by Tony Park
So far on his trip Tom had only called in the evenings and she knew he wouldn’t bother trying again until tonight. He would be at Cape Maclear long before then. She only hoped she could beat him there. She started the car and opened the security gate.
30
The turquoise waters of the lake were fringed by a long white crescent of sand that stretched away as far as Tom could see. The beachfront here was not overdeveloped, as it had been at Senga Bay.
Instead of midrange concrete hotels, there were backpacker joints consisting of sandy camping sites and simple reed and thatch bungalows and, closer to the national park at Cape Maclear, at one end of the beach, were the holiday houses of Malawi’s wealthy minority and expatriate investors.
He wore a cap pulled low down over his eyes, a pair of sunglasses and his board shorts. Despite the liberal smearing of sunscreen he’d applied, he could feel his back burning in the midday sun. If he looked like a silly white tourist, all the better, he thought. He strolled along the water’s edge, politely but persistently waving away the diminishing gaggle of touts who trailed him down the beach.
‘You want souvenir, Mr? Painting? Wood carving?’
‘No thank you.’
‘You want dagga, Mr? Malawi Gold?’
‘Definitely not, thank you.’
‘You want girl, Mr?’
And so it went on. Eventually, he hoped, they would tire of him.
The camping ground where he’d parked the Land Rover was typical of the others he’d passed. Each was separated from its neighbours by a flimsy U-shaped fence of woven reed, with the side facing the beach left open, to allow the guests to enjoy the view and, presumably, the touts to ply their trade uninterrupted.
A pair of bronzed girls with Australian accents sat together on sarongs smoking and chatting as an African girl threaded beads into their hair and braided it. It was a good look on black women, Tom thought, but he wasn’t sure how it would go down in Sydney.
Further along the beach, half-a-dozen tourists in wetsuits and masks waded into the clear water and squatted to put on their fins. The South African dive master went from person to person, helping them through the ungainly manoeuvre.
Out on the water a fibreglass speedboat sent up a fantail of spray in a tight turn which the water-skier behind couldn’t handle. With a squeal she went skidding off, hitting the surface with a painful-sounding slap. Tom shook his head.
Beyond the ski boat, which was returning to pick up the now-laughing girl, was an island that looked like a clump of granite boulders, topped with tall trees. A pair of fish eagles, their distinctive white heads and red-brown bodies standing out plainly from the dark foliage, watched the waters for their next meal.
From what he’d seen on posters in the campsites and hotels, and learned from the touts who persisted with him, the lake was home to myriad brightly hued tropical fish called cichlids. If he’d been here on holiday he would have gone snorkelling or diving, but he was searching for something else – a house with a bougainvillea-covered archway leading to the beach and lake.
As Tom neared Cape Maclear itself he noticed that the houses became larger, grander and better kept. Most, he guessed, dated back to the sixties and the height of British colonialism in what was then known as Nyasaland. As such, they tended to be single-storey villas, with whitewashed rendered facades. The current owners, whoever they were, had maintained neatly trimmed lawns and gardens. It was, he supposed, what passed for millionaire’s row in a dirt-poor country. He also noticed fewer touts – even his own entourage had dwindled to one persistent teenager. When a blue-uniformed security guard stepped from a lawn onto the white sand, the boy turned quietly and walked back along the beach.
Ahead of him he could see a fence and sign marking the end of the public beach and the beginning of Cape Maclear National Park. From his enquiries at the campsite he had learned that to enter the national park one had to go inland a little way to the road that led to the point. Beyond the fence the shoreline was pristine bush and boulders, the latter perfect for diving off and snorkelling amid. A pair of guards sauntered onto the beach from another villa and Tom slowed his step. He yawned and stretched, and then turned and waded into the water. Leaving his cap and sunglasses on, he started breaststroking out towards the middle of the lake. When he had covered about fifty metres he turned and floated on his back. Looking towards the shoreline, he now had a better view of the fronts of the line of villas leading to the park boundary.
