Again there was that faint sound then the Voice asked, “Do you have any knowledge of Mrs Stewart’s sister?”
“Why should we have?” Coetzee was cursing the day he’d got involved in this pathetic farce. “Who the hell is this Jenny Bishop anyway, Wonder Woman?”
“Some people might say so. Let me advise you only that Mrs Jenny Bishop is not a woman to be trifled with and now she is involved in our little scenario. I am very unhappy with this turn of events.”
“Funny you should say that,” said Coetzee. “We’re not too happy ourselves, actually.”
“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“We think you’re underestimating our value in this transaction. The fact is our task was to abduct the boy and that’s what we’ve done. You’ve told us nothing more about the reasons for the kidnapping, we’ve taken all the risks and you’ve done bugger all except give us shit about what a mess we’ve made of it. We think we deserve a little more respect, maybe a little more reward. We think it’s time you let us into your confidence, after all, we have the boy under our control and you wouldn’t want anything to happen to him, would you?”
Once again the silence was deafening. Nwosu looked at him as if to say, now you’ve gone too far! Coetzee shrugged and lit another cheroot.
Finally, the Voice continued, “Very well, let’s put that matter aside for further consideration and we’ll discuss it after the next phase of the operation. Agreed?”
“What do you mean, the next phase? What’s that?”
“The boy must be moved. He is still in close proximity to the abduction scene and now that the Bishop woman is involved it’s likely that exhaustive enquiries will be made. We will make arrangements to house him in a new location and you will deliver him there. Do you think you can manage that?”
“If you can manage to revise our remuneration, I think we can manage to relocate him safely.” Coetzee was trying to play the Voice at his own game, but his vocabulary wasn’t up to it.
“Good, then we are in agreement. I will call back tomorrow with the appropriate instructions and will give your request further consideration in the meantime. This is rather an important operation and we wouldn’t want to jeopardise it for the sake of a little money.”
The phone went dead and Nwosu said, “You’ve got a lot of balls, Marius. Well done! But it better be more than ‘a little money’. You were right, we’ve got the upper hand now. Let’s see how much the kid is worth.”
Coetzee said nothing. He didn’t trust anyone. Nwosu had never called him Marius before and the Voice had been too easy to persuade. This was a messy business and he didn’t like it one bit.
Now, in the hotel, he picked up the phone. “Barry, come down here, will you?”
A few minutes later the hotel manager came in. “What’s up? Is the kid OK?”
“He’s fine, but we’re going to have to move him. It’s not safe here. Make sure everything’s ready to move him tomorrow.”
“You want him still sedated?”
“Wait until the doc does his blood analysis and then we’ll see. Leave him for now to sleep normally. I’ll call you in the morning when I’ve decided what to do.”
Coetzee stood up from the desk and walked out of the hotel, only fifty metres from the room where the fifteen year old boy was sleeping. He was worried.
TWENTY-FIVE
Marbella, Spain
Jenny took her sister upstairs to a generous-sized suite with spectacular views over the Mediterranean. “This is where you’re staying. You should be comfortable here. Whatever is going on, I want you to follow your normal routine whenever you can. I know you need to keep up with your work. It’s important that you do.”
“I certainly don’t feel like it right now. And I do need a bath and a change of clothes. The only problem is, I haven’t got anything to change into.”
Jenny opened the door to a walk-in wardrobe off the bedroom. “I’ve hung a few things here that’ll probably fit you. Just try anything you like, they’ve hardly been worn at all.” Before Emma could say anything, she went on, “And please stop thanking me. You’re my sister and if I can’t help you out when you need it, what’s the point in having a sister?
“Now, I want your permission,” she went on, “to contact someone I know and trust and who saved my life a couple of years ago. He’s a very clever man, used to be Chief Inspector of the Malaga Homicide Squad and now he’s reinvented himself as a private detective. The main thing is that he’s a very nice person and he’ll treat everything with absolute discretion. Can I call him over to tell him the story? I firmly believe that he can help us.”
“If you trust him and think he can help, that’s good enough for me. But you know that I don’t have the money to pay a detective. And there’s something else worrying me. We haven’t received any message or demand for a ransom. There’s been absolutely no contact at all from these people.”
“First of all, stop going on about money. This is about bringing your son back to you. If it makes you feel any better, I’m comfortably off and I’m not spending more than I can afford. As to the ransom message, they’ve probably just realised that you’ve escaped from South Africa and are trying to find out where you are. They’ll be in touch as soon as they work out what’s happened.”
When Emma didn’t reply, she went on, “Now, take a bath and have a nap or whatever you want to do and I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready. I’m going to do some research and then I’ve got a few calls to make, so I’ll leave you to it.” She gave her a peck on the cheek and left the room.
Sitting in the shade on the terrace, Jenny started her research on her iPad. She found there were over two million items on the Rwandan genocide and opened up the first one that looked relevant. She started reading.
After two hours of researching she had filled three pages of notes with extracts copied from the various items. The sites were a mine of information. She checked on her sister a couple of times. Emma was out to the world, recuperating from her lack of sleep and emotional exhaustion. When she had finished her work she called a number from her Favourites list and had a short conversation. Then she ended the call and rang a mobile number in Malaga
After a couple of rings, a voice answered, “Si, diga me.”
