by Tony Park
‘No. Not while there’s a war on, at least.’
‘Good, because I’m not available. God knows I’ve had enough suitors. People in town had the gall to call me a gold-digger when I married Hugo, but you should see some of the oily scoundrels who’ve tried to get their grubby hands on this pile,’ she said, waving imperiously at the vista of rolling bush-covered hills in front of them.
‘You’re cold this morning, Catherine.’
‘Call it my way of dealing with grief. I’ve lost one friend. I don’t particularly want to lose another. Neither do I need a confused man in my life.’
‘The funeral is on Saturday,’ he said, not wanting to talk about relationships. ‘You’re right for fuel now?’
‘Yes, thank you for that. I’ll be staying in the town house.’
Catherine owned the bungalow in Hillside where Felicity had lived. Another white lie he’d told Pip Lovejoy was that he wasn’t sure if Flick had resided in town or on base. At the time his initial reaction had been to protect Catherine’s name.
They stopped talking and Paul lit a cigarette as the maid arrived to clear the table. When the African woman had gone, Catherine said, ‘Will you be at the wings parade on Monday?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘I was wondering, what with the investigation into Flick’s death and the missing Harvard. I thought you might be tied up with other things.’
‘No. I’ll be there. As the adjutant I’m probably escorting some politician or senior officer. How did you know about the missing aircraft?’
She sipped her tea, then said: ‘I overheard two of the airmen at the braai last night. Seems the kite went down over the border. Is that right?’
‘It’ll be all over the newspaper in Bulawayo today. No great secret. We haven’t found the Harvard, but the body of the pilot was found by some big-game hunters.’
‘Oh dear. Did he die of thirst?’
‘It looks like he may have been killed by some bushmen.’
She shook her head. ‘Nasty business. How’s poor Andy Cavendish doing? Have you packed him off to the army or some such other awful fate?’
‘I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation, especially not with you, Cath.’
Don’t get all secretive with me, Paul. Look, as I told you last week, I was terribly flattered that he chose my airstrip to crash-land on, but I most certainly did not invite him to fly up here.’
‘I know. You’ve made that quite clear, as has he. He’s sticking to his story about engine trouble. But I’ve got another question for you, about Cavendish’s kite.’
‘Good Lord, I feel like I’m in the Spanish inquisition, what with snoopy Constable Half-Pint and now you grilling me. If you want answers from me, Squadron Leader, you’ll have to torture me.’
He raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘That could be arranged.’
‘Dirty swine. All right. Out with it, what did I do now?’
‘How are you off for ammunition up here, Cath?’
‘What? Bullets?’
‘Three-o-three calibre, to be exact.’
‘Paul, dear, as you very well know, Hugo was a hunter and this is, or at least was until the war got underway, a hunting ranch. I’ve got about a dozen .303s and enough ammunition to defeat the Wehrmacht. If the air force is running short of bullets I’d be happy to lend you some.’
He ignored the jibe. ‘There are about six hundred rounds missing from the two Browning machine-guns that came out of that crashed Harvard,’ he said, gesturing with a thumb at the disassembled aircraft sitting on the Queen Mary aircraft trailer.
‘Come with me, Squadron Leader, and I’ll show you my armoury right now. I’ve no need of your paltry bullets and, frankly, I’m a bit offended by the suggestion I’d nick anything from your silly aeroplane.’ She folded her arms and sat back in her chair, a frown on her face.
‘Sorry, but I had to ask. Any ideas?’
‘Bloody Africans, I’d expect. I wouldn’t suspect my staff, but there may be some scallywags from the neighbouring tribal lands who’ve been going over the wreck at night. If so, I’ll probably wear the consequences through some increased poaching on the ranch.’
He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. He believed Catherine, and had felt awkward asking. What still confused him was why someone would leave a single belt of ammunition in each gun. If a poacher were going to go to the trouble of opening up the Harvard’s wing access panel to steal some bullets, why not take them all? His train of thought was broken by the sound of footsteps from inside the house.
