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

the part of Billy Mabele. He had taken the jeep against Chandler’s instructions, and now we were enduring a moody tension between them.

We were standing on the outermost quay of the Maputo cargo terminal area, the first one you would hit if you didn’t slow down as you sailed down the Xefina channel, although Chandler had explained that wouldn’t happen because the ships were brought in by highly paid pilots. Nevertheless, the hulking container ships loomed over us ominously.

Robyn stood at the edge of the quay and gazed out to sea like she was auditioning for the female lead and playing the scene where the hero doesn’t return. She hugged the fake fur coat tight, and the wind blew her tears towards us. She had not had a drink in three days. Her brittle mood, Fat-Boy’s insolence and my anxiety were taking their toll on Chandler’s usual optimistic outlook.

“That storm is blowing in,” said Chandler. “If we’re not careful, we’re going to be doing this in the rain.”

“We could move it into the warehouse,” said Fat-Boy. “That way we don’t get wet.”

“Why?” asked Chandler. “You going to melt? Are you made of sugar? The rain will be fine, it will work in our favour.”

“But you just said we needed to be careful,” said Fat-Boy. “You should decide which one it is before you go chewing my head off about it.”

“I’m not chewing anything,” said Chandler, and he lowered the volume a little, which was never a good sign.

“Perhaps you two should lay off it,” I suggested. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

A large BMW motorcar was creeping across the tangled web of rail tracks and potholes towards us. I recognised the bulky shape of Piet van Rensburg in the passenger seat. As the car approached, the driver’s window slid downward to reveal Roelof behind the wheel.

“All ready?” he asked in greeting.

“All ready,” I said.

Roelof nodded as if he didn’t believe me and kicked the car forward into one of the demarcated parking bays.

Hendrik clambered out of the back seat and did some athletic squats to show how much he hated being bundled into the back. His arm was in a sling and he held it with his other hand as if the sight of me brought back the pain. He gave me a warning glare. Kenneth climbed out of the other passenger door and removed his jacket as if he was about to start a fight. He tucked a lumpy cloth bundle under his arm. It jangled, and I guessed it contained the tools he was intending to use in performing his inspection.

Piet gave us each a stern nod and twirled an unlit cigar between his fingers. His usual patina of assured calm was wearing thin. Chandler had been right about doing this here, where Piet would be a fish out of water, in a foreign country where everyone spoke a language he didn’t understand.

“Melissa stayed behind at the hotel,” said Piet. “She looks forward to seeing you at dinner later.”

“Doing her hair,” said Hendrik incredulously, and he looked at Robyn as if expecting that she would have something to add to this. Robyn gave a small understanding smile. It was hard to imagine two women less alike than the underwear model Melissa and the ex-felon Robyn, even when she was playing the part of girlfriend to one of the continent’s most notorious smugglers.

Piet handed Billy Mabele and Chandler both a cigar. Billy Mabele stepped up to Piet and greeted him with an embrace and then held his arm as if the two of them were about to walk down the aisle.

“Your big cats are ready and waiting,” said Chandler.

“No problems?” asked Piet. “You loaded the extra stuff in with the cats?”

“Not one. And yes, we did. The crate has been inspected and cleared for transit.”

“We can check the crate?” asked Roelof.

“All arranged. We have oiled the rusty cogs of Mozambican bureaucracy and have been promised a little privacy. We have arranged that Piet sign a few papers and use that as an excuse for us to perform final checks.”

Chandler beamed at them. His enthusiasm was not returned.

The warehouse was gloomy and echoed the sound of our feet back at us as we made our way to a desk in the corner where the shipping clerk was sorting through a jumble of papers as if he’d lost the one upon which his job depended.

“Van Rensburg,” announced Billy Mabele as he presented Piet with his unlit cigar.

“Van Rensburg,” confirmed Piet.

“Give me a minute,” said the clerk with irritation, and he continued shuffling the papers about. He was a small man with big ears, and eyes supported on several dark rings.

“While Mr Van Rensburg signs the papers,” said Roelof, “shall we go ahead?”

“That alright with you, Mr Almeida?” asked Colonel Colchester. “If some of our party go ahead?”

The clerk, whose right buttock was crushing a couple of hundred-dollar bills recently donated to him by the colonel, looked up at us. His eyes rested heavily on their bags of flesh.

“Van Rensburg?” he said.

“Van Rensburg, yes,” said Colonel Colchester. “Live animals. We brought them in yesterday.”

“They’ll be loaded last,” said the clerk. “Through there.” He indicated the large open doors on the other side of the warehouse, and we all turned to look at the promising glow of evening light trickling through them.

“Excellent,” said the colonel. Hendrik didn’t need any further invitation. He strode with big, athletic steps towards the light. “Why don’t you see if you can find the crate, Freddy? Take the others. Piet and I will sort out the paperwork.”

The quay was a jumble of crates and shipping containers, piled up on top of one another to create a confusing maze of narrow paths. The storm we had seen out to sea swept in as we picked our way between the boxes, and the sun was extinguished as the gusts of wind rushed through the gaps like departed spirits howling down the alleyways.

“They will be on the outer edge,” I said, as