“Chief Inspector Espinoza, this is Jenny Bishop. How are you?” She said.
There was a pause and an intake of breath, then, “Señora Bishop, How nice to hear from you again. But perhaps you don’t know I’m no longer a Chief Inspector, just a humble detective, trying to make a living. May I ask how you discovered my telephone number?”
“José Luis has just told me all about your new career. Congratulations, I hope you’re happy in your retirement.”
“More importantly, my wife is much happier. What can I do for you, Señora?”
“First of all, please call me Jenny. I think we know each other well enough to be on first name terms.”
“As you say, Jenny, I think we know each other well enough. So what’s the reason for your call?”
“I want to hire you for an assignment, if you agree. It’s complicated and potentially dangerous. Are you available at short notice?”
“When do you want me to start? I am, as they say, in between engagements and can be there in an hour.”
“Perfect. Gracias y hasta pronto, Pedro.”
Malaga, Spain
Pedro Espinoza replaced his iPhone on the table beside his empty coffee cup. He was sitting at his favourite tapas bar, just down the street from the Comisaría. It was one of the old habits he’d maintained since his retirement and reconciliation with his wife, Soledad. She was shopping for groceries at SuperSol, something that he wasn’t yet prepared to assist with. His mind slipped back to the business of Charlie Bishop’s death two years ago and the subsequent murder hunt for Ray d’Almeida aka Francisco García Luna, fake lawyer. Just in time, he remembered. Thanks to Sra Bishop I was just in time, but it was too close for comfort.
After this high profile case, Espinoza had reconsidered his life choices. He was working too hard and earning too little and he no longer had any home life at all. With the help of his daughter, Laura, and his old lawyer friend, José Luis Garcia Ramirez, he had managed to convince his estranged wife Soledad to come back to their family home. Being in one house together reduced their monthly costs so they could enjoy life again. Early retirement from the force provided a basic income that covered the essentials and he had enough contacts to sell his services as a consultant or private detective which enabled them to enjoy a few luxuries. He had regained his equilibrium and his family and he had never been more content.
He paid the bill and went across to his car for the drive to Marbella. If the traffic was bad it could easily take an hour and he knew that Sra Bishop was very keen on punctuality.
TWENTY-SIX
Johannesburg, South Africa
Coetzee was trawling through Emma’s website. It was crafted in two main colours, crimson and black. He supposed this was to give a subliminal dual message of blood and villainy. There was a photo of her, looking a lot happier than when she’d been with him and Nwosu. She’s a very good looking woman, he mused. Emma had eleven books to her credit, the most recent, An Extravagant Death, having been published the previous year. It had earned four stars from the several readers who had posted their reviews. From the blurb and the preview pages he saw that her two main characters were Angus Skelton, an acerbic Scottish ex-policeman and Victoria (Tory) West, a wealthy widow turned private detective. He paid seven pounds ninety-five with his Visa card and downloaded the book onto his Kindle. It might give me an insight into her mind, he reasoned, subconsciously hiding his real motivation in wanting to read what Emma had written.
Next, he looked at her Facebook profile. There was nothing of any real importance, mainly photos and articles about her latest book. No information which could help him in his research. The latest posting was a photo of her and Leo at the airport, with the status change; Off on holiday with my BRILLIANT son. Might get some ideas for my latest book. Happy Holidays everyone.
He turned his attention to the problem of Leo’s birth and the identity of his father. The Voice was very insistent on this point, so it was obviously a valuable piece of information. He took the copy of the boy’s passport that he’d retained. It said Leo had been born on April 23rd, 1995, in London. He went to the ‘Family Tree’ site on the Internet. It cost him thirty pounds to get the birth records of Leopold Stewart; Born at University College Hospital Maternity Ward, London, Mother: Emma Stewart, Father: Unknown.
“Shit!” He was no further forward. For some reason Emma hadn’t disclosed the father’s name. She had also managed to evade every question about him during their extremely unproductive interrogation. But why? What was so important or damaging that she wouldn’t reveal the name of her boyfriend or lover, or whoever the guy was? It was unlikely that she’d been artificially inseminated from an African source, especially given the hysteria around AIDS at the time. So, who was this mystery man and where was he now?
Also, the information had to be so important or potentially damaging that she hadn’t contacted the authorities, at least as far as they knew. There had been no official contact from the British Embassy nor from any police or other investigative body. She had simply run away and left her son behind without making any public outcry. There’s some reason that she can’t divulge what’s happened to Leo, he realised. But what is it?
Since he had no real information to provide, he decided to share it with Nwosu. “I know,” the sergeant replied. “I got the same answer from my contacts in London. Nobody has a clue who the father is, so I’m wondering how we can up the ante with the Voice.”
Coetzee was thinking quickly. “I’ll go in to see the boy in the morning and get it out of him. He’ll be groggy and I’ll say his father is concerned about him and maybe he’ll talk. We’ll be in an even stronger position with that bloody dictionary quoter. This is going to cost him big time.”
