His lopsided grin was devilishly attractive.
Lana smiled back. ‘That’s more like it.’ She sipped her Carlsberg Green, pulled a face and changed the subject herself. ‘What happens to the beer here? Must they sell it before it’s ready?’
‘Can’t have that.’ Tim raised his hand and the waiter came to their table immediately. ‘Two MGTs, Bambo, please.’
‘What’s an MGT Bambo?’ Lana asked, mystified.
Tim laughed. ‘An MGT is a Malawi gin ’n’ tonic. Bambo is a polite way in Chichewa of saying mate, gov, pal, sir, or anything else that might mean a Malawian man.’
‘It sounds terrible.’
‘Wait until you ask for chambo, the lake fish.’
Lana burst out laughing.
He cocked his head, smiling. ‘You’re not bad at changing the subject either.’
So she told him of her encounter with Tony Davenport at the Mulanje Club and on the Midima Road. He listened in silence.
‘Sounds like he panicked.’
She nodded slowly. ‘Perhaps. He certainly made himself scarce when he saw me at the club.’
‘There’s no doubt that you’re being warned off. The question still is why?’
‘To protect others. It has to be.’
‘You can’t rule out serious crime, Lana.’
‘Murder?’
He looked at her seriously. ‘How would you feel if you discovered that your father had been murdered?’
She considered it, but only briefly. ‘Murderous.’
‘There’s no point in asking –’
‘None,’ she interrupted firmly. ‘I intend to find out if I can.’
‘I rather thought you’d say that,’ he said ruefully. ‘To that end, and against all my better judgment, I have some news for you. Moffat Kadamanja moved to Lilongwe last year. I have his address.’
The waiter came back with their MGTs. Lana tried hers. ‘Mmm – not bad.’
Tim looked horrified. ‘Is that all you can say? The Malawi crowd take their gin very seriously. What you’re tasting here is avidly sought from Cairo to Cape Town.’
She paid serious attention to her next sip. ‘A touch of savoir-vivre undoubtedly,’ she murmured.
She sipped again. ‘Bloody good in fact,’ she added, putting down her glass.
‘Good girl. Louder next time. The people over there can’t hear you.’
‘Does Kadamanja know I’m in Malawi?’
‘Yes. One of our chaps at the High Commission has spoken to him. He was a bit unhappy about being phoned at his office. The man who spoke to him got the impression he was worried about being overheard.’
‘Was he told why I’m here?’
‘Wasn’t necessary. He said something about always knowing someone would turn up eventually.’
‘Will he talk to me?’
‘He’s looking forward to it apparently, though not at his office. He asks that you go to his home.’ Tim picked up his glass and looked at her over the rim. ‘His caution is a bit of a worry. One has to ask why.’
Lana ignored Tim’s obvious attempt to warn her off. ‘How old is he?’ It occurred to her that he could easily be a teenager – full of ideals and enthusiasm but with little or no interest in things past.
Tim cocked his eyebrow. ‘I have no idea. And before you ask, I don’t know if he’s been circumcised either.’
Lana grinned. ‘Damn! I’d hoped you’d know that too.’
The waiter came back with Ants On A Tree. Lana looked at it. Lettuce leaves sprinkled with crispy noodles and mince. It looked nothing like its name. ‘This is how it’s done.’ Tim picked up a leaf, folded it around some of the noodle and mince mix and ate with his fingers. Lana copied him and found the combination delicious.
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ Tim licked his fingers then grinned when he saw her watching him. ‘Sorry. Old boarding school habit.’
‘No problem.’ Lana licked her own fingers. ‘Although I always thought Glenalmond was slightly more upmarket.’ She grinned back. ‘Slight change of plan. If Kadamanja is in Lilongwe it suits me quite well. Tomorrow is Wednesday. I have no commitments until Saturday. If he’s willing, I’d like to spend a couple of days talking to Moffat Kadamanja.’
‘What happens Saturday?’
‘Karl Henning has invited me to lunch. He’s also invited me to fly to Chilumba on Sunday and bring his yacht down to Nkhotakota.’
