Black Horn (A Creasy novel Book 4)

by A. J. Quinnell

  ‘Not exactly. I’ll move back and forth, between Vic Falls and Binga. I’ll be in radio contact with the stations at both places. If you come across anything, just get in touch.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Gilbert hesitated and then said, ‘Do you think I could hitch a ride on this thing? It would save me a boring four hour drive.’

  Creasy smiled wryly. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Manners. But she’s a bit of an old bitch, and not in a very good mood this morning.’

  Creasy walked back up to the saloon, followed by Gilbert. Gloria was being served a cup of coffee by the steward. She was still reading the newspaper.

  Creasy said, ‘Mrs Manners, Inspector Gilbert is also travelling to Vic Falls today. His first job is to check your security at the Azambezi Lodge. If we take him with us, it will save him a four hour journey by car.’

  Gloria looked up and stared at the policeman for several seconds, and then said, ‘Sure. Why not?’ She turned to the steward. ‘Give the man a cup of coffee.’

  Creasy moved further forward towards the cockpit, saying, ‘I’ll tell the pilot to get going.’

  Again, the policeman followed him, and at the cockpit door he tapped Creasy on the shoulder. Creasy turned.

  ‘How did you know?’ Gilbert asked.

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That at the top of my list of orders from Commander Ndlovu is to arrange total security for Mrs Manners?’

  ‘It wasn’t hard to work out. The last thing Ndlovu needs is for another American to get shot in his country.’ He pointed back down the aircraft. ‘Especially one like that.’ He turned back to the cockpit door, opened it and said, ‘Let’s get this mother off the ground.’

  The row erupted about fifteen minutes later, as they flew over Matabeleland. Creasy and Robin Gilbert were sitting to the rear of the aircraft. Creasy was picking the policeman’s brains about the local conditions and the policeman was briefing him on the situation regarding local politics and economics and the poaching problem. Maxie was up front in the saloon, drinking coffee with Gloria and Ruby. Gloria had tried a piece of biltong and didn’t like it. She had finished reading the newspaper and was obviously bored. She showed no interest in the scenery unfolding below.

  ‘When are you and Creasy going into the bush?’ she asked Maxie.

  ‘At dawn tomorrow.’

  ‘When will you reach the site?’

  ‘It depends,’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On how fast we move.’

  ‘Goddamn it! You don’t know how fast you’re going to move?’

  ‘No. It could take two days or three days.’

  ‘Why?’

  Maxie sighed and tried to explain. ‘We’ll be looking for spoor . . . tracks. A lot depends on the condition of the ground. How dry it is, which way the wind was blowing and is blowing.’

  She leaned forward and said tightly, ‘Don’t bullshit me! I’ve read all the police reports. They had trackers in that area for days and they found nothing.’

  ‘Mrs Manners, we’re not looking for tracks that will be weeks old. We’re looking for recent tracks.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because other people may have been in the area when your daughter was killed and they may have gone back into that area.’

  Gloria leaned even further forward, and in her tight voice said, ‘You’d better understand something. I don’t want you chasing after some goddamn poachers and wasting my money. You work for me, not for the Zimbabwe Wildlife Department!’

  She was suddenly looking at a pair of very cold eyes. The voice was equally cold, but Creasy heard it from the back of the plane. He stood up and starting walking to the saloon.

  Maxie said, ‘Wind in your neck, lady. I am not working for you. I came down here on expenses only. You paid my hotel bills and you paid my food. But if you have your Accountant examine the bills, you’ll find out that you never paid for any of my drinks at the hotels. I’ll tell you why. Many years ago, I spent a couple of years as a hunter, working for a safari company. We had many American clients, most of whom were spoilt over-rich idiots. When the professional hunters used to meet up with each other back in Bulawayo and ask how each other’s trips went, we used a very cryptic phrase. We either said, “I was drinking their whisky” or ‘I was drinking my own whisky.” It meant that the clients were either friendly and co-operative or they were unfriendly morons. And let me tell you lady, so far on this trip, I’ve been drinking my own whisky. I don’t pretend to like you, although I’m sorry about your problems. Now understand one last thing: if I come across the fresh spoor of rhino poachers, I’m going after them. That’s how it is, and if you don’t like it, I’ll get off this plane at Vic Falls and head home.’

