The Hunter (6 page)

‘
Ja
. That murder investigation, from the time of the World Cup. The guy I interviewed today was a suspect back then.’

Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘That American fellow? What’s his name?’

‘Brand.’

He slid her drink across the bench top to her. ‘Christo got in trouble again today. He slapped another boy; the teacher called me.’

‘And that’s because I work late?’

He ignored her sarcasm. ‘No, I just wanted to tell you. I’m OK disciplining him, but it would have been nice if you’d been home tonight.’

Sannie heard loud and clear what Tom was leaving unsaid. Christo was not his natural son. Tom obviously felt she needed to be around more for her older children, given the difficult ages they were entering; Christo was thirteen and her daughter two years younger. But Sannie wanted to yell back at her husband,
I also need to be here for Nandi Mnisi, who was brutally raped and murdered.

‘There’s nothing on TV,’ Tom said.

She wondered if that was a peace offering, a hint of intimacy. If so, he had a funny way of going about it. The frequency and intensity of their lovemaking had dropped off sharply since the first year of their marriage, since her return to the job.

‘I don’t get time to review cold cases at work. There’s too much day-to-day stuff, and not enough people or resources,’ she said.

He tipped his bottle of Windhoek Lager to his lips and took several gulps. ‘I’m tired, anyway. There’s still the farm to look after.’

Men
, she thought. It was as if he thought she spent her days at a desk doing her nails. It was so unfair. He
knew
what policing entailed and he seemed to think that because he was through with it that she should be too. Yes, her family was the most important thing in the world to her, but had he completely forgotten what it was like to make a difference to a community, to a country? Crime, whether a murder in a field in Hazyview or corruption at the top levels of government, was the number one problem in her country, and she, for one, wanted to do something about. Couldn’t he see that?

‘I won’t disturb you,’ he said, draining his beer. ‘I’m going to bed to read.’

Sannie took a breath, trying to control her anger. They fought more often these days – hell, they hadn’t fought at all in that first year. She didn’t want raised voices waking the kids. She would look in on them before she went to bed.

Sannie picked up the murder case docket and took it outside, through the sliding screen doors, onto the timber deck. It was a nice night, not too chilly. She sat at the wooden picnic table and sipped her wine as she opened the docket. She would go through the death of Nandi Mnisi again for – what would it be – the hundredth time?

She read the notes and transcripts from the initial interview with Brand, and with the woodcarver. Hannah van Wyk’s testimony in relation to Brand’s alibi was there as well. Perhaps it would be worth visiting her again. Sannie knew the pair were no longer together and time apart may have softened any misplaced loyalty that Van Wyk may have shown to Brand. With the lack of evidence implicating the American guide, and no other leads, her next strongest theory was that the rape and murder had been perpetrated by a foreigner. South Africa had been awash with tourists from all over the world back then, drawn by the FIFA soccer World Cup. Australia had played Serbia on the day of the killing and she had contacted police authorities in those countries to see if there had been any similar killings on their turf. Of course, there had been soccer fans from scores of other countries too, but none of the internet and other searches she and Mavis had done periodically over the years had turned up similar crimes.

It was time to try again, she thought. She made a note to email the Investigative Psychology Unit tomorrow, to put in a request to talk to someone there about running a search on similar crimes since the last time she had checked. There would be no time, but she would have to make time. She knew this docket inside and out and she was sure she and Mavis had overlooked nothing. She needed a break, even if that break was news that another woman had been killed in similar circumstances. Sannie closed the docket and finished her wine; Tom had only poured her a small glass, perhaps thinking she would come to bed sooner rather than later. He was half smashed judging by the cluster of empty bottles he had left out on the kitchen bench for the maid to tidy up tomorrow. Sannie opened the fridge and poured herself another glass, a bigger measure.

She went back out to the deck, sat down and re-opened the docket. She began to read, again, from the beginning. She must have missed something, other than her children’s day and her husband’s love.

5

B
rand nursed a Castle Draught in the Pepper Vine bar at Hazyview. His mobile phone sat on the table in front of him, next to the copy of the
Lowvelder
, which had a picture of him standing over the body of the slain poacher on the front page; the shot had been taken by Keith, the South African-turned-Australian tourist.

