Sandro scowled at the women, but said nothing. Finally he nodded, bowed slightly and turned away. But Francine called him back.
‘Mr Sandro,’ she said, ‘I’m very friendly with my opposite number in Athens. If there is any suspicion that you are up to your old tricks again, I won’t hesitate to hand the book over to him. I’m sure it would make very interesting reading.’
Within seconds, Sandro was forgotten. Suzanne and Francine turned towards the apartment steps, while Little Andy got back in the Daimler and drove slowly away. Charlie turned to Annie who was standing to one side, biting her lip.
‘Are you coming to join us?’ she said. ‘We’re having a quick curry across the road in a little while. Afterwards, we could come back and talk…’ Her voice trailed off as Annie shook her head.
‘No, I don’t want to do that, Charlie; it’s too public,’ she said.
‘Well, how about I come over to your place?’
‘No, you can’t do that, either. I’m visiting my aunt this evening; she’s in hospital and I promised.’
‘Okay, I get the picture,’ Charlie said, her shoulders slumping. ‘I’ll see you around.’ She turned to follow the others into the building.
‘Charlie,’ the quiet voice called after her, ‘I really am visiting my aunt; but I’ll be free tomorrow evening. Why don’t you come round for supper? We can talk then.’
Charlie ran back, hugged Annie hard and swung her around.
‘That’s great. Will seven o’clock be okay? And shall I bring my toothbrush?’
Annie pushed her way out of her arms and pulled a face. ‘I said we could talk. Let’s just see how it goes from there, shall we?’ She reached up on tiptoes and kissed Charlie on the cheek. ‘I have to go. See you tomorrow, then,’ and turning, she walked away.
Charlie watched Annie cross the street and walk through the park gates. She had a good feeling about this. She was sure Annie wanted her back. And if she did, this time she wasn’t going to screw it up.
There had been too many other Annies in the past; women she’d kept at a distance, in order to protect them. When they’d got too close, she’d either walked away or more often, given them a reason to leave. She was tired of living that way.
Sandro’s little black book wasn’t, as he thought, held safely in a government office. Charlie had passed it up the line on her return from Greece. What they did with it, she didn’t need, or want, to know. As far as she was concerned, that project was now closed. And if tomorrow’s dinner went well, she would tell them she wouldn’t be doing any more.
Charlie felt relief wash over her. It was finished. Now she could tell Suzanne how she’d funded her trip to Africa, where she’d got the surveillance device from—and what had really happened when she was thrown out of army training camp all those years ago.’
Charlie was grinning to herself as she ran up the steps and through the front door. She took the stairs three at a time and caught up with the other two just as they reached the front door.
‘Put the television on if you want to watch the news, Francine,’ said Suzanne, as she headed towards her bedroom. ‘I need to get out of this suit before we go across the road.’ But Charlie grabbed her hand and pulled her back.
‘It looks like I’ll be out of your hair very soon, sis,’ she said. ‘I’m having supper with Annie tomorrow evening.’
‘Oh, Charlie, that’s wonderful,’ her sister said, then as though realising how that might have sounded, ‘oh, I mean, that’s wonderful for you. I don’t mean I’ll be glad to see the back of you.’ But Charlie waved away her protestations.
‘It’s okay, I know what you mean—although you must admit it would be nice to get your privacy back.’
‘Charlie, you know you’re welcome to stay here whenever and for as long as you like!’
‘Yes, I know—and I’m very grateful—but there are some home comforts a sister just can’t give you, if you know what I mean,’ she said, giving Suzanne a saucy wink. From the lounge she heard the familiar signature tune for the six o’clock news. Then there was a screech from Francine.
‘Suzanne, Charlie, get in here now!’
Francine was transfixed in front of the television where Sir Frederick Michaels’s picture was emblazoned across the screen. The newsreader’s voice could be heard in the background, talking about the eminent, recently retired public servant who went missing on the way home from the office on his final day.
