Hot Ice (18 page)

‘I’m truly grateful.’

‘They’re just names. No addresses. It’ll be a hell of a job to trace any of them after this time lapse. By the way…I must warn you that the information you gave me will go to the Johannesburg police. They’re annoyed with you.’ He looks worried and this throws her.

‘Yes, but I had other priorities.’ Chris doesn’t intend to reveal her need to put as much distance as possible between herself and Soweto.

‘Good luck. If I get anything from Freeman I’ll call you later at the Holiday Inn Hotel.’

‘But not tonight. Tonight I’m catching up on my sleep. I haven’t had much lately.’

‘That sounds like an invitation for tomorrow. How about dinner?’

She smiles. ‘I’m in your debt. Please come to dinner as my guest. Shall we say at seven p.m.?’

‘On the condition that you let me buy the drinks.’ He looks bashful and apologetic and then aloof as he calls a guard to see her off the premises. What a strange, complex man he is, Chris thinks as she drives back to the hotel.

Chris is beginning to understand that an investigation is like knocking a domino over so that it hits the next one…and the next…until you move right down the line. She can’t wait to get hold of the list of Freeman’s fellow convicts. Surely one of them will lead her to further disclosures. So what then? That’s where the truth lies, she answers herself. And you better believe it.

Chris is waiting outside the prison archives with her laptop and a bottle of water before they open. The head librarian goes out of her way to be helpful and she is given a desk to herself in an air-conditioned room. Thousands of men were imprisoned in Windhoek prison during the five years Freeman spent there, from 1975 to 1980. Their crimes were murder, breaking and entering, robbery with violence, theft and rape, but overwhelm-ingly the charge sheet states: political sabotage. To her surprise, illicit diamond dealing is also high on the list.

Although Mohsen Sheik’s detective was positive that this is not a Muslim organisation, Chris can’t be sure he is right, so she is typing the name of every man whose sentence is related to diamonds. It is a long and boring job and Chris works straight through until her neck aches and her eyes burn. She finishes at four p.m., just before the archives close for the day.

Stepping outside is like walking into a sauna. Driving due west towards Windhoek, the sun remains poised dead centre over the road, creating mirages of blinding, reflective pools just ahead. After ten minutes she has a headache so she pulls on to the gravel verge, takes out her notebook, and jots down a few ideas.

After a while she begins to think about Jim and the way he had been on the night he tackled the stalker, who turned out not to be a stalker after all. Jim had excited her almost beyond control. But he had lied to her. Yet knowing this and despite David’s many warnings, she still lusts after him and she despises herself for it.

It’s an effort to switch her mind from Jim and consider her progress. She has a hundred and fifty names so far. If her theory is right, any one of the names in her laptop might lead her to the criminal gang. But how on earth is she to start on this mammoth undertaking? Then she has an idea. She will check the names against the local newspaper’s files. Some of them might have been in the news.

The sun continues its fall towards the horizon. It’s lying along the road, as if melting into a large crimson blob, blinding anyone foolish enough to drive due west. The air becomes slightly more bearable, and the landscape even lonelier. But suddenly she’s not alone. A group of Herero women, tall and magnificent in their floral crinolines, bright blouses, with scarves over their
heads, sway in unison towards the prison. A handful of karakul sheep appear in the midst of the stony plateau behind her. Chris puts down her notebook and gazes at the vast plains shining like gold in the setting sun. A strange twilight suffuses the land. Glancing along the road, she sees the sun disappearing rapidly. Suddenly it’s gone, leaving a pale green tinge to the sky. She blinks, waiting for her eyes to recover before driving on. The karakul have vanished into the evening mist, there’s not a person or animal to be seen, only these vast plains of flat, infertile soil under the darkening sky. Chris starts the engine and drives back on to the road feeling strangely moved.

At the hotel there is a hand-delivered, sealed envelope in her key locker. She walks to the balcony, orders a fruit juice and opens the envelope. The message reads:
I’ll be in your hotel bar at seven. I have news for you. P Joubert.