  The woman sat rigid, and then looked up to see Creasy standing above them. She said, ‘Did you hear what this bastard said to me?’

  Creasy nodded.

  ‘Yes, He took the words right out of my mouth.’ Ruby was looking on in fascination. Creasy continued, ‘Maxie is right. We don’t work for you. That was the deal we made in Denver, We came down here to have a look. If we find something that makes it worthwhile continuing, then you start paying. I hope we do find something, because it would give me pleasure to start spending some of your money. We’ll know one way or another within four or five days. Until that time, I suggest you keep control of yourself, otherwise, even if we do find something, we’re likely to piss off and drink our own whisky.’

  Chapter 18

  In spite of the air-conditioning, the sweat poured off Michael’s face. The dance-floor was packed and gyrating to the rhythm of the eight-piece African band. The sound system was antique, as were the instruments, but the music was straight from the soul of Africa and nothing like the sound of those Zimbabwe bands that had been ‘discovered’ and then sanitised in European recording studios. The girl in front of him was called Shavi and was Indian; part of the community that had remained in the country after Independence. She was small and slight, with huge luminous eyes and a curved red mouth which was constantly breaking into a smile.

  There were few white faces on the dance-floor or at the long white bar which only served beer and soft drinks. The club was located in a township ten kilometres from the city centre and was wonderfully unsophisticated. He had met Shavi in the disco at the Sheraton and quickly warmed to her maverick nature. Over a drink, she had explained that the substantial Indian community, which had first been brought to Rhodesia by the British as skilled labourers on the railways, had over the years become a sort of middle-class, mainly involved in retailing and property. Her family owned a large garment store. They would not be pleased that she was consorting even with a European, and they would be horrified if they thought she went out with an African. She was the new generation. She had been born in the country and it was as much hers as anyone else’s and she would go out with who the hell she liked . . . even a Maltese. Michael had looked around the sophisticated disco and remarked that it would not have been out of place in any big European city. She had immediately suggested a change of venue and after a taxi ride and a fifty cent entrance fee, they had walked into Mushambira Club in the suburb of Highlands and its pounding music.

  He was surprised that the almost entirely black clientele were so well-dressed, the men in suits and ties and the women in brightly-coloured well-made dresses. Shavi explained that after the first flush of being able to go into the sophisticated white clubs in Harare, a lot of even wealthy blacks prefer the raw music and atmosphere of places like the Mushambira Club Bagamba. They felt more relaxed among their own, and the few liberal-type whites who went there were simply tolerated.

  ‘And you?’ Michael had asked.

  She had laughed and answered, I’m unique. Perhaps the only Indian woman who’s ever walked through these doors. I speak perfect Shona and have no prejudices and they feel that. I’ve also been here with an African boyfriend who I met at university. He’s now on a scholarship in London.’

  ‘D
id you love him?’

  ‘Oh, yes. But London is far away and I’m only nineteen with much to do.’

  They danced almost non-stop for about an hour, to the Blacks Unlimited band, until finally Michael took her by the hand and said, ‘The bar and a cold beer beckons . . . And I’d like to meet a few of the locals.’

  Like all the others, they drank the beer straight from the bottle. There was a giant of a man behind the bar with a permanent wide smile and sweat pouring down his face. Shavi introduced him as the bar-owner. He looked Michael up and down and then asked her something in Shona.

  She shook her head and answered, ‘No, Maltese.’

  The black face looked puzzled and she spoke to him again in Shona, obviously telling him of the place she herself had only learned about a few hours earlier. He nodded and held out a huge hand to give Michael a surprisingly light handshake in the African manner.