Pip Lovejoy walked back out onto the verandah and said: ‘Good news, of sorts, though I’m in deep trouble for not getting back last night.’
‘What is it?’ Catherine asked, sitting up straight.
‘The police have charged an African man with Felicity Langham’s murder.’
Catherine closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘Bastard.’
‘I really do have to get back to the station,’ Pip said. ‘Appears it’s all hands on deck down there today.’
‘Of course,’ Bryant said, rising from his chair. ‘Catherine, thanks again for your hospitality.’
Pip looked at the pair of them and smirked inwardly. Pretending nothing was going on between them; she wondered why they were going to such lengths to hide their feelings for each other. ‘Catherine, again, my condolences for the loss of your friend. And thank you for your patience yesterday when we chatted.’
‘I understand. You have a duty to pursue every avenue in an investigation. It was nice to meet you, anyway, and I hope they hang the man who took my friend away from me,’ Catherine said. She extended a hand to shake Pip’s and, as she did, the long sleeve of her white blouse rode up her arm a little.
Pip took her hand and immediately noticed an angry red welt that encircled the other woman’s slender wrist. ‘Oh dear, that looks nasty.’
Catherine withdrew her hand from Pip’s and dropped her arm down by her side. ‘Nothing to worry about. I had the horse’s reins wrapped around it yesterday and he got a bit frisky. Gave me a bit of burn, that’s all.’
Pip thought back to their first meeting. Catherine had been wearing a short-sleeved blue blouse and, when they’d shaken hands, she’d mentally noted how beautifully manicured the wealthy woman’s hands were. She was sure she would have noticed the injury then. She smiled and said, ‘Goodbye.’ Paul Bryant, she noticed, had already left the table and was calling to the airmen to finish their sandwiches and climb aboard the trucks.
Bryant walked away from her and the men and stopped to chat with Catherine’s stable groom, who was brushing a coal-black mare. The man pointed down the road towards the gate to Isilwane Lodge. She got into the car and Bryant joined her. When they stopped at the thatched gatehouse, he reached into the back of the car and pulled a brown-paper package from his canvas haversack. ‘Enoch Ngwenya?’ he called to the grey-haired man standing by the timber gate.
The man came slowly to a semblance of attention and saluted. ‘Yes, sir?’ he coughed.
Bryant greeted the man and asked after his health – all in near-fluent Ndebele. Pip was impressed. The Australian handed the old man the package, and the gate guard softly clapped his hands together around it, twice, in the traditional gesture of thanks.
‘What was that all about?’ she asked him.
‘His son is a friend of mine. He’s the teacher at the Kumalo African school. The old man has pleurisy. That’s his medicine.’
As the convoy drove south, across the Gwaai River, Pip was thinking about the silk stocking that bound Felicity Langham’s wrists when Paul said, ‘You didn’t finish telling me your life story.’
‘Right,’ she said. She wanted to get back to the police camp as soon as possible and find out about the man who had been charged. She was confused about Paul Bryant, and not entirely sure she wanted to reveal more of herself to him. This morning she was surprised and unnerved to find she felt slightly jealous that he had slept with Catherine De Beers. She wanted to
ask him about the marks on Catherine’s wrists, but there didn’t seem to be a tactful way of raising the subject. ‘Not much to tell, really.’
‘You said you were studying to be a lawyer.’
‘I was. I met my husband at university in Salisbury. He was a few years older than me, in his last year of study. He graduated and we got married.’
‘Do you regret it? Not finishing your study?’
She saw no reason why she should tell him the truth so, instead, said: ‘Not at all. I’ve been very happy.’
He was frustrated, especially now that someone had been charged with Flick’s murder, that he had been so guarded with her in the beginning. She had obviously doubted him and now, as a result, she was holding back information. There was no trust between them, he thought.
Not that it mattered – as attractive as Pip was, she was a married woman, and therefore off limits as far as he was concerned. He imagined she would be out of his life once he dropped her off at the police camp. They drove on in silence. She apparently had no desire to get him talking today, which made him think her friendly demeanour the day before was a well-rehearsed act that she used to put interviewees – suspects, perhaps – at ease.
