Prey

by L. A. Larkin

  ‘Not by your hand.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where is Wolfe now?’

  Samuel fudges it. ‘I’m outside her motel. When she gets back, I’ll eliminate her.’

  The boss sighs. ‘So, you have compromised my business and lost sight of your target.’

  ‘Wolfe is elusive.’

  ‘You’re losing your touch. Wolfe was arrested for Thusago’s murder. Msiza is dealing with her.’

  ‘No. Wolfe is mine.’

  ‘You have failed me. I will call in the debt when I’m ready. For now, keep your head down and leave Wolfe to Msiza.’

  48

  Casburn’s phone rings. It’s a Pretoria area code.

  ‘Am I speaking to Detective Superintendent Casburn?’

  British accent. From the Midlands probably.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Arthur Scott-Lewis. British Deputy High Commissioner to South Africa.’

  Casburn has a bad feeling about this call.

  ‘How can I help you, sir?’

  ‘This conversation will go no further. Do I have your assurance, detective?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You have an exemplary record, both military and as a police officer. A smart man. Ambitious too.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Scott-Lewis clears his throat. ‘It would be a pity if you were to blot your copy book, which is the reason for my call.’

  Casburn hates being handled.

  ‘Let us imagine a scenario,’ Scott-Lewis continues. ‘Say I had received a phone call from someone high ranking at the Foreign Office, which, of course, I haven’t. This is just hypothetical, you understand?’

  ‘I understand perfectly, sir.’ He knows there’s nothing ‘hypothetical’ about it.

  ‘And say, during this hypothetical phone call, I was informed you are making waves with the South African police.’

  ‘I don’t believe that’s true, sir. I am working with them.’

  ‘That’s good to hear, but suppose in this imaginary scenario there is an agenda you are unaware of. Perhaps there’s a – let’s call it a difference of opinion, shall we? – between the Home Secretary and the Chancellor. In this little scene, your boss, Sutton, would obey the orders of the Home Secretary, and off you toddle to meddle in something you really should stay well clear of. In this hypothetical situation, it would be wise to secure any information you have developed, return to England and inform your boss there was nothing to be found, therein ensuring SO24 keeps its funding and you, your job. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  Clearly Sutton knows nothing about this call. Sackville is using the Foreign Office to put pressure on him. Which is a problem in many ways, not the least of which is the Chancellor is demonstrating that he will do everything he can to cover his tracks, including directing powerful people to obstruct Casburn’s every move.

  Casburn is hung-over and fed-up with being fed bullshit. And now this diplomat has the nerve to think he can manipulate him.

  ‘Hypothetically, if there was a case, I wouldn’t be in a position to discuss it with you, sir,’ Casburn says. ‘But I very much appreciate your guidance. I’ll remember it, should the need arise.’ He doesn’t do a very good job of disguising his disgust. He’s never been much of a conciliator.

  ‘I see. It’s clear you have no idea what you’re messing with. That’s a great shame. For you.’

  ‘Will there be anything else, sir? I’m late for a meeting.’

  ‘Promising careers can be snuffed out quite easily, don’t you know. Think about this carefully, Casburn.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  Casburn ends the call just in time. A few more seconds and he would have been unable to stop himself from telling the deputy high commissioner to go fuck himself.

  49

  Wolfe had made her permitted phone call two hours ago. Moz Cohen promised to get the British High Commission in Pretoria involved and hire a bloody good lawyer. But the lawyer hasn’t shown and if the commission has interceded on her behalf, she’s seen no evidence of it. Her clothes, boots and backpack had been taken away and the jumpsuit she’s wearing is several sizes too big.

  The interrogation room is painted a drab mushroom shade. It has no windows, just a rectangular table and two chairs. There are scuff marks on the door and scratch marks on the table. It smells of unwashed bodies. High up in one corner, a video camera, its red light blinking, observes relentlessly. Opposite where she is seated, a mirror covers the upper half of the wall, allowing whoever is on the other side to watch the interview. The air conditioning has been turned up to high heat – deliberately. They are literally making her sweat.

