A Holiday to Die For

by Marion Leigh

  ‘Bob’s your uncle,’ Petra murmured. She compared the Facebook picture to the photograph she remembered, taken by Mrs. Pinderally. It looked like the same girl, and there was no doubt that she was a masseuse: all her public posts referred to massage techniques. The most recent one had been posted a week ago, on Sunday, the day after her interview with Mrs. Pinderally.

  ‘The Tabernacle Youth Collective has some wonderful outreach projects. My prenatal massage skills will be put to good use.’

  There was a grainy photo of a cluster of white buildings that could have been anywhere – including the community farm near Langebaan, Petra thought excitedly. She scrolled down further. The chair wobbled alarmingly as she sat up straight.

  ‘Working with Father Joe’s group has opened my eyes to a whole new world.’

  This was accompanied by another low-resolution photo of white-washed buildings in a country setting.

  ‘Bingo!’ Petra shouted.

  ‘Found what you were looking for?’ The pimply youth came hurrying through the doorway into the small room. ‘Care to vacate?’

  ‘Not quite yet,’ Petra said. She ran her eye down Vicky’s earlier posts. One stood out.

  ‘Working at the Cape Sands is OK, but I want to experience the real Africa.’

  With a mental sigh, Petra sent Vicky a friends request, signed out and ceded the rickety chair to the impatient young man.

  Chapter

  53

  Carlo was lying on his bed talking earnestly on the hotel phone. He acknowledged Petra’s return with a motion of his right hand that seemed a trifle dismissive. She frowned. How long was he going to be?

  Her head was spinning. Vicky Dunlin’s posts implied that she had gone with the Tabernacle Youth Collective to work with pregnant women – quite possibly at the farm they had cased. How she wished Carlo would get off the phone so that she could tell him. She raised her hands in a questioning gesture. All he did was wave her away again.

  Frustrated, Petra sat on the edge of her bed and tried to set her thoughts straight. She jumped up as soon as she heard Carlo ending his conversation. Quickly she filled him in on her internet searches.

  ‘ … I couldn’t find any websites relating to Higher Ground Tours or Interchange, nor Tabernacle Youth Collective. So whatever they’re doing, they’re not targeting the masses,’ she finished. ‘Oh, and Father John …’

  ‘That’s all good stuff, Petra, but please don’t bother me with it right at this moment. I have to go through the file you copied off Tony’s computer. If I can select three or four wedding guests who’ll be flying back to London, Frankfurt, and Paris or Geneva, Hubert will have someone examine their luggage. It’ll take some serious string-pulling to arrange but we’re both convinced it’ll be worthwhile.’

  ‘What about your uncle? Aren’t you concerned that he’s involved in all this?’

  ‘If he’s mixed up in something illegal, he’ll take what’s coming to him. Family ties only go so far.’

  ‘Right answer!’

  ‘I’m glad you approve of some of my morals.’

  ‘With emphasis on the “some”, Mercutio. Go and do your computer work. I want to phone A.K.’

  ‘It’s Easter Sunday.’

  ‘Holidays and weekends don’t mean anything to him. That’s why he always calls me when I’m away. Right now it’s late morning in Ontario.’

  ‘My advice is to get all your ducks in a row before you call him. Ciao.’

  Carlo picked up the hotel notepad and pen and slipped out of the room.

  Petra ran through what she wanted to say to A.K. It was almost a week since she had spoken to him. The time had gone so quickly and they had covered hundreds of kilometres. She hoped he would understand that she’d been travelling in areas with no phone signal and in any case didn’t have anything definitive to report. Perhaps it would have helped if he had told her why Vicky was so important.

  After a few minutes’ reflection, she took a deep breath and dialled his number from memory. The line when he answered was fuzzy but serviceable.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you to call. How’s Vicky Dunlin?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir.’

  ‘Why not? You’ve had a week to find her.’

  Not quite, Petra thought, but A.K. didn’t worry about niceties. He was obviously displeased.

