The African Diamond Trilogy Box Set

by Christopher Lowery

  “Sure. I’ve been there before; I can find any place if I know the name.” He looked at his watch. “Tell them we’ll be there by eight forty-five.”

  The younger man closed the phone and sat back, trying to get comfortable in the cramped space. He placed another piece of gum in his mouth. “So. Who’s this guy, Marius Coetzee and the kid? What’s the story?”

  “I don’t know and I care less. My Greek ancestor had a motto. He said, the less you know about people the easier it is to kill them.”

  Greg looked impressed. That was the longest sentence he’d heard the old man speak. “Is that right? Did he really say that?”

  “Don’t be a fucking idiot! He died a million years ago. Who the fuck knows what he said?” He gave a contemptuous laugh and lapsed back into silence.

  The big man looked at him in disgust. Arrogant bastard. Old and past it. He should retire. Maybe I should retire him myself. He shifted into a less uncomfortable position, replaced his earphones and chewed his gum.

  Plato reached for a bottle of water and took a swig. It was warm in the car and he didn’t want to get dehydrated before going into action. He wasn’t as young as Gregory Capstick anymore.

  Delmas, Mpumalanga, South Africa

  “Time for supper!” The blonde woman called up the stairs. “Switch off for tonight, it’s eight o’clock.”

  Five minutes later her daughter came running down to the kitchen. “What are you making? I’m starving.”

  “Pour some water and grab a couple of cokes from the fridge. I bought some pork sausages and bacon and I’m doing a fry-up. OK for you?”

  “Hmm. Sounds great. I’ll set the table.”

  At eight fifteen they were sitting eating their supper at the big oak table, chatting about the day’s events. Mobile phones and other gadgets weren’t allowed at meal times. The sun had gone down and it had become chilly, so she’d lit a fire in the wide fireplace. The sound of the crackling logs made a pleasant background noise and the flames threw shadows across the room. Old fashioned values reined in their small family and they both looked forward to this precious time together.

  The farmhouse was a massive, sprawling building, or rather a collection of buildings, that had been her ancestor’s working farm for several generations, until no one in the family wanted to farm anymore. It was situated on the south side of the R42, not far from the golf club in Delmas, a farming community of about seven thousand souls, seventy kilometres due east of downtown Johannesburg. She and her husband had spent every weekend for two years driving over from Joburg to convert it into a habitable residence. The living room consisted of three stables transformed into one vast space with crossover beams high above their heads and old fashioned wooden-framed windows on all four walls. Some of the outbuildings had been connected to the main house to form a quadrangle behind, where they’d built a swimming pool and sun deck for the children they hoped to have.

  The woman worked at the nearby Pleasant View Grape Farm, helping to grow a fine selection of table grapes, harvested for the production of a variety of white, red and rosé wines. It could hardly have been more removed from her previous job as a high profile journalist for a top-selling daily newspaper in Johannesburg, but she loved her new vocation. The predictable and never ending seasonal changes gave her a sense of comfort and certainty and the gradual transformation of the vines from dirty looking weeds to luscious fruit-bearing greenery was a continual reminder of the renewal and vitality of life.

  Above all, she relished every moment spent with her daughter, thankful every day for the divine intervention that had brought their lives together. Three years after the event, she tried not to reflect on the dreadful moments they had experienced in the township. Although through her unconscious self she re-lived the trauma too often in her dreams.

  Her reverie was broken by the barking of their two black Labradors, who raced to the front door. Her daughter got up from the table. “That’s the front door bell. Who could be calling at this time of night?”

  “Wait!” She jumped up and caught the girl’s arm. “I’ll look through the spy hole. I’ve told you before not to open the door before checking.”

  She walked through the kitchen to the entrance hall and switched on the outside light. “Oh no!” she thought, seeing the uniform through the hole. “Not another visit from the police. I thought they’d finally laid it all to rest.” She called out, “Who is it? What do you want?”

