‘Right, if you’ve seen enough,’ he said, ‘let’s go back to my office and get started on the interview proper. We’ve got a bit of time left before lunch.’
As they walked back towards the passageway to the office block, they passed a locked door labelled Private; No Entry.
A door at the end of the corridor flew open and someone started walking towards them. His white coat was unbuttoned and flapped as he walked. His hat was sitting sideways on his head and completely failed to tame the thick mane of grey hair flowing past his shoulders. Suzanne recognised immediately the elderly man ejected from the marquee on Saturday night. He seemed to catch Atkinson’s eye as they passed each other, but neither man spoke.
Again, Suzanne thought the man looked familiar, but she still couldn’t put a name to the face. She paused and watched him continue on his way. The man’s sprightly walk certainly belied his age. As she watched, he stopped at the locked door, pulled a key from his pocket, and let himself in. She heard the key turn once more from the other side of the door.
‘That looks mysterious. What’s in there?’ Suzanne asked, but Atkinson was striding ahead of her and didn’t seem to hear her question. Or if he did, Suzanne thought, it doesn’t look like he’s going to answer me.
CHAPTER 9
Charlie was delighted that her instincts had been proved to be correct. There was indeed a connection between Mercy and Michael Hawkins. So while Suzanne pushed forward with the investigation into Sunshine Supplements, she decided it was time to make contact with the runner, to see if there was any way she could reach her quarry through her. She’d noticed a name on the back of the girl’s tracksuit: São Paulo Runners; that’s where she would start. A chat with the concierge at the hotel quickly gained her the address and advice on how to get there. Her taxi pulled up to the gates just after ten am.
But she was out of luck. When she arrived, the gate was open, but the clubhouse was locked and there was no-one around.
‘Well, what did you expect?’ she chided herself. ‘It’s Monday morning; most people will be at work.’ She checked the clubhouse hours on the door and made a note to come back later in the day. As she turned away and walked down the steps, she realised she should have checked the place out before letting the taxi go. What was the chance of picking up another cab on the street?
The sound of running feet made her turn, as a lithe but muscular man raced across the grass from the rear of the site, slowing as he approached her.
‘If you’re hoping to join, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back,’ he said. ‘The secretary doesn’t come in until after lunchtime. There’s usually no-one else around in the mornings.’
She grinned at him, deciding to go along with his assumption for the moment.
‘Yes, I realise I was being a bit optimistic,’ she said, ‘but I was so keen to sign up. Looks like I’ve had a wasted journey.’
‘Tell you what. Why don’t you hang on for a moment while I freshen up and then I’ll buy you coffee? So you won’t have completely wasted your time.’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t bother you.’ She knew that, after her experience in Zambia, Suzanne would have kittens at the idea of her going anywhere with a strange man connected, even remotely, to Michael Hawkins. But her refusal didn’t put him off.
‘No, you wouldn’t be bothering me. I always go across the road for breakfast after my run,’ and he nodded towards a café on the other side of the busy road. There were tables and chairs set up under the trees, and quite a few people were already taking refreshments there. ‘And we can sit outside in the crowd, so you will be quite safe,’ he went on with a smile, as though reading her mind.
‘Okay, well if you’re sure I’m not putting you out,’ she said, thinking to herself that Suzanne need never know, ‘then I’d love to.’ He nodded and raised his hand to indicate he would be just five minutes, before jogging away behind the back of the clubhouse.
She perched herself on a wall under a huge tree and stared into the distance. But it wasn’t the flowing traffic she saw.
It was a different country, on a different continent. Some ten years before. Her team was holed up in a remote farmhouse waiting for nightfall and their chance to escape the local militia who were searching for them. Most of the others were crashed out, trying to grab some sleep before the night’s hike. Charlie rarely slept during an operation, and she had volunteered to stay on guard. The two young aid workers they’d come to rescue sat alongside her; too wound up to sleep and unwilling to believe they were really going home. The British nurse had talked for hours, telling her about their ordeal and how they’d coped. The young Brazilian by her side had said very little, just a word or two of confirmation now and then. But his smile told her their rescue had been worthwhile.
He’d been much thinner then, his hair had been long and dirty. But today, she’d recognised his smile as soon as she’d seen him. In those days, her hair was closely shorn and bright orange. She’d been wearing army fatigues. She’d looked nothing then like she did now. And she hoped he wouldn’t recognise her. This was a complication she could do without.
In a little over four minutes, he was back, showered and dressed in jeans and a brilliant-white vest. My, you’re keen, she thought as the two strolled towards the road.
‘Felix, by the way,’ he said. ‘My name’s Felix.’
‘And I’m Rose,’ she replied, effortlessly slipping into the role she and Suzanne had worked up.
‘Such a wonderfully English name for a beautiful English lady,’ he said, taking her hand and settling her at a table. She looked at him closely to see if he was mocking her, but it was apparent from his expression he was perfectly sincere. Once he’d ordered coffee for two of them and breakfast for himself, he turned towards her, one foot hooked casually across the other knee. ‘So tell me about yourself. Are you living here?’
