by L. A. Larkin
‘Okay. But I think one of the victims was murdered in Africa, possibly South Africa.’
‘How so?’
‘Look at the old man. See the tree?’ She pauses while Butcher finds the right image. ‘That tree bugged me. I’d seen one like it before. Now I remember where. Outside Ximba’s school. Give me a sec and I’ll google it.’ She searches, using the tree’s identifying features: long thorns and large ear-shaped seeds. She finds what she’s looking for. ‘Got it. It’s a camel thorn. Found mainly in Southern Africa.’
Butcher considers this for a moment. ‘Have you talked to Casburn? You should brief him as soon as possible.’
‘Tried to. Left him a message.’
Butcher taps a finger on the cleft of his chin, thinking. ‘There’s something else. Not related to this investigation.’ He looks at her sheepishly. ‘I’ve got someone keeping an eye on Davy.’ Her brother.
Wolfe frowns. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘I’d have thought that was obvious, Liv. He blames you and me for his jail time.’
‘He’s harmless, Jerry.’
‘Maybe not. He was seen talking to a PI. This guy is the scum of the earth. An ex-crim. He passed Davy an envelope. Looked like cash.’
The tip of Wolfe’s tongue plays with the stud in it. ‘Okay. That’s weird.’
‘Yes, I thought so too. Maybe Davy’s being paid for information?’
Her phone rings. Thusago is trying to reach her. ‘Jerry, gotta go. It’s Mike. We’ll talk soon.’
Wolfe connects to her incoming call.
‘What’s so urgent?’ says Thusago, abruptly.
Wolfe tells him about the gruesome images and the news she is being watched.
‘I think you should leave town,’ she says. ‘Take your family away. Somewhere unexpected.’
Thusago is silent.
‘I’m so sorry, Mike. I wish I’d never involved you,’ she says.
‘You think he killed Ximba, don’t you?’
‘It makes sense.’
‘I will not run.’
‘Your wife and son need you. Stay with a friend. Take a holiday.’
‘I will think about it.’
The line goes dead.
34
Samuel looks straight at Wolfe as she peers out of her motel room window. But she can’t see him, parked down the road, the setting sun in her eyes. He thought she’d noticed him when he was in the second-hand car lot, which is why he’d driven away, nice and casual. Then double-backed later.
Stake-outs drive him crazy. And boredom stresses him. And when he’s stressed the grafted skin on his neck gets itchy, like a healing scab.
He undoes the top button of his collared polo shirt and scratches the raised, square-shaped patch of skin on his neck. It has never felt like it belongs to him, like a large Band-Aid forever stuck to him. The transplanted skin came from his thigh, which, like the rest of him, is hirsute, but for some reason the graft has always been hairless. So it stands out. Draws people’s stares. Which is why he’s stuck with wearing collared shirts.
As he thinks about Msiza, his nails dig deeper into his skin. That parading peacock couldn’t even manage to find Ximba’s laptop. Nobody seems to know where it is. Not even Funani. Does Olivia Wolfe have it?
His client wants it to protect the syndicate. Samuel wants it because of the photos he emailed Ximba. If the boss knew he’d been sharing pictures of his kills, he’s pretty sure he’d find himself hunted by another assassin. At the very least, it’s bad for business.
He reckons the black kid helped Wolfe steal Ximba’s laptop. It will take her a while to bypass the encryption, and even if she does, she won’t be able to trace the file back to him. He’s used a VPN. And the victims’ bodies will never be found. Except for the local guy maybe. Samuel left something behind. It was a joke. He couldn’t resist doing it. Now he wishes he hadn’t. Were the accolades he got worth it? His followers in various dark web chat rooms said he was a genius. A magnificent statement. So yes, it was worth it. At the time.
Now he has to clear up his mess.
His phone rings. The boss. Samuel shifts in his seat, uneasy. The call is unexpected.
‘Yes?’ Samuel answers.
‘The journalist. Olivia Wolfe. I want her dead.’
Relieved this is not about the photos, Samuel asks, ‘How?’
‘I want her to disappear. No body.’
Samuel smiles. ‘Thank you,’ and he means it.
Wolfe leaves her room, crash helmet in hand, and scampers down the steps to the car park. She’s changed her clothes. Looks like she has lipstick on.
