Back in her hotel room, Sannie brushed her hair, fixed her makeup and walked back out into the bitter London cold. She found her way to Waterloo station and bought a British Rail ticket for the one-stop ride to Vauxhall. Already she was confused. As well as the London Underground — the tube, which she had heard about — apparently there were other trains.
The station was overwhelming, with its throngs of people rushing past her. Everyone seemed to know where they were going. She stopped a young man to ask directions, but he only spoke Spanish. An elderly English woman was more helpful. The train was warm but crowded.
By the time she alighted at Vauxhall’s mainline station she wondered whether it would have been easier, in fact, to walk. Using the A-Z Tom had loaned her, Sannie found her way back to the Thames and the Albert Embankment.
She recognised the distinctive architecture of Vauxhall Cross, the home of Britain’s overseas intelligence organisation, the Secret Intelligence Service — SIS or MI6 — from a James Bond film she’d seen.
It had to be the most ostentatious secret building in the world. It looked like some futuristic temple, inspired, though, by the ancient Mayan or Mesopotamian stepped pyramids. Deep green shoots of glass, which looked to be thick enough to stop a rocket, sprouted from its angular beige terraces. Security men dressed all in black added to the Hollywood image of the spies’ nest, which was topped off by a pair of bizarre giant white springs, festooned in turn with satellite dishes and radio antennae.
If Vauxhall Cross was like something from a George Lucas movie, the Metropolitan Police’s old office building further down the Albert Embankment was straight out of the days of black and white television. It was an office block in the truest sense. No funky futuristic lines here — just an uninspiring, faintly depressing, sixties monolith of pale concrete and red brick that was grubby with age.
A bored-looking civilian security guard asked for her identity and pointed the way across the marbled floor, the only concession to flamboyance in the building, to the lift lobby. When she got out of the lift the stone was gone, replaced by dirty grey carpet tiles. She came to a wooden door with a glass panel and pushed a buzzer. It seemed she was expected, because when she said her name to a woman squirrelled away somewhere inside, the electronic lock clicked and Sannie pushed open the door.
Before her was mostly empty office space which could have been populated by any bunch of bureaucrats anywhere in the world. It was fitted out with computer workstations. Two men and a woman in plain clothes were tapping away on keyboards. A mousy woman with horn-rimmed glasses looked up and said, ‘Inspector Rensburg, is it?’ The woman spoke loud and slowly, in the way that ignorant tourists do when they think slowing their delivery and increasing their volume will somehow make a non-English speaker pick up a few words.
‘Van Rensburg.’
‘Chief Inspector Shuttleworth’s waiting for you. Corner office.’
‘ Baie dankie. ’ Sannie smiled to herself as she headed for the office, and casually wiped her right hand on the side of her black pants. With her other she brushed an imaginary stray hair from her forehead.
A man in his early fifties, with a thinning pate and the deep-etched lines of stress defining his gaunt face, opened the door before she reached it and said, ‘Hello, I’m David Shuttleworth. You must be Susan?’
It started cordially, with the pair of them making tea in the office kitchen before getting down to business. Outside, the sky was still a uniform grey and it seemed to match the skin tone of most of the people she’d so far seen in this cold, crowded city. She knew the politeness would soon disappear. Shuttleworth ushered her into his office, which was a fishbowl on one side of the floor. He lowered slimline blinds to stop the other detectives from peering in.
‘I’ve had a call from Robert Greeves’s widow,’ Shuttleworth began.
Sannie sighed. It had been too much to hope that the woman’s fear of some defamatory news about her husband leaking out might have led her to keep quiet about their unauthorised visit.
‘Inspector Van Rensburg.’ All trace of civility had fallen with the blinds. ‘I have no authority over you, but let me assure you that you most certainly do not have any jurisdiction here to be interviewing relatives of a deceased British politician.’
‘Of course not, Chief Inspector, and I’m — ’
‘If it were up to me I’d have you on the next plane back to South Africa. Do you not think that we’ve looked into Robert Greeves’s home life already?’