‘Sir Frederick has been missing for twenty-four hours, and police and family are concerned for his safety.’ Charlie gave a snort of derision, but was shushed by the other two women. ‘The police have so far declined to comment on the report from a member of the public that a car, believed to be the same make as that driven by Sir Frederick, was found abandoned in the car park at Dumpton Gap in Kent.’
EPILOGUE
It was front page news for a few days, until other stories came to the fore and it slipped down the list. It had reached page five in the newspapers and number seven on the list of broadcast items before it was confirmed that the car did indeed belong to Sir Frederick Michaels, as did the pile of clothing found on the bench next to the sea wall. An extensive search of the surrounding countryside and shoreline resulted in no body being discovered. It would take a year or more for an official conclusion, but the unofficial consensus was that Sir Frederick had taken his own life. So-called friends and workplace pundits were interviewed on television, giving their views on whether the loss of status and purpose occasioned by the retirement from such a prominent position was likely to result in suicidal tendencies. His wife remained completely silent on the matter.
In June, Suzanne flew out to Zambia for a project update meeting. WB had returned to Kampala at the beginning of the year, taking Sara Matsebula with him to meet his family. But now they were back in Lusaka. With the exception of Charlie, who had stayed in UK, Suzanne’s team of conspirators was reunited. On the first evening of her trip, she invited them to dinner at her hotel.
‘So, Chibesa,’ she said as they sipped their drinks on the terrace, ‘what’s the news on the ground? Any rumours of Banda setting up again?’
‘Not as far as I can tell; not in Zambia anyway,’ Chibesa replied. He took off his already spotless-looking glasses and polished them on the hem of his shirt. ‘We know that after Kabwe Mazoka’s confession, most of the local Banda members plus others in the region were rounded up and charged. Whether there will be any convictions is unclear, but at least they’re off the streets and unable to cause any more harm for the time being.’
‘And what about Nico Mladov?’ said WB. ‘Do we know for certain that he escaped back to Ukraine?’
‘That’s what the Zambian authorities believe; I understand they’re working their way through the intricacies of extradition. But it could take years, so I wouldn’t hold your breath on that.’
‘Actually, I have some news on that front,’ said Suzanne. ‘Francine has been tipped off by someone in the British Embassy in Ukraine that a body was pulled out of the River Dnieper on the outskirts of Kiev last week. It was badly decomposed, but they’re fairly certain it’s Mladov. He seems to have fallen foul of someone, although on which side of the law that might be, isn’t clear.’
‘And probably best not to enquire too closely,’ said Chibesa. ‘So it looks like we can draw a line under Banda.’
‘Well, it’s a start,’ said Suzanne. ‘I’m not naive enough to think we’ve solved the whole problem, but, at least it’s the first step.’
‘Yes, but what about the man at the top?’ asked Sara. ‘Have they found his body yet?’
‘No, they haven’t, and we really don’t think they ever will. Neither Francine nor I believe he would have killed himself. We suspect he had an escape route planned all along.’
‘And the rather clumsy attempts to frame your MP friend;’ WB said, ‘why do you think he did that?’ Suzanne shrugged.
‘Probably a diversionary tactic to buy him some time,’ she
said. ‘He must have known the stories wouldn’t stand up to detailed examination, but there was just enough to slow us down and stop us going to the police.’ She sighed and went on, ‘But it’s so frustrating. And not just for Charlie, Francine and me. I’m sure you’d like to see some closure too, Sara.’
‘So is that it? Do we just give up?’ Sara said.
‘Absolutely not! Charlie never met him, but she’s really taken personally the fact that this man was responsible for my kidnapping and trying to make Francine into a scapegoat; not to mention the deaths of Ruth, of George, of Hope and her workmates, plus however many have been killed by the fake drugs. She’s carried on researching and she won’t stop until she finds Sir Frederick Michaels again.’