‘Got to go, boss. She’s on the move.’
Wolfe gets on her motorbike. She has a bag on her back. Could the laptop be in it? The bike’s engine growls into life. Samuel is torn. Follow her or search the room? Follow.
He’ll come back and search the motel later. Samuel turns the bakkie’s raspy ignition. She takes a left. He’s facing the other direction, parked on the right-hand side of the road. The evening traffic is heavy. Slow-moving. Wolfe accelerates, weaving through the traffic jam. Samuel forces his way out into the traffic, but he can’t make the U-turn. A tanker truck blocks him. He cranes his neck around, watching his target disappear.
‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’
35
The overweight, white-haired Sergeant Donaldson leans back in his chair. It’s patently obvious to Dan Casburn that Donaldson is on the home stretch to retirement and has no intention of letting an outsider rock the boat.
‘As I’ve already explained,’ Donaldson sighs, ‘there’s nothing to investigate. It was a traffic accident, man.’
‘With the greatest of respect, there’s plenty to investigate,’ says Casburn. ‘Mazwi Ximba was under investigation. He was linked to a UK national. Possible money laundering. The morning he died he was going to meet a journalist. Perhaps he was going to tell all. We’ll never know, because he was conveniently killed in a road accident. The truck driver doesn’t brake. Flees the scene. The accident happens at a CCTV blind spot. What does all this say to you?’ Casburn asks, the derision in his voice barely disguised.
‘Says he was having a run of bad luck.’ The officer grins, then possibly realises he’s gone too far. He clears his throat. ‘Sir, you haven’t shown us a shred of evidence. You won’t even give us the name of this British person he was allegedly working with.’ Donaldson leans forward. ‘Ximba was a model citizen. Liked and respected.’ He checks his watch; he wants to go home.
Casburn blinks once and his jaw sets tight, slicing in half the Nicorette gum he’s been chewing.
‘At least get forensics to fingerprint the truck cabin,’ Casburn says.
‘Ach, sorry. No can do. Gone to the scrapyard.’
Casburn looks at the wall behind Donaldson, at a photo taken when he was a young officer. A graduation ceremony. Every face is white. Casburn isn’t really interested in the photo. He’s buying himself thinking time. The message is loud and clear: Ximba’s death is not going to be investigated and South Africa’s police force is not going to co-operate, contrary to Msiza’s warm promises of support.
What a waste of time.
Casburn’s mobile rings. He grabs it, sees the caller ID is Olivia Wolfe, the last person he wants to talk to. He declines the call, switches the ringer off and pockets it. Donaldson uses the break in their conversation to walk to the door and open it.
‘Sergeant, I have a few more questions, and in the spirit of co-operation between our two forces I hope you can spare me a few more minutes of your precious time.’
This time the sarcasm is not lost on the sergeant.
‘My pleasure,’ he replies, with equal sarcasm. He closes the door and slumps down into his desk chair.
Casburn goes for the jugular. He’s got nothing to lose.
‘Can you explain why Major-General Msiza is involved in this case if we are just dealing with an accident?’
‘You are mistaken. He is not
.’
‘I’m confused. Why then would he visit Funani Ximba a few hours after the accident?’
‘Ah, he was simply paying his respects to the mayor’s sister.’
‘I see.’ Casburn sees very clearly. ‘Your officers removed items from Ximba’s home. I’d like to see them.’
‘Of course.’
Casburn stands.
‘If you find the truck driver, I’d like to question him. Here is my card. Call me on that number.’ He places his business card on Donaldson’s desk. ‘Thank you for your time.’ You arsehole, he thinks.
Casburn holds his cool until he reaches his hire car, then he kicks a tyre. His first investigation as leader of SO24 is going nowhere and he looks like a complete twat. Everywhere he turns he’s blocked. He hates feeling powerless. And he detests lazy coppers. His phone vibrates, and he checks the screen. It’s his boss, Sutton. Perfect!
‘Sir?’
‘The Chancellor has cancelled his African trip.’
Casburn wants to swear, but he holds his tongue.
‘Do you know why?’
‘No, but I think it would be fair to surmise that somebody informed him that you were asking awkward questions about his co-signatory.’
