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

with them,” she said. “I thought there was a reason. Did you tell the colonel?”

“Yes, he knows.”

Robyn nodded and sucked on her cigarette.

“Did you tell the colonel about me?” she asked.

“Tell him what?”

“That I’m drinking.”

“He knows that too.”

“I need out, Ben. I’m going to tell him that. I cannot let you all down.”

“You won’t let us down.”

Robyn shook her head with irritation. Her hand trembled as she held her cigarette.

“You know what he’ll say,” I said. “We’re in this together.”

“But not in my state. This started as a crazy idea, but it’s too much now. Fat-Boy will never pull off pretending to be that smuggler. I’m in no state to do anything.”

I said nothing. I was beginning to think she was right. We sat in silence and finished our cigarettes. There was something beguiling about the smooth velvet heaving of the water on a still night. Robyn flicked the remains of her cigarette down the jetty so it kicked up sparks on its way to the abyss.

“It’s the right decision for both of us,” she said.

She turned to look at me, and I could see the helplessness behind her eyes. I did not contradict her. Her decision for us to live separate lives probably was the right one. Because who was I to think that sharing a life with me would help with any of her problems?

Later, after Robyn had given me more sad smiles, a not very appeasing hug, a sisterly kiss on the cheek, and retired to her camp bed early, leaving me alone with the shifting sea and my last packet of cigarettes, Khanyi phoned.

“I’ve got four numbers for you,” she complained. “I never know which one to dial.”

“You’ve hit the jackpot with this one,” I said.

Khanyi sighed. “You busy tomorrow?”

“Very.”

“There have been some complications.”

“They’ve got the wrong guy, haven’t they?” I asked.

“Of course not. What makes you say that? There are some questions, that’s all.”

“I see.”

“We’ll need you here at …” Khanyi’s voice was muffled as she placed a hand over the receiver. I realised she was still in the office. The arrest of the Minhoop gunman had probably resulted in several new buff files landing on her desk, and I had the sense it was not all good news.

“Nine o’clock, Gabriel. We’ll be in the Attic. That police captain will join us. Father is worried they are going to ask the Department to get involved in the investigation.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

“Absolutely not. You know the situation. We’ve been suspended, we cannot be poking around in it. We need you to support us in this.”

“In that case, I will be on my best behaviour. I won’t mention any secrets and I won’t bring up my remuneration.”

There was another muffled pause.

“Father says you should stop acting the clown,” said Khanyi, when she came back on the line. “One day someone will take you seriously.”

Nine

The Attic occupies the top floor of the nineteenth century relic of a building that Fehrson called the Warehouse. He had moved his small department here at a time that he had wanted to separate himself from the greater security apparatus of the country. It seemed to have worked, insofar as the Department had survived for many years as an independent office. And that Fehrson, a dinosaur from the apartheid era, still roamed the corridors of secret power was another measure of his success. Although the more cynical members of the Department wondered aloud how secret those corridors were. An undeniable side effect of moving the Department to this building was that Fehrson’s team had become marginalised, often ignored, and had even been forgotten at crucial times, such as when the Minister delivered the security briefing to Parliament.

Even the word ‘Department’ in the list of building occupants displayed above the beefy security guards was missing the ‘m’, which had fallen off some months ago. Now some joker had used white paint on the glass cover so they had become ‘The Departed’.

I arrived at the Warehouse at ten minutes to nine, surprising everyone, particularly Khanyi, with my punctuality. I was clean-shaven, sporting a spotted tie, and I left my sarcasm at the front door with the excessively muscled security guards, who were struggling to tear their attention away from Khanyi’s décolletage, which was floated into the building on a ruff of artificial fox fur, and which bounced in a diverting manner with each step she took. She glared at the guard on the ladder who was scraping the paint off and greeted me with a surprised nod.

“What do you want?” she asked as the lift struggled past the third floor with ominous creaks.

“Want?” I said.

“You don’t do coincidences, Gabriel. Why did you arrive at the same time as me, looking like you’re applying for a job? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing a tie.”

“I’m a new man,” I said. “A new look, new wardrobe, new name.”

“Uyahlekisa,” said Khanyi under her breath like she was casting a secret spell.

“Not that ridiculous.”

Khanyi tried to hide her surprise but failed. She regarded me coolly from her wide almond eyes and tilted her cheekbones at me.

“You’re learning Zulu? This new man will speak a new language?”

“Online course. I did a few hours last night. They say I’ll be fluent in three weeks.”

Khanyi thought that was funny. “And then you’ll move on to the other nine indigenous languages?”

“Once I’ve got the basics under my hat, perhaps you could give me a hand with all the clicks.”

Her eyes narrowed as she tried to figure out whether I was performing some complex deception.

“The clicks are the easy part,” she said, and showed some of her warrior spirit in the way she bared her teeth at me.

The lift started making nasty snapping noises as we inched past the sixth floor, and we abandoned it on the seventh. The last hurdle was a spiral staircase which allowed us into the Attic one at a time.

“When it comes to the meet and greet,” I said to her ankles as