They fired for six seconds, then broke off the spent magazines and snapped in three fresh ones from the side-pockets of their jackets. One of them fired a final, deliberate burst at the corner where Mr Fielding’s head was lolling back against the curtains, his spectacles perched crookedly on the tip of his nose. The bullets hit him in the mouth and throat: his face split open and his head bounced forward on to the table with a clonk like a hollow coconut, upsetting his glass of vin rosé.
Then everything was quiet. From the hi-fi above the door came murmurings from Funny Girl. There was a short choking sound; something slithered sideways and a chair scraped back; a glass rolled off a table and shattered on the floor.
One of the two men had appeared from the bar, still carrying his pistol at his side. He nodded at the other three, and began to walk between the tables, noting that the fire had been accurate and economical. Only three windowpanes had been broken, together with a few glasses, a jug of water, and a bottle of HP sauce which had splashed messily over Mr Prentice’s bald head. Most of the victims had been shot in the chest or head; and at least three, including the twelve-year-old boy, had taken a bullet between the eyes.
The man with the pistol found it necessary to give only two coups de grâce — to John Campbell’s friend who was still stirring by the wall, and to Janice Campbell who suddenly moaned through a spew of vomit under the table where her husband had pushed her down when the shooting started. The man dispatched each of them with a single shot through the base of the skull.
Meanwhile, more firing had broken out at the back of the hotel, where the cook, the rest of the waiters and the boys had run out on to the lawn, screaming with terror as they were gunned down rhythmically by three more men who were waiting under the trees.
The original five, from the bar and dining-room, now separated — one taking the kitchen, another two the servants’ quarters, and the first two from the bar making for the stairs. They moved quickly, but without haste, each taking one wall of bedroom doors. Hillcrest was not the sort of hotel where guests kept their rooms locked. All were empty except one. Here the door had been left ajar. One of the gunmen pushed it open with his foot and a child’s voice murmured, ‘Mummy! Daddy, Mummy!’ In the spear of light the man could distinguish two small blond heads staring from above the counterpanes of the twin beds. He paused, then stepped quickly back and closed the door. As he did so, his companion appeared beside him.
‘All clear?’
The first man nodded and started back down the corridor, when there came a muffled cry from behind them: ‘Mummy! Daddy!’
Both men stopped. The first one glanced back at the door and shrugged. ‘Just a couple o’ kids,’ he said.
‘Kids be damned,’ said the other. He walked back and threw open the door.
‘Daddy!’ both voices cried together, and the man held the door open with one hand and with the other fired two rapid shots, then drew back and closed the door.
The shooting outside the hotel had stopped. Both men walked back without speaking, down the stairs and out on to the forecourt, where they re-joined their companions who were moving among the rows of cars parked under the wall of the hotel. Two gunmen were distributing wallets, driving licences, identity cards and car keys from the pockets of the dead guests, while the others were systematically testing to find which key fitted which car. Five minutes later the first car in a convoy of five — an old Ford Cortina with city-plates backed out into the drive, swung round, and with dipped lights, headed slowly down towards the valley. The others followed at intervals of one minute.
Behind them, Hillcrest Hotel lay lit up and silent.
The day broke hot and heavy, with storm clouds collecting over Inyanga where the mountains rolled back across the border into Mozambique.
Down in Umtali, on the broad bed of the valley, the dust was being patted down by the first gobs of rain. At every intersection stood a pair of mixed police — the African with solar topee and truncheon, the European with peaked cap and holstered automatic. Outside Police Headquarters a continuous relay of white Land Rovers had been coming and going since dawn. Smart young officers in khaki shorts and knee-socks hurried up and down the porch steps, saluting the African constables with their canes. Later, auxiliary police and special frontier troops began arriving with rifles and light machine-guns; helicopters rattled above the hills; and shortly before noon two armoured cars drove through the town.
The news of this latest atrocity had broken just before midnight, when two late arrivals at Hillcrest — a tobacco planter and his wife from Gwelo, whose car had broken down in the Bush — had turned up at the hotel to find not a single person, European or African, alive. The husband had driven down to Umtali and reported to the police, while his wife was treated at the hospital for shock.
In less than an hour a full state of emergency had been declared on both sides of the border. Road-blocks had been set up as far away as the outskirts of Salisbury, Bulawayo, Fort Victoria and along the Mozambique frontier. Tracker-dogs, native scouts and several thousand Security troops had