‘Don’t you find that a bit too convenient?’
‘Only if there’s something you’re not telling me,’ she shot back.
His intensely blue eyes looked deep into hers. What she saw there briefly was anger. It was gone in an instant. Lana found it difficult to breathe suddenly. Damn he’s attractive! Mutual attraction between them was close enough to reach out and grasp.
‘Why Karl?’ he asked softly.
The mood was broken. Reality pushed itself between them. ‘He met Dad. He’s a link. He’s the only one I have. He also mentioned someone in Karonga called Sarah Fotheringham who knew Dad.’
Tim was busy with his food again. ‘She reported him missing,’ he said absently.
Lana watched him. His eyes blinked briefly in annoyance as he realised the slip. ‘Did your boss in London tell you that or have you been the recipient of a little divine intervention?’ she asked sarcastically.
‘Uh . . .’ he floundered and fell silent.
‘What else does the file say?’ Her voice had a steely ring.
‘Nothing tangible. Just be on your guard.’
‘Not good enough.’
‘No.’ He wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘Rather thought you’d say that.’
She watched him in silence for a few seconds. ‘I tell you what I think,’ she said finally. ‘The file is in your office, not in London and it specifically mentions Karl Henning. I’ll lay odds it speculates on what really happened to my father. You, however, are not in a position to enlighten me. Why? I’ll tell you why. Because you, Tim Gilbey, are not what you pretend. You are no more a Commercial Attache than I’m a Persian Princess. You . . .’ she stabbed a finger across the table at him, ‘. . . for whatever reason, can’t get involved in case it interferes with the real reason you’re in Malawi.’ She smiled grimly. ‘How am I doing?’
‘Lana . . .’
‘Forget it,’ she snapped. ‘Astonishing as this might sound, I actually understand your position. I don’t like it, but I do understand it.’ She pushed her plate away. ‘That,’ she grated, ‘was delicious.’
‘MGT or wine?’ he asked gently.
‘Wine,’ she ground out. ‘A dry white would be lovely.’
He ordered a South African Montagne Premier Grand Cru. ‘I’m sorry, Lana. I wish I could help. I know how much this trip means – what you’re hoping for.’
She stared him down. ‘You have no idea,’ she said sadly. ‘No-one does.’
He put his hand over hers, warm and strong. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.
Bitterness churned in her stomach. Not at Tim, she realised he was in a difficult position. Anger at the system. Frustration, disappointment and something else. Fear. How much danger was she really in? Would Tim tell her if she asked? She decided to find out.
He shook his head. ‘If you were my sister I would beg you not to proceed.’
‘I’m not your sister.’
‘Okay, my wife.’
‘I’m not your wife.’
‘Don’t go,’ he said in a hard voice.
She removed her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly. ‘I know you’re breaking rules.’ Breaking rules! He had just told her far more than he should. He was breaking every rule in the book, she knew that. The look on his face told her he wasn’t enjoying the experience. Lana tried to lighten the sudden wariness between them. She smiled suddenly. ‘If it makes you feel any better, we can discuss the sex life of the red-legged earth mite for the rest of the evening.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he replied straight-faced. ‘They’re
hermaphroditic. We’d just go round in circles.’
‘I know that syndrome,’ she said lightly, then changed the subject. ‘Why has the magic rock of shade on the Thyolo Road been cemented into place?’
He blinked, collected his thoughts and answered her question. ‘Because the bloody thing kept on moving.’
‘It’s too big to be moved.’
‘You know that; I know that; the people who built the road knew that; but someone forgot to tell the rock. The engineers had graders push the rock off to one side of the road. Next morning it was back in the middle. They pushed it off again but back it came. This went on for days.’
‘Couldn’t they have built the road round it? After all, it’s hardly straight to begin with.’
‘In the end that’s what they did. Despite every effort, the rock kept moving back to its original position. The locals refused to work on that part of the road and the engineers finally gave up. The road went around the rock but they cemented it in, just in case.’
‘Quite a story.’ She wasn’t sure she believed it.