Near the end of the row Tom saw a trimmed hedge, about the height of an average-sized man, which obscured the view of a house. Above the hedge was a glittering coil of razor wire, which meant that behind the shrubbery there was a security fence, perhaps electrified. What interested him most, however, was the gate in the centre of the hedge, in which a security guard stood. Framing the man was a lattice covered with red bougainvillea. Slowly he turned on his side and started swimming back the way he’d come.
On the beach, a hundred metres further down, he emerged from the water to be greeted by the dogged young man who had tried to sell him Malawi Gold – marijuana. For the first time that day, Tom wasn’t displeased to see him.
‘Boss, would you like some . . .’
‘What I want, my friend,’ Tom ran his hand through his hair, slicking away the cool, fresh water, ‘is some information.’
‘Me, bwana, I know everything about Cape Maclear. You want it,
Solomon can find it.’ He beamed with the friendliness of a salesman close to clinching a deal.
Tom walked back towards the camping ground and the boy fell into step beside him, striding out to meet Tom’s pace. ‘Who lives in the house with the big hedge?’
‘Ah, bwana, I am hungry.’
‘My money’s in my vehicle.’
‘Then shall we go, boss?’
Tom shook his head. When they reached the camping ground he told the youth to wait on the beach, and he went to the Land Rover and fetched his wallet. He opened it and peeled off some notes. Back at the water he palmed the tout ten dollars. ‘He is an Indian man.’
‘From Malawi?’ Tom asked.
The boy shook his head. ‘No, South Africa.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘This man, he likes his privacy, bwana. A friend of mine was . . . visiting that house one night, and the security guards caught him. They beat him very bad, bwana.’
By visiting, Tom assumed the boy’s comrade was trying to burgle the place.
‘I should not be talking about that place. Bad things have happened there.’
‘Such as?’
The boy shook his dreadlocks. Tom peeled off another green note.
‘The women in the village – my mother, also – tell us never to go near that man. He has been coming for many years and the women say to all the children you must never talk to that man or go in his car.’
‘Name?’ Tom asked again.
The boy glanced over his shoulder, nervously, as if the occupant of the house might be following them. ‘Khan,’ he whispered.
Tom nodded. He felt his mouth start to dry and his pulse quicken. ‘Is he there now?’
Solomon shook his head. ‘He is on his island, I think. I saw his boat some days ago.’
‘His island?’
‘Yes, he is a rich man, bwana. The island is far, about five kilometres, but I can organise a boat for you.’
Tom nodded. ‘Okay. For tonight.’
‘A speedboat, bwana, or a kayak for you?’
Tom rubbed his jaw. He didn’t want to telegraph his approach. ‘This is what I want, for this afternoon . . .’
Captain Henk Wessels poured himself a cup of coffee from the percolator pot in Sannie’s kitchen and picked up her cordless phone. He pressed the redial button and gulped the lukewarm brew while he waited for the phone to answer.
‘South African Airways, good day,’ the female voice said.
Wessels hung up the phone without speaking and slammed the cup down on t
he counter. He reached in his trouser pocket for his car keys.
‘Bloody woman. I should have known.’
Sannie parked her car at OR Tambo International Airport, grabbed her sports bag, locked the car and jogged across to the terminal. She took the lift to level two, cursing its slowness, and stepped out into the departures hall.
She scanned the check-in counters until she found an SAA desk with the flight to Lilongwe, Malawi illuminated on the sign board behind. She glanced at her watch. Less than half an hour to boarding – she had only just made it.
Shifting her weight from foot to foot like a boxer eager to land the first blow, she tried to breathe deeply as the rotund African businessman in front of her badgered the woman behind the desk for an upgrade. Her cell phone rang and she forgot her impatience.
‘Van Rensburg.’
‘Sannie, it’s Henk. Where the bloody hell are you?’
‘Umm . . .’
‘Bloody hell, woman, it doesn’t matter. We’ve found your kids!’
Sannie squealed with delight, causing the businessman and the check-in clerk to stare at her. She didn’t care. ‘Where? How, Henk? How are they? Please god, tell me they’re safe. If anyone’s touched them I’ll . . . Where are you . . . are you on your cell phone?’
