The Rwandan Hostage

by Christopher Lowery

“You might know him as Robin Little?”

  “Never heard of him, I’m afraid.”

  “You may be unaware that Mr Little changed his name to Slater. We have been speaking to him and he says he knows you.”

  “I think I would remember if I had spoken to him, Detective Sergeant, and I can assure you that it’s not the case.”

  “Then perhaps you can explain this, Lord Dudley.” He hit Enter on the laptop on the table and Harry Slater’s voice rang out:

  How do you know he’s telling the truth? It could all be a purely fictitious story. Nwosu may even be there and he doesn’t want to talk to us. Maybe they’ve worked out a different agenda. This whole plan is falling apart. Isn’t there anybody there you can trust? Fucking Hell! How could you let things get so out of hand?

  Then Dudley heard his own voice reply:

  Please remain calm, Mr Slater. I believe our South African colleague is telling the truth. We have some independent verification of the local situation. There are reports of two murdered white men in South Africa in the news today. The first is Lambert, the hotel manager, in Johannesburg and the second is an unknown man in Polokwane. That must be Blethin, the doctor. This corresponds exactly with what he has told us. I will instigate a means of locating the others and report back to you this afternoon.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sir Archibald left them, pleading another urgent meeting. Dudley knew it would cost him a good deal of money to see the lawyer again, the situation wasn’t good. It was the same recording that Esther had sent him that morning. Holden had obtained it from Slater, but he still didn’t know why. All he knew was that Esther had played him for a fool. He had misjudged her in many ways and it looked like it might cost him dearly.

  He decided he had nothing to lose by satisfying his curiosity. “May I enquire what Mr Slater has done to merit your questioning him, Detective Sergeant?”

  “All I can tell you is that Robin Little, whom you know as Harry Slater, has been detained by the French Police in a totally unconnected murder investigation. From your point of view, Lord Dudley, I’m afraid it is simply an unfortunate coincidence.”

  That’s the problem with being an intermediary, Lord Arthur Selwyn Savage Dudley reflected resignedly. You’re never really sure what’s going on elsewhere.

  Marbella, Spain

  “So your theory was correct. It was this British Lord, Arthur Dudley, who teamed up with Esther Rousseau to plan Leo’s kidnapping?” Jenny, Emma and Leo were on the speaker phone listening to Pedro Espinoza as he related the latest events in Nice and London.

  “Yes, Emma. Esther originated the plan and Lord Dudley was hired to execute it. I didn’t mention him this morning because we had no definite proof of his involvement. But thanks to her vengeful nature, she has provided us with proof and we are now certain of their partnership. A very gifted pair of criminals.”

  Emma asked. “What’s happening to them?”

  “Dudley will face charges of conspiracy and complicity in the murders, perversion of justice and whatever else they can find from his computer records, although DI Dewar told me that everything had been deleted and they haven’t yet managed to reconstitute any files. They may have to rely on the recordings and messages sent by Esther, but they are very damaging.”

  “And Esther Rousseau?” Jenny felt physically sick at the thought of the woman escaping justice.

  “No one knows where she is. She seems to have become an expert in disappearing since the d’Almeida business. There is an Interpol alert out for her, but I think she’s too experienced to be caught. Time will tell.”

  “But now the English police will find out about Leo’s abduction and Emma’s illegal adoption. Can they get into any trouble?”

  “That’s what I wanted to discuss with you. I know that both of you want to see Dudley and Esther punished for their crime against Leo. But this leaves us with a difficult choice.

  “At the moment, in the UK, DI Dewar has no knowledge of Leo’s birth and adoption, nor the abduction plan. He is aware only that Dudley is somehow connected with the murders in South Africa and he’ll be talking to CS Hendricks. Their sole objective will be to tie Dudley into the murders. In Paris, Marcel Colombey is interested in helping DS McCallister convict Nicole and Little for Tony Forrester’s death and he’s not interested in the abduction.