  “Good evening,” a man’s voice answered. “I’m Sergeant Bongani from Johannesburg Police Department. I’m very sorry to trouble you, but it’s about your husband. Can I please speak to you for a moment?”

  The woman looked worriedly at her daughter. “Take the dogs upstairs and I’ll bring him into the living room. It’s probably nothing important.” She sounded more confident than she felt. Why would a policeman from Johannesburg be knocking on their door at eight in the evening? Has something happened to Marius?

  She pulled back the deadbolt and unlocked the door. “Good evening, Officer” she said nervously. “What’s happened?”

  It was ninety-four and a half hours since Leo had been taken.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Phalaborwa, Limpopo, South Africa

  Leo was in the toilet with the door locked, checking Blethin’s phone. There was no text from his mother and the red warning light was on. The screen read, Emergency calls only.

  He quickly typed, at Olifantsrivier Lodge in Phalaborwa with Coetzee. Plse come for me. LXX

  As he pressed Send, the screen went dark and the phone died in his hand. “Shit.” He put it back in his pocket then flushed the toilet, ran the tap in the wash basin and went out to the terrace, wiping his hands. Coetzee was preoccupied with his laptop and didn’t pay any attention to him.

  “Are we going to have anything to eat?”

  The South African looked up and laughed. “I’ve never seen anyone or anything eat as much as you can, and that includes a twenty-ton elephant. Get the room service menu.”

  They were looking at the menu when Nwosu’s mobile rang. It was a Joburg number that Coetzee didn’t recognise. “Hang on,” he said. “I’ll see who this is.” He walked into the living room. “Hello?”

  Nwosu’s voice said, “There’s someone who wants to talk to you, Marius. Hold on.”

  A moment later a woman’s voice said, “Coetzee, I’m so sorry.” He heard a sob and nothing more.

  “Karen?”

  Nwosu came back on the phone. “That’s right, Coetzee. I’m presently a guest in Karen and Abby’s house. It’s a very nice place as I’m sure you know.”

  “What the fuck do you want, Nwosu?”

  “Don’t get upset, Coetzee. Something precious might get broken. You know what a short temper I have. I’ve got a very simple transaction to propose. Would you like to hear it?”

  The South African clenched and unclenched his fist. If Nwosu had been in the same room he’d be a dead man by now. Take your time, he told himself, be patient. There’ll be time for revenge. There always is. He gritted his teeth, thinking frantically. “I’m listening,” he said.

  “Look, Marius. This couldn’t be simpler. You have something I want; Leo, and I have something that you want; your wife and daughter. The easiest and safest thing to do is just swap them over and everyone will be safe and happy.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  “Well, we don’t want to make a public spectacle of ourselves, so it has to be done in a nice, quiet, private place. As a matter of fact, this house is perfect. Bring Leo here and I leave with him and you stay with Karen and Abby. Job done!”

  He missed out the bit about killing me, he reflected. “And what happens to Leo?”

  “I take him to Beitbridge and he’ll be released when the ransom gets paid. It’s what we agreed to do, but for some reason you screwed it up and ran off with Leo. You’ve been paid for your work, so just give him up and get on with your life.”

  He doesn’t know a
bout the Zimbabweans, realised Coetzee. Nor about the story I told the Voice. He hasn’t spoken to him because he’s lost the boy. What happens when he gets Leo and calls him back? Even if I survive I’m a dead man and probably so is Leo, that’s what happens.

  “What do you say, Marius? You don’t want to risk anything happening to your family, do you? I don’t think they’d appreciate being put second to a kid you didn’t even know a few days ago.”

  Nwosu put the phone to Karen’s mouth again. Both she and Abby were sitting on a window bench, hands bound behind them. The dogs were upstairs, barking intermittently behind the locked bedroom door. “Please, Marius.” She cried. “Please come to get us. Abby is frightened to death and you know why. She can’t go through this again. You have to come to help us.”

  Coetzee’s heart sank. Karen was right, there was no turning back. “Has he hurt you or Abby?”

