Echo of an Angry God

by Beverley Harper

  ‘You can,’ he said calmly. ‘It won’t do you any good though. The muggers won’t be found and you’ll be tied up for days in bureaucracy. Do yourself a favour and write it off to experience.’ His dark eyes rested on her. ‘Are you sure they were waiting for you?’

  She nodded. ‘Just before the attack I heard a whistle. It was a signal, I’m sure of it.’

  He raised one quizzical eyebrow. ‘Any reason why you would be singled out?’

  She was grateful that he didn’t disbelieve her, but said nothing about the warning she’d received from Tim Gilbey. Nor did she explain about her father. ‘Not that I can think of,’ she lied. ‘Perhaps they mistook me for someone else.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He didn’t sound convinced but let it go. ‘Here we are. How about your key?’

  ‘I’ve got it with me. I’ll be fine.’ Her head was aching badly now. The rush of adrenalin had left her weak, in need of a stiff whisky and a chance to think. ‘Thank you again.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He grinned at the stupid inadequacy of his formal response. ‘Well . . .’ he said, cocking his head to the same side as his grin, ‘. . . you know what I mean.’ He turned and left.

  As he walked away Lana couldn’t help noticing how perfectly his grey slacks fitted over a very attractive posterior. She tried to imagine him in swimming trunks. The vision was profoundly pleasing. As she made her way into the hotel she realised that she didn’t even know his name.

  *

  In the morning, refreshed by a good night’s sleep and after a very large breakfast to make up for her lack of dinner the night before, Lana was walking towards the lifts when she saw a noticeboard in the foyer of the hotel which displayed the various functions being held that day. The Tobacco Growers’ Association were holding a lunch, the Malawi Congress Party were conducting an executive meeting in one of the boardrooms and a British High Commission representative was available for consultation in another. Lana looked at her watch. Nine-fifteen. She hesitated. It was more than likely to be Tim Gilbey. Then she decided, ‘To hell with it!’ She was a British citizen and she had been attacked in the street.

  Pushing open the door to the boardroom, she strode into the room in no mood for any of Gilbey’s nonsense. A woman sat behind a desk buffing her nails. She looked up and smiled. ‘Can I help you?’ The room had been divided into two by a screen.

  ‘My name is Lana Devereaux. Is the representative here?’

  ‘He’s just stepped out for a minute. Would you like to wait?’

  Lana said she would.

  ‘In here, please. He won’t be a moment.’

  Behind the screen had been set up as a sparsely furnished office. ‘Please take a seat.’ The woman left, and Lana heard the outer boardroom door quietly closing. She was alone.

  She sat beside the apparently unused desk and looked around. ‘Good God! I don’t believe it!’ Queen Elizabeth smiled knowingly at her from one wall. ‘Have Queen, will travel.’ Lana had wondered often why it was that diplomats of all nationalities needed to reassure themselves with photographs of their rulers. She speculated sometimes that it must be because they needed to remind themselves of their loyalties. To live constantly with photographs of their monarchs must have been a bit like having an overzealous school-teacher hovering over the shoulder during an examination. She blew the Queen a kiss. Five minutes later Lana and the British Monarch were still alone and Lana was beginning to feel annoyed. ‘These people seem to think they can treat me any way they like,’ she thought, rising. ‘Well they can’t.’ She was just moving towards the door when it opened and a man came in.

  ‘Miss Devereaux. Sorry to keep you.’

  ‘You!’ It was her saviour of the previous evening. His casual attire had been replaced by a pin stripe business suit which, despite its best efforts to stereotype the man, did nothing to hide the fact that he was very fit and, in the cold light of day, drop-dead gorgeous.

  ‘Well!’ he said, amused. ‘We meet again.’

  She would not be diverted. ‘I was just about to leave.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I was just saying goodbye to someone.’ He crossed to the desk and sat down, indicating that she should do the same. She noticed that his eyes were as deeply blue as her own. ‘You don’t seem any the worse for yesterday.’

  ‘I’m resilient.’

  ‘And impatient.’ He grinned. ‘Calm down. No-one kept you waiting on purpose.’

