Counterfeit!

by Elizabeth Ducie

  ‘Great,’ Suzanne said. ‘Can you get a message out to all the distributors and hospitals straight away?’ But Chibesa wasn’t listening. He was staring at words screaming off the page at him. The paper slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground.

  ‘Suzanne—I’ve got to go—I’ll get back to you,’ he yelled, slamming down the phone and racing for the door. Taking the stairs three at a time, he ran to the basement garage. The two official Land Rovers were parked in their usual places, but the little room where the drivers waited for orders was empty. So were the hooks where the car keys normally hung. Chibesa ran over to the two vehicles. He couldn’t get into the first one, but the second was unlocked. Jumping into the cab, he wrenched open the glove-box and rifled through the papers and old sweet packets. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered, ‘I know you leave the spares in here.’ He checked behind the sun visor. Then he ran his hand under the driver’s seat. Finally, his fingers felt the jagged metal of a key.

  The guards looked up in surprise as the Land Rover sped past them. Chibesa forced his way around the traffic island and onto the main road. He pushed the accelerator hard to the floor, not caring that he was well over the speed limit.

  ‘Let him be okay. Please let him be okay. I’ll do anything,’ he muttered. A quarter mile from home, Chibesa saw the traffic ahead of him slow to a standstill. A lorry carrying crates of chickens had overturned and the street was littered with shards of wood, broken crates and fluffy yellow birds wandering around aimlessly. Pulling the Land Rover onto the grass verge, he jumped out and started running. He could see his home in the distance but, dream-like, it seemed to take hours before he reached it.

  The two-metre-high wooden gates were wide open. Chibesa raced across the yard and stopped just inside the front door. Bending double, with his hands on his knees, he fought for breath. The bungalow was silent and he ran from room to room, searching for his brother or the cousins. Finally, he ran through to the back garden. Grandmother Hannah was sitting in the shade of an acacia tree shelling peas and chatting to her husband, Silas, as he weeded a row of sweet corn. The couple had moved into the family home when their daughter Mary, Chibesa’s mother, had died giving birth to Samuel; it was a comfort to Chibesa that there was someone trustworthy to look after the children when he was away from home on business.

  ‘Where is everyone—where’s Samuel?’ Chibesa gasped.

  ‘Well, let me see,’ Silas drawled, ‘most of them have gone fishing with the youngsters from across the street. Samuel’s gone with Joey to visit that friend of his who’s so ill.’

  ‘Did Samuel take his medicine before he went?’

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ Hannah replied, ‘and I told him he was an ungrateful little boy, after you bought it and Joey went all the way to town to bring it home. But he said he was feeling much better and he’d take it later. He stuck it in his bag and took it with him.’

  Just then, Joey came out into the garden, followed by Samuel, who was coughing and spluttering. When he saw his brother, he stopped short and looked down at his toes.

  ‘Did you take it? The medicine—did you take it?’ Chibesa cried. Samuel continued looking at his feet and shook his head. Chibesa caught the boy in a tight hug. ‘Thank God,’ he said, ‘if anything had happened to you, I’d never have forgiven myself.’ The boy lifted his head, the look on his face showing he was relieved not to be in trouble after all. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Chibesa,’ he said, ‘please don’t be mad at me. My cough was a lot better today and George is so ill. His mother has no money for medicine. So I gave him mine. She was really grateful, gave him a big spoonful straight away.’ Chibesa stared in horror at his brother, but Samuel didn’t notice. Grinning, he grabbed a handful of peas from the bowl on Hannah’s lap; and as he dodged to avoid her playful slap, he continued speaking. ‘I think George is going to be okay, now. We said we’d go and visit him again tomorrow.’

  10: ENGLAND; NOV 2004

  Suzanne was stirring her first coffee of the morning when Chibesa’s call came in. The line wasn’t good and she had to ask him to repeat himself before she understood what he was saying.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ he gasped, ‘I should have been more careful!’

