by A P Bateman
“So, what about here?”
King dug the blade in between two rocks and prised out a less misshapen bullet. It dropped, like the first, onto the patio. “Snell wasn’t going to have two, point three-three-eight calibre bullets travel past him and slam into that wall with a closing speed of four hundred miles per hour and not look up from his paper. The point three-three-eight Lapua Magnum isn’t a suppressible calibre. Not practically at least. It still makes a hell of a racket. So, no suppressor, or what most people will know as a silencer. Not for a two thousand five hundred metre shot. The suppressor robs the bullet of too much muzzle energy and velocity. As well as two bullets slamming into the wall, Snell would have heard at least two gunshots before a third one took his head off. Enough for him to move, look across the valley and present himself as a more difficult target.”
“But he was shot, nonetheless,” Amanda said. She put the second bullet into another bag and stood up.
King stood up too, looked at the two behind the glass. Bukov was still staring at him, King returned a jovial wave and smiled as the Russian looked to implode. He turned back to Amanda. “He was,” he said. “But I have my reservations on the cause of death.”
26
Pollsmoor Prison
Tokai
South Africa
“You have to get me out of here!”
“Mister Badenhorst,” Caroline replied calmly. “Tell me what you know, and I will have a word with the South African government. “But first, you need to tell me about the man who killed your brother.” She looked at his stump of an arm. It was wrapped in a bandage that was both grimy and discoloured. “And, did that to you.”
Vigus Badenhorst flung himself back in the chair, tears in his eyes, his face ashen. “Look, you don’t understand!”
“Mister…” she stopped herself, realised the man had started to sob. She glanced at Kruger, who shrugged benignly.
“Listen Badenhorst,” Kruger said, his accent broad and thick. “It’s tough here, I get it.”
“You don’t get shit!” the man snapped. “I got asked for, requested by the leader of the Twenty Eights - do you know what that means? No, of course not,” he paused, attempted to wipe his eyes with the end of the stump. “It means I’m his fucking bitch!”
“Mister…” Caroline trailed off as he snapped again.
“I don’t have a choice! I tried to refuse, but they pulled out my cell mate, held him down and gouged out one of his eyes. They told me they would do the same to me. It was so horrible, the poor man screamed for hours. There were six of them, they beat me up, then held me down.” He tried to wipe his eyes again, but the stump restricted him, and the other hand was clamped firmly to the table with the handcuffs.
Caroline pulled a clean handkerchief out of her pocket and reached across the table. She dabbed his eyes for him, left the handkerchief on the table in front of him.
He looked at her, nodded. “Thank you.” He shrugged, then said quietly, “When they had all finished, they told me I’d been broken in, was a proper woman now. Not a butt virgin anymore. They said if I ever refused their advances, they would dig out my eyes and castrate me. They own me.” He continued to sob, and Caroline dabbed his cheeks again.
“I will speak to the Governor,” she said.
“He knows it goes on,” the prisoner said bitterly. “While it does, the convicts are kept busy. My only chance is to give you the information you need in return for being moved. Or have my sentence cut, which gets me into a lower category prison. No gang members are in the lower categories. For heaven’s sake!” he snapped, anger flashing in his eyes. “I’m only in here because my brother fudged the taxes!”
“It was more than that,” Kruger interjected. “You got off lightly. The illegal trade in ivory, weapons, tax evasion… come on! You were lucky to get two years. Had your brother been alive to have his say, you’d be in here for at least ten years, maybe more!”
Badenhorst looked at him. “Do you know how they do it? How they rape a man? No? Well let me enlighten you.” He was clearly fighting back tears. He dabbed at his eyes with the end of his stump, then said, “They put you on your back and two men hold your legs in the air. Like the missionary position. Another man holds some glass or a shank against your eyeball while the man…” he hesitated. “While the man fucks you. You break eye contact and they take out one of your eyes. It’s all about looking the man in his eyes, so you know who is the boss. Who owns you. I see that bastard in my dreams!”
Caroline looked at Kruger, then back at Vigus Badenhorst. “If I can swing something, you’ll talk?”
“To my last breath,” Badenhorst said desperately. He looked at her, then at Kruger. “I see the other bastard too. The one who did this to me. The bastard who killed my brother. I see him in my dreams, my nightmares. I see his face, hear his voice. So, get busy on your phone, before I start to forget.”
27
“So, what are you looking for?” Amanda asked. “I mean, there has to be something in particular.”
King was checking his phone. There was a message from Simon Mereweather. His contact from MI6 had informed him that their asset was safe and well and had been dropped at The Victoria and Alfred Hotel in Cape Town. He relaxed a little, sighed at the thought, but knew Caroline would have contacted the South Africa Secret Service to liaise with an agent for her trip to Pollsmoor Prison. He knew she would be on tight time constraints, and hoped that was the reason she had not called him back or sent a text message. He knew what it was to be in the field, but he also knew she had taken exception to hearing Amanda’s voice in the background, and the coincidence in staying at the same hotel. He just hoped she had taken it for what it was and moved on.
