by Wilbur Smith
Then with a toss of his monstrous head he threw the woman high and caught her again as she dropped; but now he was gripping only one of the woman’s arms.
The woman was screaming shrilly as Aline gaped and then snapped her jaws shut on her legs. When both of the great reptiles had a grip on her they performed an extraordinarily well-rehearsed manoeuvre. Both of them went into the death roll. Hannibal spun his huge body to the right. His butter-yellow belly flashed in the sunlight for a moment before he came back onto his clawed feet. At the same time Aline rotated herself to the left. Neither of them released their grip on the woman as they spun in opposite directions.
‘Will you look at that?’ Johnny shouted. ‘What the hell are they doing?’
‘They can’t bite off lumps of meat with their spiky teeth. They have to twist it off.’ Carl had read up online about crocodile behaviour, and he was eager to show off his knowledge.
Between the two great beasts the woman’s limbs were plucked from her trunk like the wings from a well-roasted chicken.
‘Look at that! Those suckers are doing just like you said.’ Johnny was properly impressed by Carl’s erudition.
As her body was torn apart and the blood spurted from the ruptured arteries, some of it splashed Carl. He was so engrossed with the spectacle that he did not seem to notice it.
Both crocodiles backed away, crunching flesh and bone in their jaws and gulping it down.
Then Hannibal came back to the remains of the corpse and lifted it in his jaws, and waddled with it into the pool. Aline followed him into the water and they resumed their cooperative feeding. In the water they were able to spin themselves with less effort. It was an unhurried and orderly dismemberment and feasting.
Aline spun the entrails out of the woman’s remains. Then Hannibal took his turn and twisted the woman’s head off her shoulders. He crushed her skull in his jaws, popping it like an overripe melon, and swallowed it with one convulsive gulp.
The two men on the top of the wall watched with total fascination. As Aline tore off the woman’s remaining arm and chewed the bones to splinters the pink palmed hand flapped out of the corner of her mouth.
‘Look at that.’ Johnny roared with laughter. ‘She’s waving us goodbye!’
‘Just like my little sister Bryoni, she’s saying goodbye to Daddy.’ Carl put the cadence on the final word, and they hugged each other with glee. At last Johnny pulled back, still panting with laughter.
‘I’ll say it again, only a living and breathing genius could have thought up a crocodile live-show. That was one of the coolest things I have ever watched. We have to do this more often.’
‘Don’t have any sleepless nights about that, Blackbird. I will see to it that Hannibal and Aline will always have as much as they can eat.’
*
A week after the opening and stocking of the crocodile pen, and the first human offering, there was the usual convivial pre-dinner gathering in the throne room of the castle.
Samuel Ngewenyama was dancing with the Thai ladyboy who had ultimately been passed down to him by Carl and Johnny. King Johnny was playing strip mah-jong with another ladyboy and a female who was fully equipped by nature rather than by surgery. Johnny set the rules of the mah-jong game, which differed widely from the original Chinese version. Johnny’s two opponents had picked up his linguistic foibles and there was much chatter and giggling over ‘fluckin klongs’ and ‘flucking flowers’.
Carl and one of the other Thai visitors, who was appropriately named Am-Porn, were watching the CNN channel on satellite television. Carl in particular was waiting for the closing prices on the NY Stock Exchange. Am-Porn was seated on his lap, modestly dressed in a high-neck silk cheongsam, but the tight skirt was rucked up as high as her belly button. Below that it was abundantly apparent that she was not a ladyboy. Carl was passing the time before the news reports by idly exploring this exposed area.
On the TV screen the CNN anchorman began reading the news. Suddenly Carl leapt to his feet, depositing Am-Porn on the Persian carpet as he snatched up the remote control and pointed it at the TV set and boosted the volume. The voice of the anchorman boomed through the throne room.
‘The gruesome murder of Cayla Bannock is reminiscent of the 1974 horror movie The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The head of the decapitated girl was sent to her mother by the killer.’ A series of photographs of the lovely blonde Cayla flashed on the screen. In one she was riding a thoroughbred Arab stallion and in another she was dressed in an evening gown for her high school prom.