  “Then Dudley himself is facing a potential murder charge and is not about to worsen his situation by opening up a can of worms involving child abduction. Esther Rousseau is in hiding, probably alone, because the whole organisation has been destroyed. She’s won’t risk giving herself away or exposing Emma unless she can plot a new way to extract Jenny’s money and that would require resources she doesn’t have.

  “So, if there is nothing in Dudley’s files, which seems to be the case, I don’t see how the truth could ever be exposed.”

  “You mean, unless we bring it up?”

  “Exactly, Leo. That is the choice you have to take. We have identified the chief criminals but we cannot prosecute them without exposing your secret.”

  Jenny said, “And Dudley may be tried for something else entirely if he can be linked to the murders. But Esther Rousseau is going to get away scot free for the second time.”

  No one spoke. They were all thinking the same thing. Esther Rousseau has not gone forever. She’ll be back again. One day.

  “You were right, Aunt Jenny. Pedro is a terrific detective. Did you see that jigsaw puzzle he prepared? It had every person and every event from start to finish and he just worked his way through it all until he came to the right solution.” They were sitting on the terrace going back over their recent conversation.

  “I knew you’d asked him to find the culprits, Jenny, and he did. Thank you for seeing it through all the way.”

  Jenny said, “Leo’s right, you have Pedro to thank for that. But it’s true what you say. A great crime was committed and several people, innocent or not, were killed or hurt and I don’t think we can just walk away and say, ‘Well, it ended OK for us, so we’ll just forget it’.”

  She gave a deep sigh. “It’s funny though. I thought it would make a great difference to us knowing who had done this thing and that they would be punished; a kind of closure. But I don’t feel any different at all. I’m just happy that Leo’s back and we’re nearer to each other than we were before. That’s the best closure we could have.”

  A little while later, Leticia came out with Emilio. Emma was typing furiously on her laptop and Jenny was reading. “The oil shares are almost at four dollars,” she said to her in a conspiratorial whisper.

  Jenny gave her a high five. “So you’ve made back the Ponzi money. Well done Patrice.”

  Emma looked up quizzically and Leticia asked, “What’s the title of your new book?”

  Jenny interrupted. “It’s called Red Sky over Orkney.”

  “No it’s not. I’ve scrapped that one. It was rubbish. I’ve started a brand new story with a different set of characters altogether. It’s called My son, the Hostage.”

  Leticia didn’t notice the glance that passed between the two sisters. She said, “You must have a marvellous imagination, Emma.”

  EPILOGUE

  Delmas, Mpumalanga, South Africa

  July 2010

  Skelton limped quietly towards the door at the end of the hall, it was ajar and light was escaping from the room. He was wearing rubber soled boots and carried his silver headed walking cane but was careful not to lean on it to avoid making a noise. As he approached the room he heard a voice, it was Murdoch, speaking in his whining, nasal twang. He stopped outside the door and listened to the man’s words.

  “This is all your fault, Ms West. You and that bloody Scotsman, poking your noses into other people’s business. I would have disappeared without a trace, long gone with a fortune in the bank and nobody any the wiser. After all, accidents do happen and that was the most perfectly contrived accident. Why would you have to imagine that Delaney’s death was anything but
accidental? Why did you have to hound me down and deprive me of what was rightfully mine?”

  A woman’s voice was speaking now. Low, soft tones. He knew it was Tory, but he couldn’t make out the words. Ignoring the sharp pain from his right ankle, he knelt down and looked through the gap almost at floor level, knowing the man was less likely to notice something low down than at eye height. Murdoch was standing near a huge fireplace with his back to him. The log fire was blazing and the sight of it made him aware of how cold the hallway was. A wide, low oak table stood in front of the man and his hand rested on a high backed armchair to his side. In his other hand he held a pistol, not in a menacing way, almost casually.

  Skelton poked his head around a little more and saw Tory. She was sitting in a similar armchair on the other side of the fireplace facing Murdoch. She was looking intently at the man and didn’t seem to have noticed his intrusion. He wasn’t sure but it looked as if her hands were tied. Now he could make out what she was saying.