The project meeting was upbeat; countries which already had drug regulations in place were starting to set up agencies to monitor both local production and the quality of imports. Other countries were working on getting the regulations in place. The Kenyan representative—not Walter Mukooyo himself, but this time a much more senior official than the one he left behind in Swaziland—volunteered to chair a liaison group of customs officers, aimed at tightening the border controls.
‘But we all realise it’s a tiny step in a huge journey,’ WB said, as he and Suzanne strolled in the hotel gardens one evening. ‘And it’s not really the local operations we need to worry about. There’s so much flooding in from India and China, the stuff supplied by Banda was just a drop in the ocean. So the fight goes on!’
‘And what are your plans, WB? Are you going to start again?’
‘Yes, I think so. The fire at the factory wasn’t as devastating as the initial reports would have us believe. We reckon we can be up and running again before the end of the year. And in the meantime, I’m going to do some work with the new agency, help train up their inspectors.’
‘Is Sara going back with you?’
‘No, not this time,’ he said with a smile. ‘I asked her, of course; she would have been a great asset to my company, and there’s nothing for her to go back to in Swaziland. But, let’s just say she seems to have other plans.’
On the day before she flew back to UK, Suzanne accepted Chibesa’s invitation to eat at home with him and his family. As they sat in the garden, waiting for Hannah to call them to the table, Suzanne was amused to see a continual succession of young children peeking around corners at her, before disappearing with a giggle when she looked at them.
‘How many children have you got staying here, Chibesa?’ she asked. He shrugged and smiled ruefully.
‘I think it’s about twenty-three,’ he said, ‘but they tend to come and go, so we often lose count.’
‘And they’re all your relatives?’
‘Most of them; although we get an occasional friend stopping over for a few weeks. They’re all AIDS orphans, we’ve got the room, and they need the help, so...’ He shrugged again.
Just then a group of three young boys walked into the garden. Chibesa beckoned them over.
‘Suzanne, you remember Joey and Samuel, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course I do,’ she said. ‘Hello, guys; how’s it going?’ and then, realising the identity of the third boy, she jumped up and held her arms wide open. ‘Freedom! I nearly didn’t recognise you.’ She had helped Chibesa arrange for Hope’s brother to be brought to Lusaka after the fire in Ndola, but the healthy looking boy who now returned her hug bore little resemblance to the dirty, frightened and undernourished child she’d met six months before.
Just then, Hannah called to say dinner was ready. As the children started appearing from all corners of the compound, heading for the main house, Suzanne caught Chibesa’s arm and held him back.
‘I was going to ask you to come and work in London,’ she told him. ‘We could really do with your local knowledge back in IHF headquarters.’ She watched conflicting emotions running across his face. Then she shook her head. ‘But I can’t do that to them, can I? You’re much too important to these kids, to your family.’
‘But Hannah’s here, and Silas,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want to be away for too long, but there’s nothing to stop me coming over there every so often, now is there?’ He grabbed her hand. ‘Come on, I’m ravenous—and you’re going to love Hannah’s cooking.’
As they entered the kitchen, Hannah was dishing up the mutton stew. A young woman stood with her back to them, draining a pot. And as Sara Matsebula turned from the sink to greet them, Suzanne suspected it wasn’t just the children who would be keeping Chibesa anchored in Lusaka from now on.
It was three months later that Charlie invited Suzanne and Francine to meet her at Sanjay’s for supper. She had moved back into Annie’s flat three days after the showdown with Sandro and the couple seemed blissfully happy. However, on this occasion, Charlie was on her own when the others arrived. She was looking remarkably smug and could barely wait for their drinks to be delivered and their orders taken before she pulled open a folder and started to read from her notes.
‘I’ve been doing a bit of research,’ she began. ‘The story starts back in 1955 when a young man called Michael Hawkins arrived in South Africa on the cargo freighter Prince Albert, out of Liverpool. He was the youngest of seven from a poor family in Bradford, and he’d run away to sea at the age of fifteen.’
As their food arrived and the meal progressed, she told the others about the time Hawkins had spent in Africa, his growth in stature within the underworld in Cape Town and how he finally found things too hot for him over there.
