Creasy heard the scurried pattering of retreating footsteps. Across the fire the three female lions had lifted their heads. They listened briefly and then slumped back to sleep. The black-mane went back around the fire and settled himself again. The fire was almost out. Creasy put no more branches on it. The faint glow of the sun was rising away to his right. He stood up and stretched, drank the last of his water and then started throwing earth over the embers. He headed back towards his Land Rover a couple of hours away. But a hundred metres away he stopped, turned and looked back. The female lions were still asleep; the black-mane was sitting upright, looking at him.
Creasy did something he had not done for many years. He stiffened and his right arm swept up swiftly in a brief salute. Then he turned and walked on.
After he had moved away through the bush, a figure of a man rose from a cluster of boulders about a hundred and fifty metres from the extinguished fire.
For the first time in hours, Maxie MacDonald moved the switch on his rifle to safety. Then, very carefully, he followed his friend’s spoor out of the Matopos . . . in the same way he had followed it in.
BOOK TWO
Chapter 32
The funerals in Gozo have a strange ritual at the end. The men of the congregation file silently down the aisle and circle the coffin. As they move away from it, they kiss their right thumbs, then lower their hands and touch the coffin with that thumb.
Father Manuel Zerafa had conducted the service. Creasy was in the front row, with an arm around Juliet. Guido was next to her and the Schembri family next to him. The church of Our Lady of Loreto, perched above the Mgarr Harbour, was full to capacity, not only in mourning for Michael but as a sign of respect to Creasy, the man the locals called simply, Uomo.
Creasy watched the faces of the men as they silently filed around the coffin, following their ritual. He recognised their faces but could not remember all their names. They ranged in age from the very old to boys in their teens. The line seemed to go on for an eternity, and then his head jerked up in surprise. He was looking at the face of Frank Miller, who merely glanced at him and went through the ritual. Then another surprise — Rene Callard followed. More surprises — Jens Jensen and The Owl. Maxie was the last one. Paul and Joey Schembri moved past, circled the coffin and stood waiting by the door. Guido did the same.
The church had emptied except for the immediate group, the new arrivals who were waiting by the entrance, and of course, Father Zerafa. Six young men walked in, the pall-bearers. Paul Schembri whispered something to Guido, who nodded. Paul went up to the young men, spoke to them quietly and they turned and walked out. He gestured towards the five men at the entrance and they walked down. Together with Joey, they lifted the coffin on to their shoulders and bore it out of the church, down the steps and into the hearse. Creasy followed with Juliet and the rest of the Schembri family behind him and Father Zerafa.
A long stream of cars followed the hearse to the nearby cemetery and, after the brief graveside service; Creasy turned to the new arrivals and said, ‘It was a surprise to see you.’
Frank Miller shrugged.
‘We heard there was going to be a good wake after the funeral.’ He glanced at the others. ‘We were never ones to miss a party.’ None of them spoke words of condolence to either Creasy or Juliet. They were not the type to use a word when a gesture was enough.
Chapter 33
Lucy Kwok found it hard to believe. She stood on the patio with a glass of white wine in her hand, looking out at the magnificent view across Gozo and the sea. It was early evening. As an air hostess, she had travelled wide and seen much, but she found all this hard to understand. She had stood at the back of the church during the funeral. Although she herself was a Roman Catholic, she had never seen such richness in a church outside of the Vatican. Statues and walls gleamed with gold and precious stones. The heavy, ornate candlesticks on the altar looked as if they were made of solid silver. But, judging from the congregation, the people did not seem to be rich.
Behind her was a babble of noise, and even laughter. She turned and surveyed forty-odd people who had made their way up to the house after the brief graveside ceremony. There were two priests among them, both holding glasses. To the left, Creasy was tending a smoking barbecue, surrounded by the five men who had arrived at the church just as the funeral began. They seemed to be giving him good-natured advice and their attitudes showed anything but grief. Beside the kitchen door a table had been set up as a temporary bar, and a young Gozitan was manning it with enthusiasm.
