Prey

by L. A. Larkin

  ‘There isn’t a day goes by without me wondering where you are and what you’re doing,’ she says. ‘I need you in my life, Vitaly.’

  Yushkov pulls away from her and sits up.

  ‘Vitaly?’

  ‘Do not fall in love with me, Olivia.’

  His words hit her like a slap. Wolfe struggles to catch her breath. Waves of competing emotion battle inside her: embarrassment, grief, anger.

  ‘I must go,’ she says, throwing back the sheets and heading for the bathroom.

  In one fluid movement, Yushkov is up and barring her way.

  ‘My words came out wrong. English is not my first language. Please.’ Wolfe won’t look at him. Her eyes are watery. ‘You are very special to me, Olivia. If my life had not taken this course, I would be with you. But I cannot be the man you deserve.’

  ‘Why? In time, things will calm down. We can be together. There has to be a way.’ She hears the pleading in her voice and knows she probably sounds pathetic.

  His silence crushes her.

  Wolfe pulls away, grabs her pistol and holster, picks up her discarded clothes, runs down the stairs and hastily puts them on.

  Yushkov appears, dressed. ‘Stay a while. Please.’

  ‘No.’ Wolfe takes her leather jacket off the back of the chair.

  ‘It was selfish of me to ask you here. I know this. But I had to see you one more time.’

  It takes a few seconds for the words to sink in.

  ‘One more time?’

  ‘There are things I cannot tell you,’ he begins.

  ‘You’re in trouble?’

  He nods.

  ‘Let me help you,’ she says.

  ‘You cannot.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Vitaly, whatever you’ve done, just tell me.’

  He shakes his head.

  Wolfe picks up her backpack and helmet.

  ‘This is not the end, Vitaly. I won’t let it be.’

  ‘You will hear things that will make you doubt me.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Let me say what must be said.’ Yushkov stands so close she feels his breath on her face. ‘Leave South Africa. Today. Go to the airport. Do it now. You have everything you need in that bag. Do not go back to your motel.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can do no more to protect you. The man watching you is brutal. He goes by the name of Samuel.’

  Wolfe struggles to find her voice. ‘What else can you tell me?’

  ‘He has a skin graft on his neck. A raised square patch. Rumour has it the surgeon did a bad job. Samuel killed him for it.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Wolfe shudders. ‘What nationality is this Samuel?’

  ‘Nobody knows.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘He is in Johannesburg and drives a white Mitsubishi Colt pick-up. Old model.’

  Wolfe opens her eyes wide. ‘How could you possibly know that, unless…’

  ‘I am trying to protect you.’

  ‘Tell me how you know Samuel.’

  ‘Casburn found me. We talked.’

  ‘What? You hate Casburn.’

  ‘Casburn fears you are in danger,’ says Yushkov. ‘I know this to be true.’

  ‘Wait a second. You talked about me? With Casburn?’ She cannot keep the bewilderment from her voice.

  ‘Yes.’ Yushkov takes her hand. ‘I hate him for what he did. But he tells the truth when he says you must leave South Africa.’

  Wolfe rips her hand away. ‘I will not be told what to do by either of you.’

  ‘Then there is nothing more to say.’

  Yushkov unlocks the back door, switches off the light and steps outside. Wolfe follows. He hastens down the side path. The night sky has turned indigo. Dawn is approaching. Wolfe catches up with him at the front of the house and grabs his arm.

  ‘I will leave South Africa. Right now. But only with you.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  He speeds up, heads down the drive. The electronic gates open. In the distance, a police siren wails. It barely registers with Wolfe. Her feet won’t move. Is this how it ends?

  When Yushkov reaches the street, he looks back at her. Stock-still.

  ‘Я люблю тебя!’ he calls out.

  Then he is gone.

  The police siren grows louder. Closer. The gates begin to close. She runs through them and along empty streets to her bike, kicks it into life and tears off, the scream of the engine competing with the siren to upend the pre-dawn quiet. She takes the first turn off Norwood Avenue, narrowly missing a police car, no doubt heading for the house they’ve just vacated. A house that’s covered in their DNA. She doesn’t care. All she can think of is Yushkov’s last words.

