African Sky (34 page)

Innocent sighed and shook his head. He looked down at the pictures spread on his cell bed. ‘I told you, the woman I sold fuel to had fair hair. These women all have dark hair.'

‘Yes, I remember,' she said. ‘I want you to imagine all of these women with fair hair.'

He looked up at her, puzzled.

‘Just look at their faces, Innocent,' she persisted. As with the photos of the men from which Innocent had identified Paul Bryant, Pip had gathered a random selection of attractive-looking women from the pages of the
Bulawayo Chronicle.
She had dug out the dusty, closed file on the accidental killing of Hugo De Beers and, as she'd hoped, found a photo of Catherine De Beers in the story. The caption read: ‘Mrs De Beers – grieving widow witnessed her husband's accidental death'. ‘Take your time,' she added.

Innocent scratched his chin and pored over the pictures. ‘Her clothes were fine,' he said out aloud.

‘What? You remember what she was wearing?'

‘Not what she was wearing, just that she struck me as being well dressed. I notice these things in a woman.'

Pip nodded, willing him to get on with it.

‘I can't be sure,' he said at last.

Pip sighed.

‘Tell me which one, and I will say it is her,' Nkomo said, looking up into her eyes, holding her gaze.

Pip was tempted, but she knew that to lead him to pick the woman she had in mind would be circumventing justice, and the law. ‘No, Innocent. It doesn't work that way. Take another look. Please.'

He studied the images again. ‘There is something about this one that looks familiar, though it is hard with the dark hair.' He crooked a finger around the halo of curls, obscuring the woman's hairdo, then leaned closer over the bed. ‘I am not sure, but of the three, this one, I think, is the one.'

Pip looked over his shoulder and saw the picture. The grieving widow.

‘Bloody Bryant,' Wing Commander Rogers said.

‘Yes, sir,' said Pilot Officer Clive Wilson. He quickened his step to stay abreast of the Wingco, who walked very fast for an old man. They were making a last-minute inspection of the route the official guests would take to the parade ground, which had been marked out on the Tarmac in front of Kumalo's main hangar complex.

‘You're acting adjutant of the base until further notice, Wilson,' Rogers said. ‘Keep up, for God's sake, man.'

‘Yes, sir,' Wilson said. He had mixed emotions about the temporary promotion from instructor to adjutant. It would mean no time for flying, which he regretted, and paperwork by the ton, which he loathed. However, the adjutant was the one person, apart from the Wingco, who really wielded power on the base. He hoped, though, that the new role wouldn't delay his posting to England.

‘The best thing for Bryant now, Wilson, is for him to be dead.'

‘Sir?'

‘If he was killed in the prang we can at least give him a hero's burial. Better for him and his family
and
the air force for him to go out that way, rather than being arrested and tried for rape and murder.'

‘I see, sir.'

‘Leaves in the gutter there, Wilson, make a note.'

‘Yes, sir,' Wilson pulled out his notebook and wrote. The Wingco
shook his head, tutted and pointed at the stray jacaranda blossoms that marred the uniform black of the Tarmac road from the gatehouse towards the hangars.

They strode briskly towards the hangar, with Wilson furiously scribbling reminders about uneven lawn edges, a stray cigarette butt, and the exterior wall of the airmen's mess, which was in need of a new coat of whitewash. The paint wouldn't even have time to dry before the brass arrived, Wilson thought.

‘This place should be
shining
for Field Marshal Smuts and Mister Huggins, Wilson. At the moment it looks like the municipal rubbish dump!' Rogers fumed, pointing out a dustbin with its lid sitting slightly askew. When they walked between two huge hangars, both men held up hands to shield their eyes from the glare of the morning sun on the concrete runway.

‘Aircraft, Wilson.'

‘Yes, sir?'

‘I don't see any aircraft!'

‘Um, they're off searching for Squadron Leader Bryant, sir.'