She’s looking forward to getting more information. She badly needs a push in the right direction, she considers sadly as she goes up to her room. The hotel pool is large, brightly lit and it glitters invitingly. From her balcony, she can smell the chlorine and hear the splashes. Chris hadn’t thought to pack a bikini, but she finds one at the hotel’s shop near the pool. Rushing back upstairs, she showers and changes and spends the next hour in the pool making up for days of tension. She feels great by the time she has showered. She has only
packed one outfit for dinner, a sparkling blue top and navy silk trousers. She gives herself a critical check in the mirror. Better than yesterday, but not quite back to normal yet. Spraying perfume around her, she hurries down to meet Joubert in the bar.

They sit on the balcony overlooking the pool. The starlight is magical, almost like moonlight. It tarnishes the swarthy skin of her companion and shines on his blue-black hair. Chris has never seen stars so big and bright before. It seems as if she’s viewing the sky through a wide-angle telescope.

‘So this is what you really look like.’ His eyes are level and shrewd and a gentle warmth lingers. ‘Now I can guess what a bad time you had in Soweto. You must take more care, Miss Winters. We fight a war here between the haves and the have-nots, and it takes place in dark alleys and lonely places. Make no mistake, everyone is on one side or the other. There’s no such thing as a
non-contender
in Africa.’

‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating.’ She feels resentful. He is spoiling the magic of the night.

‘How did it go today?’ Joubert asks.

Reluctantly Chris drags her mind back to work. ‘I have the names of one hundred and fifty men who were convicted of crimes related to diamonds during the time Freeman was incarcerated here.’

Petrus’ eyes reveal his scepticism. ‘I’m curious to know why you’re so sure that these ex-convicts are
somehow connected with your diamond launderers. Think of the organisation that’s needed and the cash outlay to buy the diamonds. I’d put my money on al-Qaeda.’

‘You might be right. That’s what my colleague…’ she breaks off feeling unwilling to talk about Ben.

Petrus leans back and watches her with a quizzical expression. ‘I have some information for you which backs my intuition. I decided to squeeze our friend…’

She gasps momentarily.

‘Remember Soweto! Don’t you want to hit back?’

‘No. How can you fight cruelty with more cruelty?’ She shudders.

Petrus is openly laughing at her. ‘Don’t worry. A couple of shocks are good for depression, I’ve heard.’

He grins to show he’s only joking, but Chris isn’t convinced. ‘I’m sorry. Please carry on.’

‘Moses Freeman is a bitter man. He needs to hit out at someone within reach and you are the one he chose, but he’s had time to think things over. He’s come to the conclusion that you didn’t betray him after all. How could you know whether or not the workshops exist since you have never visited his country. Freeman believes that Prince Husam is linked to Bin Laden and that they are cooperating on diamond laundering and have set up an extensive network of agents all over Africa in order to finance local coups.’

She shrugs. ‘It’s a good theory.’

‘Well, my job is to investigate Freeman, that’s all. I’m leaving for Liberia early tomorrow morning to search for any signs of business activity. If I don’t find any, Freeman’s in big trouble.’

‘I don’t understand why anyone would want to shop Freeman. He’s small fry.’

‘Exactly my next question to him. Freeman replied that he knows too much. If he hadn’t had a very public alibi in New York – he was in a snooker tournament and up to a hundred people saw him there – he would have been arrested for murder and I doubt he would ever have left prison.’

‘He told you that?’

‘In a roundabout sort of way.’

‘He seems to have said a great many things.’

Her implied criticism hits home. Petrus flushes deeply.

Chris has the feeling she’s offended the inspector. She wonders what to say next, but nothing comes to mind. Their forced small talk is worse than a long silence, she feels. Eventually she tries to explain: ‘Our worlds are so different. I sense that you are a good man forced to do things you don’t like. I do apologise for being suspicious and
overcritical
.’

He smiles sadly. ‘I don’t often drink much, but tonight’s one of those nights when I need to get drunk. It’s the interrogation… Unless I drink, I have nightmares all night…sometimes for weeks. I can’t
stand their pain. It’s a part of my job that I hate, but there’s no other way to get information out of men like Freeman.’

