The sample jars contained an off-yellow fluid, in which amniotic forms were suspended. Aoife saw tiny bean-like bodies – gill fringed, with curling fingers, winding tails.
The jars in the next cabinet each contained a thick fleshy stump from which twin tubes protruded, ending in a shrunken grey bean. The jars on its lower shelves held soft-shelled eggs, blue veined, floating in pairs in the murky fluid, a coil of grey matter emerging from each, as if they’d been cracked and then partially boiled. Aoife remembered biology at school. We are all descended from tube worms, her teacher had said. Strip us of all our evolutionary accretions, our limbs and brains and organs and bones, and that’s what we still are. Tubes for feeding, and for breeding.
The beakers were labelled with stickers, each annotated with handwritten letters and numbers. But some of them – the older ones, she thought, judging from the soupier state of their contents – had a printed identifier in the corner of each label. RRL.
Take some photos, she said.
She wanted Michael to be busy.
Towse had bought a camera for them in Kampala, a basic digital SLR. It’s mainly a prop, he had said. You’re both tourists, remember. But it might also come in handy when you get inside the lab.
Michael shot a few frames of the jars in the cabinets, then lowered the camera.
Hey, there’s a PC over there, in the corner. Want me to take a look?
Towse says this place is completely offline and unhackable. No phone, no Internet, no cell reception. That’s why he had to send us here in person.
Still, the computer might have some information.
Go ahead, then. See what you get.
Sitting at the PC, his back would be turned to the three stainless-steel doors that were waiting for Aoife.
It wants a password, he said. I’ll try admin. That sometimes works.
He hit a couple more keys, reached for the mouse.
No good . . . I’ll try password, this time.
She moved around the metal table and into his blind spot.
The hum of refrigeration was loudest by the three metal doors. She reached for the handle on the first one. It popped open, as if driven by a spring, releasing a trickle of vapour. She waited until it cleared, then pulled out the steel drawer inside it.
The body lay face up, hands joined unnaturally underneath its arched back. Leaning sideways, Aoife saw the ends of the cable tie protruding from livid grooves in its wrists.
The ape’s eyes were open, teeth bared, face twisted. Thick black hair concealed any obvious cause of death, but she would have guessed, from the protruding tongue, that it had been strangled.
But what was it? An adult male chimpanzee, or a female gorilla –
she couldn’t tell which. She was no primatologist, and the most obvious sign of sex was missing, cut away from the lower abdomen, leaving only a cavity, black congealed blood.
Password didn’t work either, said Michael behind her. Have you any guesses?
No . . . But keep trying.
The next drawer, the middle of the three, opened smoothly.
There had been no need to tie the hands on this one; it was too small to put up a fight. Its infant fur was thin enough for Aoife to see the mark that the ligature had cut into its neck. They could have used a sedative to kill it, put it gently to sleep, but they chose instead to garrotte it . . . They must need the tissue samples to be free of any drugs . . .
This one had also had its sex organs removed.
She wondered if this little one had been the big one’s child. Were they mother and son, or father and daughter? Would it have been a kindness for them to die at the same time?
She looked at the third and final door. She’d seen enough already. Why bother to open it? I’m on a hiding to nothing, she thought.
This drawer was well oiled. It slid silently open.
Aoife closed her eyes.
When she was ready, she looked again. She made herself see, thinking in numbed phrases – a language she’d heard from instructors when she was in training. But crime scenes had never been part of her job. She’d seen a lot of dead people, but she’d never had to look.
Subject lies on its side, knees raised. Its hands are restrained by cable ties, still attached, which have cut deeply into its wrists as it struggled.
A ligature – likely cause of death – has also left a deep wound, clearly visible in the skin of its neck. Bleeding from these injuries, likely post-mortem, has pooled on the mortuary drawer. It must have been placed in the drawer shortly after its death.
It.
The fact was, Aoife couldn’t tell if this African child was a boy or a girl. It too had been mutilated. And it was too young to show any secondary characteristics.
Jesus Christ, said Michael, behind her.
She raised her hand to close the drawer. Then she thought better of it. Towse wanted Michael to see this too. She could see no other reason why Towse had told her to bring him to the laboratory. She could have done all this alone.
That’s a child . . . A human child.
And yet Aoife was glad there was someone else with her. She had an audience to play to, to keep her to her lines. She slid the drawer all the way open.
Photograph it.
What?
Photograph the body.
She longed for the frame that a camera would place around the subject. But Michael needed it more.
Go on, she said. Photograph it.
The camera had an internal flash built into the top of the viewfinder. It activated automatically in the low light. Aoife let him take several frames – leaning in close, changing angles, his breath catching in his throat – then she gently took the camera from him and checked its screen. They would do.
Are those pictures for the police?
She shut the drawer. He had backed over to the metal-topped table. She was surprised that he hadn’t figured out what that was for yet. If he had, she thought, he probably wouldn’t be leaning against it.
For Towse. We can’t go to the police.