  “… don’t think you understand the seriousness of your actions, Commissioner Murdoch. Hundreds of thousands of pounds of public money have been embezzled, two innocent people have died and two more are in hospital in a serious condition. This is not just about Sergeant Delaney and even if it was, murder is murder. If Angus and I hadn’t poked our noses in, as you put it, justice would have been badly served and a murderer and embezzler would have walked free. How can you pretend it’s our fault? This crime spree started two years ago and we just happened to put two and two together in the last few days. The best thing you can do is to give yourself up and confess to your crimes. You have no other alternative.”

  “You’re wrong, Ms West. I have one last alternative, because you have made a fatal mistake. You and Skelton have kept this information to yourselves. Foolish arrogance! No one knows you’re here except your dear partner and I fully expect him to arrive at any moment. As you can see, his visit doesn’t concern me in the slightest. He is old and lame and much too weak of character to present any kind of a challenge to me. As a matter of fact I let him discover where we are with exactly that in mind. When he arrives my new plan will be ready to execute, a verb that is well suited to the plan.

  “While we are waiting for Mr Skelton I will share a little confidential information with you. This manor is very well insured, far in excess of the amount of the mortgage. It’s been in my family since it was bestowed upon one of my illustrious ancestors in the sixteenth century along with the title of Earl of Branceworth. In fact it’s the only part of my family inheritance I’ve managed to save, because I love the place. It’s the one anchor that I’ve always been able to hang onto when everything else went wrong.

  “But I cannot take it with me when I leave, and leave I must, as soon as possible. So I’m obliged to kill two birds with one stone. Nothing will be left of it, including the unfortunate occupants, who will never be identified in the ashes. Fire is a terrible obliterator of identity and as I said before, accidents do happen. One more or less is irrelevant.”

  Murdoch picked up something from the floor and held it up in front of Tory. Skelton could see it in the firelight. It was a jerry can. He unscrewed the top and sniffed the contents. ”You’d be amazed at how much damage this small amount of fluid can cause. My officers have investigated many cases over the years and on very few occasions have we been able to prove that a fire was caused intentionally. So you might say that I have some expertise in that area and can be reasonably sure that my insurance claim will be rewarded.”

  ‘He’s as mad as a hatter, finally gone completely round the bend’. Skelton waited to hear no more of the Commissioner’s speech. He pushed the door open and deliberately dropped his cane to the floor then scrambled clumsily to pick it up as he looked around. He was in the largest room he’d ever seen in a private home. It was almost devoid of furnishings and the massive fireplace stood imposingly against the south-most wall. A long way away on the opposite wall, at a height of two and a half metres, a minstrel’s gallery juxtaposed the almost five metre high ceiling. He realised it was the old baronial hall, where lavish feasts and musical entertainment predated television in the life of the wealthy classes in medieval times. But now it looked dark and foreboding, the only light provided by the leaping flames in the fireplace.

  Murdoch looked across at him without any sign of apprehension, as, leaning heavily on the cane, he limped painfully across the enormous room towards them.

  “Welcome, Mr Skelton. Exactly on time as all self-respecting gentlemen should be. As you can observe, Ms West is already my guest and now the invitation is complete. I’m afraid I can offer you nothing more than a warm evening by the fire, away from the freezing cold outside. Please come closer and I’ll make sure that the room is quite warm enough.”

  He waved the pistol vaguely towards Tory. “Sit over beside Ms West. With any luck your remains will be strewn together to make identification even more difficult, not that it matters any more. Once you are gone, this unfortunate accident will be only that, nothing more or less.”

  Skelton could now see that Tory’s hands were tied, but not her feet. He limped closer and made as if to skirt the table to sit beside her. As he turned, he lashed out to his right and was rewarded with the painful sound of a ‘crack’ as the steel-cored cane caught Murdoch full on the left kneecap.

  “Ouch!” Involuntarily the policeman reached for his knee and the can slipped in his grasp, spilling petrol onto his clothes and onto the floor. He grabbed the can with his other hand and the pistol went spinning onto the hearth.

  “I’m awfully sorry, Commissioner,” he said. “I’m old and lame and unable to control my movements properly.”

