by Tony Park
They landed and Nick was surprised by the chill in the air as he walked down the aircraft stairs. By the time he collected his baggage, found the rental car desk and signed the documents that would allow him to take the vehicle across the border into Namibia as well, it was nearly dark.
‘Can you recommend somewhere to stay, please?’ he asked the woman behind the desk.
‘There are plenty of guesthouses, B&Bs, and a big Protea Hotel,’ she said. ‘A friend of mine manages a place called Libby’s. It’s on Schroder Street, the main road into town. It’s a yellow building, you can’t miss it.’
‘Thanks.’
His phone’s GPS took him into town. There seemed no shortage of guesthouses, just as the rental car woman had promised. He found Libby’s guesthouse and despite the late hour he was given a friendly welcome and shown to a room that looked fine.
He took up the offer of dinner, rather than organising a takeaway or driving into town to see what was open. He dropped his bag in the room and was walking through the courtyard to the dining area when his phone rang. He looked at the screen – no caller ID.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Eatwell?’
‘Speaking.’
‘It’s Scott Dillon here, how are you?’
‘Ah, Mr Dillon . . .’
‘Call me Scott.’
‘OK. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.’
‘My PA, Lisa, told me you said it was urgent. Plenty of people will use the “u” word to try and get through to me, but Lisa is usually able to sort out the pretenders. She said you mentioned Susan.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Terrible shame about what happened. I know it happens a lot, but I still can’t believe it . . .’
‘I’m from Australia, Scott, and I’d heard about the crime rates in South Africa, but I guess I must have been in a bit of a bubble here so far. Crime happens everywhere, though, right?’
‘Um, yes, I guess,’ Dillon said. ‘But, listen, Nick, if I may call you that?’
‘Sure.’
‘Nick, I was badly shaken by Susan’s death. Lisa says you said you were her “boyfriend” and I’m not sure what you know about me, but Susan and I worked very closely together and her death has hit me hard. I’m actually on my way to Namibia on business, as I believe you also know. So, I’m sorry to sound blunt, but what exactly did you want to talk to me about that is so urgent?’
The truth was, Nick didn’t know exactly; it was just that something didn’t feel right. However, one of the skills he had learned as a journalist was to think on his feet when interviewing someone, rather than writing out a voluminous list of questions in advance. Like all reporters he had also learned to ask open-ended questions, those that couldn’t be answered with a simple yes or no.
‘Susan and I flew from Sydney to Joburg together and she left me to fly on to Cape Town, for a meeting with her last remaining public relations client, you. After that she was going to come up to the Kruger Park and meet up with me. How was she when you saw her?’
‘She was Susan. Smart, professional, efficient as always.’
‘Didn’t seem worried by anything? It’s just that, well, I got close to her in Australia, and I had the feeling something was troubling her.’
‘Well,’ Scott said, ‘according to Lisa you seem to know that there was more to Susan’s and my relationship than just work. We were together for a while, after her marriage broke up. I think I got to know her pretty well, Nick, and I can say that she didn’t seem worried about anything in particular when I saw her.’
‘Then why was she planning to end her business relationship with you?’
Dillon answered immediately: ‘Because the project we were working on had run its course. Susan put together a media and local government relations strategy for a new golf estate development I’m working on. When we met she told me that while she had been happy to do the up-front work she didn’t want the hassle of dealing with local newspapers, residents’ groups and municipal politicians and bureaucrats over the development. She was also trying to resurrect her journalistic career working on a feature set in Namibia.’
‘Yes.’ There were a few moments of silence, each man waiting for the other to fill the void. ‘She told me that she had to return to South Africa from Australia because her client had an urgent situation and needed her help.’
‘Well,’ Scott said, drawing out his answer, ‘my development is pretty time critical and I may have told her that I was in a hurry to implement the strategy. Like I say, she pulled out, but I don’t overuse the “u” word either.’
She could have told him she wasn’t going ahead by phone from Australia, Nick thought. There was something Scott Dillon wasn’t telling him, maybe something Susan had hidden from himself as well. ‘Did she have any enemies, Scott?’
‘What are you now, Nick, the police? This sort of shit happens in Africa, my friend. I’m sorry to have to open your eyes to it. The hijacking was nothing short of a terrible tragedy; Susan was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know what you must be going through, but if there’s nothing more specific you want to ask me, then I’d like to grieve in private.’
‘Whereabouts in Namibia are you going?’ Nick asked. ‘I’m heading there as well. Maybe we could get a coffee or a beer.’
‘Nick . . . I can understand how you must feel, having only just met a fantastic girl and then having lost her, but I don’t know that we’re going to have a friendly walk down memory lane if we get together. I hurt Susan when we split up, and for that I was very sorry. We managed to stay friends and have a business relationship despite all that, largely because she had a big heart and was very forgiving. I’m feeling her loss very keenly and I want some time alone. Besides, I’ll be out fishing a lot of the time, in between meetings and site inspections.’
‘Where?’
Scott gave a small laugh. ‘A good fisherman never reveals his secret spots. I know this is tough on you, but I think I’ve given you enough time for something that’s not really urgent.’