‘The prime minister's office specifically said they wanted to see aircraft. There's a film crew following Sir Godfrey from Salisbury to capture all this for a newsreel. I want aircraft, Wilson, and lots of them!'

‘Yes, sir. Um, should I call off the search for Squadron Leader Bryant?'

Rogers stopped and stared at Wilson as though he had spoken to him in Swahili. He said, slowly and loudly as if he were trying to convey a message to a foreigner: Aircraft, Wilson. Lots of them. Wingtip to wingtip. For the cameras. Would you like me to write it down for you?'

‘Um, no, sir. I mean, yes, sir. Lots of aircraft.'

Rogers checked his watch. Zero-nine-hundred. Three hours to show-time. ‘Well, don't just stand about, Wilson. You've got painting, edging, litter collection and aircraft to organise.'

‘Yes, sir.'

*

Hendrick Reitz waited in the shade of the aircraft hangar at Isilwane Ranch. There was nothing else he could do.

He sat with his back against the timber wall, two long metal cylinders lying on either side of him like sentinels. But it was he who was guarding them, not the other way around. His Mauser rifle lay across his thighs. He watched a small herd of impala graze at the far end of the grass airstrip. Here was peace, he thought. A forgotten, wild corner of Rhodesia where the war and the killing could have been a million miles away. That would all change in a few short hours, but for now he let the tranquil scene and the sound of the bush birds and insects wash over him.

Reitz was not nervous, or afraid – except of failure. His last mission to Africa had almost gone horribly wrong, and he was determined to make a good fist of this one. It was essential for him to do well, particularly if he were to live out his dream and play a part in the new Afrikaner administration of southern Africa, after Germany won the war.

In the distance he heard the sound of an aero engine. It was getting closer. Reitz stood, the Mauser carried in the crook of his arm, and moved to the edge of the hangar wall. He did not want to be visible from the air, so he stayed in the deep shade and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the morning sun.

A single-engine aircraft. It flew overhead and circled. He recognised the type. A Harvard trainer, same as the one that had landed yesterday. The pilot put the aircraft into a shallow dive and circled again as the aeroplane lost height. It flew away from him, then turned back in a tight, banking manoeuvre.

Reitz fought the urge to step out into the open. The aircraft came in low, flashing across the granite kopje from which he had first observed the ranch on his trek in. The pilot nudged the stick forward, dropping the nose. By the time the Harvard was over the airstrip it was low enough for its propeller wash to flatten the grass. Its shadow raced ahead of it. Despite the low altitude the pilot waggled the wings a little. A herd of impala scattered in a dozen different directions, leaping into the air after every few steps to escape some imagined predator. The strip
was left clear for landing. The horses reared and whinnied at the engine's growl and the smell of burned fuel.

Reitz followed the Harvard's track with his eyes and smiled when he saw the pilot slide open the cockpit.

‘H
e's alive, but he's off his rocker,' Constable Roger Pembroke said.

‘Trouble from the start, and a smart-arse attitude as well. I knew it was him all along,' Harold Hayes said.

The two policemen rode in the open back of a police bakkie, a Chevrolet utility pick-up truck. Hayes had been on his way north, towards Gwaai River, when Shirley had radioed him from Bulawayo, saying that Bryant had been captured but wounded in the process. They'd arrived soon after the shooting. It mattered not to Harold Hayes whether the Australian bastard lived or died, not after what he'd done to that poor girl.

Bryant let out a groan. ‘You say he's been talking?' Hayes said to Pembroke. The bakkie was travelling at speed, and Hayes had to speak up to be heard over the rushing of the wind. Still, it was cool in the back, a nice way to travel on a hot morning.

‘He was mumbling something about Greece, or someone called Reece. Keeps coming to and then passing out.'

