The Mulanje Country Club, a sprawling, whitewashed edifice at the foot of the mountain, had seen better days but, after a quick look at the village, Lana decided her digestive system stood a better chance of survival there than anywhere else. Golf fairways stretched away on three sides, dotted with bunkers and oiled sand greens. Finding a seat near the row of windows in the cavernous lounge, she sat looking out over the golf course, enjoying the sun which filtered down through large trees.
Waiting for her chicken-in-the-basket, the only thing on offer that day, she idly watched three men playing golf. One of them in particular drew her gaze, a tall man wearing a cap and sunglasses. ‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered in surprise. It was the bogus Tim Gilbey, large as life. ‘Well now,’ she thought. ‘Perhaps we can find out who you really are.’
The men finished their round, shook hands, and strolled towards the clubhouse, caddies attending to their discarded clubs. Lana smiled grimly as they approached. She was looking forward to the encounter, wondering if she should call him Tim Gilbey in front of his companions. Just as the men entered the clubhouse the waiter arrived with her food. Diverted for a moment, she did not see the man’s look of surprise, or his hurried departure from the club. When she looked back, he had disappeared.
‘Damn!’ She snapped off a chicken leg and bit into it. Then a slow grin spread across her face. ‘Maybe not damn after all. This is where I get lucky.’ Lana left her food and approached the other two who were punishing packets of crisps and bottles of beer as they relived, stroke by stroke, their game. ‘Excuse me.’
They looked around.
Lana summed them up quickly. Open faces, relaxed smiles, eyes holding nothing more than frank admiration. Nice ordinary men with nothing to hide. ‘That other man who was with you. I think he’s someone I know. He’s not Geoff Smith is he?’ ‘Oh great’, she thought. ‘Couldn’t you come up with something better than Smith?’
‘Tony?’ one of them responded. ‘Sorry, miss. That’s Tony Davenport.’ He looked genuinely disappointed he couldn’t help her.
‘My mistake.’ Lana smiled and turned to leave. ‘Sorry to trouble you.’
‘No trouble at all. If we run into your friend who should we say was asking after him?’
Lana shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve just remembered he’s away on holiday anyway. Thanks.’ She turned and made her way back to the table. Now she had a name it shouldn’t be difficult to find out more about Tony Davenport. The man must be a fool. Surely he should have realised his deception couldn’t work. Malawi’s white population was so small it was inevitable Lana would discover his real name. Still, his lack of common sense was reassuring.
She finished lunch and glanced at her watch, surprised to see it was almost 3p.m. The drive back to Blantyre would take a good hour and Tim Gilbey was picking her up at 6.30. That gave her time for a swim in the hotel pool, a leisurely shower and maybe thirty minutes’ nap. Lana had trained herself to catnap, something she found useful on long flights, or on jobs where regular hours were impossible. She paid her bill and left, gazing upwards at the towering mountain, home of legends and superstitious beliefs, the subject of several books, including one by Laurens van der Post. So engrossed was she that she failed to notice Tony Davenport sitting in his car a hundred metres down the road.
Her map indicated there were two ways back to Blantyre. The way she had come, via Thyolo, or a mainly gravel road through Midima. The dirt route appeared shorter and she would see more of the country. About ten kilometres from Mulanje, Lana found the signpost and swung right. Dust instantly billowed up behind the car and she had to slow down. The condition of the road had not been improved by unseasonably torrential rain two weeks earlier but the four-wheel drive Subaru handled it well. She stopped once to enjoy the view back towards Mulanje and the Mozambique border. Dust hung in the airless afternoon like a fine red mist.
About halfway back she became aware of another vehicle keeping its distance behind her. ‘Nothing strange in that,’ she reasoned. ‘No-one in their right mind would try to overtake through dust like this.’ Still, she could not shake off the feeling that the car was tailing her. Twice, on long bends, Lana had looked back to see a red car sitting just behind the worst of her dust. On the last bend she looked again but saw no sign of it.