  ‘Chibesa,’ Suzanne raised her voice slightly over the man’s sobs, ‘you did everything right. You didn’t buy the medicine from one of the roadside stalls; you went to the government pharmacy. You had no way of knowing.’

  ‘But George is dead…’

  ‘And that’s tragic, I know; but you can’t blame yourself. That won’t bring him back.’

  ‘And I keep thinking it could have been Samuel—being thankful he’s okay—and then feeling guilty for feeling glad.’ He gave another sob. ‘Oh, Suzanne, you have to stop them—we have to stop them!’

  ‘Believe me, Chibesa, I know. But we don’t know who they are.’

  ‘But what about the stuff Sara—’

  ‘We’re not going to talk about that,’ she broke in, ‘not on the phone.’

  ‘But…’ Suzanne could hear the disappointment in his voice, even with the poor connection.’

  ‘I’m bringing my next trip forward,’ she went on. ‘I’ve had some positive responses to the work we did in Swaziland; the Ugandans and Kenyans want some help, so I’ll be flying down to Lusaka in a couple of weeks’ time. Can you make the same arrangements as last time?’

  ‘A driver to meet you from the airport and a room in the same hotel? Of course. Are we going travelling again? Do you want me to contact WB?’

  ‘I expect so, but let’s decide when I get there, shall we? I want to talk to some of the people in the Ministry of Health and the government purchasing officers in Zambia first.’

  Sir Frederick raised his eyebrows a little when Suzanne told him she wanted to go back to Africa so quickly. He’d heard about the diethylene glycol contamination and had even phoned Chibesa himself to commiserate about George’s death.

  ‘But you mustn’t let a one-off incident, no matter how tragic or close to home, cloud your judgement,’ he said when she took her travel plans to him for approval. ‘The political climate in that region is sensitive to say the least. And we have to remember we have no authority in these countries, only influence. And we can lose that influence overnight if we upset the wrong people.’

  Suzanne knew that when he said ‘we’, he really meant her. But when she explained she’d had requests from three Health Ministries to help draft their import regulations, he nodded and signed her travel warrant.

  ‘Just make sure your project status report is finished before you go, won’t you?’ he said. She had delivered her Swaziland report, as promised, the week after making her presentation, but the status update was a much bigger document. ‘I’ve had Francine Matheson on the phone and she wants to use it at some meeting or other later in the month.’

  Suzanne nodded, although she wasn’t really sure if having her report used as political ammunition by a member of the government was a good thing or not.

  It was later the same week that Charlie pointed out a news item she’d picked up on the BBC News website.

  ‘It was hidden right down the bottom,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have spotted it if I hadn’t put in a special search for anything relating to Africa, cross referenced with pharmaceuticals.’

  It was only a brief item, but there was enough detail in the couple of paragraphs to make Suzanne go cold. Fire had broken out in an industrial complex on the outskirts of Kampala. A garage, two shops and a pharmaceutical factory had been completely gutted. There was no mention of injuries or fatalities, but the owner of the factory hadn’t been seen since. It wasn’t clear from the news report whether he was suspected of setting the fire himself, but his wife, Mrs Constance Businge, was quoted as saying that ‘my husband would never do anything dishonest. My WB is a good man.’ The report continued that Constance and her children were all very concerned for his safety.

  Suzanne paced up and down the lounge
while Charlie stared at her from her usual seat by the window.

  ‘You don’t think he did it…? Charlie asked.

  ‘No, of course I don’t,’ her sister snapped, ‘if you knew WB, you wouldn’t have to ask such a stupid question!’ Then she stopped pacing, took a deep breath and sat on the sofa, smiling ruefully at her sister. ‘Sorry, sis, that was uncalled for.’ Charlie waved her apology away with a grin. ‘But I would like to know where he is, and if he’s okay.’

  ‘And where Sara’s documents are?’

  ‘That’s right. He said he was going to hide them somewhere safe. I’m just hoping it wasn’t in the factory.’