Hannah van Wyk walked over and changed the ashtray. ‘Cheer up, it could have been worse. The poachers could have shot
you
.’

Brand raised an eyebrow. ‘At least one of them still has a job.’

Life had thrown a lot at Hannah in her thirty-five years. She was still attractive, though she had the flinty edges of a woman used to living nearly as hard as the customers she served. He’d described her as his girlfriend when Van Rensburg had taken him in for questioning in 2010 and when he’d spoken to Hannah after the interview she’d been surprised at his use of the word. ‘I never pictured you as the boyfriend type,’ she’d said.

‘The same cop interviewed me today as in the murder case.’

‘Oh.’ He saw how she gripped the cloth tighter in her hand.

‘It’s OK, we didn’t talk about the old case – much – and not about you at all.’

Hannah gave a short nod. Their relationship was over, in a sexual sense, but their secret would bind them forever, or until she let it out. Hannah had told Sannie van Rensburg when she’d called in at the bar that she had driven Hudson home from the nightclub on the evening Nandi Mnisi was murdered, and that he’d been with her all night until he’d left for the Kruger Park. It wasn’t true. Hannah had grown tired of his carousing and had driven herself home at one o’clock. Hudson had stumbled into her bed around three in the morning and been gone an hour and a half later. She had lied for him; other guides who had seen Hudson being picked up by the police at Lower Sabie had already been gossiping and SMSing their friends and word had filtered quickly to the Pepper Vine that Hudson was being questioned in relation to the murder of the prostitute. When Van Rensburg had asked her about Hudson’s whereabouts the night before, she’d told the lie to cover for him. She had told him, afterwards, that she knew he was not the sort of man to commit such a crime, but in the days that followed she had kept her distance from him. They were still friends, though they had never made love again.

Then an old flame had come back into her life and Brand had been happy for her, for a short while. Sadly, for Hannah, her former beau had overdosed on heroin six months after they had reunited. Hannah took the dirty ashtray back to the bar.

Brand looked at his phone. He did not want to make the call, but he knew he had to.

It was two days since he had killed one poacher and wounded the other. His licence was still suspended, but even if it hadn’t been he had no work. This sort of thing happened every time a guide discharged their weapon, but he was confident he would be cleared by the parks board, just as Van Rensburg had closed her case on the shooting, if not on the murder during the World Cup. A couple of other guides had told him there was misinformation being spread about the shooting on Facebook. Patrick was out there spinning his version of events, saying Brand had run like a chicken and left him hanging.

Brand had spoken to Gert Pols about what had gone down at Zebra Plains and Gert had not seemed overly surprised by the chain of events. Brand thanked him for not warning him about Patrick and his strong desire to get himself and the guests killed while walking in the park. ‘You’ll be fine,’ Gert had said, laughing off Brand’s sarcasm. ‘The investigation will clear you. I’m finished with Patrick, though. He’s a cowboy and he’s cost me money.’

The safari had been cancelled, the guests traumatised by the death of the poacher and how close they had come to danger. Gert had organised with Tanda Tula, a tented camp in the Timbavati, to take Darlene and the others. They would be staying in luxury, at Gert’s expense, and if they were still keen for a walking safari after their experience they could do one from Tanda Tula’s field camp.

His hand shook a little as he raised the beer to his lips, remembering the moment when he had pulled the trigger. He wasn’t nearly as cool now about the shooting as he had been when Van Rensburg had questioned him; he’d had time to think about how close he’d come to getting shot. Darlene had broken down in tears after the shooting, but she had left him with a kiss. He was pleased she was safe, but he knew he’d never see her again, and now he was out of work and out of money.

He recognised most of the half dozen or so other patrons in the open-air bar but he drank alone by choice. He didn’t feel like socialising. Brand decided that as soon as he finished this beer, his third, he would go next door to
Oom
Kallie’s butchery, buy some
boerewors
for his supper and drive home. But first he knew he should make the call.

