Ivory (29 page)

Alex did as he was told. Fortunately his nine-millimetre was under the seat, out of sight, though even the most cursory search would find his unlicensed pistol.

‘You're from Mozambique. What are you doing here?' the policeman asked.

Alex decided it was one of those occasions where the truth was the best defence. ‘I'm a friend of the people who live in that house.' He gestured with his thumb and even that small movement made the jumpy cop with the shotgun raise his weapon a fraction. ‘I'm here on business. Is Lisa Novak all right?'

‘How do you know her?'

There were too many cops here for it to be good news. He felt the dread creeping up his spine, and turning it cold. ‘I work with her husband in Mozambique. Have you contacted him yet?'

‘Passport,' the cop said in reply.

Alex held his slow-burning anger in check. He reached into the car, slowly, and retrieved his Mozambican passport from the glove compartment. The policeman took it from him without a thankyou, and flipped through the pages.

‘Mister Alexandre Silva Tremain. You only arrived yesterday, through the Kruger Park.' His eyes widened, as if the fact surprised him.

‘Yes. What about it?'

The policeman ignored his retort. He closed the passport, handed it back and his whole body seemed to slump a little. It was as if he was preparing to undertake a chore he had done many times before, but regretted on each occasion. ‘I'm sorry to tell you, Mister Tremain, that Lisa Novak is in hospital in a critical condition, in a coma. Her maid is dead. Both were shot by intruders.'

Alex said a silent prayer for Lisa and the other woman, and for his friend, Mark.

‘Can you contact her husband for us? We've been looking for a number in her personal things, but there doesn't seem to be a trace of it in her cell phone or diary.'

Alex knew why. The satellite phone number on the island was a
closely guarded secret. If the cops had it, and they suspected anyone on the island of being involved in piracy, there were international agencies who could trace and monitor calls. There was no getting around it now though. The number would have to be compromised and a new phone and subscription paid for.

‘We work on an island. I'm developing a resort and Mark – we mostly just call him Novak – is employed by me as a diving instructor. The only way to contact him is by satellite phone. I have the number. His wife would have memorised it.'

The policeman looked hard at Alex, as though he were assessing every word. ‘Come inside with us. The detectives will probably want to talk to you, and they can call Mister Novak.'

‘If it's all right with you, I'd like to call him and give him the news myself.'

‘
Ja
. OK. It's a free country so I can't stop you telling him. But the detectives will want to talk to him as well.'

Alex followed the two uniformed policemen through the gates, which were opened electronically by someone inside the house. He saw the dried blood.

The overweight policeman spoke in Afrikaans to a man in a golf shirt and jeans, with a Z88 on his hip and a detective's badge on a silver chain around his neck. Alex was fluent in the language and knew the cop was explaining what he was about to do.

‘Go right ahead, Mister Tremain, and make your call. I'm Detective Jac le Roux.'

They shook hands and while Alex waited for the call to connect he said, ‘Was it a robbery?'

Detective Le Roux frowned. ‘We don't usually give out information about a crime to complete strangers, but . . .
ja
it looks that way. Place has been tossed. Looks like Mrs Novak's purse and handbag were emptied, but nothing else seems to be missing.'

‘Was either woman sexually assaulted?'

‘Too early to tell for sure – that'll be up to the doctor to determine – but from what we could see, no.'

Henri answered the phone and Alex cut him short. ‘Where's Novak?' Alex nodded a couple of times, put his hand over the mouthpiece of his mobile phone and said to Le Roux, ‘He's busy refilling his diving tanks now. One of the other guys has gone to fetch him.'

Alex looked around the Novaks' yard while he waited for Mark. The brand-new Land Cruiser Prado – bought legally, but with the proceeds of crime – was parked in the driveway next to Lisa's year-old Corolla. Both vehicles were common on the roads in South Africa, which made them appealing to car-jackers and thieves. When he looked back at Le Roux, Alex saw the detective had been following his eye line.

‘Why would someone shoot Mrs Novak and her maid for a handful of cash?' Le Roux asked.

