Sannie’s happy family life, he found that he was itching to get on his way.
‘You’re distant,’ she said to him as they sat alone by the evening campfire. On Saturday night there was a wildlife documentary video screening at Pretoriuskop camp’s open-air cinema, and Elise had taken the kids so Sannie could have some private time with Tom. Hyenas whooped and cackled in the distance, but the noise was on the big screen.
He nodded.
‘Are you going to tell me or not?’
He looked at her. Every new angle, every nuance of the day’s lighting, seemed to reveal more of her beauty to him. Bathed in the orange glow of the fire it seemed as if the warmth he felt radiated from within her rather than from the smouldering coals. Part of him wanted just to hold her and let his body dissolve into hers.
She persisted through his silence, her exasperation rising. ‘Look, think of me. I’m still on the fringes of the investigation. If you’ve got a new lead, then tell me! I’ll give you a head start on this wild-goose chase you’re on, but if you find them you’ll need back-up. I can’t get a team of recce commandos to you with fifteen minutes’ notice, you know. What do you know about these terrorists that we don’t, Tom, that the British government doesn’t?’
‘If I find out anything new, I’ll call you,’ was all he said. He didn’t want her with him. He didn’t want to get her excited. He didn’t want her actions, no matter how well intentioned, to tip off his prey. For all those reasons, and for her protection and the future of her kids, he couldn’t tell her anything.
‘There’s no point risking your life on a private vendetta, Tom. The man you were sent to protect is buried in some unmarked grave in Mozambique. Even if you find the killers, it won’t bring Greeves back, or even resurrect your career. You must know that! Get it through your head, Tom — the man is dead!’
Tom’s face betrayed nothing — certainly not the one thing he was completely and utterly sure of.
Robert Greeves was still alive.
27
Tom eased his way into Africa.
Kruger was a National Geographic channel idyll of wildlife and scenery. He travelled north, leaving Sannie and her family behind to pack up and head back to Johannesburg. His mood altered with the changing landscape.
The south of the park was characterised by thick, dense bush, and plenty of humans on the road, in private cars and open-top safari vehicles. He was irritable as he inched around a traffic jam parked beside a rhino, but he realised part of the source of his frustration was leaving Sannie behind. Also, little Christo and Ilana had plainly been disappointed at his departure. He felt bad about having raised their expectations that there would be a new man around the house. He’d wondered what it would be like becoming a stepfather. It might have scared him if the kids hadn’t been so much fun and so well behaved — they were a credit to Sannie and the father they’d known so briefly. He pushed the thoughts of parenthood from his mind.
As he moved north, both the bush and the crowds thinned. Open grasslands replaced the long grass and thornbushes of the southern part of the park. He was gradually leaving what passed for civilisation, with all its attendant responsibilities, rules and commitments. For the first time in twenty years he was accountable to no one except himself. He missed Sannie, but he was free, too, to concentrate on the mission ahead.
He stopped at Satara camp, in the middle of the park, and camped near the perimeter fence. A trio of old male buffalos settled down to sleep just on the other side of the wire. Tom wondered if they thought they would be safer there, close to the camp. In the distance a lion lullabied him to sleep. He was getting more used to Africa by the day.
The next morning he rose early, but not to go in search of wild animals. He took the sealed road west from Satara to another of Kruger’s gates, Orpen. He checked his map of the park, which also included the private game reserves adjoining the national park. Wealthy South Africans had bought up land on the border of the public park during the apartheid years and developed a network of private reserves, run along similar lines to the national park but for personal gain. In the past, a fence had separated public from private land, but this had come down in recent years, allowing animals to migrate freely from Kruger into these adjoining lands. Some of the properties had been developed commercially, with lodges charging premium rates for foreign visitors to experience a luxury safari, while other tracts were held by individuals for their private use at weekends and holidays.
He passed a township called Acornhoek, then turned on to a dirt road which took him deeper into the private reserves. Eventually, he came to the entrance to the Timbavati private game reserve, which resembled one of the gates into Kruger. Timbavati had its own rangers, turned out in smart, pressed uniforms; its own rules; and its own entry fees. He paid his money, explaining that he was heading for Doctor Khan’s property, and that he was an invited guest. This was a lie, but the security guard didn’t question him. He also asked for directions to the late doctor’s property — which still didn’t arouse the man’s suspicion — saying that while he had permission to visit he had never been there before.
Tom passed an open-top Land Rover game viewer and waved to the driver and his tourists. He followed signs on stone cairns and turned off the main road through the reserve, to the left. According to the guard, Doctor Khan’s place was six and a half kilometres further along.
He set the trip meter and came to an unmarked turn-off guarded by a lone bull elephant who was using his broad forehead to push over a stout-looking tree. Sannie had told Tom that elephants did that to feed on the roots and, sometimes, just to get at some leaves that would otherwise have been out of reach. He had no time to watch the mighty creature, so he geared down and continued along the deteriorating track. He put the Land Rover into low-range four-wheel drive to negotiate a dried-out sandy river crossing and planted the accelerator to climb up the steep opposing bank.
The lodge, when at last it came into view, was simple but stylish. Thatch roof, single storey, with whitewashed walls, rendered and painted a tan brown. There was also a thatched outdoor dining and bar area, with no walls on three sides, overlooking a small pumped waterhole on the other side of the river — presumably the same one he had just crossed. A sole buffalo was drinking from the concrete pond. Tom stopped the Land Rover and got out, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs and feel a cool breeze on the damp back of his shirt. The airconditioning in the Land Rover either hadn’t been gassed for years or wasn’t working.
‘Hello?’ He walked to the shady lounge area and looked around. There was no dust on the two tables or the wooden bar top. A glass-door fridge, secured with a chain and padlock, held a wide selection of beers and wine. Behind metal grilles in a cupboard over the bar was an equally impressive selection of spirits, including some expensive single malt Scotches. On the wall on either side of the drinks cabinets were photos set in tasteful, though rustic, wooden frames. There were shots of all of the big five — lion, elephant, rhino, leopard and buffalo; a picture of a swarthy but dapper-looking man Tom took to be Doctor Khan kneeling beside a dead buffalo and resting on a hunting rifle; and another of the sun setting over a glassy body of water. The sunset was framed by a latticed arch, dripping with bougainvillea, which led the way to a narrow strip of white sand.
‘Morning, sir, can I help you?’ An elderly black man appeared from behind the house. He wore blue overalls and wiped his hands on them as he walked over.
Tom turned from the photographs and pulled his wallet out of his shorts. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Tom Furey, from the London Metropolitan Police. I’m here in relation to the disappearance of Doctor Khan.’
‘You are from East London?’ the man asked.
Tom had heard of the town on South Africa’s coast. ‘No, from England.’
‘Police have been here already, sir.’ The caretaker looked Tom up and down.
Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt and driving a camping vehicle with a tent on the roof, he hardly looked like an investigating detective. Tom decided to keep talking and bluffing. ‘I’m working with the South African police on this case and they have asked me to check your records and guest book to see who’s been staying here recently.’
‘The doctor, he kept all the books at his house, in Jo’burg, sir. Police would have seen all of those?’
‘Of course.’ Tom strode across to the bar. ‘But the guest book… where is it?’
‘Doctor Khan, he always said not to talk to anyone about his friends — his guests, sir.’
Tom turned on the man. ‘What’s your name?’ He took his notebook and pen from the pocket of his shorts.
‘Amos, sir.’