  The next few days disappeared in a blur for Suzanne. Getting her status update finished didn’t take too long; but sending it out to Chibesa for comment was a nightmare. In the end, she emailed each chapter individually. The link to Lusaka was still difficult and it took the best part of a day to get everything through. For speed, Chibesa, who read the document overnight, phoned his comments back: there were a couple of name corrections and a phrase that he suggested she rewrite—ever the diplomat, he reminded her that even if she didn’t approve of what some people had said, she still needed to retain their support.

  ‘I know Walter Mukooyo is a difficult person,’ Chibesa told her, ‘but he’s very influential in the region. We need him, Suzanne.’

  Reluctantly accepting the point, Suzanne made the suggested corrections, finalised the document and circulated it. As usual, she printed and bound one copy for Sir Frederick.

  ‘The Director General of the IHF doesn’t have the luxury of using his office to read,’ he’d once said to her. ‘I use the back of my car—on the way to meetings in Whitehall. So I need everything hard copy.’ There was a rumour among IHF staff that Sir Frederick couldn’t actually use his computer at all, which was the real reason for his request, but whatever the truth, everyone complied. And to give him his due, the report would often come back a few days later with detailed questions and comments in the margins, so at least they knew he read everything that was given to him.

  Suzanne also had to clear her desk of other issues. Although Africa was her major project, she also had an ongoing investigation in Latin America. She knew at some point she’d have to go out there too, and was looking forward to her first visit to the continent.

  ‘Are you sure you’re going to be alright?’ she asked Charlie on their last evening together. They’d popped across to the curry house once more for an early evening meal. Suzanne was heading off to the airport at five-thirty the next morning.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ Charlie mumbled through a mouthful of Peshwari Nan and Chicken Vindaloo.

  ‘Well, what with everything that’s been going on over the last couple of months…’ But Charlie shrugged and dipped her bread into the sauce once more.

  ‘They’ve already searched the flat and got nothing. We’ve established that it’s you they’re after, not me. Why do I need to worry? It’s you who needs to be careful.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be fine; I’ll have Chibesa to take care of me.’ She searched around for a change of subject, as she was not really as calm as she was pretending to be, but didn’t want to alarm her sister. ‘Have you made contact with Annie yet? Do you think there’s any chance…?’ But her sister was already shaking her head.

  ‘I think I may have really burnt my boats there,’ she said. ‘To be honest, things weren’t wonderful when we were in Greece, even before it all kicked off with Sandro. In fact, if we hadn’t been having such a bad time on the island, I suspect she might have refused to come with me.’

  ‘Oh that’s a pity, Charlie. I liked Annie—and, apart from anything else, it would have been somewhere for you to go if anyone started watching the flat again.’

  Charlie shrugged her shoulders again and grimaced.

  ‘I guess you’re stuck with me for now.’ She suddenly looked up, an uncertainty flitting across her face. ‘That’s okay, isn’t it? I could always go and look for somewhere—.’ But Suzanne reached over and laid a hand on her arm to stop her.

  ‘Charlie, you’re my big sister. My home is your home—for as long as you need it.’ She smiled as she helped herself to more curry. ‘Just remember to do the washing up occasionally, will you? And no smoking inside!’

  11: SWAZILAND; NOV 2004

  Sara Matsebula trudged along the path towards her house at the end of another long day running the pharmacy at the Swazi National Hospital. Her shoulders ached from pushing the trolley laden with drugs around the ward all day. Her assistant was off sick again and she’d had to do everything herself. She rather suspected she wouldn’t be seeing the poor boy for much longer and would have to look for a new apprentice to help her. Her head bowed, she sighed and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. She would think about staffing tomorrow or the next day—when the situation arose, in fact. One thing was for sure—there would be no shortage of candidates. Jobs, especially good jobs in the hospital, were few and far between in Swaziland and there were always dozens of people queuing to be considered every time a position was advertised. Sometimes, the grapevine was enough and there was no need to even put out an advert at all.

