Hot Ice (17 page)

She has blundered out of Soweto by the most direct route, moving east into farmland, they tell her with the help of a map. Their neighbouring farmer, plagued by stock theft, took pot shots at her, not aiming to hit at all, not now in the new South Africa, they explain carefully, but just to warn her. He’d phoned to wake the neighbours, which was why Steve was looking for an intruder when he found her outside their garden fence.

Chris tries out her story. She’s a writer. She came to research a book on diamonds. She brought the address of a friend’s former maid because she’d promised to look her up, but she couldn’t find her. So she hailed a taxi, or what she thought was a taxi, which took her to the square where they tied her. She couldn’t see their faces so how could she identify the guards? Fortunately, she managed to escape.

‘You will never know how fortunate you are,’ Steve repeats. He is shocked and upset.

The police soon arrive, but they seem to find her story unbelievable.

‘Why does it seem so strange to you?’

The Inspector shrugs. ‘These kangaroo courts try to do an honest job. The punishments are harsh,
but they’re helping to keep down crime. They have never picked on tourists. They deal with local, petty criminals, but now they’re guilty of murder. We turned a blind eye to floggings for rape and theft. What did their so-called magistrate look like? Can you describe him?’

‘No. It was pitch black. They had a few lanterns, but I was pushed behind the trees.’

‘What was the address you were given?’ the sergeant cut in.

‘I don’t have it. It was in my handbag.’

‘Passport…money…ticket…all lost?’

‘Everything.’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll take you to the British Consul tomorrow. Can’t you remember any part of the address?’

‘Not now. Perhaps when I’m not so shocked I’ll remember. Or else I could contact my friend.’

‘Were you molested or hurt in any way,’ the Inspector asks, looking embarrassed.

‘No. I was chased and shot at, but I wasn’t attacked in any way.’ Chris fields his questions agilely.

Eventually the police take her back to the hotel dressed in Melanie’s pyjamas and dressing gown, with her bundle of tattered clothes in a carrier bag. They will collect her in the morning and take her to headquarters, they assure her.

At last she’s alone and back in her room. Shuddering, she throws herself on the bed.

Not now. Don’t think about it now. Don’t remember. This is no time for delayed shock. The here and now is for keeping your wits about you.

She bathes, changes, packs, retrieves her private papers, credit cards, traveller’s cheques and passport from the safe in her room and pushes them in her pockets. She’s lost her handbag containing loose cash, that’s all. She can buy another bag. She has to leave at once, or she’ll be delayed here for days while the police make their ponderous investigations. Freeman might get bail or be deported. This is her last chance to find him.

Leaving cash for the porter to launder and post the night clothes back to Melanie, she checks out and takes a cab to the airport, where she paces the departure lounge, half expecting to be discovered and escorted back to the city ‘to assist with their enquiries’. She’s witness to a murder trial and this could prove time-consuming. By six-thirty a.m. she’s boarding the early morning flight to Windhoek. She pauses on the steps and looks around. The first grey light of dawn is breaking on the eastern horizon. By the time the plane takes off, the sky is a backdrop of crimson and mauve, so beautiful that it brings goose-pimples to her skin.

As the plane takes off she relaxes and closes her eyes, but all at once she is reliving the night’s drama. She jerks into wakefulness.

Not yet! There’s work to be done. She pushes the tormenting images out of sight into the bog at
the bottom of her mind. It pays to get tough with yourself from time to time, Chris decides. She can’t afford to sleep, so she turns her attention to writing her report.

 Chris feels light-headed as she steps off the plane into the glare of the African sunlight, not dizzy at all, but not really there…as if she’s watching herself on a digital screen. She passes through passport control, retrieves her case, hires a car at the Avis counter and buys a map at the airport bookshop, but still she can’t shake off a sense of unreality.

It is ten a.m. by the time she emerges from the airport and walks across the Avis car park towards her car. The air is so hot it scorches her lungs. Chris resorts to short, shallow gasps. Her eyes burn, her lips crack and the mucous in her nose turns to stalagmites that pierce her tender skin. It is the hottest, driest day she has ever experienced. Perspiration trickles between her shoulder blades, her hair is sticking to her scalp and forehead and she’s longing for some ice-cold water.