Alex shrugged. ‘You're the policeman. You must see violent crimes committed for little reward.'

Le Roux nodded. ‘
Ja
, I've seen people killed for next to nothing, and because the criminals don't want witnesses around, and just because of the colour of their skin. Hate crimes. But whoever did this gained entry and got past the dogs without killing them, murdered one woman and put a bullet in the head of another, picked up their spent cartridges and left without a single neighbour hearing or seeing anything unusual.'

‘Silencers?' Alex said, thinking aloud.

Le Roux nodded. ‘Again, not the mark of your average Jozi
tsotsi
. If they were disturbed by someone, then it wasn't any of the neighbours – we've canvassed them all already. One saw an Eskom van pull into the house around the time we suspect the shooting happened. We're checking with the power company. What other business are you and Mister Novak involved in apart from tourism and diving?'

‘Nothing.' Alex held up a hand to the detective. ‘Mark? I've got some bad news, man . . .'

J
ane looked at the picture on the boardroom table and felt her heart stop.

Alex's face stared out at her, along with those of Henri, Jose, Novak, Heinrich, Kevin, Kufa, three women she didn't recognise, and the despicable Mitch Reardon. Novak had his arm around one of the women and Jane supposed it was his wife, whom she'd heard mention of while on the island, but whose name she couldn't remember.

‘You've seen them before,' George said.

They had started negotiations with the managing director and senior executives of De Witt Shipping, the company George had travelled to South Africa to buy. A break had been called and George had asked the rest of his team – Howard from security; his human resources manager, Penny; and chief financial officer, Robert – to give him some time alone with Jane.

He'd taken the picture from his briefcase and laid it on the table without saying anything. She looked up at him. ‘Yes.'

‘I have every reason to believe that the men in this picture are the ones who hijacked the
Penfold Son
and kidnapped you, Jane.'

‘I was . . . I escaped, George. I told you, these are the men who rescued me from the lifeboat.'

George slumped back in the reclining leather chair and clasped his fingers behind the back of his head.

Jane was confused. Since agreeing to George's proposal she had been racked with doubts, mostly concerning what she feared was her future husband's possible involvement in illegal activities. He had made no further mention of any parcel being handed over to her by Captain MacGregor and she hadn't volunteered anything about the exchange, or what had really happened on Ilha dos Sonhos. Jane wondered, too, about the timing and suddenness of his proposal. He'd told her he wanted to talk about their future when he arrived in South Africa but she thought he might have made some mention, over the phone, of how things were progressing with his wife first. It seemed odd to Jane that he would have told Elizabeth their marriage was through without even canvassing the idea of marriage with her first. However, while she had doubts about his honesty, she knew she was being equally duplicitous.

Why am I protecting a pirate? she asked herself.

‘Jane, have you ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome?'

‘Don't be so bloody condescending. Of course I have.'

‘Sorry,' he said, without feeling. ‘Then what seems likely is that the pirates – for they are the men in this picture – pretended to be your rescuers. Did they ask you about anything or
for
anything?'

‘What are you talking about?' She looked at her watch. The De Witt people were due back in the boardroom in a few minutes and she was craving the cup of coffee she'd missed out on. ‘No one asked me for anything.'

He sighed and lowered his hands, palm down, to the heavy antique mahogany table. ‘Some property was stolen from the
Penfold Son
.'

‘What?' she asked.

George moistened his lips with his tongue and the gesture reminded Jane of a snake. ‘Valuable property. Taken from the captain's safe.'

‘Illegal property, George? Contraband?'

He leaned back again, and she could tell his reply would be evasive. ‘Captain MacGregor died for the contents of that safe.'

She swallowed. His obtuseness was unnerving, as well as annoying. Her will wasn't as strong as his and she couldn't go on beating about the bush over something so pivotal to their future relationship. ‘What was transferred from the Chinese freighter, the
Peng Cheng
, to the
Penfold Son
on the night before the attack?'

