‘Are you suggesting that I had something to do with it?’
Dyer looked squarely at Michael. He was pale. Fine lines etched his face. Early thirties. A bit young to look so drawn. His eyes held steady though. ‘No, sir. I’m just trying to make sense of a few things. I don’t think you are involved but I’d bet my left testicle you have a pretty good idea who is.’
Michael didn’t flinch. ‘’Fraid not, Inspector.’
Dyer didn’t flinch either. ‘Oh yes you do. I don’t know what you’ve got planned, son, but whatever it is, do it on your own turf, not mine.’
‘My sister’s being buried on Tuesday. After that I’m going home, unless you have any objections.’
Dyer nodded. ‘That should be fine, Mr King. Just keep us informed.’
‘Know what I think?’ Dyer said to O’Callaghan as they drove back to London.
O’Callaghan grunted non-committally.
‘I think that whoever killed his sister and beat up his friend has good reason to be scared. I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes right now, no sireee. Know what else I think?’
O’Callaghan sighed.
‘I think our murder case is as good as closed. Well, near as, dammit. Or it will be just as soon as King gets back to South Africa. That’s what I think.’
Michael was unable to see Dyson until Monday. The nurse warned, ‘Only a few minutes, Mr King. He’s still disoriented and gets upset easily.’
Michael tiptoed into the room. Dyson lay, eyes closed, bandage around his head. He heard Michael’s approach and opened his eyes. ‘Sawubona,’ he whispered.
‘Yebo, sawubona.’ Michael sat on a chair next to the bed. Dyson’s eyes were closed again. ‘For a Zulu, you look pretty damned white right now.’
The slightest stretching of Dyson’s lips showed he appreciated the remark. ‘Jackson,’ he croaked.
A nurse came in and helped Dyson drink a little water, then left.
‘Jackson,’ he repeated in a stronger voice. ‘He killed Tessa.’
‘I know.’
‘And your family.’
‘I know that too.’
‘He’ll go back to Zambia.’
‘I’ll find him.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Dyson was apologising for his brother’s actions.
‘I’m sorry too.’ Michael was apologising for his intentions.
Both men knew it.
‘Kill him the old way.’
‘I intend to.’
The nurse came back. ‘I’m sorry, Mr King. We’ve been monitoring our patient and he’s getting tired. You’ll have to leave.’
Michael rose and reached over and picked up Dyson’s hand. Gently, he clasped the limp fingers the Zulu way. ‘Stay well.’
‘Go well.’
As he left the hospital Michael was thinking, ‘Yesssss, Mr Mpande. You can run but I’m coming for you, you bastard. And when I find you, you’re going to die. Impaled on a fucking stake straight up through your bloody arse in the finest Zulu tradition.’
EIGHTEEN
Tessa King was laid to rest on a soft summer afternoon. Rain, which had threatened for most of the day, finally fulfilled its promise as the coffin was lowered into the ground.
Claire, composed but pale, stood leaning into her husband under a large black umbrella. The warmth and strength of his body was comforting. Her mind remained numb but she knew he was there.
Sally, Marcel and little Dominique formed a tight knot. Marcel had one arm around Sally, the other hand resting lightly on his daughter’s shoulder. Sally’s eyes were red from recent tears. It was as if a part of herself was being buried. The gentle rain went unnoticed by the three of them.
Michael and Gregor stood side-by-side with Andrew between them. Not fully understanding the significance of the event, Andrew and Dominique played peekaboo around their parents’ legs.
Standing apart from the family were Judith Murray-Brown and five of Tessa’s closest friends.
From the trees, a discreet distance behind the mourners, Dyer and O’Callaghan scanned the cemetery hoping that, as sometimes happened, the murderer felt compelled to attend the funeral. They needn’t have bothered. At the precise moment Tessa was being gently lowered to her final resting place, Jackson Mpande, in the departure lounge at Heathrow, heard the first boarding call for his flight.
