The African Diamond Trilogy Box Set

by Christopher Lowery

  “Then Leticia talked me round and I came down here for a couple of weeks. She was a real tonic for me. She’s lovely, clever and very good company and I started to get it back together again. Since then I come more or less every two months for a few weeks and it’s done me the world of good.”

  “And the man?”

  “Well, a few months ago I met someone here in Marbella. It was at a charity dinner at the Puente Romano Hotel, very posh. He was one of the sponsors in aid of a cancer charity. He used to be quite a well-known sportsman and was in the Olympic rifle team. He won a silver medal actually, at the Barcelona Olympics in 1992. There’s a big memorabilia room in his house with all the family’s cups, medals, awards and historical documents. He comes from a very good family in Agadir, you know, in Morocco. Some connection with the royal family, It’s a really ancient family, goes back to biblical days apparently.”

  “He sounds too good to be true. Does he have a name?”

  “Everyone calls him Sam. His actual name is a dozen words long and unpronounceable. He lives about fifteen minutes along the road, up in the Marbella gated community where the old ruler of Saudi Arabia built his palace in the seventies. Lots of Arab royalty and highly placed diplomats have homes there, there’s even a mosque on the property. It’s a fabulous house and very private, acres of land around it.

  “Anyway, Patrice, Leticia’s fiancé, introduced us at the dinner and we hit it off really well. He’s very smart and sensitive with a great sense of humour and fascinating stories about his sporting career and his life here and there around the world. It made me realise how little I’ve done in my UK centric existence.”

  “I hate to ask and you don’t have to answer, but have you slept with him?”

  “Not yet, but I think we’re getting closer, cross fingers. I’m not that keen on jumping into bed with men I don’t really know, even after two and a half years of celibacy. So I’m still an occasional customer at Anne Summers.” She laughed self-consciously but felt the familiar pang of unfulfilled emotion. Since her husband Ron’s death in December of 2007 and the events of 2008, she had forced herself to keep busy. Busy enough to put aside thoughts of missing companionship, sex and possibly marriage, but at thirty-seven she knew that her chances of attracting a partner were not improving.

  Emma saw the emotion in her face. “Am I going to get the chance to meet him?”

  “He’s supposed to be coming here tomorrow for lunch. But in the circumstances I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”

  “You mean because of me? Nonsense! I’d love to meet him. It’ll take my mind off our problems. Anyway, he sounds like a good catch.”

  “Don’t start marrying me off just yet. But he is rather nice.”

  “Well, you’ve given me a tremendous amount of good advice so can I give you one piece of my own?”

  “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  “Ron’s been gone now for two and a half years, so you can’t keep hiding away from men. This might sound brutal, but you have to get on with your life again and the best way to do that is with a new partner. My arrangement with Allen isn’t ideal, but the point is it works for both of us. It keeps us sane and healthy in mind and body and free to get on with our lives. We get together when we feel the need or desire. It suits us both and that’s what counts.”

  She’s right. It’s time I moved on. Past Ron, past the Angolan Clan and past the last year of stress and aggravation. Maybe Sam’s the answer. Jenny’s reverie was broken by the sound of the gate bell. “Sounds like Pedro’s here. Time to get back to work.”

  Espinoza was bustled into the office by Encarni. He was a small man and she towered over him. He accepted her offer of a coffee, then sat facing the women. “Are we still agreed on last night’s decisions?”

  They nodded. “Bueno.” He settled himself down. “I’ve set a few wheels in motion, so we should start to get feedback this afternoon. Meanwhile, I think I’ve validated one of Jenny’s theories.”

  He handed them a printout of a newsletter from the Packard Hotel chain. “Look at the ‘Management’ section, on page three. Lambert took over at the Packard in Mayfair only two months ago.”

  “That was just a month after Galaganza’s death. So he was put in place by the kidnappers in May to execute the plan in July. They didn’t waste any time, did they?”

  “When did you book your trip to South Africa, Emma?”