Sannie knew that any response from her at this point would be the wrong one, so she kept her silence.
‘I know Furey’s looking for someone else to put the blame on, some slip-up by Greeves or Roberts that might have made it inevitable that the terrorists would kill them, and that there was nothing Tom could have done to prevent it. But that is not the case.’
Sannie wasn’t so sure about that, but again she held her tongue.
‘From what I heard about you while I was in South Africa you’re lucky to be still on the job. You let him lead you off on a wild-goose chase that — ’
‘That very nearly caught the people responsible and freed the hostages.’
Shuttleworth was having none of it. He stood and put his hands on his desktop, then leaned forward, closing the distance between them. ‘Very nearly is not good enough. You two were playing catch-up all the time, and the villains outran you. Simple as that.’
‘Tom Furey was the only one on the trail of those men and it wasn’t his fault that they got away. Those are the facts of this case, and that’s what I’ll be telling your parliamentary inquiry, Chief Inspector.’
Shuttleworth sat down again and smoothed his tie. He looked, Sannie thought, like a man who did not raise his voice very often, especially not to women. She saw him struggling to retrieve his dour, unflustered demeanour. She also saw it as her opportunity to start questioning him. ‘When will the South African Police Service be given copies of the execution tapes?’
Shuttleworth frowned. ‘They’ll get our analysis of the tapes when I do.’
‘So you don’t have them?’
He sighed. ‘The SAS handed them over to the security service. They have their own state-of-the-art video analysis and forensics people. They’ll do as thorough a job as anyone else.’
Sannie could sense the man’s annoyance, not at her but, as she had guessed, at the fact that a government agency other than the police had grabbed such important evidence and was not sharing it; he had given her the company line and wasn’t happy about it. The police were spinning their wheels in this investigation, and it clearly rankled the Scotsman.
Shuttleworth lifted his chin. ‘How are your people doing with the burned-out vehicle and lists of people who entered the Kruger Park in the days before the abductions?’
Sannie explained that the licence plates on the torched Isuzu belonged to another vehicle. ‘It was a BMW sedan which was car-jacked two days before the abductions. However, the registration number didn’t show up on the lists of vehicles entering the park, which means the gang must have switched plates after entering. The chassis number was traced to the current owner, a Pakistani surgeon living in Pretoria.’
Shuttleworth’s eyes widened at her mention of the doctor’s heritage.
‘Doctor Pervez Khan hasn’t fit the profile of a terrorist suspect so far, though,’ she admitted. ‘We’ve checked him out. Wealthy, single — divorced, actually. A drinker and a bit of a midlife-crisis party boy, from what the detectives investigating him so far have learned.’
‘They’ve questioned him, then?’
‘No. He didn’t show up at his practice two days before Greeves and Joyce were taken. Our missing persons unit already had a file open on him. His business partner reported him gone. Best guess so far is that he was car-jacked and killed. We’ve circulated his photo and a description of the destroyed vehicle to the media, but had no witnesses come forward.’
‘Why would a doctor be driving an old pick-up truck?’
Sannie nodded. She had asked the investigating officers the same thing. Doctor Khan, she explained to Shuttleworth, owned a small holding in the Timbavati private nature reserve, on the border of Kruger, and used the four-wheel drive as a second vehicle for going to his bush retreat. ‘His late-model Mercedes was in for a service at the time he went missing, so he was using his bakkie as a temporary replacement.’
Shuttleworth asked if the police had checked out the doctor’s lodge for signs of recent occupation. ‘The detectives who visited his lodge said there was no sign of any recent vehicle movements, and the caretaker, an elderly African man who lived there with his wife, said the “boss” had not visited for weeks.’
‘Hmm. So we can add the good doctor to our list of victims, then?’
‘I suppose so. Even if he was involved with the gang, he’d be pretty stupid to use his own vehicle, changed plates or not. Also, his name doesn’t show up on the national park’s entry register. In fact, on that day there were no names recorded of people riding in or driving Isuzus that sounded remotely Pakistani.’
