Concern twitched and then crept through his body. Shawu had occasionally wandered away from him before, but only ever to feed and she had always remained within sight of him. Given the events of the preceding hours, and all that had now passed between them, it seemed odd that she would alter her behaviour now. He had to be missing something.
As he mulled over the possibilities, he suddenly thought to check the sand. It was such an obvious notion, the fact that it had not immediately occurred to him seemed further and compelling evidence that he was still not thinking coherently. He looked down and almost laughed when he saw that he was actually standing in one of her large round prints. He raised his head and followed her tracks as they trailed away from him in a wide arc, winding westwards down the middle of the river bed. Out of sight.
She had left him. But why? What was he not understanding? With mounting concern, he snatched up his belongings and set off after her. His legs were stiff and sore at first, but soon loosened up. After a while he noticed something that at first seemed curious, and then concerning. Shawu’s stride pattern had changed. Her prints had begun to elongate and deepen in the sand which, he knew, could only mean one thing: Something had caused her to run. To charge, perhaps. Had she been pursued by something? Poachers? No–
Responding to the urgency of her tracks, and the dread in his gut, Derek accelerated into a hard run. He rounded one of the many blind bends in the river and came to the top of a small rise. He was charging over it when first the wind and then the despicable sight hit him. He slid to a halt. His bag and rifle dropped to the sand as if wrenched from his arms.
‘No,’ he whispered, his mouth twisting in disbelief.
In the river valley ahead of him lay at least half a dozen giant bodies. The only living elephant among them was in a frenzy, desperately trying to raise up their remains.
Derek felt his hands push through his hair. ‘Shawu!’ he cried out.
She stopped and looked back at him, her trunk flailing wildly through the air. Her wide and glistening eyes held his gaze for a moment and then, trumpeting, she lowered her head back down and again tried to pry up the dead elephant at her feet. It was clear by the urgency with which she was attempting the resurrection that, this time, she thought her family could still be saved. That if she acted quickly enough, she could undo the harm that had befallen them. Perhaps push back the poachers’ bullets into their rifles and stay their axes.
Derek was running again, scrambling towards her. As he pulled up to the bodies, his eyes were drawn to their raw and sawn stumps. A hot nausea churned in his stomach. His first thought was clear: Retribution. A powerful, almost primal desire for vengeance overwhelmed him. Just as their lives had been taken, so lives needed to be paid in return.
Blood needed blood.
Staring at their lifeless forms, he watched as Shawu used her trunk to try to wipe clean the bloodied face of one of the young males, a high-pitched and disturbing murmur issuing from deep within her chest. Derek shut his eyes, trying to deny the scene, but Shawu’s pain followed him into the darkness.
Above them, the circling vultures that for so many days had been tracking them – waiting for death to seek them out – finally had cause to descend.
And, as they did, something in Derek’s mind shifted, and then fell away.
32
‘This wasn’t the arrangement. Where’s Xavier?’ the tall and slightly built Englishman insisted, a note of unease lifting his voice.
‘He couldn’t make it.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Somewhere else,’ Requin replied abruptly. ‘Can you not see that?’
The Englishman frowned at the odd reply. Something was not right with this man, he thought. Something that travelled far beyond his disturbing features.
‘Now, as I’ve already told you, I’m his brother. If you want the ivory, you have to deal with me.’
‘He said he would be here.’ Small loops of muscle flexed in the man’s jaw. ‘I don’t even know your bloody name.’
‘And that’s not going to change, Monsieur.’
The man glanced over Requin’s shoulder, at the white pincer-tips sticking out from under a large brown tarpaulin. He had never seen such a haul and was finding it difficult to keep his eyes off it. ‘I’m not comfortable with this.’
‘Really? You’re not comfortable?’ Requin asked, and then turned and started to walk away. ‘Maybe I’m not comfortable as well.’
‘Wait. All right … fine,’ the man conceded. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a wad of notes. ‘This is what Xavier and I agreed on.’
Requin snatched at the money. ‘It’s not enough.’
‘You haven’t even counted it! It’s what we settled on.’
‘And you think my time is free? You think I’ve got nothing better to do than run around after you?’
‘This is madness,’ he replied, throwing up his arms. ‘I didn’t ask for your involvement. You’re not my goddamn responsibility! What is wrong with you? What is this?’
Requin threw the money back at the Englishman, the notes scattering like crumpled leaves at his feet. Without saying anything, he turned around and headed for the truck.
‘I’m already paying more than five times the normal amount!’
‘You’re right. Forgive me, Monsieur. Why don’t you go hunt some elephants yourself?’
The man lowered himself to his haunches and scooped up the money. ‘Hold on … come back.’ He reached into another pocket and fished out a navy handkerchief. Inside it was another roll of notes. He handed it all over. ‘It’s everything I have.’
Requin thought for a moment and then nodded, stuffing the bills into his pockets.
‘Just tell your brother I will only deal with him in future.’
‘If you shout, maybe you can tell him yourself.’
Again the man was taken aback by the strange response. ‘I don’t understand. What are you saying? Is Xavier somewhere nearby?’