  “No. We’re OK, but we can’t take any more of this. Promise me you’’ll do what he wants.”

  “Don’t worry, Karen. I’ll be there.”

  “I heard that, Marius. A very sensible decision if I may say so. Where are you? How long will it take you to get here?”

  Coetzee quickly calculated distances and time.

  “We’re a long way away. It’s about a six hour drive, so we’ll be there in the early hours. Meanwhile, just remember, if you lay a finger on my family, you won’t live long enough to regret it.”

  “Don’t worry, Coetzee. I promise to treat them as I would my own loved ones. By the way,” he added, “don’t forget to bring Leo, will you?”

  Coetzee sat for several minutes, thinking about the call. He blamed himself entirely for the crisis Karen and Abby were in. If only I hadn’t humiliated Nwosu and left him behind, if only I hadn’t tried to cut him out of the deal, if only…

  He took the book he’d shoved into his bag and removed the photo of Karen and Abby. I was an idiot to lose you last time. It’s not going to happen again.

  Coetzee stopped thinking about the past and switched to the present, his military training taking over. Nwosu was probably armed but his shoulder couldn’t have healed by now. The advantage would be with him, but he would be surrounded by three vulnerable people, his wife, daughter and Leo. He started to work out the strategy that had come to his mind a few moments ago. A strategy to turn the tables on Sergeant Jonathon Nwosu.

  London, England

  “Coetzee and the boy are still at the lodge in Phalaborwa.” The Voice read the text from his mobile. “It seems they haven’t moved at all. They’re presumably staying there for the night, so I think we can rely on the Zimbabweans to take control of the situation very shortly.”

  “And what about Sergeant Nwosu. Are we just going to forget about him?”

  “At the moment, I’m afraid there is absolutely nothing we can do about the good sergeant. Until Coetzee can be interrogated we won’t know his whereabouts, nor the circumstances of their separation, although one can hardly imagine that it was an amicable divorce.”

  Delmas, Mpumalanga, South Africa

  “There. That wasn’t too dificult was it?” Nwosu laughed. “I see there’s still some warm food left. It looks delicious. You don’t mind if I help myself? I’ve been driving for quite a while and it’s going to be a long night.”

  He brought a stacked plate and sat at the table, gobbling the food and ignoring them.

  Karen sat close against her daughter, hoping to bring some comfort from the warmth of her body, whispering positive and reassuring messages, trying to help her forget the memories which she knew would be invading the girl’s mind. Memories of her school in Alexandra, on a Thursday in March, three years ago.

  ALEXANDRA

  JOHANNESBURG, 2007

  FORTY-NINE

  March 2007

  Alexandra, Johannesburg, South Africa

  Alexandra is one of South Africa’s poorest and most dangerous townships, about sixteen kilometres north east of central Johannesburg. Ironically, it is close to Sandton, one of the wealthiest suburbs of the city. It was 17th March 2007, a warm, sultry morning and a cloudy sky threatening rain and probably thunderstorms. Karen was visiting the school to interview students, parents and teachers as part of a report commissioned by her newspaper. A devastating exposé of the poverty gap and treatment of blacks in wealthy areas, which still continued despite the accession of the African National Congress government under Nelson Mandela. Several parents had agreed to attend the session and there were nineteen people sitting with her on the floor of the large, windowless room at the rear of the building that served as an assembly hall and gymnasium; twelve teenage children, their teacher and six parents.

  Thirty minutes after the start of the interviews, the alarm bell rang. There was no other noise and thinking it was a fire drill the teacher led everyone out into the corridor to take them outside. The corridor was already thronged with screaming children, the staff attempting vainly to evacuate the building in an orderly fashion.

  They tried to make their way to the main entrance, but couldn’t fight through the crowd of panicking children. Karen’s heart jumped when she heard a noise like thunder coming from outside. She suddenly had a premonition of trouble. The sound came closer and she realised with horror it was gunfire. An armed attack.