  Lana was still annoyed but it was waning. ‘I’m calm enough. I just don’t like people telling me what to do.’

  He cocked his head to one side in that manner which had invaded her dreams last night. ‘Have I told you what to do?’

  ‘No. But if you’re anything like that odious man, Mr Gilbey, I’m sure you’re about to.’

  He looked startled. ‘Tim Gilbey?’

  Lana nodded.

  ‘When did you speak to him?’

  ‘Yesterday, just after I arrived. He came to the hotel. He was extremely rude. That’s one of the reasons I’m here now.’

  He nodded, produced a folder from a desk drawer and a gold Cross pen from his pocket. Tapping the pen against the folder he asked, ‘Who knows you are in Malawi?’

  ‘No-one.’

  ‘Your Mr Gilbey obviously knew.’

  ‘I suspect my stepfather informed your office in Lilongwe.’ She thought about that. ‘Strangely, I got the impression that Mr Gilbey had never heard of my stepfather.’

  He digested this. ‘Who have you spoken to since you arrived?’

  ‘No-one.’ Then she thought about it. ‘I did meet someone on the plane.’

  He leaned forward. ‘Who?’ he asked intently.

  ‘Karl Henning.’

  ‘The tobacco farmer?’ He frowned. ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘He sat next to me on the flight to Lilongwe. Why do you ask?’

  The man opposite her shook his head briefly. ‘No reason. I’m just trying to make sense of a few things.’

  ‘Be sure to let me know if you do.’ Lana could not keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  Something passed across his eyes, a dark shadow, a secret of some kind. It was gone in an instant. He spun his chair and stared at the door. ‘Miss Devereaux,’ he said quietly, ‘your assumption is correct. The man who came to see you at your hotel had not heard of Bernard Pickstone.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  He turned his head and dark blue eyes looked deeply into hers. ‘Because, Miss Devereaux, your stepfather spoke to me. I am Tim Gilbey.’

  TEN

  ‘What did you say?’ Lana stared at him in disbelief. ‘I am Tim Gilbey.’ He stared back. ‘Believe me, there is only one of me.’

  ‘But . . .’ Lana took stock. ‘He said he was Tim Gilbey and implied that he was with the British High Commission. He threatened to have me thrown out of Malawi.’

  The man sitting opposite her raised his eyebrows. ‘That should have told you something surely. The British High Commission, irrespective of their true feelings, wouldn’t make threats like that. We’re not called the diplomatic service for nothing.’ He picked up his pen. ‘Can you describe him?’

  Lana nodded. ‘Somewhere between forty and death; ill-mannered; a bully and decidedly unpleasant,’ she said succinctly.

  Tim Gilbey dropped his pen back on the notepad. ‘I mean, his physical appearance,’ he said, trying not to grin.

  Lana described the man and Gilbey wrote it down. She noticed his handwriting was bold and masculine. ‘What exactly did he say about throwing you out of Malawi?’ he asked, still writing.

  ‘He told me I should not try to find out what happened to my father, that no-one would help me and some things were best left alone.’ She stopped, thinking. ‘He said he could have me deported if he felt like it.’

  Gilbey observed her with compassion. ‘You weren’t to know but no-one in the High Commission can have a British subject deported without going through a hell of a lot of red tape. But what he said about y
our father, he’s right about that.’

  ‘Can’t any of you understand?’ Lana burst out angrily. ‘Have you any idea what it’s like? Not knowing, no proof, not even a reasonable explanation? Nothing but silence for fifteen years.’

  Tim Gilbey clasped his hands on the desk and leaned forward. ‘I do appreciate that. It’s not what I mean. Of course you want to know. The trouble seems to be, from what little I have been able to learn since Bernard Pickstone got in touch with me, that your father’s contact was one of four Malawian Ministers who were killed in somewhat suspicious circumstances. The police did investigate,’ he shrugged dismissively. ‘Their resources were meagre to say the least back then. Also, at that time they were more concerned with matters of national security. That makes our information a bit sketchy. However, there is no indication of involvement by your father or his assistant.’ He leaned back and tapped his fingers on his desk. ‘What was your father like?’ he asked suddenly.

