by Wilbur Smith
Eventually – and it took a while – Amelia wore herself out and joined us. She was red in the face with exertion. Her hair dripped on the stone floor. She didn’t bother drying it, just wrapped her towel around her middle and slumped into a seat next to Xander, who went on ‘reading’ for an awful long time without turning a page.
‘Good book?’ I asked him when the quiet – which had a wrong feeling about it – had gone on too long.
‘Riveting.’
The silence between us descended again, punctuated by a bit of traffic noise which filtered in over the hotel’s high walls.
‘I’m going to order some food,’ Amelia said.
‘I’m not hungry,’ I replied.
‘Me neither,’ said Xander without looking up.
‘Nor am I,’ said Amelia. ‘But we can’t live on air. Waiting on an empty stomach is worse than just waiting: fact. I’ll order.’
She called over a waitress who can’t have been much older than us. There were bright beads at the end of her cornrows and her fingernails were all painted a different colour, which you’d think might mean she was a playful person, but as Amelia established that the hotel served cheeseburgers and ordered three, clarifying that they weren’t all for her, the girl’s face stayed absolutely set, as if it was carved from marble. None of us said anything after she left, and we sat in that heavy silence for the fifteen or so minutes it took for her to bring us our order, which she set down solemnly on the glass tabletop, her face as expressionless as before. Even the cheeseburgers looked leaden in that atmosphere. None of us made a move towards them after the waitress had gone.
‘Who’s going to say it?’ said Xander.
‘Say what?’
‘Not you evidently, Jack. That’s understandable.’
Not knowing what he meant, I turned to Amelia.
‘I’m always saying the wrong thing these days,’ she said. ‘So not me.’
‘What are you guys talking about?’
Xander took a deep breath. ‘You obviously bought into that little stunt of your uncle’s.’
‘Stunt?’
‘Him finding a tame policeman who’d pretend to take you seriously.’
‘He did take me seriously!’
‘You’d want to believe that,’ said Amelia. ‘Wish fulfilment is a thing.’
‘He did enough to make you agree to park yourself here and wait it out. I’ll give him that,’ said Xander.
Amelia cut back in. ‘You have to admit his plan of action – spread some photos about among his policeman mates and hope – sounded pretty weak.’
‘Precisely,’ said Xander. ‘The first thing he should have done, if he wasn’t in Langdon’s pocket, is interview him properly, since your uncle is pretty much the last person to have seen your parents before they disappeared.’
Now that he pointed it out it seemed obvious, but I’d liked Detective Hubert and didn’t want to think he was somehow in my uncle’s thrall. ‘Langdon’s cancelled his plans to be here helping,’ I said lamely. ‘Maybe he’s giving the police the detail now.’
‘You think?’ said Amelia.
‘Langdon says there’s no problem,’ said Xander. ‘Your mum and dad will turn up eventually, he thinks, and that’s that. Somehow he got Detective Hubert to agree.’
I’d taken the policeman’s agreement as a positive thing, but according to my friends I was deluded. I felt my hackles rising even as I saw the sense of what they were saying.
‘We all want them simply to show up,’ said Xander. ‘Of course we do. But there has to be more we can do than just hanging around here, waiting.’ He reached towards the cheeseburgers but took the fork from beside the nearest plate instead of the burger on it, jammed the fork’s handle down the inside of his plaster cast, and wiggled it about.
‘Nice,’ said Amelia.
‘My shin is so itchy,’ he explained.
‘Scratching itches makes them worse.’
‘You’re wrong about one thing at least,’ he said, scratching harder. To me he went on, ‘If we could piece together their movements before they left, find out who they met with and what they talked about, we might come up with a lead. As I understand, it they were pitting themselves against some pretty powerful people who – I hate to say it, but there’s no point in pretending – might well have had good reason to want them out of the picture. Do you know the detail of this summit they’re attending in the run-up to the vote?’
