Jason was surprised, unsure what to make of this. To change the subject, he asked Dianna, “Have you had a chance to explore Gaborone at all since I last saw you? Not much in comparison with London, I’m sure, but there are some decent restaurants and nightlife nowadays. There’s a nightclub I’ve visited a few times when I’ve been here. It’s interesting. African flavour.”
Dianna looked at him as though he had said something quite different, which she considered carefully while she drank the port. “No, I haven’t. I was waiting for you! Let’s go.”
Jason wasn’t sure if she meant immediately, but Dianna stood up and thanked Cecil for dinner. Jason worried that he would think them rude, but with a puff of Cohiba smoke, Cecil said he was keen on an early night in any case.
“I’ll have Jason drop me off afterwards at the Grand Palm,” Dianna said. Cecil gave a casual wave, and they saw themselves out.
Jason helped Dianna into the passenger seat of the dented and unwashed bright yellow Land Rover that BCMC had lent him to use while in Gaborone. All BCMC’s bush vehicles were this garish colour, which was supposed to be the most visible from the air in case of a breakdown or accident.
“I’m sorry about the vehicle. Not quite appropriate for a night on the town, is it? I’m sure you are used to a rather different class of transport.”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” Then she spoke in Cecil’s voice again, saying pedantically, “The Queen drives one of these around Balmoral all the time. Not this colour, though!” This time they both laughed.
∨ A Carrion Death ∧
CHAPTER 12
The African Gala Club differed from the places Dianna was accustomed to in much the same way that the Land Rover was different from the red BMW sports car she drove in London. The club was loud and glitzy, the African flavour supplied by tomba drums, which provided a bass beat below the electric guitars and amplified voices of the live band. The dance floor covered most of the room, with the obligatory multifaceted sphere rotating above it, spreading flashes of colour among the dancers.
The club was for adults—the prices ensured that—and there were tables spread in the twilight around the dance floor, allowing one to rest and even to attempt conversation. If people were taking drugs, they were the designer ones of the twenty-first century; the air was free of the acrid smell of dagga. Even though it was a Friday night, it was not crowded. Jason said the atmosphere was better on Saturday nights, when people flocked to the adjoining casino like moths to a flame.
They danced while the live band was playing, but when the musicians deserted their instruments for a break, Dianna suggested a long, cold drink. She found dancing required more enthusiasm than skill, and quite rapidly exhausted her supply of both. Jason seemed comfortable and had a good feeling for the rhythm. They headed for one of the vacant tables while the disc jockey started his patter.
Jason went off to get pink gins. She had no difficulty letting him pay for everything. Such issues had never mattered to her or to her friends. While she waited for his return, she thought again about the Maboane mine. She decided to try a small fishing expedition. Thanking Jason for the drink, she said, “Angus knows what’s going on at the Maboane mine, you know. I think you are going to have quite a problem there, Jason.” She watched him carefully, detecting concern and uncertainty. He tried to cover it with a mouthful of his drink, so she pressed on. “He knows that it will never be commercial. It’s just a pipe dream, isn’t it? And a money trap?”
Surprisingly, Jason seemed relieved. “A lot of smart people and geologists think that, and we’re going to prove them all wrong. There will be a lot of dry pap eaten around here.” Seeing the look on her face, he laughed and explained, “Dry porridge. Humble pie, that is.”
Then he became more serious and leant forward until his face was in her space, causing her to draw back. “I haven’t had your sort of advantages, Dianna. This mine is going to make me wealthy, very wealthy. Your uncle’s a visionary. I won’t forget his help, and I won’t forget yours if you give it.” He took her hands in his, and she felt her attraction to him stir with the intensity and passion of his words. We really do have something important in common, she thought.
She smiled, enjoying the effect on him. “Is that a job offer? It’s the second one I’ve had today. The first was for financial director at BCMC. The only problem is that I’d be under Cecil’s thumb. What’s your offer, and what’s the catch? They all come with a catch, don’t they?”