  Without being aware of it happening, Lana’s face softened. ‘Very professional, decent, honest, funny, caring, intelligent . . .’ she stopped. ‘Why?’ she demanded.

  ‘The man in Malawi doing this job at the time your father disappeared is now my boss. He’s all those things you’ve just said about your father. Please believe me when I say that your father’s disappearance was not treated lightly. Martin Flower went out of his way to find out what happened. He got nowhere. Martin was as mystified then as you are now.’ Tim Gilbey hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t tell you this but I will. Martin did some investigating of his own. It was strictly off record and must stay that way.’ He waited until she nodded agreement. ‘He came up with nothing,’ Gilbey went on. ‘Whatever happened to your father had nothing to do with local politics. We’re fairly certain of that.’

  ‘Fairly certain?’ Lana repeated sarcastically. ‘ “Misadventure” was the word I think you used.’

  He had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘A word for all reasons? Yes, it must have been very frustrating for you. Thing is,’ he said, leaning forward again, ‘the High Commission cannot throw its weight around too much. If your father had committed a crime while he was here . . . well . . . that would be different. The powers that be would have gone out of their way to involve us.’ He smiled slightly. ‘That’s the way it works.’

  ‘My father –’

  Tim Gilbey held up his hands. ‘I know. Your father committed no crime. It seems unfair and the system makes no allowances for anyone’s feelings.’ He watched her, waiting for a reaction but she just looked at him so he went on. ‘Look, our position is clear cut and whether you or I like it, here’s how it goes. In that a crime appeared to have been committed against your father, all this office could do was request a full investigation. They did that immediately. The Malawi police were certainly cooperative but with no body or known motive the assumption was given as misadventure. We had to accept it. Sure,’ he smiled at her sympathetically, ‘the High Commissioner rattled his sabre and asked for more information but, at the end of the day, he still had to accept their findings. You must realise that, at that time, the country was going through some very unstable times.’

  ‘That’s convenient,’ Lana said sarcastically. ‘The other Tim Gilbey used unrest too.’

  ‘It’s true enough.’

  ‘I know that,’ Lana snapped. ‘It’s pathetic. My father was probably murdered and all anyone can talk about is politics.’

  He was watching her sympathetically.

  ‘I imagine the police will tell me the same thing.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  She knew a brick wall when she saw one. She didn’t like it. ‘If it’s all so bloody cut and dried then why am I being warned off? Somebody doesn’t want me around and that tells me that something is most definitely being hidden.’

  ‘Miss Devereaux,’ he said patiently, ‘I understand your frustration, believe me. There’s very little the High Commission can do for you.’ He pulled absently at his ear. ‘We’re as in the dark about this as you.’

  Lana was not convinced. ‘There must have been a file. Where is it?’

  ‘London,’ he said briefly.

  ‘Why?’ She didn’t believe him. If all the files from all the British diplomatic missions around the world found their way back to London they’d need a warehouse the size of Buckingham Palace to store them.

  If Tim Gilbey knew she doubted his word, he gave no sign. ‘Things like this are always fully investigated. The file was sent to London so they could make their own enquiries.’

  ‘MI6?’

  He shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

  She stared at him. ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘Miss Devereaux,’ he said firmly, ‘at the time of your father’s disappearance I was a third-former at Glenalmond College.’

  She smiled mirthlessly. ‘Scottish boarding school or not, Mr Gilbey, as soon as my stepfather contacted you, you’d have made enquiries.’ She looked for guilt, deception or discomfort in his eyes. All she saw was the deepest compassion. ‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘When I get home I assume I’ll be given access to the file?’

  Tim Gilbey looked embarrassed again. ‘Probably not,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘And why would that be?’ She was going round in circles and this man wasn’t helping.

  He shrugged helplessly. ‘Because,’ he said quietly and with great sincerity, ‘the British Government doesn’t operate that way.’