A few days after the funeral, with Sally and her family back in Paris and Gregor once more at boarding school, Michael decided that no matter how much grief it invoked his mother had to talk about what had happened. So far she had refused to speak about Tessa and Dyson, or the possible link between them and Jackson. Why should she? She probably hadn’t even made the connection. Claire did not hate Jackson so intensely that she could almost sense his presence. Even without the murder, Michael had reason enough for vengeance. But now it was as if he could see inside Jackson’s mind.
He needed to choose his words carefully. Claire was already aware of his intentions. If she realised that he too could be in danger, she’d be frantic. Michael found her in the kitchen with Andrew. His son was sitting on the floor, scraping off a glass mixing bowl, licking up the last of a delicious chocolatey cake mix, face and hands smeared with it. A picture of pure happiness. Claire was singing him a nursery rhyme.
‘Mother, can we talk?’
She was rinsing things in the sink. The singing stopped, she turned off the tap, her body very still. She kept her back to him. ‘I’ve always tried to live the way God intended.’ Her voice was soft, almost abstracted. ‘I have never believed that anybody could be all evil, I always thought there had to be a reason . . . a sickness of some kind. Even Jennifer and Jeremy were . . . I’m sorry, Michael, but they were random victims of politically motivated violence. There was a reason you see, something to get hold of and, even if you didn’t agree, at least it was a starting point. Do you understand?’
Standing at the sink silhouetted against the window she looked ethereal, like gossamer.
‘We all need it. When events are beyond our normal daily lives, we seek that one thing, no matter how small, to hold on to, to help us through. It’s the only way we cope.’ Her voice strengthened. ‘I’ve found that small thing for Jennifer and Jeremy and I’m hanging on for dear life. But, Michael, what have I got for Tessa, for Dyson? His own brother, Michael, his own flesh and blood?’
She turned to face him, wiping her hands on a cloth. Tears were streaming down her face. ‘There has to be something?’
He might have known she would have guessed. ‘Will revenge do?’
She brushed at her cheeks. ‘Andrew will be fine with us. When do you leave?’
The next day John Dyer paid Michael a surprise visit. ‘I happened to be passing.’
‘Come in.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather you came out.’
‘It’s raining,’ Michael pointed out, pulling on a coat.
‘So it is.’ Dyer looked surprised, as though he’d only just noticed.
They walked the length of the garden, down to the edge of the pond. ‘Great place for ducks,’ Dyer observed.
‘We’ve got the happiest ducks in Hertfordshire,’ Michael said dryly.
‘I didn’t say this.’
‘About the ducks?’
Dyer shrugged. ‘You want to hear it or don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Take it from me, you do.’
‘Okay.’
The detective faced Michael. ‘I did some digging. Sorry about your wife and son.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Then I flashed my badge at a few people. Fellow by the name of Jackson Mpande caught a flight to Africa on Tuesday. Nairobi. Been over here just under two weeks.’
Michael let out a lot of breath.
‘According to Dyson Mpande, his brother had been staying with him.’ Dyer scowled. ‘Nice of him to take so long to tell us. I don’t suppose you can shed any light on this? I know you’ve been to see Dyson.’
Michael
remained silent.
Dyer sighed. ‘Thought not. So I’ve got two choices. Try for extradition or drop it. See, my problem is this: the legal process to prise a suspect out of Africa is so bloody long I’d probably be retired before he gets here, if indeed he gets here at all. On the other hand, letting a suspect off the hook gets right up my nose, know what I mean?’
Michael just looked at him.
‘Justice is a funny thing,’ Dyer mused. ‘It catches up with most, one way or another.’
‘One way or another,’ Michael agreed.
‘Like I said, you didn’t hear it from me.’
Ten days later, as the South African Airways Boeing 707 touched down at Jan Smuts, Michael King had the welcome feeling of coming home. Africa was in his blood. With luck, it wouldn’t be his blood in Africa.
He needed a base. Johannesburg was as good a place as any.
He bought a two-bedroom townhouse in a high-walled complex near Craighall Park, had his belongings taken out of storage and delivered and, not wishing to waste time, hired an interior decorator to worry about fixtures and fittings.
