Mackenzie Ford - The Clouds Beneath the Sun

She turned towards Natalie again. “Before I forget, tomorrow night, the night before the trial starts, Jack, Christopher, and I are having a family dinner—it’s something we do every year at this time, to sort out family matters. So I have arranged for you to have dinner with Maxwell Sandys … I hope I did the right thing. We don’t want you to be alone the night before the trial.”

“Oh yes,” said Natalie. “Of course. Thank you.”

“Good. We’ll all fly up together in the morning, early, with Jack. Max wants to see you in the afternoon, anyway, for a final briefing. We could all meet after dinner, to see how the land lies.”

“Oh?” said Jack. “What do you mean by that?”

Eleanor looked at Mutumbu. “Daniel’s going to the concert, to be our eyes and ears. He’ll come back and tell us what Marongo had to say.”

“Hmm,” growled Jack. “Aren’t you overreacting? Whatever he says, nothing is going to happen immediately. Our license doesn’t run out until May, a special edition of Nature is a real event in scientific terms … We could still get the better of Russell and Richard Sutton Senior.”

“Maybe,” said Eleanor. “Maybe so. But there are a couple of things you may not know, Jack. A Russian Jeep-type vehicle was spotted in Olinkawa the day before yesterday. I suspect there’s been more gun smuggling across the border, and that some of them are destined for the Maasai—”

“But where are they getting the money?” Jack shook his head skeptically.

“That’s the second thing you don’t know,” growled Eleanor gloomily. “That was the main reason Maxwell Sandys was in touch on the radio-telephone. Richard Sutton Senior arrived three days ago, and the day before yesterday he was seen meeting with Russell and Marongo. Something’s going on, Jack, something political, something we don’t have any control over. I’m not at all sure Sutton knows what his money is being used for, but he has more than enough to buy guns.”

Natalie sat, just inside her tent, and looked out at and listened to the rain. The short rains, as they were called, lasted anywhere from ten minutes to an hour and a half. Nothing at all by Lincolnshire standards. The raindrops flashed and glistened and sparkled in the shine of the hurricane lamp and beat down on the roof of her tent. The smell of the acacia thorns was intensified. She found it all, for some reason, comforting.

She was still not ready to risk a whiskey, but she had lit a cigarette.

How many more nights in the gorge were left to her? If she flew to Nairobi tomorrow, and gave evidence as planned, and if Ndekei were convicted and then hanged, would Marongo really follow through with his threat? If the gorge were destroyed, or occupied, or a change of team were imposed, she—like the others—would become known throughout her chosen profession for this humiliating transformation of fortune, for throwing away the best season’s digging ever.

If she didn’t give evidence, what then? Would she be prosecuted for contempt of court, or wasting police time? Would it make any difference now? Hadn’t things gone too far? Despite the support of some newspapers, would Marongo take any notice? Richard Sutton Senior’s money spoke louder than editorials, especially editorials that didn’t see the light of day. If she could somehow face Marongo and the Maasai with Ndekei’s homosexuality, would that make a difference? Was Ndekei homosexual? If she didn’t give evidence, what would she think of herself a week from now, a month away, in the years ahead? Would Richard Sutton pursue her as he said he would? Either way, her career was almost on the rocks.

And if she was not giving evidence, when was she going to make up her mind? She was no nearer a decision than when she had first wavered all those weeks ago.

It struck her that there were similarities between her own position and Kees van Schelde’s when he had strayed into the bush, exposing himself to risks that might—or might not—kill him. The risks she faced were not mortal but they were not negligible either, not negligible professionally speaking. But, in not taking a firm decision yet, one way or the other, she was letting things ride, letting events carry on around her, in the hope that her problem would be resolved without her actually having to do anything herself.

Was that morally clean?

But the trial was the day after tomorrow. She would have to give evidence then, or the day after at the latest.

Or not.

She was nowhere nearer a decision.

She had come to the end of her cigarette. For once, it hadn’t settled her. She didn’t feel tired, and she was still on edge. Jack wouldn’t come tonight; her body was still not fully recovered. The palms of her hands still tingled.

The rain intensified.

She put out the hurricane lamp, and for a few moments listened to the downpour. She loved the sound of rain.

She shifted in her seat. Her skin still felt as though it was covered in a rash, though all the spots had gone.

Quietly, she undressed and, in total darkness, stepped out of her tent into the weather, completely naked. The warm raindrops pelted her skin, almost taking her breath away. Her mind wasn’t settled and she was still on edge. Water ran down her cheeks, down her chest between her breasts, down her thighs, it dripped off her nose and chin and nipples. Her body was cool and clean, her skin felt free of the rash at last.

And, in the deep blackness, in the total absence of any form of light, she could see her way forward.

“There she is! There she is!” About a dozen people, some with placards, were standing outside the court building as Natalie got out of Maxwell Sandys’s car. They came towards her, jogging their placards up and down. One had a photograph of Natalie, taken from one of the newspaper articles about her, with the press headline blown up: WIDOW MAKER. Another showed a photograph of Ndekei with a rope crudely drawn around his neck, and the words: WHITE JUSTICE—GO HANG.

“Widow maker,” they chanted, “widow maker … widow maker.”

Sandys bundled her past them and on into the courthouse. They both ran up the main stairs to the first floor, and turned left into his office.

Natalie was shaking.

Sandys took her hand. “I’m sorry about that but I thought it might help you get acclimatized, to show you what was outside the courthouse, what to expect. I’m afraid it will be even worse tomorrow.”

He handed her a glass of water.

“How are you holding up?” he said. “I gather from Eleanor that you went down with tick typhus—it never rains but it pours, eh?” He smiled grimly.

“I’m fine. I don’t recommend tick typhus, but I’m fine. I gather we are having dinner together tonight and could have talked about the case then. But I’m grateful that you showed me the crowds, as mental preparation.”

He stared at her. “Dinner? But I’m—” He stopped. “Yes, of course, that’s right. I’ll come to the hotel, seven-thirtyish. I may be a little late.”

She passed a hand through her hair and nodded. “Just talk me through what will happen and let’s go from there. I’m tougher inside than I look on the outside.”

Was that true? she wondered. It had once been true but after all that had happened …

Sandys was behind his desk. He had taken off his jacket but wore a waistcoat and tie. He played with a paper knife.

“The trial starts at 10:30, as I think you know. The first morning will be taken up with the prosecution setting out our case, then the defense will do the same. Nothing too specific, no nitty-gritty, but the principles of the arguments that will be used on both sides. After lunch on the first day, we—as the prosecution—will begin presenting our evidence. We have four main matters to introduce. First, the sliver of Ndekei’s apron that was caught up on the thorn fence near Richard Sutton’s tent. Second, the print of his Wellington boot found outside the tent; and third, the boot itself, recovered by African ancillary staff at Kihara from the monkeys who were playing with it. The first two will be presented by the police who were summoned to Kihara on the morning after the murder—Frank Metcalfe and Dennis Burton—I think you met them.”