  The teacher shouted, “This way,” and they turned and ran back along the corridor towards the rear entrance, struggling through the chaotic melee that surrounded them. They turned right at a sign marked Emergency Exit. As the three leaders turned the corner the sound of a fusillade of shots rang out. They had run in the wrong direction. They were blown backwards, their lifeless bodies thrown into the path of the others, blood gushing from their gunshot wounds and running across the filthy wooden floor. Screams erupted from the remaining parents and children as they ran back around the corridor and flung themselves to the ground. They clung to each other, terrified, wailing, and huddling together on the unexposed side of the passage.

  Karen made sure no one else was hurt. “Wait here and don’t move. Don’t try to run or they’ll shoot again. Just stay still and quiet,” she said. Then steeling herself, she walked slowly forward with her hands in the air, looking in disbelief at the lifeless corpses of the people she had been talking to only minutes before.

  As she approached the corner, she called, “Don’t shoot! We have children here. Show mercy, we can’t hurt you.” There was no reply and she walked forward with her hands in the air, alone and frightened to death. In front of her stood eight men carrying an assortment of rifles and hand guns. To her astonishment she saw they were all white men. They had no insignia of any kind on their clothing.

  “Please.” she called again, “We have children with us.”

  “Who are you?” A slim, fair haired man with a wispy beard stepped forward. She noticed he had a squint, one of his eyes was looking straight at her but the other looked to the side.

  “My name is Karen Spellman.” She gave her maiden name, somehow sensing it could be important.

  He gestured with his pistol towards the passageway. “How many people with you?”

  “Twelve children and four adults. There are three people dead in the corridor.”

  He gestured again with the gun. “Tell them to come forward.”

  Karen noticed that his bad eye twitched nervously from time to time. “Do you promise not to hurt them?”

  “If they come forward quietly they won’t be harmed.” He said to the other gunmen, in Afrikaans, “Don’t touch them. We need them alive. This is our lucky day.”

  Karen signaled to the others to come forward. They were shaking with fear, the parents herding the crying children between them.

  The man looked at the terrified group and spat on the floor. “Why is a white woman co-mingling with this black trash?”

  “I’m visiting the school to write a story about education in the townships.” She didn’t dare tell them the truth about her mission. Karen had already realised that these men wer
e members of a right-wing pro-apartheid militia. She didn’t know which, perhaps the Boeremag, the Farmer Force, or the Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging, the Afrikaner Resistance Movement, but it didn’t matter. She knew they would kill her along with the others without a second thought if they knew she was there to try to sway public opinion in favor of the blacks

  “So you’re a journalist? What paper?”

  “The Johannesburg Sun. I live in Joburg, not Sandton.” She wanted to dispel any impression of wealth that could make her a hostage target.

  “That’s your bad luck and our good luck,” he replied. “You should have stayed where you were. You came to the wrong school on the wrong day. You’re going to regret that.”

  There was no one else in the corridor and an eerie silence now pervaded the atmosphere. It seemed that the school had been successfully evacuated, apart from them. The man pointed to a classroom on the corner of the corridor. Like the rest of the classrooms, there was no glass in the windows. “In there!” He ordered.

  The children went to the back and Karen and the four remaining parents sat in the front. A man was posted in the corridor at each end of the classroom, so they could cover both approaches. The other men took the mobile phones from those who were carrying them then pulled seats up by the teacher’s desk and sat facing them. None of them spoke and two men with rifles held them at the ready, waiting for an order from the leader.

  He sat on the teacher’s desk with the pistol in his hand, smoking and looking over the bedraggled group of blacks. His eye twitched more frequently as though he was becoming angry.

  Karen tried to defuse the mounting tension. “What’s this about? Can you tell me what’s happening?” Now she could hear sirens outside. The police response had been rapid, considering Alexandra’s reputation. Often the authorities waited until any disturbance had been settled between the protagonists before arriving on the scene to sort out the dead and wounded.