Shilo's Secret (22 page)

His lucky break came at last. His impatient lady witness called him.

“Corbett here,” he said casually.

“Why haven’t you arrested him yet? I told you who he was.” The woman’s voice was abrupt and crisp and smacked of opulence.

Corbett froze. It was pennies from heaven. His anonymous letter-writer. “Who’s speaking, madam?” he asked, pencil poised once more.

“Let’s just say I have a vested interest in the welfare of his present girlfriend,” the voice replied.

“You’re not a jealous ex?” he asked, knowing already what the answer would be. Her voice was too old and too refined to be that of a twenty-year old ex-lover.

“Definitely not, she answered indignantly. “I am old enogh to be his mother!”

“Are you family?”

“Never mind who I am,” she replied, “why hasn’t he been put behind bars yet? For goodness sake, you know who he is – do something. Arrest the man!”

“Madam, I need real proof and not just your suspicions. We have the killer’s DNA, but nothing to match it with. We have no concrete proof that it was Lambert-Carr – only what you have told us and we don’t even know who you are. We’re tailing him but it has revealed nothing and we can’t just go around arresting people. If we did – there would be a witch hunt instigated by everyone who bore a grudge.”

“I can get you some of his DNA if you need it.” Her voice was calm and decisive. “Just tell me what you need and I will get it.”

“How on earth are you going to do that?”

“You wait and see,” she said.

“Don’t you do anything illegal, madam,” he said, but she had already put down the phone.  

Oh goodness, Corbett thought, here was a woman who knew nothing about the law who was going to go about gathering DNA. He hoped it did not involve hurting anyone!

                                                                          *

Philip Ogilvy was standing in reception, talking to Rebecca. He smiled when he saw his son walking towards him.

“Dad, I need to talk to you,” he said, still clutching the letter in his hand.

They retired to his father’s office and he shut the door.

“What is it, son?” he asked.

“I’m going to fetch Shilo and bring her back here… if she’ll have me,” he said.

“What?”

“She’s pregnant with my child, and I want to marry her. I’m going to England to get her,” Stratt said, realising how idiotic he must sound. “And if I was you, I’d come and get Dorianne…She’s missing you. It says so here,” he tapped the letter in his hand.

“She’s not pregnant too, is she?” Philip asked in mock surprise.

They both laughed.

“Stratt, Dorianne is coming back here in April. We’re going to talk about it then… see if the period away from each other works, and see what we can work out. But if you need to go and fetch Shilo, you do it, but just make darned sure you’re doing it for the right reasons. Would you have gone if it wasn’t for the baby? Shilo will question that, you know.”

“I would have probably have gone eventually. I love her and she loves me, that’s all that really matters. The problem is I don’t think she’ll survive here… like Iris …” he said, drifting off. “What happens if she won’t come back with me? Or worse, what happens if she does come, hates it and then leaves?”

“Well, since we’re on this subject, there are a few things I need to talk to you about. I’m sixty-five next year, and it’s time I thought about retirement. I have that lovely house in the Cape that your mother and I bought years ago, and that just stands empty… and I think, if all works out with Dori next year, I might just move there, and use the lodge as a holiday place. You can take over completely, and your lovely Shilo can, well, be the Lady of the Manor, as it were.”

“That sounds absolutely perfect… if she’ll come. It will be a god-forsaken, lonely place if I have to run it alone! She has not agreed to anything yet as I did not have the balls to ask her when she was here – selfishly thinking about rejection and being hurt again.. She does not even know that I know about the baby. Her sister told me.”

“Quite a reproductive year for the Delucci girls, I should say. I wonder how Carina will react to this one. Maybe she’ll send them back here again! Then all our problems are solved,” smiled Philip.

“Be serious, Dad. What if she says she can’t live here in the bush? What if she ends up leaving me like Iris did?”

“What if… what if? What will be will be, and you won’t know till you ask, will you? Give Robert a call at South African Airways… he owes me a favour.”

“Dad, am I doing the right thing?” Stratt asked.

“I cannot answer that for you, son. You will only find that answer in your heart.”

Stratt nodded, and he knew what he had to do.

CHAPTER 14

Stratt sat back in the business class seat and gripped the arm rests in trepidation. He hated flying with a passion. He was so dreadfully afraid of taking off, of mid-air problems like turbulence and of course landing.
He did not know why though – he had never had a bad experience – it was just a phobia … and probably too many Hollywood movies about air crashes. But he had a plan: As the giant engines roared and the whole aircraft vibrated and shook, he clutched the gold chain that Shilo had given him in his hand, and closed his eyes and thought of Shilo. Her face loomed before him in his mind’s eye, wonderfully beautiful and flawless. He was going to see Shilo, and this was the only way of getting there.

“Shilo, Shilo,” he breathed as the giant bird took off into the clear night sky.

                                                                *

    The hand-delivered package arrived on Corbett’s desk at nine on the morning of the twenty-third. It contained a used Kleenex, a cotton wool ball with a brown smudge on one side as if it had been used to clean a face and a few strands of dark hair. A short typed note read:

“
Here it is, Corbett. Now arrest the man and stop dilly-dallying! These were taken from his bedroom last night.”