But she’s somebody’s daughter.
Why, wondered Aoife, does he default to female for a murdered child?
Not necessarily, she said, feeling harsh. There are lots of unwanted kids in this world. If you want to keep a few, you don’t even have to cage them. You just have to feed them.
She saw herself in his eyes, and relented.
Look, we have these photographs. Maybe some day we can make proper use of them. But first we have to get out of here.
She used the hem of her T-shirt to wipe any prints from the mortuary doors.
Rub down the computer and anything else she touched. We have to go.
Did you know?
Know what?
What we might find here.
I had no idea.
Towse didn’t warn you?
No he did not.
Do you think he knew?
If we get out of here tomorrow, I’ll be asking him myself.
You haven’t told me where we’re going next.
Towse said the plan was need-to-know.
After what we just saw, you don’t think I need to know?
He was right, she thought. More than that, he was here.
We get up in the morning and go on their game drive. Then we wait for our driver to come pick us up. We leave, like everything is normal. We have to stay calm.
I’m finding calm difficult.
Consider the alternative.
Where then? Back to Entebbe?
No. You never go out the way you came in. Our driver picks us up after the game drive, takes us back to the highway, then south to Masindi. We pay him off there. Then we double back into the north, taking a bush taxi, long way around. Towse is waiting for us in a big town called Gulu. He knows a way out o
f here. We have to stick with him.
The guests assembled in the open-sided lodge in the chill of the dawn. It was still dark. Lynette served them rusks and coffee, then assigned groups to the jeeps that would take them on their game drives. Addison, when he finally showed up, wore the same clothes as the night before, beard matted, eyes bloodshot. He leered queasily at Aoife.
There you are, he said. You look like you’ve been up all night . . .
He squinted at Michael, who was fiddling with the camera, brought for the sake of appearances.
You probably have . . .
He turned to Lynette.
Who else do we have?
She introduced the Lehmanns and Sauers, and shooed them all out to their open Land Rover. Like all the others, it had been modified for game viewing, its sides and roof removed, the back fitted with padded benches. A Ugandan tracker, perched on a little seat that was welded to the fender, palmed a lit cigarette when Addison appeared.
Aoife and Michael climbed into the rearmost bench and wrapped themselves in the blankets they found there. The Germans, stiff with resentment at the late departure, sat in the two front rows, while Addison got behind the wheel. He checked the load in a rifle that was clamped to the dashboard, tested his handheld radio, then turned blearily to his guests.
What’s it going to be this morning, then? Elephants or chimps?
We did the chimps yesterday, said Herr Lehmann. And the day before too. If there is a possibility of elephants, so late in the morning, we’d like to see them today, please.
Addison looked at Aoife.
And you two? Elephants or chimps?
Whatever suits.
OK . . . Elephants, then. There’s a waterhole out east, and at this time of year they usually stay near it. But the bush there is thick and the ground is pretty broken. If we want to see the elephants, we might have to get out and walk a short way.
The Land Rover swayed and bumped down the track, brushing the branches. Cradled by its suspension, groggy from the long night, Aoife and Michael dozed off at either end of the bench.
It was the crackle of the radio that woke Aoife. VHF static was an ominous sound in the life she was trying to escape.
The Land Rover had stopped by a clearing in the forest. Addison was listening to his walkie-talkie. Another burst of static, words inaudible to her, and then she heard another sound, swelling in the distance: aeroplane engines.
Addison put down the radio, looked around at his guests.
Sorry, he said. We didn’t expect this plane to arrive from Nairobi until later today. But all our other Rovers are being used for game drives, so I need to drop these new guests to the camp.
The Germans muttered together, displeased.
We didn’t pay the premium rate to be someone’s Uber, Herr Lehmann said.
Ignoring him, Addison let the clutch out, drove into the clearing. There was a bare strip of dirt down its centre, and, at the far end, a windsock. A few antelope, disturbed, trotted off into the forest. Aoife watched a King Air appear, low over the trees. It flared, touched, and taxied back towards the Land Rover. The engines died, the plane’s door opened.
A blue sweatshirt in the doorway. Stanford printed on it. Barb Collins from Inscape got out of the aeroplane. The Scotsman from London came after her.
Don’t worry about those two, Addison said. His voice was muffled by the blanket hiding Aoife’s face.
You won’t wake them now. They must have been up all night. The chimps have nothing to teach them . . . Just take that bench in front of them, and I’ll drop you at the lodge.
He must have remembered the Germans.
Sorry, folks. We’ll be back on schedule in a few minutes. I’ll make it up to you later. I’ll take you on an extra special evening drive.
But we are to leave after lunch, Herr Lehmann said.
The engine started, the Land Rover lurched. Aoife wriggled along the bench, keeping under her blanket, and shook Michael. He was somehow still asleep.
Michael, she whispered. Michael.
She pinched his forearm.
Huh?