King put his iPhone back into his pocket and looked at the hospital as Amanda drove away from the main thoroughfare and around the rear of the main building. “You tell me,” he said quietly, somewhat thoughtfully.
She shrugged, didn’t bother re-iterating. “Do you think there is more to the Helena Snell and Viktor Bukov thing?”
“He’s banging her. Her husband’s only just cold. What more do you want?”
“No, I mean, are they suspects?”
“Everyone’s a suspect,” he said.
She waited as she opened her window and spoke into the speaker at the barrier, announcing her name and credentials. There was a camera lens at the top of the speaker and she was told to hold up her ID. She did so, and the barrier rose slowly. “I’m not a suspect,” she said.
“Maybe you are,” he said.
“What?”
“Where were you yesterday?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Of course,” said King impassively. He saw the sign for the Pathology Unit, unclipped his seatbelt as she swung the car complacently into a free space. “But I have more than a few doubts about those two,” he added.
“Then why not question them further?”
King had called DCI Trevarth and had him escort the couple off the premises. They had been instructed to wait for permission to return, as the house on the Roseland was still a crime scene. Helena Snell had protested vehemently, but after a short while, she had relented. King could see she was pragmatic. There was no sense in fighting a losing battle. Viktor Bukov, by contrast simply did what Helena Snell told him. They had reverted to speaking Russian, unaware that King was conversational in the language, if not fluent.
And that was when he decided they did not need further questioning.
“It would have been a waste of time. They didn’t kill Snell.” King opened his door and Amanda followed.
“You don’t think so?”
“No.”
“So, what are we looking for here?”
“Toxicology.”
“For a fatal shooting?” Amanda asked incredulously. “Seems like a waste of time and resources to me.”
“We’ll see.”
28
Pollsmoor Prison
Tokia
After the noise and sensory overload of the prison walk, the silence of the Governor’s office came as a welcome relief. Governor Preet Boesak seemed to have changed his attitude towards Caroline, but it had been short-lived. Her request to move prisoner Vigus Badenhorst to a lower category wing, pending authorisation from the South African government, had sent the man over the edge and he had shouted the odds, to which Caroline had acted bored, almost indifferent to the man and started to make the first of many phone calls on her mobile phone.
Kruger had escorted Boesak outside to cool down, and must have spoken to somebody for a coffee, because Caroline had been brought a cup on a tray with cream and biscuits. She was ravenous from the shock and emotion, not to mention exertion from her ordeal that morning, as well as having missed breakfast, and soon finished them off with her coffee.
Her first call had been to Simon Mereweather, who following standard operating procedure (SOP) did not answer, but had listened to her message and called her straight back. He had listened to what she had to say and ordered her to get Badenhorst’s information at any cost while he set about putting a deal in motion. Caroline knew what the MI5 liaison officer had meant, but having witnessed Vigus Badenhorst’s desperation and emotional breakdown, she was not about to lie and promise the man the earth with no intent to make good on her side of the bargain. She knew he deserved her trust, could see just how desperate he was. The man was on the edge, and had suffered terribly. She reflected that he would no doubt merely be one of a number. Pollsmoor was indeed, a living hell.
After her conversation with Simon Mereweather, Caroline had then called her Interpol contact to get a deal brokered at their end. It couldn’t hurt to play two hands. Interpol was a large agency, perhaps they would have more luck with the South African government than MI5 would with the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, who would then set out to broker a deal with the South African government and judiciary department Pretoria. The FCO were not renowned for the speed with which their diplomats did their work. By contrast, Interpol would already have South African law enforcement personnel in their offices and contacts within the government. That was as good as a direct line. It seemed like a logical step, and one with which to circumvent a protracted deal.
Bérénice Duval was the senior investigator and leader of the Terrorism Incident Response Team. Her remit was to liaise with police forces from around the world and enable the smooth running of joint investigations where Interpol facilitated a brokerage between law enforcement agencies. Interpol were to act as a go between in any investigation into the group known as Anarchy to Recreate Society. Caroline had met the forty-five-year-old woman and former counter terrorism officer with the Préfecture de Police de Paris, along with other representatives from law enforcement agencies of the nations of the five richest people making up the names on the kill list. Also present had been representatives from countries of the next five people, but the dramatic shedding of wealth had changed the line-up almost daily. Caroline had liked the woman, had spoken enough with her at the group dinner and in subsequent meetings to have built up a rapport. It couldn’t hurt throwing out a deal with the South Africans while MI5 did what they could with Whitehall.
Bérénice Duval had been pleased to talk to Caroline. She had listened intently and when she heard that the deal could mean as little as striking a year from Bordenhorst’s sentence, she had seemed confident in obtaining a result. She called back within twenty minutes, just as Caroline could hear Governor Preet Boesak return to the outer office, his thick, guttural tone barely contained by the heavy oak door.
She glanced down at her phone, saw Duval’s number.
“Bérénice, that was quick,” she answered. “Good news or bad?”
“Good,” she replied. “For us, but I think he will buy it. It doesn’t sound like the man has many choices.”
“You could say that. What’s the deal?”
