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

“That man’s accent was South African; he wasn’t Mozambican.”

“South African scumbags then.”

Hendrik gave a scoffing laugh. There was no indication that he was feeling the least contrite.

“They were looking for a stolen vehicle,” said Roelof, and his circular spectacles glinted. It occurred to me that Hendrik and Roelof had spent the night working out how to shift the blame. And now he was shifting it.

“That was just their sales pitch,” I said. “They knew we were up to something and wanted a slice of the pie.”

“You set it up, didn’t you?” said Roelof.

“Set what up?”

“They were your people. You set it up so we wouldn’t see that there are no weapons under those crates.”

“You saw a box of weapons,” I pointed out.

“One box,” said Roelof. “That’s all there is, isn’t it? I knew there was something about you I didn’t trust.” He turned to Piet, who was looking confused. “Didn’t I tell you, boss? That man Freddy is not to be trusted, I said. I knew it, from the beginning.”

“I knew it too,” blurted Hendrik. “I knew he couldn’t be trusted. I always knew it.”

“Nevertheless,” I said. “Your lions sailed this morning. Along with your weapons, even if there is only one box. They will arrive as planned. We have the offloading in Cape Town arranged. Everything will go ahead.”

“We will do the offloading,” said Roelof. “Our business with you is done.”

Before I could say anything, a voice spoke from behind me. The voice of my dead friend Brian.

“If you’re ready,” the voice said, “we’re full of fuel and raring to go, sir.”

I didn’t turn around to face the jet pilot from Knaresborough. If he recognised me from my visit to the Van Rensburg farm, he could provide the final seal on their distrust. I kept my back to the pilot and my eyes forward. The Van Rensburgs gathered their bags and pushed past me. Beyond the double-glazed windows of the lounge an airbus provided a distraction as it came to a halt at the gate. The pilot cut the engines, deepening the silence.

But the Van Rensburgs had not left the room. Piet’s voice called out from the door of the lounge.

“Mr Moss,” he called. “If you have deceived us in any way, you will pay the price.”

I left it as long as I dared, but then turned to face them.

Piet continued, “We are a proud people. What others do to us comes back tenfold. You should know that. What you have done will come back to harm you and those you care about.”

I considered that to be excellent advice that he should have given his son, but was beginning to understand the twisted way the Van Rensburg family operated. Blame was diverted, and it was by no means a superficial reallocation of blame. There was a deep conviction to it.

Their pilot was still standing with them at the door. I saw the moment of recognition in his eyes, and a frown appeared on his face. It seemed very likely that he would provide the closing arguments in the case against me.

Piet turned and walked out of the room before I had the chance to respond to his wisdom. The others followed in single file.

“Who is that?” the pilot asked.

“Nobody,” said Roelof. “He’s nobody.”

Robyn drove us down the coast to the White Pearl resort. She drove as she always did: too fast, but with the quiet confidence of complete control.

“What do you mean by timing?” she asked.

“That pilot saw me a few days after the church killings, before our first meeting with the Van Rensburgs.”

“When you were snooping around for your bureaucrats?”

“I knew it would come back and bite me. Chandler is right, we’re just a bunch of amateurs.”

“Stop blaming yourself,” she said. “It’s indulgent, you know it is.”

We continued in silence for a few minutes and I marvelled at the return of the strong, confident woman I loved. Robyn had not had a drink in four days. Perhaps this time we could break the cycle.

“The army might work on the basis of assigning blame,” said Robyn suddenly. “Accepting responsibility and punishing the culprit, but we don’t. We all make mistakes, but we don’t sit around crying about it. We get back on our feet and try again.”

“It might be hard to get back on our feet if that pilot speaks. Our gold will have a reception committee waiting for it in Cape Town.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

“We’d lose it. Of course that would be a bad thing.”

Robyn turned to me again, her dark eyes alive.

“Would it?” she said. “You know what I think, Ben? Losing the gold might just be the best thing that could happen to us. That gold is cursed. That’s what I think.”

Chandler took the news of the jet pilot who might have recognised me with calm stoicism. He nodded three times and then turned to look at the sea as if he could find an answer there. We were sitting on the balcony of our private bungalow at the White Pearl. Through the glass panel railing we could see the deserted stretch of white sandy beach. Chandler gazed out to sea for several minutes, mesmerised by the beauty of it. Robyn had taken a long walk on the beach and Fat-Boy had removed his shoes and was standing at the water’s edge, also gazing out to sea.

“They saw some of their weapons,” said Chandler. “Didn’t they?”

“We opened a box,” I said.

“Whet their appetites. They will be there, we can be sure of that. That overgrown Afrikaans boy will bring his army, and they’ll give those lions an armed escort, won’t they?”

“Probably. They think the weapons are fake, or there aren’t any. But they’ll be there. Just in case they turn out to be real.”

“So we need to get the gold out before those lions clear customs.”

“How? You want to board the boat?”

Chandler shook his head and gazed some more at the sea.

“That ship will take four