African Sky

by Tony Park

  ‘You mentioned you were studying to be a lawyer.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he groaned. ‘This is like pulling teeth.’

  ‘No one would accuse you of talking the legs off a table,’ she smiled.

  ‘Well, you should be proud of your old man. Those Long Range Desert Group blokes are the best.’ He explained that one of the instructors at Kumalo had flown Kittyhawks in the RAF’s Desert Air Force. He‘d been full of praise for the way they were taking the fight to the Germans. The groups operated in small convoys, hundreds of miles behind enemy lines, moving fast and hitting hard. It was a job for tough men who were skilled at living in barren areas – Australians and Rhodesians. ‘He must be quite a bloke.’

  She chewed her bottom lip. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s his name.’

  ‘Charlie.’

  He stayed silent, and she knew he was hoping she would fill the void with more talking. It was the same interview technique she had used on him earlier. He was a fast learner. But she wasn’t going to fall for that.

  ‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘Enough about Charlie, then. I understand if you don’t want to talk about him.’

  ‘It’s just . . . difficult. With him being away. You’re not married?’

  ‘Me? No way. I had a girl back in Sydney, but she sent me a letter halfway through my training over here telling me she’d met someone else. I’d expected to marry her. It was only a couple of years ago, but it seems like a lifetime. I realise now I barely knew her at all.’

  ‘You’ll marry one day, though?’ Pip asked.

  ‘At the risk of sounding melodramatic, once I got to England I didn’t think I’d survive the war. I still can’t really picture myself in a bungalow with a backyard and fence and kids. Doesn’t seem natural. You don’t have children?’

  ‘No.’ Thank God, she thought.

  ‘Time for that after the war, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes. I expect so.’

  He looked across at her, but she added nothing. ‘So why didn’t you become a lawyer?’

  ‘I got married and became a farmer’s wife instead.’

  He nodded. ‘You could be studying now, instead of being a copper, I expect.’

  ‘I don’t know about you, Squadron Leader –’

  ‘Paul.’

  ‘I think that, given the circumstances –’

  ‘Paul, or you won’t get another word out of me, and you ride in the back of the Dodge with the erks.’

  She laughed. ‘All right, Paul. I don’t know about you, but I think I’ve had enough of life stories for the moment.’

  ‘I agree . . .’

  ‘Oh. Philippa. But nearly everyone calls me Pip.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her, Pip. You realise that, don’t you.’

  She saw he was still looking at the road, unwilling, or unable to meet her eyes. ‘I don’t know what to think, Paul. But I’ve no reason yet to suspect you.’

  He looked at her now, and she thought she’d never seen eyes so heavy with sadness and loss and fatigue and bad memories.

  ‘I don’t have it in me,’ he said.

  She thought she believed him. ‘How close were Felicity and Catherine De Beers?’

  ‘You’ll see when we give her the news. Rest stop ahead.’

  Bryant stopped the convoy at a long whitewashed, thatch-roofed sandstone building on the side of the road.

  ‘This place reminds me of holidays,’ she said.

  He got out of the car and stretched, raising his arms above his head. ‘Twenty minutes, boys,’ he called to the men in the Dodge. ‘Let’s get a cup of tea. So you’ve been here before?’

  ‘Only a couple of times, as a kid. Then we went to Victoria Falls for our honeymoon and stayed in the big hotel there.’

  ‘Happier times?’ he said, instantly regretting the way it came out. ‘Sorry. Not my business.’

  She let the remark slide by, but was suddenly aware her short, moody answers to his questioning about her married life had betrayed her. Damn him. They were not on this trip to dissect her marital affairs. They took a seat at a white wrought-iron table outside, under the shade of a bougainvillea-choked gazebo, and ordered tea from the African waiter.

  They sat at the table in silence, the sun on their faces, each lost in their memories.

  *

  They saw more game once they turned left off the strips of tar onto the dirt road that led to Matetsi, and Pandamatenga on the Bechuanaland border. According to the sign at the turnoff, they were about sixty miles from Victoria Falls, in the far north-western corner of the country. He’d flown over the mighty avalanche of water during his time in training in Rhodesia, on his first trip. He’d marvelled at the fine spray that looked like columns of smoke from the air. But here, the bush was parched from a lack of water.