‘Not really.’
Amelia said, ‘It’s called the Inaugural DRC Conference on Sustainable Development, and basically it’s an opportunity for environmental activists from around the world to persuade the Congolese government to regulate mining in and around the national parks. A lot of unscrupulous businesses, not to mention armed militia, want the opposite. There’s a big vote on a bit of legislation called Article 16B, which sets out what’s allowed and what’s not, coming up in thirteen days’ time, and the summit is an attempt to influence the outcome.’
‘Where does she get the detail from?’ Xander asked me.
‘Here and there,’ I said.
‘Actually, with this I googled it while we were in the police station,’ said Amelia.
‘Why?’
‘Because the one thing we know for sure is that Nicholas and Janine will want to be here to witness that vote. They’d also like to be around to meet with officials, ministers, businessmen et cetera in the run-up period, but knowing when the actual vote is happening gives us their absolute deadline: that’s when they have to be back.’
Having informed us of this, Amelia made a start on one of the cheeseburgers. She’s always had a good appetite, probably as a result of all the swimming training. Watching her eat stirred up my own hunger. Unexpectedly the burger itself was slathered in some sort of chilli sauce and the cheese was also pretty punchy: the food tasted better than it looked.
Between mouthfuls I said, ‘You guys are right. We should do something. I can’t just sit here waiting anyway: I’ll go mad. But I think you’ve got Detective Hubert wrong. Let’s pay him a visit without Langdon, tell him to investigate any enemies Mum and Dad might have made over this Article 16B thing and ask him what that missing-persons protocol he mentioned is all about.’ I know Amelia had already called me out for ‘wish fulfilment’, but as I took another bite of burger I felt genuinely optimistic. I gulped the mouthful down and said, ‘Who knows, he might already have turned up a lead.’
32.
Since Xander’s leg was aching I suggested he wait in the hotel. If Langdon or anyone else turned up with news, he’d be there to field them. I’d paid close attention as we’d driven to and from the police station and was confident I could find my way there on foot. It wasn’t that far anyway. At one point the car had dog-legged around a big market. Now we cut straight through it. Everything about the market was a screamingly bright colour. There were stacks of fluorescent flip-flops alongside trays of oranges and mangos and cherries, and pink buckets full of blue plastic straws set out on bright green plastic tablecloths next to trestle tables piled with dark red gobbets of meat. To keep the sun off everything the stallholders had stuck striped beach umbrellas at jaunty angles everywhere, and the light pouring through was like one of those crazy Snapchat filters that makes everything look unrealistic.
‘Have you ever actually tried to do that?’ Amelia asked.
‘What?’
She pointed at a woman weaving through the throng towards us, carrying a tray of bread rolls on her head.
‘Er, no.’
‘I have. It’s impossible. Well, obviously not for everyone. Her, for example. But for me, even trying with a book, sitting still, no distractions, the thing kept sliding off. How she’s wandering round a market chatting with all that balanced on her head, I don’t know.’
‘Practice?’ I said.
We pushed on through the market. One stall sold goats’ hoofs, the next wire mesh, the one after that fake Nike trainers. This one here, beneath a pink
-and-yellow umbrella, had nothing but battered old motorcycle helmets, that one there sold seeds. In among the general scruffiness, one person stood out. He was tall, he walked towards us like he was stepping onstage to sing a song and he was dressed in an immaculate purple corduroy three-piece suit and bowler hat. In that heat! He was also wearing a monocle and carrying a cane. As he passed us he twirled it and gave me a nod. I realised my mouth was hanging open.
‘I’ve read about that,’ said Amelia. ‘It’s a thing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A fashion thing here, known as Sapeurs, which means “Society of Ambience-Makers and Elegant People”, in French. It’s a sort of competitive bling spiffiness. Dates back to the Second World War, when the men who had fought for France came back to Brazzaville, across the river, with fine bits and pieces of posh clothing to wear or sell. It spread to Kinshasa later. The Sapeur attitude is no-matter-how-hard-life-gets-I’m-going-to-look-the-bomb. Those guys spend masses on clothes, even though some of them barely have enough left over to buy food. Stay cheerful and look-like-a-god-at-all-costs – that’s their motto.’
