The Jason Green series Box Set

by Gordon Wallis

  THE SNOWMAN OF ZANZIBAR

  GORDON WALLIS

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  box set

  Chapter One - London

  Chapter Two - Rodney Summerfield

  Chapter Three - Gareth Lewer-Allen

  Chapter Four - Richard Lewer-Allen

  Chapter Five - A nervous exchange

  Chapter Six - Home Invasion

  Chapter Seven - An Unexpected Journey

  Chapter Eight - Cape Town

  Chapter Nine - Zanzibar

  Chapter Ten - An accidental meeting

  Chapter Eleven - The Big House and the Marlin

  Chapter Twelve - The Party

  Chapter Thirteen - A Death in the Afternoon

  Chapter Fourteen - A Nocturnal Foray

  Chapter Fifteen - Bad Day in Paje

  Chapter Sixteen - Escape from Zanzibar

  Chapter Seventeen - Spring Thaw

  Chapter Eighteen - Meltdown, Day One

  Chapter Nineteen - Meltdown, Day Two

  Chapter Twenty - Meltdown, Day Three

  For my long-suffering Mother, with love.

  Chapter One - London

  My mind awoke before my body. There was the usual deep grumbling sound in the building that was always there. The twenty four hour machine that is London grinding away. One of many annoyances of big city living that the locals didn’t seem to notice. More sounds started to filter through. Badly behaved, foul-mouthed children screaming in the street below on their way to school. A siren from a police car or an ambulance on its way to another anonymous drama somewhere in the Seven Sisters area. Five floors up and still this fucking racket every morning.

  My thoughts went back to the previous evening. There had been beer. Lots of it. I finally opened my eyes and reached for the glass of water and the cigarettes on the bedside. I slowly began the routine of the morning, quietly cursing to myself. As I leant on the sink I slowly lifted my eyes to look into the mirror and the forty nine year old face stared back at me solemnly. Jason Green what the fuck did you do to look like this? I was looking rough to say the least. Bloodshot eyes with dark marks beneath them. Unshaven, tired. You look like shit buddy. It must have been 12 midnight by the time I had got in.

  It had been a formidable session. I got on with my morning routine, shower, shave, dress, smoke more, drink coffee, watch the news on TV. All of this followed by the grand opening of the curtains to see what kind of day lay ahead. With a smidgen of misguided optimism I drew the curtains to a familiar sight. Well, fuck, fancy that. The scene in front of me was one of wet grey misery. North London in mid February. The huge gas storage tanks in the distance. Brown and soaked high rise buildings obscuring any hope of a horizon, a few token trees devoid of any leaves or colour. Mothers huddled into thick coats with hoods dragging small children to the preschool nearby. The not so glamorous life of an insurance fraud investigator in London. Did I really sign up for this? Surely not, surely not. With a deep sigh I turned away from the window and headed to the small kitchen to make a breakfast.

  Twenty minutes later and fuelled by the eggs, bacon, sausages and black pudding I turned on my mobile phone, opened my laptop and had a look at what the day had in store for me. There was an appointment with a certain Mrs Tracy Summerfield of Finsbury Park at 11am. She had contacted me through my website a few days prior and I knew that she suspected her husband of having an affair. I remembered her nervous, slightly shaky voice on the phone.

  It would mean a week of following some unsuspecting middle aged bloke around, a few photos, perhaps a bugging device, some discreet questions, the preparing of a report more than likely followed by a tearful meeting. All of this culminating in an exchange of cash. I had seen it a thousand times. My freelance work with the insurance company allowed me the time to pursue private jobs of this kind. Not massively exciting but it paid the bills. I sat back and considered my transport options to get to the appointment. It would be a choice between a drive or the Tube. I opted for the drive. I couldn’t face the gloom and filth of the Underground that day. The traffic wouldn't be a problem as the appointment was mid morning. Plenty of time.