Jason smiled back. “I wasn’t thinking of a job. I can’t match Cecil’s offer, anyway. I was thinking more of an alliance. I know there are things you want, and that even with all this”—with one gesture he took in the dress, body, pearls—“you can’t get them by yourself. I’m willing to help.”
Who is fishing for whom? she wondered, finishing her drink. Although his glass was still half full, Jason went to get her another. It took him a few minutes to get service at the bar. Suddenly he heard a commotion behind him: men’s voices raised and chairs being knocked over. It was coming from where they had been sitting. He deserted the drinks and elbowed his way back.
A man was sitting on the floor amid up-ended chairs. He was holding a handkerchief to his nose, but blood was still leaking on to his shirt. He looked up at Jason’s approach, frightened, fearing a further attack.
“She’s broken my nose!” he said. “I just—” But he shut up as Dianna leant over him with her fists clenched. “If you ever touch her again, you whimpering mongrel, I’ll break your scrawny neck with my bare hands!” Jason looked at her speechless, shocked equally by what she had said and how she had said it. Her intonation and accent were the same as usual, but the timbre of her voice had deepened and hardened. The man scrambled to his feet and backed off, still clutching the handkerchief to his face.
Dianna was looking at the knuckles of her right hand, which appeared bruised and bloodied. “I need to wash my hands,” she said, her voice back to normal. Ignoring Jason, she walked towards the toilets. With no idea what had happened, or what he should do, Jason finished his drink and waited. After five minutes Dianna returned.
“What the hell happened? What was that all about?”
“It’s hot in here,” Dianna said flatly. “And I’ve danced enough. Please take me back to the hotel.”
Jason pulled the Land Rover up in front of the impressive entrance of the Grand Palm Hotel. The battered vehicle looked out of place amongst the BMWs, Mercedes sports cars and luxury four-by-fours. A valet was already fussing as they came to a stop.
“I really enjoyed the evening, Jason,” Dianna said. “Would you like to come up for a drink?” After the unpleasant conclusion to their clubbing, Jason hesitated for a moment—but only for a moment. “Sure,” he said.
“Just leave the car here, then. Someone will deal with it for you.”
He left the car running, walked round to the passenger side, and opened the door for her. She gave him a smile and got out. The valet was already in the driver’s seat.
“They gave me the Presidential Suite on the fifth floor,” she said, as though it had been a present. They walked through the imposing reception area and took the elevator to the top floor. She let them in. The suite was spacious, with luxurious furnishings. Through the windows Jason saw a stunning view of the city lights. She waved at a bar crowded with bottles.
“Help yourself to anything you want, Jason. I’m sticky from the dancing. I’m going to take a shower.” She smiled again and went through to the bedroom, closing the door. Jason examined the bar. It was stocked with every sort of liquor one could desire. He wondered what this suite was costing her and decided she probably didn’t know or care. He settled for a generous tot of whisky and opened the fridge for ice. A bottle of Dom Perignon champagne lay cooling next to some white wines he didn’t recognise. He decided to forgo the ice and took a generous mouthful of the whisky. It slightly numbed his mouth and filled his senses with aromatic flavours. He let it roll gently down his throat, li
quid amber.
He heard the shower in the bathroom and considered the implications of Dianna inviting him to her apartment and then immediately taking a shower. Each of the previous times, she had decided when they would have sex. It was time to change that. He swallowed the rest of the Scotch and walked to the bedroom door. Opening it quietly, he went in. Through the open bathroom door, he could see Dianna showering behind the frosted glass. The shower was large enough for two. He hesitated for just a moment, thinking back to the nightclub, and wondered how well he really knew this woman. Then he let his instincts take charge. He stripped, piled his clothes neatly on a chair, and opened the shower door gently so as not to scare her.
There was a momentary flash of surprise in her eyes. Then she said, “What are you doing?” He said nothing, so she gave him the soap. He started to lather it over her shoulders and then worked down to her breasts while the water flew off her body, liquid diamonds. He spent a while on her breasts, teasing the nipples to stand up in his fingers.
