by L. A. Larkin
A kick to the small of his back sends Simelane flying. He lands hard, flat on the flagstones, a shooting pain in his lumbar region. His attacker straddles him, and a powerful hand grips his mouth so he can’t call for help. There is a sharp sting in his neck. He hits out with fists, each blow weaker than the last until his limbs will not obey him. A squeaky wheel. A blurred view of a rubbish cart used by the gardeners. He feels his consciousness slipping away from him as he is manoeuvred into the cart. His last sight is a stone gargoyle high above, part-pig, part-lizard, mouth wide in a salacious grin, mocking his terror.
Barely conscious, Simelane hears a whirring noise, then a metallic screech. Something cold touches his forehead and drips down his nose. The air is heavy with damp and the mustiness of mildew. And something else. Vomit. His vomit? He tries shifting his legs. Something stops him. A stabbing pain in his lower back makes him gasp. His eyes spring open.
In the gloom Simelane at first thinks he’s still in the cloisters because before him is a wide arch, but when his vision adjusts, he realises the arch is bricked up with a wooden door at its centre. Above him, a bare bulb dangles from a high ceiling, generating the only light in a space that looks as if it was once an auto repair workshop. At one end is a four-post vehicle hoist. Simelane is vertical. He doesn’t know how he is standing up, because his legs feel like jelly. His coat has been removed and the back of his long-sleeved T-shirt is sodden from the damp wall. He shivers. He looks down and sees vomit on his chest, but his movement is restricted by something pressing against his throat. He tries to call out, his voice feeble.
To his right, a clank. A man, only just visible out of the corner of Simelane’s eye, has his back to him and leans over a workbench.
‘No one will hear you.’
His abductor doesn’t look around and continues with whatever he is doing. Simelane can hardly breathe as his panic rises and the metal restraint around his neck presses against his Adam’s apple. He wants to tear at it, but his wrists are manacled. His legs are similarly restrained.
‘Who… who are you?’
No answer. Just the rasp of metal on stone.
‘Please, what do you want?’
That grating sound. Over and over again.
‘You have the wrong person. Please. I am not important,’ Simelane pleads.
‘My client thinks you are.’
The man turns and walks towards him. He is Caucasian, wearing a green coverall and gloves, like the ones gardeners use. He has not bothered to hide his face.
‘I do not know your client. Please! Let me go! My father, he will pay you.’
‘Where I come from, this,’ the man says, holding up a machete, the polished blade reflecting the bright ceiling light, ‘is how we solve problems. Used to be, anyway. These days, it’s guns. More’s the pity.’
Simelane feels the warm wetness of his piss seeping down his thigh. If he wasn’t held to the wall by his manacles, he’d have collapsed.
‘Please,’ he begs. ‘My father! He has money. Whatever you want.’
His captor studies his skinny body as if it were a fascinating sculpture in a gallery. ‘I am an artist.’ He holds up the machete. ‘I can achieve things with this no other man is capable of.’
Simelane blubs like a baby.
‘Pathetic!’
He takes a photo with his smartphone, then walks back to the workbench. When the man returns there is no phone. He grips Simelane’s thick hair and yanks his head back into the wall.
‘This is less painful if you keep still.’
Simelane stares wide-eyed as the man raises the machete, then brings it down fast, slicing through bone. He screams, gags on the blood running into his throat. The pain is like fire on his face. The man lets go of his hair and Simelane instinctively hangs his head forward, as far as his binding permits, to ease the choking. Blood floods down his T-shirt and onto the floor. In the dirt, next to a crushed Coke can, is part of his nose.
He wails, a long wordless stream of shock and terror.
The man reappears and holds up a cheap circular handheld mirror so Simelane can see his face. There are two bony holes where his nose used to be and without an upper lip, his gums and upper row of teeth are exposed.
‘Don’t worry about your looks,’ his torturer says. ‘Your body will never be found.’
The man holds up his phone, close to Simelane’s face.
‘Smile for the camera.’