He swivelled in his chair, turning to look at the closed door, as if the De Witt team were about to enter. ‘I don't know anything about any exchange, Jane. What happened?'

‘Igor Putin, the chief engineer, crossed from the
Penfold Son
to the
Peng Cheng
, which had supposedly broken down the night before the pirates attacked. What's going on, George? Tell me.'

George shook his head. ‘All I know is that my biggest ship was attacked and seriously damaged by pirates and I will see those men rot in jail if it's the last thing I do. Property of a significant value was stolen from the safe on the bridge and a good man lost his life trying to protect it. I was merely asking if MacGregor or anyone else on board had perhaps given you something for safekeeping, that's all. I'm sure that if they had, you would have said something by now.'

His exasperation was clear and probably justified. So why did she feel even more strongly compelled to lie to him? ‘No one gave me anything, George.'

He looked at her and she held his gaze, staring straight into the same eyes that had captured her heart just a few hours earlier. They'd been as close as two humans could be, but she felt she knew even less of him than she had before she left England. He refused to break the stare, until the opening door broke the deadlock.

Jane's heart was beating faster as Penny, breaking the silence after they all took their seats, said to Carel de Witt, ‘Perhaps we could look at your staffing profile, with particular reference to Black Economic Empowerment of senior executives.'

Jane wasn't listening, nor even glancing at the man next to her. She was too worried.

*

George tuned out as Penny spoke. He knew how many people De Witt employed, what colour they were, and how much each of them earned. This first round of negotiations was theatre. The crunch would come in a couple of days' time in Cape Town, after he and his team had viewed the company's facilities there and those of the company's vessels that were in port.

For now, he reflected on what Mitch Reardon had told him and what Jane had not.

‘We captured a broad on board,' Mitch had laughed at his own clumsy alliteration. ‘One of your people. A lawyer.' He'd said the last word as though he was talking about an insect he detested. ‘Of course, we asked her if the
Penfold Son
's captain had given her anything, but she said no. Alex searched her stuff but not her, if you know what I mean.'

George had been relieved at Reardon's admission. He thought of Jane's body as belonging to him. However, the gentlemanly conduct revealed a flaw in his pirate adversary's character. The man was soft. This Tremain was a professional military man, according to Reardon, but an amateur criminal. That was good.

‘So she knew that you were really the men who had raided the ship and kidnapped her?' George had asked Mitch.

‘Sure. I mean, it would have been a bit far-fetched for her to believe that she got clean away and we just happened to pick her up, right?'

Jane was too smart to have been duped by the pirates, so why, he pondered now, was she covering up for them? He pretended to cross-reference something Penny had just circled with her laser pointer, on the drop-down screen on which De Witt's interminably boring PowerPoint presentation about staff numbers was being projected. In reality, he was glancing again at the photo printout. He fixed his eyes on the face of Alexandre Tremain and tried to read the man's thoughts and soul.

He supposed the man was handsome, though Reardon had said his leader was partly crippled. A war hero. George silently scoffed. As a merchant seaman he'd probably been in more fights – and won more – than this half-breed dandy had had hot dinners.

George glanced beside him at Jane, who was quite plainly pretending
to watch the screen. Her eyes were fixed too high to be reading the figures and digesting the pie charts. She was in a world of her own, like him. Or was her mind somewhere else – on the white sands of the Ilha dos Sonhos or, worse, in another man's bed?

He clenched his fist, then moved his shaking hand under the table to hide the emotion the thoughts provoked.

No matter what else he was leaving out of his account, Reardon had said plainly that Jane knew Tremain and his men were the pirates who had hijacked the ship she was on. So, if she was lying about her knowledge of this simple fact, was she also lying about the whereabouts of the missing property from MacGregor's safe?

George pondered how to best rid himself of Tremain and his men. If the purchase of the De Witt line proceeded as planned, he would need them scoured from the Mozambican coast for purely economic and security reasons. He'd like to think he could trust the local police or the South African or Mozambican navies to do the job, but he doubted their will and ability. Tremain, according to Reardon, had the local police in his pocket.