The land was rising. Farms stretched away left and right. She had passed no cars and the road was largely free of the pedestrian traffic which had been so prolific on the way down. Something made her glance in the rear vision mirror and she jumped with fright. The red car was no more than a metre off her bumper. ‘He’s insane!’ she thought as the car swerved out suddenly and began to overtake. Lana slowed to let the maniac pass. Too late, she realised that the driver was Tony Davenport.
Glancing over as he drew level, she saw the grimly determined look on his face and, with a shock, she saw him wrench the wheel. He was deliberately trying to run her off the road. Her reaction was instinctive and immediate. On more than one occasion in London the sight of Lana on her Harley Davidson brought out bullying tactics from other road users. She had been harassed by bike riders – although not once had the aggressor been on a Harley – taxis and private cars. She had learned that counterattack was the most effective means of defence. With no hesitation, Lana swung the Subaru towards Davenport, at the same time rapidly changing down a gear.
Being permanently in four-wheel drive, the Subaru already had a good grip on the loose gravel road and responded well to the gear change. It side-swiped Davenport’s red Ford with all the gusto of a Mac truck. The Ford’s tyres slid helplessly, not having the traction to withstand the determined ramming from the smaller vehicle. Tortured metallic shrieks, over-revved engines and wheels spinning sending a spray of stones and dirt filled Lana’s head as she grimly held the steering wheel and forced the red Ford further onto the wrong side of the road.
Davenport, perhaps preferring his chances if he was back in control of his own vehicle, wrenched the steering wheel violently and the two cars parted company suddenly – the Ford careering out of control down the grassy slope beside the road to come to rest wedged firmly between a tree and a fence post. The Subaru, with nothing to push, began to follow. Lana eased off on the accelerator and brought the car slowly back to the middle of the road. She pulled up as soon as she could and climbed shakily out. Dust billowed all around but did little to hide the damage. The Subaru’s front right side looked as though it had been through a blender. ‘Shit!’ Lana shouted.
Furious, she got back into the vehicle and reversed rapidly to where Davenport was slowly getting out of his wrecked car, via a back door. He looked up, startled, when he realised it was her. ‘You stupid bastard,’ she yelled, getting out and striding to him. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’
Wordless, he indicated his vehicle. Only the roof remained undamaged.
Lana’s eyes flicked to the Ford, then back to Davenport. ‘You got what you asked for,’ she gritted. ‘I intend to report you for this.’ She took a deep, steadying breath. ‘I’ll be giving the police your real name, Mr Tony Davenport.’
Davenport’s mouth was opening and shutting like a fish.
Lana, with one last venomous glare, turned away.
‘Wait.’
She didn’t wait. Instead she growled, ‘To hell with you.’ As she drove off she was hoping that Tony Davenport had a long, hot wait for someone to give him a lift – plenty of time in fact to ponder the wisdom of his deeds.
About three minutes later the shock hit her. ‘You damned fool,’ she said loudly, hitting the heel of her hand against the steering wheel. She was not berating herself for running Davenport off the road so much as for reversing back to yell at him. She conceded she’d been lucky. Tony Davenport had been too shaken by the crash to think of trying to harm her further. Even so, Lana scolded herself for her foolishness all the way back to Blantyre.
ELEVEN
Lana collected her room keys at reception and was handed a message.
She read it in the lift. It was from Karl, asking her to call him back as soon as possible. Expecting more pressure from him to attend his lunch and go sailing, she delayed making the call for half-an-hour. By the time she dialled his number she had made up her mind not to be pushed into accepting.
‘Karl Henning.’ He answered the telephone like a man expecting bad news – gruff and brusque.
‘Lana Devereaux.’
‘Thank you for returning my call. Where have you been?’ ‘Sightseeing,’ Lana told him shortly. What business is it of yours?
‘I thought you were making enquiries about your father.’
Careful. ‘I’m also on holiday.’
‘I’m glad to hear you say that. Have you made up your mind yet?’ When she said nothing, he added, ‘About sailing?’