10
Ponnappa looks as though she has barely moved, wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Littering her desk are empty Red Bull cans and Thai takeaway containers, the congealed remains contributing to the stale smell in the office.
‘I thought you might pull an all-nighter,’ Wolfe says. ‘So I’ve brought breakfast.’ She holds up a bacon and egg roll and long black coffee.
‘You’re an angel,’ says Ponnappa, swivelling in her chair. She sinks her teeth into the roll.
Wolfe opens a window a few inches. The air is bracing. ‘Did you find anything interesting?’
Her mouth too full to answer, Ponnappa chews fast. Butcher walks in.
‘I did,’ Ponnappa replies. ‘Look at this.’
Wolfe and Butcher stand either side of her chair. On the screen is a FirstRand bank statement belonging to Mazwi Ximba, which has his mailing address in Johannesburg, and the current balance of the account: a little over fifteen million rand.
‘That’s about eight hundred thousand pounds,’ says Ponnappa.
‘How do we know this is the same guy as on the ZIB account?’ Butcher asks.
Ponnappa slurps some coffee, then divides her screen so they can see the signatures of Mazwi Ximba for both accounts.
Wolfe smiles. ‘Identical. You’re a genius.’
‘There’s more. This is where it gets really interesting,’ says Ponnappa, opening an article on the Soweto Urban News website. ‘Meet Mazwi Ximba.’
The article is about a secondary school in the impoverished Soweto suburb of Meadowlands West. In the two years Ximba has been headmaster, it says, the school’s dismal academic record has improved to the point where three students have been accepted by universities. There’s a photograph of a silver-haired man with a warm smile, aged mid-fifties, surrounded by boys and girls in blue school uniform, shot in the dusty playground. The tag under the photo says: Headmaster, Mazwi Ximba at Moeta High School.
‘How does a headmaster get hold of that kind of money?’ says Wolfe.
‘Well, it’s not his pay,’ Ponnappa says. ‘I checked. Nothing special there. But every week there’s a big transfer from the Bank of Tortola to his FirstRand account, and the next day it’s gone.’
‘Where does it end up?’
‘Don’t know. I can follow the trail for a bit, but it pings all over the world. Whoever set this up really knew what they were doing.’
Wolfe frowns. ‘This is dead dodgy. Why does the Chancellor have an account with a Soweto headmaster who’s moving millions around in a way that’s untraceable?’
‘Got any contacts in Johannesburg?’ Butcher asks. ‘Someone who can sniff around a bit?’
A man comes to mind. The same man Caroline asked about last night. A man Butcher is deeply suspicious of, and for good reason. Regardless, she has thought about him every day since he left the country four months ago, wondering if he ever made it to South Africa alive. Surveilling Ximba would be a walk in the park for him. Perhaps she could use this as an excuse to get in touch.
Wolfe looks up. Butcher is studying her face, a deep frown on a brow already etched with lines. ‘Someone trustworthy,’ he adds.
He knows who she’s thinking about. She’s annoyed with herself for being so transparent. She has one other contact there.
‘A South African police officer,’ she says. ‘Totally trustworthy. I’ll give him a call.’ Wolfe steps outside and breathes the crisp morning air deeply. She refocuses and dials Mike Thusago.
When she first met ‘Bra Mike’, as he’s known in Sow
eto where he was born and now works, she was writing a piece on crystal meth, produced in Soweto that ends up on British streets. It was one of her first big stories. Thusago was the only cop prepared to talk to her. They became friends. The last she’d heard, he’d been made sergeant.
‘Olivia? It is good to hear from you. How are you?’
In the background she hears the clamour of car horns and the groan of a truck dropping a gear. ‘I’m well. Sounds like you’re driving. Are you okay to talk?’
Thusago chuckles. ‘I am, Olivia. You have good hearing. I’m driving Jacob to school. I heard about the shooting. You were hit. In the head. I tried to phone you, but the hospital asked me to leave a message. Did you get it?’
