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‘Sounds perfect,’ smiled Lucia. ‘I love a night on the beach.’
‘Can you look after our bags?’ asked Knox. ‘We need to go into town.’
‘Of course,’ said Thierry. ‘We wait for you here.’
‘Great,’ said Knox. ‘See you later, then.’
III
A black dog took a liking to Boris as he walked down Morombe high street, sniffing at his heels and looking hungrily up at him. He scowled at it and aimed a boot at its ribs, but still it kept following. It was an appropriate enough companion: he’d rarely ever visited a more depressing place. The road was so badly broken that the few cars treated it like an obstacle course, weaving cautiously around islands of tarmac. There was litter everywhere, squashed packs of Boston cigarettes, lemonade bottles and the like. A young diabetic beggar with a swollen and ulcerated foot strummed a homemade mandolin, while a dispirited woman sold napkins and sweet potatoes from a tray, and children raced cars they’d made from sardine cans around her feet.
He passed a camping store with cooking utensils and hunting knives in one window, foreign-language guidebooks and maps in the other. Hard to know how it made enough money to stay open, for he’d still seen no tourists. He bought a guidebook and a map of the coast from Morondava down to Tulear that he flapped open and studied as he walked. According to the press-cuttings Sandro had given him, the Maritsa was anchored on the far side of the reef, several miles offshore. Even getting close enough to this man Matthew Richardson to see if he was Knox or not would be hard, though the man in charge of the salvage certainly seemed to enjoy his publicity, so maybe Boris could claim to be a journalist or something, request an interview. But better by far if he could somehow coax Richardson ashore, away from the sanctuary of his friends.
He was musing on ways to achieve this when he looked up to see the man himself strolling along the pavement towards him.
NINE (#ulink_0b59fbb5-b361-5fc9-a1ef-4ccf6d92bee7)
I
A young man in baggy basketball shorts and a tattered Black Sabbath T-shirt was waiting for Rebecca at Tulear Airport, holding up the torn-off side of a cardboard box with her name crudely scrawled in black marker-pen upon it. He looked disconcertingly young, despite his affectations of maturity: the thin moustache, the soft-pack of cigarettes and lighter tucked into his upturned sleeve, the cheap mirror sunglasses pushed up over his long brown hair like an Alice band. Maybe he realised the impression he gave, because he’d barely introduced himself as Zanahary before launching into a manic explanation of what he was doing there: his elder brother had twisted his ankle jumping from the roof of their house and had sent him in his place. He was a very experienced driver, he assured her; very safe. Too weary to make an issue of it, Rebecca retrieved her luggage then led the way out into the sunshine.
The hire car, a gleaming dark-blue and silver Mitsubishi pickup with four spotlights on its roof, at least looked in good shape. It would need to be. She had some business in Tulear to take care of first, but after that it was still a good three hours drive north to the Eden Reserve, over a broken-up sand, mud and rock track. She checked the tyres for tread, then made sure there were spares in the back, along with canisters of fuel, oil and water. Then she opened the passenger door, to be greeted by a blast of hot air. The air-conditioning fans had been ripped out and the dashboard was covered with promotional stickers half-peeled off, leaving ugly strips of white pith everywhere. It stank of cigarette smoke, its ashtrays too bulging to close, and the seats were covered with tacky protective plastic, so that the backs of her legs glued to them at once. Zanahary climbed jauntily in the driver’s side, tapped a cigarette from his soft-pack and raised it to his lips with 1950s chic, elbow high and folded, as though it were an expensive piece of jewellery he wanted to bring casually to her attention.
Rebecca shook her head. ‘No,’ she told him.
‘But—’
‘Not in the car.’
It was just fifteen minutes drive into Tulear. They stopped at a general store for a sack of rice and some other provisions for which she had plans, then drove on to the offices of her father’s long-time lawyer Delpha. He’d been a regular visitor to Eden during her childhood, bringing bags of sweets and wooden dolls he’d carved himself. She’d been intensely fond of him, yet eleven years had passed, and she was apprehensive of her welcome. The receptionist beamed vacantly when she gave her name. Monsieur Delpha was busy at this moment. If madame would please take a seat … But he must have heard her voice, for his office door opened and there he was, older and frailer than she remembered, his hair glowing white, his dark-brown skin sprinkled with fat black freckles. ‘Rebecca?’ he asked, squinting uncertainly across the gloomy reception area. ‘C’est vraiment vows?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s me.’
His face cracked; tears sprang into his eyes. She hugged him for a little while, giving him time to compose himself. He stepped back and dried his eyes. ‘I thought you’d never come home.’ But then his face fell. ‘I only wish the circumstances—’
‘Yes,’ said Rebecca.