‘I’m not making it up. Ask anyone who’s lived here a while, they’ll tell you the same thing.’
‘Is there much magic in Malawi?’
‘Of the bone throwing variety you mean? No more or less than other parts of Africa. Witchdoctors are still pretty powerful. Some of the expatriates actually use them to put a spell on their house when they go on leave. Stops them being burgled they reckon. It seems to work too. I even heard about a chap the other day who got rid of a staff member by placing a blood-soaked white chicken feather in the man’s desk drawer. Bit stupid really. Best not to dabble in what you don’t understand.’ He smiled at her. ‘Do you believe in witchcraft?’
‘I believe in the power of the mind, most certainly. If you want to call it magic, witchcraft or voodoo that’s fine by me. Whatever it’s called, I’ve seen it work before though if you look for a logical explanation you can usually find one.’
The conversation remained light and off the subject of Karl Henning. Lana knew that Tim could have told her more and, several times she thought he was wrestling with his conscience as to whether or not to speak out, but in the end, he said nothing about Henning. He did, however, inadvertently, and much to his regret, clarify Lana’s plans for after she had seen Moffat Kadamanja in Lilongwe.
As they walked back to the hotel Lana was in two minds whether or not to invite him up to her room for a nightcap. She was not worried that Tim would take the invitation to mean more than a drink. What concerned Lana was her own behaviour. Alone, in her room with him, could she trust herself not to ravage him? The prospect of such a thing, she admitted to herself, was profoundly attractive. Tim solved the dilemma by asking, ‘Your room or mine?’ as they collected their keys, then added quickly, ‘A drink.’
‘Just one,’ Lana replied, her heart hammering. ‘I’m driving to Lilongwe tomorrow.’
In the lift, he took her key and put it with his behind his back. ‘Which hand?’
Lana pointed to his left.
It was her key.
She raised her eyes from his hand. She could not read the expression on his face. She put out her hand for the key and he closed his strong brown fingers around it, drawing her closer. The electricity between them was so intense that Lana swayed towards him. His arms went around her, pulling her into him. Their lips met just as the lift stopped and the doors opened. Neither of them knew that two men waited to get into the left until one of them cleared his throat.
The depth of feeling was too new, too unexpected for either Lana or Tim to act naturally. They sprang apart embarrassed. Lana went past the men without looking at them, thoughts and emotions whirling out of control inside her. Tim gathered his wits sufficiently to give them a brief nod and a gruff ‘Evening,’ before he too left the lift, uncomfortably aware that both men wore broad grins.
The walk to her room seemed endless.
‘I’m on the fourth floor,’ Tim said, pointlessly.
‘Really!’ Christ! He didn’t just tell you he’d won the lottery. Her over-reaction, in an attempt to get back to normal, increased her embarrassment. This is not like you. Get a grip! But she couldn’t. The intensity was still there and she was thoroughly shaken by it.
They reached her room at last. Lana was acutely conscious of his nearness. If she put out a hand, she would touch him. She risked a look at his face and found his eyes, serious and deep, were watching her. Lana knew that one move from the other, one lift of an eyebrow, one light touch, the smallest sign of intimacy, would result in them spending the night together. And she knew that Tim knew it too.
Each of them, for their own reasons, backed away from it.
Lana opened the door. ‘What’s your poison?’ She was glad her voice was steady.
‘Scotch.’ His was too.
She indicated a table and two chairs in one corner, deliberately ignoring the sofa and making a conscious effort not to look at the bed. ‘Take a seat.’
As she was pouring his scotch he said casually, ‘I suppose you’ll be going up to Karonga to see Sarah Fotheringham.’
She handed him the glass, relieved by his tone. ‘No point. Karl said she died last year.’
Tim frowned. ‘Then she makes a perky corpse. I spoke to her on the phone a few days ago.’
The desire which had been so strong in her so few moments ago, vanished. Lana picked up her scotch. She sipped it slowly before responding. ‘Two questions. Why did you speak to her and why would Karl lie?’ She crossed the room and sat in a chair by the window. ‘Scratch the second question – her name slipped out and Karl went into reverse gear.’ She looked at Tim. ‘Which leaves me with the first.’ Her stare gave his eyes nowhere to go.