The afternoon sun was slanting into the courtyard where he sat at a table under an umbrella. Most of the Pepper Vine was open to the elements, except for about a quarter of the pub’s drinking and eating area, including the bar and kitchen and the big flat-screen television where they showed the rugby, which was under a tin roof. Normally in this familiar setting Brand would have been feeling pleasantly mellow. Instead, his stomach was knotted and he gripped the glass too hard. The gate to the courtyard, the entry to the pub, squeaked.

‘
Ag
, look who it is. The great white chicken himself.
Howzit
, Hudson.’

Of all the people he did not want to see right then, Patrick de Villiers’s elder brother, Koos, would have been close to the top of the list. Unlike his sibling, Koos was a banana farmer, with hands the circumference of an elephant’s hind foot, and the build, brains and temperament of a Cape buffalo. Brand had seen Koos demolish men and furniture in other bars, over matters so trivial that no one could recall them the next day. Brand had a premonition just then that people would remember why Koos had done what he was surely about to do.

Brand drained his beer and dropped sixty rand on the table top, more than enough for the cost plus a tip. He stood and nodded, ‘Fine, and you, Koos?’ Not that he really cared.

Koos stopped in the courtyard, between Brand and the exit. The conversations around the pub had fallen away. ‘I’m fine, but my
boet
Patrick is not so
lekker
, man. He’s lost his job. That
poepol
friend of yours, Gert, just fired him. He didn’t even wait for the investigation.’

Brand shrugged. ‘Sorry to hear that, Koos.’ Brand took a step towards him, stopping just out of swinging range, but Koos didn’t move aside. Brand sighed.

‘My brother says you didn’t back him up.’

Brand didn’t really want to get into the detail of how much Koos’s little brother had fucked up that day, but he did think it worth explaining some of his own actions for the slow learners like the farmers, and the gossipmongers at the surrounding tables.

‘Your brother put his own life and, more importantly, the lives of our clients at risk by following the poachers’ tracks. We should have just pulled back and called it in.’

‘He’s a brave
oke
and you put him in danger by not going with him.’

Brand could see there was no way he was going to win this argument, but he pressed on anyway for the sake of his audience. ‘He was stupid. He panicked and ran when the poacher fired at him and he dropped his weapon. He’s only alive because I killed a man.’

‘He lost his job because of your cowardice.’

Brand squared up to the rough-hewn farmer. ‘I’ve got no beef with you, Koos.’ As Brand tried to get around him Koos sidestepped to block him and shoved him in the chest.
So this was how it was going to be
, Brand thought. ‘I do not want to fight you, Koos.’

‘Typical American; you start a war then you don’t know how to end it. You’re not leaving without a broken bone.’

Brand considered arguing the toss with him; the only war he had been in had been a largely South African one, in Angola, but he guessed the irony would be lost on Koos. The farmer had bully written all over him, and Brand had encountered his fair share of them over the years. Koos was bigger than him, and maybe twenty years younger, but Brand had learned a trick or two in the border war, and in more than a few bar-room brawls since.

‘Let me past, Koos,’ he said, giving the man one more chance.

‘Make me get out of the way,
boy
,’ Koos said.

Brand took a deep breath and clenched his fists beside him. ‘Let’s take this outside.’

Koos backed to the gate that led out to the dusty car park. Several of the bush bar patrons rose from their seats to follow the two men out and enjoy the spectacle.

‘Where’s your chicken-shit brother?’ Brand asked Koos. He was ready for him and he wanted him angry. Hopefully he would lash out with a predictable sucker punch that Brand would dodge before kicking him in the balls.

‘Here.’

Brand made the cardinal mistake of turning towards the sound of the voice. As he did so a massive fist collided with the left side of his face. Brand glimpsed Patrick as Koos’s blow felled him. As they said in the South African Army, no plan survived the first contact with the enemy.

Rolling in the dirt to get away from the kick he knew was coming, Brand scooped up a handful of gravel. When Patrick danced over to him he reared up like a black mamba and flung the grit in his eyes. It was an afternoon for falling for old tricks so Brand made the most of this one and smashed Patrick square in the nose. As satisfying as that was he could not fight on two fronts at once, and Brand screamed as Koos’s fist slammed into his kidneys.