For the next four weeks Michael hardly stopped. The nest egg he and Jennifer had put aside disappeared, money spent as though there were no tomorrow. Maybe there wasn’t. That thought, if it came into his head at all, was quickly swept aside by a renewed sense of purpose. A six cylinder, Series 11a Land Rover came out of the box. The agents fitted long-range fuel tanks and a canvas back. Camping equipment, most of which he didn’t even bother to unpack, was dumped in the garage. From a sporting goods shop he picked up an ex-army Browning 9mm self-loading pistol, a second-hand 12-gauge Remington pump action shotgun and four boxes of buckshot, and a brand new Winchester 70 .375 H & H magnum with two packets of 300 grain silvertip bullets.
‘You starting a war?’ the owner asked.
‘Something like that.’
The man shrugged. It was none of his business.
At last he was ready. Feeling cool-headed and focused, Michael unfolded the sheet of paper Annie Devilliers had given him and dialled the number. It was answered on the second ring. ‘Ace Exports,’ a voice growled.
Michael grinned. Sacha Devilliers might be with the Bureau of State Security or he might be a freelance mercenary, but he sure as hell had nothing to do with anything commercial, not with a receptionist who sounded like that. ‘Good afternoon. Sacha Devilliers please.’
There was a pause. ‘Who’s speaking?’ demanded the voice.
‘He doesn’t know me.’
‘Who’s speaking?’ A steely ring had entered the growl.
‘Michael King.’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘His wife gave it to me.’
There was silence on the other end. Finally, ‘Where can we contact you?’
Michael gave him the number and the connection was immediately broken. ‘And goodbye to you too,’ Michael said to the dead receiver.
He didn’t have long to wait. In less than twenty minutes the telephone rang. Before he could even give his name a voice asked, ‘What do you want?’
‘Are you Sacha Devilliers?’
‘Of course, man. Why did you contact my office?’
Swiftly Michael told him. There was no point in holding anything back. For all he knew, Annie had already explained the situation, or at least some of it.
‘So what makes you think I can help?’
‘Annie suggested . . .’
Something like a grunt came down the line. ‘I’ll call you back day after tomorrow. Same time.’ He hung up.
Two days later, precisely on cue, Sacha Devilliers called him back. ‘Your man went back to Zambia.’
‘Do you know where in Zambia?’
‘Base 37. Mean anything to you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Forget it. You won’t get to him there.’
‘I can try.’
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
‘Yes.’
Devilliers sounded weary. ‘Be very sure.’
‘I am.’
‘What makes you think you can take him?’
‘I hate his guts.’
‘You must have impressed my wife. She knows not to contact me when I’m working.’
Michael made no comment.
‘Are you there, King? I said . . .’
‘I heard what you said.’
‘Well?’
‘Well what? I’m not interested in your wife if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘You have no idea what I’m thinking, King. None at all.’ There was a slight hesitation. ‘I’m expensive.’
‘All I need is a bit more information. I’m not using you.’
‘You may not have a choice. Anyway, what makes you think I’ll give it to you just like that?’
Michael’s patience snapped. ‘Look, what is this? Can you help or not? I’m not here to fuck about. You’ve told me where he is. I’ll take it from there if I have to.’
Devilliers gave a short laugh. ‘Bear with me, King. The information I have is, shall we say, sensitive. It doesn’t get handed to any old oke just because his wife copped it.’
Michael swallowed anger.
‘I’ll level with you, man. We might just be able to help each other. If you can take Mpande out you’ll be doing us all a favour. The man is very definitely up to something.’
‘This information you have, how reliable is it?’
Again, the short laugh. ‘Clever, King. Very clever.’
Michael was starting to dislike Sacha Devilliers. ‘I’m not asking where it comes from. All I’m asking is if you can trust it.’
‘That I can, King. That I can.’
‘Fine. That’s good enough for me.’