‘Not surprising, since you very nearly put a bullet through his brain.' Hayes lifted the bloodied gauze pad on the side of Bryant's bandaged head and inspected the wound for a second time. ‘He'll live,
though.' The bullet from Pembroke's rifle had creased the pilot's skull, carving a narrow channel through the skin on the right temple but, miraculously, had not fractured bone. The wound had bled profusely and Bryant's face, neck and the collar of his shirt were dark with sticky dried blood. Hayes absently waved a hand over the prisoner to shoo away some buzzing flies.

‘I had to put the handcuffs on him as he was quite angry when he first woke up,' Pembroke explained.

‘You did the right thing, Roger. He knows the game's up and that he'll probably swing for what he did. He'll be desperate to escape. You weren't to know his pistol wasn't loaded. He was probably going to try to bluff you into handing over your rifle and then kill you with your own weapon and steal your horse.'

‘Gosh,' said Pembroke. ‘How d'you know this chap's the killer? I read in the paper that you'd arrested an African for the murder.'

Hayes nodded, as though this were a very wise question. ‘Well, you see, Roger, just because the man we arrested was African, and had possession of certain intimate items belonging to the dead woman, didn't mean that we . . . that I should stop the investigation right then and there.'

Pembroke nodded as Hayes continued his story. He looked down at the battered pilot. When the sergeant had concluded with how he had gotten Innocent Nkomo to identify Bryant from a newspaper cutting, the younger policeman said, ‘Looks like he's been in the wars, doesn't it?'

Hayes gingerly lifted the flyer's torn shirt away from the bloodied skin. ‘Animal of some sort, or perhaps he did it parachuting. Nasty gouges. Might need stitching. Waste of good medical supplies, if you ask me.'

Bryant had drifted in and out of consciousness, but each time he awoke he wished he hadn't. His head felt like it had been kicked by a horse – several times – and he was nauseated every time he opened his eyes.

Just that small effort of raising his eyelids brought waves of pain, so he tried to keep them shut. After his mind faded to black, the visions came. A kaleidoscope of images – Catherine, Felicity, the face in the intelligence file. Reitz. Hendrick Reitz. The newspaper story about the death of Hugo De Beers. He couldn't tell. In his dreams he saw Pip Lovejoy, in her uniform, walking away from him, on the other side of the young copper with the rifle. Before he could call to Pip the gun went off.

Bryant winced in pain and opened his eyes as he felt the cloth of his shirt pull away from his skin. The movement dislodged a scab of drying blood and opened one of the cuts inflicted by the leopard. ‘Leopard,' he said.

‘What was that?' Hayes asked. ‘Something about a leopard. Man's lost it completely.' He bent so his face was close to Bryant's. ‘Don't try to pull the old insanity defence, matey. You're for the court and the rope, if there's any justice in this world. Why'd you do it, eh? Were you on with that poor girl?'

‘What? I —'

‘No use denying it, you know.' Hayes laid a hand on Bryant's wounded shoulder but, instead of trying to clean or soothe the injury, he leaned forward, transferring his weight onto the prone man.

Bryant screamed. He'd thought the ache in his head was the worst injury he had suffered. ‘Get off me!'

‘I'll get off you when I damn well please, sonny boy,' Hayes said, leaning further into Bryant.

Roger Pembroke looked away. He'd never been one for roughing up prisoners. ‘Sarge, don't you think . . .'

Hayes shot the younger man a look that said, keep quiet, or else. To Bryant, he said: ‘You can save us all a lot of time, fly-boy, and tell us the truth, right here and now. I'll make sure you're well looked after when we get to Bulawayo. Of course, if you want to stay silent, I'll find another way of looking after you in the cells.'

‘I need to see Pip, Pip Lovejoy,' Bryant stammered. His head was swimming with pain and he needed to throw up.

‘You'll stay away from Constable Lovejoy. I don't know what's been going on between you two, but I'm telling you now, China, that you won't see her again. She's out of your league – and I'll not see her end up the same way as Felicity Langham. Now, be a man for a change and tell us the truth. You raped and killed that girl, didn't you?'