‘So, Sackville is going to try to distance himself,’ says Casburn. ‘Is Sukletin still coming?’
‘Yes, but he changed his plans. Dropped his visit to Jo’burg. Flies into Zimbabwe Saturday morning. And out Sunday evening.’
‘Landing at Harare?’
‘No, Buffalo Range Airport in the south.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘I suspect that’s the point.’
‘Then where?’
‘We don’t know. You need to be at Buffalo Range Airport before Sukletin lands. Your visa has been arranged.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘How are you finding the local police?’
‘Unhelpful. Obstructive. I’m beginning to doubt Msiza, sir.’
‘Then work solo. You haven’t much time before Sukletin arrives. Find out what’s going on. I’m relying on you, Casburn.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Casburn sits in his car for a while, grappling with his next move. He didn’t get any sleep last night. Not that it would normally bother him. But he knows when he’s been outmanoeuvred, and it galls him. Maybe Wolfe knows something helpful? Should he return her call? His mouth is parched. He really could do with a drink. A strong drink.
Fuck that. Wolfe will just pump him for information. He’s had enough.
He drives to the nearest bar. He plans to stay there until they kick him out.
36
The dog fight has started. He can hear the savage snarls, the yelps of pain, the men surrounding the pit yelling, ‘Kill, kill, kill!’
Samuel is parked outside the abandoned JMT building in Newtown. The whole decrepit warehouse is covered in graffiti, like scars on the fighting dogs. The punks who do it call it ‘street art’ and say their inspiration is Roger Ballen. Do they think the pit bulls give a shit? Or that the punters even notice? Or that the bums who huddle here at night feel better about their fucked-up lives because of it? He snorts a derisory laugh.
Samuel knows what true art is.
He started with animals. As a kid, it was cats. Drowning, strangling, smashing. But after the initial thrill, there was nothing to keep the memories alive. So, he started borrowing his father’s camera and photographing the bodies, arranging them in patterns, secretly developing the film.
His family’s tobacco farm in Vaalwater in South Africa’s Limpopo province was beset by black thieves who would climb the fence to steal the maize, their secondary crop. At twelve, Samuel’s daddy taught him to use a rifle. They’d shoot to kill. At first, Samuel didn’t know what happened to the bodies, then one day he discovered severed human feet in the freezer, buried deep beneath the meat. ‘My trophies,’ his daddy explained. ‘Don’t you go messing with them, you hear me?’ Three years later Samuel found a naked thirteen-year-old white girl in the maize. Dead. Bloody, it looked like she’d been raped too. She looked so pretty, but he could make her look better. Samuel took the severed black feet from the freezer and carefully placed them along the dead girl’s spine. It said everything he had to say about his country. He took photos, shared them in chat rooms visited by like-minded people. It was beautiful, they said. Expressive. They wanted more.
Startled back to the present by a Mercedes crawling along the dark street, Samuel watches the lone driver go past. Probably searching for prostitutes or drugs or both. No threat.
Samuel likes coming to this derelict neighbourhood. No CCTVs. Nobody will question him. Here, he fits right in. But tonight, he can’t relax. Olivia Wolfe has seen to that. Unable to follow her, he doubled back to her motel, opened every drawer, turned the bed upside down, cut open the mattress, prodded every loose tile, checked every possibly hiding place. But no laptop. Not even hers.
He knew she was a cut above the rest. He’s researched her. She’s survived war zones. Witnessed genocide. She’s brave. Maybe a bit reckless. She pursues her goal, no matter what. He knows what it’s like to be driven. And, he thinks, running a tongue over his upper lip, she’s a dirty bitch. There are photos of her on the Net, taken some months ago, fucking a Russian spy. She nearly lost her job because of it. He’s fascinated by her body piercings: tongue, nipples, belly button. He wonders if she enjoys the pain when the skin is first punctured. He imagines ripping the piercings out. He’s going to make her do things she never imagined.
He’s getting hard just thinking about it.
37
Samuel gets out of his pick-up. The freeway traffic reverberates above, punctuated by the staccato beats of tyres crossing joins in the concrete. From inside the derelict building, a dog squeals. It knows it’s going to die. Those who bet on the weaker dog yell at it to fight. Those who bet on the stronger dog scream at it to finish the job.