  ‘Can I have some water?’ Wolfe asks, for the third time.

  Seated opposite Wolfe is Detective Superintendent Coetzee. ‘Later.’

  Next to Coetzee is Detective Inspector Naidoo. So far, he has said very little. He watches her reaction to their questions, arms folded across his chest.

  ‘Where is my lawyer? I have the right to a lawyer.’

  ‘On her way.’

  Wolfe sighs, shifting her hands so the handcuffs dig a little less into her wrists. She glances at the female officer standing by the door, who glares back. They think she killed their colleague and friend.

  ‘Detective, I’ve co-operated. Told you everything I saw and did this morning.’ Omitting where she spent the night. ‘Mike was a friend. A good man. I want to help you find his killer. But we’re going around in circles.’

  ‘Tell me again why you were there.’

  Wolfe stares at the mirror, wondering who is on the other side. She can see where this is going. With her out of the way, Msiza just has to stall Casburn long enough so he is forced to return to London empty-handed.

  There’s a knock on the door and a uniformed female officer enters clutching an A4 Manila envelope. Coetzee nods at the officer, who leaves the room, then he pulls out the photos and lays them on the table, one print at a time, as if laying out the cards in a game of solitaire.

  Wolfe was dreading this moment.

  ‘Tell me about these,’ says Coetzee.

  She looks away, their goriness reminding her of Thusago’s harrowing death.

  She’s in trouble. She has Thusago’s blood on her. Her prints are all over his house. On her laptop, photos of four similarly brutal murders. They know she’s researching a feature for The Post, but she won’t divulge the detail or the names of her sources. So far, she’s avoided mentioning the Chancellor, but she’s running out of time and options.

  ‘Look at them!’ shouts Coetzee.

  Wolfe opens her eyes and looks down. Her stomach heaves.

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  Wolfe glances at the two-way mirror, finding it hard to disguise her desperation. Is Casburn behind the glass? She hasn’t seen him since her arrest.

  ‘I found them in Mazwi Ximba’s inbox. The man who butchered those people almost certainly killed Mike Thusago and Mazwi Ximba.’

  ‘Mr Ximba died in a car accident.’

  ‘It was made to look like an accident.’

  ‘Horse shit!’ says Coetzee. ‘Who are these people?’

  Wolfe can’t stall any longer.

  ‘Mazwi Ximba is signatory on an offshore bank account registered to a shell company, ZIB Trading. The last time I looked, it had twenty million US dollars in it.’ Naidoo raises an eyebrow and unfolds his arms. ‘A British MP is the second signatory, hence my interest.’ If Casburn is watching, she imagines him bristling. ‘I suspected money laundering; the funds either proceeds of, or used to bank roll, criminal activity here in your country. Mike was the only cop I knew here. He was helping me–’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Naidoo interrupts. There’s a non-too-disguised fury about the man. Coetzee gives Naidoo an irritated glance.

  ‘Because he was on sick leave and bored. And I asked him.’ She pauses. ‘I guess he wanted to prove to himself that he was over his PTSD. Ready to go back to work.’ T
he words catch in her throat.

  ‘Go on,’ Coetzee says.

  ‘When Ximba died, we both suspected murder. Ximba was going to talk to me. We’d arranged to meet. Whoever is behind those millions had Ximba silenced. After that, Mike backed out. To protect his family. I kept going. A friend in London helped me access Ximba’s personal emails. One was encrypted. She broke the encryption, and this is what we found.’

  ‘Who is your hacker?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Think again. All I see is a woman who has photos of four mutilated people in her possession. There’s no evidence they came from the headmaster.’

  ‘Please, listen,’ Wolfe says, clasping her hands together on the table, ‘the man who killed Mike shared these photos with Ximba. He’s out there. In your city. He must have seen Mike with me. He wants me dead too.’

  Naidoo snorts in disbelief.

  ‘Why didn’t you bring these to us?’ Coetzee asks.

  Because Major-General Msiza is involved. Wolfe chooses her words carefully.

  ‘I tried to get hold of DS Casburn. To show him these images. He wasn’t answering.’