‘So one day, he just disappeared! He was seen boarding a boat bound for Europe, but when the ship docked there was no sign of him either on board or in the documentation.’
‘This is fascinating,’ said Francine, ‘but why are you telling us all this, Charlie? What’s so special about this young man?’
‘Well, how about if I tell you the ship on which he disappeared was the same one that brought Frederick Michaels to England?’
‘But that’s just a coincidence, isn’t it?’ Suzanne asked?
‘And if I tell you that there was no trace of Michaels getting on the ship in the first place? That he seemed to appear out of thin air just as Hawkins disappeared?’
‘Sounds a bit too much of a coincidence to me,’ agreed Francine, nodding her head.
‘And,’ Charlie drawled, obviously enjoying the element of suspense she was building up, ‘how about if I tell you that on the evening of Thursday twentieth April this year, the very day that Sir Frederick Michaels was doing his disappearing act, someone called Michael Hawkins dropped a Ford Mondeo hire car off at Heathrow and checked into the Rose Bay guest house on the outskirts of the airport; and that the next morning, the same Michael Hawkins boarded a plane for Rio de Janeiro—and he was travelling on a one-way ticket.’ She sat back, wiped her mouth before slinging the napkin down on the table.
‘We’ve got him, ladies,’ she said with a smirk, ‘once we track down his final movements, we’ve got him!’
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have benefited greatly during the writing of this book from the support provided by my friends in the thriving community of writers and readers in Devon and beyond, and I want to thank them all: Margaret Barnes for once more being my writing partner during the editing of our books; to my friends in Chudleigh Writers’ Circle and Exeter Writers; to Sue, Clare and Helen, my MA buddies; and to Mary Anne McFarlane, Heather Morgan and Richard Morgan, Jenny Benjamin and Clare Lillington, my beta readers.
I am grateful to all my friends and colleagues in Africa who were so helpful and supportive during the COMESA project. In my research, I was particularly helped by three books: In The Shade of the Mulberry Tree by Catharine Withenay and Don’t Let’s Go To The Dogs Tonight by Alexandra Fuller helped fill in the gaps about life in Zambia and other countries in the region; and An Evil Cradling by Brian Keenan enabled me to write about a situation I will hopefully never experience myself.
Berni Stevens (@circleoflebanon) is responsible fo
r the beautiful cover; Julia Gibbs (@ProofreadJulia) made sure the final text is as error-free as possible. My thanks go to both of them. I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to my sisters, Margaret Andow and Sheila Pearson, for their analytical reading skills, ongoing support and interminable phone calls. Finally, my thanks go, as always, to my husband Michael McCormick, my fiercest critic and strongest supporter, who constantly tells me ‘just keep writing’.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elizabeth Ducie was born and brought up in Birmingham. As a teenager, essays and poetry won her an overseas trip via a newspaper competition. Despite this, she took scientific and business qualifications and spent more than thirty years as a manufacturing consultant, business owner and technical writer before returning to creative writing in 2006. She has written short stories and poetry for competitions—and has had a few wins, several honourable mentions and some short-listing. She is published in several anthologies.
Under the Chudleigh Phoenix Publications imprint, she has published one collection of short stories and co-authored another two. She also writes non-fiction, including ebooks for writers running their own small business. Her debut novel, Gorgito’s Ice Rink, was runner-up in the 2015 Self-Published Book of the Year awards.
Elizabeth is the editor of the Chudleigh Phoenix Community Magazine. She is a member of the Chudleigh Writers’ Circle. Exeter Writers, West of England Authors and ALLi (The Alliance of Independent Authors).
For more information on Elizabeth, visit her website: www.elizabethducie.co.uk; follow her on Goodreads, Facebook, Twitter or Pinterest; or watch the trailers for her books on YouTube. To keep up to date with her writing plans, subscribe to her quarterly newsletter (the link is on the website): or just drop her a line; she loves to chat with readers: [email protected].
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