‘I did, Mike, and thank you. Apart from headaches, I’m fine.’
‘You are very lucky, Olivia. So, what can I do for you?’
‘I need your help. Information on a South African man. Lives in your neck of the woods. Would you have time to look into him for me?’
‘For you, I will make time.’
‘He’s headmaster of a school in Meadowlands West–’
‘Mazwi Ximba?’
‘Yes, that’s him. You know him?’
‘Of course. He’s well-known in Soweto.’
‘Is he a friend?’ Olivia holds her breath for the response.
‘No, but he is well-liked.’
‘Okay. I need you to keep what I’m about to say to yourself.’
‘Of course. What is it, Olivia?’
‘Ximba may be involved in something criminal. He’s moving lots of money through at least two bank accounts.’
‘How much?’
‘Millions of rand.’
Thusago laughs. ‘No way. It can’t be the same man.’
‘I’m sorry to say it is.’
She can hear Thusago breathing, a truck’s brakes screeching. ‘If this is true, why is a British journalist like you interested? Soweto is a long way away.’
‘There’s a connection to somebody in England. It’s politically sensitive. Very.’
‘Okay. What do you want to know?’
‘Any criminal connections, odd behaviour recently, any links to the UK. Is he under investigation in South Africa?’
‘He’s not. I would know if he was. I will see what I can find out.’
‘He mustn’t know he’s being investigated.’
‘I understand.’
‘Thank you, Mike. Naturally, I’ll pay you for your time.’
‘I am happy to help out a friend, Olivia. No payment.’
She can hear his little boy chattering to himself in the background.
‘How old is Jacob, now?’
‘Six. A big strong boy. Loves cricket. Hates reading, but I hope he will learn. And how is Mozart?’
When Wolfe was last in South Africa, Thusago overheard some heated phone conversations between her and Cohen, who, as usual, wanted a major story at breakneck speed.
‘As cantankerous and brilliant as ever. The Post will only be available online from next month. Moz is devastated.’
‘It is the future, Olivia. The format does not matter, as long as journalists are free to write the truth.’
‘I’m not sure how many police officers would agree with you. You’re a man after my own heart.’
‘Ah, Olivia, my heart is already taken. It belongs to my wife, my son, and South Africa.’
11
Wolfe steps through the revolving doors, hot on the heels of Moz Cohen who strides across The Post’s glass-fronted lobby towards the lifts. Cohen is dressed in the same grey tweed jacket, flat cap, and Barbour oilskin coat he’s worn to and from work ever since Wolfe has known him.
‘Morning, Mr Cohen,’ says the security guard who has worked there almost eleven years.
‘Morning, Frank. Family doing well?’
‘Yes, all fine, thank you.’
‘Call me if the world comes to an end.’
‘Will do, sir.’
Wolfe has heard this familiar exchange so many times; she finds herself mouthing the words in sync with the two men.
Her phone rings. It’s Mike Thusago. Perhaps he’s changed his mind. She steps away and lets the lift go without her.
‘Mike. How’s it going?’
‘I have some information.’
‘That’s quick.’
‘I dropped in on an old friend. She’s a cleaner at Moeta High School.’
‘Ximba’s school?’
‘Yes. Look, Olivia, I need to know you’ll protect my friend’s identity.’
‘She’s an anonymous source. You have my word.’
‘All right. A few nights ago, she saw something.’
‘Her name?’
‘Mama Gcina.’
‘Mama?’
‘Yes, that is how everybody knows her. Grandmother to twelve kids.’
‘Okay, what happened?’
‘She was working. Didn’t realise Ximba had stayed late. His door was closed. Somebody was shouting. Angry. The man shouting told Ximba to stop whining. Said Ximba was getting well paid and to keep his mouth shut. Then, she says, the headmaster’s door opened and out steps Major-General Msiza.’
‘Who is?’
‘Commander of a cluster of police stations in Soweto. Ximba’s school is within his jurisdiction.’
