She also saw it as her opportunity to start questioning him. ‘When will the South African Police Service be given copies of the execution tapes?’
Shuttleworth frowned. ‘They’ll get our analysis of the tapes when I do.’
‘So you don’t have them?’
He sighed. ‘The SAS handed them over to the security service. They have their own state-of-the-art video analysis and forensics people. They’ll do as thorough a job as anyone else.’
Sannie could sense the man’s annoyance, not at her but, as she had guessed, at the fact that a government agency other than the police had grabbed such important evidence and was not sharing it; he had given her the company line and wasn’t happy about it. The police were spinning their wheels in this investigation, and it clearly rankled the Scotsman.
Shuttleworth lifted his chin. ‘How are your people doing with the burned-out vehicle and lists of people who entered the Kruger Park in the days before the abductions?’
Sannie explained that the licence plates on the torched Isuzu belonged to another vehicle. ‘It was a BMW sedan which was car-jacked two days before the abductions. However, the registration number didn’t show up on the lists of vehicles entering the park, which means the gang must have switched plates after entering. The chassis number was traced to the current owner, a Pakistani surgeon living in Pretoria.’
Shuttleworth’s eyes widened at her mention of the doctor’s heritage.
‘Doctor Pervez Khan hasn’t fit the profile of a terrorist suspect so far, though,’ she admitted. ‘We’ve checked him out. Wealthy, single — divorced, actually. A drinker and a bit of a midlife-crisis party boy, from what the detectives investigating him so far have learned.’
‘They’ve questioned him, then?’
‘No. He didn’t show up at his practice two days before Greeves and Joyce were taken. Our missing persons unit already had a file open on him. His business partner reported him gone. Best guess so far is that he was car- jacked and killed. We’ve circulated his photo and a description of the destroyed vehicle to the media, but had no witnesses come forward.’
‘Why would a doctor be driving an old pick-up truck?’
Sannie nodded. She had asked the investigating officers the same thing. Doctor Khan, she explained to Shuttleworth, owned a small holding in the Timbavati private nature reserve, on the border of Kruger, and used the four-wheel drive as a second vehicle for going to his bush retreat. ‘His late-model Mercedes was in for a service at the time he went missing, so he was using his bakkie as a temporary replacement.’
Shuttleworth asked if the police had checked out the doctor’s lodge for signs of recent occupation. ‘The detectives who visited his lodge said there was no sign of any recent vehicle movements, and the caretaker, an elderly African man who lived there with his wife, said the “boss” had not visited for weeks.’
‘Hmm. So we can add the good doctor to our list of victims, then?’
‘I suppose so. Even if he was involved with the gang, he’d be pretty stupid to use his own vehicle, changed plates or not. Also, his name doesn’t show up on the national park’s entry register. In fact, on that day there were no names recorded of people riding in or driving Isuzus that sounded remotely Pakistani.’
‘Are you ready to face the inquiry tomorrow?’ he asked her, changing the subject.
Sannie didn’t know if one could ever truly be ready to go under the spotlight in a parliamentary inquiry, but she had resolved that all she could do was truthfully answer any question put to her, and she told Shuttleworth as much.
‘You spent quite a bit of time with Tom Furey in Africa.’
‘What’s that got to do with me giving evidence?’
‘It’s not looking good for him, you know.’
She’d gathered as much from the newspaper reports, and from what Tom had told her himself. ‘I won’t be lying or omitting evidence, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’ She had had enough of the glum-faced, bloodless creature across the desk from her. Tom would be well rid of him.
Outside, the gloomy weather matched her mood as she walked alongside the drab choppy waters of the Thames. It might have been beautiful on a sunny day, but even though it was only early afternoon the sky was the colour of elephant hide.
Crossing the river on Lambeth Bridge she had a good view of the Palace of Westminster, the seat of the British parliament, and the tower of Big Ben, which stood like a burly guardsman on sentry duty over the historic building.
When she crossed the bridge she saw two policemen standing on the corner of Horseferry Road. One had a Glock, with spare magazines in pouches wrapped around his thigh, while the other carried a Heckler amp; Koch MP-5, nine-millimetre submachine gun. Coming from Johannesburg, she was used to seeing police with guns — even security guards in her country carried semiautomatic assault rifles — but she knew that in England it was a fairly recent phenomenon. She wondered if the pale-faced, bundled-up people who strode determinedly past her were reassured or concerned by the presence of the armed officer.
She made her way, by dead reckoning, through the back streets of Westminster, out of sight of the river, towards Parliament. In a lane called Strutton Ground she stumbled on a small street market, the wares encased in clear plastic sheeting. Behind the rain-beaded covers, one stall appeared before her, like an oasis in the desert. Overcoats!
‘Hello, my love, can I help you?’ a middle-aged man wearing two fleeces and a windcheater asked her, rubbing his gloved hands together in anticipation.
The coats were not great quality but looked deliciously warm. Sannie tried on a couple before settling on a mock-tweed garment that was nipped fashionably at the waist and came to her knees. The cardboard sign on the rack said thirty pounds. She did a quick mental calculation and decided it was not a good idea to convert British prices into South African rand. Thirty sounded much better than three hundred and thirty and, besides, now that she felt a glimmer of warmth returning to her body, there was no way she was going to take the jacket off.
As she walked, the one hundred per cent artificial fibres started doing their job and she even managed to smile, unlike most of the grim-faced Londoners who motored on through the rain around her.
On the Broadway, where Tom said it would be, was New Scotland Yard. The revolving sign in front of the police building — which, again, she recognised from movies and TV programs — was smaller than she expected. Armed police guarded the entrance, behind crash barriers which she presumed were designed to stop car bombers.
Sannie continued on and the Houses of Parliament appeared in front of her as she rounded a corner, looming large like a fairytale palace, some gold trimming breaking the monotone. She would see the inside of the workings of British democracy soon enough, and for now she veered off to the left of the buildings, following the directions Tom had given her to St Stephen’s Tavern.
He was waiting for her at a small booth in the far corner, and stood and waved to her when she walked in. The warmth was welcoming after her chilly walk, even if the place did smell of stale beer, wet clothes and musty body odour. Tom offered to buy her a drink and she asked for a gin and tonic.
‘A reminder of Africa,’ he said, placing the tall dewy glass in front of her.
‘Cheers. After meeting your boss I wish I’d never left. When did they exhume him?’
Tom laughed. ‘Shuttleworth’s not a bad guy when you get to know him. He’s a pragmatist, though, and he knows a scalp’s needed in order for the government to get past all this. Unfortunately, it has to be mine.’
She stirred her drink and looked around her. With its high ceiling and stained-glass windows, the pub could have been part of a palace as well. ‘You’re sounding remarkably upbeat, all things considered.’
He shrugged and sipped his lager. ‘I cocked up, Sannie, there’s no two ways about it.’
She was curious as to why he no longer seemed to care about his career but was also showing no sign of letting the investigation rest. ‘So, what were you doing while I was getting the Scottish inquisition?’
Tom told her he’d been to an internet cafe and had found more reports about Greeves, his career and his frequent trips to Africa. ‘Have you ever been to Malawi?’
Sannie shook her head. ‘It’s somewhere we — I — always wanted to go. Funny, it’s still hard for me to think of myself as a singular rather than a plural.’
‘I know how you feel — although Mr and Mrs Greeves certainly didn’t have that problem.’
‘I’d like to take my kids to Malawi as well. They say the lake is gorgeous and it’d be a fun trip up through