  At 10.30 I wrapped up warm, grabbed my bag and unlocked my door. Five floors up the air was so cold it was like walking into a blast freezer. I huddled into my jacket and walked as fast as I could along the open walkway to the lift. The interior of the lift smelt of urine and I tried to hold my breath as it trundled downwards. On the ground floor I headed out of the building quickly and unlocked the door of my 1968 Mercedes 280s. I was starting to feel human again. The day was improving.

  I smoked and thought about my life as I drove. I was 49 years old. I had been born in the southern African country of Rhodesia. Now Zimbabwe. Despite war that was raging at the time it had been a very happy childhood. After high school I had joined the army as was required for all young men. I had joined the Rhodesian light infantry at the age of 18 to fight in the guerrilla war of the late 70s. Military life had come naturally to me and I had excelled in every aspect of war. I had thrived with both the physical and mental challenges of the army and subsequently, at the age of 19, I had been recruited into a shady group that was without a doubt the toughest and most efficient killing machine in Africa. The Selous Scouts. Its members consisted of some of the finest fighting men in the western world. Unconventional and unorthodox. A secretive and elite unit that was the envy of the rest of the Rhodesian forces. We had been involved in pseudo operations. Often spending weeks deep in the bush, slowly infiltrating terrorist bases and groups and gathering intelligence.

  During that time I had killed thirteen people that I knew of. The fact had never bothered me. It had been a war and in war there are casualties. But all too soon and very much to my disappointment the war had ended and the transition from Rhodesia into Zimbabwe had begun.

  Having come from such a controversial unit of the army and uncomfortable about watching my beloved Rhodesia descend into the inevitable chaos that would surely come, I had decided to make a clean break from the country of my birth. Having been born from English parents and holding a British passport, the United Kingdom was my only real option.

  There were still so many memories, although distant, of my childhood. Of the many friends made over the years of youth. Of the boarding school on the dusty Rhodesia/ Botswana border. Of the Msasa trees. Of playing in the huge lush garden in Salisbury with the family dogs on hazy warm afternoons. Of family fishing trips to the mountains of the Eastern Highlands and the hot Zambezi Valley. Of the old family cook who had taught me to speak the local Shona language. I had been fluent and this was one of the reasons I had been recruited into the Scouts. These memories of Africa were fading. Time seemed to race by in London. One week quickly turned into one year, one year even faster into five. That’s London. Fast.

  The transition into civilian and married life in London had been more difficult than anything I had faced in the bush war. I had been married for ten years to an English girl but the marriage had gradually fizzled out due to a mutual lack of interest. I had been working as an insurance fraud investigator for a large multi-national company at the time. It had been an incredibly boring and repetitive nine to five existence that inevitably ended as well. It ended with my immediate boss suffering a broken nose and my being charged with assault. I had serious difficulty with figures of authority since leaving Rhodesia and the Scouts. There was a constant deep-seated frustration and smouldering anger associated with the sudden forced departure from the continent I loved and the country of my birth, to the comparatively sterile and lawful United Kingdom. Fading memories of family and friendships forged and suddenly lost. Although they had mellowed wi
th time they were still there. Hidden away but not forgotten.

  At 49 years old I was still slim and fit, even with the increased alcohol consumption since the divorce. I kept my dark hair short and neat and was always clean shaven. The years of physical training at school and in the army had done me no harm at all and I was determined to keep it that way as long as possible. I visited the local gym at least three times a week. I was financially comfortable and owned three properties in London that brought in a good monthly rental. I had made some friends in London and surrounds - all of them convinced that my current life, the life of a freelance investigator was one of high excitement and danger. How wrong they were!

  They had no idea what I had been through during the bush war and I didn’t care to tell them much about it either. I spent my days sitting in the car waiting to catch an accident claim fraudster on camera or spending endless hours waiting for a cheating wife or husband to come in to the view of a hidden webcam. It was fine for them to think that my world was one of intrigue and danger, even though it was quite often very boring.