‘Slow down, Sannie. Yes, I’m in the car on my cell. Two uniforms have the kids. There was a complaint of some excessive noise in a house in Boksburg. The officers went to visit and there was a shoot-out. There was a man guarding Christo and Ilana. He was killed, but your kids are fine, Sannie. The police with them say they appear to be unhurt.’
Sannie started to cry, cuffing the tears away. ‘Oh, Henk. I have to get to them.’
‘Okay, okay. Where are you? I’ve been to the gym and it’s clear you’re not there.’
She felt guilty and embarrassed about her impetuous actions, and thought about Tom. She had to get some word to him, but for now he was on his own. ‘I’m at the airport, Henk. International terminal.’
He was silent for a few seconds. ‘On any other day I’d throw the bloody book at you, Inspector. Stay right where you are and I’ll come to you. I’ll lead you to the house.’
‘Just give me the address, man. I’ll drive there myself.’
‘Sannie, I want to be there with you. You’ve been through a hell of a lot. Also, who knows . . . there might be accomplices on their way back to the house. I need to take charge of the scene and then we’ll move your kids out. I couldn’t let the uniforms take them away just yet. I want to catch these bastards, Sannie.’
‘Me too.’ She knew he was right, and not just about the operational aspects. She needed a friend to lean on now as well. ‘Hurry, Henk.’
She rushed outside and across the road, causing a BMW driver to slam on his brakes. Sannie ignored his insults and ran through the car park, clutching her bag. ‘Oh, no, man!’
The front tyre on the driver’s side was flat. How the hell did that happen? She felt like screaming. She unlocked the car and was lifting the carpet in the boot to get the jack out when her cell phone rang again. She swore, then answered it.
‘It’s Henk. I’m just pulling into the airport car park. Where are you?’
‘You’re here already?’
‘I was already on my way to Boksburg, and travelling fast,’ Henk said.
She gave him directions to the bay where she was parked and he pulled up thirty seconds later.
Henk pushed a button and his electric window slid down. ‘Ag, just get in, Sannie.’ He leaned across and opened the passenger door of his Ford Falcon. ‘We can come back for it later.’
Sannie nodded. He was right and she couldn’t wait a minute more to see Christo and Ilana. ‘Okay. Just let me lock it.’ Her gym bag was on the rear seats, where she had just tossed it. She reached in and grabbed it. A car with a flat tyre was like an open cold box to a monkey when it came to thieves. She locked her vehicle with the remote, threw her bag in Henk’s car and jumped in. ‘Okay, man. Let’s go!’
The muscles in the fisherman’s back rippled as he propelled the dugout effortlessly across the lake’s surface. In contrast, Tom was sweating profusely, even though he was doing nothing – other than bailing with the cut-off, capped remains of a plastic Coca-Cola bottle.
The water glittered like a massive silver satin sheet littered with gold coins. Behind them, Lake Malawi was devouring the sun once more.
‘Crocodile Island,’ said the fisherman, lifting one hand from the paddle and pointing to the green speck ahead of them. Tom heard a fish eagle cry, another indicator they were nearing land.
Solomon had told Tom that the island was no more than a kilometre in diameter. It had been developed as a small, exclusive tourist resort and could cater for a dozen people. Khan had bought it as a going concern, but Solomon had said that, as far as he knew, it was not operating commercially any more. ‘He has friends coming to stay.’
‘Staff?’ Tom had asked.
Solomon had shrugged. ‘Not from around here. No one local. Sometimes, the fishermen say, boats go there in the nighttime.’
Tom wore his black swimming shorts and a brown long-sleeve T-shirt which clung sweatily to his skin. It had protected him from the afternoon sun and would conceal his still-pale skin once he was on the island. His trainers were slung around his neck, the laces knotted together. He had borrowed a waterproof rubber bag from the diving and snorkelling supplies at the campsite. In it was Sannie’s pistol and the spare magazines, along with a telescoping club, similar to his Asp, and a pair of handcuffs that Tom had brought with him from Christo’s garage. He’d found a whole trunk of equipment that Sannie later told him her husband had used when working private security jobs, which he sometimes did after hours to supplement his police income. As well as the cuffs and cosh he’d found radios, slimline body armour – for wearing under a suit – and a can of pepper spray.