  Lana knew she would get no more out of him. He was hiding something, she was sure of it, but he was too professional to say more. The knowledge irritated her but there was no point in persisting. ‘Thank you,’ she said, about to rise. ‘I can’t say you’ve been helpful but at least you’ve given me some answers. It’s more than I thought I’d get.’

  He gave his lopsided grin. ‘Are we that secretive do you think?’

  ‘Secretive?’ She thought about it. ‘It’s not the word I’d choose. “Evasive” would do the trick.’ She stood and looked down at him, irritation rising further. ‘Let’s not tell the general public what we know because we have decided, in our incredible wisdom, that the poor unintelligent, uninformed and misguided general public – who incidentally would be much more palatable to us if they dropped out of sight and let us get on with the real issues – can’t handle the truth.’ She blinked back tears of frustration. ‘There’s more to this than anyone is letting on and I certainly don’t intend to let the matter drop.’

  ‘Sit down please.’ He waved his hand at the chair. When she remained standing he said, ‘I didn’t expect you to let it drop.’ He looked up at her. ‘Oh for God’s sake sit down, you’re making my neck ache.’

  ‘A teacher said that to me once.’ She sat down again.

  ‘That you’re a pain in the neck?’ He grinned.

  She smiled back. ‘Exactly her words.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Probably.’ She looked serious again. ‘I don’t want to be. All I want is to understand what happened to my father. That’s reasonable isn’t it?’

  He changed the subject abruptly. ‘How do you feel this morning?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said shortly. ‘My head is sore, that’s all.’

  ‘Your head?’

  ‘I hit it against . . .’ she stopped. ‘What’s my head got to do with things?’ she snapped.

  ‘I was merely asking how you felt,’ he replied mildly. ‘You gave a pretty good account of yourself last night but I wondered if –’

  ‘If being female didn’t leave me with a fit of the vapours?’

  He leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Miss Devereaux, you can sometimes be pretty hard to like.’

  Lana stared at him coolly. ‘I’m not here for a popularity contest, Mr Gilbey. Can we get back to the subject?’

  His arms were still folded. ‘Let’s talk about Karl Henning.’

  ‘What about him? I met him on the flight up from Johannesburg.’

  ‘Does he know why you’re here?’
>
  ‘No.’ She thought about it. ‘He knows who I am, who my father was, and that he disappeared. He actually met my father in Blantyre before Dad went up north. I told him I just wanted to visit the places Dad had been.’ She watched him watching her. ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you plan to see him again while you’re here?’

  ‘Do you answer every question with a question?’

  ‘No more than you. Well? Do you plan to see him?’

  ‘Maybe. He’s invited me to go sailing. I might.’

  Tim Gilbey raised his eyebrows. ‘He’s a bit old for you isn’t he?’

  Lana lost patience. ‘My private life has nothing to do with you, Mr Gilbey,’ she said stiffly. ‘Can you help me or can’t you?’

  ‘I’m trying to if you’d give me a chance.’ His dark blue eyes twinkled briefly, then went serious. ‘Last night could have been a warning. Think about it. A total stranger, who says he’s me, warns you off asking questions about your father. Why? Then you’re attacked in the street and think it was deliberate, that you weren’t simply the victim of random violence. Why?’

  ‘Someone is determined to let sleeping dogs lie. My turn. Why?’

  ‘Who else in Malawi knows what you’re doing here except Karl Henning and me?’

  Lana narrowed her eyes. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

  He spread his hands. ‘Not really. I don’t know much about our farming friend but it is rather odd, don’t you think?’ He hunched forward on his elbows. ‘Be careful, Lana Devereaux,’ he said softly. ‘Somebody obviously knows why, if not how, your father disappeared and that knowledge could prove to be seriously dangerous.’

  ‘And you think Karl Henning is involved?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. All I’m saying is be careful.’

  ‘I have another name,’ she said. ‘Moffat Kadamanja.’

  Tim Gilbey nodded. ‘The son of your father’s assistant.’

  Lana inclined her head, acknowledging that he’d done his homework. ‘I’m going to try and find him.’

  ‘What good will that do?’

  ‘He might know something.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘If he does he’ll be less likely to keep it from me than you.’