  The rain started as I arrived in Finsbury Park and finally found parking. I made my way to the entrance of the ground floor flat and rang the bell. Mrs Summerfield was obviously waiting and opened the door quickly. She was very tall and statuesque. Long sandy hair, expensive perfume, Chanel no 5, well-dressed. She looked like a young Sophia Loren. I put her age at about 44. We exchanged greetings and a handshake and I was ushered through the hall to a sunken lounge.

  The place was tastefully decorated; leather couches, expensive looking antiques and old books filled the room. There was a large brass telescope by a huge bay window leading out to a lush green garden. The place smelled of money, and I was relieved by this. No problem getting paid on this one. Mrs Summerfield offered me a chair and sat nervously in front of me, “Thanks very much for coming to see me Mr Green,” she said in a well spoken voice. I could see the tears welling up as she reached for a box of tissues. I felt pity for her and immediately moved to reassure her, “That's no problem, I'm here to help, what can I do for you? What's the problem?”

  She fixed herself and began. It was the usual story. “Well, I think my husband may be having an affair, Mr Green. I can’t believe I am actually asking you to do this but I have to know. He’s changed in the past few months, he keeps his mobile phone off when he’s in the house. He hardly calls anymore. He has these long business meetings and weekend seminars,. He comes home late. He’s wearing a lot of after shave and he’s become quite secretive....I just...” More waterworks, more tissues. It was time to take over and reel her in. “Alright, I understand, you have to know the truth. You might be wrong, and I hope you are, but if your husband is having an affair I can find out for you, that's what I do.”

  Putting her at ease I went on to explain the way I worked. £150 a day plus expenses. The usual time frame for such a job was about a week. I knew full well that if it was the case that her husband was straying from the marital bed, I would probably know within a day or so, and be able to prove it. But that was the game and it was standard procedure. I spent the next half hour taking notes and chatting to my client. She became more and more relaxed as time went on.

  I was given a photograph, his work details, company address, habits, times, routines etc. Finally it came down to the money.

  “Now,” I said, “I hate to talk about this sort of thing but I have to ask for a deposit before I start.” “Of course,” she interrupted and jumped up, “no problem, I understand completely, please accept this as a deposit.” She walked over to an antique tea caddy on a sideboard and drew out a wad of cash, I stood as she counted out £500 in £50 notes and handed it to me. “No need for a receipt Mr Green, and thank you very much for this. I really appreciate your help. Quite honestly I'm beside myself with worry.” Her hand grabbed my left forearm and she looked at me with open, trusting, almost pathetic eyes. “I'll get the answers for you Mrs Summerfield, just leave it with me. I'll stay in contact and when I'm finished I'll have a report for you.”

  I made my way to the front door and she let me out into the dreary, frozen day. She said her goodbyes with an anxious look on her face. “Don't worry,” I said reassuringly. Her expression lifted and I knew that I had her complete trust. I felt an unusual pang of sympathy for her. It was something that never usually happened to me. I had done so many of these sort of jobs and never allowed any emotion to cloud the task at hand. She was gorgeous and obviously devastated. What kind of fool fucks around on a stunner like that?

  I jogged through the freezing drizzle to the car. Regardless, the money was paid. The job was on.

  Chapter Two - Rodney Summerfield

  Rodney Summerfield was a lawyer. He should have known better. I planned the afternoon as I drove back to my flat in Seven Sisters. The offices of Coughlan, Summerfield and Fraser were in Soho Square, right in the centre of London. There was no way of driving there in time and Rodney Summerfield used the Underground to get to and from work anyway. I figured I could be there by 2pm using the tube from Seven Sisters. It would be easy to blend in to such a busy place. I parked the car and took the fifteen minute walk to the Tube station. I paid for a one day travel card and descended into the filthy anonymity of the London Underground.

  As I travelled down the escalator I watched the line of people travelling up on the other side. All of them reading papers or looking at the adverts on the walls. Anything possible to avoid eye contact with another human being, heaven forbid. Suddenly I caught the eye of a tall brunette wearing a thick black coat and a grey scarf. Tube etiquette dictated that I should look away immediately but I held her gaze. She smiled with genuine warmth as she held my eyes. This was quite unusual. I gave a half smile back but all too soon the moment was over as we passed each other.