She listens in growing horror while he tells her of the torture school he once attended as part of his training before he joined the fraud squad.

‘Listen,’ he says. He reaches out and clasps her hand, holding on too tightly. ‘It was nothing serious. Believe me! A couple of shocks. Freeman raved a bit for a while. He said: “Do your worst. What does it matter? When I get out of here that fucking accountant will put out my light.” This “accountant” is someone Freeman fears greatly, but I couldn’t get his name. Maybe that will come in handy.’

By the time they examine the menus, Petrus is on his third double vodka and Chris is feeling uneasy. Despite her misgiving, she enjoys his company. Petrus is clever, romantic and a fabulous dancer. He even sings to her, translating the songs the band are playing into English.

Much later, when they are having coffee on the balcony and the staff are stacking the tables and chairs around them, Chris says: ‘I’ve been wondering about your roots, Petrus. I’m not familiar with your name. Are you French, or Portuguese perhaps?’

‘My roots…’ A burst of hilarity surges out of him. ‘Only a dumb girl from London would ask
such a question. At a guess I would say Xhosa, Malay, Dutch, French, for sure, because of my name, and just about every nationality whose ships ever put into Cape Town’s harbour. Come on. One last dance. Then I must go. It’s past three a.m. and I leave for Liberia at six.’

‘Thank you for helping me, Petrus,’ she says as he leaves.

‘Good luck,’ he turns away, but moments later he turns back. ‘Look here, Chris…’ He takes out a card and scribbles on it. ‘Don’t lose this…at least not until you quit Africa. This is my private mobile number. Try to keep out of trouble, but if you get in a fix call me…day or night. I can always get through to the police wherever you are.’

She examines his face gravely. She can see that he means it and she finds his promise comforting. He steps forward and hugs her. For an age they stay that way, swaying slightly, and then he releases her, turns and hurries across the foyer. She is left with a strange empty feeling at the way so many good friends pass by and are never seen again.

The
Namibia News
library opens to the public at nine, but Chris had telephoned the previous afternoon and so she is let in at eight. She settles down in comfortable air conditioning with her laptop and her bottle of water. This is so easy. She has only to type in each name and the computer does the searching. She can even dream of the hotel pool: cool, fragrant and inviting, where she guesses she’ll be swimming by noon. Her dreams crash when she reaches 1980. Before that year there is nothing at all.

‘That’s when we computerised,’ the librarian tells her, looking smug. ‘Prior to the Eighties, we only have old newspapers for records…different name, different format. You’ll find it tough going, but you can search back as far as the First Word War, if you like.’

‘The Seventies will do me.’

Page by dusty page, Chris doggedly reads every
word of every column, checking each name against her long list of prison inmates. The old pages are mellow with age and dust and she is soon plagued with sneezes and burning eyes. By the end of the day she has only reached back to January, 1985. At this rate, it will take her three days at least, she reckons.

By the end of the second day Chris has reached back to June, 1979. She’s just about given up hope, when she comes across a name that seems familiar:
Herman Visser
. Her hands are shaking as she checks on her list. There it is. A name, at last! She turns back to the report, which came from the newspaper’s Swakopmund corres- pondent. He vividly described the wrecking of a
company-owned
diamond dredger,
Rainbow’s End, en route
to Walvis Bay from Port Nolloth during a bad storm.
A Dutch deep sea diver, Herman Visser, is missing, believed drowned, together with the boat’s skipper
.

So he’s dead. That’s that. Her disappointment is so great, Chris feels like packing up for the day, but she forces herself to skip through the rest of the report which goes on to describe how the remainder of the crew managed to swim to shore. And then: 

Dan Kelly! But that’s her father’s name. Is this really her father? Chris flinches at seeing his name in print. Her heart is pumping wildly. Can this be true? How many geologists of that name can there be in Namibia? Mum told her he’d been prospecting for diamonds in Namibia prior to ’75 which was when she had last seen him. It must be him. But why…? What did he have to do with Herman Visser? Chris finds she is gasping for breath as her eyes skim the column…

There is nothing else. Chris leans back and rubs her eyes. She feels stunned. Surely that was her father’s age in 1979. It must be him. So what age is he now?
Sixty-one, she calculates. Two years older than her mother. Everything fits. It takes her a few minutes to pull herself together and continue with her work.

