Chapter 26
Bo took the toolkit from the BMW and walked over to the rusting digger. He bent down and looked at the number plates. Like the rest of the machine the bolts connecting the machine and plates looked welded with rust. He took a large spanner from the toolkit roll, and used it as a hammer dislodging bits of oxidization. Then he took a shifting spanner out. A tool that does not feature often in car toolkits. When he had it adjusted over one of the bolts, he exerted all the pressure he could to lever it. Stubbornly the bolt did not move.
He kicked the digger savagely. Hulking useless machine. He picked up the toolkit and the tools lying on the ground, walked back to the house.
“Job done already?” Markham said.
“No good. Can’t get the plates off. It will be dark when I go. I’ll risk it.”
“Don’t like this, Bo. The police spot your plates, and they’ll have a list, and both our vehicles will be on the list.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell them where you are.”
Markham had decided that Bo should go to the service area they had visited on the way to Kruger Park when they had first left Jo’burg. Bo was to buy enough food there to last them three days.
Bo went upstairs, checked on the prisoner, looked at his rope bindings. Came back downstairs, sat in the sun, which was low in the sky now. At dark, he would get out the BMW and go down the hill.
Bo held the BMW in low gear down the track, driving carefully, anticipating the bends where the headlights beamed into space. A difficult journey in the dark. Suddenly he was on the tarmac, and picked up speed. He saw a fair amount of traffic using the main road, and merged without stopping. He was behind an artic which was sticking to the speed limits. Bo didn’t mind, didn’t want to draw attention to his vehicle. He kept a keen eye behind, and saw a motorbike queue hopping, pulling in behind Bo. The service area, he was sure, was on the opposite side of the road, not more than ten or fifteen miles from the hideaway turnoff, as he remembered. He kept close watch for signs. Quicker than he thought he saw the sign on the left, service area ahead 2 miles.
He slowed down, increasing the gap between himself and the artic ahead. He could see orange sodium lamps on the right, neon signs flashing. This was it. Bo switched on his right flashers, and pulled out slightly, slowing down. The motorcyclist behind him did the same. The first wave of panic gave Bo stomach cramps.
Once he entered the services, he drove to the back of the car park, outside the glow of the lights. Pulled up on the edge of the tarmac, bonnet pointing to the rough scrub at the end of the site. He could see plastic bags, metal trash before he dowsed the car lights.
The motorcycle chugged up on Bo’s right. The man got off the bike, cut the engine. Rapped on the car window next to Bo. He wound down the window. The man leaned in, now with his helmet off.
“Get out of the car. Please, Sir.”
Bo opened the door and as he got out casually pulled the pistol out of his pocket as he rose from the seat, held it in his hand down by his trouser leg.
“What is the matter?” He saw now the police signs on the bike. The uniform that the cop was wearing.
“Tell me your car registration number please.”
“I don’t know it. I’m driving a rental. The documents are in the glove box.”
“Your number plate is listed by the police as stop and question. So that is what I am doing. So your name is Robert Markham?”
“No. My name is Bo Manyari. I’m his chauffeur.”
“I am going to arrest you in connection with kidnapping Michael Miller.”
Bo lifted his arm and pushed the pistol tight against the policeman’s chest.
It was done quickly, and the policeman made a grab that missed. Bo pulled the trigger, and the noise was muffled by the proximity of the cop’s clothing. As the cop collapsed, Bo put away the pistol, and held him so that he collapsed away from the motorbike.
Bo glanced round the car park. There was no reaction. The few people walking to and from their vehicles carried on as normal. Bo leaned over and checked the man’s pulse. He was dead. Quickly he dragged the body well into the trash by the tarmac, hid it behind a bush, covering it with plastic trash. He heaved the motorcycle into the bushes. Stamping on the radio equipment until he saw the instrument lights were extinguished.
He went back to his car, reversed into the car park lights, and left it ready to rejoin the highway. He locked the car, went into the grocery store, did a big shop, wheeled the trolley to the car, piled all the provisions loose into the luggage compartment, and put the trolley back in the rack.
It took him only thirty minutes to get back to the hideaway with no further complications.
When Miller heard the car start and saw from the window that it vanished down the mountain side, he decided it was time to act. He undid the ropes, and put them in the bathroom. He had spent the best part of the day unpicking the knots, and retying them so that he could slip out of them at will. Cautiously he opened the bedroom window. Still dressed only in his boxer shorts, he climbed out and hung by his hands from the sill. That left him about four feet from the ground. He let go, and took the shock with his knees bent. Quickly he was moving across the back of the house towards the bushy veld that lay at the end of the excavated tract. This was what he had been trained to do in the SAS Regiment. He knew that he would be faster than his two captors in the dark. His only problem was the cold of the night, wearing only boxer shorts, and with bare feet.
Markham heard the car coming back, the gates opening, and went to the front door. The car headlamps swung past him, and the car entered the open garage. He heard the doors close. He went back inside, and found Bo, unpacking the groceries.
Bo decided he wouldn’t tell Markham about the police incident. When all the groceries had been stacked in the kitchen of the house, Markham said, “Shall we have some supper?”
“Could do. You go and fetch Miller, and I’ll sort the food.”
Markham took no notice of the fact that Bo was taking control. Food was his entire interest at the moment. He tramped up the stairs. Miller wasn’t in the bedroom. When he opened the en suite bathroom, he saw the ropes.
He took his pistol out, and searched the rest of the upstairs rooms. Then he saw the open window.
He shouted downstairs: “Miller’s gone. He’s escaped.”
“Gone? He’s tied up, boss. He can’t have gone. Let me find him.” And the tramp of feet on the stairs gave Markham the impression that Bo was mad, real mad.
Markham beckoned Bo, and walked through to the bathroom, pointed to the ropes on the floor. Turned and went to the bedroom window, pointed at it.
“Satisfied. I told you, he’s gone.”
“What a balls up. That’s the ransom gone, you stupid fella.”
Markham took a grip. “Maybe not. He’s run, but he doesn’t know where he is. While he’s trying to find someone, the king doesn’t know we don’t have him. He might even die of hypothermia in just those boxer shorts.”
“Man,” said Bo, “the guy is a soldier. He is trained to do this sort of thing.”
“The ransom is supposed to be paid tomorrow. We should phone the king now, to remind him.”
The Ponzi Men Page 26