  At the very moment she has lost him, he tells her that he loves her.

  44

  Ever since Wolfe was a child, puzzles have fascinated her. Perhaps that’s why she’s drawn to Yushkov, a man with more secrets than she’s had birthdays. In the past, he had confided in her. Now, Yushkov has built a barrier that she can’t get through. He’s hiding something and she suspects it isn’t good.

  Riding through the night, she resolves to heed Yushkov’s warning to be extra vigilant. But she is absolutely not leaving South Africa until the Sackville-Ximba-Blunt mystery is solved.

  Wolfe arrives at her motel and, with engine running, looks up at her room. She immediately knows there’s been an intruder. She had carefully drawn the curtains last night and now there is a slight gap. The window is shut so it can’t have been moved by the breeze. Wolfe has all her belongings in her backpack so there is no need to go in. She takes off.

  She hurtles down side roads, turning left and right randomly, watching for a tail. She leaves her bike in a motorbike parking zone amidst four others, and heads across the street to a café for breakfast. It’s packed with construction workers and tradesmen. She orders a long black and a bacon and egg roll, then checks her phone. It’s 7.18am. Nothing from Casburn, but there’s a message from Thusago. She listens to it:

  Call me. I have something for you.

  Wolfe dials Thusago’s mobile. It goes straight to voicemail. Perhaps he’s asleep. It’s still early. She leaves him a voicemail, then texts Casburn:

  Dan, I have information for you. It’s urgent. Call me as soon as you can.

  Wolfe checks her emails. Two from Cohen. Short and to the point.

  These photos are explosive. Call me!

  Followed by:

  Fucking call me will you!

  It’s 6.23am in London. Cohen will be at work already. She phones him.

  ‘About time,’ Cohen grumbles. No hello, how are you. ‘And where the hell are you? I can hardly bloody well hear you with that racket in the background.’

  ‘Stop your grouching, Moz. You’ve seen the photos.’

  ‘I have. Who else has them?’

  ‘Apart from Ponnappa and Butcher who broke the encryption, I don’t think anyone else knows about them, except the killer, of course, and whoever has Ximba’s laptop. I’ve tried to get hold of Casburn, but he won’t return my calls.’

  ‘Tell me everything,’ says Moz.

  Wolfe explains why she thinks one victim may be South African, the other Russian. ‘Jerry thinks they were alive during their mutilation.’

  ‘I’ve seen some terrible things in my time. But this… this is hideous. Barbaric. That poor woman and her…’ He clears his throat. ‘Stick close to Casburn. He’ll have the right contacts. Interpol. Russian police.’

  ‘Not going to happen, Moz. He wants me gone from this country.’

  ‘Then we run the story.’

  ‘That’ll send the killer to ground. Give me a day to see what more I can find out, then we’ll make a decision.’

  ‘Call me in twelve hours without fail.’

  Wolfe skims her other emails. Nothing new from Ponnappa or Butcher. She tries phoning Casburn again. No answer. Frustrated, she eats her bacon and egg roll and downs her coffee. She tries Thusago’s mobile
again. Then his landline. Gets voicemail. Why isn’t he answering?

  What did he want to tell her?

  45

  Neighbours walk their kids to school. Car doors slam. A radio blares from the house next door. A teenager argues with his mum at the bus stop. The street is abuzz with morning activity.

  Thusago’s house is quiet. Too quiet.

  His car is parked out front, which tells Wolfe he didn’t heed her warning. Unless they took a rental car? There’s no sign of movement through the windows. Wolfe rings the bell. No answer. She tries opening the door. Locked.

  Wolfe knocks, hard. ‘Mike,’ she calls, ‘are you there?’

  A mum and three kids from the house next door race to their car.

  ‘We’re going to be late. Hurry!’ says the mother.

  ‘Excuse me!’ Wolfe calls. ‘Have you seen Mike or Camila this morning?’

  ‘Not this morning,’ shouts the woman as she herds the kids into the car.

  Wolfe walks around to the rear deck. She peers through the glass sliding doors. On the kitchen table, a plate. One, not three. The chair left as if somebody has pushed it back to get up. Perhaps Camila and Jacob have gone away and Mike stayed behind?