  ‘I did my best and I think I know where she is.’

  ‘You think? Where?’ His tone was brittle.

  ‘On a farm about a hundred and thirty kilometres north of Cape Town.’

  ‘What’s she doing there?’

  ‘Working with pregnant women. She posted about the Collective’s outreach programmes and her prenatal massage skills on her Facebook page.’

  ‘Oh boy!’

  For the first time since she had known him, Petra detected emotion in A.K.’s voice.

  ‘Who is Vicky Dunlin? Why is she so important? Is she some celebrity who needs protection? I’m on leave you know.’ Petra was practically shouting into the phone.

  ‘Vicky Dunlin is my niece. She has a rare blood disorder that requires constant monitoring. If something goes out of kilter, she could need urgent treatment.’ A.K. cleared his throat. ‘Her father tried to stop her going to South Africa but she was adamant. She wanted to help others less fortunate than herself. She has to be in a major centre where she can get help fast.’

  Petra suddenly felt afraid. The community village or farm, whatever it was, was way off the beaten track. The cleaner at the church in the little town where they had shopped for supplies had intimated that the women and their babies were not well cared for. If Vicky was there, she was risking her health and quite possibly her life. And if she wasn’t there, she could be in an even more remote village run by the Tabernacle Youth Collective or Higher Ground Interchange.

  A.K.’s next words were so quietly spoken Petra could hardly hear him. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Touring in Namibia, and going on safari.’

  ‘I see.’

  Petra waited for what would come next. The dull edge to A.K.’s voice tore at her heart. He was human and hurting. She knew he didn’t have any children. Vicky must hold a special place in his affections.

  At the same time she felt a rising anger. What was her decision to be if A.K. asked her to go and find Vicky straightaway? This was a holiday to die for. She had agreed to his previous requests because he was her boss and that was the way it should be; how could she refuse now? And if she did go to look for Vicky, how would she persuade her to go back to Cape Town?

  ‘It’s a three-day drive back to where I think Vicky might be. And I’m spending the next three days game-viewing in Etosha National Park.’

  There was a short pause.

  ‘Can you change your plans?’

  Petra ignored the sick feeling in her gut. ‘It’s not just me. This affects a lot of other people too. And I can’t guarantee Vicky is where I suspect she is.’

  Petra felt as despicable as if she were walking away from a burning homestead torched by savages. But what right did A.K. have to lay this on her? She was a super-conscientious cop, worked her ass off in the name of justice, exposed herself to danger time after time … and once again he wanted his pound of flesh. Maybe it was time to leave the Force and work to her own schedule.

  A.K. was waiting for an answer.

  What would Carlo say if she capitulated? What would he do? And what about Megan and Hilary? They were all so close now, nearly in Etosha.

  ‘It’s not easy,’ she whispered, on the verge of tears.

  ‘Nothing that’s right is easy.’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’

  Chapter

  54

  Petra looked up as Carlo entered the room. He was carrying a bottle of French champagne that he waved in the air.

  ‘Not Veuve
Clicquot rosé, I’m afraid, but the best I could do.’

  A tear rolled out of the corner of Petra’s eye. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

  ‘What’s the matter, tesoro mio? Have you been fired for not keeping your ducks in a row?’

  Petra screwed up her eyes, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. ‘I think I just shot myself in the foot.’ In a leaden voice, she began to explain.

  ‘This is – what do the Americans say? – bullshit! It’s got nothing to do with your job. You’re not responsible for A.K.’s family.’

  ‘I can’t let him down, Carlo.’

  ‘What about letting me down? That’s all right, is it? We’re just getting to the high point of our trip, Petra!’

  ‘Carlo, don’t! Can’t we work something out?’

  ‘Like what? Cancel the rest of our vacation, lose our deposits, drive like maniacs for nearly two thousand kilometres on bad roads … for what?’

  ‘You know for what. To help someone who could be in serious trouble.’