‘Are you ready to face the inquiry tomorrow?’ he asked her, changing the subject.
Sannie didn’t know if one could ever truly be ready to go under the spotlight in a parliamentary inquiry, but she had resolved that all she could do was truthfully answer any question put to her, and she told Shuttleworth as much.
‘You spent quite a bit of time with Tom Furey in Africa.’
‘What’s that got to do with me giving evidence?’
‘It’s not looking good for him, you know.’
She’d gathered as much from the newspaper reports, and from what Tom had told her himself. ‘I won’t be lying or omitting evidence, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’ She had had enough of the glum-faced, bloodless creature across the desk from her. Tom would be well rid of him.
Outside, the gloomy weather matched her mood as she walked alongside the drab choppy waters of the Thames. It might have been beautiful on a sunny day, but even though it was only early afternoon the sky was the colour of elephant hide.
Crossing the river on Lambeth Bridge she had a good view of the Palace of Westminster, the seat of the British parliament, and the tower of Big Ben, which stood like a burly guardsman on sentry duty over the historic building.
When she crossed the bridge she saw two policemen standing on the corner of Horseferry Road. One had a Glock, with spare magazines in pouches wrapped around his thigh, while the other carried a Heckler amp; Koch MP-5, nine-millimetre submachine gun. Coming from Johannesburg, she was used to seeing police with guns — even security guards in her country carried semiautomatic assault rifles — but she knew that in England it was a fairly recent phenomenon. She wondered if the pale-faced, bundled-up people who strode determinedly past her were reassured or concerned by the presence of the armed officer.
She made her way, by dead reckoning, through the back streets of Westminster, out of sight of the river, towards Parliament. In a lane called Strutton Ground she stumbled on a small street market, the wares encased in clear plastic sheeting. Behind the rain-beaded covers, one stall appeared before her, like an oasis in the desert. Overcoats!
‘Hello, my love, can I help you?’ a middle-aged man wearing two fleeces and a windcheater asked her, rubbing his gloved hands together in anticipation.
The coats were not great quality but looked deliciously warm. Sannie tried on a couple before settling on a mock-tweed garment that was nipped fashionably at the waist and came to her knees. The cardboard sign on the rack said thirty pounds. She did a quick mental calculation and decided it was not a good idea to convert British prices into South African rand. Thirty sounded much better than three hundred and thirty and, besides, now that she felt a glimmer of warmth returning to her body, there was no way she was going to take the jacket off.
As she walked, the one hundred per cent artificial fibres started doing their job and she even managed to smile, unlike most of the grim-faced Londoners who motored on through the rain around her.
On the Broadway, where Tom said it would be, was New Scotland Yard. The revolving sign in front of the police building — which, again, she recognised from movies and TV programs — was smaller than she expected. Armed police guarded the entrance, behind crash barriers which she presumed were designed to stop car bombers.
Sannie continued on and the Houses of Parliament appeared in front of her as she rounded a corner, looming large like a fairytale palace, some gold trimming breaking the monotone. She would see the inside of the workings of British democracy soon enough, and for now she veered off to the left of the buildings, following the directions Tom had given her to St Stephen’s Tavern.
He was waiting for her at a small booth in the far corner, and stood and waved to her when she walked in. The warmth was welcoming after her chilly walk, even if the place did smell of stale beer, wet clothes and musty body odour. Tom offered to buy her a drink and she asked for a gin and tonic.
‘A reminder of Africa,’ he said, placing the tall dewy glass in front of her.
‘Cheers. After meeting your boss I wish I’d never left. When did they exhume him?’
Tom laughed. ‘Shuttleworth’s not a bad guy when you get to know him. He’s a pragmatist, though, and he knows a scalp’s needed in order for the government to get past all this. Unfortunately, it has to be mine.’
She stirred her drink and looked around her. With its high ceiling and stained-glass windows, the pub could have been part of a palace as well. ‘You’re sounding remarkably upbeat, all things considered.’