  Don’t jump to conclusions.

  Wolfe tries the sliding door. It opens. Fear flutters in her stomach. She draws her pistol.

  ‘Mike?’ she calls.

  Silence.

  In the kitchen, everything is neat and tidy. She touches the plate. It’s cold, the macaroni cheese with bacon congealed and half eaten, a used fork on the table next to it.

  ‘Mike? Are you there?’

  Up the hall to Thusago’s study. She pauses in the doorway. The safe door is open. Books and files scattered on the floor. The desk chair is overturned. Burglary? Are the thieves still here?

  Her breath comes in short, urgent bursts. Should she call the police? She hears something. A whimper? Her grip on the CZ 75 tightens. If she wastes time calling for help, she could be too late.

  Her overloaded brain clicks into gear. The spots on the wall begin to make sense. An arc of blood spatter. No, it can’t be. Wolfe takes a step into the room, her finger on the trigger. Then another. Behind the desk lies a man she hardly recognises. Mike Thusago. A gory mess, his face and chest sliced open in long, deep strokes, the carpet around him a pool of congealed blood. She knows she shouldn’t touch him. It will contaminate the scene. It would be a miracle if he survived such an attack, but she thought she heard a whimper.

  ‘Mike? It’s Olivia.’

  She holsters the pistol, kneels close to his head, the blood seeping through her jeans. She tries to find a pulse. His skin is cold. She leans close to what remains of his face, hoping to hear or feel his breath. Nothing. When she sits up, she has his blood on her cheek. Up close, she realises the cut to the top of his skull is so deep she can see the grey of his brain.

  ‘Oh Mike. I’m so sorry. So sorry.’

  Wolfe backs out of the study, leaving bloody footprints on the floor and runs from the house. She heaves up her breakfast onto the back porch. With trembling hands, she dials the only person in Johannesburg who might help her. Casburn.

  ‘I’m kinda busy, Olivia,’ Casburn says, his voice rough, as if he’s had a big night out.

  ‘He’s dead,’ she babbles. ‘They killed him, Dan. Oh God. They…’

  ‘Slow down.’ His tone changes instantly. Attentive, calm, alert. ‘Who’s dead?’

  ‘Mike… Mike Thusago. And it looks like I did it.’

  46

  Casburn finds Wolfe kneeling on Thusago’s front porch, staring at her bloody hands. Mike’s blood. Her friend. Because of her he’s dead. Camila, a widow. Jacob, without a father. She prays to God they are unharmed.

  I should never have got him into this.

  Wolfe only notices Casburn when the porch step creaks. He leans over her. He reeks of beer. His shirt is creased.

  ‘Dan?’ Wolfe says, still staring at her hands.

  ‘Yes,’ Casburn says, crouching down.

  He glances at the pistol on her belt. ‘I need you to hand me the weapon. Nice and slow. Keep your finger off the trigger.’

  Wolfe looks down at the holster as if she didn’t know she was wearing it. ‘Of course.’

  She hands it to him.

  Casburn’s bloodshot eyes flick to the red boot prints that lead from her into the house. At the vomit next to her. At the blood on her cheek.

  ‘Is Thusago alive?’

  ‘No. I checked.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘The study.’

  Casburn stands up, then glances inside. ‘Stay here.’

  Wolfe waits. In the distance, there’s the wail of police sirens. Of course. Casburn had to call it in.

  He reappears beside her.

  ‘I didn’t do it, Dan. You’ve got to believe me.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A friend. Helping me out. A cop.’

  Casburn clenches his eyes shut. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s bad any way you look at it. But a cop…’ He studies her face. ‘Anyone else in the house?’

  ‘No. I don’t know where his wife and son are. I told Camila and Jacob to leave town.’ Her hand shoots up to her mouth. ‘What if he’s got them?’

  ‘Who?’

  Wolfe rocks back and forth.

  Casburn squints at her, shakes his head. He thinks she’s lost it.

  ‘What were you doing here?’