  ‘What are they?’ he asked as they slowed to pass a herd of black and white antelope with magnificent curved horns.

  ‘Sable. They’re beautiful, aren’t they? There must be some water nearby. The animals tend to congregate around the remaining natural water, or boreholes, at this time of year.’

  ‘I wish I could get out here into the bush more often,’ he replied.

  ‘I know what you mean. I could live out here, I think, away from the city and all those people.’

  ‘Me too. Catherine tells me there are huge herds of buffalo and elephant up here, as well as lion, leopard, cheetah, the works.’

  ‘It’s a great place. Almost makes you believe there’s a God.’

  Funny, he thought, but he was about to say the exact same thing. He’d seen nothing in England, or in the skies over Germany, to convince him there was a merciful supreme being or, if there were one, that he was on their side. He wondered where her apparent disillusionment with religion came from. Every now and then she looked like she, too, was harbouring painful memories, and they marred an otherwise angelic face.

  The trucks juddered along the badly corrugated dirt road, through vast stands of mopani trees, intersected by parched riverbeds and flood plains covered in dry yellow grass. Dust filled the inside of the car and coated the airmen in the back of the Dodge. Bryant felt the grit cover his teeth. He hit the brakes as a huge bull elephant stepped out onto the road.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he said. ‘How am I going to reverse with this lot behind me?’

  ‘Quiet,’ Pip whispered. ‘Your voice is more of a worry to him than the sound of the engines.’

  A cloud of dust haloed the animal’s big knobbly head as he shook it. His ears flapped like grey flags snapping in the wind. He raised his trunk and sniffed the air.

  ‘Stay still,’ Pip urged.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he hissed.

  The elephant rocked back his massive circular left front foot and lowered his trunk.

  ‘He’s giving up,’ Bryant whispered.

  ‘Not quite.’

  Without warning the trunk came up again and the bull’s ears opened wide. He started running towards the Humber and, as he moved, let out a mighty trumpet blast from his trunk.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Wait,’ Pip said. ‘It’s a mock charge. He’s just trying to scare us.’

  ‘Doing a bloody good job,’ he said, his heart pounding.

  The elephant stopped a few yards from the car, shook his head again, then turned and walked off into the grass.

  ‘See?’ Pip said. ‘It’s all about reading the signs,’ she said. ‘Knowing when someone is bluffing and when they really mean to hurt you.’

  ‘You’re good at reading signs, are you?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said.

  7

  Catherine De Beers spurred her mount hard in the ribs and the horse galloped across the grassy vlei. The impala carcass bounced on the horse’s rump behind her saddle.

  ‘Here she comes,’ Bryant said, pointing to the fast-moving dark spot on the yellow-brown landscape as he drove through the ornate thatch-crowned gate of the De Beers property, Isilw
ane Ranch, and up the half-mile driveway.

  Catherine waved as she rode, long dark curls streaming in the breeze as she passed the modest mud and thatch staff housing, then returned both hands to the reins as the horse effortlessly cleared the stone wall surrounding the grounds of the main lodge. She leaned forward and patted the horse’s neck as it slowed to a walk.

  ‘Paul! How delightful to see you,’ she called.

  She dismounted with the fluid ease of a leopardess alighting from a branch, and strode, riding crop in hand, to the car. An African servant dressed in khaki shirt and shorts was waiting to take her mount. She tossed the reins to him imperiously, but otherwise did not acknowledge his presence. ‘I see you’ve brought company. How wonderful. I’ve been cooped up here alone, starved of human contact, for an eternity!’

  Pip Lovejoy looked Catherine De Beers up and down before she got out of the car. If Felicity Langham had a blonde Hollywood starlet’s looks, Catherine had those of a classic beauty, as though she’d been brought to life from the glaze of a Greek urn or an Egyptian frieze. Lustrous black locks, eyes and lashes, and the full breasts, wide hips and nipped waist that American pin-up magazines were encouraging men around the world to consider the epitome of female beauty. The outfit helped too. Polished brown leather riding boots that came to her knees, skin-tight jodhpurs, and a simple but elegantly tailored blouse of sky blue. Pip had a slight gap between her two front teeth, which made her more than a little envious of the even, white smile that the other woman flashed at her.