He rushed it over to the laboratory and demanded that the DNA test was a priority and should be seen to immediately. If the DNA matched what they already had from Bernice, then they had their man! He had to move fast. He imagined that the woman’s life might be in danger if she was stealing samples of DNA from a remarkably bright serial killer, and besides, he wanted to relax over Christmas.

   By one o’ clock the results were on his desk. It was an exact match. It was definitely Charles Lambert-Carr. They had their killer! Now they could get a search warrant, without a hitch, for his luxury Kensington apartment and get more proof.

The land lady let him in without a fight. She did not like the man either. So arrogant, so aloof, she had said. Always spoke down to her in his hoity-toity accent. The apartment was fitted out in highly modern functional bachelor furniture. Mostly in black and chrome and glass. The search was unsuccessful at first, just the usual stuff a wealthy bachelor might have. Lots of hi-tech electronics, an expensive collection of DVDs, thousands of Pounds worth of imported spirits, crystal glasses -  and then there were girly magazines on the coffee table, but nothing suspicious or pornographic. Then he entered the study. There on a pinboard were newspaper reports about the murders, and a giant map of Great Britain heralded drawing pins in every town he had found his unfortunate victims and more: Perhaps places of undiscovered murders or future sites. There was also a scrap book in the drawer with newspaper reports on all the murders and the speculation that had followed, including a picture of Corbett with a bright red cross drawn across his face in a permanent marker. A similar cross was scrawled across the face of Bernice smiling from her hospital bed. They had him. There was no doubt at all in his heart. Who was this mystery lady though, who had wanted this man put away so badly?

                                                                     *

   It was three o’ clock on Christmas Eve when the Lufthansa aeroplane touched down at a dark and dismal Heathrow. Stratt had caught a South African Airways flight to Frankfurt and then a connecting flight to London. Robert had really gone out of his way to organise a ticket for him, as all flights were packed to capacity in this peak time as people flew home for Christmas or to be with family over the festive season.

  Armed only with a small rolling suitcase and a haversack, Stratt stood in a flurry of snowflakes hailing a cab.

“Where to mate?” a congenial taxi driver asked, as he swung into the curb in his black, antiquated black cab.

“Cairnsway in Somerset,” Stratt answered.

   The cab driver placed his suitcase in the trunk, while Stratt climbed into the rear seat, rubbing his hands together briskly to get them warm. God it was frigid!

   The drive towards central London on the freeway was magical. The city itself was like something from another world. Scenes from a thousand Christmas cards flashed through his mind, as the snow rested on buildings and trees. Christmas lights and decorated windows glimmered in the semi-darkness. Huge neon billboards flashed Christmas messages and the high streets were bustling with last minute shoppers, huddled up against the cold in warm coats, mufflers, woolen hats and scarves, and entering and exiting beautifully decorated stores from the gleaming, wet sidewalks. The Thames lay grey and bleak, and a single tugboat carved its way through the icy waters, leaving behind it a streak of grubby, white foam. It was like something out of a Dickensian novel.

   Christmas in Africa was very different. In the height of summer, people had to force themselves to eat the hot turkey and all the trimmings; the flaming plum pudding with homemade vanilla custard; and they lolled around in bathing suits by the pool side and paradoxically imitated a European Christmas with artificial fir trees and canned snow and ornaments of sleighs, and snowmen. Christmas cards with snowy landscapes were sent to each other and Father Christmas sweltered in red fur-lined suits in the shopping malls when it was thirty-eight degrees in the shade. Christmas was different and very lovely in a cold climate, with gently falling snowflakes fluttering at the windows of cosy parlours in which people sipped sherries, eggnog or hot toddies around roaring log fires, kissed under the mistletoe and unwrapped presents to the sounds of groups of revelers who braved the inclement weather singing traditional carols door to door.

Cairnsway was an impressive abode set at the end of a long, sweeping driveway. Built in the late 1800’s, the stone edifice was a stately manor and reeked of old money. Stratt felt a flutter of excitement as the cab swept to a halt in front of the steps leading to the glass-paned front door.

   A huge but tasteful wreath of twisted sticks and holly and finished off with a large tartan bow, decorated the door. A butler answered his urgent knocking.

“Is Shilo here?” he asked, forgetting formalities.

The butler seemed indignant at his unexpected intrusion.

“No, Lady Delucci has accompanied her parents to a Christmas ball.”

Stratt’s heart sank – he had not considered that she might be out.  But, after all, it was Christmas Eve, and she did not know he was here.

“Where is this ball?” Stratt asked.

“Who wants to know?” the butler retorted.

“Doctor Stratford Ogilvy,” Stratt answered, mocking the butler’s formality, and then he added: “I am a very close friend of Lady Delucci from South Africa.”

“It is at the Castle Hall in Kensington, sir,” the butler answered.

“Can someone take me there?” Stratt asked, “I can assure you Madame Shilo will want to see me.”

“Forgive me, sir, for being so bold, but you cannot attend a ball dressed like that.”

He indicated to Stratt’s jeans, heavy boots and snow-flecked duffel coat.