‘Okay,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve done some rummaging on your behalf. Sarah Fotheringham remembers your father very well. When he went missing it was Sarah who reported it. She also mentioned that Karl Henning’s ketch was seen in the area.’
‘Not conclusive.’
‘It was in the area when the first two were killed.’
‘Still not conclusive.’
‘It had never been in the area before and hasn’t been seen since.’
Lana put down her glass. ‘What else is in the file?’ she asked softly.
‘Nothing much. Henning has an undeclared income but that’s not a major crime. He makes a lot of business trips to the Far East. He was in Blantyre, at the Mount Soche, when your father stayed here and he was also in Blantyre, and guess what, also at the Mount Soche when the first two got here. Coincidence? Sarah believes he’s implicated. She’s agreed to talk to you.’
‘You don’t trust Henning, do you?’
‘I wouldn’t trust him with an onion.’
She smiled a little at that. ‘How professional of you!’
‘It’s a gut feel.’
‘There’s got to be more. In the restaurant you told me not to go sailing with him.’
‘Can’t you see,’ he said, sounding exasperated, ‘that someone doesn’t want you here? Who else knows who you are and why you’re here?’
‘You do,’ she shot back.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not being ridiculous,’ she said, stung. ‘If you’re so worried about me, why don’t you come to Karonga with me?’
She had no idea how much he wanted to. ‘I’m too busy.’
Lana banged her glass on the table. ‘Fine. I’ll go on my own. And for that matter, I’ll accept Karl’s invitation. Maybe it’s enough for you to make wild guesses. It’s not enough for me. If he’s involved I’ll not find out by sitting on my backside. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’m tired. Good night.’
After he had gone Lana drained her scotch. Then, as an afterthought, drained his as well. She could not believe how quickly the passionate vibes between them became so full of anger.
Tim went straight to the telephone in his room and phoned Martin Flower at his London home. ‘Hope you weren’t in
bed,’ he said, when his boss came on the line.
‘I was watching television.’ Martin sounded grumpy.
‘Lana Devereaux is going sailing with Karl Henning. I can’t talk her out of it.’
‘Damn the girl!’
‘I think she’s in danger. She was attacked last night and today someone tried to run her off the road. That same someone, incidentally, impersonated me and threatened her with deportation.’
Flower chewed this over. ‘It’s none of our business. Don’t let this get in your way, Tim.’
‘It’s already in my way,’ Tim snapped. ‘I can’t sit back and allow her to run headlong into trouble.’
‘There’s nothing you can do.’
‘I told her what was in the file.’
‘I don’t suppose it matters. Nothing was ever proved, it’s all speculation.’
‘True but I have a bad feeling about this one, Martin. What if Henning intends to get rid of her? A quiet word of warning in his ear might not go astray.’
There was silence while Flower considered the suggestion. ‘Okay, Tim,’ he said finally. ‘But for Christ’s sake, son, when you put the wind up him, make sure it’s a gentle diplomatic breeze. A howling FCO gale is the last thing we need at the moment.’
‘Trust me.’ Tim grinned. ‘Thanks, Martin.’
‘Sod off,’ Martin grumbled. ‘I’ve missed the end of a splendid play thanks to you.’
Tim found Henning’s number in the phone book and dialled, half hoping the man would be in bed asleep. But Henning came on the line almost immediately and was clearly wide awake.
‘Karl Henning.’
‘Tim Gilbey. British High Commission.’
‘How may I help you?’ Henning asked smoothly.
‘Lana Devereaux is a friend of mine.’
‘She’s a friend of mine too.’ If Henning was surprised he showed no sign of it.
‘I hope you mean that.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Accidents,’ Tim said. ‘Don’t let one happen to her.’
Henning went silent for a moment. Then, ‘Mr Gilbey did you say –’
‘Yes,’ Tim answered briefly, expecting anger.
‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’
Echo of an Angry God Page 20