He shrugged and sipped his lager. ‘I cocked up, Sannie, there’s no two ways about it.’
She was curious as to why he no longer seemed to care about his career but was also showing no sign of letting the investigation rest. ‘So, what were you doing while I was getting the Scottish inquisition?’
Tom told her he’d been to an internet cafe and had found more reports about Greeves, his career and his frequent trips to Africa. ‘Have you ever been to Malawi?’
Sannie shook her head. ‘It’s somewhere we — I — always wanted to go. Funny, it’s still hard for me to think of myself as a singular rather than a plural.’
‘I know how you feel — although Mr and Mrs Greeves certainly didn’t have that problem.’
‘I’d like to take my kids to Malawi as well. They say the lake is gorgeous and it’d be a fun trip up through Botswana and Zambia.’
‘Yes, I was checking the route on the internet.’
‘What are you thinking, Tom?’
She was starting to wonder if he actually was as fine as he made out. Certainly, it was good that he had a positive attitude rather than wallowing in depression. There was something else going on in his mind, though. Had he come up with a new lead while she was being grilled by his superior? She asked him the question.
‘No, I don’t think the kidnappers would have taken Greeves to Malawi if he was still alive,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to go there.’
‘Why?’
‘I liked what I saw of Africa — given the circumstances — and I think I’ll soon have a bit of time on my hands. I was thinking of hiring a car and driving from South Africa up to Malawi.’
Sannie was suspicious, but played along. ‘That would be expensive. I’ve got a Land Rover. It was Christo’s pride and joy, but I hardly ever drive it any more. We only use it when the kids and I go to the bush. You could borrow it.’
‘I’d pay you,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘Give it a service and a good run and you’ll be doing me a favour.’
They finished their drinks and Sannie went to the bar to buy a second round. While she waited for the barman — a young white South African guy with dreadlocks who, when he heard her accent, told her he was from Durban — she thought about what Tom had just said. Was he hoping to stay with her, perhaps travel with her?
‘You look like the weight of the world’s on your shoulders,’ the barman said, sliding the pint of lager and another gin and tonic across to her.
‘I’m afraid it is.’ Sannie carried the drinks back and appraised Tom as she walked. He would forever carry the stigma of implied failure if the inquiry went the way everyone expected. Even abroad he might find it hard to get gainful work. Did she really want to have anything to do with someone without prospects? She had her children to think about. However, he was very handsome and she knew he was a good man. She felt comfortable around him — safe, which was ironic considering that he was always getting her into trouble. And when he smiled, as he did when she set down the drinks, she felt her heart beat a little faster.
‘Well, let’s drink to your next trip to Africa,’ Sannie said, raising her glass. ‘It can’t be any worse than your last!’
Tom laughed. ‘To Africa.’
They left the pub after their second drink. Tom said he would drive Sannie back to her hotel and he didn’t want to be over the legal limit. He’d asked her if she had any plans for dinner and, as she didn’t, she agreed to let him choose a restaurant.
Once he parked the car, Tom suggested that as it was still early they have another drink, in the hotel bar, before dinner. The first two had made her feel mellow and she agreed, although she switched to white wine as too many gins sometimes made her feel maudlin. ‘Let me put it on my room,’ she said as Tom went to pull out his wallet. ‘The British government can pick up the tab.’
‘Might be the closest I get to a retirement present,’ he said, raising his lager.
‘Stop talking like that, Tom.’
He raised his eyebrows at her stern tone.
‘I mean it. Stop being so damned resigned to your fate.’ She could feel her cheeks reddening, a combination of the alcohol and her sudden growing anger. ‘You can’t go down without a fight, man.’
He set his drink down. ‘I’m just being realistic, Sannie, but I never said I’d stop fighting.’
‘Tell me what you’ve got cooking. Why this sudden desire to go back to Africa?’
He nodded, as though it was a fair question. ‘I’ll need a fresh start. No one will give me a job here — not even as a night watchman at Tesco. In a sense, I’ve got nowhere else to go, so I may as well try Africa.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t believe you. What else? There must be another reason.’