‘What?' Bryant had no idea why Hayes was accusing him, and hurting him. He lifted a hand to push the fat policeman off him, and then noticed, for the first time, that his wrists were in handcuffs. ‘Get these bloody things off me! You've got to stop the parade. Get me to Kumalo!'

‘Parade? You're not going to any parade,
Squadron Leader.
You're finished. We know you hid her underwear in that black man's car. You filthy swine.' Hayes still held Bryant down with his hand on his bloodied shoulder. He drew back his other and slapped the Australian hard, across the face, with the back of his hand.

Bryant's ears rang and his eyes rolled back into his head. He fought the oncoming unconsciousness. ‘Wrong person. It's him, you want . . .'

‘Him? Him who?' Hayes shook his head.

Bryant tried to make the words come out. He wanted to say the name but had trouble remembering it. ‘German . . .'

‘Bloody Germans? Trying to tell us you've got shell shock, hey? Doolally? I told you, it won't wash with me.' Hayes shook him. ‘Snap out of it!'

Bryant closed his eyes and forced himself to remain still.

‘I think he was trying to tell us something, Sergeant.'

Hayes shook his head. ‘I've seen 'em pull that daft stuff before, Roger. Wounded war hero, my arse. He's no good, this one. A deviant. I ought to put a bullet in his head now and save the courts the time and effort.'

‘Meikles Hotel, good day,'the female voice on the telephone said.

‘I'd like to speak to one of your guests, please. Mrs Catherine De Beers,' Pip said into the telephone, in the detectives' office at the police camp.

‘One moment, please, madam.'

Pip drummed her fingers on the desktop as she waited for the hotel receptionist.

Are you there, madam?'

The line to Salisbury was scratchy, and Pip had to speak up in order to be heard. ‘Yes, I'm here.'

‘Who's calling, please?'

‘Constable Lovejoy, Bulawayo Police. This is official business. I need to speak to Mrs De Beers urgently.' She made no attempt to hide her impatience.

‘I'm sorry, Constable, but Mrs De Beers has not checked in, and I've no record of a reservation for her.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, madam. Mrs De Beers often stays with us when she's in Salisbury. I do hope nothing has happened to her, if you were expecting her to be here.'

‘No. I mean, I don't know. I'll leave my number, though, and I'd very much appreciate it if you could call me back if Mrs De Beers does check in.' Pip left the phone number and hung up. ‘Damn,' she said to herself.

Pip walked out of the office and into the switch room. She asked Shirley, who took off her headset: ‘Any word on where they are?'

Shirley checked her wristwatch. ‘Last message I had was that they'd picked up the Australian and were on their way. That was about two hours ago. When you were out. Should be back here any time now, I expect.'

‘Shirley, can you get a message out to all the radio cars and major police stations between here and Salisbury?'

The other woman frowned. ‘Blimey, Pip, you know you don't have the authority to issue a bulletin like that.'

‘I know, but this is really serious, Shirley.'

‘I don't know. It could go bad for me, as well as you.'

‘I'm worried, Shirley. I don't think I've been in this job long enough to have instincts about policing, but I think I know people pretty well. I need to interview Catherine De Beers.'

‘Don't you think you should wait for Hayes?' the telephonist asked.

‘He'll laugh off my worries.'

‘You've been right about everything in this case so far. That fellow, Nkomo, might have been at the gallows by now if you hadn't persisted. Hayes thought it was an open-and-shut case once I took the tip-off call.'

Pip suddenly thought of something else she'd forgotten to follow up.
‘You
took the call from the person who gave us Nkomo, didn't you?'

‘Yes, it was on my shift.'

‘I never asked anyone about that call. Who was it from?'

‘It was anonymous.'

‘Yes, but from a man or a woman?'

‘A woman. White, by the sound of her. Said she'd heard about the murder and that she'd seen a blonde-haired girl getting into a car driven by Nkomo.'