  Wolfe frowns. What was she doing here? ‘I… I was worried. He didn’t answer his phone. Somebody’s been watching me. Watching us. He butchered those people–’

  ‘Hold on. What people?’

  The sirens grow louder and her panic rises. Once she’s in custody, she’ll be at Msiza’s mercy.

  ‘My messages. Didn’t you get them?’

  His voice is distant. Her brain moves so slowly she can only think of one thing. She starts to wriggle out of her backpack.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Casburn asks.

  Her arm is out of one strap, then the other. Wolfe pulls her pack around so it rests on her thighs.

  ‘Stop what you’re doing, Olivia.’

  ‘You must have this.’

  When she looks up, she is staring down the muzzle of his gun. ‘Dan? You know me. Come on, what are you doing?’

  If Casburn doesn’t believe her, then who will? She’s a foreign national in a country where she has no allies. Her only friend lies dead. Yushkov has deserted her. She has to find a way to convince Casburn she’s telling the truth. The killer’s macabre photographs are her only chance.

  ‘In the front pocket,’ she directs, ‘take the memory stick. Please.’ A police car skids around the corner. ‘Photos of four murders. They were sent to Ximba. By the murderer. Take it,’ she pleads.

  Casburn glances behind him, then down at the pack. He holsters his gun, leans forward, unzips the front pocket, grabs the memory stick and pockets it.

  ‘I tried to tell you, Dan. Ximba, this killer, Sackville. Somehow, they’re all linked. You’ve got to believe me. Thusago was murdered because he was helping me investigate. You know I didn’t do this, don’t you?’

  A patrol car screeches to a halt. Two officers train their guns on them.

  Casburn shouts out, ‘I’m a British police officer.’

  He raises his hands above his head and kneels. He looks into Wolfe’s eyes, and she swears she sees them soften.

  ‘I’m sorry, Olivia. This is not my jurisdiction. I can’t help you.’

  47

  Samuel let his frustration get the better of him.

  If only he’d managed to tail Wolfe. If only he’d found Ximba’s laptop. If only he hadn’t been made to look like a pathetic amateur by the man who assaulted him. Then he wouldn’t have been so angry. He wouldn’t have hacked into Thusago the way he did. He lost control. Broke his golden rule.

  The boss won’t be happy.

  Samu
el tilts the bakkie’s rear-view mirror. His right eye is swollen half-shut, the skin a shade of aubergine. The bridge of his nose is bruised, but not broken. The swelling makes breathing difficult. Another dark bruise is forming across his throat. Talking is uncomfortable. He suspects the last two fingers on his left hand are broken.

  The pain doesn’t bother him. It energises him. He learned this from his father. The beatings made him weep like a girl at first. Then he grew angry. Then strong. He learnt to hold on to the emotion, to turn it against his enemy.

  Who attacked him? Almost killed him? He has to be a professional. And how did the man know he was watching Wolfe? Samuel has only seen Wolfe with two men: Thusago and the British cop, Casburn. Neither have the assailant’s big build or his weird accent. Samuel doesn’t like unknowns.

  He knocks the rear-view mirror away, disgusted by his appearance, then makes a phone call, leaving a coded message. He isn’t looking forward to the conversation. The callback comes almost immediately.

  ‘Is it done?’ the boss asks.

  ‘We have a small problem.’

  Samuel confesses to taking photos of his kills and then sharing them with Ximba. He doesn’t mention the chat room where he also shared them. Samuel waits for the reaction.

  ‘Go on,’ the boss says quietly.

  Samuel shifts in his seat. He’s sweating profusely.

  ‘Wolfe’s been sniffing around Ximba’s home and school. She may have his laptop and so she could have seen the email.’ No comment, no expletives, so he continues. ‘The file’s heavily encrypted. She’ll never get it open.’

  Samuel waits. Why doesn’t he say anything?

  ‘Then she will know that four missing persons are not missing at all,’ the boss finally says. ‘She will know they’ve been murdered. And because of your…’ he clears his throat, ‘distinctive handiwork, she’ll know they were killed by the same person. And she will want to know why. Which is a problem. Will she share them with the British detective?’

  ‘She won’t get the chance. She’ll be dead by nightfall.’