‘The girl’s mother is Mrs Hazel Bannock, the widow of the oil magnate Henry Bannock. She has succeeded her husband as the CEO of the Bannock Oil Corporation. Mrs Hazel Bannock is reputed to be one of the ten richest women in the world.’
Johnny jumped up from the mah-jong table and came to join Carl in front of the TV. They switched from channel to channel and found the story was being carried right across the American continent, but hard facts were limited and all the TV stations were relying heavily on their archives for fillers.
‘There is only one thing that is certain,’ Carl said as he switched off the TV. ‘And there is only one thing that is important.’
‘What is that, white boy?’
‘That the bitch is dead.’
‘They’ve got her head to prove it.’ Johnny guffawed and flung one massive arm around Carl’s shoulders. ‘Congratulations, Carl baby. Only one more bitch to go down and all that sweet green lettuce is going to be yours.’
‘You are talking about Hazel Bannock here,’ Carl agreed. ‘I think it’s time for you to call in your boyfriend Aleutian Brown again.’
‘I wonder what it’s going to feel like screwing a billionaire?’ Johnny pondered the question.
*
Hector read to the bottom of the last page of ‘The Poisoned Seed’ on the screen of his computer. Then he rocked back in his chair and shook his head, as if to clear it. It was a long way back from the riotous and bizarre halls of Kazundu Castle to his civilized and urbane study in The Cross Roads.
He glanced at his wristwatch and grimaced with disbelief. Then he checked the time on the screen of his computer.
‘Good God! Where did the day go?’ It was after four o’clock in the afternoon. He reached for the phone and dialled Jo’s number.
She answered on the second ring. ‘So, you finally remembered that I exist. How very nice of you, Hector Cross,’ she said. ‘I have been waiting on the edge of my seat for you to call.’
‘Forgive me, Jo. I am an utter bastard.’
‘I defer to your superior knowledge on that subject.’ But there were undercurrents of laughter in her tone. ‘Has anything interesting happened since we met so long ago?’
‘I read a book,’ he said.
‘Your first, no doubt?’
‘Who is being wicked now? Shall we call a truce?’
‘Okay,’ she agreed. ‘How was the book?’
‘Stunning! Absolutely riveting. I have to see you immediately, if not sooner, to discuss it with you. Where are you, Jo?’
‘Sitting all forsaken and forlorn in the lobby of the Dorchester Hotel. My business lunch broke up earlier than I expected.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you just grab a cab and come here?’
‘I don’t know the address. I was thinking about other things when you took me there yesterday.’
‘Don’t go anywhere. I am coming to fetch you. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
She came dancing down the hotel entrance steps as he drew up in the Bentley at the kerb. She was dressed in a dark business suit, and mink bunny jacket. He jumped out to open the passenger door for her, but she came directly to him and offered her cheek for him to kiss. Her cheek was silky and warm. She ducked into the front seat of the Bentley and her skirts pulled up well above the knee. She saw the direction of his gaze and she smoothed them down. Her expression was inscrutable.
He took the wheel and as he pulled out into Park Lane he said, �
��If I told you that I missed you, it would be a lie, because you have been with me since early this morning.’
‘I have got your attention then, have I?’
‘My sweet Lord, Jo, you have written some tough stuff in there. A lot of it’s enough to turn the strongest stomach.’
‘That is why I could not bring myself to tell you. It was enough to write down the words, let alone to speak them to your face.’
‘Still and all, I have a few questions,’ he said, and she turned in her seat towards him.
‘I would be very worried if you didn’t.’
‘When I say a few questions, I mean plenty of questions.’
‘I’m not planning on going anywhere soon. I’m yours for as long as you need me.’
‘That may be longer than you anticipate.’
Her eyes softened, and she smiled. ‘Must you read a double meaning into everything I say? Ask your questions, mister, and try to be serious.’
‘First question: is what you wrote the truth?’
‘Yes. It’s absolutely true.’
‘But how did you gather so much detail?’
‘Both Henry Bannock and his daughter Bryoni were avid diarists. I suppose Bryoni learned from her daddy. I have access to all their diaries. These are detailed descriptions of their lives. I know everything and I have written it all down for you.’