‘You didn't ask how she knew Nkomo, or if she knew who the woman was?'

‘She rang off before I had a chance.'

‘We need to get that bulletin out about Catherine De Beers, Shirley. She's not in Salisbury, where she said she was going to be. She told me she had made a hotel booking, but she hasn't shown up there and they have no record of her reservation.'

‘You think that she . . . ?'

‘I honestly don't know what to think, Shirley, and that's the truth. It seems that every time we uncover something in this case, or think we've got the right suspect, it all takes a new turn. Paul Bryant's still a suspect, but there are a whole lot of new questions I need to ask him about Catherine De Beers.'

Bryant's head banged against the sidewall of the bakkie's tray as the vehicle rounded a corner. He blinked.

‘Ah, back from the land of nod?' Hayes said. ‘Perhaps we can resume our discussion.'

Bryant's head still throbbed and his body ached all over, but his vision wasn't swimming like before. He blinked and saw purple jacaranda blossoms whizzing past over his head. He lifted his torso a little and saw whitewashed houses rusty with red dust. An African woman with mealie bags piled high on her head turned to watch the police truck. They were in the outskirts of Bulawayo. ‘Hayes, listen to me . . .'

The policeman lashed out with his foot and delivered a short, sharp kick to Bryant's ribs. ‘Sergeant Hayes!'

Bryant gasped with pain, but controlled his anger and said: ‘I think there is going to be an attack on Kumalo air base. Possibly today and —'

‘Bloody hell. You Australians won't see sense, will you. Keep your fairy stories for the court, Bryant. You won't fool me. You're going straight to the cells and nowhere else. As I said to you before you nodded off, a confession'll do you the world of good right now.'

Bryant sat up a little. He'd had enough of being civil to this oaf. ‘For Christ's sake, shut your fat fucking mouth and listen to me! Take me to Kumalo now, and —'

Hayes was sitting at the far end of the truck. ‘Guilty or innocent, no one speaks to a policeman that way.' He grabbed the side of the bakkie's tray and lashed out with a violent kick.

Bryant knew his words would goad the policeman to reckless action. He saw the kick coming long before Hayes stood up. He brought back both legs, bending at the knee, and then met Hayes' kick with a two-footed riposte that caught the Rhodesian in the shin and sent him toppling backwards.

‘Stop it!' Pembroke screamed. He fished in the bottom of the truck for his rifle.

Bryant rolled onto his side and was able to get onto his knees. He stood and stepped over the younger policeman. Hayes had landed on his bottom, on the edge of the sidewall of the pick-up, and he flailed about with his hands to find a grip as the truck went around a corner. Bryant saw his moment. He lunged towards the policeman and grabbed hold of the webbing belt that pinched the man's corpulent
waist. Hayes windmilled his arms and toppled over backwards. Only Bryant's hand on his belt stopped him from landing headfirst on the roadway. Bryant hauled the fat man upright again and, as Hayes' face reappeared, Bryant smashed his forehead into the bridge of the policeman's nose. For Bryant it was just one more small dose of pain in a morning full of agony, but Hayes yelped like a kicked dog. Tears and blood streamed down his face. Bryant let go of the belt and dropped the policeman back on the truck's floor. As Hayes moved his hands to his shattered nose, Bryant deftly undid the flap on the other man's holster and drew out his revolver.

‘Drop it,' Bryant ordered Pembroke, who had finally managed to find his rifle. The constable had been too slow to bring his weapon to bear, and Bryant pointed Hayes' pistol at him. ‘I mean it. I don't want to kill you, mate, but, God help me, I'll put a round in your leg to slow you down. There's too much at stake.'

‘It's all right. I hear you,' Pembroke said.

Bryant looked around. People on the street were taking notice. A man in a suit was pointing at him and calling something out. It would only be a matter of time before someone flagged the truck down and alerted the driver to what was going on.