by Tony Park
In the CID office a detective slouched in a chair invited him to enter. Shane vaguely recognised the man, and wondered if he were one of those who had come to Isilwane to investigate a shooting. ‘What can I do for you, my friend?’ the suited policeman asked without apparent interest in the answer. He sat behind a large wooden desk which normally seated three, judging by the number of chairs and a trio of battered manual typewriters which were probably older than Shane. Four deep wooden trays were overflowing with paper and carbon paper. The cramped office smelled of stale cigarette smoke and body odour, and its yellowed walls – once cream – were lined with rows of shelves full of tightly packed binders.
‘My name is Castle. I work at Isilwane Ranch in the Matetsi Safari Area.’
The detective raised his eyebrows lazily. ‘Ah, the premises of Mister Fletcher Reynolds. I have been to that place. What do you want with us, Mister Castle, with the name like the beer? It is late and I have to go home soon.’
Shane caught the slur in the man’s voice and saw the yellow in his eyes. The cop had been drinking. ‘I know it is late, and I apologise for any inconvenience, but I am here on behalf of Mister Reynolds. He needs a copy of a statement he gave to police about an incident in which two poachers were killed.’
‘Ah, but why does your master need such a document? He would have been given a copy at the time.’
‘I’m sorry, but we had a small fire recently in the office at the lodge and most of our records were destroyed. A foreign hunter who was on safari when the two poachers were killed needs a copy of the statement from that incident as one of them injured himself jumping out of Mister Reynolds’ vehicle when they came under fire from the criminals.’
The detective leaned back even further in his chair, rocking back on the two rear legs, and narrowed his eyes as he appraised Shane and the flimsy story he’d brought with him. ‘I think there is more to this matter than you are telling me.’
Shane shrugged. ‘I’m only doing as I was asked. I know this is an inconvenience so close to your finish time, but I wonder if you might also do me a favour.’
The policeman raised his eyebrows again. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that you will offer me a bribe.’ Shane knew full well the connotations of the word favour in the Zimbabwean bureaucracy, and the policeman had caught the none-too-subtle reference.
‘Of course not,’ Shane protested. ‘But I found this shopping bag lying by the side of the road and, as it’s not mine, I thought I should hand it over to the police for safekeeping until the rightful owner can be found. However, some of the contents are perishable, so I would leave it to the policeman in question as to how he would best store this stuff.’ Shane hefted a red and white nylon shopping bag onto the desk.
The policeman looked through the window over his shoulder and quickly slid the bag to the floor beside him. He bent behind his desk and unzipped it. Shane smiled as he imagined the copper salivating over the plucked fresh chicken, five-kilogram bag of mealie-meal, bottle of Gilberts Gin and carton of Zimbabwean Newbury cigarettes. The detective looked up, the faintest hint of a smile curling his full lips. ‘I will have to take this somewhere for safekeeping, my friend.’
The boot of his car, Shane thought.
‘In the meantime, perhaps you might like to read through the folder of investigation statements. What was the date of the incident?’
The policeman left Shane alone in the room with a stack of ring-binders with dates marked on the spines. He worked quickly, unsure how long the man would be, or if any of his colleagues were likely to stumble upon him. The Zimbabwean police, hamstrung as they were by the government of the day, were not always the most efficient force, but they had inherited from their former colonial masters a passion for orderly paperwork.
Shane found a statement handwritten by Fletcher relating to the day when he and his group of American hunters had intercepted the two poachers in the bakkie, which Caesar had disabled by flattening a tyre. This was the pair who had produced an SKS semi-automatic rifle, which Caesar had unfortunately failed to notice when he’d given the vehicle a cursory search. Shane pulled out his notebook and jotted down a few details from the account. Stapled to Fletcher’s statement was the report of the investigating officers, Detective Constables Dube and Mpofu. Shane ran his finger down the first page of the typewritten report, and then the next. Finally he found what he was looking for – a record of the types and serial numbers of weapons taken into police custody on that day. He ignored the details of the .303 rifle confiscated by Dube and Mpofu and focused instead on the impounding of the Simonov SKS semi-automatic rifle recovered next to the body of one of the poachers. The report said two rounds had been fired from the weapon’s magazine, which tallied with Fletcher’s account. Shane found the rifle’s serial number and copied it into his notebook.
The policeman walked back in just as Shane was closing the folder. ‘You have finished?’
Shane paused for a few seconds to think. ‘When people surrender firearms voluntarily to the police, is there a record kept?’
The man pursed his lips. ‘What business is this of yours?’ The surrendering or confiscation of guns was a political issue. The government – more particularly, the President – was becoming increasingly paranoid about possible assassination attempts, so citizens who held military-style rifles had been ordered to hand them over for destruction. There were exemptions, but even a professional hunter such as Fletcher Reynolds had to justify the need for every pistol and rifle in his collection.
‘Perhaps I should have alerted the desk officer about the goods I found on the side of the road . . . in case the rightful owner comes to the police camp looking for them?’
The detective looked out his window again and licked his lips. ‘Yes, there is a register of weapons surrendered, what of it?’
‘I need to see it.’
‘Why?’