There is only one road outside the airport with a
sign pointing towards Windhoek. Ten-foot high wire fences line the road on either side, but she wonders why, since there is nothing beyond but flat gravel plains with no sign of life except the occasional thorn bush. Then, out of the shimmering haze, a herd of Kudu races towards her. She brakes, sensing a massacre as they near the fence at breakneck speed, but suddenly they’re airborne, soaring in a high arc, to land in the road only a few feet ahead of her. A split second later they leap gracefully over the next fence and disappear into the haze. Long after they are gone, Chris can still hear their pounding feet and remember the strength and beauty of each of them as they sailed overhead. Dazed and disbelieving, Chris starts the engine and drives on.

Windhoek is a curiously diverse city, where modern high-rise office blocks contrast with the graceful lines of traditional German architecture. At least the Holiday Inn Hotel holds no surprises, welcoming her with it’s familiarity. Chris books in, showers, changes into a beige safari suit and finds the prison on the map. Fortunately, it’s not far away.

How can she convince Freeman that she had nothing to do with his arrest? That’s the problem uppermost in her mind as she drives towards the prison. And who shopped him? Who wants Freeman put away that badly? Clearly it must be
the same criminals who set him up for Ben’s murder. That makes sense. Perhaps she will be able to convince Freeman that it’s in his interest to help her to expose this criminal gang. Only then can he look forward to a safe future.

She is stopped at the gate by a guard, directed to a car park and lead into a small annex where the shutters are barred and it’s surprisingly cool, despite the lack of air conditioning. She fills in a form giving brief personal details and her reason for visiting Moses Freeman. Her bag is searched, she empties her pockets and passes through a metal detector. She is directed to a swing door. Chris retrieves her bag and walks into an adjoining hall.

It’s like wading into pea soup. Trying not to gag at the fetid air, she joins a long queue of prisoners’ relatives and friends sitting on rows of benches. After half an hour, she wonders how long she will be able to take it. By the look of things she’ll be here all day. It’s a dismal place. The women look tired and unhappy. Several of them are carrying babies on their backs. Time passes, the seconds tick past ever more slowly and the children’s wails intensify. There is no water and Chris longs to go out and buy some, but she’s afraid of losing her place in the queue.

By three p.m. Chris is worrying that she might pass out with the unaccustomed heat and her lack of sleep, but shortly afterwards she is called out of the queue by an officious warder and taken to a
large, bare room where she stands between two tubular railings, with armed guards watching every movement. The room is split in half by a steel mesh partition, with benches and chairs on either side.

Every detail is impressed on her mind: the prisoners sitting in a row behind the grid, looking emaciated in their khaki shorts and T-shirts. So many melodramas are being played out here, as the guards, bored and sweating, watch impassively. A young man is lead back to the cells, while his visitor, who is probably his grandmother, wipes her eyes and stumbles away. The clank of the boy’s leg irons and the old woman’s sobs will haunt her, Chris knows.

It’s her turn. A guard is beckoning to her. She walks forward and sits in the vacant chair facing the grid where she waits…and waits… She knows she’s been pulled to the front of the queue. Is that because she’s white? She feels guilty. Hearing the clanks that precede each prisoner, she looks up and sees an old man in regulation shorts and top, shuffling towards her. Can this be Moses Freeman? Without his jewellery, top hat and sideburns, and with his beard and hair shaved off, he looks old and nondescript…until he catches sight of Chris. Then his rage is awe-inspiring. Taking his guards by surprise, he lurches forward and hammers his fists against the grid. A tirade of words brings phlegm flying from his mouth. His eyes look wild, his nostrils expand as he shouts obscenities at her. A
baton crack on his right ear dazes him, but nothing can quieten him. Yelling with rage, he is dragged back to the cells.

‘He doesn’t want to see you. Move along, Madam,’ the guard explains unnecessarily.