“Will you need any help with the removal?”
“Not necessary. There’s Lambert and the doc, and in any case you shouldn’t be seen down there. Keep that polished pate of yours out of the way and I’ll fill you in afterwards.”
“OK, so we won’t mention it, just get the moving instructions and keep our powder dry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
London, England
The man they called the Voice was sitting in an elegant sitting room with two other people. They were having afternoon tea. There were finger sandwiches, éclairs and scones on a cake stand and several small silver dishes with jams, sugar and cream on the table. The china was by Villeroy and Boch, in a pale lemon flowered design.
“So, the Stewart woman has fled to Spain and she’s with her sister in Marbella. That could be very good news for us. But why do you suppose she ran off, when her son is still in Johannesburg?” The person sitting opposite asked. He was a good looking man, well built with dark hair and a healthy sun tan, obviously not acquired in the English climate.
“We have no way of knowing of course, but as you say, this is rather an interesting development. It corroborates our premise, if there was ever any doubt about it. Mrs Stewart was most uncomfortable in the police interviews and stubbornly refused to answer any questions about Leo’s father. It would only have been a matter of time before she broke down and she couldn’t risk revealing the truth. She must have decided that she could achieve more from afar than by continuing to be subjected to the police sergeant’s charms.”
“And her first reaction was to ask her sister for help. Jenny Bishop is the only person she could turn to. This is exactly what we hoped to achieve and she has done it without any prompting from us. It actually removes one stage from the education process we planned.”
The Voice nodded, “I agree, Mr Slater. Everything seems to point in that direction.”
“The fact remains that she has escaped and we have no control over her. And we know that the Bishop woman is very practical and inventive and has substantial resources, so we have to be careful.”
“True,” the Voice replied, “But the important point is that it is she, Jenny Bishop, who has the funds that we are targeting. Ms Stewart has lost her only son and wants him back. Whatever her relationship with her sister, such a moral dilemma involving a young boy cannot be ignored. In any event, from a pragmatic point of view there is very little they can do from Spain. They obviously won’t go the authorities, so their options are virtually non-existent. To hire private investigators, instruct them and put them in place will take time and time is not their friend. I’m sure that she’s already worked out that we know the truth, or at least the most important part of the truth, so she and her sister must be preparing for a demand of some kind. We must be patient for a short while until they are ready to respond as we desire.”
“I’m being very patient. If I wasn’t, I’d already be making other arrangements. I’m not impressed with the results to date.”
The third person intervened, “I think we agree that events are moving in our favour. Let’s not waste time on squabbling. Tell Mr Slater about the new safe house.”
“Of course. As a simple precaution, since we are aware of Mrs Bishop’s reputation and her financial status, we would feel more comfortable if the boy was moved away from Johannesburg. In fact it would be much safer to move him across at least one border to obstruct any enquiries she may instigate locally. We’ve been in contact with our friends in Zimbabwe and they have offered us their hospitality. The country is not a member of Interpol and we have good connections there. For a modest fee we’ve agreed terms on the transfer. The boy will be taken by car and handed over in Beitbridge, just over the border and held safely nearby.”
“And Coetzee and the policeman? What’s the plan with them?”
“Nwosu is his name. They’re both expendable. As a matter of fact, they are foolishly trying to increase their reward. Silly men. When they get the
boy to Beitbridge we’ll ensure that they don’t cause any further nuisance. The same applies to the hotel manager and the doctor. The guard has already been dealt with. It’s not something to concern yourself with.”
“And what about the nurse?”
“She knows nothing about our involvement, nor the reasons for the abduction. She’ll be back in Cape Town tomorrow with enough money to keep her drugged and happy for a month or two. Long enough for our plan to run its course.”
“Just remember, we don’t want any trail, no tracks that could lead back to us. We can’t risk exposure of any kind.”
“Indubitably. It is our primary concern, you have our word. Once the boy is handed over in Zimbabwe and the South African people are removed, the trail will be completely cold.” The Voice took a sip of his tepid cup of tea. “However, there is one further matter which requires your approval.”
“What is it?”
The Voice coughed apologetically. “It’s a financial matter. I’m afraid that we’re about to run a little over budget. Although we will imminently rid ourselves of Coetzee and the policeman, it was necessary to temporarily increase their rewards in order to gain their continued allegiance. The Zimbabwe arrangement has also had an effect on our resources. We’re obliged to request a modest increase in the operating budget.”
“And how much is a ‘modest increase’?”
“In order to guarantee full and complete execution of the plan, we think it would be wise to provide access to a further hundred thousand dollars. We are being rather conservative here and the actual requirement will probably be less. But it’s better to be over financed than to run short once again.”
“A hundred thousand! That’s twenty five percent more. Our profit is shrinking while our risk is increasing.” He stood up and began pacing the room, a worried look on his face. “You’re sure you can’t complete this business with less?”
“I regret, but I am unable to provide such an assurance. As you know, I have been involved in several sensitive transactions, some of a somewhat similar nature and there are always some, let’s say, non-recurring, unexpected costs. This is one of those occasions and I will endeavour to ensure that there will not be another.”
The Rwandan Hostage Page 14