‘To ensure that some weapons we handed over from Isilwane Lodge were properly catalogued and sent for destruction.’
‘You are accusing the police here of corruption?’
Shane could have laughed at the irony of the detective’s comment, but he kept a straight face. ‘I am only following the orders of the lodge owner, Mister Reynolds, who is a good friend of the member in charge here at Hwange.’
‘If he is a good friend, as you say, then he should know that no amount of money in the world would convince the member in charge or any other policeman here to risk getting caught trading in firearms.’
Shane saw the look of seriousness, bordering on outright fear, his question had evoked. It appeared life could be tough even for police in a police state. ‘I understand, but you must appreciate Mister Reynolds has a right to know everything was handled correctly.’
The man shook his head in resignation and ran his finger along the spines of a row of folders set high on a shelf. ‘Here. Be quick.’
‘Thank you, shamwari,’ Shane said.
‘I am no longer your friend.’
Shane quickly scanned the folios in the folder as the man hovered near him, looking pointedly at his watch every now and then. There weren’t many entries, as there were obviously few firearms left in the country to surrender. ‘Thank you. Everything is in order,’ Shane said, after coming to the end of the file.
25
Fletcher checked his gold Rolex, slyly admiring it yet again as well as noting he had less than an hour before his connecting flight would be called. Accents from both sides of the Atlantic and the broad vowels of Australia assaulted his ears as he roamed the duty-free shop at Johannesburg’s Oliver Tambo International Airport.
South Africa was struggling to stay on track, politically and economically – the Mandela honeymoon was but a dim memory. Still, Jo-burg Airport’s shopping concourse looked as though it could have been the international hub of any major city in the Western world. Two brand-conscious Afrikaner women dripping with gold and designer labels lugged baskets of tax-free booze to the checkout, while
their husbands bought Springbok scarves and six-packs of Castle for nostalgic relatives lost to the white diaspora.
Fletcher stopped at the jewellery counter. He was working in the Congo – a country famed for its massive diamond pipes – and passing through the precious rock capital of the world, yet his tight schedule meant the most important purchase of the rest of his life would be made in an airport kiosk.
‘I want a ring, please.’
‘Ach, what kind of ring?’ the white shopgirl asked. She had big hair and too much makeup.
‘Diamond. Very big. Very expensive.’
The girl got up off her stool and her eyes widened. Fletcher guessed she must be on commission. ‘An engagement ring, man?’
He nodded, and she gave him a look which mirrored his own concern. Why here? she seemed to ask, but she slipped easily into her patter instead. ‘Perhaps sir would care to take a look at this selection – the top of our range.’
And vastly overpriced, no doubt, he thought. He knew nothing about jewellery or women’s tastes. Jessica, his first wife, had gone for big, showy rings and chunky chains and pendants. He thought Michelle might like something more discreet.
‘Yellow gold, white gold or platinum?’ the girl asked.
‘I don’t know. Is platinum expensive?’
‘Very, sir. The best.’
‘Okay, then that narrows the choice.’
‘She’s a very lucky woman,’ the sales assistant said as Fletcher held a glittering rock up to the fluorescent light. Its reflection sparkled in the envious girl’s eyes, but all Fletcher could see was his tall, slender auburn-haired Canadian bride on his arm.
‘I’ll take it.’
With the ring safely in the inside breast pocket of his suit, Fletcher took the escalators down to the British Airways Club Lounge. He figured he had time for at least one drink before he had to board the next of his connecting flights. He was going back to the DRC the long, slow way, first to Kinshasa and then on to Goma. He pulled out his cell phone and dialled Zimbabwe.
‘Isilwane Lodge, good day.’
‘Lloyd, it’s Mister Reynolds. Is Miss Parker there?’
‘Yebo, boss. One moment, please.’
Fletcher flipped through the pages of a coffee-table book about the Kruger National Park while he waited for Michelle. The book held little interest for him. He’d seen it all before. There was only one creature on his mind. ‘Hello?’ she said.
‘Michelle, it’s me. I’m in Jo-burg. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer in the Falls, my girl.’
‘I know. Still, it would have been nice to spend more time alone.’
‘Yes, well, business calls, but I’m going to make it up to you.’
‘You’re doing a lot of that lately.’
‘I’ve bought you a present today.’
‘Fletcher, you don’t have to keep buying me things. Don’t tell me you’ve bought a wedding ring,’ she laughed.
He took a breath. ‘No. Chocolate-covered macadamias. Product of South Africa.’
‘Hey, now you’re talking. You really do know the way to a girl’s heart, don’t you?’
Fletcher wanted to tell her how serious he was about her, about the two of them being together forever, but he knew a phone call from an airport lounge was not the right way to propose. ‘Can you get back to the Congo earlier?’
‘Um, I’m not sure,’ she said, sounding hesitant. ‘I’ve still got to spend some time with Matthew and collect the vehicle from Main Camp. I was thinking of asking Shane to drive me down tomorrow, then maybe we could come back through the park in convoy. I love this time of the year – everything’s so green and the bird life is fantastic.’