All this way for nothing. She won’t get another chance. Now what? She has no clear idea of how she can go forward without Freeman’s help.

A female guard is waiting to collect her.

‘Come this way, please, Miss Winters, the governor wishes to see you.’

Still longing for a glass of water, she is deposited on a hard wooden bench outside the governor’s office. She can feel the sweat trickling down her back and her hair is damp and falling over her forehead. She must look a sight. She tries to smooth her hair into place.

Half an hour later she is shown into a cool and pleasant room where white sun-filter curtains flutter in the blast from the air conditioning. Raffia mats on the floor fill the room with their pungent odour.

‘Miss Winters, I must apologise for making you wait…’ Whether the prison governor notices her distress or not Chris can’t tell. Perhaps he does, for he searches around the room until he finds what he is looking for, a fridge disguised as a filing cupboard. He’s not sure which way the door opens, but he soon finds out.

‘Got it. Please sit down. There are only two options – Coke or cold water?’

‘Cold water, please.’

This isn’t his office, so he isn’t the prison governor. He’s not an African either, but he’s swarthy. She admires his beautiful hands while he fills a glass and hands it to her before placing a jug of water beside her.

‘You’re not used to this kind of heat. It can lead to kidney failure if you become dehydrated. Be careful. Drink a lot of water while you’re here…as much as you can, and keep a bottle of water in your car.’

He is a lean, sinewy man in his mid-thirties, she guesses. The deep lines on his face suggest years in the African sun. He’s ugly, but he’s got good eyes, clear and decisive and very shrewd. His hair is
blue-black
, the kind of black you see in Spain and parts of France.

‘I apologise for the scene you witnessed. We wanted to see Freeman’s reaction when he saw you. Tell me, Miss Winters, why does he think you betrayed him?’

Chris sighs. ‘I don’t know. I really need to see him. I came all the way from London for that reason. I had no idea he’d been arrested until I arrived in Johannesburg.’

‘To see his sister in Soweto.’

It’s a statement, not a question, and Chris tries not to show how startled she feels.

‘Tell me, Miss Winters, why did you risk your life by going to Soweto at night to see Moses Freeman’s sister? What is your connection with this man?’ Suddenly he is watchful and very hostile.

‘Why should I answer any of your questions. I don’t even know who you are. You’re not the prison governor, I’m sure of that.’

‘No, I’m not. I’ve borrowed his office because it’s cool. He does himself proud, don’t you agree?’

‘It’s a pleasant room. Who are you?’

He shrugs. ‘You have a right to know who’s questioning you.’ He flashes a South African police badge in front of her. It is quickly withdrawn, but not before she’s read:
DI Petrus Joubert, Gold and Diamond Fraud Squad.

‘Now please answer my question.’

Chris turns the question over in her mind. Ben had warned her to avoid the hindrance of a police investigation if possible, but in this case it seems wise to try to enlist the detective’s support. After all, they are both on the same side.

She produces her card. ‘I’m here to investigate diamond laundering on behalf of our client, the government of the Republic of Congo.’ She sits back, hoping to see his shock, but his dour expression doesn’t change.

‘I didn’t know what you were investigating. I assumed it was Freeman’s alleged fraud.’

‘No.’

‘May I have your passport, Miss Winters?’

She passes it to him and Joubert leaves the room. The next ten minutes pass slowly as Chris worries if she’ll get her passport back. He returns looking more relaxed. He even smiles as he hands over the precious document.

‘I’ll save time by telling you that I know what happened in Soweto. Why did you slip out of the country so sneakily?’

Chris considers the question. They must have questioned Grace Tweneni. How else could they know that Freeman had been arrested and that she would come straight here to see him?

‘I had to move fast. Freeman might have got bail, or been deported. How bad are the charges?’

‘Before I answer that, tell me what you know about Freeman.’

‘Freeman has received two and a half million dollars from an Arab bank in order set up diamond polishing workshops in Liberia. Naturally, I first thought that he was a man with a vision who was longing to move his country into the twenty-first century. Later our New York office checked in Liberia and found that there are no workshops.’