‘If there’s anything I can do …’
‘There is, actually.’ She glanced at his receptionist, reluctant to discuss family matters in front of someone she didn’t know. He nodded and led her into his office. The walls were warm with leather-bound books, the half-drawn curtains on the high windows giving it a rather somnolent feel. She sat down, ordered her thoughts. ‘I need help,’ she told him. ‘The trouble is, I don’t know what help. I’ve been away too long. I don’t know anything any more. I mean, is there even a proper search going on? If not, how can I get one started? Who should I talk to? Who can I trust? Who should I bribe? Who should I yell at? Maybe I’ll need a boat for the search. Where’s my father’s? Can I just take it? What about Eden? What about Michel? And those are just the questions I know to ask.’ She shrugged to express how far out of her depth she felt. ‘So I need help.’
Delpha had jotted down notes as she was talking. He glanced over them now, then nodded and leaned back in his chair. ‘You must speak to Andriama about the search and investigation. He is our chief of police here in Tulear.’
‘And can I trust him?’
Delpha considered a moment. ‘I have always found him honest myself. But there are rumours. There are always rumours, you understand. About everybody. About me, too, no doubt. Andriama talks loudly about rooting out corruption in Tulear, yet corruption persists, and every year he adds another room to his house. Maybe these rumours are nothing but envy, or his enemies wishing him harm. He certainly has those. He is not afraid of powerful people.’ Delpha glanced down, then up again. ‘As for your father’s boat, you know it was found drifting by some South African yachtsmen?’
‘Pierre told me.’
‘They’ve claimed salvage rights. Under international maritime law, that entitles them to half the value of the boat. There’ll be other bills to pay too, before the Port Captain will authorise the boat’s release. Customs, immigration, police, that kind of thing. But don’t be alarmed. Your father was insured against all such eventualities. I know; I organised it myself. But the paperwork is at Eden. Bring it to me, and I can have the boat released to you at once.’
‘Thanks.’
He consulted his notes again, then adopted a more sombre look, to let her know he had a difficult subject to broach. ‘You must excuse me for what I am about to say. I mean no ill. I hope and pray your father and sister are alive—’
‘They are alive,’ said Rebecca.
‘… but you must also plan for all eventualities. Your father would expect it.’
‘Yes.’
‘You realise that, as your father’s and your sister’s lawyer, I am forbidden from discussing their affairs with you, at least until they’re—’
‘I understand,’ Rebecca assured him. Delpha’s scrupulousness about such matters was one reason her father had trusted him so completely.
‘But I can discuss hypothetical situations. Imagine a wealthy man, if you will. A man who elects to divide his money equally between those of his children who survive him. One of his sons, Rupert, let’s say, is childless. But the other, Etienne, has a young daughter who will be his beneficiary when he dies. You are with me?’
‘Yes.’ Rupert was clearly Rebecca herself; Etienne Emilia.
‘Good. Now imagine two different courses of events. In the first, the father dies. His wealth is divided between Rupert and Etienne. Then Etienne dies a few days later. The law is clear: Etienne’s share in his father’s wealth passes to his daughter. But now imagine a second course of events, in which Etienne dies before or at the same time as his father. In this instance, all the money will pass straight to the father’s sole surviving son. Etienne’s daughter will inherit nothing.’
Rebecca frowned. It almost seemed that Delpha was advising her how to cheat Michel out of his rightful inheritance; but she knew him too well to believe that. ‘What are you getting at?’ she asked.
‘I am just outlining a legal situation,’ he said. ‘You see, under Malagasy law, if a person’s assets pass on to a child when that child is too young to administer those assets himself, then they will in effect pass in trust to that child’s legal guardian. Typically, their surviving parent.’
‘Ah,’ murmured Rebecca. ‘Pierre.’
‘Of course,’ continued Delpha, ‘if that parent has the child’s best interests at heart, then there is no problem.’
‘And Pierre doesn’t have Michel’s best interests at heart?’
‘That’s not what I said at all,’ said Delpha. ‘I was merely outlining a hypothetical situation.’
Rebecca nodded to let him know she’d got the message. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
II
Boris raised his map to conceal his face until the man had passed him by. He walked on a few paces before glancing around, saw him hurry up the broken front steps of a local bank. It was Knox; Boris was sure of it. The jaunty athleticism of his walk, the set of his jaw, his hairline. More than that, it was a gift from the gods. It might be days or even weeks before he got another chance this good.
But how to take advantage of it without getting caught?
There was no time to fetch Davit—not that he’d be any help at this kind of work anyway. He checked his pocket to make sure he’d brought his camera-phone with him, for he’d need to take some footage to keep Ilya happy, then he hurried back to the camping store, concocting a plan on the hoof. He bought a six-inch hunting knife with a serrated blade, a day-pack, a baseball cap and the groundsheet for a tent. He packed his book and map into the day-pack, slung it on his back. He removed the groundsheet from its packaging, flapped it out and draped it over his left shoulder, the quicker to deploy. He checked his reflection in a shop window, tugged the peak of his baseball cap down over his eyes as he walked across the street to lean against a wall from which he could monitor the bank’s front doors.