‘Is this a problem for you, Mike? Is Msiza your boss?’
‘No, I am with the Narcotics Bureau.’
‘Okay. What do you think was going on between them?’
‘Look, bribery and corruption are rife here. But why Msiza would pay Ximba, I don’t know. I’ve only heard good things about the general.’
‘Your informant is certain it was Msiza?’
‘Oh yes, she has a particular reason to know him well.’
‘Which is?’
‘He sent her son to prison.’
Wolfe grimaces. ‘This isn’t a revenge thing, is it?’
‘No. I’ve known her all my life. She’s a God-fearing woman and she wouldn’t lie.’
‘Did Msiza notice her?’
‘Yes and no. She was mopping the floor. Msiza walked past her without a glance. After she left, the headmaster made a phone call.’
‘To who?’
‘She doesn’t know. She heard him say, “I must see you.” I guess the person asked why because the next thing Ximba says is, “I want my signature off that account.”’
‘She’s sure that’s what Ximba said?’ Wolfe asks.
‘Positive.’
‘Sounds like we’ve found the weak link. Can you keep an eye on him until I get there?’
‘You are coming to Johannesburg?’
‘Yes. I’ll text you my flight details when I have them.’
Wolfe turns around and heads for The Post’s underground car park where she’s left her Harley. She needs to get to the airport. But first she must clear it with Cohen. She dials his number.
‘It’ll have to wait,’ Cohen snaps. ‘I’m late for a meeting.’
‘How about I give you a good reason to be late?’
‘Is it front page material?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘You have thirty seconds.’
Wolfe updates him on Mazwi Ximba, how he moves the money from the Virgin Islands account to a FirstRand account and then on to another.
‘School teacher? Fuck me! I must be in the wrong business,’ says Cohen.
She adds the details of the Ximba–Msiza conversation.
‘That’s just hearsay.’
‘True, but Mike says his source can be trusted. I need to go to Johannesburg.’
‘What am I? A bloody travel agent?’
‘Give me a week.’
She hears the rap of Cohen’s knuckles on the desk. ‘Three days. And try not to get yourself killed, will you?’
12
The chauffeur-driven silver Range Rover pulls over and Casburn steps into a cream leather cocoon. As soon as he’s shut the door, the vehicle pulls aw
ay and joins the traffic crossing Westminster Bridge.
‘Sir?’ Casburn hasn’t been informed why he’s meeting his boss in this manner.
‘So, Wolfe is going to Johannesburg. You’re certain?’ Sutton asks.
‘She’s booked a flight, leaving tonight. I’ve been monitoring her credit card transactions.’
‘Interfering bitch,’ mutters Sutton. He pulls a photo from an A4 Manila envelope, which he hands to Casburn. ‘Recognise this man?’
Male, late forties, double-chin wider than his neck, low side-parting, eating caviar.
Casburn thinks he recognises him. ‘Is that Yury Sukletin?’
‘Correct. What do you know about him?’
‘Russian. Billionaire. Casinos in Russia and Las Vegas. Word is he makes his real money from prostitution and people-smuggling. Charming individual, I’m sure.’
‘He’s close to Putin.’
Casburn nods, but wonders where this is going.
‘Take a look at this.’
Another photo. Sukletin and Harold Sackville, seated in white wicker chairs, sharing what looks like Pimm’s and lemonade. Sukletin is laughing. They’re outdoors. It’s clearly hot, as they’re both wearing Panama hats, sunglasses, and what look like linen suits.
‘When was this taken?’ Casburn asks.
‘Last year.’
‘Where?’
‘A wildlife reserve near Johannesburg.’
‘So Sackville has poor taste in friends. How does this relate to our investigation?’
‘Sackville is going to Jo’burg this weekend. Without his family. And it just so happens that Sukletin is in Jo’burg the exact same time. Remarkable coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Where are you going with this, sir?’ Casburn asks. ‘You think Sackville is peddling his wares to Putin via Sukletin?’