  He said in English, ‘By your looks, I thought you might be Greek. And I hate those bastards. They’d steal your wallet as fast as your woman. I never had a Maltese in here before. You’re welcome. Especially when you come with the beautiful Shavi. She decorates my place.’

  With his left hand he pulled out two bottles of Lion beer from the cooler, grabbed one of the many openers on the bar and flipped off the tops. He banged the bottles down in front of them and said, ‘On me’, and then moved down the long bar to serve other customers.

  Michael turned to look at Shavi. Even at the bar, her body still moved slightly to the music, and he felt himself doing the same. Back at the Sheraton she had asked him what he was doing in the country. He had told her that he was taking six months off before going to university in America and that he had decided to have a look around Africa and see the sights. She had looked a bit thoughtful at that, but said nothing.

  Now she swayed closer to him, looked up and asked, ‘Why did you lie to me?’

  ‘Me?’

  She looked around.

  ‘Do you see anybody else I’m talking to?’

  ‘Why should I lie to you, and what would be the lie?’

  Her mouth was still smiling but her eyes held a challenge in them,

  ‘This is a big country,’ she said. ‘But in a way, Harare is like one large village. We all know what’s happening here. Your name is not John Grech. It’s Michael Creasy. You are staying in a suite at Meikles Hotel and you are a mercenary.’

  He kept a poker face and remained silent. There was no more challenge in her eyes, just humour.

  ‘Back at that disco,’ she said, ‘I was with a group of friends when you asked me to dance. One of them is a ground hostess at the airport and saw you get off a fancy private jet with two other men, and a woman in a wheelchair.’

  And you know who they were?’

  ‘Oh, yes. All of Harare knows that she is the mother of the American woman who was murdered a few weeks ago. The man with the scars and the grey hair is your father. Apparently, he is a famous mercenary. The other man is well-known in this country. He was a Rhodesian and a Selous Scout. In fact, his father used to buy his clothes from my father’s shop. You are here to find the murderers. So I’m a little surprised that you are in this club, dancing with an Indian girl.’

  He took a swig from the bottle, looked down into her dark eyes and asked, ‘OK. Your friend at the airport, I understand. But how do you know about my father and why we are here?’

  ‘I told you, this city is a village. Maybe you noticed the very well-dressed young African who was in my group at the disco. He works for the CIO — the Central Intelligence Office, They keep tabs on every foreigner entering the country. He told me that the crippled woman is richer than God, and that she hired the best mercenaries in the world to hunt down her daughter’s killer.’

  Michael said, ‘Well, if your well-dressed African friend is some kind of intelligence agent, he shouldn’t be shooting off his mouth in some disco to young women. Especially since the government here is giving us full co-operation.’

  ‘That’s true. But then, you see, he was trying to impress me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s in love with me.’

  Michael laughed, is everyone in this village in love with you?’

  Solemnly, she answered, ‘Of course. Don’t you think I’m beautiful and charming?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And also inquisitive. Are you an informer for the CIO?’

  ‘No, but you can be sure there are several here and the CIO will know your movements all the time you are in Harare. We are not a police state, but most young countries and their politicians are paranoid about security.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing sinister about what we’re doing. The police have tried hard on this case but haven’t come up with any answers. It’s natural that a very rich woman would spend some of her fortune to try and find out who killed her only daughter.’

  ‘Yes. But you didn’t answer my question. If she’s paying you what must be a lot of money, what are you doing chasing innocent Indian girls in discos and nightclubs?’

  Michael spoke in a bantering tone but his mind was ice-cold. ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘Oh, yes. But I’ll only tell you when I have a fresh cold beer in my hand.’

  It was hot in the club and Michael was still sweating, but the girl’s face and dark olive body were completely dry. She wore a white cotton and chiffon blouse with no bra, and emerald silk trousers flowed around her legs. She had straight jet-black hair which reached down to her small rounded bottom. She tilted her head back and drained half the bottle of beer and then put her head to one side as she looked up at him.