Then he set himself to wait for Knox to come back out.
TEN (#ulink_025a99a7-92f7-5bb1-94fe-3b13b6575ef0)
I
There had been times, these past few months, when Davit Kipshidze had seriously considered killing himself. Perversely, he’d been okay in jail in Greece. Back then, he’d had hope. After all, the Nergadzes had vowed to spring him and bring him home. Since they’d made good on their promise, however, he’d slowly come to realise that his old life was forever lost to him, and he hated the one that had taken its place. He was a gregarious man by nature, he needed friends and family around. But the police were watching his friends and family in case he showed up, so he couldn’t risk seeing them any more, for their sake as much as his. He therefore sat alone for days on end in his cramped first-floor apartment, watching TV and listening nervously to cars and the chatter of pedestrians passing by outside.
Lounging on the porch of his beach hut, he stared out over shimmering white sand down to the gentle breakers of the sea. How good sunshine felt after a long winter. How good it felt not to fear the knock upon his door.
Claudia appeared around the edge of his cabin, carrying clean sheets and a broom. She smiled at him as she went inside to strip and change his bed. He stood and went to watch. The view of the sea was nice, but it couldn’t compete with a young and pretty woman. ‘So how come you speak such good English?’ he asked.
She looked around. ‘I live with nice American family,’ she beamed. She held up her right hand, splayed her fingers. ‘Five years.’
‘In America?’ he frowned.
‘In Tulear,’ she told him. ‘A big town south of here. They have this big, big house there for all the children who have no mothers and fathers.’
‘An orphanage?’
‘Yes. An orphanage.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he told her.
‘Why sorry?’ she frowned. ‘It nice there. They church people, they very kind, they always have food.’ She nodded at happy memories. ‘I like it there very much.’
‘So why leave?’
She pulled a mock-sad face. ‘I grow old. Many children need a home, not enough beds.’ She looked a little guilelessly up at him. ‘Now everything is work, work, work.’
‘Is that right?’ he laughed.
She laughed too, stuck her tongue out. She had slightly crooked upper front teeth, he noticed, that overlapped just fractionally, like the ankles of a coy bride on her wedding night. His chest went a little warm. He’d missed it sorely, these past two years, the company of a pretty woman.
She finished making his bed then picked up her broom and began to sweep out the cabin. She flicked a little sand at his feet, then again, harder, giving him another of her enchanting smiles, so that he couldn’t possibly take offence. He played along, holding up his hands in mock surrender as he retreated before her assault. She followed him out on to the porch, flicking more sand as she came. He broke into a jig, like in the movies when the baddie with the six-shooter makes the hapless victim dance. It made her laugh so hard that she had to cover her mouth with her hand. She leant forward to sweep beneath the porch bench. Her singlet drooped as she did so, revealing the tattered bra within, tantalising glimpses of flesh and shadow. She looked up and caught him staring, grinned happily.
‘Claudia,’ called out the old man from the hotel compound. ‘Claudia!’
‘I go now,’ she said. ‘I see you later, yes?’
‘I hope so.’ He leaned on the porch rail to watch her leave, and was glad to see her put a little extra swish in her stride, just for him.
II
Knox jogged down the bank’s front steps, exasperated by the absurd paperwork required just to change some euros. But it was done at last. Now for some supplies. He walked across town to a small but lively market, a riot of colourful clothing and sparkling costume jewellery, with produce spread out on rickety wooden tables: yellow-brown bananas, orange-green mandarins, plum tomatoes not quite ripe, clumps of garlic and onions, stubby carrots, creamy white manioc, coconuts both hairy and husked, clutched fists of lettuce, pumpkins, papaya, glistening steel bowls of rice and beans.
The brilliant sun in the unpolluted sky gave the slightly eerie impression of being underwater. Greasy tables of zebu steaks buzzed with fat sapphire-and-emerald flies. Salted sardines glittered like spilled chests of silver coins. A crone sat astride two wicker baskets of orange-red crabs, thrusting her bamboo cane into the writhing intestinal mass, irritating pincers until they snapped and clenched the cane so tightly she could lift them out and shake them off into a bucket. He bought fish, rice and other supplies to eat that night in case they didn’t reach Eden by sunset, added some biscuits and bottled water.
Time to get back to the pirogue. He took a moment to get his bearings. He could see a line of palm trees above some shacks to his right, their fronds swept back like hippies walking into the wind. That had to mark the shore. He set off towards them before catching a glimpse of the beach down the far end of a narrow alley between two lines of huts. He turned and ambled along it, utterly oblivious of the man following a dozen paces behind.