Lucy’s eyes moved back to Creasy, and her mind went back to the moment she had first met him at Bulawayo Airport, when the coffin containing Michael’s body had been loaded into the Gulfstream. His presence had an immediate effect on her — that scarred impassive face and sense of not caring — until she had managed to get a look into his eyes. Her skin had prickled at the lurking hatred she had seen.
As soon as the plane had taken off, he had sat down opposite her. She had started to speak some words of condolence. He had held up a hand.
‘Miss Kwok, that matter is over now. Commander Ndlovu explained why you came to Zimbabwe. He told me what happened to your family in Hong Kong. Of course there must be a connection, and I want you to tell me as much as you can. It seems that whoever killed my son took his orders from Hong Kong. I want to know who gave those orders.’
They had talked for the next two hours and during those two hours she sensed a growing bond. She felt that part of his character was similar to her own. They were both grieving, yet no outsider would have noticed. Finally he had observed that her eyes were becoming heavy, and had arranged a bunk for her in one of the rear cabins.
Now she glanced again at the crowd of people and saw Juliet detach herself and walk over.
‘You look tired,’ Juliet said. ‘Don’t feel you have to stay. Just slip off to your bedroom whenever you feel like it. You had a long journey.’
‘That’s true, but it was a journey in some luxury, and I slept most of the way and there was no time change.’ She looked at the girl’s face. ‘You also look tired. And your journey was West to East with a six-hour time difference. I doubt you slept at all.’
‘You’re right,’ Juliet answered. ‘Sleep was impossible. I’ll crash out later and probably sleep for twenty-four hours.’
The Chinese woman shook her head.
‘I’ve had a lot of experience with jet-lag. Stay up as long as you can keep your eyes open. Don’t drink too much alcohol. You’ll probably wake up within six hours. After that, again, stay awake as long as you can, and after a second sleep the jet-lag will be gone.’
Juliet made a negative gesture.
‘After that I’ll be heading back to Denver and another bout of jet-lag.’ She looked over at Creasy and the others around the barbecue. ‘This must seem very strange to you. I don’t suppose you have wakes in China.’
‘No, we don’t. It’s all very peculiar. Such a rich church on what seems to be a poor island, and then a big party where everyone is laughing and joking.’
Juliet explained. ‘First of all, it’s not a poor island, but it is extremely Catholic. Up until a decade ago, it was not unusual for a couple to have up to fifteen children or more. The island became very over-populated. Since the main occupation was farming or fishing, there was not enough work, so the young men emigrated, mainly to America, Canada and Australia. They worked hard and sent their money back, and many returned to spend their retirement here. Despite appearances, it’s a very wealthy community. As for this party, it is unusual for Gozo, where they tend to go into protracted mourning. The tradition comes from Ireland. It’s to celebrate a life that has been lived and not a death that has happened. Somehow in the mercenary wars in Africa it was adopted when a mercenary was killed in action. I can tell you that by nightfall a party will be in full swing and it will go on until at least midnight.’
Lucy glanced at the girl and said, ‘You are young to know so much.’
‘You mean the mercenaries will die out?’
The girl shook her head.
‘No. There will always be mercenaries, because there will always be wars. But the young ones are a different breed.’ She glanced at the Chinese woman and asked, ‘How did Mrs Manners take the whole thing?’
‘Badly ...You know about Michael’s suicide note?’
‘Yes, Creasy told me.’
‘Well,’ Lucy said, ‘we all flew back in her private jet, but she hardly said a word. She ate nothing during the nine-hour flight. She stayed mostly in her cabin. I think her nurse Ruby must have given her heavy sedation. When we landed in Malta she spoke a few words to Creasy and Maxie and just said goodbye to me. I guess by now she’s back in the States.’