  ‘How do you do, I’m Catherine. We haven’t met,’ she said.

  The accent was more British than Rhodesian, Pip thought. An affectation, perhaps. ‘Hello, I’m Constable Philippa Lovejoy, Bulawayo Police. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘The police? Undercover, by the looks of it,’ Catherine said, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Pip’s here on business, Catherine,’ Bryant began.

  Catherine looked puzzled, her eyes questioning the Australian. ‘Do come in for some tea and you can tell me what all this is about, Paul.’

  ‘Catherine, wait. This is serious. It’s not good news. Something terrible has happened to Flick.’

  Catherine looked away from him, into Pip’s eyes. ‘Tell me.’

  Pip took a breath. ‘Mrs De Beers, I’m sorry to inform you that Felicity Langham was found dead, in Bulawayo, the night before last. We suspect foul play.’

  Catherine fainted.

  Bloody hell, Pip thought to herself as Bryant called to the men in the Dodge to come and help him. Part of her job as a policewoman was to break the news of tragic deaths to relatives. She’d been on four such assignments with Hayes so far. Three of them were to tell parents and spouses about motor-vehicle accidents, and the fourth was to report a lost child had been found dead, at the bottom of an abandoned mine shaft. All were terrible in their own way and she had seen a variety of emotions from the grieving relatives. Some broke down in tears, some refused to believe the news, and some took it, at least in the first instance, with quiet stoicism. This was the first faint she’d seen. It seemed somehow theatrical – and not completely out of step with the brief impression she had formed of the wealthy widow. The galloping across the veldt, the smooth dismount, the gushing way in which she had greeted Bryant, and now the collapse at his feet.

  ‘Let’s get you inside,’ Bryant said. He had lifted Catherine by himself. ‘Open the door,’ he ordered a sergeant in overalls. ‘The rest of you blokes wait by the trucks.’

  ‘Paul . . . is that you?’ she said, looking up into his eyes.

  ‘It’s me, Catherine. You’ve had a shock.’

  ‘Tell me it’s not true, about Flick.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is.’

  Pip followed them through the front door of the house. One of Catherine’s servants, a plump woman in a starched pinafore, bustled into the kitchen and returned with a crystal jug of cold water.

  ‘I think you should lie down,’ Bryant said.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Paul. Awfully embarrassed at this show,’ she said.

  Bryant walked unhesitatingly down a long corridor, his rubber soles squeaking on polished wooden floorboards. Pip watched him kick open a door with his right foot, then walk into the room. She moved to the doorway and peered inside. It seemed to be the master bedroom. A four-poster bed sat in the middle of the room. A mosquito net hung from the tops of the posts to the floor. The furnishings looked plush and expensive. A mixture of English lace and ethnic African objets d’art. On top of the wide dressing table were two huge curved tusks, each with a procession of miniature elephants carved into them. The stool in front was made from an elephant’s foot.

  It was Catherine’s bedroom, judging by the smell of perfume and collection of coloured fragrance bottles on the dressers, but the legacy of old Hugo De Beers was still there. As well as the tusks and stool there was a leopard-skin rug on the floor and an old rifle – a Martini Henry, she thought – mounted on the wall above an assegai, a Zulu stabbing spear. Incongruously, though, on the wall behind the head of the bed was an impressionistic oil painting of what appeared to be two naked women, their limbs intertwined.

  Bryant elbowed the mosquito netting apart and laid Catherine on the bed. ‘Patience will be here in a second with some water. Just take it easy for the moment.’

  Pip looked at them. Like a couple, she thought to herself. Bryant had obviously spent time in the house. He knew the way to the bedroom without asking, and the maid’s name. If she had to guess, assuming Bryant had been holding back parts of his story, she would have said that he had been romantically involved with Felicity Langham – and perhaps embarrassed by the fact that she was his subordinate, or worried that he would be incriminated somehow in her murder. Pip assumed that he had gotten to know Catherine De Beers through his relationship with Felicity. The fact that he obviously knew his way around the De Beers Manor – for that was how Pip already thought of the lodge – seemed to indicate that he may have been close to Catherine as well.