  ‘I ask again, why didn’t you bring them to us?’

  Wolfe stares at the mirror. Stop this interview, Dan. You’re leaving me no choice.

  ‘You should talk to Detective Superintendent Casburn.’

  ‘I’m talking to you. Answer the question.’

  The door opens, Casburn strides in. ‘Detectives, can I have a word?’

  50

  Tan Nguyen tilts his office chair back, casting his view upwards to the arched ceiling, as he listens to the pretty voice on loudspeaker. His eyes come to rest on the glass panels at the arch’s apex far above him, which is the only source of natural light in the cavernous room. There are no windows behind the sixteen sets of sealed shutters, just brick wall. His office is a replica of the lavish Central Post Office building in Ho Chi Minh City, right down to the cream, gold and forest green paint and the ornate encaustic floor tiles. The temperature is kept within a tight range of a couple of degrees by an air conditioning system used in museums to preserve ancient and fragile exhibits.

  ‘It really is very generous,’ says the CEO of Vietnam’s largest children’s charity. Recently divorced, a ferocious networker, big breasts, even if they are implants. She might make him a good second wife. ‘We couldn’t continue our work without your support.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure,’ says Nguyen, who picks up one of three rhino horns displayed on his desk and strokes it. ‘I will be at the fundraising dinner.’

  ‘And your wife?’

  ‘Sadly, she passed away three months ago.’

  ‘Oh, I am so sorry.’

  He reads voices well. She isn’t sorry. She’s calculating her chances. He politely finishes the call, then gets up, placing the giant horn carefully back on his desk.

  The soles of his bespoke Oxfords tap on the tiled floor. He thinks best on the move.

  He halts in front of the wall-mounted head of what was once a fourteen-foot-tall bull elephant, the magnificent tusks, yellowed and battle-scarred, eight metres long and weighing ninety pounds. He’d watched it fight off younger pretenders, mortally wounding challengers. He was the king of his domain. It took four carefully placed bullets to bring it down without damaging the head and tusks. The rest of the herd’s tusks had brought in a tidy sum.

  He walks on.

  Next, mounted on a marble plinth, a leopard, baring her teeth, tail curling up behind it like a scimitar. The taxidermist was a wizard. Only the stillness betrays its lifelessness. He recalls her bravery, defending her two cubs, despite the tranquilliser dart. And the cubs had fetched a good price from zoos in China and Pakistan, too.

  Further along, the head of a Western Black rhinoceros. He reaches out and strokes the grey leathery skin criss-crossed with a myriad of lines and runs his fingers up and down the two magnificent horns. His most prized piece. There were few specimens like this in private hands, and there would be no more coming onto the market. He chuckled to himself. Extinction did wonders for secondary market prices.

  He bypasses his other trophies and stops outside two cherrywood doors, twice his height. They are French polished, finished to such a shine he can see his reflection.

  He sees Tan Nguyen, respected businessman, philanthropist, pillar of the community, a champion of wildlife protection and children everywhere. He checks his Rolex GMT-Master II. Sadly, he doesn’t have time to enjoy the very special collection behind the door.

  ‘Later,’ he says, his lips almost touching the wood, his breath leaving a hint of condensation behind.

  Back at his desk, he dials Major-General Msiza. The line is encrypted, the call untraceable.

  ‘Here’s what I want you to do with Wolfe and Casburn.’

  51

  The female officer ignores Wolfe’s attempts at conversation, although she has at least brought her a cup of water. Since Casburn intervened, she hasn’t seen Coetzee or Naidoo. She folds her arms on the table, rests her head, and waits. They have her watch, but she guesses an hour has passed. What is Casburn telling them?

  From the day she first met Casburn, she has never doubted his dedication. Dogged. Ambitious. Unswerving. To all intents and purposes, he seems a by-the-book detective. But Wolfe knows Casburn’s book has a whole section in it that goes way beyond standard operating procedures. His superiors are not the kind of people who get squeamish. He gets results.

  Doubt erodes her initial relief at seeing him, like water drip, drip, dripping on soft stone.