Whether she was still shaken from the encounter with Tony Davenport on the Midima Road, or whether she simply resented being pushed, Lana didn’t know. She did acknowledge to herself later, however, that she could not have been more ungracious if she had tried. ‘As I told you yesterday, Karl, I’ll let you know in a couple of days. The lunch is looking doubtful. If I go sailing with you I’ll find my own way to your yacht.’ She spoke crisply, hoping he would back off.
To her surprise, he chuckled. ‘Oh dear. A failing of mine I’m afraid. When I get an idea I . . . Look, I’m sorry. I’ll wait to hear from you.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
Perversely, he took offence. ‘Don’t put yourself out or anything, Miss Devereaux. After all, I’m only trying to help.’
Lana would not be intimidated. ‘As much as I appreciate your offer, Karl, I would prefer it if I were not constantly being pressured into doing something I may not wish to do. I’ve told you already that I’m not sure of my movements. If that’s not good enough for you, I’m sorry.’
His voice went deep – though whether from anger or embarrassment Lana didn’t know. ‘What plans have you made?’
‘None.’
‘None?’ He didn’t believe her and it showed.
Lana relented. ‘I’m driving up to Lilongwe tomorrow. After that, I have no idea.’
‘Are you going up to Karonga? After all, that’s where your father was when he went missing.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘You mentioned it.’
Lana knew she had not. But this was the second time he had mentioned Karonga. She decided to do some pushing of her own. ‘I might get up there. I’d like to see it, maybe talk to some people who could remember Dad being there.’
His throaty laugh sounded forced. ‘My dear girl! Don’t take this the wrong way but why would anyone remember someone they met briefly fifteen years ago?’
You did!
‘Most of them will have moved away. Even Sarah . . . the expatriates don’t stay up there very long.’
‘Who is Sarah?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve just remembered, she died last year.’
He sounded as though he regretted mentioning her. ‘Then, who was Sarah?’
Reluctantly, he answered her question. ‘Sarah Fotheringham. A sort of self-made missionary. She’d lived up there for as long as I can remember. She might have met your father. But as I said, she died last year.’
‘A pity,’ Lana said lightly.
Abruptly, he changed the subject. ‘I know you’re concerned about running out of time but the trip from Chilumba to Nkhotakota will only take a couple of days.’
‘In a howling gale maybe.’ Lana had looked at the map. He was talking 250 kilometres.
His voice went silky, as if he sensed victory. ‘I can’t spare more than three days away from the farm. If we run out of wind I’ll use the engine. You won’t regret the trip. The lake is beautiful up north.’ She heard him light a cigarette and blow smoke noisily. ‘I’m not trying to influence your decision. I’ll wait for you to call me. But you should know that I plan to set sail either Sunday night or Monday morning. Over to you.’
They said goodbye and Lana hung up wondering what the trip with Karl, if she made it, would reveal. She was very tempted. More so now than yesterday. Why did he keep mentioning Karonga? Did he know that Moffat Kadamanja lived there? And why did he back away from Sarah Fotheringham’s name? Who had she been? Lana was fairly certain that Karl Henning knew more than he was saying. But did that implicate him in her father’s disappearance? If it did, was Lana in danger? Why was he so insistent that she join him on his yacht? To keep an eye on her? To harm her? Or to help her?
Lana sighed. She had met three people since coming to Malawi. Tony Davenport appeared intent on either frightening her away or causing her harm. She was uncertain which. Karl Henning, she was beginning to think, was a wolf in sheep’s clothing and would bear a great deal of caution on her part if she were to accept his invitation. And Tim Gilbey had information he was keeping from her. She knew that Davenport was not to be trusted but what about the other two?
She undressed and showered, letting the hot water flow over her. ‘What am I doing here?’ she asked herself. The answer hammered back into her brain as she knew it would. ‘Dad.’
Tim Gilbey knocked on her door at exactly six-thirty. ‘Feel like a walk?’ He was casually dressed yet managed to look elegant and masculine – a rare combination to which Lana was not impervious.
‘After last night I’m not certain that’s such a good idea.’