He swivelled on his stool at the bar, so that his body was facing her. He looked as though he was about to say something, but then thought better of it. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Let’s go get dinner.’
‘All right.’ She felt disappointed, as if he’d been about to say something that would affect her. ‘Okay, but I want to get changed.’
‘I’ll wait down here.’
‘You’ll be legless by the time I get back. Come up to my room and you can watch TV while I get ready.’ Why, Sannie wondered, as they walked across to the lifts, had she made such a suggestion? She could feel his eyes on her as she stood looking up at the illuminated floor numbers, waiting for the lift to arrive. It was too late now.
Once in her room she handed him the television remote. ‘Make yourself at home. I’m going to shower as well.’ Though she didn’t want to say it in front of Tom in case he was offended, there was something about London that made her feel grimy. Between the overly heated indoor areas, which made her perspire, and the drizzle mixed with exhaust fumes and grit, she felt as though her skin was coated with a greasy layer of muck. Her fingernails, too, were filthy. She already missed the sun, even though she knew she’d be complaining about the heat in a month’s time.
Sannie grabbed her toiletry bag, closed the bathroom door, slipped out of her shoes and stripped off her business suit. The high pressure blast of hot water invigorated her and she decided to wash her hair as well. She could hear the TV in the room, so she knew Tom would be fine.
It was odd, she thought, being naked in the bathroom, reapplying her makeup and knowing that Tom was just on the other side of the door. It wasn’t until she went to hang up her towel on the hook that she realised she hadn’t brought her clean clothes in with her. Her bag was still on the bed. She blamed the extra drink.
Sannie finished her makeup and wrapped the towel around her, knotting it between her breasts. The hotel was nice and clean, but was not the sort of place that offered fluffy white bathrobes.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, emerging.
Tom stood and looked at her. She felt his gaze on her, saw the way he tried to keep his eyes on hers. She was painfully conscious of the skin she was showing. Her legs, which she was proud of; and her arms, which could have used another day a week in the gym to keep them toned. She darted across the room and grabbed her bag. As she lifted it the flap fell open — she’d forgotten that she had opened it to get out her cosmetic bag.
‘Oh, fok!’
‘Here, let me help.’
Tom dropped to one knee, as did she, but Sannie had to use one hand to keep her towel held together. With the other, she scooped up bras and pants, shoes and strewn clothing. It was very embarrassing, but he started to laugh.
‘Here, give me that.’ She reached out and grabbed the white silk blouse he held.
They were close, kneeling on the floor, their faces less than a metre apart.
‘Thank you,’ Tom said, still holding onto the garment.
When she pulled it she felt his fingers through the sheath of silky material. ‘For what?’
‘For agreeing to come with me today, for everything you did in South Africa, for…’
‘It’s nothing.’ Sannie still held the blouse and he wasn’t surrendering it. She continued to feel the heat of his skin through her fingers as she wrapped the fabric around her hand. It wasn’t nothing, though. She’d risked her career, her future — again — for this dark-haired handsome man kneeling next to her in a hotel room in a foreign land.
She was acutely aware of her own nakedness under the towel, and the growing feeling of warmth radiating from her core. It was him, the excitement, the recklessness, the remoteness of all this from her normal life. It was why she’d invited him into her hotel room.
Tom leaned closer and kissed her.
Time seemed to stand still then, and the kiss went on forever. They were two starving souls and they consumed each other, first kneeling on the floor, then sitting. She was aware of the towel falling away from her body. The feeling of his body against hers, the brush of her erect nipples against the cotton of his shirt, was electrifying. Her skin suddenly felt hypersensitive, tingling. When he moved his lips to the side of her neck and down her collarbone to the point where it joined her shoulder she thought she might faint in his arms. God, it had been so long since she’d felt this.