ELEVEN (#ulink_a66dee56-986e-5da7-83a9-4fc6de3d6807)
I
Tulear’s Commissariat Centrale de Police was a yellow two-storey building near the centre of town, its front pockmarked like a war zone. Rebecca asked for Chief of Police Andriama at the desk, and a young man in jeans and a brilliant white short-sleeved shirt took her upstairs to his office and grandly threw open the door. A breeze from the open windows riffled loose papers on the desk, forcing Andriama to slap them down before they scattered. He noticed Rebecca at the same moment, however, and seemed to forget about his papers, springing to his feet and coming over to welcome her, taking her hand in both of his, stroking it like a pet hamster. ‘At your service, madame,’ he beamed, exposing blackened stubs of teeth rotted almost down to the gums. ‘How may I help?’
‘I’m Rebecca Kirkpatrick,’ she told him. ‘I’m here about my father and sister.’
‘Ah. Yes. Of course.’ He instantly let go of her hand, assumed a more sober expression. ‘Such terrible news. Sit. Please sit.’ Like so many Malagasy, he was a cocktail of races: short and wiry like a Polynesian, dark-skinned as an East African, yet with the satin black hair of a Chinese. ‘Such a good man, your father,’ he sighed. ‘Such a good friend to Madagascar. And your sister, too. So young. So pretty. Such a terrible loss.’
‘Loss?’ Rebecca’s heart clenched.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘But surely you appreciate the situation—’
‘Are you giving up already?’
‘Certainly not. We’re doing all we can.’
‘And that is?’
‘My officers have been to your father’s house and the local villages. They have spoken to many, many people, including two fishermen who saw your father’s boat outside the reefs.’ He pulled a face. ‘At least, that’s what they say, but you know the people up there, they’ll say anything to please. After that, nothing until evening when the South Africans found your father’s boat drifting and abandoned. I have copies of their statements, if you want to see?’
‘Please.’
He rummaged through his drawers, produced some poor-quality photocopies of several hand-written pages that she flicked through while he talked. ‘There were some traces of blood on the guard rail and on the deck,’ he said. ‘The university is testing it at this moment. Most likely your father’s or your sister’s, but unless we can check it somehow to make sure …’ He drifted meaningfully to a halt.
She squinted at him. ‘You want me to get you their blood-type information?’
‘Your father and sister run a clinic up at Eden, don’t they? I’m sure they’ll have records.’
‘I’ll have a look. In the meantime, perhaps you could continue telling me about your search. The helicopters. The boats.’
He smiled politely. ‘You must understand something, Miss Kirkpatrick. Madagascar is a poor country. Tulear is its poorest region. Even at the best of times, our resources are strained. This is far from the best of times. Besides, whatever has happened to your father and sister, it is almost certainly not a police matter.’
There was a knock on the door at that moment, and a middle-aged man with lustrous black hair poked in his head. His face lit up when he saw Rebecca. He was Mustafa Habib, he told her, advancing uninvited into the room, an excellent friend of her father’s. Rebecca wouldn’t remember him herself, but he’d known her as a child. She did remember him, as it happened; an import–export trader who’d procured obscure equipment for her father. When she told him so, his eyes gleamed with pleasure. He took a card from his wallet. ‘If there’s anything I can do. Anything at all.’ He coughed diffidently. ‘I know this is indelicate, but I must say it all the same. Unfortunate personal experience taught me how painful it can be to arrange … sensitive matters in foreign countries. If you should need any help at all, it would be a privilege. Your family has done so much for our country.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You have transport? A driver?’
‘Yes.’
‘A place to stay? My own home is of course humble, but you would honour us with your—’
‘I’ll be staying at Pierre’s.’ There was little she could achieve in Eden tonight, and she was anxious to meet her nephew, make sure he was safe. ‘Then home tomorrow.’
‘Of course.’
She turned back to Andriama. ‘You were telling me how my father’s disappearance wasn’t of interest to you.’
Andriama sighed. ‘All I said was that it’s probably not a police matter. Our coast here is treacherous, all these tides and currents and reefs. When you were younger, you must have seen for yourself the occasional freak wave. They can come out of even the calmest seas and catch the most experienced fishermen by surprise. Why not your father and your sister?’
‘So you’re not even considering kidnap or robbery?’
‘Of course we consider such things. But your father was not wealthy enough to kidnap, and sensible kidnappers would surely have taken hostage either your father or your sister, so that the other could be free to put the ransom together. Anyway, wouldn’t we have had a demand by now? As for robbery, your father and sister were well known and loved along the coast. Everybody knew they’d share what they had for the asking. It would have been fady to rob them. You know fady? Forbidden.’