“I didn’t realise my breasts needed so much cleaning,” she said, but the breathlessness of her voice belied the sarcasm. His hands moved down her body to the private triangle, and at the same time he kissed her lips. Then his mouth moved to her nipples. She was breathing hard now and started to spread her lather over his body with her hands. Her fingers took his maleness and guided it to her. Gently he lifted her at the waist and brought her body down to it. She grasped his shoulders as he moved inside her, her grip tightening as their passion rose. When he came, her fingers dug into his flesh, but without release. She let him relax and rinse her again, this time without passion. Then they dried each other with the generous towels. She was still breathing heavily, and her pulse was high.
Her eyes fastened on his heavy shoulders and the thick that of hair on his chest, his strong legs and what still remained excited between them. Small bruises were developing on his shoulders where her nails had dug into him. He saw a slender and attractive, physically hard woman with a designer body, probably sculpted by a personal trainer. Neatly toned but missing some of the softness of feminine curves. Dianna indeed, rather than Venus. He held her eyes. To her chagrin, it was she who flushed and dropped them first.
Turning away, she put on a silk dressing gown offered by the hotel. There was one for him too, but he ignored it and followed her naked into the bedroom. She stretched out on the bed, letting her legs push open the gown.
“I’d like some champagne,” she said. “There is some in the fridge.” She was still tense, unsure if she wanted him to leave. He returned with the bottle of Dom Perignon and two flutes. He poured carefully, and they watched the bubbles form and rise. They sipped. It was heavenly wine, but they were distracted.
Suddenly he leant over and roughly pulled the gown from her body. Then he poured the golden, tickling fluid between her breasts so that it flowed down around them, making a tiny lake in her navel before flowing still farther down. When it reached the silk sheet beneath her thighs, he stopped pouring and said, “It’s very expensive champagne. Pity to waste it.”
His tongue started to follow the rivulet from her breasts, emptied the miniature lake, made its way on to the delicate triangle of hair, and then on below. She moaned softly, and then he was inside her again with his lips and teeth caressing her nipples. She felt her sexual tension rise still further and arched her body against his. And when she felt him ready again, she sank her teeth as hard as she could into his shoulder. He cried out, but he was already coming inside her. With that, and the taste of his blood on her lips, she climaxed too. When the waves stopped, she relaxed against his body. He was still inside her, but now quiet. She reached for her champagne, but her hand was shaking.
He was holding his shoulder, which was gently bleeding. “You’re a bitch,” he told her, but without rancour, and she ignored it. She looked at him again. His beard ran into the that of chest hair which stretched between his shoulders, over his stomach, and down to the bushiness of his private parts. He’s a gorilla, she thought. But my gorilla, she added with a sudden possessive thrill in her loins. And he works at it. I have to give him that.
Taking a mouthful of champagne, she leant over and kissed him deeply, letting the champagne follow her tongue into his mouth. When she separated her lips from his, she was pleased to feel that he was hard again. She sipped more champagne and kissed him a second time, not wanting sex again yet, but enjoying the taste of him mixed with the champagne, and her power to keep him aroused.
You are a delicious man, she thought as her tongue worked round his mouth, but there’s one thing you’re going to have to learn the hard way, lover boy. I’m not looking for allies; I’m looking for tools.
Then she felt him start to thrust inside her again, and she didn’t think of anything else for some time.
∨ A Carrion Death ∧
CHAPTER 13
The cocktail party to welcome Angus and Dianna Hofmeyr back to Botswana was the most lavish anyone could remember, more so even than the one the US embassy had thrown when President Bush visited Botswana in 2004. The foyer of the headquarters of the Botswana Cattle and Mining Company glittered like the diamonds it mined. The Kalahari String Quartet played familiar works with an African rhythm. The flowers had been flown in from Cape Town, ericas and proteas in abundance, and strelitzias, all coddled by subtle hues of purple fynbos. Mountains of Mozambique prawns punctuated the tables, while Botswana springbok carpaccio and a variety of marinated beef dishes showcased the company’s agricultural heritage.
