élodie Lecompte and the violence in the night that made him notice Lonnie. But now he thought he was imagining it. Over a decade had passed since he had last seen him. Perhaps it was just someone who reminded him of Lonnie. The familiar figure was twenty metres ahead, searching, constantly checking his phone. Daniel followed him, keeping his distance. It couldn’t be. Memories flooded back and he shook his head. Ay, that old life. But the suspicion grew that it really was Lonnie. The alert way of walking, the stocky figure, shape of the head, shiny pate.

  And something that bothered him vaguely.

  He stared at the man, realising that it was Lonnie, but older. Lord, we’re all getting old. He wanted to speed up, call out to his old comrade.

  He didn’t do it, an uneasy feeling, undefined. Something was wrong.

  Then he realised what it was.

  There was someone else, practically alongside Daniel, whose attention was fixed on Lonnie. Daniel knew the signs, almost-forgotten training that he remembered now. The man was following Lonnie.

  Chapter 13

  The man tailing Lonnie was tall and lean, dressed in blue jeans, blue shirt and a grey jacket. Dark hair, cut short. And he was damn good. Daniel walked into Giovanni Gelateria, to increase the distance between them. Lonnie May? Here? Old, alone, in August, in Bordeaux?

  Daniel scanned the range of ice-cream flavours and macaroons, pretending to be making up his mind. He felt a tingling, thoughts buzzing as he sought to draw conclusions, make connections. What did Lonnie’s appearance have to do with the Élodie Lecompte incident? Had the mills of justice ground so finely and so far back as to draw in his past – and Lonnie’s? Who was Grey Jacket? French National Police?

  But here, now? It was no coincidence. Just three blocks away from his apartment.

  Lonnie was fiddling with his phone, as you would when using Google Maps to pinpoint a place. Daniel’s address?

  Daniel mumbled, ‘Pardon,’ to the man behind the counter, turned around and walked out. He looked to the right. Grey Jacket was loitering in front of Burger King. Lonnie must be standing at the big crossing of the cours Victor-Hugo. Careful: Grey Jacket was no amateur. Daniel knew the techniques of tailing: you scanned the whole area. It had been hammered into them. The man would be alert to everything. Perhaps not even alone. Daniel could not remain standing there.

  He made up his mind, walked purposefully towards Grey Jacket, then turned quickly left into rue de Guienne, and immediately right again. He would be able to approach Lonnie and his follower from a new and unexpected angle in the main thoroughfare. He would also keep an eye open for any other people following Lonnie.

  He was just in time to spot Grey Jacket in the cours on the pavement next to the newsagent. The man turned his head left, right, searching. Daniel walked towards him. He would buy a newspaper. Lonnie had disappeared.

  The tail didn’t look at Daniel: he took four steps to the left, turned around. He attempted to cross the cours, but the traffic light was red for pedestrians and there was a stream of
cars. The hunter had lost his prey. It was obvious.

  Lonnie May. As cunning as ever. He must have realised he was being followed.

  All that Daniel could do was make a long detour home. He didn’t want to attract Grey Jacket’s attention by following him. It took him nearly twenty minutes. He approached his home from the direction of the basilica so that he had a wider view of the little square in front of his building. He didn’t see anyone. He unlocked the door, went inside and ran upstairs, dripping with sweat from the heat and agitation. He stripped off his clothes, pulled on a pair of shorts, opened the shutters in front of the window and fetched a kitchen chair. He sat just far enough back in the bedroom to be able to watch the square below without being seen easily.

  More than an hour and a half later, Lonnie May walked down rue Marengo. He was in a hurry, the bald head swivelling left and right as the old man kept scanning his surroundings.

  Lonnie, Lonnie, how grey is the little hair you have left. But your steps are still sprightly. The trickle of Daniel’s memories rose to a flood.

  Lonnie spotted the address he was looking for. No hesitation, he approached the door.

  Daniel waited for the doorbell to ring. It didn’t.

  Lonnie was walking away.

  Chapter 14

  Daniel remained seated for another half-minute before he understood what had happened. He leaped up, exited the room and ran down the stairs. A brown envelope lay on the threshold, pushed through the letterbox.

  For Daniel Darret. In black ink.

  He picked it up, but he had already guessed: Lonnie knew his new name. That implied a thousand things. Lonnie had traced him, which must have been a difficult, possibly long, process, as Daniel had erased his tracks thoroughly. It meant that Lonnie must have realised he risked revealing Daniel’s new identity. So, ever-loyal, he must have believed the end justified the means. He wasn’t here for a chat about old times.

  Lonnie was in trouble.

  He hurried up to his flat, found a knife in the drawer, slit the envelope open carefully.

  Umzingeli

  Saint Andrew. Under the organ. 10.15.

  Lonnie

  It was the first word, the name by which he was addressed, that gave him the shivers, and opened wide the sluice gates of memory.

  Chapter 15

  August, Benny Griessel, Cape Town

  In the morning he met Cupido across the road from Cape Town station, in front of Rovos Rail’s reception hall.

  ‘So, partner,’ Cupido asked, first thing, ‘all systems go?’

  Griessel knew what he meant. ‘I made the reservation. Sunday after next.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ll ask her tonight.’

  ‘Okay.’ With sympathy: Cupido, too, wrestled with what he called his confirmed-bachelor commitment issues. They crossed the street in silence.

  Mrs Brenda Strydom, head of communications for the railway company, was in her fifties, attractive and tastefully groomed. She was holding a file. She invited them to sit in one corner of the big Rovos departure lounge, a beautiful room with an old-fashioned atmosphere. A lone waiter stood discreetly in a corner. She asked them what they would like to drink, placed the order, and came to sit opposite them. She slid the file across the coffee-table. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said.