‘But, how did you get hold of the diaries?’
‘When both Henry and Bryoni died your wife, Hazel, went through all their belongings. She picked out all the valuable and very sensitive material, including their diaries, and asked Ronnie Bunter to seal it all in the Bunter and Theobald archives. Ronnie and I unsealed it. Reading it was like speaking directly to the dead. I found it a terribly moving experience.’ Hector shook his head in wonder, and Jo went on speaking. ‘Of course, that was not my only source of information. I had all the accumulated records of the trust open to me; all Henry’s letters and emails, not to mention all correspondence with the beneficiaries.’
‘Carl Bannock? Did you actually meet him just as you wrote in The Poisoned Seed?’
‘Yes; I had that dubious pleasure.’
Hector laughed. ‘So you were on the inside track when it came to describing him.’
‘I also have a raft of his photographs from elementary school days right up to the present time. I know the exact amount of every payment he received from the trust. I have copies of all his correspondence and records of all his meetings with the trustees, and the records of his trial; all of it and more.’
‘What about Johnny Congo?’
‘That is him in real life, just as I described him. I have his military records and the court records of his trial and conviction for multiple murders. Most of it is on those flash drives I gave you yesterday.’
A scarlet Maserati with Saudi registration plates changed traffic lanes abruptly in front of them, and forced Hector to brake sharply.
‘I suggest that you should concentrate on the traffic until we get back to your home, Hector.’
‘Excellent advice,’ Hector conceded.
Hector parked in his exclusive slot at the front door of The Cross Roads, and let them in with his own key before Stephen could get up from the basement.
‘We are going to be in the study for a while,’ he told the butler. ‘Make sure we are not interrupted. Not even a phone call, please.’
As soon as Hector ushered her into his study Jo’s eyes went to the wall facing his desk. She came up short, staring at the wall. He bumped into her from behind, but placed his hands on her hips to steady her.
‘What is it, Jo?’
‘You have changed the painting,’ she said in a small voice. The summer portrait of Hazel in the wheat field was gone. In its place there hung a colourful David Hockney landscape of the English countryside.
‘Don’t you like it? Unlike the Gauguin you noticed downstairs, this is an original.’
‘Hazel has gone?’
‘Yes, Hazel has gone. I had a lot of resistance from Stephen. He didn’t want to do it.’
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why did you change it?’
‘Let me take your jacket.’ He slipped the mink off her shoulders and led her to a chair. ‘Make yourself comfortable while I get us some coffee. Then I will explain to you why I did it.’
He placed the coffee cup in front of her, but she did not touch it. He went to his seat and sat facing her. He lifted his own cup halfway to his lips and then replaced it on the saucer without tasting it. He interlocked his fingers and leaned back in his swivel chair, touching his chin with his thumbs.
‘Hazel left me a posthumous letter,’ he said and she nodded without taking her eyes off his. ‘It was a long letter but the last paragraph was the one that was the most poignant.’ His voice broke slightly and he coughed to clear his throat before he went on. ‘I remember every word of it by heart. I want to tell it to you, because it affects us directly. May I recite it to you, Jo?’
She nodded slowly. ‘If you feel you would like to,’ she agreed.
‘This is what Hazel wrote. “Do not pine too long over my departure. Remember me with joy, but find yourself another companion. A man like you was never designed to live like a monk. However, make sure she is a good woman, or else I will come back and haunt her.’”
She said nothing, but she went on staring at him. Then her expression softened and she began to weep silently. ‘My poor Hector,’ she whispered. Still without lowering her gaze she opened the handbag in her lap and took out a Kleenex tissue; she dabbed at her eyes.
‘Please don’t pity me, Jo,’ he said. ‘I have done enough of that on my own account. I have passed through the valley of the shadow, and now I am coming out into the sunshine again; back into the happy land of laughter and love. I have Catherine Cayla and now I have found…’
She raised her hand to stop him. ‘Please, Hector. I need a few minutes alone. I look a mess when I cry. Please let me go to the bathroom to fix my make-up.’ He jumped to his feet solicitously and came to her, but she smiled at him through the tears.
