Tony Park - Silent Predator

‘What can Greeves’s widow tell you that you don’t already know about the abductions?’

‘Nothing.’

The shuttle bus stopped and they got off and walked along a covered walkway to another office. ‘I’ll drive, if you like,’ Tom said after they collected the keys and directions to the car.

She shook her head and pressed the electronic lock of the Ford Focus, and hurriedly climbed inside to get out of the rain. She popped the boot, and Tom stowed her bag and then got in beside her, brushing droplets of rain off the shoulders of his suit jacket.

‘So if she can’t tell you anything about Greeves’s disappearance, what can she tell you about?’

‘Greeves.’

‘What about him?’

‘He was having an affair with a black South African stripper.’

Sannie’s mouth opened. It took her a moment to realise this, then she closed her jaw and started the car. She navigated her way out of the car park in silence and Tom started directing her towards the M25. The windscreen wipers slapped from side to side and the only noise inside the car was the rush of the heater fan, which she had set to high.

‘Who else knows this? Presumably the investigating police?’

He explained that there were, in fact, two parallel investigations going on. Tom had led the first, into the disappearance of Nick Roberts, to the strip club in Soho and the missing dancer, Ebony, aka Precious Tambo. It was only yesterday, however, that his talk with the reporter, Michael Fisher, had revealed a link between Ebony and Robert Greeves, which Nick may or may not have been aware of. ‘The detectives looking into Nick’s death, and the murder of Ebony, still — as far as I know — don’t know about the Greeves connection.’

‘Surely you’re going to tell them?’ Sannie asked.

Tom nodded. ‘Left here, onto the motorway. The M25’s like a giant ring-road that goes all the way around London. Of course I’ll tell them. But I want to know more about what Greeves was up to. At the moment I’m working on the word of a dead exotic dancer, as relayed by a very dodgy tabloid journalist, who freely admits he didn’t have enough to go public with. It pushed a button with Janet Greeves, though, when I told her I wanted to talk to her about the “affair”.’

Sannie took the information in as she navigated her way through the thick morning traffic. The tiredness she’d felt on the aircraft had disappeared and she had to consciously tell herself to relax her grip on the steering wheel. She was getting the same feeling that she knew was driving Tom right now. He was on to a new lead in the investigation; it might, of course, come to nothing, but she wanted very much to be a part of what happened next.

Tom told her about the mysterious reporter, Daniel Carney, and his failed efforts to find any trace of him.

‘Perhaps he’s a South African, working in London. If the girl was South African, as you say, perhaps she knew a freelancer in the expat community.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Tom admitted, frowning. ‘See, I’m already glad you’re here. At least you can get your people to check out Carney.’

She was trapped already, and she knew it. Damn it, she thought. ‘Tom, when you pass on what you know to the investigating officers, I’m sure I’ll be able to check out anyone they want me to.’

‘You could be back in London by one, at the latest. Plenty of time to change for your meeting. Did I tell you that you look great in jeans, by the way?’

Sannie snorted. Flattery would not get him very far at all. She checked her watch. It was still very early. They could stop at the hotel first and she could shower and put her suit on.

They slowed with the traffic, which eventually ground to a halt. Somewhere up ahead, through the rain and the enveloping fog, she could make out flashing orange lights. ‘Tom, I went out on a limb for you before, but…’ She knew her resolve was weakening.

‘It’ll be easier for Janet Greeves if there’s another woman in the room. You know that, don’t you?’

Sannie nodded.

‘This is nice. More what I expected England to be like — rolling green hills and little villages with thatch-roofed houses,’ Sannie said.

Tom looked across at her and smiled. He noticed she was drumming her hand on the car door. He was driving as they travelled through the biscuit-tin countryside of Buckinghamshire.

Tom knew the road well, as the Prime Minister’s country residence, Chequers, was a little further along from where they would turn off. He’d been there on many occasions, protecting various politicians and dignitaries who attended meetings there or wanted to be seen at church with the PM on Sundays in the village of Little Kimble.

He knew she was nervous, but having her here was important to him. Not only, as he’d said, because he thought having a woman present might put Janet Greeves at ease, but also because it gave him a sense that he was helping move the official side of the investigation — albeit the South African side — further along. It was better than sitting around waiting for the axe blow which would end his career. Also, he liked being with Sannie. At a time when he had no one in his own country, professionally or personally, it was good to have her by his side again. She’d been his partner in Africa and he could trust her implicitly. She was also beautiful, and her perfume set his senses on edge.

‘Here we go.’ He turned left into Haw Lane, just after they passed Saunderton railway station. The road snaked upwards, bare winter trees flanking the approach to the upmarket village of Bledlow Ridge.

At the top of the hill Tom turned right and slowed until he found the name of the Greeves country estate — Ingonyama — in a cast iron sign on a gatepost. The wooden gate was open.

‘That’s Zulu for lion.’ Sannie folded down the sun visor on her side and checked her hair and makeup. Tom thought she needn’t have bothered. She looked cool, professional and sexy as hell in her black pants suit, boots and simple white blouse, open at the neck and showing a tantalising V of skin in spite of the cold. She’d checked into the Thistle Hotel near Waterloo, where overseas and out-of-town visitors to Tom’s branch often stayed, and quickly showered and changed while he’d waited in the lobby. She wore a gold necklace made of many tiny links, but from a distance it looked solid. It followed the curves of her collarbone, caressing her tanned skin.

Tom drove up a long gravel road flanked by autumn-bare poplars. The rain had stopped, but the sky above was the colour of cold gunmetal.

‘Kites.’ Sannie pointed up at the three birds of prey wheeling above them. ‘They look a lot like the yellow-bills we get at home.’

‘Is that a good omen or a bad one?’

She shrugged. ‘Bad if you’re a snake.’

‘Well, we don’t have too many of those here in England. Let’s enter the lion’s den, shall we?’

Sannie frowned, opened her car door, then shivered. ‘Lions don’t have dens. Let’s get this over with.’

Tom followed her along the flagstones. He was no historian or architect, but the house symbolised history and money: old red brick, bare wooden beams and well-kept thatch. The winter garden was drab but manicured.

The door opened before they could knock. Janet Greeves — Tom recognised her from pictures in the newspapers — stood waiting for them, unsmiling.

She was dressed for a walk, in jeans and green Wellington boots, and a dark olive Barbour jacket.

‘Detective Sergeant Furey?’

Tom nodded. ‘Morning, ma’am. This is Inspector Susan van Rensburg of the South African Police. She’s involved in the African end of the investigation.’

Surprise and unease were plain on Janet Greeves’s face, though she shook hands with both of them. ‘So this is now an official visit?’