  The sun had already gone down, but Sara was used to walking home in the dark, and felt her way by instinct, even on a night like tonight when the moon was new and little more than a nail paring in the sky. Since Ruth died, Sara often imagined her sister’s shade was out there in the darkness, keeping her company. Sometimes she talked to her, telling her what had happened during the day; who was recently admitted—so many these days—who had got better, or who had gone to meet their Maker. ‘Take care of her,’ she would say, referring to whichever of their neighbours had passed this time, ‘she’s going to need help to find her way around to start with.’ There seemed to be more deaths every day. The scientist in Sara knew Ruth wasn’t really there, just as she knew the recently deceased wouldn’t be wandering around in Heaven trying to orientate themselves, but the other Sara, the Sara who had gone to church with her parents throughout her childhood—and still attended when she was not on duty—that Sara found comfort in talking to her sister on the long walks home.

  But tonight it seemed a longer way, a darker path, and she felt shivers running down her spine as she crossed the final piece of open ground and passed through the broken-down old gate to the patch of earth she called her front garden. She felt a prickle on her shoulders as though eyes were boring into them and looked back along the path as she groped in her bag for her key. But the darkness stared back at her impassively and she shook herself, tutted at her imagination, and opened her front door.

  She flicked the light switch several times, clicking her teeth with her tongue in exasperation. The electricity had failed once again. Groping for the candle and matches she kept by the door for just this occasion, which happened far too often these days, she used the flickering flame to light her way to the kitchen. She was too tired to cook, and didn’t want to try and light the calor gas stove in the dark anyway. She’d eaten lunch at the hospital, although that was many hours ago now. She took a few biscuits out of the old tin her grandmother had given her one Christmas, and poured a glass of water from the bottle in the tiny pantry. It was still warm from the day’s heat, but she’d filled the bottle herself at the hospital, so at least she knew it was clean and safe to drink.

  She was just about to go to bed when she heard the crack of a dry stick breaking outside the back door. It was never completely silent in this area, just on the edge of town, but there was something about that sound that made her think it wasn’t just a normal night noise. A cat, maybe, although most of the cats in the neighbourhood were too skinny to break anything by stepping on it. Or maybe a wild dog? Something larger? It was rare for any of the animals to come down from the hills and into town, although occasionally there were sightings of zebra or buffalo. But something told Sara if there was an animal outside her door, it was more likely to be walking on two legs tha
n four.

  She groaned gently; she’d always known they would find her one day. Ever since she’d talked to the English woman, she’d been waiting for a knock on the door. She briefly considered hiding, but there was nowhere to hide—and besides, if they’d been watching the house, they would know she was in there. And if she didn’t come out, they might just burn the place down. House fires were quite common—a gas cooker malfunction would be blamed and that would be all that was said about it. They’d find another pharmacist for the hospital—and Sara, tragic Sara who lost her sister the other year, would be forgotten.

  The quiet step on the veranda was followed, not by the pounding knock she was expecting, but by a gentle scratching noise. She bit her lip and opened the door. A huge figure stood facing her, standing to one side, so the light from Sara’s candle barely illuminated him. A figure that looked slightly familiar, although she couldn’t quite place him.

  ‘Miss Sara, we need to talk,’ he said, ‘please let me in.’ And without waiting for an answer, he gently pushed past her and closed the door.

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’ Sara whispered. The man smiled and held out his hand, taking the candle from her. To her surprise, he blew it out and then taking her by her shoulders, pushed her gently back into one of the two old armchairs in front of the empty fireplace. He took the other chair himself, easing his huge body carefully onto its creaking frame.

  ‘We met at the IHF conference in September,’ he reminded her, ‘and afterwards at my accommodation.’

  ‘Dr Businge?’ she said.

  ‘Call me WB, Miss Sara; everyone does.’

  ‘But, someone was talking about you in the hospital the other day—the fire—your disappearance—they’re saying you did it yourself…’ She stopped as he shook his head.