‘Oh, no, I’m only visiting for a short while,’ she said, ‘but I want to keep in shape, and I don’t know the city well enough to run around the streets on my own. So I thought I’d see if I could join temporarily.’
‘Very wise,’ he replied, ‘the streets of São Paulo are not that safe, even in the daytime—not to mention the unhealthy level of pollution from all this traffic.’ He pointed to the cars racing past. ‘I’m sure the club will be able to accommodate you. So you’re another runner?’ Charlie nodded. ‘Maybe we can run together sometimes.’
‘Oh, I’m only a beginner really; I’m sure you won’t want to be held back by me. You’re obviously a professional.’
She could see him beginning to preen. This was way too easy.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say I’m a professional; I just dabble really. I’m at the university.’
‘What, a professor?’ She knew he was too old to be a student, and she thought she’d flatter his ego a tad more.
‘No, no, nothing so grand. I’m a post-doc in the English department. I tend to have free periods in the mornings, which is how I manage to fit in a run.’
Charlie realised she might have struck lucky after all, even with the clubhouse being closed.
‘And were you running in the marathon yesterday?’
‘No, I’m not into long distance running; but I was there of course. Pity I didn’t meet you sooner; we could have gone together.’
She decided to ignore that but see if she could get the subject around to Mercy.
‘There were some brilliant performances, weren’t there? My sister and I had a great spot just by the finish. Some of the times were impressive, especially the women.’
‘And what did you think of Mercy, our new star?’
Bingo! thought Charlie. But she looked at him with her head on one side, pretending ignorance of the name.
‘Not sure; which one was she?’
‘Oh, you couldn’t miss her. The statuesque African woman.’
‘Right, yes, I did notice her; came second in the women’s veteran class, didn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ he laughed, ‘and wasn’t she mad about that! She’s a sore loser, is our Mercy. Apparently she had a bit of a tumble just before the finish and lost her lead.’
‘What’s her background?’
‘Not sure, really. She arrived here some time last year, I think. She runs on the track most mornings and then has lunch in the clubhouse, but she keeps herself to herself. But I do know it’s not just running she excels at. She’s a crack shot with the pistol. And I hear she’s a bit of a linguist too. She’s certainly fluent in both English and Portuguese, and she can speak at least one other language—er, Russian, I think.’ He stirred his coffee as he went on. ‘Anyway, enough of that. Where are you staying? I’d love to take you out to dinner one evening; get to know you better.’
The man was still flirting with her! Obviously gaydar hadn’t reached this side of the Atlantic. Charlie smiled shyly up at him.
‘That’s so kind of you; and in other circumstances, I’d love to. But I have a partner back home; and it wouldn’t be fair...’ Then she drained her cup and stood up. ‘Look, thanks so much for the coffee. But I must get back now; I’ve got a ton of notes to write up.’ His look of disappointment quickly gave way to his beaming smile.
‘He’s a very lucky man, this partner of yours. It was a pleasure to meet you, Rose.’ And as she walked away she heard him call after her. ‘And don’t forget about that run; let’s do it one day soon. I’m always here around nine.’
CHAPTER 10 (Cape Town, October 1955)
There was much confusion, noise and bustle as we docked. The captain was on the bridge manoeuvring the Prince Albert into its place between two other equally disreputable looking vessels, one a fishing trawler and the other another cargo ship. His crew was busy attending to their duties. Once the gangplank was in place, I waited until the deck was clear, then scurried down to the jetty and raced towards a huge stack of pallets against the side of a warehouse.
It was only a short distance in reality, but it felt like a marathon by the time I got there. I stood, bent over, with my hands on my knees, panting, until I could breathe normally once more. Then I straightened and peered around the side of the stack, back towards my former home. There was no-one in sight; no hue and cry. It looked as though my disappearance had not yet been noticed. Or maybe they just didn’t care. Either way, I was free. I was never going to let myself be used by those dreadful men again. But if I ever got the chance, I would get my own back on them; that much I knew. I took a deep breath, checked the empty deck one final time and slipped off to start my new life.
Sensing I would be safer in a crowd than in a deserted place, I headed for the passenger terminal, where an oceangoing liner had recently docked. People were pouring down the gangplank, meeting friends and relations on the jetty, streaming towards cars and taxis. I stopped, looking around, wondering where I should go. My stomach was rumbling; it had been a long time since the watery stew of the previous night. I had a few coins in my pocket, left over from the returns on empty bottles we’d scavenged back in Liverpool and I wondered if I’d be able to use them here in this strange land.
‘Boy, hey, you boy! Don’t just stand there. Give me a hand!’ I spun on my heel as something hit me on the back of the leg. A very small man with a very large suitcase was standing behind me puffing and blowing. The case had hit me as he dropped it to the floor. ‘Come on, boy,’ he went on, pulling out a handkerchief and mopping the sweat from his brow, ‘give me a hand. There’s a shilling in it for you.’
He spoke in the same strange accent as the sailors, rather like American but not quite. But his words were clear enough. Shrugging, I picked up his suitcase and smiled at him.
‘Sure thing, mister; where to?’