It is half past four and near to closing time before Chris finds Visser’s name mentioned again. The dateline is January, 1977. The report reads:
Herman Visser, an accountant from Holland…
Chris feels quite shocked. So he was an accountant, not a deep sea diver by profession. And what was it Freeman had said to Petrus?
‘Do your worst. When I get out of here that fucking accountant will put out my light.’
Two coincidences! She reads on:

There is more, but none of it is relevant. At least she knows where her father was in the Seventies.

Chris drives back to the hotel in a daze. She showers and goes down for a swim, but the pool has lost its enchantment as she monotonously
notches up the lengths in a swift crawl. If Herman Visser is involved, and if indeed he is the accountant whom Freeman fears so much, does that mean that her father is involved in this scam, too? Another thought occurs to her. Can she honestly use company time and cash to search for Dan Kelly? She has to admit that with Visser dead she has only two leads: her father and Ulf Skoog.

So far she has only reached back to 1977. There are three more years to go in the morning. More names might crop up, and more news of Visser.

That night Chris is too anxious to sleep well. By six a.m. she’s back in the pool trying to relieve some of her tension. She arrives at the library at five minutes to eight. The moment she’s let in, she hurries to the archive department where the dusty old newspapers, clipped into wooden frames, hang from chains and hooks. It’s quite an effort to pick up each frame and push it on to the reading shelf above the hooks while clouds of dust rise around her. There are no seats here and she has to stand as she reads. It’s boring work and if there’s one thing Chris can’t stand it’s being bored.

She almost misses the names because they appear in a quasi-legal column, which is written in a racy style by a lawyer whose pen-name is Courtroom Commentator. She very nearly skips this one, because the heading,
Cherchez la Femme
, does not
seem relevant to her search. The column is dated September, 1976, and comments upon a court case, won by Wanee Hendrickse, a black fisherman, against a Windhoek farmer, Piet Van As. The writer has made no attempt to be politically correct, perhaps a sign of the times and the place.

At this stage, Chris’s concentration is wavering, but the next sentence brings her attention back fast and sets her heart pumping.

‘My father!’ She mutters. ‘God! What next?’

‘So they really were partners.’ Feverishly, Chris reads on.

This is where the story becomes interesting.

Zuckerman, she ponders. The name is familiar, so when did she hear it before? She can’t remember and it probably isn’t relevant, so she puts the question aside. Feeling desperately sorry for her father, Chris copies, files, and searches back to 1975 but there is no further mention of any of the names on her list.

Chris mulls over what she knows so far as she returns to her hotel. Freeman, once an idealist, conscripted prison inmates to join his group in order to buy and sell rough diamonds to raise funds for his liberation movement. Later the group became so profitable that one or more of his agents forced Freeman out and from then on they hung on
to their profits. Surely Visser was exactly the kind of man Freeman would recruit. He knew diamonds and he was crooked. Being an accountant must have proved useful, too.

But how can he be the accountant that Freeman fears so much now, when he is dead, Chris wonders. Ulf Skoog saw him go under. Or did he?

Ulf Skoog is not on her list since he didn’t do time with Freeman, but there might be something… She types in the name, presses ‘search’ and to her surprise she’s rewarded with any number of mentions. In 1982, three years after the wreck, Skoog set up a boat maintenance business in a hangar adjoining the dry dock with a capital investment of half a million rands. Now how did a first mate save half a million? After that there are many minor mentions: Skoog wins a yacht race, Skoog awarded a medal for life saving at sea, Skoog buys a share in a Botswana mine, Skoog buys an off-shore diving concession. Only three years after the wreck Skoog was in the money. There might be something here. She decides to pay him a visit.

And then there is her father. Surely he must have some insight into what went on at that time, if she could only find him. Perhaps he kept in touch with Visser until he died.
Or perhaps he’s involved
, says a small unwelcome voice in the back of her mind.