Tony Park - Silent Predator

He passed a township called Acornhoek, then turned on to a dirt road which took him deeper into the private reserves. Eventually, he came to the entrance to the Timbavati private game reserve, which resembled one of the gates into Kruger. Timbavati had its own rangers, turned out in smart, pressed uniforms; its own rules; and its own entry fees. He paid his money, explaining that he was heading for Doctor Khan’s property, and that he was an invited guest. This was a lie, but the security guard didn’t question him. He also asked for directions to the late doctor’s property — which still didn’t arouse the man’s suspicion — saying that while he had permission to visit he had never been there before.

Tom passed an open-top Land Rover game viewer and waved to the driver and his tourists. He followed signs on stone cairns and turned off the main road through the reserve, to the left. According to the guard, Doctor Khan’s place was six and a half kilometres further along.

He set the trip meter and came to an unmarked turn-off guarded by a lone bull elephant who was using his broad forehead to push over a stout-looking tree. Sannie had told Tom that elephants did that to feed on the roots and, sometimes, just to get at some leaves that would otherwise have been out of reach. He had no time to watch the mighty creature, so he geared down and continued along the deteriorating track. He put the Land Rover into low-range four-wheel drive to negotiate a dried-out sandy river crossing and planted the accelerator to climb up the steep opposing bank.

The lodge, when at last it came into view, was simple but stylish. Thatch roof, single storey, with whitewashed walls, rendered and painted a tan brown. There was also a thatched outdoor dining and bar area, with no walls on three sides, overlooking a small pumped waterhole on the other side of the river — presumably the same one he had just crossed. A sole buffalo was drinking from the concrete pond. Tom stopped the Land Rover and got out, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs and feel a cool breeze on the damp back of his shirt. The airconditioning in the Land Rover either hadn’t been gassed for years or wasn’t working.

‘Hello?’ He walked to the shady lounge area and looked around. There was no dust on the two tables or the wooden bar top. A glass-door fridge, secured with a chain and padlock, held a wide selection of beers and wine. Behind metal grilles in a cupboard over the bar was an equally impressive selection of spirits, including some expensive single malt Scotches. On the wall on either side of the drinks cabinets were photos set in tasteful, though rustic, wooden frames. There were shots of all of the big five — lion, elephant, rhino, leopard and buffalo; a picture of a swarthy but dapper-looking man Tom took to be Doctor Khan kneeling beside a dead buffalo and resting on a hunting rifle; and another of the sun setting over a glassy body of water. The sunset was framed by a latticed arch, dripping with bougainvillea, which led the way to a narrow strip of white sand.

‘Morning, sir, can I help you?’ An elderly black man appeared from behind the house. He wore blue overalls and wiped his hands on them as he walked over.

Tom turned from the photographs and pulled his wallet out of his shorts. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Tom Furey, from the London Metropolitan Police. I’m here in relation to the disappearance of Doctor Khan.’

‘You are from East London?’ the man asked.

Tom had heard of the town on South Africa’s coast. ‘No, from England.’

‘Police have been here already, sir.’ The caretaker looked Tom up and down.

Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt and driving a camping vehicle with a tent on the roof, he hardly looked like an investigating detective. Tom decided to keep talking and bluffing. ‘I’m working with the South African police on this case and they have asked me to check your records and guest book to see who’s been staying here recently.’

‘The doctor, he kept all the books at his house, in Jo’burg, sir. Police would have seen all of those?’

‘Of course.’ Tom strode across to the bar. ‘But the guest book… where is it?’

‘Doctor Khan, he always said not to talk to anyone about his friends — his guests, sir.’

Tom turned on the man. ‘What’s your name?’ He took his notebook and pen from the pocket of his shorts.

‘Amos, sir.’

Tom pretended to write. ‘You’re coming with me, to the police station in Acornhoek, and you’re going to explain to the headman there why you’re not cooperating with this important investigation.’ The man looked worried and Tom felt sorry for him. He had no right — legal or otherwise — to threaten the caretaker. ‘Unless, of course, you just give me the bloody guest book. Now!’

Amos seemed to cringe at the barked command. He ducked behind the bar and withdrew a large leather-bound volume. Tom simply nodded as the older man slid the document across the bar. He stood there, though, watching Tom as he opened the book.

Tom started at the front, which dated back three years. Only about a third of the book was full, he noted. Obviously the doctor didn’t entertain too many guests. On the fourth page he found the two names he was looking for. One above the other. His face showed no recognition, but in his mind he was punching the air. He felt his heart beat faster as he moved through the following pages. Three more entries — the same two names on each occasion. It was all he needed, though he also committed three other regularly appearing names to memory. Two listed Pretoria as their home address, while the third was from Russia, which was interesting. He would have to check them all out. There were no entries for the past four weeks.

‘When was the doctor here last, Amos?’ Tom closed the book.

Amos retrieved the book and placed it carefully under the bar. ‘Other police asked that, sir.’

Tom knew he was on shaky ground. The longer he lingered, the more suspicious the old caretaker would become. ‘I know you told them, Amos, but we’re cross-checking his last movements. It’s important that you tell me.’

Amos looked skywards, as though he was calculating the date. ‘One month ago, sir.’

‘And he came in his Isuzu. His bakkie?’

‘Yes, sir. I still have the telephone number of the police who came, sir. Can we call them now?’

Tom ignored him and pointed to the beachside sunset picture. ‘Where was that taken?’

Amos was surprised by the question, the reaction Tom had hoped for. He wanted to get the old man’s mind off calling the police. ‘Malawi, sir.’

‘The doctor’s beach house?’

Amos nodded.

‘At Cape Maclear, right?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The other police didn’t ask about Malawi, did they?’

‘No, sir. Perhaps we call them now.’

Tom put his notebook and pen away, and turned and walked back into the sunshine. ‘That won’t be necessary. Thanks for your help, Amos,’ he said, as he strode across to the Land Rover. He was in business.

Back inside the Kruger National Park, Tom made it as far north as Shingwedzi camp just before the gates closed at six-thirty. The sun melted behind the thorny bushveld outside the perimeter fence as he unfolded the tent and lit a fire. He turned on his mobile phone and called Sannie at home.

‘Tom! Where are you?’

He told her, then started recounting the morning’s trip out to Doctor Khan’s private game lodge in the Timbavati.

Sannie cut him off. ‘Tom, you’re crazy. If the local cops find out what you’re up to, you’ll be arrested. You didn’t tell me you were sticking your nose into our investigations over here. When I told you about Khan being the owner of the bakkie the terrorists used, I didn’t expect you to go investigating him!’