  “It was last September, when we got the results of Leo’s GCSEs. I splurged out on the tickets while they were still reasonably priced and gave them to him for his Christmas present. I made the hotel bookings at the same time. It was his reward for working so hard and finishing while still only fourteen.” She shuddered. “What a reward it’s turned out to be.”

  Espinoza ignored the remark. “We’re narrowing this down. There were probably more people than you think who knew about your trip with Leo, but the plan to abduct him was only put in place in May. And it must have been planned by a person or persons who had followed the Rwandan story and heard about Galaganza dying in Benin immediately after it happened and who connected it to Leo.”

  “I want you to look at these also.” He handed over two more printouts from his morning’s research. “He’s a very interesting man, Mr Coetzee, as you’ll see.”

  Under the heading, Coetzee Security Services, there was a photo of the security chief wearing a safari jacket and a pith helmet, seated on a beautiful grey stallion. The introduction read, Place your Trust in a Team run by an Ex-Officer of the South African Special Forces. We understand Security and we understand your Concerns.

  “He looks a lot nicer there than when I met him.”

  “That’s normal. It’s his publicity face. But there’s a lot more to him than just a handsome picture.”

  Jenny was reading the BIO page. “I see what you mean. He was the youngest Major in the Special Forces and was with them for fifteen years. And in 2007 he was awarded the Honoris Crux Decoration. One of very few soldiers to receive such recognition, it says here.”

  “What was that for?”

  “That’s just the enigma.” Espinoza frowned. “It’s awarded, and I quote from the source, for exceptional acts of bravery while in great danger. I did some more research and learned that Coetzee saved the lives of a classroom full of schoolchildren who were being held hostage by pro-apartheid militants. He was entirely on his own because the local police had refused to back him up. It was a tragic affair, apparently, but not as tragic as it could have been. The school teacher was killed together with two parents, but Coetzee overcame eight gunmen to save the lives of twelve children and four parents.”

  “My God. He’s a veritable hero. It can’t be the same man who’s abducted Leo.”

  “People do things for many reasons, Emma, but the more we know about what makes them tick and how they think, the more chance we have of finding out what it’s all about and how to resolve it.”

  “And Nwosu, anything about him?”

  “Nothing, apart from his address in Diepkloof. But he’s a policeman so he’ll be easy to find out about if it becomes necessary.”

  “I’m not sure, but I think he may be gay. Just something about him. He’s definitely not a tough guy like Coetzee.”

  “Really? That’s a surprise.” Jenny slipped back into her school teacher role. “Right. Back to the detective work. Let’s look at those names again.” She had printed out several pages of her notes and read out the disappointingly few names of suspects on the first list.

  “People who knew about Mutesi/Leo:

  Dr Antoine Constance,

  Dr Tony Forrester,

  Marianne, Mutesi’s friend,

  Irene and Auguste, the two servants.

  “I think we can rule out the servants. They wouldn’t even have known if Mutesi had survived and had her baby. They had their own problems, poor souls.”

  “Agreed, Jenny. And it’s stretching things to imagine that Marianne could be involved in this plot. So we r
ule her out also. Which leaves us with only two suspects. Constance and Forrester, both doctors, both aware of Mutesi’s death and Leo’s birth.

  “Emma,” he went on. “You’ve told us a lot about Tony, but do you know much about Dr Constance?”

  “Only what I was told by Tony. Dr Constance never told me anything about himself but I could see that he considered maternity work beneath him. He was a rather supercilious person, quite aloof when he wasn’t working. Apparently he’s a reconstructive surgeon and that’s why he went down there. To help the victims who had been hacked to pieces but had somehow survived.”

  “You mean a kind of plastic surgeon?”

  “A very advanced kind. There were thousands of innocent victims who were left dreadfully disfigured and he wanted to help them to lead a normal life again. Tony was quite cynical about him. He thought he was looking for personal fame and celebrity status. You know, ‘ French Doctor Helps Genocide Victims Find a New Face and a New Life.’ It would have furthered his chance of becoming a top plastic surgeon in Paris or London.”