Juliet was nodding thoughtfully, then she lifted her head, took a sip of wine and said, ‘Let me introduce you around.’
Lucy put a hand on her arm.
‘Wait a minute. First, please tell me who everyone is. Do you know them all?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Juliet pointed towards the group of men around the barbecue. ‘You know Creasy and Maxie. The bald Australian is Frank Miller. He’s often worked with Creasy. The handsome man next to him with the slightly hooked nose and the dark hair is a Belgian called Rene Callard. He spent fifteen years in the French Foreign Legion. Some of the time with Creasy. Later on, he fought with Creasy in Africa. The blond guy on the other side of the fire is Jens Jensen. He’s Danish and an ex-policeman. He now has a private detective agency in Copenhagen, specialising in missing persons. His partner is the small man next to him with the thick round spectacles. He’s a Frenchman known as The Owl. He used to be a gangster in Marseille. Later on, he became a bodyguard to an arms dealer and then joined up with Jens about four years ago. His great love is classical music. This is one of the few occasions where I’ve seen him without his Walkman and earphones.’
‘A diverse bunch of men.’
‘Yes, and it gets more so. The man there with the scarred face, talking to the middle-aged woman, is an Italian called Guido Arrellio. He’s Creasy’s closest friend. They are like brothers. But you will never see them show the slightest sign of affection, Guido was also in the Foreign Legion. Both he and Creasy were kicked out when part of the Legion rebelled at the end of the war in Algeria. They went off to the Congo and fought together for many years . . . One day, about ten years ago, they ended up in Gozo for a few days’ holiday. Guido fell in love with the hotel receptionist. A few weeks later, he married her and took her off to Naples where they ran a small pensione. She was the daughter of the woman Guido’s talking to.’
‘Was?’
‘Yes. She was killed in a car crash a few years later. Her mother is Laura Schembri, her father is Paul — the small dark man over there, talking to the priest. The young man behind the bar is their son Joey. Joey’s wife Maria is in the kitchen, making the salad. The Schembri family are very close to Creasy and me . . . I think Laura is the only woman who can get Creasy to do something he doesn’t want to do — but then, there is a special bond between them. Creasy was once involved in a battle against a Mafia gang in Italy and was badly wounded. Guido suggested that he come to Gozo to recover and stay at the Schembris’ farm on the other side of the island. He stayed for about two months. During that time the Schembri’s younger daughter, Nadia, returned from a failed marriage in England. She and Creasy had an affair and she became pregnant. She told nobody and Creasy went back to Italy. When he finished the job he returned to Gozo, again wounded. After recovering, he married Nadia and they had a daughter, and for the next few years lived peacefully in this house.’
She turned to look at the Chinese woman. ‘But in December 1988, Nadia and her daughter caught a Pan Am flight in London to join Creasy in New York. The plane blew up over Scotland and everybody was killed.’
The girl fell silent. Lucy Kwok looked across the patio at the man tending the barbecue.
Quietly, she remarked, ‘A lot of tragedy and death surrounds that man.’ She turned to look at Juliet: The girl’s face was a picture of sadness.
Juliet nodded and said, ‘Yes. And it’s not over yet.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No, in a few days he’ll be off to Hong Kong . . . and there will be more dead.’
‘He told you that?’
‘No. But I know that man. He won’t rest until he’s dealt with the people who caused Michael’s suicide.’ Her slim body shook briefly, but then her voice lightened as she pointed out some of the other guests. The young ones had been friends of Michael and the older ones, friends of Creasy.
It was an hour later when the phone rang. They were eating at makeshift tables. Creasy looked up at Juliet, and she got up and went into the kitchen. A minute later she called from the door.
‘Creasy, it’s Jim Grainger calling from Denver.’
Creasy wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. He went into the kitchen. It was fifteen minutes before he returned. As he sat down, he said to Maxie, ‘Gloria Manners did not return to Denver.’
‘Where did she go?’