Requin stared up at the sky as though contemplating the question. ‘Oh yes, he’s nearby.’
‘What?’
Requin did not answer. Instead, he lifted his hand and began to wave at the man.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Isn’t it obvious, Monsieur? This is a signal.’
Before the man could make sense of what was happening, a gunshot rang out from the trees behind him. A single volley that tore into the back of his skull and exited through his temple. He collapsed onto his side, his spine bucking violently. His eyes fluttered briefly under their lids and then fell still.
Requin walked up to the man and sank to his haunches. ‘We never do business with dirty Englishmen,’ he whispered. ‘What were you thinking, Monsieur?’
33
The moment the St George’s cross was within sight, Edward was out of the truck and running. This one was barely half the size of the first rock he had chosen. He sank to his knees at the edge of the riverbank and began scooping up handfuls of earth.
‘It’ll be there. Take it easy,’ Andrew called out, striding up behind him.
Edward heard the professor’s voice, but registered none of his words. As a mound of sand mushroomed above the hole, his fingers clawed over the top of the metal case. He quickly hauled it up and rose to his feet. As he flipped open the lid, relief washed over him. There was an envelope waiting for him. He allowed himself a calming breath before reaching for it. ‘I never doubted it.’
‘Of course not,’ the professor replied. ‘Despite the clumps of sand in your hair, you couldn’t be more composed.’
Edward conceded a smile before turning his attention to the envelope.
The first thing that struck him was how light it felt. Derek had never been a prolific writer, but Edward had anticipated a letter of at least a few pages. Peeling open the envelope, he was surprised to find only a single page. Before he had even read a word, he knew something was wrong. But what? he thought.
Sweat prickled throu
gh his fingertips.
Edward,
We have found the remaining members of Shawu’s herd.
Their bodies are lying in the river bed less than five miles from here. The poachers could not have been more than two days ahead of us.
We are continuing on our journey, but you should know that much has changed. Shawu is barely eating now and her pace has slowed dramatically. I am deeply concerned for her.
I believe there is a chance that she may now choose to leave the river at some point. I don’t think we can continue to assume that she is still headed for Bechuanaland.
It’s important you know that I have decided to follow her, whatever course she chooses.
If we remain in the river, I will continue to leave word for you. But if we don’t, do not be concerned for me. Do not come looking for me. One way or another, and when the time is right, I will find my way back to you.
I’m sorry the news is not better. I’m sorry for many things.
Derek
– I found some rifle shells on the south bank. They are each engraved with an X. They are the same poachers from the first attack. Please inform the police and do what you can to assist them. These men need to answer for what they have done. If I happen across them, as I hope will be the case, I will hold them to account myself.
The letter slipped from Edward’s fingers and floated to the ground.
‘What is it?’ Andrew asked, bracing himself for what he already knew was bad news. ‘Edward … what is it?’
PART 4
The Blood Hut
34
Detective Joe Rawlins of the British South African Police sat back in his chair and massaged his eyes. The phone felt hot and sticky against his ear. He was on the verge of hanging up when there was a click on the line. ‘Messina Police. Detective Noah Wright.’
‘Good morning. You’re speaking to Detective Joe Rawlins of the British South African Police.’
There was a pause. ‘BSAP … yes, Detective, what can I do for you?’
‘I’ve been told you’re the expert on poachers in your area.’
‘I’m afraid someone’s been exaggerating. I’m no expert, but I know a few things about a few things. How can I help you?’
‘We’re concerned that some of your shooters might’ve crossed over into Bechuanaland. We’ve found a few kill sites just over the border. Mostly ivory, but some rhinos as well.’
Noah wiped his brow with a crisp white handkerchief and nodded. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Unfortunately, I’m not surprised. I’m not sure how much you know about our situation, but things are very bad this side of the fence. This year, particularly.’
‘So I’ve been told. Look, I’ve got something I want to show you and a few things I’d like to talk to you about. Can we meet up and maybe put our heads together?’
‘No problem, but when? Aren’t you based up in Francistown?’
‘I’ll be driving through to Messina this afternoon. This is fast becoming a priority for us. Could we meet at your office? Say, tomorrow morning?’
‘Of course. In fact your timing couldn’t be better. My partner and I were planning on heading out to a poaching site then. Why don’t you ride along with us?’
‘That’s very kind. How’s seven for you?’
‘Perfect. I’ll make sure the coffee’s ready.’
‘Good. I look forward to it.’
‘Do you need somewhere to stay?’
‘No, thank you. I have a cousin who owns a farm just outside town.’
‘All right then,’ Detective Noah Wright replied, ‘we’ll see you on Monday. Safe trip.’
Joe Rawlins returned the phone to its cradle and rose to his feet. He walked across to a tall mirror standing in the corner of the office and noticed that it had not been cleaned properly in weeks. Using his sleeve, he wiped a swathe across the dusty surface and paused. A corpse, who lately shared his body, stared back at him. His straggly dark beard was in stark contrast to his shock of red hair. Hair which he loathed. His face was a leathered and unhealthy brown, testimony to long periods spent outdoors. Large bruises stained the skin under and behind the rims of his glasses, testimony to his lack of sleep. As the dead face blinked back at him, Joe reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of spent cartridges. Each with small Xs cut into their flanks.