‘This way; follow me,’ he replied, waddling off in the direction of the taxi rank. He was a fussy little fellow, who took his time choosing the right car. The first one was too small; the second one was too dirty. But the third one satisfied him and I gave the case to the driver. I’d seen a few black men on the docks in Liverpool before we’d left, but this was the first one I ever spoke to. He grinned at me and winked. The owner paused as he reached for the door handle, putting his hand in his pocket and pulling out a silver coin.
‘Here you are, boy,’ he said, thrusting the coin into my outstretched hand. ‘Much obliged to you!’ Then climbing into the taxi, he settled himself in the back seat and closed his eyes.
I stared at the coin in my hand. It looked just like the ones back home, with the young queen’s profile on the front. I had no idea how long it would last out here, but I hoped it would be enough to buy me some breakfast.
I wandered out onto the street and looked for a café. There was one directly opposite that looked perfect. It was just a little run down, open even at this early hour, and with a mixture of customers; some well-dressed, but most, like me, showing the signs of a long journey and a hard life. I pushed the door open and went in.
Taking a seat near the window, I watched closely, both inside the building and out. Outside, I kept an eye out for the crew of the Prince Albert. I guessed they would be tied up for hours unloading their cargo, but didn’t want to risk one of them finding me and dragging me back to the ship. But I also watched the customers coming in, to see how this place worked. After a few minutes, it became clear no-one was going to come and see what I wanted; I had to go to the counter to order. I strolled across and waited my turn in the short queue.
There was a board on the wall behind the counter with the menu and prices. I was pleased to see I could buy a decent meal and still have change left out of my shilling. When my turn came, I ordered a cooked breakfast and tea; and ate better than I had certainly for six weeks and, in fact, for far longer than that.
As I ate, I pondered my next move. It was imperative to get away from the docks. The more distance I could put between myself and the crew of the Prince Albert the better. I needed somewhere to stay and some way of earning money. But if my experience so far was anything to go by, the money side of things wasn’t going to be too difficult. Maybe Father Pat had done me a favour after all. I was never going to forgive that Bible basher for setting me up like he did, but it looked like South Africa might just be a reasonable alternative to America.
Outside on the street once more, I turned my back on the sea and started walking towards the city proper. It was still early, a little after nine o’clock and the shops were just starting to open, but the sun was already beating down on the pavements. In the distance, the flat top of the mountain shimmered in a heat haze.
The citizens of Cape Town were a varied lot. There were white folks, mostly poor looking ones in this part of the city; so I felt right at home and didn’t worry that I would be told off for being where I shouldn’t be. There were brown skinned, exotic looking people; the women in brightly coloured saris or cotton trousers and tunics, the men in light suits, open necked. I don’t think I saw a necktie once during that first walk through the city. But by far the most numerous were the blacks. They crowded the streets, shopping for food, stopping to chat, laughing and joking. But only to each other. The white folks talked among themselves; as did the Asians; and as did the blacks. It was a way of life that would last for another thirty years, and one I found difficult to get used to, although it didn’t necessarily hold with me and the group I got to work and live with.
After walking for half a mile or so, I saw a sign that brought me up suddenly and the answer was so obvious, I had to laugh. I was standing outside the main railway station on the corner of Alderley Street. This was another place where people came and went all day long. Where heavy bags needed to be carried. And where the people owning those bags were willing to pay a little for the privilege of not having to carry them themselves. I had found my first objective.
I slipped through the doors in the imposing stone-clad frontage and took up a position at the back of the concourse, watching everything that went on. Taxis and other cars stopped
outside the station and passengers walked to the ticket office to pay their fare, then across the concourse, under the massive glass archway at the other end of the building and down the steps to the platforms lined up across the station, with a ticket barrier stretching along one end. There was a small seating area on the concourse for anyone who had arrived too early to go onto the platform. Many of the people using this area looked quite down at heel and I doubted they would be willing to spend money on someone else carrying their bags.
Then I spotted a discreet door near to the ticket office, with a sign indicating it to be the first class lounge. Now there was a place where people with money would congregate. I sauntered across the concourse, taking up a position just opposite the doorway. Almost immediately, it swung open and a young couple came out; he dressed in morning suit and cravat; she in silks with a fox fur around her neck, despite the heat. I smiled at the woman, guessing she would be an easier catch than the man.
‘Carry your bag, lady?’ I said, bowing slightly. She smiled back and although the man went to walk straight past me, she pulled on his arm to stop him.
‘Come on, Johnny, don’t be a bore. Let the boy carry the cases.’
I picked up the two bags he dropped and followed the couple across the concourse, down the steps and through the barrier of platform 7. They were heading up north to Johannesburg, although judging by the size of their cases, they could well have been travelling much further afield. Johnny showed their tickets to the inspector on the barrier, but he just waved me through after them. And as easy as that, I was in. We stopped at the first class carriage, I took the cases into their compartment and stowed them on the luggage racks above the seats. Johnny patted his pockets, pretending to look for some coins, but his companion laughed at him and pushed two shillings into my hand.
‘It’s alright, Johnny, I’ve sorted it,’ she said.
Deception! Page 6