  “You interfering old idiot!” Murdoch put down the petrol can and went to pick up the pistol. A spasm of pain from his knee made him slip in the pool of petrol and he fell towards the fire, reaching out to the fender to hold himself.

  Skelton helped Tory to her feet. “Come on, my dear. Commissioner Murdoch is right. We’ve kept this business to ourselves for too long. It’s time to file our report.” They started walking back towards the door.

  “Stay where you are. There’ll be no report filed.” Murdoch pulled himself to his knees and leaned forward to recuperate the gun again. As he reached out towards the hearth the heat of the fire caused his petrol soaked sleeve to burst into flame. He stood up and desperately took off his jacket and threw it down. With a ‘whoosh’ the fire ran across the floor and licked towards the jerry can. Murdoch was now standing in a pool of fire, the flames leaping up around his feet and legs.

  “Help me. For Christ’s sake help me!” He screamed, as the petrol on his trousers caught fire.

  “My God. We have to save him.” Tory tried to wrest herself from the Scotsman’s hand.

  He pulled her away. “It’s too late. There’s nothing we can do except get downstairs and out of here before the petrol can goes up.”

  They had just exited the main door when a massive explosion seemed to shake the huge building. A blast of hot air came rushing down the staircase like a tsunami, almost blowing them off their feet. Angus untied the rope from around her wrists and gently massaged the chafing away then took off his overcoat and placed it around her shoulders and they walked across to his car.

  As they walked, he called the emergency services. “Murdoch Manor Hall is on fire. The whole place is going up in flames. Yes, that’s right, Murdoch Manor Hall, in Branceworth. There is a fatality.” They reached his car and got in out of the cold. He switched on the engine and put the heating up to maximum.

  They sat in the car, watching, transfixed by the scene, as room by room the fire consumed the whole of the second floor of the manor house from end to end. Tory was weeping and he held her hand gently. Then the flames leapt simultaneously upwards and downwards until all three floors were a burning furnace. The sky was illuminated by the fire as the magnificent building burned ever brighter until it was almost as light as daytime.

  Skelton
put his arm around Tory’s shoulder. In his soft Edinburgh brogue, he said, “Now that’s what I would call an extravagant death.”

  They could hear the sound of the sirens now, increasingly loud as the blue and white flashing lights of the emergency vehicles came towards them up the long driveway. In the lightened sky they saw it was starting to snow.

  THE END

  Coetzee was sorry to reach the end of the story, he’d gotten to like the principle characters and decided to download the previous volumes. He turned to the last page of the Kindle book. A very pretty Emma Stewart was smiling at him from the screen. He looked fondly at the photograph, remembering their verbal tussles and regretting that he hadn’t got to know her better. Another thought occurred to him, If Emma is as tough as that, what’s her sister like? Maybe one day I’ll find out.

  He switched off the device and put it away. It was almost midnight and Karen and Abby were asleep upstairs. He had stayed up to enjoy the remaining few chapters of Emma’s story in the quiet with his one whisky of the day.

  The dogs were waiting at the door and he put his jerkin on and took them out for their last evening walk. A million stars sparkled like diamonds across the clear sky and the full moon was so bright it looked as if you could grab it with your hand. The night air was cold and he shivered and pulled the leather jacket tighter around himself.

  Coetzee walked along Groot Street to the path that led across the open farming land then let the dogs off their leads to run off any remaining energy. As he followed them over the field he felt a sudden desire to smoke a cheroot, the first time since he had got back together with his family. He didn’t have any, so the temptation wasn’t hard to resist. After a ten minute stroll he whistled for the dogs and they came running back to him. He put them on their leads again and headed along the road towards the house.

  “COETZEE!” The shout came from behind him and he swung round, reaching for the pistol in his pocket. Three shots rang out and he felt the bullets smash into him, throwing him against the hedge at the side of the road. The gunman ran along to the end of the street and climbed into a car hidden behind the trees, leaving Coetzee unconscious and bleeding under the hedge, the dogs whimpering and scratching around his body. The engine revved up and the vehicle sped off, it was a black Mercedes 220 with the number plate 294-TCE 87.