Kubu wondered why he had been invited. It had been years since he had communicated with Angus Hofmeyr, and he hardly remembered his sister, Dianna. Yet Angus had welcomed him enthusiastically, and Joy was having a wonderful time. She had spent almost a month’s salary on her sequinned gown, which moved on her like a second skin, and Kubu thought she was the most beautiful woman there. But he would have thought that in any case. She will be storing it all up to tell her sister, he thought, smiling.
Kubu went off for another helping of the excellent prawns—there was no shortage—and a refill of champagne. It was from a house he had not heard of before—Gobillard et Fils—but it was the 2001 vintage and rather good. Kubu approved of giving new imports a chance—and preferably a second and third chance, if someone else was paying. As the waiter was pouring the champagne, Kubu reflected how lucky he had been to have Michael Rose as a lecturer in his English class at university. Not only had he inspired Kubu to read more, but he had introduced him and several other favoured classmates to the pleasures of wine. Once a month he would have a small wine-tasting party, encouraging the students to articulate the tastes they were enjoying.
“Language is about expression,” he often said. “You need to be able to describe the difficult things in life—taste, smell, feelings. It takes practice, feedback and collaboration.”
At first Kubu thought this was a rationalisation for the parties, but later he began to believe it to be true.
His glass full, he headed to the buffet, where he bumped into Mabaku.
“Bengu!” Mabaku said with a smile. “Let me introduce you to Colonel Hamilton and Dr Martins. The colonel was just telling us about a very interesting fraud case.” He sounded puzzled. “But I must get back to Marie. She wanted another couple of prawns.” Mabaku hurried off, carrying a plate heaped with shellfish.
Kubu nodded and shook the hands of the two elderly gentlemen. Since he knew no one but the hosts and Mabaku, he decided to make an effort to listen. It would free his mouth to concentrate on the more urgent business of the prawns. But the exchanges seemed to have only one word in common on each side, and he was soon lost.
“Bad job when those lawyers get at you in court,” offered the colonel, shaking his head so violently that he spilt whisky on his dinner jacket.
“Court? Did you hear that Matthews collapsed at the club playing tennis? Gone in a flash, and he was superbly fit,” came the reply from the doctor.
“Was it a fi
t? I thought it was a heart attack.”
“Oh, he had a heart attack a few years ago, you know. Never fire without smoke.”
“I didn’t think Matthews smoked. Maybe he gave it up recently. Did you buy that tobacco stock I recommended?”
Kubu didn’t wait for the answer. Indicating that his glass was empty, he returned to Joy, collecting a full glass en route. Joy was having no difficulty finding people to chat to, albeit all males. Now she had found Angus.
“Kubu, your wife is absolutely gorgeous, and much too smart even for me!. How on earth did you persuade her to marry you? Lucky for you she didn’t ask my advice.” While they were expanding on the joke, Dianna joined them. She seemed put out and spoke directly to her brother, ignoring the Bengus.
“Angus, we have to discuss the financials with Cecil. I’ve just been talking to Andy, the financial director, and I think—”
Angus interrupted. “Do you remember David Bengu? My school cricket friend? I always called him Kubu. And this is his gorgeous wife, Joy.”
Dianna nodded to them. “But Angus, we really need to talk seriously. I’m not getting the answers I want from Cecil.”
“Look, Di, leave this to me. I’ll chat to Cecil next week. I’ll take care of it. Why don’t you enjoy yourself tonight?”
For a moment Dianna said nothing. “Leave it to the men, not so? Mustn’t worry my pretty little head about business things? Just like Cecil. He treats me like a little girl, something to show off the family looks. He refuses to take me seriously too. You’re both exactly like Dad used to be.”
“Uncle Cecil’s done a great job as chairman of the company.”
“And how would you know one way or the other?”
Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death Page 7