As they reached the outskirts of Bulawayo, the sun’s rays were slanting in through the side windows of the Humber, making the car’s interior oppressively hot. ‘Looks like a fire,’ Bryant said as he veered off the road and stopped. He pointed to a pall of smoke rising straight as a dark column through the windless sky.
‘Could be,’ she said. ‘It’s to the west of town. Looks like it’s near Mzilikazi township.’
He got out of the car and flagged down the Dodge, which pulled to a halt. ‘Carry on to Kumalo, Flight,’ he said to the senior mechanic. ‘I’ll take Constable Lovejoy back to the police camp. Dismiss the men when you get back. You can unload the kite tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The trucks rumbled past them, and Paul got in and started the car again. He drove Pip into town.
‘Well, this is it, I suppose,’ Bryant said as he stopped the car at the front gate of the police compound. ‘I imagine you’ll contact me if you need any more information.’
There was the squeal of rubber on tar as the driver of a police car parked in the yard dropped the clutch and sped out of the gates, his siren blaring. Pip watched the car leave and said: ‘Yes, I will. Thanks again for your help, and for the lift.’
‘My pleasure.’
Pip closed the car door and walked through the gates into a gathering storm.
‘What’s the flap about, Henderson?’ Bryant asked the air force police sergeant as he stopped the Humber at the entry gate to Kumalo air base.
‘Riot in town, sir. Wingco expected you back yesterday. He’s fuming.’
‘What riot?’ Bryant let the admonition from the flight sergeant slide by.
‘Hurry up and get in that bloody truck,’ Henderson barked at an airman carrying a rifle. He thrust a pistol into the white holster on his belt and said to Bryant: ‘The local coppers arrested a black man for the murder of Felicity Langham.’
‘Yes, so I heard. But what’s that got to do with a riot, and why are you armed?’
‘There was trouble during the arrest. The police went in a bit hard from what I gather. The chap they were after tried to make a run for it, and some of his mates got in the way of the law.’
‘How does that involve us?’
‘There were a bunch of our trainees and some erks sightseeing and shopping in town. They got wind of what was going on and tried to help the police out. There’ve been running street fights in town since this morning. Apparently, some of our men have been seeking revenge for the deaths of Langham and Smythe.’
‘So, word’s out already about the missing pilot?’
Henderson reached into the cab of the truck his men were clambering into. ‘Only the bleedin’ front page, sir.’
Bryant snatched the newspaper from Henderson. He didn’t need to read past the headline. BLACKS INVOLVED IN MURDERS OF AIR FORCE MAN AND WOMAN. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘That’s what they say it’s like in town. Wingco wants to see you. The police have called on us to reinforce them and to pick up our men.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ Bryant said. He knew Henderson’s style. The man was a bully and Bryant was sure he was itching to join the fight rather than just arrest troublemakers. He felt that he needed to be there to exercise some control. He was sure the Wingco would have ordered him out anyway. The explanations could come later.
‘Jones,’ Henderson barked. ‘Fetch the squadron leader a pistol and ammunition from the armoury. Hop to it, man!’
The airman returned a few minutes later and handed Bryant a Webley revolver, a box of ammunition and a canvas holster and webbing belt. Bryant climbed into the open rear of the truck with eight askaris, three white noncommissioned officers and a couple of white airmen, mechanics who had been dragooned into service by Henderson as ad hoc riot troops. Bryant realised none of them had been trained for the mission they were setting out on. Reluctantly, he banged on the roof of the cab. ‘Right, Flight S’arnt Henderson, let’s get weaving!’
The vehicle lurched out the gate, throwing Bryant onto a wide-eyed African askari. He steadied himself against the side of the truck and loaded six bullets into the revolver. ‘Listen to me,’ he ordered the men around him as he snapped the pistol closed. ‘No one, and I mean absolutely no one, fires his weapon without a direct order from me and me only. Understand?’
There were a few nods.
‘Understand!’ he bellowed in his best parade-ground voice.