I took the guy’s photograph. He gave a little bow. We watched him swagger away. Pretty much everyone else was in shorts and a T-shirt, or a simple dress. He must have been boiling! But he got a lot of appreciation – high fives, whoops, fist bumps – for his efforts, and there was something about his attitude I liked.
Once we made it through the market the police station was round the corner, as I knew it would be. I walked into it with my shoulders back and head high, hoping that some of the Sapeur’s confidence might have rubbed off on me. I even managed to talk to the desk sergeant in French. Obviously it wasn’t very good French as he replied in English, saying that Detective Hubert was on his lunch break but would be back soon. He invited us to take a seat. We did so, but not before I’d noticed that he was playing chess on his mobile phone.
He put the game aside a few minutes later when the door banged open and two of his colleagues hauled a young guy inside. His T-shirt had a huge rip down the back and his skin was cut beneath it. Blood had soaked into the waistband of his jeans. He was unsteady on his feet, mumbling in French. I don’t know what he was saying, but it evidently annoyed the bigger of the two officers manhandling him: out of nowhere the policeman hit the guy so hard in the stomach that he left the floor for an instant before crumpling to the ground. I was flabbergasted. But the officer looked almost bored. He followed up the blow by rolling the guy over with a kick. When he didn’t get back up the two policeman dragged him away down the corridor by his feet!
‘Wow,’ breathed Amelia.
The casual brutality of what had happened was underscored by the fact that the desk sergeant went back to his chess game as soon as the commotion in the corridor was over. Not long after that Detective Hubert appeared, his sympathetic smile already in place.
‘You got my message?’ he said as he approached.
This threw me. ‘No?’ I said.
‘It was just to say that we’ve tracked down the guy who helped your parents arrange their trip out east.’
Immediately my scepticism evaporated. I checked my phone. Sure enough, there was a text. It must have landed just now when I was distracted. The detective had even given me the travel fixer’s name. I showed my phone to Amelia, who read it aloud: Yannick Mugalia.
‘If you didn’t get the message, what are you here for?’ he asked gently. ‘Do you have some information to tell me?’
I didn’t know how to answer. Amelia did however. ‘There were things we wanted to know about your missing-persons protocol, but since it’s already turning up results it sounds as if it’s fit for purpose.’
Detective Hubert smiled. ‘I’m glad if you think so.’
‘We also wanted to suggest you trace anyone Nicholas and Janine might have rubbed up the wrong way with their environmental activism. They were meeting with businessmen, other activists, government officials, and –’
The policeman cut her off. ‘We’re well aware of all of that,’ he said emphatically. More gently again he added, ‘We’ve drawn up a list and we’re working through it. True: they were due to meet with some … unsavoury people. But I still think the most likely explanation for their lack of communication is a lack of signal wherever they’ve gone exploring. Let’s not lose sight of that.’
‘Of course,’ I heard myself say.
‘Have faith,’ the detective said with a smile. ‘Our country gets a bad press, but many – most – among us are doing our best to make things work.’
He had such pride in what he said that I could not disbelieve him. In fact, I felt borderline sleazy for having doubted him in the first place.
‘We’re doing our best to get hold of this Yannick Mugalia, and when we’ve talked to him I’ll be sure to update you. How about that?’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
Detective Hubert had been steering us towards the exit with these last words. Amelia drew up short of the door, swivelled on the heel of her trainer, and asked point blank, ‘How long have you known Langdon Courtney?’
The detective’s head bobbed back on his thin neck, but his smile stayed in place. ‘I was introduced to him yesterday. You were there.’
‘And before then you’d never heard of him?’