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ Catherine said.

  Quite the dark horse, Pip thought to herself, raising her eyebrows behind Bryant’s back.

  Catherine De Beers looked up from her bed and saw Pip’s surprise. ‘Sorry, Constable. I might be raving a bit. I call everyone darling, by the way.’

  ‘I’ve some questions to ask you, Mrs De Beers . . .’

  ‘Catherine, please.’

  ‘When you’re up to it. Is now convenient?’

  ‘I’m afraid my head is spinning a bit,’ she said as the maid entered and laid a silver tray with a pitcher of water and a cut-crystal glass on a polished mahogany bedside table.

  ‘Of course,’ Pip said. ‘Perhaps later?’

  ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry about all this. Flick, Felicity, was such a dear friend. We were at school together and, well, I suppose Paul’s told you of our aerial shows.’

  ‘Yes. This must come as a terrible blow.’

  Bryant interrupted. ‘Let’s leave it a bit, Pip, if that’s all right with you. You can come down to the crash site with the boys and me, if you like. We can come back and see Catherine later.’

  ‘Patience will make you some tea. Please show Constable . . .’

  ‘Lovejoy,’ Pip said, feeling like she was being expertly elbowed to one side by everyone in the room.

  ‘Please make some tea for Constable Lovejoy, and show her to the sitting room, Patience,’ Catherine said.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ the maid said. ‘This way, please.’

  ‘Won’t be a sec,’ Bryant said. ‘I’ll just make sure she’s comfortable.’

  Pip nodded and reluctantly followed the maid out of the bedroom.

  ‘Oh God, Paul. Tell me it’s not true,’ Catherine said again.

  He thought he saw tears welling in her eyes. ‘They don’t know how it happened. They found her, partially clothed, in a rough part of town.’

  ‘I’ve warned her about some of the male company she keeps. Present company except
ed.’

  ‘About that . . .’ Bryant began, a pained look of embarrassment crossing his face.

  ‘You haven’t told the police?’

  He shook his head.

  Don’t worry,’ Catherine whispered. ‘Mum’s the word. I won’t go spilling the beans to Constable Busybody. You hadn’t had a falling out with Flick, had you?’

  ‘What do you mean by that? Jesus, Cath, it’s bad enough the cops think I’m hiding something.’

  ‘No, Paul, of course I don’t think you would hurt Flick. But I wonder who she got herself mixed up with.’

  ‘You’re almost saying her death was her own fault. It could have been a random attack.’

  Catherine dabbed at her eyes. ‘There were things you didn’t know about her. You’ve known us for such a short time.’

  ‘And I’m more confused than ever.’

  ‘Did they tell you anything else, about the circumstances of her death?’

  ‘The coppers let slip that Flick was tied up. The doctor who examined the body said she’d been raped and then strangled.’

  Catherine turned her head away from him. ‘Paul, I feel like a piece of me is dead. If I hadn’t pranged my damn kite I would have been down in Bulawayo. I could have kept her safe.’

  ‘Don’t torture yourself, Cath.’ He felt a measure of the same guilt. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Catherine that Flick had called him the night she died. What made him feel even worse was the suspicion that if her message had reached him he wouldn’t have left the base to meet her. It was confusing, what had happened between them, and his visits to the hangar to see her had not clarified matters.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said, a tear rolling down her cheek, ‘but I really do think I need some time by myself.’

  It’s only just starting to hit her, he thought. ‘Of course.’ Bryant bent over her, kissed her cheek and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.

  ‘You’re a dear. Tell the policewoman I’ll talk to her when you get back from the crash site. I won’t tell her anything that she wouldn’t be able to understand. She looks more like a dowdy housewife than a detective, anyway.’

  ‘Just rest for now,’ he said. He walked out of the room. He thought Catherine’s last remark was unnecessarily bitchy. He wondered if he should tell Pip Lovejoy the whole story, even if she wouldn’t understand it. He had trouble understanding it himself. Still, if he told a version different from Catherine’s, that would further complicate things. He shook his head and reached for a cigarette.