Devilliers cleared his throat. ‘Okay. Listen and don’t interrupt. You don’t need to know what I am. That’s the first thing. I’m legit and that will have to be good enough. I’m actually working on something else right now. Doesn’t matter what but there’s a lot at stake. We’re so close to cracking it, it’s not funny.’ His voice hardened to emphasise his next words. ‘I would hate to be called off now.’
Michael wondered what Devilliers was getting at but said nothing.
‘Last week,’ Devilliers continued in his normal voice, ‘I get a call from an acquaintance, someone I freelance for now and then. Wants to know if I’m available. SWAPO’s apparently cooking up something huge. I tell him I should be free in a couple of weeks and he says he’ll get back to me. My guess is that was no good. I haven’t heard any more. Then you come along. So I do some digging and, guess what? Coincidence. Seems that your boy could be very much involved. Problem is, I just can’t spare the time, King, not yet. This is where you get lucky. Believe me, I have a problem with civilians stepping into my arena. They usually get killed. So I’m giving you your boy. But let me tell you this, King, if you fuck up, if I have to come and save your arse, you’ll wish you’d never heard of me. Okay?’
Michael couldn’t help thinking that Sacha Devilliers was given to the melodramatic. But all he said was, ‘Okay.’
‘Deluxe,’ Devilliers said, appearing satisfied.
‘So how do I find Mpande?’
‘Don’t bother rushing up to Zambia. Your friend is here, in Zululand.’
Oh Jesus! I can taste you, you bastard.
‘Want to know why?’
‘Only if it will help me find the bastard.’
‘He’s to infiltrate Inkatha.’
‘So much for traditional Zulu loyalty.’
‘We live in strange times, King.’
‘What about your acquaintance? If Mpande is the reason he called you, how come he’s not made contact again?’
‘He’ll be going through different channels. Official ones. Before the powers that be tell me to drop everything else and help out I’ll give him a call, tell him it’s under control. I’m sticking my neck out here, I hope you realise just how much.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t thank me, thank Annie. She’s the one who said you can be trusted.’
There it was again, a kind of mocking challenge at the mention of his wife. Michael wondered about it but didn’t react. ‘Do you know where in Zululand?’
‘Ulundi.’
‘The Royal kraal. Why? It’s in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Think, man. What’s his speciality?’
‘Landmines.’
‘And what tourist attraction is only twenty miles away? You know it well I believe.’
Michael went cold. Umfolozi Game Reserve. ‘I thought you said he was to infiltrate . . .’
Devilliers didn’t let him finish. ‘Look, the Commies trained your friend in Russia. Word is they think his talents are wasted in the Caprivi. Sure, Mpande’s mission may be to infiltrate Inkatha but they also want him to create a little chaos on the way. Destabilise the country’s hospitality industry by blowing up a few innocent tourists. He’s got to be stopped. Mpande’s been at Ulundi for two days. We know he has a contact there. It’s likely he’ll move at night, plant the mines and keep going. If he does that, you’ve lost him. He’ll go to ground in Kwa-Mashu. Right now Mpande seems to be in no hurry, as if he’s waiting for something.’
‘Jesus!’ Michael swore. ‘I think I know what it might be. The Natal Parks Board is hosting a two-day tourism conference at Umfolozi. The Minister and a whole bunch of politicians will be there, not to mention invited overseas guests, travel agents, airline representatives and the media. It starts tomorrow.’
‘Shit! Are you sure of this?’
‘Jennifer and I were invited. In fact, I was supposed to give a talk about our rhino program. The theme of this conference is how to tie tourism in with conservation projects. Get the tourists involved, that sort of thing.’ Michael was thinking quickly as he spoke. ‘Tomorrow. He won’t move until tomorrow.’
‘How the hell do you know that?’
‘I know him. I can think like him.’
‘And?’ Devilliers pressed. ‘You must have something more than that.’
‘The conference has booked all the accommodation. In fact, they’re closing the reserve to day visitors for twenty-four hours. After lunch on the second day all the delegates will be taken for a game drive. Mpande will lay his mines tomorrow night. But the following afternoon he’ll be in Kwa-Mashu.’
People of Heaven Page 43