Murderous David Hickson (best thriller novels of all time TXT) 📖

asked Chandler. He was sitting on an old paint can but leaning forward and taking his weight on his legs as if he was about to spring into action.

“It’s possible the Minhoop tragedy was a direct attack on the Van Rensburg’s private army,” I said. “Piet van Rensburg made a call yesterday to a man called Richard Mabele.”

“Arms dealer,” said Chandler. “He wants more weapons.”

“Looks like it.”

“It’s a family business? Not just the playboy son collecting weapons?”

“That’s what my government goons think.”

“I still don’t get it,” said Fat-Boy. “How does this help us?”

“The number Piet van Rensburg called is not Richard Mabele’s real number.”

“So?”

Chandler turned to Fat-Boy. “How much does our gold weigh?”

“Two point one-six metric tons.”

“Hardly anything. You know why they call them heavy armaments? We’ll add our two tons of gold in with the heavy armaments and nobody will notice.”

“We don’t have heavy armaments,” protested Fat-Boy.

Chandler smiled. “We’ll find some.”

“But if we provide the weapons,” said Robyn, “what’s to stop the customs inspectors? They won’t wave them through if it isn’t an official thing.”

“That’s why we need an inside man,” said Chandler. “Someone working with the government goons.” He turned to me. “You accepted their job offer, Angel?”

“Not yet.”

“What about when we load the gold?” said Robyn. “They’ll stop us then.”

“We need to do it out of the country. Drive to Mozambique, load it up in Maputo.”

Robyn could think of no further objections.

“I don’t do wild animals,” said Fat-Boy suddenly.

We all turned to look at him.

“I’ll tell you what’s gonna happen, colonel,” he said. “The black guy here is gonna be putting his life on the line in those cages with the man-eating lions, BB will get the gold back, and squeaky-clean Angel will get himself a medal from the government. That’s what’s gonna happen.”

“The black guy won’t be putting his life on the line,” said Chandler. “The black guy is going to be the main player in this one. Top dog, man of the match.”

“Yes?” said Fat-Boy suspiciously.

“What do you know about Richard Mabele?” I asked.

Fat-Boy shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Biggest smuggler on the continent. He does everything from cigarettes to arms.”

“So?”

“Mabele,” I said. “He’s Xhosa.”

Fat-Boy’s eyes narrowed. “You want me to pretend to be him?”

“Not him, someone close to him, a nephew or brother perhaps.”

“The main player?” said Fat-Boy.

“The main player,” I confirmed.

Fat-Boy pretended to consider this for a moment. “Yebo,” he said eventually, and gave a smug smile. “A Xhosa smuggler – I can do that.”

After Chandler had patted me on the back and Fat-Boy had engaged in a reluctant handshake that included several new and mystifying grasps, Robyn turned her back to me and said that she would be going to sleep early and would find somewhere else to stay in the morning, no matter what the colonel had to say about it. I opened the big doors at the far end of the warehouse. I lit myself a French cigarette and gazed out over the oily black water that lapped gently up the ramp. Patches of rain moved across the black sea like someone was twiddling the translucency knob. Trembling lights of ships lying outside the docks appeared and were then coyly hidden away again. Khanyi answered on the third ring.

“Why is it that whenever a new number appears on my screen, I know it’s you?” she said in her late-night DJ voice.

“Because I’m the only person who ever calls?” I suggested. Khanyi had a reputation for rejecting all attempts at social interaction, a stricture which had heightened her level of mysterious appeal for the many awkward males who loitered about the corridors, hoping for a glimpse of her toned physique as she moved between meeting rooms.

She sighed.

“Why can’t you be like everyone else?”

“In what way?”

“Be normal. Just stick to one phone number. It’s what most people do.” But Khanyi did not want our conversation to become derailed by a discussion of my abnormality or her level of social interaction. She brightened her voice. “You’ve had a chance to go through the file?”

“All the way to the last page.”

“Father said you would have turned us down,” she said defensively. “He said you’d never agree to do anything for us unless we gave you something in return.”

“That pink highlighter smudged the number. It’s illegible.”

“That’s a shame,” she said. “But it’s just a copy. I have the original.”

“It will take you some time to find the original?”

“It might,” she admitted.

“Enough time for me to do what?”

“Get to know Hendrik van Rensburg a little. And his father. Bond with them. Find a link between what happened yesterday and the Van Rensburgs’ White Africans. We know they’re connected. The sooner the police know, the better for us all.”

“You want me to ask whether they knew the man with an automatic weapon who wandered into their church to kill thirty of their friendly neighbours?”

“Why must you always take that tone, Gabriel?”

“What you’re doing is bribery, you know that. I’m delighted for you that you’re taking charge of the Department. But this little game of yours is dirty.”

Khanyi was silent for a moment. I could hear her steady breath on the microphone. We didn’t talk like this to each other, and she needed a moment to adjust.

“This whole thing might be a dreadful chain of coincidences,” she said. “But what if it isn’t, Gabriel? What if Minhoop happens again?”

I took a final draw on the cigarette and blew the smoke towards the sea.

“The last page was Father’s idea,” she said.

“Whereas you thought I’d agree to get involved in this farce just because you took me for a ride in an aeroplane and showed me the bloodstains?”

“I didn’t think it. I knew you would. I know you better than you realise, Gabriel.” She paused to give me an opportunity to deny this. I didn’t. I finished the cigarette. “Dirk worshipped the ground you walked on,” she said. “I knew that would be enough. You’re more human than you like people to think. But Father insisted. He said that sometimes