He didn’t care about the bloody birds, and didn’t want to think of his woman spending time with a younger man. ‘Where is Shane? I’d like to have a word to him about coming back earlier as well.’
‘He’s out running some errand or other.’
‘You’re a hundred kilometres from the nearest civilisation. What “errands” can he have to run?’
‘Search me. He doesn’t tell me every little thing he does.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound terse. I’ve got the Americans coming back in a couple of days and I’d like to get Shane and Caesar out on patrol to keep the poachers out of our way. You remember Anthony and the boys from New York?’
‘How could I forget?’
He thought she sounded less than impressed, and changed the topic. ‘Anyway, it’s you I want to see. As soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir!’ she said. ‘Well, you might just have to wait, because I can’t imagine what sort of a nightmare it would be trying to change flights from up here. But I’ll see what I can do.’
He patted the ring in his pocket, which was next to his heart. ‘I love you, Michelle. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Fletcher, and. . .’
The boarding call over the loudspeaker drowned the rest of her words over the poor connection. ‘I’m sorry, I missed that. Are you still there, Michelle?’
He heard the dial tone and looked at the screen of the phone. His signal had dropped out. Johannesburg might give the appearance of a first-world locale, but he was most surely still in Africa.
Michelle had gone to bed early, and when she woke and looked at the glowing numerals of her alarm clock, she saw it was only just after midnight. Her mouth was dry and she instantly regretted the two gin and tonics and half-bottle of South African wine she had polished off over dinner.
Cicadas droned outside the open window as she parted the floor-to-ceiling mosquito net which surrounded her bed, and pulled on a T-shirt and shorts. She padded barefoot out into the hallway and immediately noticed the light was on in Fletcher’s study, at the end of the corridor. Odd, she thought, as she had turned off all the lights before going to bed. She shivered, and suddenly felt vulnerable. She paused and heard the light clack-clack of a computer keyboard being worked. She had never seen Lloyd use the computer, and hoped it was Shane. She crept down the hallway, sidled along one wall and was about to crane her neck for a peep inside the study when she heard Shane say, ‘Come in, the door’s open.’
‘How did you hear me?’ she said as she stepped into the open doorway.
‘Sixth sense, I guess. Sorry if I woke you.’
‘No, it’s okay. What are you doing up so late, surfing for porn?’
He laughed. ‘Not on this computer – the connection’s too slow. Just catching up on some virtual paperwork.’
‘I’ve never seen you use the computer.’ She walked into the den, with its manly decor of old army and rugby team photos and other memorabilia of Fletcher’s life as a scholar, soldier and hunter. There was even a cricket bat, signed by some group of notable past worthies, sitting on top of a low bookshelf. Shane hit two keys and, by the time she had made it around to the other side of the desk, the screen was blank. ‘You’re hiding something.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing. Just checking some of my own files.’
Michelle looked around and saw the sheet of paper in the out-tray of the ink-jet printer. She snatched it as he swivelled in Fletcher’s chair and made a vain reach for it as well.
‘These are Fletcher’s accounts. Payments he received from his hunting clients in the form of cash and international transfers. Why are you going through his books?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Don’t tell me it’s nothing when you’re sneaking around in the middle of the night. Has Fletcher done something wrong?’
Shane was silent.
‘Are you doing something wrong? Cooking the books, Shane?’
‘Don’t be silly.’
She looked from the rows of figures back to him. No, she thought, Shane wasn’t the criminal type – whatever that was. Neither, for that matter, was Fletcher, although he was a businessman operating in a third-world country with first-world clients who paid large sums of money in hard currency. She’d once spoken to a white tour opera
tor who told her that anyone who ran a business in Zimbabwe and said he had never broken a law was a liar. She looked at the payments made. From what she knew of the hunting trade the prices tallied. The print-out also listed clients’ names and trophies taken. ‘I don’t know. This all looks pretty legit to me, from what I know of his recent safaris.’
Shane nodded. ‘That’s the thing. Those accounts are accurate.’
‘You almost sound disappointed. What’s on your mind, Shane?’ She shifted an open ledger and sat on the edge of the antique leather-topped desk. The surface was cool against the backs of her thighs. She suddenly realised her nipples were semi-erect and showing through her T-shirt, so she casually folded her arms.
Shane leaned back in the swivelling office chair and put his hands behind his head. ‘Something’s not right here, but I can’t put my finger on it.’
Michelle glanced down at the hard-covered book she had just moved. She picked it up and looked at the cover. ‘Firearms register? Where did this come from?’
‘Out of the armoury.’
‘Anything incriminating in here?’
He shrugged. ‘A coincidence, but no, nothing damning.’
‘But you still think Fletcher’s up to something?’
‘That reporter who interviewed me made some pretty damning allegations about unarmed people being shot. She tried to accuse me of blowing away a couple of guys in cold blood.’
She suddenly realised how little she knew about the man sitting opposite her, close to her. He might have been looking for evidence of wrongdoing by Fletcher, but it was he who was illicitly prying into private records. ‘Did you?’
‘No, of course not. I didn’t get a chance to ask her for more information – I blew the interview long before then by losing my cool. But it got me thinking.’
‘Thinking what?’