‘And you passed on the information to Prince Husam.’

‘Actually, no. He isn’t one of our clients.’

‘Of course.’ He smiles cynically. ‘Freeman is a man with a vision. I’ll grant you that. His vision is himself as a millionaire, living it up in the South of France with his loot in a numbered account in
Geneva. He has a family house in Liberia where his wife and four children live in style, but he spends most of his time in his Monaco apartment with his beautiful Portuguese mistress. Millions are involved. He could get life. The Liberian authorities are trying to force his extradition and since we are fellow members of the African Union we may have to comply with their wishes.’

‘But why does he blame me for his arrest?’ Chris asks suddenly.

‘He is convinced that you informed Prince Husam Ibn al-Faisal that there were no such workshops.’

‘I didn’t. To tell the truth, I assumed that he and the prince were in it together, using massive cash withdrawals to buy illicit diamonds.’

‘It’s an interesting theory.’ He shrugs. ‘We all know that Africa’s raw materials should be used to create skilled jobs for the people, rather than making profits for multinationals. Apart from the investment Freeman received from the prince, he was also given a substantial grant from the Liberian government. They can’t wait to see him behind bars.’

The DI drains his coke and puts the glass down with a crack. He’s on a short fuse, Chris decides. Or is there more to it?

‘Listen! This will surprise you. Moses Freeman was once my colleague. In Namibia he is thought of as a patriot, so that might help him. He was a
renowned Freedom Fighter and a genius at raising funds.’ He changes his tone abruptly. ‘Of course, that was a long time ago.’

She listens carefully. He’s smart and he’s on her side, for reasons she doesn’t understand. She says: ‘I didn’t suss him out at all. I’m embarrassed. I knew he had his hand in the till, but I thought it was small time.’

‘Unfortunately Freeman has a large circle of ex-comrades in Namibia. Your life could be in danger. Please be very careful, Miss Winters. The sooner you return to London, the better.’

‘So what’s new,’ she says sadly.

‘Arab bankers have been good to Africa,’ Joubert is saying. ‘Millions of Arab dollars are invested annually all over the continent. The money is helping us to create a strong middle class.’ He sighs. ‘OK, let’s get back to you. Freeman is under the impression that you were working for Prince Husam.’

‘I did, but only for a few days. It was part of my investigation. Later, I pretended I was working for Husam when I saw Freeman in New York.’

‘How did you get the job…just when you needed it?’

‘I can’t disclose…’

‘Nevermind,’ he interrupts her curtly. ‘I don’t suppose a beautiful woman like you has any difficulty landing a job with whomsoever you wish to investigate.’

She frowns at his obvious disapproval.

‘Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. So what is so important that you risked your life to see Freeman? Surely not for diamond laundering?’

‘I can’t disclose…’

Joubert swears. ‘Trust me. I might be able to get some information for you when I question him.’

‘OK. A friend has been kidnapped, another, Ben Searle, was murdered. Ben was my boss and he’d been working on this investigation for three months.’

‘But you have Scotland Yard.’

‘True, but any small lead that I come across might help them to find Sienna, the girl who’s been kidnapped. Moses Freeman knows exactly who is responsible for laundering most of the blood diamonds that are finding their way into Western markets.

‘A reliable informer told me that when Freeman was in prison he conscripted fellow convicts to be his agents. I need their names. When Namibia gained independence, Freeman opted out of the organisation, but it carried on purely for the profit motive.’

‘It makes sense. I think I can help you. Just names. Is that all you want?’

‘That would be better than nothing.’

‘I might be able to persuade the governor to let you examine prison records for the period when Freeman was imprisoned in Windhoek.’

Chris brightens. ‘Are they computerised?’

‘Of course, but no print-outs, I’m afraid. You’ll have to write the names down. I don’t want any records lying around.’ For a few moments he sits staring at Chris as if in a trance. Then he snaps to attention. ‘Our prison records are in a centralised office… I’ll arrange a permit for you. How about tomorrow morning at eight?’