The fisherman stopped paddling. ‘No further,’ he said.
Tom nodded. The man had already told him he would not risk landing on the island. His English was not good enough for him to explain why. ‘Trouble,’ was all he could say. ‘Okay. Sunrise.’ Tom pointed at the pink sky where the sun had just disappeared and raised his arm into the air. The fisherman nodded. He would return to the same spot at dawn.
As plans went, Tom’s were virtually nonexistent. He had not been able to find a phone that worked in Monkey Bay, so he couldn’t have told Sannie what he was up to even if he’d wanted to. Not that he would get much support from the South African Police Service where he was now. He’d wanted to pass on the rumours he’d heard about Pervez Khan, although the information from Solomon would hardly be enough for the South Africans to extradite him.
Tom swung his legs over the side of the dugout and slid silently into the water. The bag floated and he held it out in front of him as he swam towards the island, about a hundred metres distant. Despite the name, Solomon had assured him there were no crocodiles in the water. Tom wasn’t sure he could believe the boy, so he breaststroked as fast as he could with one arm.
Solomon had explained that there was a wide sandy beach on one side of the island, and a rocky shoreline of boulders on the other. With Solomon translating, he’d asked the fisherman to drop him near the rocks. The chalets and bar of the old resort overlooked the sand, Solomon had said.
His feet found slippery purchase on a submerged boulder and he carefully stood upright. He placed the waterproof bag on another smooth, round rock, still warm from the vanished sun, and boosted himself up out of the water. He sat and pulled on his trainers, and took the pistol and spare magazine from the bag. The latter he slipped into the pockets of his board shorts. He had a total of twenty-four rounds with him. He hoped he wouldn’t need all of them – any of them. He stashed the bag in the cleft of two rocks, the blue plastic just visible, at the base of the tallest tree on this side of the island. With the richly purpled sky behind him he headed roughly eastwards, towards the inhabited side of the island.
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The bush was dense, almost tropical, unlike the countryside he’d seen in the rest of Africa so far. He was a world away from London, out of his depth, but driven on with every step. Small things scurried through the sparse undergrowth as he moved. He did his best to ignore them and pressed on. Something screeched in the trees above him, perhaps a bat or an owl.
The vegetation thinned ahead of him, and Tom could see the outline of buildings. He smelled wood smoke and noticed an African-style water boiler, an old fuel drum cemented above a bricked fireplace, with a chimney behind it. There were four simple masonry buildings with sloping roofs made of corrugated asbestos sheet. Staff quarters, he thought. No lights shone.
He moved to the nearest building and flattened himself against its back wall. Peering around, he saw a much more substantial building, whitewashed and thatch-roofed. Either the main lodge or a larger bungalow, he assumed. He continued moving. When he came to the building, he saw now that it was one of a line of four which faced onto a well-kept lawn and, beyond that, a narrow, white sandy beach. Out on the inky waters of the lake he could see the bobbing lights of fishermen in their dugouts. A mild breeze off the water cooled his face but couldn’t dry the sweat on his body.
A pale glow shone from one of the windows in the main lodge. The smoke from the boiler had told him someone was in residence. He moved from cover to cover, from tree to hedge, to the shade cast by an outdoor umbrella structure made of reed, sheltering a table and chairs.
The lodge had a verandah, set about a metre above the grass with an extension of the roof overhanging it. Tom saw flickering shadows, cast by a candle the flame of which was gently being swayed by the breeze off the lake.
Holding Sannie’s pistol out in front of him, he moved to the side of the lodge building. With his back pressed against the whitewashed walls he edged closer to the verandah. When he came to the corner that marked the end of the built structure, he slowly craned his head around it so he could see out over the deck.