  ‘It’s our job,’ said Cupido with a hint of sarcasm. He was suspicious by nature and aggressive where big money and luxury were involved.

  Griessel was familiar with this response. It was part of their team dynamic – they had learned over the years how to make it work to their advantage. When Cupido was obstinate, Griessel would play a gentler, more approachable role.

  Strydom didn’t miss a beat. ‘I know. But the death of Mr Johnson is a very serious matter to us, as I’m sure you’ll understand. We run the most luxurious train in the world. Most of our clients are from overseas. Our reputation as a safe mode of travel means everything to us so it’s of critical importance that this case is solved speedily and effectively. I’m here to assist you in any way you may deem necessary.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Griessel.

  ‘Call me Brenda. I brought you—’

  ‘Is it genuinely the most luxurious train in the world?’ Cupido interrupted her.

  Strydom nodded, as if it wasn’t the first time someone had asked that question. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Okay?’ Still sceptical.

  She counted off the reasons on her fingers. ‘To start with, we have a private twenty-three-hectare railway station in Pretoria, including a museum and a workshop where we restore the carriages ourselves. There are even a few antelope roaming around. It’s unique. Our sleeping compartments are the biggest of any train on earth. Each has its own bathroom, which is twenty-five per cent larger than any rival’s. The royal suites each have a bath and a shower. There are eleven tons of train for each passenger, which is also twenty-five per cent more than any other train. All our guests eat at the same time – we don’t have multiple sittings. I could continue . . .’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Cupido. Then, with a measure of pride, ‘Cool. Who’d have thunk it? In our little corner of the dark continent . . .’

  She smiled and pointed at the file. ‘I prepared all the possibly relevant information for you. There is the complete rail section register, which is kept by the driver. It tells you what time the train arrived at every stop, when, and how long it stopped for, et cetera. There are the contact details of all our staff who worked with the train – here, on the train itself and at our station in Pretoria. They all know about the investigation and will give you their full cooperation. As per regulation, we use drivers from Transnet. Their details are also in the file, but I don’t have control over their cooperation.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Griessel.

  ‘I’ve also included a list of all our passengers and their booking forms. The forms have their contact and passport details. Most of them also filled in details of their travel arrangements after the train trip. Many are overseas tourists and might have left the country already.’

  ‘How many passengers were there?’

  ‘On this specific train, sixty-five. Only seven were South African citizens.’

  Griessel and Cupido exchanged a glance. They knew it was going to be a long and difficult process to contact each one and collect information.

  Strydom saw the look. ‘Every carriage has a host or hostess who takes care of the people in that carriage. They meet their passengers here in the lounge before the train departs. They take care of the luggage and see to the needs of our guests. Mrs Scherpenzeel occupied a royal suite. Her hostess was Cathy Bing. Mr Johnson stayed in a pullman suite. His hostess was Sam . . . Samantha Albertyn. They will have most of the information about Mrs Scherpenzeel and Mr Johnson. I have marked them clearly on the lists.’

  ‘That will help a great deal,’ said Griessel.

  ‘The pleasure is ours,’ she said. ‘But please talk to Sam first. She has a few pieces of interesting information.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Strydom hesitated. ‘I don’t want to speak on her behalf, because I might get the details wrong. She is expecting a call from you . . . There is one other matter you might find interesting. Mrs Scherpenzeel booked her place on the train back in January. On the third of August she contacted us again with a request for us to accommodate a companion as well.’

  ‘Johnson?’

  ‘That’s right. She was very lucky, as we’d had a cancellation, a man and his wife from Australia, whose daughter had given birth three weeks early. We could make their compartment available to Mr Johnson.’

  They made notes.

  ‘Okay,’ said Cupido. ‘Let’s start at the very beginning. From when people make a booking.’

  Brenda Strydom explained to them that Rovos’s reservations came to them from various quarters – from international and local travel agencies and from individuals who booked directly via the internet or the telephone. It w
as a simple process: you booked, you paid, you travelled on the train. There was a single reservation form to complete, where passengers provided their name, address, contact details and passport number. That form was included in the file in front of them.

  On the day the train departed, they were received in the lounge and accompanied to the train. That specific train had stopped at Matjiesfontein for a short tour with a local guide, and again at Kimberley on the Sunday morning. The guests went on a tour of the Big Hole, the iconic, gaping wound thousands of diamond diggers left after the mining frenzy of the late nineteenth century. They were transported by minibuses from the station and back again.

  Usually the train halted on each of the two nights near or at Beaufort West and Klerksdorp to offer the passengers a pleasant night’s rest and keep to the schedule. The timings and duration of the stops depended on delays on the railway. And there were always delays.

  ‘The big question,’ said Cupido, ‘is how hard it is to get onto the train if you’re not a passenger.’

  Strydom was ready for that. ‘Captain, nothing is impossible. But it would be very, very difficult. There is excellent security here at the station, at Matjiesfontein and in Kimberley. But if you were very lucky and managed to get onto the train, there is nowhere to hide.’

  ‘Unless you have a contact on the train.’

  ‘That wouldn’t help much, as the compartments are cleaned while the passengers eat. Little gifts are left on the pillows. You really have nowhere to hide.’

  ‘But how would your staff know if someone didn’t belong on the train?’

  ‘They meet their guests here in the lounge. They are greeted in person.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Your staff . . . How much do you know about their background?’ Griessel asked.

  ‘Before they’re employed by us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We have an employment agency that does very good work with background checks.’