Patrick spat blood. As Brand squared up, painfully, to Koos, he saw Patrick pull something from the back pocket of his shorts. Brand hoped it wasn’t a gun, as he had left his at home. Koos lashed out with a hook that Brand managed to dodge, but Koos escaped Brand’s cross as well. The farmer’s next punch was quicker than Brand’s and Brand’s head snapped back as Koos’s fist found his chin. Brand spun around and aimed a kick at Patrick. The younger brother didn’t try to move, instead holding out his hand. Too late, Brand saw that he held a taser.

Brand faltered and Patrick caught his half-formed kick and zapped him with a jolt of electricity. Brand collapsed, and Koos’s buffalo-hide boot found its mark, in the side of his chest.

A Land Rover game viewer vehicle pulled up close to the scuffle, its sudden stop sending a cloud of dust washing over the three men. Brand groaned. Through a haze of pain he registered Bryce Duffy, the guide he’d last seen with the lion on the bridge, climbing down. ‘Hey, get off him!’

‘Taser . . .’ Brand croaked. But the warning wasn’t necessary. As Bryce approached, Koos sucker punched him in the face with a single blow from his massive fist and Bryce fell backwards.

Brand was still on the ground and the De Villiers brothers weren’t of a mind to let him get back up again. The beating was bad, but would have been worse – for him and Bryce – if a gunshot hadn’t gone off.

With one eye half closed and his head ringing Brand wondered if one of them had produced a gun and fired at him and missed. Surely the second shot would find its mark. Koos kicked again, hard and sharp into Brand’s gut, and another boom sounded. He backed off. Brand rolled painfully onto his side and saw Hannah van Wyk standing at the pub’s entry gate, a lick of smoke curling from the barrel of her sawn-off shotgun.

The De Villiers boys retreated to Koos’s
bakkie
and drove off, leaving a defiant cloud of dust in the wake of their spinning tyres. Hannah helped Brand and Bryce to their feet and asked Brand if he wanted to go to her place.

‘Thanks,’ he coughed, and spat blood into the dirt of the car park, ‘but I should get back to the place I’m house-sitting. Bryce, are you OK?’

Bryce was gingerly feeling his nose. ‘Yeah. You just can’t seem to stay out of trouble, can you, Hudson?’ He began to laugh then winced with the pain.

Hannah fussed over Brand, ignoring the younger man. ‘But Hippo Rock’s thirty-five kilometres away, Hudson. Are you sure you can manage? You look like you’re about to pass out.’

He turned away from her and spat again. He probed a tooth with his tongue. It was loose. ‘I’ll manage.’

She looked doubtful. ‘I’ll follow you; make sure you get home OK.’

It was her call. Brand shook hands with Bryce, apologised for dragging him into the melee, then eased himself into the driver’s seat of his Land Rover while she went and fetched the keys to her Toyota
bakkie.
They left Hazyview and drove through the ever-extending and almost interconnecting township settlements between the town and the Paul Kruger Gate entrance to the national park, where he’d had the encounter with the lions and Darlene. It seemed like weeks, not days ago.

He was probably a little concussed, because just before Mkhulu he nodded off. It was just as well Hannah was following him home; the blaring of her horn woke him as he began drifting off the tarmac onto the gravel verge of the road.

Because of the nature of his work, both as an investigator and a safari guide, and perhaps because Brand had long ago realised he would never truly settle down, he was something of a nomad. He was living in a house at Hippo Rock, a wildlife estate on the banks of the Sabie River overlooking the Kruger Park. There were a few such estates on the border of the reserve, where the privileged lived or kept holiday houses set amid bushland and roaming animals.

The house he was staying in was owned by a South African goldmine manager who had emigrated to Australia. He didn’t get back to the country of his birth nearly enough but didn’t want to sell his house in the bush either. Brand had guided the man as a client a couple of years earlier and the pair had struck up a friendship. They had come to an agreement that Brand could stay in the house in Hippo Rock if he kept it maintained.

Brand came and went from the house depending on where he was working. He signed in and lifted his arm in a painful salute to the gate guard and as he drove into the estate, with Hannah still tailing him, he felt a little sad to know he would soon be leaving again.