‘Just around the corner.’ His eyes approved the way she looked.
Lana had taken unusual care with her appearance. Khaki trousers impeccably cut and pressed accentuated her long legs and a teal blue blouse set off the colour of her eyes. No make-up but the hint of French perfume was unmistakable. ‘Lead on, McGilbey.’
He offered his arm and she took it, liking the way he tucked it into his side. It was an old-fashioned gesture and he made it unselfconsciously, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
Tim kept the conversation light and moved easily. Under her fingers, however, his arm felt slightly tensed, and she noticed that his eyes probed every shadow. They walked from the Mount Soche to the Hong Kong restaurant, less than a hundred metres, encountering nothing more startling than a scavenging dog and a dignified-looking Malawian man who raised his hat as he passed.
Seated at a window table, Tim, at Lana’s request, ordered for both of them. She was startled when he asked for ‘Ants On A Tree’ as an entree but, since the rest of the meal was standard Chinese fare, said nothing. When the waiter left, Tim asked what she’d done for the rest of the day.
‘The man who came to the hotel and said he was you – his real name is Tony Davenport.’
He didn’t ask how she found out but responded without hesitation. ‘He’s a tobacco farmer. Has a property north of Lilongwe and another one down this way. Quite well known. I think he was born here. Good family. Never married. Bit of a boozer.’
She grinned at him. ‘Is that a computer between your ears, I have to ask? That’s without even trying.’
‘It’s not much.’ He frowned. ‘From the little I know of him it’s rather out of character.’ The waiter brought their beers. Once the man had gone he added, ‘How in God’s name did he expect to get away with it?’
‘Perhaps he thought I’d get scared and leave the country.’
Tim pulled a wry face. ‘Not much chance of that is there?’
‘None.’
‘Didn’t think so.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sorely tempted to lean on him a little.’
‘Lean on him?’ Lana raised her eyebrows.
‘Very diplomatically of course.’
‘Of course.’ She sipped her beer, frowning. ‘He tried to run me off the road this afternoon.’
Tim looked startled. ‘Seriously?’
‘Very.’ She shrugged. ‘At first I thought it was some lunatic trying to overtake but he deliberately swung into me.’
‘Good grief! What happened?’
Lana looked at him with a touch of defiance. ‘I swu
ng back.’
Tim was in the process of picking up his beer. He put it down quickly. ‘You did what?’ he asked in a strangely strangled voice.
‘The advantage was mine. The car I’ve hired is in permanent four-wheel drive. Davenport was driving a Ford.’
Tim closed his eyes briefly.
‘We were on dirt. I just shoved him off the road.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘His car is in intensive care.’
‘And your car?’ he enquired. His mouth twitched, as if he was trying hard to keep from laughing.
She frowned. ‘Bleeding but drivable. I’ll have some explaining to do.’
‘The police?’ he asked faintly.
‘Ah, no actually.’
‘Terrific!’ His voice was heavy with irony.
‘I’ll report it if I get the time.’
‘Did you really have to attack him?’
‘He started it. I wasn’t going to sit there and do nothing. What would you have done?’
He ignored that. ‘Lana,’ he said slowly. ‘Are you sure you want to proceed with this? That’s twice now – three times if you include Davenport’s visit to your hotel.’
She looked him straight in the eye. ‘Tony Davenport hasn’t scared me off yet, Tim,’ she said softly. ‘I have to do this, please understand.’ He was nodding and she added, ‘You lean on him as hard as you like. He’s a bully. Bullies don’t like leans.’ Then she grinned. ‘Very diplomatically of course.’
He inclined his head. ‘Of course.’
She leaned forward and said pointedly, ‘Except you can’t do that can you?’
Straight-faced, he fobbed her off. ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’
‘You’re doing it again.’
‘What?’
‘Answering a question with a question.’
Tim merely said seriously, ‘You’re a British subject. If someone is trying to harm you, it’s my job –’
‘Stop that.’ She shook her head. ‘Forget the diplomatic service for once.’
Echo of an Angry God Page 19