“The South African government will grant him freedom in the form of a suspended sentence with gratuity. One wrong move and he’s back inside Pollsmoor Prison, but this time for four years instead of two. He will have to co-operate with our investigation, give us a result which leads to further positive intelligence. They wanted his information to lead to the capture or conviction of the people we are after, but I didn’t think Badenhorst would go for it. There has to be some carrot as well as stick.”
Caroline marvelled at the woman’s fluent English and turn of phrase. “Sounds fair,” she said, feeling excitement, a rush of adrenalin. Not only could she close the gap in the investigation, get a step closer to finding the terrorists, but she would help the man out of his nightmare. She knew he had broken the law, avoided paying taxes, but she had read the file on him, seen that his older brother had been the brains behind the venture. He had been running the operation while his younger brother was still in junior school. Vigus Badenhorst wasn’t a killer, a rapist or a thief. He didn’t deserve the living hell of being locked up with South Africa’s gang members, men who did what they did to the vulnerable.
“Well, there is also a stipulation,” Duval paused. “But I’m confident that he will go for it, given the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“The government will be working with the four leading organisations for the prevention of the ivory trade to set up a task force. Organisations like TUSK and the WWF. This has been underway for some time, but with this new development, Badenhorst will have to give his co-operation, selling out the chain he and his brother used to off-load their illegal ivory.”
“I think he will agree to anything,” she said. She hadn’t told Duval the extent of Badenhorst’s reasons for commuting his sentence, but the woman was an experienced police officer with over twenty years’ experience, she knew the score.
She gave Duval the prison’s fax number so that Interpol could send notification to set the ball rolling, and was told the notification of Badenhorst’s release would be both faxed and emailed within the hour from the South African Judiciary Department.
Caroline replaced the telephone as Governor Boesak entered, his fax machine rolling. He looked at it curiously, then back at her. She was seated behind the man’s desk in his leather swivel chair. She beckoned the man to take a visitor’s seat and glanced at the whirling fax machine. “Don’t see many of those these days,” she said. “But I think you will find what it says rather interesting. Kindly prepare prisoner Vigus Badenhorst for immediate release into my custody, Governor Boesak. The official authorisation should be here within the hour, I don’t want any further delays.”
29
There was something about the clinical, almost voyeuristic process of an autopsy that left King cold. The final indignity, as if death wasn’t enough. The humiliation of being taken apart and scrutinised, samples removed and then to be roughly sewn back together and the waste sluiced down a drain seemed so far removed from the being who had existed shortly before. No wonder Amanda, and many like her throughout her curious profession thought of the dead as nothing more than merely fat, muscle and bone. This did not surprise King. He had battled for years to justify, to be able to live with what he had both seen and done. He always knew he did it for a cause, for the freedom and protection of the oblivious people he lived amongst.
His country.
He was no stranger himself to death. He had killed in the heat of battle. Not great company advancements in a regular army, but secret wars. Deniable affairs with little in the way of support. All out close quarter battle against guerrillas and terrorists. He had gunned down people who had been trying to kill him. He had gunned down people who posed a threat to his country or the western world. He had killed with a knife, made death look like an accident and he had even killed with his bare hands. The first lives he had taken had been without a weapon, and he still thought of what happened and the two men whose lives he had taken that night. It was part of the constant baggage that travelled with him, for all these years on th
e path that had been shaped for him by second chances and secretive government departments. In many ways, what he had done for his country since was his way of making amends. Atonement. Of quantifying his mistakes, of becoming a better man and serving his country as those two men had, and would have continued to if words and actions, drink and ego had not got out of hand. It had been in his nature to attack, to never back down. He had always been that way. On the streets, in the boxing ring, on the run.
A long time ago.
Another life.
King had watched Amanda Cunningham remove the organs from Snell’s body and place each in various dishes and containers. He had watched the measured way she had peeled back the flesh, the muscle, prise the bone apart or make significant cuts and remove the necessary body parts. The way she had dissected the organs, taken samples and placed them in a selection of test-tubes and petri dishes. He couldn’t help thinking it a final humiliation. First the life taken, then the body opened, the internals dissected and broken down into components.
He had watched, but found the experience cold and dispassionate. He wondered how a woman like Amanda Cunningham would get into the profession. He had taken himself outside to get some fresh air, to air the stink of death from his clothes, his skin. He wondered if it was why Amanda Cunningham drank. She clearly had a problem. The excessive amount she had consumed, the denial afterwards in the sobering light of day.
He took out his phone and checked the display. Nothing from Caroline. He quickly texted: Are you ok? Call me xxx. He fired it off, then instantly regretted it. They had a rule. But they were on separate missions and he needed to know if she was safe and well. He hoped she was not stewing over Amanda Cunningham staying at the same hotel. He needed to fill her in when he could, but he still thought he’d keep quiet about their ill-fated dinner at the cottage. That was a mistake, and nothing happened. Nor was it even on the cards to happen. Naivety and stupidity. Both Caroline and King worked on a need to know basis, and as far as he was concerned, this would be one of those times.