‘Yeah, I can see it from your point of view. I think the urgency for you has gone.’
Now the pause. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘That you got what you wanted – a married woman – and then you got sick of her.’
‘Goodbye, Nick. I think you need some time to cool off.’ Scott ended the call.
Nick was annoyed at himself for getting angry. He thought about calling him back, but Dillon’s direct number hadn’t come through on his phone and Lisa, the PA, would now be under orders not to put him through, so there was little point trying the general number. Dillon either had no involvement in the robberies and attacks on people who had access to the missing manuscript – in which case he would write Nick off as a crackpot – or he had got the message that Nick was on to him. There was also the possibility that Susan really had been the victim of a random crime.
He went through to dinner, too lost in his thoughts to engage in conversation with any of the other guests in the dining room. None of them looked like contract killers or professional burglars, he thought, but then again ‘Chris’ who had stayed next to him at Skukuza, had looked like any other middle-aged guy in South Africa.
Would the person who had ordered the burglaries and robberies of his aunt, Anja and his rondavel in the Kruger Park go as far as killing someone? If Susan had been informing on him and had passed on the whereabouts of the copies of the documents, had she had a change of heart? Was it possible, he wondered, that someone other than Susan had sent him the breakup message, someone who wanted to throw him off any investigative trail?
Nick had two beers with dinner, then went to his room. He channel-surfed cable television for a while, then gave up trying to find anything interesting or distracting. He worked out that it was still too early in the morning in Australia to call Pippa to see i
f she’d found Lili’s home address.
Nick checked his phone before turning out the lights and saw that Anja was working late. It was clear she understood that time was of the essence. Her emailed translations were coming thick and fast and, despite plenty of typos, the story of Blake’s time in this same place seemed more important than ever. He opened the document and started to read. While Lili had laboured to translate the manuscript in full, Anja was summarising, to save time, Nick assumed, and wrote in the same direct manner in which she spoke.
It was Claire Martin who had come to Upington, ostensibly in search of cattle that had been stolen from her by Nama rebels.
She owned a number of farms across the border in South West Africa and had married a doctor who was also an officer in the Landespolizei – the reserve police force – Peter Kohl, the author of the manuscript.
Chapter 32
Keetmanshoop, German South West Africa, 1906
Claire dismounted outside the Schützenhaus, the newly completed shooting club building that served as a social hub for German farmers and military officers in Keetmanshoop.
A mini dust devil tore up the street and enshrouded her briefly. She spat dirt and a Schutztruppe captain, coming down the stairs, looked away, in disgust probably, then back at her as recognition dawned on his face. He touched the brim of his Südwester grey felt bush hat, pinned up on the right side with a black, white and red imperial cockade. ‘Frau Kohl.’
‘Hauptmann.’ She walked past him, ignoring his disdain for her manners. It sometimes seemed to Claire that pretty much everything she did, from wearing long pants when riding to cutting her hair short to mitigate the effects of the oppressive heat was frowned upon by most people she met. Even though she was half German she knew she was viewed as a foreigner. In this colony folk prided themselves on being more German than their relatives back home – that is, when they weren’t screwing their native maids. She walked up the steps, noting yet another frown as she pushed open the door to the bar, which was reserved for men only.
She heard Peter’s laugh before she saw him and knew exactly where he would be at this time of the day: holding court at the bar. As her eyes adjusted from the glare of the late-afternoon sun to the dim, comparatively cooler interior, one of the four Schutztruppe officers around Peter saw her and cleared his throat. Kaiser Wilhelm glared down at her disapprovingly from a portrait on the wall.
‘Madam, please . . .’ the officer began.
‘Oh, shut up with your stupid rules,’ she said in German.
Peter spun around, sloshed some beer out of his glass as he set it down on the bar and opened his arms wide. ‘Schatzi! Welcome home. Even I was starting to get worried about you.’
‘I’m fine.’
He strode to her and took her hands in his, then lowered his voice. ‘Come, let us sit outside so as not to bother these young farts. These regular officers straight off the boat from Germany are so formal.’
All Claire wanted was a drink. It was times like this she missed America.
Peter led her outside to the rear of the club where there was a watered lawn and some trees, a mini oasis in the parched lands around them and the dust-covered cluster of buildings that passed for the town.
Peter was in uniform and he, too, looked like he had been riding, slightly dishevelled but as handsome as ever. He called a barman and ordered a fresh beer for himself and one for her. He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth.
She tried to maintain her scowl but failed. She returned the kiss, without passion, but Peter still smiled. ‘It’s good to see you. Did you find your cattle?’
She shook her head. ‘No, but I’ve an idea they’re across the border in Upington.’
‘There is too much theft going on, so the officers tell me.’ He slapped his thigh. ‘I am going to put in an order for a nice new English stallion from Upington myself.’
She frowned at his laughter. Peter made light of everything, even the bloody war. ‘You’ve been out on duty?’
