Minette Walters - The Devil's Feather

I pulled the jacket tighter around my waist and hips. “What I’ve got on.”

“Then stick to the story we gave the police…that I had your clothes laundered because you had nothing else to wear. I’ll take the flak again,” he finished rather grimly, “even though it makes me look like a bloody idiot.”

He’d been given a rough time by Chas for allowing me to clean myself and my clothes before going to the police station. It was bad enough that he’d kept my release secret for three hours, worse that he hadn’t considered the implications of destroying evidence. There was some excuse for my behaviour because I was traumatized, but none for Dan. He should have known better. How were the authorities expected to secure convictions without forensic corroboration?

Dan had stood by me-in so far as he took the criticism on the chin and kept it to himself that he’d tried to stop me-but he made no secret of his suspicions now. “Why did you need to wash those clothes, anyway?”

“They were dirty.”

But we both knew they weren’t. They hadn’t even smelt dirty, which was why I’d washed them. I’d toyed with saying I’d been given an orange jumpsuit, similar to the one Adelina wore on her video, but I was afraid of provoking further questions. Why were there no orange fibres on my skin or in my hair? Why bother to dress me as a prisoner if no video was made? It was less traumatic to be accused of destroying evidence than admit to wearing nothing.

I wondered if Dan had guessed the truth because he didn’t pursue the issue. Instead, he told me what he planned to say when he announced my release to the press corps in Baghdad. There was heavy emphasis on my cooperation with the police, my refusal to say too much for fear of jeopardizing Adelina’s chances, and my undoubted “courage and professionalism.” It was a clear instruction to stay “on message” in London so that Reuters in Baghdad wasn’t ambushed out of left field.

I sent surreptitious glances towards the clock on the far wall, ticking off the seconds before I could reasonably head for the departure gate. The only luggage I had was a fabric bumbag (borrowed from Dan) which held my ticket stub, boarding-pass and emergency passport (paid for by Reuters), and £25 in precious English fivers from the Baghdad bureau coffers.

“Are you listening to me, Connie?”

I gave another nod. But as I had no intention of performing for the press, it was irrelevant whether I listened or not. If I failed to appear, the only source of information would be Dan’s press conference and, with no photographs, the coverage would be limited to a box somewhere. There might be speculation about why and where I’d gone into hiding, but it wouldn’t amount to much. Stories without legs and pictures died on the editor’s floor.

I’d made the decision to bolt when I phoned my parents from Dan’s apartment to tell them I was safe. My mother answered in Swahili. Literally. As a child, she’d learnt the language from Adia, her Kenyan nanny, and had passed on what she remembered to me. She spoke before I could say anything. “Jambo. Si tayari kuzungumza na mtu mie.” Hello. I can’t talk to anyone at the moment.

It was a device we’d used when things became difficult at the farm. My father was convinced there were physical and wire-tap eavesdroppers. Swahili isn’t commonly understood in Zimbabwe, where English is the official language and Shona and Ndebele the native ones. In this case, I guessed my mother was expecting a call from my father, and was warning him there was somone in the room with her.

I answered: “Jambo, mamangu. Mambo poa na mimi. Sema polepole!” Hello, my mother. Everything’s fine with me. Be careful what you say!

There was a brief pause. “Bwana asifiwe. Nakupenda, mtoto wangu.” Thank God. I love you, my child. There was a catch of emotion in her voice which she quelled immediately. “Sema fi kimombo.” You can speak in English.

In the weeks after my release, that was the closest I came to breaking down. Had she been in the room, I would have become her “mtoto” again, stolen into her warm embrace and told her everything. By the time I saw her in London, that opportunity was gone. I took a breath. “Who’s with you?”

“Msimulizi.” A newspaper reporter.

“Oh, Christ! Don’t let on it’s me!” I could hear the tremors in my voice. “No one knows I’ve been released yet…except Dan…I’m in his flat. I need time to…Do you understand?”

“Ni sawasawa.” It’s OK. She sounded so reassuring that I think she must have been smiling at whoever was in the room. “Nasikia vema.” I understand perfectly.

“I’m flying out this evening via Amman, and should be in London early tomorrow morning.” I glanced towards the door of the room, wondering if Dan was listening. “Is this reporter a one-off or are they plaguing you?”

Another pause while she worked out a strategy. “Yes, indeed, it would be much easier in English. I’m very touched that you’re calling from Connie’s newspaper in Kenya. We’ve had interest from all over the world. As I speak, there are journalists and photographers in the road outside…all of whom are publicizing Connie’s plight. We’re deeply grateful for everyone’s support and assistance.”

My heart sank. “Are they making life hell for you?”

“Yes.”

“How’s Dad bearing up?” I amended that immediately because I knew she wouldn’t be able to answer it. “Don’t worry. I can guess.” After the events at the farm, my father had developed a short fuse when it came to intrusion. He particularly hated being questioned about what had happened, as if other people had a right to pry into his humiliation. “Is he losing his temper with them?”

“Yes. In fact my husband is at the Zimbabwean High Commission today. The British government refuses to talk to hostage-takers, but there’s a possibility Robert Mugabe might intervene because Connie has dual nationality. Andrew is trying all avenues.”

“Oh, God !” My father would cut off his arm rather than ask Mugabe for help. He hated the thieving little dictator more than any man on earth. “I’m so sorry! What a bloody awful mess!”

“Haidhuru. Kwa kupenda kwako.” It doesn’t matter. He’s doing it because he loves you. Another pause. “I wonder if it would be better if you spoke to Andrew? He can tell you far more than I can. Do you have a number that he can call when he returns? Perhaps a mobile?”

“No…it was stolen…and I don’t know where I’ll be in the next few hours. Can you wait till I land in London?” I looked at the door again. “Dan’s organizing a press conference at Heathrow-” I broke off, praying she’d follow up on why.

“Will that be difficult for you?”

“Yes.”

“Is your colleague with you now?”

“I’m not sure. Possibly.” I paused. “Reuters are holding back the news of my release until the press conference…which means I need you to keep pretending you haven’t heard from me. It’s important, Mum. I don’t want cameras filming me as I come into the arrivals hall. Will you promise not to say anything till you hear from me?”

“Of course. All either of us wants is Connie’s safe return.”

I wished I could tell her that I couldn’t go to the flat while photographers were in the street, but I didn’t know if Dan was listening or how good his Swahili was. Instead, I hoped she would pick up a hint. I gave a shaky laugh. “I’m beginning to understand how Dad felt when you left the farm. Do you remember what he said the worst thing was?” (“Talking about it. What am I supposed to say? Does it make people feel better when I admit to being scared?”)

My mother hesitated for a moment before she repeated: “Nasikia vema.” I understand perfectly. “You’d like a private interview…in a hotel perhaps…bila wasimulizi na maswala (without reporters and questions). Is that right? Have I understood your wishes correctly?”