‘I’m afraid not. No. Should I have?’
‘That’s not the point,’ said Amelia bluntly. I fought back a shudder at her rudeness. Perhaps she noticed, since she backtracked lamely with, ‘For what it’s worth, I believe you.’
Detective Hubert’s smile thinned to a sarcastic line. ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ he said.
I was worried that he’d taken offence and wished I could rewind Amelia’s little interrogative outburst. But I had to make do with, ‘Thanks for all you’re doing. I’ll be sure to keep a closer eye on my phone from now,’ as I reached for the door. When my fingers closed on the handle – a silver bar running the length of the door – I recoiled. It felt sticky. Glancing at my hand I saw that it was stained red. The cut-up guy whom the two officers had shovelled through the door earlier must have rubbed up against handle, bloodying it. For some reason I didn’t want Detective Hubert to feel bad about that. Not that he should have done: it wasn’t his fault. Either way, I pretended it hadn’t happened, held the door open for Amelia with my foot and said goodbye to the detective over my shoulder as I followed her out onto the street.
33.
‘I can’t believe you accused him of that!’ I said to Amelia when we’d rounded the first corner.
‘I didn’t accuse him of anything,’ she said, taken aback.
‘As good as. All that “How long have you actually known Langdon?” stuff. You might as well have called him a liar to his face!’
‘I don’t recall using the word actually.’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ I said. ‘You don’t have to say a thing explicitly to give the impression that’s what you mean.’
‘You might not, but I do,’ said Amelia quietly. She’d turned her face from me. For a horrible moment I thought her shoulders had begun to quiver. Had I hurt her feelings? Was she actually crying? I immediately felt bad: Amelia’s straight-talking cleverness is what I like most about her, after all. The stress of not knowing where my parents were was obviously getting to me.
I reached out to pat her upper arm and said, ‘Sorry.’
She turned back to me and I was relieved to see anger in her eyes, not tears. ‘Does that actually mean “sorry”, or something else, like: “Amelia, you’re an idiot.”’
‘It means I’m sorry.’
‘You should feel better now that I asked him those questions anyway, not worse.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because he’s obviously telling the truth.’ As if talking to a moron she said, ‘That’s what I meant when I told him I believed him.’
I resisted the temptation to say, ‘Told you so,’ though that’s what I wanted to do as we cut b
ack through the market. One of the stallholders recognised us, or Amelia at least, and offered her a mango. When she accepted, he sliced it in half and filleted it, his knife a blur, before offering her the result turned inside out, a sort of spiky mango hedgehog. Amelia tried to pay him but he waved her money away.
‘Weird business model,’ she said with her mouth full.
The guy heard and understood her. ‘Tu seras de retour,’ he said with a smile.
‘Possibly,’ Amelia agreed, and we walked on.
This exchange, and what had felt like a mini-breakthrough at the police station, meant that I returned to the hotel with a spring in my step. It was a surprise to find Xander in the lobby, doing the man-on-crutches equivalent of pacing about. Careful not to fall into the told-you-so trap with him either, I quickly filled him in on our conversation with the detective. He read between the lines though – as he always does – and said, ‘So you were right all along. I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Right, wrong, it doesn’t matter,’ said Amelia. ‘The point is the police appear actually to be on the case.’
‘What are you doing hobbling about anyway?’ I asked him. ‘The whole point of leaving you here was to give you a chance to rest your leg.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I got bored. And there was something going on out here so I came to see what was happening.’
‘What was it?’
‘I’m not exactly sure. Some delivery guy in a motorcycle helmet causing a fuss. The receptionists called security on him.’
‘Not many people here bother to wear them. They were probably just curious,’ I said.
‘Well, this bloke was so proud of his he refused to take it off. They escorted him out at gunpoint with his hands above his head. I don’t know what they were so bothered about. He didn’t hassle anyone or try to take anything, and he rode off peacefully enough.’