  ‘I thought you were keen to get to Etosha to catch up with your young friends because you were afraid they were in trouble.’

  Petra felt the fight go out of her. It was replaced by a drained feeling that turned her face into a white mask. ‘What’s the right thing to do, Carlo?’

  He studied her for a long moment.

  ‘First, you need a hug.’ He put the bottle of champagne on the dresser and walked towards her. ‘We’ll get to that later. Come here.’

  He held her tightly for what seemed like minutes and kissed her hair before releasing her. ‘Better?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Thank you.’ She sniffed loudly and walked into the bathroom to fetch a tissue.

  ‘Let’s sit on the balcony,’ Carlo said. ‘Maybe if we look far enough out, it’ll give us some perspective. Driving all that way doesn’t make sense, especially given the uncertain outcome. That guy in the Higher Ground van already warned us off. You can bet he wouldn’t be pleased to see us again.’

  ‘We could go there in something other than Lucy.’

  ‘Which would mean more distance, more delay and more expense to rent a different vehicle.’

  ‘What about flying?’

  ‘We’re supposed to fly back to Cape Town from Windhoek on Friday night.’

  ‘We could change that and maybe charter a small plane to go to Langebaan?’

  ‘On our pittances? You’re crazy, Petra.’

  ‘A.K. might help.’

  ‘I’d be very surprised. He’s a master manipulator. He’s wagering you’ll do his bidding as you always have in the past.’

  ‘OK, so if we fly back as planned,’ Petra said, thinking aloud, ‘I could get a car and drive up to Langebaan while you go to Stellenbosch to take photos at that wedding.’

  ‘Now you’re talking!’

  Petra blew out air. ‘I’m sorry, Carlo. I haven’t forgotten what you need to do. It’s just that I don’t want to disappoint A.K. and I’m seriously worried about Vicky. But maybe a few days won’t matter, and at least I’ll have a chance to make sure Megan and Hilary are fine.’

  ‘You can’t take everyone under your wing, Petra,’ Carlo said gently. ‘These girls have to take responsibility for themselves. If they make wrong choices, they’ll learn from their mistakes.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather a callous thing to say?’

  ‘No, it’s life.’

  Petra sat silently thinking. ‘The problem is, even if I do go to the farm and find Vicky there, how am I going to persuade her to return to Cape Town with me? I can just see it: I turn up out of the blue, she has no idea who I am, I try to drag her away from something she feels she’s been called to do – her destiny, as she insisted in her letter to Mrs. Pinderally …’

  ‘You could …’

  ‘That’s it!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mrs. Pinderally!’

  ‘I don’t see …’

  ‘I’ll send Ali an email, a letter to give to Mrs. P. Once she understands what has to be done, she’ll do it I’m sure. She loves Miss Vicky and her massages and is willing to give her a permanent home.’

  ‘You really think she’ll be able to convince her?’

  ‘Mrs. Pinderally will find a way.’ Petra clapped a hand to her head. ‘But how am I going to give her directions to the farm? She’ll never find it!’

  ‘Oh yes she will. I have the coordinates right here.’ Carlo pressed a button on his innocuous-looking watch.

  ‘Bingo! Sometimes I love you, Mercutio.’

  The pimply youth in shorts was sitting at the hotel’s computer playing a game. Petra stood in the doorway and folded her arms. He didn’t react but knew she was there. ‘Fuck!’ he said, ending his game and firing up another screen.

  ‘Time to vacate, buddy!’

  ‘You screwed up my game. I can’t play when someone’s watching.’

  ‘Too bad.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says me. RCMP.’ Petra pulled out her ID. ‘I’m on a secret mission and if I don’t send an urgent email, this hotel will be crawling with terrorists, so off you go.’

  His eyes were as big as satellite dishes. Petra smiled grimly. She didn’t like to throw her weight about but it did produce results.

