Murderous by David Hickson (best ereader for comics .txt) 📕

“They don’t know how long it will be,” said Melissa, and her voice had developed a childlike nasal whine. “Oom Piet,” she called over her shoulder to Piet van Rensburg, who was standing on the other side of Hendrik with his back to us. “Let’s go to the private bar, Oom.” And she made her eyes big and more blue. Oom is the Afrikaans word for uncle, but it is also used as an address of familiar respect. “Please, Oom.”

Oom Piet turned to her, put an arm around her shoulders and surveyed me from sunglasses to leather brogues in a fleeting glance that took only a moment, but was thorough enough for him to determine that I was harmless. Six foot high and four foot wide, Piet van Rensburg seemed like the prototype for Hendrik, but Piet had been handmade, with more attention to the finer detail. The straw blond hair was more delicate and fading to an elegant grey. His face was a little over inflated, it was true, but his eyes sparkled with intelligence, and his features contrived to show an alacrity of mind, determination and a little compassion in contrast to Hendrik’s sulky pugnaciousness.

“What is it you want from your Oom?” he asked Melissa in Afrikaans.

“The private bar,” said Melissa. “We’ve been invited.” And she fluttered her eyelashes and added a little tear duct action so it looked as if she might cry if things did not turn out the way she wanted.

“Freddy,” I said. “Freddy Moss.” And held out my hand. Piet van Rensburg shook it firmly. None of the bravura of Hendrik, and he used his eyes to check mine for inconsistencies as he did it. “Our trip out of here has been delayed as well. They’re not letting anyone out. I was just saying to Hendrik we’ve finished with our meeting. It’s more relaxed there.” A glance at the swelling flock of Japanese who seemed to have arrived at a unanimous decision and were approaching the bar en masse.

“Say yes, Oom,” said Melissa.

“Ag, Pa,” said Hendrik, who probably didn’t care but liked to be obstructive.

“My boss wouldn’t mind at all,” I said. “We’ve wrapped for the day. Nothing to do but wait and enjoy the hospitality.”

“Roelof,” said Van Rensburg, his eyes still on me. The man beside him, who had his back to me, and was still engaged in the conversation we had interrupted, turned about in an instant at the sound of his employer’s voice, like he was made of cardboard and had only two sides.

“Roelof makes all the decisions,” said Van Rensburg, in the way a sociopath likes to trumpet the importance of their minions.

I played my lines again for Roelof, whose cold, grey eyes shone with intelligent suspicion from behind rimless circular spectacles. Not as tall as Van Rensburg, darker hair that was prematurely peppered grey at the temples, and fine features: a narrow mouth, thin and pointed nose. Roelof was the only member of the party wearing a full suit, and it was a herringbone grey, with a quiet blue tie, the middle button fastened. Van Rensburg looked as if he might have started the day in a suit, matching blue pants and jacket, but the jacket swung open giving us an occasional glimpse of the grip of his Beretta 9 mm in its leather shoulder harness, and in place of a tie we were treated to the sight of a heavy gold chain with crucifix dangling over the mat of grey chest hair. Hendrik had missed the wardrobe brief altogether and sported a Springbok rugby blazer over jeans. The blazer bulged ostentatiously over his own Beretta. But nobody would have noticed Hendrik’s poor taste because it was hard to see beyond Melissa, who draped her lissome body in its pale blue silk over Hendrik like an extra piece of clothing. And that was mostly what one saw of what Hendrik was wearing.

Chandler was on his cell phone when we arrived at the private executive meeting room on the second floor of the terminal building. His obsession with detail paid off as the Van Rensburg entourage paused at the door to take in the spectacle. The room was African chic, with wooden giraffes towering over the leather couches, hand-carved bowls for the peanuts, and a table that had been hewn from the trunk of a single Maringa tree. It could accommodate twenty, but the remains of our restrained meeting for three spoke of its exclusivity. An Arturo Fuente wrapper lay beside the smoldering remnants of a cigar that I happened to know was not a Fuente, but you would need to have a fine nose to realise that. Chandler was wearing his hand-stitched taupe Italian suit with waistcoat, and he was seated across from the cigar with an elbow on the table and his other arm gesticulating so we could see the Hublot Tourbillon watch, and platinum fountain pen. He had lowered the venetian blinds behind him so that shafts of weak winter sunlight shone through the cigar smoke and highlighted his close-cropped white hair. One set of blinds had not been lowered because he would need to make his exit and did not want the moment spoilt by fiddling with cords and technical details. Beneath the fountain pen were the documents he’d been working on, and the twisted rectangle of light from the section of glass wall without the blinds pointed to those documents and shone a spotlight onto them, so that all eyes were inevitably guided to them.

Chandler looked up with irritation when I arrived, and for a moment we were all held at the door by the hostility evident in his eyes. Vusi, our exclusive barman, welcomed us from beyond Chandler’s tableau with a smile and an enthusiastic rattle of the cocktail shaker. He had been waiting to shake it for a good twenty minutes because Chandler wouldn’t allow it before now. Chandler was always a little