‘She went nowhere. That Gulfstream never took off. Right now, she’s in a suite in the L’Imgarr Bay hotel, here in Gozo.’
‘But why?’ Lucy Kwok asked.
‘I don’t know. But she wants to talk to me.’
‘Will you see her?’ Maxie asked.
Creasy nodded.
‘Yes, I will see her tomorrow morning.’
‘Why would you want to talk to her?’ Juliet asked, I mean, after what happened down there in Zimbabwe.’
Creasy picked up his knife and fork and said, ‘I’ll see her because Jim Grainger asked me to, as a personal favour. As you well know, Juliet, he’s done me several favours, including looking after you in the States.’
‘Yes, but — ’
‘There are no buts.’
Chapter 34
Creasy walked into the hotel lobby just after ten o’clock in the morning. He was not in a good frame of mind. The wake had gone on until the early hours and he had a headache from the drink.
As he approached reception, a short well-dressed man with a dark moustache stood up from a group of people at a table in the corner. He walked across the room and touched Creasy briefly on the shoulder. Creasy had known him for many years. He was the hotel manager, and the tap on the shoulder was a gesture of condolence.
‘You have a Mrs Manners staying here,’ Creasy said.
‘Yes, she’s in 105.’
‘When did she check in?’
‘Yesterday morning.’
‘Has she been a problem?’
‘On the contrary. She’s taken all her meals in her room with her nurse, and the staff tell me that she tips well and is very kind.’
‘Is she in her room now?’
The manager looked at the receptionist and said, ‘105 — in or out?’
‘In, sir,” the girl answered. ‘She hasn’t left her suite since she arrived.’
Creasy said to the manager, ‘I’ll be in Room 105 for the next twenty minutes or so. Do you remember that hangover cure you recommended all those years ago?’
The manager grinned under his black moustache.
‘Sure . . . Do you want me to send one up?”
‘I’d be eternally grateful.’
Creasy walked down the corridor to the end and tapped on the door of Room 105. It opened to reveal Ruby, looking apprehensive.
‘Hello, Ruby.’
‘Hello, Creasy. Come on in. Can I get you a coffee or something?’
‘No, thanks. Something is being sent up.’
He walked into the room and, through the french windows, saw Mrs Manners sitting in her wheelchair on the wide balcony. He walked out, pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. The hotel was perched on the cliff above the harbour. Like his own house, it had one of the most spectacular views on Gozo.
From the balcony door Ruby asked, ‘Can I get you something, Mrs Manners?’
Gloria shook her head.
‘Thank you, no, Ruby . . . but maybe Creasy wants something?’
‘I’ve already ordered,’ Creasy said, and Ruby disappeared back into the suite.
Creasy was puzzled. When Gloria Manners had spoken to Ruby he had noticed the change in her voice. It was as though the life had gone out of it. No abrasion. He looked at the woman. Her face had aged. The lines were deeper, and the eyes more sunken.
‘I’d assumed you’d be back in Denver by now,’ he said.
‘I had no intention of returning to Denver before I could speak to you. I did not want to do so before Michael’s funeral. I’m sorry that I had to put Jim Grainger under pressure to arrange this meeting.’
Creasy said, ‘Why did you come here?’
Gloria gathered her thoughts, and then said, ‘There were several reasons. The first was that I wanted to express to you my deep sorrow that I was the cause of Michael’s death. First, because I hired him — second, because I gave him such a bad example of what life in a wheelchair was like.’
Creasy drew a breath and looked directly into the woman’s eyes as he spoke. ‘You were not the reason for Michael’s death. I would have told you that on the plane coming up here, but you slept most of the time, and I understand that. I was going to write you in a few days’ time. I don’t want you to wallow in grief and guilt. There were two reasons for Michael’s death — myself and a man in Hong Kong.’
‘But I read that note!’
‘That note was an excuse.’
Black Horn (A Creasy novel Book 4) Page 16