  She logged into her boatgirl email, typed in Ali’s email address and began to compose. First the message, which she marked high priority:

  Dear Ali,

  Please deliver the following letter urgently to Mrs. Pinderally. Miss Vicky’s life may depend on it.

  Thank you for your prompt attention.

  Sincerely,

  Petra Minx

  Setting the right tone for the letter to Mrs. Pinderally was difficult. After several false starts she wrote:

  Dear Mrs. Pinderally,

  I have asked Ali to bring you this letter in the hope that you can lend a hand in a very pressing matter. But first, Carlo and I would like to thank you again for your magnificent hospitality and all your teachings. I can tell you in confidence that we are setting traps for the diamond smugglers.

  The matter to which I refer concerns Miss Vicky. Carlo and I have discovered that she is in a perilous situation: her life may be threatened if she cannot be brought back to Cape Town very quickly. You are the only person we can trust who has the talents and resources to accomplish this.

  We believe she is on a farm near Langebaan where that sleaze ball Father John is keeping dozens of girls who have fallen into pregnancy. The GPS coordinates are approximately 33.1772°S, 18.2452°E. If you can save her, she will surely repay you with complete loyalty and infinite massages.

  Petra read over what she had written and grimaced. Was it too melodramatic? Too flowery? Too obscure? Was adding Carlo to the mix a good idea? What else could she do to induce Mrs. Pinderally to get involved? Perhaps if she saw herself as the hero of the hour …

  Petra continued:

  Mrs. Pinderally, the circumstances call for heroic measures. If you can rescue Miss Vicky, the ending will be happy. If not, I fear the worst. We cannot go to her aid ourselves because we are in Namibia, closing in on the villains. Once we have them, we will return to Cape Town.

  Time is of the essence. We are counting on your support.

  Petra and Carlo

  Petra read the letter again. Was it too long? Would it galvanize Mrs. Pinderally into action? Or would Mrs. P. think she was pulling her leg? Her finger hovered over the send button.

  The pimply youth took a tentative step through the archway.

  Petra turned. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve finished. Go away and let me think!’

  She’d be able to assess the letter more objectively if she did something else for a few minutes then came back to it. Something mindless, like writing reviews of the campsite at S
esriem and Sossusvlei.

  She logged in to Trip Advisor where she occasionally posted reviews and typed quickly:

  Friendly staff, excellent individual pitches, clean toilets and showers, and easy access to the park. What better introduction to the spectacular dunes at Sossusvlei!

  Petra heard a noise behind her. The pimply youth was back, accompanied by a portly middle-aged man.

  ‘You being rude to my son? You’ve no right to monopolize the computer.’

  ‘Government anti-terrorism measures, Sir,’ Petra said, pulling out her ID again.

  ‘Baloney!’

  ‘I assure you, I’m not joking, Sir. Terrorism is everywhere. Depending on your definition,’ she added under her breath.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Give me five more minutes.’

  Petra reread her letter to Mrs. Pinderally, tweaked a sentence here and there and sent the message. However much time she spent trying to second-guess Mrs. P.’s reaction, she knew she wouldn’t succeed. She doubted even Mr. Pinderally could have done it.

  Carlo had procured two wineglasses, a dish of olives, and a wine bucket in which the bottle of champagne was sitting. As soon as Petra opened the door, he threw her guidebook onto the bed and jumped up.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘It’s gone, high priority email. I don’t know whether it’ll do the trick. With luck, I’ll have a response one way or the other before we leave tomorrow. I’ll check after breakfast.’

  ‘I’m sure Mrs. P. will rise to the challenge. She needs something to occupy that sharp mind of hers. Now let’s celebrate.’ He picked up the bottle and began to ease the wire off the bulbous cork.

  ‘Don’t we normally do this at the end of a mission when everything has been resolved?’

  ‘Yes, and we will. But I reckon we’re on the home straight. Hubert’s pulling strings like there’s no tomorrow and is over the moon at the prospect of killing two birds with one stone.’