Distracted, Samuel doesn’t hear the soft tread of somebody behind him until almost too late. He darts to his left just as the knife is jabbed upwards into the right-hand side of his back, just below the rib cage. It misses the obvious target – his liver – penetrating the fleshy part of his waist, puncturing skin and muscle. Samuel inhales. The pain is intense. Exhilarating. Certainly not debilitating. The blade is ripped out, the assailant intent on striking again. His moves are powerful and unflinching.
Samuel bends his knees, and leaning back against his assailant, pushes the soles of his feet up onto the side of his bakkie. He pushes back hard, forcing the attacker backwards, staggering. Samuel may be short, but he’s wiry and fast. He already has a hand inside his jacket and grips a M9A3 Beretta with a suppressor and night sights. Samuel turns fast, the pistol drawn. The man he faces wears a ski mask, the blade he carries is a hunting knife with serrated edge.
His opponent is a tall, muscular man, but this doesn’t mean he’s slow. The attacker throws himself to the ground and rolls. Samuel fires. There’s an unmistakable grunt as the bullet hits its mark. He still somehow manages to roll behind one of the freeway’s pillars. Samuel fires again, too late.
He’s at a disadvantage now, out in the open. This is a battle he knows he’ll lose. Samuel thrives on surprising his enemy, disabling them before they can put up a fight.
Samuel runs for his bakkie, yanks open the driver’s door, has one leg in the footwell when he is literally dragged from the cabin by his jacket. A muscular arm closes around his throat in a chokehold. He tries to point his pistol behind him, but his hand is slammed down onto the bonnet so hard, he expects broken bones. The gun tumbles to the asphalt from his now useless hand. He’s hurled to the ground, the back of his head smashing into the roadway. Samuel almost passes out. When he opens his eyes, the man straddles his chest, his knees crushing each arm, his own M9A3 aimed at his forehead.
‘Move one millimetre and you die,’ says the man.
‘What do you want?’ asks Samuel.
Sirens blare.
Red and blue lights flash. Two police cars head for them. Samuel’s assailant glances over his shoulder then down at his target. Why doesn’t he pull the trigger?
The man leans so close Samuel can feel his breath on his face through the slit of his mask. He presses a forearm down hard on Samuel’s throat, the gun muzzle boring into his temple.
‘Go near Olivia Wolfe, you die. You tell the man you work for she knows nothing.’ He pushes down harder on Samuel’s throat. Puce in the face, Samuel is close to passing out. ‘Tell him Msiza has the laptop. He’s double-crossed you. You understand?’
Samuel’s vison is blurred. He chokes, trying to respond. Tyres skid. The headlights are blinding.
‘Police! Drop your weapon!’
Samuel doesn’t see the fist coming. A sudden burst of agony and he’s out cold.
38
Wolfe flies along the M1 on her motorcycle heading north-east. Normally vigilant, she now borders on paranoia, constantly watching for vehicles following her. When she’s about halfway to the destination Yushkov gave her, she leaves the freeway and heads for a multi-storey car park. She knows it has two exits. She’s done her homework. Killing the engine in a dark corner on the first level, she waits. Her hand rests on her holster. From her vantage point she has a clear view of the entry boom gates. In ten minutes, only four vehicles enter, none of them suspicious. Perhaps Yushkov is wrong. Where is the assassin he claims is watching her?
She leaves via the rear exit, which takes her to a different street from the one she used to enter.
Accelerating, she weaves in and out of traffic, watchful for speed cameras and police cars but determined to flush out anyone following her. She checks her mirrors every few seconds. As far as she can tell, no one manoeuvres to keep up with her.
Her next stop has also been carefully researched: a biker’s bar. She leaves her motorcycle in the midst of twenty or so others parked out front and enters The Workshop. Inside, a band plays heavy metal. The air is hot and thick with the smells of leather, cigarettes, beer and chips. She orders a Castle Lager and a beefburger, then takes a seat on a high stool facing the front window so she can watch both her bike and new arrivals. She doesn’t touch the beer: she has to keep her wits about her. But she bolts the burger. Then checks the time: 11.37pm.