The waiter came with the beers and she and Peter clinked glasses. ‘Prost. Yes, a patrol was ambushed by Morengo’s Nama and one of our boys was wounded. We rode out to meet them and I operated on the man, there in the desert, can you believe it?’
He was a good doctor and the district was lucky to have him, she knew. ‘Yes.’
‘He will live, I think. We were celebrating in the bar just now.’ Peter looked around again then whispered: ‘And the gold?’
‘No sign of that either,’ she said, ‘though I couldn’t just walk into the Upington Hotel and say, “Where’s my gold?” now, could I?’
His eyes widened. ‘You actually crossed the border? Claire . . .’
‘Of course I crossed the border. Everyone does, Peter. It’s part of the reason why your lot can’t catch the Black Napoleon and his troops. He leads you a merry dance.’
Peter nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, this man, Morengo, the Schwarzer Napoleon, I like him. You know, they say he speaks six languages and was educated in Germany. Even these young bucks in the bar have a grudging admiration for him. I think he is a worthy adversary.’
‘Hmm,’ Claire said, ‘that may be, but he’s also stolen a substantial portion of my fortune, Peter.’
He waved a hand in the air and took a long sip of beer. ‘Pah. I am sure you have plenty more hidden away somewhere, though hopefully not in the stables again, hey?’ He laughed, then hugged her to him. ‘We won’t starve, Claire, and if you get hungry we can leave the farm and go live in the bush. I will hunt for us, like a bushman, wearing only a loincloth and carrying a bow and arrow – maybe with a gun for the lions – and you will lie by a river with no clothes on like a Himba, smoking dagga and raising little orphan Nama children who will call you Mother.’
Claire broke free of his embrace and punched him in the arm. ‘Stop teasing, Peter. What do you know of our financial situation?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He looked as though he meant it. ‘I did not mean to make a joke about you not falling pregnant.’
‘Oh, that.’ It was her turn to wave away an imaginary fly. ‘Don’t worry about me having babies.’
‘I would like a son, or a beautiful daughter one day, but I am happy as we are.’
She sighed inwardly and gave him a small smile. Peter had been considered one of the best catches in the colony when she married him three years earlier; men outnumbered women by twenty to one. The colonial society in Germany sponsored young girls of modest means to take the long sea voyage to South West Africa, where they were placed in positions of domestic service with farmers, in the hope that the pairing might lead to what the Germans considered a proper marriage, between white people. All too often, however, the young Mädchen learned their would-be suitor might have one or more African concubines already. Peter had confided to her that venereal disease was one of the most common ailments he was called on to treat, among the farmers and soldiers. Peter was as near to perfect as a man in this part of Africa could be, but he was acutely aware of it and so were several ladies of good breeding, and a couple of their daughters. He had a roving eye, of that there was no doubt, and Claire knew he’d been unfaithful to her more than once.
In truth, she was not as happy with their current arrangement as Peter was. As a former spy she could rationally tell herself that Peter served a purpose and had been a means to an end – she could not have bought so much property in South West Africa without him on her arm and people were less suspicious of a doctor coming into money. They had put it about that one of Peter’s great-aunts had died and left him a large inheritance.
Peter had been her doctor when she arrived in the port of Lüderitz in German South West Africa, after leaving Blake in Portuguese East Africa and fleeing with the gold. Peter had clearly been infatuated with her from the moment they met and she had allowed him to strike up a friendship with her – it was always good to be frien
ds with a doctor, she told herself.
While Peter had made some romantic overtures, some subtle and some less so, she had waited a year, with increasing impatience, for Blake to make contact with her. Blake had still been recovering from his surgery and lapsing in and out of fevered consciousness when Claire had learned that Captain Llewellyn Walters had survived his encounter with the lioness and, even in a reportedly weakened state, had been asking about her and her cargo on the wharves at Delagoa Bay. Walters had put about a fanciful story that Claire and a gang of renegade Boers, whom she had subsequently dispatched in cold blood, had robbed a British Army payroll wagon and she was wanted by the police and military in South Africa.
Claire decided it was too dangerous for her to wait for Blake to mend and had left a note with Dr Machado, the competent surgeon caring for him. In the letter she told Blake to contact her, should he wish, via the port authorities in Lüderitz, German South West Africa.
She had heard nothing from Blake and her own letters to Dr Machado had never been answered. Claire had resigned herself to the fact that Blake was not coming. As saddened and disappointed as she was, she liked to think of him back in his native Sydney town; the alternative, that he not recovered from his wounds, was too much to bear.
Peter, meanwhile, had proved himself – as a suitor at least – devoted, attentive and persistent.
Before they married she had told Peter a mix of truth and fiction about where her fortune had come from. He had been fascinated to learn of her work for German naval intelligence as a spy, and of her connections to the Krupp family. She said she had profited from an arms deal late in the war, but as the transaction was highly secret the colonial authorities in German South West Africa had never known about it. Everyone else who was in on the deal or knew about it, except for Captain Walters and, possibly, Blake, was dead. Even her poor cousin Fritz was gone; he had committed suicide back in 1902 after a German newspaper got wind of the homosexual orgies he was holding with young Italian men at his villa in Capri.
