Tony Park - Silent Predator

‘I really mean it, Helen. Sometimes I don’t know how I’d get on without you,’ he’d said.

She’d looked deep into his steel grey eyes. What was going on? Could it be that he felt the same way about her as she did about him? Before she knew what she was doing she had laid her hand on his thigh. ‘My pleasure,’ she’d said, in a voice lower than usual, as if the words were being spoken by another — someone out of her body. Later she would blame it all on the wine. She had leaned closer to him, eyes half closed, waiting for him to make the next move. For the kiss which would surely come.

He had recoiled, like she was a bloody snake or something. He’d been polite about it, with his smooth words, but she had clearly misread all the signals. Perhaps, she wondered for the thousandth time as she approached St Stephen’s pub, opposite the Palace of Westminster, he really had been tempted and had simply had a last-minute attack of guilt. Perhaps, of course, she was a complete fool ever to have thought he would cheat on his wife.

‘Helen, I meant what I said,’ he had explained as he stood and moved away from the sofa, ‘but I love my wife and children. It wouldn’t be right for anything to happen between us — in this way.’

Damn him, she thought as she felt the pub’s warm fug engulf her and saw the reporter sitting in the corner, waving to her. The only thing wrong with her bloody boss was that he was too good for politics.

Tom found the idea of driving in an African game reserve and passing families in cars towing caravans quite odd. It didn’t gel with what he’d seen in wildlife documentaries on satellite television. Sannie turned off the tar road — which in itself had been another surprise — onto a dirt track.

The African bush was a mix of drab grey-green stunted trees interspersed with bright new shoots of grass. The seasons were on the turn, and the sky was clouding again. It was hot — like being in the Far East, almost. The foliage was thicker than he had expected, and so far he hadn’t seen a single grassy savannah. As well as not meeting his preconceptions, South Africa was throwing plenty of challenges at him from a protection officer’s point of view. If the bush was this thick around the lodge it would be easy for someone with the right skills to get in close. It was the same as telling people back in England to keep their trees and hedges trimmed in their yards, so as not to provide too much cover for burglars. The difference here, of course, was that the villains would have to get past two-hundred-kilogram cats out patrolling the garden.

After leaving the police post at Skukuza they had crossed on low-level bridges the Sabie and Sand rivers. Sannie had slowed the Mercedes and he’d had close-up sightings of the huge bewhiskered snouts, piggy eyes and swivelling ears of hippos. A big-horned, scarred buffalo had watched them as it chewed a mouthful of grass. Tom tried to keep his cool, but it was undeniably exciting being this close to wildlife. He found himself wishing that Alex was with him to share the experience and this realisation dampened his excitement.

They followed the signs to Tinga Legends Lodge and at the end of the dirt track came to a rather ornate-looking dark wooden gate topped with curled wrought iron and set between two white posts. Without the press of an intercom or a buzzer, the gate opened automatically. Cameras or sensors, Tom thought.

The Merc’s tyres crunched along a gravelled driveway which took them around a landscaped circle to an imposing thatch-roofed building as tall as a two-storey house. A woman in a loose-fitting white blouse and tight khaki pants and boots stepped off the wide porch. Her face was framed by long, straight jet black hair and she wore a necklace of what looked like small gold nuggets. She appeared to be about thirty. Attractive. A pretty young African girl with her hair twisted into tiny spikes stood behind the white woman, holding a silver platter.

‘Beware of Carla,’ Sannie said. ‘She’s the closest you’ll get to a man-eater on this trip.’ They walked towards her.

‘Hello, welcome to Tinga, I’m Carla Sykes. You must be Tom?’

Tom shook her hand and then accepted a cold towel from the platter borne by the African girl, who Carla introduced as Given.

‘Sannie, how lovely to see you once again,’ Carla said. Tom thought her smile looked a little less sincere this time.

Sannie just nodded. ‘You too, Carla.’

‘Precious will organise one of the guys to bring your bags and move your car. Same drill as usual, Sannie. What can I get you to drink?’

Tom was dying for a beer, but said, ‘Ginger ale would be fine, please.’ Sannie ordered a mineral water and Carla relayed the orders to an African man standing behind an enormous dark wood bar off to their right.

Carla led them through the airy reception area. Sannie’s heels clicked pleasingly on the polished caramel-coloured floor, whose hard surface was softened here and there by Turkish rugs. Overstuffed leather lounges and chairs faced a huge fireplace, the mantel of which was topped with a black-and-white photo of a reclining leopard. In contrast to the outside, the lodge’s reception was cool and shaded, the light coming from soft bulbs set in antique wall fittings and an overhead chandelier. The barman emerged from behind his fortress-like bar and brought their drinks on a platter. Tom glanced at the cream-coloured walls. As well as more monochrome photos there were antique prints of animals. The place was a mix of colonial indulgence and modern ethnic African chic. Elsewhere this might not have worked — been too over the top — but the place felt smooth and sophisticated and welcoming all at once.

If the reception area was grand, it was understated compared with the spectacular natural view at the other end of the open hall. Carla stepped onto the patio overlooking a wide river studded with pinkish-coloured boulders and stands of lush green reeds. Something which sounded like a five-hundred kilogram goose on steroids honked from out there.

‘Hippo. You’ll have to get used to them, I’m afraid, Tom. This way.’ She touched his arm to steer him down a set of wide stairs to an octagonal-shaped stained timber deck with a giant tree in the centre. Off to the right was a grassy terrace set with a swimming pool, and below the deck was another open area with a smaller platform, jutting out over the river itself.

Carla motioned them to take wooden seats around a table in the shade of the tree, again touching Tom. She gestured to the branches above them. ‘This is a jackalberry tree. Tinga is set on the site of an old National Parks Board camp called Jakkalsbessie, which is Afrikaans for jackalberry. It was a very exclusive place — a favourite of the ruling elite during the apartheid years. Because it’s so close to the Kruger air strip, which is just up the road, the bigwigs could fly in from Pretoria and Jo’burg and have their meetings and a little fun in seclusion.’

‘Where does the current name come from?’ Tom asked.

‘Tinga is an abbreviation of a Shangaan word, Tingala, which means “many lions”. The “Legends” part is based on the camp’s history. There are plenty of stories about secret meetings that used to go on here. It’s said that some of the African national parks staff here were actually undercover ANC operatives, who used to eavesdrop on the government’s dastardly business. Not that Mr Greeves will need to fear spies these days!’

‘I know you’ve been through all this before, Carla, and it must seem like a bit of a chore, but…’ Tom began.

‘It’s perfectly fine, Tom. I understand how things need to be done, and the value of an advance visit. We get plenty of overseas dignitaries staying here — and a few of our own, including our president — so I’m used to dealing with people such as yourself. Besides, I can’t think of a better way to spend an afternoon than in the company of a handsome policeman. You must tell me later about all the people you’ve been a bodyguard for.’