  Would such a man as Casburn leave her here to rot? Has she finally become too inconvenient? Their relationship is mainly adversarial, but is she naïve to think there is also a mutual respect? If nothing else, he owes her. She warned him Msiza may be corrupt. She gave him proof of four barbaric murders he would otherwise have known nothing about.

  The door opens. She looks up and suddenly feels very cold. The officer is six two, maybe taller, two hundred and something pounds of muscle turned to fat. The insignia on his blue uniform shirt and cap tell her he’s a SAPS Major-General.

  ‘Leave us,’ he snaps at the female officer, who stands to attention. ‘We are not to be disturbed.’

  ‘I’d like her to stay,’ says Wolfe.

  ‘Go!’ he orders. She scampers from the room.

  Wolfe looks at the two-way mirror, then the video camera on the wall. The red light is off. Nobody is witnessing this. There will be no recording. Wolfe straightens her back and keeps her hands still. He must not see she is afraid.

  Major-General Msiza’s greying hair and round face gives him an affable, fatherly look. But the unhurried, deliberate way he places his hat on the table, then sits, and the scowl he gives her, leaves her in little doubt that this is anything but a friendly chat.

  ‘Major-General Msiza, we both know a male officer cannot be in here alone with a female,’ says Wolfe.

  ‘You’re in my country now, Ms Wolfe. You do things my way.’

  ‘And what is your way, Major-General?’ She holds up her handcuffed wrists. ‘Handcuffed, denied a lawyer, I haven’t been charged. You have no right to hold me.’

  ‘You’ve murdered one of our finest officers–’

  ‘I did not kill Mike, but I bet you know who did. The same man who murdered Mazwi Ximba. Goes by the name of Samuel.’

  Despite this carefully orchestrated meeting, Msiza flicks a look at the wall camera, perhaps checking it is switched off.

  ‘You need to understand how things work here, Ms Wolfe. How we do business.’ He pauses, lowering his voice. ‘How we choose who to convict. Do you follow me?’

  ‘I follow. You betray those who need protection and let killers go free. How am I doing?’

  ‘You have upset powerful people. People whose support I intend to keep.’

  ‘Who exactly?’

  ‘We have compelling evidence that you murdered a police officer. A witness will testify to heari
ng you argue with Thusago moments before he died–’

  ‘What witness?’

  The Major-General raises a hand and continues, ‘And we have found the murder weapon. It has your blood and prints on it.’

  ‘This is bullshit!’

  Msiza leans forward. ‘You will leave South Africa. Immediately. You will drop this fantasy you call a story. There is no shell account, no money laundering, no vast conspiracy as you seem to suspect.’

  Msiza pauses to let his words sink in. Then he continues.

  ‘Or you will be convicted of murder. Judges have a very poor view of cop killers. And, sadly, people like you don’t last long inside.’

  Wolfe has no doubt he will not only ensure her conviction, he will also set up her murder in prison.

  ‘Mike Thusago was one of your own, for Christ’s sake, and you’re prepared to let his killer go? How can you live with yourself?’

  Msiza’s fist slams down onto the table. Wolfe flinches.

  ‘Decide now and decide fast, but let me make it clear. There is no story here. You will be crushed like an ant underfoot if you persist.’

  ‘I will not help you cover up these murders. And Casburn won’t let you either.’

  ‘The British detective? Ah, sadly he has been called back to England. Urgently.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t do that. I don’t believe you.’

  Msiza checks his watch. ‘He boards his flight in three hours.’

  ‘I want to see DS Casburn.’

  ‘He’s already left.’

  Wolfe can’t believe it. Six people, possibly more, are dead, and their deaths are linked to the British Chancellor. Why would he leave?

  ‘I need to talk to my lawyer,’ she says, stalling.

  Msiza picks up his cap and stands. ‘Decide. Now. I leave this room, the offer goes with me. You know, you may not even make it to court. Killing a cop? My men may have trouble controlling their anger. You understand?’

  ‘Casburn will keep investigating. The truth will out.’