‘Yes, sir!’ they yelled back in unison.
‘Better. Now, if we go in there boots and all, we’ll only inflame the situation further. Our mission is to pick up our fellow airmen – in handcuffs if they won’t come quietly – then leave this mess to the police. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir!’
The truck raced into town on the Salisbury Road, then weaved through city streets that were emptier than usual. Bryant guessed the smarter citizens of Bulawayo had locked themselves indoors. As they rounded a corner, onto the Sixth Avenue extension, and entered the outskirts of Mzilikazi, his worst fears were confirmed.
A line of BSAP officers stood blocking the road, shoulder to shoulder. Some carried small round riot shields. All had their batons drawn. Behind the twenty officers forming the cordon were another dozen carrying Lee-Enfield .303 rifles. The armed men held their weapons at the ready, butts in their shoulders.
Ahead of the police line a roughly equal number of young black and white men, a total of about sixty, Bryant guessed, were engaged in a series of melees. Some carried broken chair legs or other improvised weapons. Bryant saw a European wipe a bloody cheek with the back of his forearm. Two other white men were laying into a prone black youth with lumps of wood. Elsewhere, an African held an airman’s arms behind his back while another punched him in the stomach.
A stray dog barked at the fighting men and an African woman wailed from the footpath, adding to the din of shouted curses and the thud of feet and fists on flesh. Another woman snatched up a small boy who had lingered to watch the fracas and ran off with him bouncing on her hip. The smoke Bryant had first seen was from a burning car. The road around the Studebaker was scorched black and the vehicle itself now was no more than a smoking, charred hulk.
Bryant saw that some of the policemen were also bleeding. It appeared they had regrouped and were about to charge into the crowd again. Henderson drew a loudhailer from the front of the truck.
‘Give that to me,’ Bryant ordered. Henderson surrendered the instrument to him, and Bryant strode up to the police line.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ he barked.
‘I am, Squadron Leader.’
He turned and saw the rotund Harold Hayes standing behind him, truncheon in hand. ‘You’re a busy man. I heard you’d arrested a suspect,’ Bryant said.
‘I have. Get your men to form a line
behind my armed officers. They’ll be needed as back-up in case we have to open fire. I’ll give the order when required.’
‘Like hell, you will,’ Bryant said. ‘It’s sixty-odd blokes having a punch-up. They’ll settle eventually. We should just contain them and go in when they run out of steam.’
‘You trying to tell me how to do my job now? It’s your young fools who’ve caused this riot.’
‘Way I heard it, Sergeant, was that some of our lads came to help yours after they ballsed up the arrest this morning.’
Hayes snorted. ‘Well, they’re the ones out of control now. Bloody foreigners acting like vigilantes on my patch. I’ll arrest the lot of them.’
‘A second ago you were considering shooting them.’ Bryant looked up and down the police line and noticed, for the first time, two women standing just behind the front rank of men, between them and the constables armed with rifles. The women wore Red Cross armbands on their uniforms and carried bulky canvas first-aid satchels slung across their bodies. He saw one of them was Pip Lovejoy. He gave her a quick smile when he saw her looking at him, but she quickly turned away and stared resolutely back up the street towards the rioters.
The sound of shattering glass made them all look up the street. Two of the airmen had chased an African man into a barber shop and he had closed the door behind him. One of the whites had hurled a bin lid through the plate glass window. The black man appeared at the window, brandishing a cut-throat razor. The Europeans stayed outside, facing him down.
‘This is about to turn nasty,’ Hayes said. He lifted his own loudhailer and said into it, ‘This is the police. You there, in the barber shop. Drop that razor or we will open fire!’
The whites looked at the policemen, but held their ground. ‘Shoot the bastard!’ one of them yelled in an Australian accent.
‘Constable Grant, three paces forward!’ Hayes shouted. A young uniformed policeman from the second line advanced to the cordon.
Pip Lovejoy made way for Grant, who elbowed his way through the front rank and brought his rifle up to the firing position. ‘Oh, God,’ she said.