He sat up, brushing off the blanket she’d pulled over their heads. In desperation, she pretended to kiss him, forcing her lips against his, pressing him down on the bench, hiding his face with hers. He started to struggle, shocked. With a free hand, she pulled the blanket back over them, then moved her mouth to Michael’s ear.
Michael, she whispered. Shut up and listen. Barb Collins is here.
He stopped struggling.
Here? . . . Where?
In this jeep. Right in front of us. She just got off a plane. She has a man with her. A killer.
Jesus . . . What do we do?
We hide under this blanket until they get out.
For the rest of the game drive?
For the next few minutes. Addison is dropping them back at the lodge. Then we turn around and go look for the elephants.
What if she knows we’re here? What if that’s why she came?
If that’s how it is, we’ll find out soon enough.
But Barb Collins didn’t know they were there – not then, anyway. They were left to sleep off their night of passion under their thick woollen blankets, as the sun climbed higher, making them stew. The jeep dropped the new guests at the lodge, turned and started back towards the waterhole. Aoife and Michael threw off the blanket but sat pressed together, whispering lovers.
So who is the other one?
I don’t know his name. I met him once before, in London. He’s ex-SAS, SBS, something like that. A killer.
We can’t go back to that camp. We have to get out of here before they see us.
Shut up. I’m thinking . . . We have a chance, so long as they don’t know we’re here . . .
The walkie-talkie crackled. Addison picked it up, listened. He slowed the jeep, turned and looked back towards Michael and Aoife, puzzled.
Yes, he said. Yes, they are. Both of them.
The truck moved on. Aoife looked at Michael. Michael looked at her, then he looked at the bush. He threw off the blanket, pointed at the forest.
Hey! An elephant!
Four German heads snapped to the right. Cameras were raised. Binoculars too.
Where?
There! . . . It just moved off into the forest. But I saw it very clearly . . . It was eating a tree.
Addison squinted at him.
I didn’t see anything.
It was right there!
I don’t think so.
The tracker, perched on the hood of the Land Rover, spoke up for the first time that day.
There are fresh elephant tracks in the road, boss.
If there are elephants here, said Herr Sauer, we want to see them. This is our last chance. We must leave after lunch.
We don’t want to go back without seeing elephants, said Frau Lehmann. You have already wasted most of our final game drive. We will be very unhappy.
We will write online reviews, said Frau Sauer.
Addison looked from one to the other, and then he looked at Michael.
All right, he said. We’ll take a quick look. But the Land Rover can’t go in there. The ground is too broken. We’ll have to track it on foot.
He unclamped the rifle from the dashboard and got out. They followed. The tracker pointed to a soft, oval print in the dust. It had gossamer wrinkles, like a fossilised jellyfish. Addison considered it.
OK, he said. The boy may have been right.
Aoife looked at Michael. He shrugged, as if to say, sometimes you get lucky.
We go single file, said Addison. Me and the tracker in front. Be very quiet. An elephant will charge you, if you startle it.
He toted the rifle and set off into the bush, with the tracker beside him. One by one, the Germans followed, until only Aoife an
d Michael were left standing by the Land Rover. Aoife looked at the keys in the ignition, then at Michael.
Not bad, she said. I think I should drive.
Their Peugeot bush taxi reached its terminus, the northern city of Gulu, as night fell that same day. Stiff, sun-baked, and battered by two hundred miles of unsurfaced back roads, Aoife and Michael slid down from the sacks of flour and sugar, the bales of cloth and boxes of biscuits, that filled the bed of the old 504 pickup.
Aoife paid off the driver, shook hands with the passengers who had shared their long journey, then considered their position.
They were standing in Gulu’s main market. Here, at this soft hour, women sold grilled meat skewered on bicycle spokes; children came back from kiosks with beers for their elders, treats for themselves; drivers made deals under dusty acacias.
And here, right where their truck was unloading, was a bar and hotel, its plaster wall painted with an ad for Nile Special. On the terrace bar, a PA played American country and western, beloved around the Great Lakes of Africa. People were dancing to vintage Kenny Rodgers. And there, also, was Towse, wearing the same bedraggled outfit, sharing a table with three African men in smart suits. He was waving at Aoife to get her attention.
By the time they had pushed their way on to the terrace and through the dancers, Towse’s new friends were already gone. Three empty Coke bottles, still wet with condensation, were the only sign they had ever been there.
Michael sat, picked up a cold bottle, rolled it lovingly across his forehead. Towse watched him sympathetically.
Let’s get you something to eat and drink. Where did you put your bags?
We had to leave everything, said Aoife, sitting down opposite.
Even the books?
Even the books.
Towse signalled a waiter, turned back to Aoife.
The important thing is that you’re here.
Who were those guys you were talking to? Michael asked.
They’re Karamojong. A pastoral tribe from the border with Kenya.
They have some interesting religious beliefs. And they’re very good at smuggling. They’ll get us out of Uganda, no questions asked.
Never mind that, said Aoife. Barb Collins flew into the camp, Towse. While we were there. With that Scotsman from London. If they’d seen us, we’d be dead.
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