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

if I hadn’t spent the entire day loading them. Roelof walked beside me and he shivered as if he also felt the presence of the spirits. We reached the far edge of the city of boxes and stepped away from them over the broken surface of the quay. We turned back towards the boxes and Hendrik let out a cry of triumph.

“There,” he said, and pointed. Standing away from the rest of the crates and boxes, positioned as if someone had wanted them to be spotted, were two wooden crates, each about the size of a luxury four-by-four vehicle, joined to create one large crate. The sides of the crate had neat rows of breathing holes at about head height, and as Hendrik led the way at a jog, the wind blew a collection of rubbish up against them and plastered a sheet of newspaper against one.

Hendrik stuck his face up to a breathing hole, then immediately recoiled and retched.

“Fuck, it stinks,” he said, and then stuck his face back against the crate and tried peering in through the hole. “Can’t see shit,” he said.

Roelof pulled out a handkerchief and held it over his nose and mouth and also tried peering in through a breathing hole, but there was very little light making its way in as the evening darkened.

“Come, boet,” said Hendrik, and he banged the side of the crate. Roelof gave him an irritated glare.

“Don’t rile up the wild animals, Hendrik,” he said, “they’ll break through that wood and then you’ll regret it.”

“There’s a metal cage,” said Kenneth. “They won’t be breaking through that.”

“How do we do this?” said Roelof.

I brandished a screwdriver.

“We’ll have to open it up,” I said.

Kenneth unrolled his cloth bundle and revealed a set of wrenches. Roelof started to inspect the box. At the corner he found the points where the front panels were latched to the side. He reached out a delicate hand and tested the latch.

“We could open it here,” he said. “There are hinges on the side. It’s like a door.”

Hendrik was in favour of skipping the talking. He had the top latch in his swollen meatball of a fist and popped it open with a loud crack. The second latch gave him a little more trouble. Kenneth and I took a few steps back and Roelof watched me with suspicion. Hendrik manfully swung the front panel to the side like a huge door, and we all stepped back instinctively.

“Fuck me,” said Hendrik, and he clasped his hands to his chest in a surprisingly effeminate gesture. “Fuck me,” he repeated in a whisper.

It was the male lion on this side of the box, and although he was on the small end of the scale, he was a magnificent beast. The short fur of his body seemed to ripple over the muscles beneath as he rose to a standing position, and his great mane swayed like an outrageous hairstyle under a blow dryer as he shook his head and then tilted it back to look up at the sky beyond our heads.

“The male,” said Roelof.

We gazed at the lion for almost a full minute. Hendrik pulled out his mobile phone and took a photograph. Nobody had noticed that Billy Mabele was standing fifty metres back from the lions with his sober girlfriend leaning against him. Which was a relief, because I thought it might seem strange for a notorious smuggler to keep his distance from the merchandise.

“That the panel there?” asked Kenneth, nodding towards the thick base upon which the cage was mounted. I held up my screwdriver for him, but Kenneth ignored it again and gazed with consternation at the lion. Opening the panel would mean standing uncomfortably close to the beast.

Hendrik seemed to have forgotten our purpose, and having overcome his initial awe, he stepped towards the cage and waved his hands in the air to get the lion to look at him. Hendrik didn’t like being overlooked, even by an animal. The lion didn’t respond, but his nostrils quivered as if he’d picked up a scent. Hendrik moved directly into the lion’s line of sight. The majestic beast settled back down, rested his head onto his paws and gazed dully at the ground a few metres from the cage.

“There’s something wrong with him,” said Hendrik. “He’s been drugged or something.”

He knelt down on the oily ground before the cage and started rubbing his fingers together in the animal’s line of sight as one might offer food to a small domestic pet.

“Not even hungry,” said Hendrik. “Something very wrong with him.”

“Don’t stick your hands in the bars,” said Roelof, “or you’ll discover just how hungry he is.”

Hendrik scowled and pushed his hand up to just a few inches from the bars to show how much he respected Roelof’s advice. Roelof took my screwdriver from me and stepped up to the cage.

“There are three panels,” I explained. “We could start with this one.” I indicated the panel furthest from the lion’s head. Roelof ignored my suggestion and started working on the central panel. Kenneth fitted a screwdriver head onto a ratchet from his bag of tools and joined Roelof. A few minutes later, the wooden panel came loose to reveal a metal box. Roelof peered at it.

“Doesn’t look right,” he said.

“It doesn’t?”

Roelof and Kenneth grabbed the handles and pulled. The box was lighter than they expected and slid out easily. It dropped to the ground with a crash. The lion lifted its head as if only now noticing our presence. We looked at the box.

“Where is Mabele?” asked Roelof, looking around.

“I think he’s having some girl trouble,” I said. Robyn was remonstrating with him, in what might have been an improvised cover for the fact he refused to approach the lions. Roelof frowned. My comment to Chandler about playing to an amateur audience came back to me. I regretted it.

“Open it,” exclaimed Hendrik, and Kenneth obliged by undoing the clasps.

Roelof turned away from the domestic squabble Billy Mabele was engaged in