  Pleasantly surprised I stepped onto the Victoria Line Southbound for Oxford Circus. There was plenty of room to sit and I passed the time reading my paper. Oxford street was a hive of activity as usual. Thousands of tourists braving the cold, pounding the hard streets with a sense of purpose and spending lots of money. I bought another newspaper from a vendor and turned left down a short road that lead into Soho Square. The offices of Coughlan, Summerfield and Fraser were discreetly marked on the large windows outside the reception. It looked like a successful firm. The interior was plush and warm looking. I walked past the window, glanced in and noticed a thirty something brunette on reception. She wore glasses and appeared busy and efficient, even bossy, like a librarian.

  Across the road towards the middle of the square was a bench. It would have to do. I made my way over and sat on the damp cold wood. £150 a day, £150 a day, I kept telling myself. Wishing I had brought gloves, I removed the photograph of Rodney Summerfield. I opened the newspaper and held the picture on the inside. The photograph was obviously taken on a holiday in happier times. A beaming sunburnt Englishman, Rodney Summerfield was laid back on a sun lounger, shirt off, a book in hand resting on a huge bronzed stomach. Barbados perhaps? He was a thick set chap with a rotund face. Easy to remember.

  At 47 years old he was just the right age for a midlife crisis, a sports car, and an affair. He didn't look like a typical womaniser, I thought, but then who does? I made a mental note of his face and replaced the photograph. I removed my mobile phone and made a call to the law offices in front of me. I watched out of the corner of my eye as the woman at reception answered quickly with a southern Irish accent, “Coughlan, Summerfield and Fraser, can I help you?”

  “Is Mr Summerfield there please?” I asked. “He is sir, can I ask who’s calling please?” “Hello, hello?” I said and then, satisfied, I hung up. He was there at work. The librarian lookalike behind the glass silently mouthed the words “Hello, hello, can you hear me?” then hung up and busied herself with other tasks.

  Half an hour passed. I smoked, read the paper and then feeling bored and chilled to the bone, I glanced around the square. I noticed there was a branch of the local Hare Krishna grou
p on the other side of the square. Quite a prestigious address. Just then a group of four Krishna devotees left their offices and made their way towards Oxford Street. They must be fucking freezing in their orange robes. I watched them walk, wondering what they were all about.

  There was a small removals van on the corner with a fat, red-faced man in the driving seat. He opened his window and began singing loudly in a broad cockney accent, “Harry Secombe, Harry Harry Secombe, Harry Secombe, Harry Harry Secombe!” He sang in the Hare Krishna tune. The visibly embarrassed devotees ignored him and rushed on their way. I had to laugh out loud at the spectacle. Fucking hell. It wasn't such a bad day.

  An hour passed, I lit a cigarette and checked my watch. It was 3.45pm. At that moment Rodney Summerfield walked out of his offices. He wore a long thick woollen coat over a dark suit and carried a vintage slimline Samsonite briefcase. He walked in the opposite direction of Oxford Street. I casually stood and started following from a distance. After 40 metres or so he made a left turn. The streets were getting darker now but were still noisy and busy with people and cars. A few minutes later I saw Summerfield duck quickly into a pub on a corner. I gauged the place from the exterior and hung around for a few minutes assuming he would be ordering a drink. Satisfied he would be seated by now, I entered the warmth of the pub.

  It was a small place with old wooden floors decorated with posters of rock bands - The Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Iron Maiden, AC/DC. It smelt of stale beer, an unlikely spot for a city lawyer to drink.

  I noticed Summerfield had sat facing the wall to my left. Good. His thick neck was bulging around a tight white collar. He was drinking something that looked like a gin and tonic and was engrossed in some papers from his stylish briefcase, with his back turned from the bar. A busty barmaid asked me if she could help me. I ordered a pint of Löwenbräu and sat with my newspaper. The beer was cold and strong and I downed a full half-pint. The feeling was painfully starting to come back into my fingers from the cold outside, and the alcohol started to warm my body from the inside.