  “So why was he working at the maternity clinic?”

  “Because there were no other hospital facilities of any kind open. The whole national infrastructure was in a complete shambles. There was a hospital operating in Kigali, but it was closed to the public. Hutu government officials and those who had some kind of authority were admitted but only for very basic treatment, so it was really a private clinic where normal citizens couldn’t go. There was literally no hospital in Rwanda where any kind of advanced surgery could be performed. That’s why there are so many thousands of survivors with terrible disfigurements and scars, still today.”

  “So he ended up helping rape victims give birth to their illegitimate children?”

  “And he did a wonderful job,” Emma said defensively. “He managed to run that shed that we called a clinic in the most awful circumstances and he helped to save many lives. I don’t know what he did before or since, but I will always remember his dedication to the people of Rwanda.”

  “The fact remains that it’s highly probable that Constance asked Forrester about Leo after you disappeared and he learned the circumstances of his UK passport, so I conclude that we have two people of similar background with similar knowledge of what happened in Rwanda.”

  “But how could they have learned about our trip to South Africa? We’ve been out of touch for fifteen years.”

  “I think that information was easier to come across than Leo’s parenthood.”

  “Maybe, but how do we find either of them? So many years have passed since we knew where they were.” Emma was beginning to think that all this deduction was leading nowhere.

  “I’ve already put feelers out to try to find them, Emma. My old police contacts are still useful. We should soon have some further information. Meanwhile, let’s look at the people who knew about the South Africa trip.”

  He read out the names on the second list.

  “People who knew about SA trip:

  Jenny,

  Leo’s school friends and teachers,

  Alan Bridges, Emma’s publisher,

  A couple of friends,

  Travel agent,

  Emma’s bank.”

  Emma sighed in frustration. “None of these people are on the first list and I simply don’t believe any of them could have known about Mutesi and Leo. There’s absolutely no connection and I haven’t said a word about it until I told Jenny yesterday.”

  “Emma, I must tell you that I share Jenny’s mistrust of coincidences, especially in this matter. There are two separate events almost sixteen years apart, the birth of Leo, in Rwanda and the death of his probable father, Galaganza the genocider, in Benin. Then Leo is abducted in South Africa three months later. These events cannot be coincidences, there is a pattern and patterns never lie. The names on the lists are different, no name appears on both lists, therefore someone on one of those lists must have known or learned of both events and that is where the answer lies.

  “We have to do old fashioned police work to unravel this mystery and it can take a long time. Let’s go through the story again in case there’s something we missed.”

  They started following the trail again, a fifteen year old trail that somehow had to lead them to Leo Stewart.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Johannesburg, South Africa

  Coetzee arrived at the Packard at midday, his Land Cruiser was stocked with drinks and gasoline and there were blankets in the back for Leo. He went into the bungalow where the doctor was waiting. “How is he?”

  “He’s perfectly well, but getting very restless because he hasn’t seen his mother. Maybe you shouldn’t have promised so much.”

  “He’ll get over it. Right, have you got a two hour fix ready?”

  They went into the room together. Leo was dressed in a safari shirt and jeans and his bag was placed ready at the door. He was sitting on the bed looking very unhappy. “What’s going on? You told me you’d come back this morning with my mother. Where is she?”

  “She’ll be coming here any minute. She’s packing up ready to move to a hotel near the airport because I managed to wangle seats on a flight first thing tomorrow morning using the same tickets. It’s going to save her almost a thousand pounds, so she’s really happy. She’ll be even happier when she sees you.”

  Leo’s anger was momentarily abated. “I’m sorry. Thank you. You said I had to have some tests before we can go.”