‘Who do you belong to?’ he whispered.
As he rolled the brass shells around in his palm, it felt almost as if the metal was tainted, even poisoned. The cruel and ruthless nature of the slaughter sites suggested a man – or men – unencumbered by conscience. Worse still, there was an aura of bravado about the killings that Joe Rawlins had not encountered before. A man could be a hunter and not a murderer, he knew. But he was certain that whoever had personalised the casings was probably both. Someone who extracted a black pleasure from killing.
But then again – and much like his glass cadaver – there were also two sides to Joe Rawlins. One was a highly respected detective and part-time elephant conservationist. The other was someone quite different, a man not without his own darkness.
Not without violence.
And not without blood on his hands.
35
Detective Noah Wright swung open the door of the truck and gestured to the driver. ‘Joe, this is my partner, Officer Morgan Stanton.’
‘Morning,’ Morgan said, tipping an imagined hat.
The first thing Joe noticed about the man folded behind the steering wheel was his remarkably pale complexion. He was unnaturally white, pallid in a way that suggested he had not been born to the world, but rather mixed and stirred together in a laboratory. The red and purple veins of an infant pressed against the skin on his knuckles and face, weaving into a spider web at his temple. Joe was certain that if he looked any closer he would actually be able to see the blood coursing through him. His wispy blond hair only added to his ethereal appearance. Even his eyes, which were a light and translucent brown, seemed without a centre. It was like trying to find a focal point three feet into a six-foot pool of water.
Joe stepped up into the cabin and extended his hand. ‘Good to meet you, Morgan. Thanks for letting me tag along.’
‘It’s our pleasure. You’re BSAP and that just about qualifies as royalty around here.’
Noah climbed in behind Joe and shut the door. ‘Morgan here is a human chameleon.’
‘But I only have two colours. Bright red in the sun and white a week later,’ he offered, slipping the truck into gear. It was clearly a well-worn gambit between the two men, designed to ward off questions that were both predictable and familiar.
Nonetheless, Joe warmed to the self-deprecating remark and leaned back in his chair.
‘So, Noah tells me you’re having problems with our poachers? Mainly elephant hunters? Think they might be ours?’
Joe nodded. ‘Unfortunately.’
‘I bet they are. The bastards are running out of tuskers here so they’ve been forced over the border. It was just a matter of time.’
‘Have you noticed anything distinctive at any of the scenes?’ Noah asked. ‘I gather you have.’
Joe jabbed a hand into his pocket and withdrew one of the engraved shells. ‘I found these at every one of the sites.’
Noah’s expression hardened and something sagged behind his eyes. ‘May I take a closer look?’
‘Of course,’ Joe said, handing him the spent cartridge.
Noah held it up to the windscreen, the early-morning light skimming across its brass skin. ‘We’ve seen these before. Too often, I’m afraid. Handcrafted. Identical to ones we’ve found at more than a dozen sites,’ he said, then stopped to take a breath. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why are you apologising? It’s not your fault.’
Noah shook his head. ‘It is our fault. As a country we should have done more, a lot more. And we should’ve been doing it years ago.’
Despite having only just met Noah, Joe decided he liked the young detective. He was intelligent
and well spoken, kind and conscientious, assuming responsibility for matters that were clearly beyond his control. Physically, he was impressive as well. Tall and athletic with short black hair and eyes so radiantly blue they appeared snatched from a winter sky. He was also exceptionally well groomed and meticulously turned out. Joe suspected he was probably a highly logical and methodical man, likely the kind of detective who filed every report and followed every last letter of the law. Joe, himself, was known to skip the occasional vowel – and sometimes the consonants as well.
‘Any suspects yet?’
‘Hopefully, after this trip.’
‘What are you expecting?’
Noah glanced across at Morgan and nodded. ‘Tyre tracks.’
‘Tyre tracks?’
‘About six months ago Morgan began making plaster moulds of all the tyre tracks in our area. Both the old ones and any new ones that rolled into town. The idea is that if we have a register of trucks, we can cross-reference their tyre tracks to the ones we find at crime scenes.’
‘But won’t most of the tracks be the same? How many different tread patterns can there be?’
‘We personalise them,’ Morgan replied with more than a hint of satisfaction. He reached down to his belt and unclipped his pocket knife. ‘Simple, but effective.’
‘Morgan cuts out small shapes from suspects’ tyres to distinguish them from each other so that each vehicle makes its own unique pattern in the sand.’
‘That’s bloody clever.’
‘I think so. Wish it had been my idea,’ Noah agreed. ‘Most of the roads around here are covered in fine sand and provided it doesn’t rain or another vehicle doesn’t pass by, the patterns can remain embedded in the ground for days. I suppose to catch a hunter you need to have some tracks to follow.’
‘So you’re hoping to find some tyre marks this morning that you can correlate to your list?’
Journey from Darkness Page 14