‘I know my way around here,’ she said. ‘Drink your coffee and I will be back presently.’
*
When she returned she had fully recovered her composure. ‘I am so sorry for that performance, Hector,’ she told him. ‘Female histrionics is the very last thing you need now. I promise that it won’t happen again.’
‘Don’t apologize, Jo. It is proof that you are the lovely caring person I judged you to be.’
‘Stop,’ she said. ‘You’ll start me off again, blubbering all over the place. We were talking about Johnny Congo. We can come back to this other subject later.’
‘Very well. I agree both of us need to calm down a little before one of us says something they may regret. Johnny Congo it shall be. My last question was “How do you know so much detail about him?’”
‘My reply was that I have a huge amount of documentation on him from his military records to his court and prison records.’
‘I accept that, Jo. But here in “The Poisoned Seed” you have given us his direct speech. I am going to play the Devil’s advocate now. The language you have put into Johnny’s mouth seems very mild and proper for somebody like that.’
‘That’s very perceptive of you, Hector.’ Jo dropped her eyes from his. ‘I could not bring myself to write down his exact words. He has the filthiest mouth I have ever conceived of. Almost every sentence that he utters includes the four-letter copulatory expletive. Of course the overutilization of that sort of language is the hallmark of a limited vocabulary and a stunted intelligence. Ronnie and I have hours of tape recordings of Johnny and Carl in conversation with each other. That is how they speak to each other. After a very short time it loses its shock effect and becomes trivial and boring. But I could not bring myself to include it, not even to portray Johnny Congo’s character more accurately,’ Jo replied. ‘I simply edited it out. I don’t think it changed the sense and meaning in the least.�
��
‘No, I don’t accept that without further explanation. Where did you and Ronnie get all these tape recordings from?’
‘This is why I wanted to write it all down in chronological order. It’s such a complicated story that I don’t want to chop and change backwards and forwards trying to explain and justify myself and my story. It will only make it all more confused and difficult to understand. I want to present it in a logical sequence.’
‘Okay. I will try and restrain myself.’
‘Before we deal with the provenance of the recordings, I want to tell you what else I have for you. I have all the floor plans and architectural drawings of the interior of the Kazundian castle on the hill. I think you might find them useful, for finding your way around if you ever get inside.’
He stared at her for a moment in astonishment. ‘Good Lord; where did you get your hands on all this…’ He broke off in mid-sentence. ‘You already told me in your story; the architect from Houston, what’s his name? Andrew Moorcroft, wasn’t he? You must have had a reason for including his name so early in the story.’
‘Full marks!’ Jo applauded him. ‘Go to the top of the class. Andrew is a friend of Ronnie Bunter. They were classmates at Harvard. They drifted apart but they met up again at the memorial service for your lovely wife Hazel in the Presbyterian Church in Houston. The two of them picked up their friendship again and were discussing events that had taken place in the interim. Andrew knew Ronnie was the trustee of the Bannock Trust and so he casually mentioned the work he had done for Carl Bannock in Africa. He took it for granted that Ronnie would know all about it, but of course Ronnie jumped on it, and asked for all the details. Andrew was able to give him copies of all his plans of the castle on the hill in Kazundu.’
‘Now it all starts to make sense,’ Hector conceded. ‘That explains how you got your hands on the architect’s drawings, but what about the voice recordings of Carl and Johnny Congo that you spoke of?’
‘That was also with Andrew Moorcroft’s assistance,’ Jo explained. ‘Apparently Carl had asked Andrew for a recommendation; somebody to install his electronics. Andrew told him about Emma Purdom and her team who are based in Texas. Emma is an electronics whizz-kid. Carl went along with Andrew’s recommendation and employed Emma; and she took her team out to Kazundu. She installed all the communications and surveillance in the castle. However, Carl treated Emma badly. He swindled her out of several hundred thousand dollars. Like many acknowledged geniuses, Carl can sometimes be really stupid. Emma is not a good person to cheat. When Ronnie and I approached her she was delighted to help us out. It was a breeze for her, while sitting in her workshop in Houston, to hack into her own bugs in Kazundu. She downloaded Carl’s tapes for us, all of them from the first to the last.’