  “That’s why the Doc’s here with me. He’s going to take a little blood and analyse it before this evening, but he doesn’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

  “That’s right Leo. I’m Doctor Blethin. Everything seems to be fine, but you did have quite a bad turn, so I just want to take one last look before I sign you off to go home. Can’t be too careful.” He spoke with an accent that seemed familiar to Leo.

  The doctor came towards him with the hypodermic and Leo suddenly pulled back, his memory finally kicking in. “I know you. You’re that foreigner who injected me in the toilet. Barry Lambert held me and you stuck a needle in me. Get away from me. You’re not a doctor. You’re not sticking another needle in me, you fucking weirdo.” He lashed out at the doctor, punching and kicking.

  Coetzee stepped up and grabbed Leo, restraining him while the doctor injected the needle into his arm. “Don’t worry, Leo. This is for your own good. I promise we won’t harm you.”

  “Fuck off, you bastard!” Leo struggled madly for a few moments then his body went limp and he fell back on the bed.

  “He’ll be out for about three to four hours.” The doctor said. “I didn’t want to give him more; it might be dangerous after the last few days.”

  “OK. That should get us half way to Beitbridge with a bit of luck.”

  Lambert took Leo’s suitcase and put it in the back of the car. As they were preparing to carry him out, Coetzee’s mobile rang. It was Nwosu.

  “I need to sort out a few things before I leave the station. Don’t want to leave any unanswered questions here that could cause us problems. It’ll take me an hour or so then I’ll join you. I can be there at one thirty, where will I meet you?”

  They agreed on the pick-up point and he rang off. Coetzee’s paranoia was increasing. Nwosu would never go out of his way to meet me. He’d insist I come down for him. What the hell’s he up to?

  Nwosu was sitting in the window of a café opposite the Packard Hotel. He saw Coetzee’s Land Cruiser pull away from the bungalow with the doctor sitting in the passenger seat. After fifteen minutes he put on his sunglasses and walked across to the reception, his cap pulled low over his forehead.

  “I’m Sergeant Bongani from Forbsburg Central precinct. I need to talk to the manager.” As the receptionist called Lambert he moved away from her, pretending to make a call on his mobile, his back turned to the woman.

  A moment later Lambert came towards him. Still with his back to the reception desk, Nwosu flicked his badge at him quickly so he
couldn’t read it. “Sergeant Bongani,” he announced.

  “Barry Lambert, hotel manager. What can I do for you?”

  “We’ve received a report that a teenage boy has gone missing in the area. Apparently he was staying with his mother in this hotel.”

  Lambert thought quickly. They know about Leo, but they’re too late, thank God. Better be helpful and get it over with. Aloud, he said, “That’s right. I heard about it, but he hasn’t been back and his mother left yesterday, so I don’t think there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “I need to check both their rooms, see if there’s anything to explain their disappearance.”

  “I’ll get the keys. They were in adjacent rooms on the seventh floor.”

  Lambert returned with the keys and they went to the elevator, Nwosu still looking away from the reception desk.

  “Do you need me to show you the rooms?”

  “Let’s go up together in case I have a question. It won’t take long.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Nwosu emerged from the elevator and walked unobtrusively out of the hotel. He went across to the bus station to collect his bag from the storage locker then hailed a passing taxi, “Take me to the intersection of Smit Street and the M1 north.” On the way he called a number in Brussels.

  Marbella, Spain

  Espinoza checked his watch. It was one thirty. “I’m going to try to accelerate things,” he said. “Let’s give Mr Lambert a call and see what he has to say. Sometimes shock tactics can produce results.”

  “Don’t you think he’s likely to run for the hills?”

  “Not yet. It’s too early, they must be organising themselves for the next phase of the operation. I suggest that Jenny calls and makes it fairly innocuous, just a worried call from her in the UK about her missing nephew. He doesn’t know that we’ve started unravelling their plot and it’s less threatening if it’s a woman. If we’re lucky he might let his guard down.

  “Do you have your UK mobile, Jenny?” He took it from her, dialled a number from his note pad and handed the phone back.