Sannie held it all together, every minute of every day. The demands of a job in a male-dominated profession in which she had to do it tougher, harder and better than any of them; the constant struggle to spend enough time with her kids and avoid the guilt of not being a stay-at-home mom; the moments of grief that still brought her to tears — sometimes it was all too much. But here, now, so far from home, she wanted nothing more than for him to take her away. Physically. Mentally. Sexually. She melted into him, but at the same time felt her body stiffening with spasms of pure pleasure with each touch of his lips to a new part of her.
He lifted her, as if he sensed that was exactly what she wanted, onto the bed, then shrugged off his jacket. He looked down at her and she opened herself to his gaze, revelling in the lasciviousness of it. He started to undo his tie and slip off one of his shoes. ‘Don’t bother,’ she breathed.
His feet were still on the floor, his hands either side of her, as he leaned down over her. She reached for him, taking a few moments to trace the outline through his trousers, before slowly unzipping and discovering him.
He moved his hand between them, parting her, then finding her clitoris. She moaned and arched her back to push against his touch. She guided him to her as she felt his fingers, first one, then a second, enter her. She was more than ready for him, and when he withdrew she moved the head of his cock between her swollen lips.
‘Sannie…’
‘Yes, Tom. Oh, please…’
He entered her, like that, and she locked her hands around his neck and her legs around his waist. She lifted her hips to meet his thrust and he drove harder into her, so that her bottom was raised off the bedspread at the end of the first long, slow stroke. Her eyes were locked on his as he paused there, and she felt weightless, balanced on him. A part of him.
Tom started moving and she almost didn’t want to let him go from that place, until the friction started to work its magic, again and again. Holding her in his strong arms, he lowered his face to kiss alternately her lips, her cheek, the side of her neck, her collarbone again, on the spot that still burned from his first touch.
Sannie kept her eyes open as long as she could, imprinting every ridge and furrow of his face into her memory. If she didn’t see him again after she left London, she wanted never to forget the man who had made her whole again. His every thrust sent another wave of pleasure through her.
And he, feeling her body grip, tighten and ripple over his cock, hearing her start to cry out, took up the pace, driving harder, yet still controlled, into her. She closed her eyes and drew her body up to his, moulding perfectly to him as she held him tight and cried again. As he joined her.
The guilt came, as Sannie knew it would, as Tom lay, naked, beside her an hour later. ‘Room service will be here soon, I should get my clothes back on,’ he said.
‘I’ll get dressed.’
‘No, stay there.’ He stood and pulled on his trousers and sat beside her on the bed as he buttoned his shirt. ‘You’re thinking about Christo, aren’t you?’
She nodded, biting her lower lip.
‘Me too — thinking about Alex, that is. I know I shouldn’t be feeling guilty, it’s not like you and I are having an affair…’
‘I know, but…’
‘But it’s all right,’ he said and by his tone she knew that he was reading her mind. Nothing that felt this good, this right, could be wrong. Christo would never leave her heart or her thoughts — and she realised Tom would cherish his wife forever, but he had made her complete again. She wanted to be back in his arms, to feel the safety of his embrace.
She reached out and grabbed his hand as he started to move. ‘Yes, it is. All right, I mean.’
There was a knock at the door, followed by, ‘Room service.’
Sannie made Tom take off his clothes again to eat dinner, despite his protesting that it was embarrassing. They sat opposite each other on the bed, eating cheeseburgers topped with bacon and egg, and a side order of fat greasy chips. If she was going to throw caution to the wind she might as well go all the way. Tom poured her champagne and they clinked glasses.
She told him more about growing up on the farm, and the first boy she’d ever kissed. When she admitted that Christo was the first man she’d ever slept with she saw realisation slowly spread across his face. To his credit, he said nothing after learning that he was the only man other than her husband whom she’d had sex with. He simply leaned forward, wiped some ketchup from the corner of her mouth with his finger, then kissed her.
They made love again after dinner and washed each other in a long, soapy bubble bath.
Later, with the lights off, he lay staring at the ceiling, one arm crooked behind his head, the other around her as she snuggled into him.
She ran her fingertips through the wiry hair on his chest. ‘Are you thinking about the inquiry?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Africa.’