  ‘Your father knows Africa. He brought the Selous Scout MacDonald with him because he’s the best. Because he’s reputed to be the best. You are young, but you have never been to Africa before . . . so I guess your father told you to stay in Harare and find out about the local gossip and, if necessary, seduce innocent young girls to do so.’

  Michael said, ‘Well, the only information I’ve learned so far is that so-called innocent young girls know exactly what I’m doing here.’

  She laughed. But then her face went serious and she leaned closer. ‘You must be careful. Maybe that American woman and the man with her were killed for some political or financial reason. Having you and your father and the Scout MacDonald sniffing around could make them nervous and that could be dangerous. Life is not valued here as much as where you come from. You could be struck by lightning.’

  ‘Lightning!’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘It’s in The Guinness Book of Records — more people are killed by lightning, per capita, in Zimbabwe than in any other country in the world. I think it was more than five hundred last year.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Of course, it’s mostly in the tribal lands where they live in mud and wood huts and don’t know about lightning conductors.’

  He smiled but her face remained serious.

  ‘I like you,’ she said. ‘You’re handsome and intelligent and you dance well. I don’t want to see you struck by lightning.’

  ‘Shavi, you can be sure that I know all about lightning conductors. Now, come on, introduce me to some of your African friends.’

  She turned and looked down the bar and suddenly he heard her curse, even above the music. She was looking at a group of three men about twenty metres away. They were in their late twenties and dressed in green suede jackets and white open-necked shirts and smart jeans. They all wore polished brown shoes. Her gaze moved to the dance-floor and she spotted someone else and cursed again. She turned back to the bar.

  ‘What is it?’ Michael asked.

  She sighed, ‘It’s a friend of mine. He’s being stupid.’ She gestured at the dance-floor. ‘He’s out there dancing with a girl, the beautiful one in the long white dress. He should never have brought her here . . . but as well as being stupid, he’s arrogant. He brought her to th
e wrong territory.’

  ‘Why?’

  With her chin, she pointed at the group of three men. ‘One of those used to be her boyfriend. He’s obsessed with her. About two weeks ago, my friend out there took her away from him. She’s beautiful but she’s a bitch. She must have persuaded my friend to bring her to this club, knowing that it would enrage the other guy. This is his territory. He deals on the black market with his friends and sometimes in drugs. The clothes they wear are a sort of trademark. They are more or less a gang and very tough.’

  Michael studied the three men and then looked across the dance floor. The girl in the long white dress was indeed beautiful, almost as tall as himself, with a neck like a gazelle. Her tight hair was threaded with tiny multi-coloured beads that glistened in the light. She danced like a dream. Her face and arms were the colour of ebony. Every once in a while, she threw a slanted glance at the group of three men at the bar. Her partner was also tall and very slim and dressed in a ruffled white shirt, open almost to the waist, dark blue trousers and white leather shoes. He was also black but paler than her. He had a gold chain around his neck and a gold wristwatch.

  Michael turned back to Shavi and asked, ‘Is your friend also in the black market?’

  ‘No, my friend is at college. He has a rich father . . . but his father can’t help him tonight.’

  Michael glanced around the huge barn-like room with its raised stage at the far end. There were at least four hundred people dancing or drinking or rapping in the corners. He asked, ‘Your friend has no support here at all?’

  ‘None. He’s not even a Shona . . . He’s a Manica from Mutare down at the Mozambique border. No one here will interfere. They sure won’t help a stranger against their own.’

  Michael gestured at the huge man behind the bar. ‘What about him?’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘He won’t have any trouble in here — but it’s when my friend leaves the place. They’ll follow him out.’

  ‘What will they do?’

  She looked down grimly at the bar and said, ‘They won’t kill him, but they’ll come close. In such matters, where a woman is concerned, they’ll cut his face and kick his balls in.’