Stolen Lives (36 page)

“Yup. That’s people for you.” David shifted his grip on the wheel. “Bastards when it comes to getting the facts.”

“Naude told me Pamela paid him to shoot Terence and Crystal with a silenced weapon on a night when she wasn’t home. He said he didn’t know if he could do it.”

“Why?”

“He said he’s never aimed his gun at a living target before.”

David glanced at her, frowning. “He didn’t seem to have too many scruples when he tried to take you out.”

“That’s what’s getting to me, too. I … ” How to say it? Better to tell the truth, she decided. After all, somebody had to. “I know what the first time’s like, David. I know you do as well. Tell me that you didn’t hesitate before you fired at your first human target.”

There was a telling silence.

“Yes. I did. I did hesitate,” David said.

Jade didn’t expect him to say anymore about it, but to her surprise, he did.

“It was back in Durban, when I was on a night patrol near the city centre. On foot. It was summer and humid as hell. I remember wishing I wasn’t wearing my service pistol, because it was making a huge patch of sweat on my hip. Then we heard running, and round the corner came two guys wearing balaclavas. Just like that. It was surreal. We found out later they’d just robbed the Curry Palace down the road, and they were on their way to their getaway car. Talk about wrong place, wrong time.”

Jade made an encouraging noise, wanting him to finish his story.

“I drew my pistol. I was very calm—it all happened so fast, I didn’t have time to get scared. I should have fired then and there, because the leader had a gun in his hand. I shouted at them to stop. But the leader didn’t stop; he just shot. He could have killed me, could have killed my partner. Neither of us was wearing Kevlar. I didn’t act fast enough to prevent it. But he missed.”

David swallowed hard.

“Then I shot him in the chest,” he finished.

Jade didn’t know what to say. She wanted to take David’s hand and lace her fingers in his long brown ones, and squeeze it hard.

And she did.

Perhaps it was because of the near miss they’d just had with the tanker. Perhaps it was for some other reason. In any case, to her own amazement, she found herself reaching over and taking his left hand, which was curled around the gear stick, with her right. She slid her palm over the back of his hand, pushed her fingers in between his and clasped his hand tightly.

For a few moments, David squeezed her hand back. And, for those few moments, Jade wouldn’t have minded if he’d crashed the car right there.

46

Edmonds had expected Cyprus to be warm. In fact, it was hot. She’d discarded her jacket as soon as she and Richards disembarked from the plane at Larnaca Airport in Southern Cyprus, and the long-sleeved top she was wearing underneath soon followed.

T
-shirt weather in October. Who would have thought it?

They drove north in their hired car and crossed the Green Line at the Agios Dometios gate in Nicosia half an hour later. Here, they showed their passports at the checkpoint and were soon heading into Northern Cyprus.

The tiny village of Malatya was set high in the mountains. The Beshpa-mark, or the Five Fingers, according to Richards, who was happily bombarding Edmonds with local facts and figures. Sitting in the passenger seat, Edmonds was only half-listening to him as she took in the bleak, rugged scenery while the car wound its way up the narrow pass.

“Criminal bolthole.” Edmonds tuned Richards back in again. “That’s what this place is. A hideaway for every deadbeat that’s ever stolen, smuggled, blackmailed, or laundered money. You know there’s no extradition treaty between here and the uk? That’s caused a lot of problems in the past, and I think it’s why the authorities are pretty much cooperating with us now. They don’t want their country to get anymore of a reputation as a place where the lowlifes can evade arrest.”

Two detectives from the Turkish Cypriot police were waiting outside the villa, which was set back from the road, down a long driveway, behind ornate gates. They were leaning against the low wall that separated the white-painted buildings from the surrounding gardens.

The villa that was owned by Xavier Soumare and Mathilde Dupont.

This information had been gleaned by Mackay, who had been investigating the British Airways flight which the two suspected traffickers had taken from Cyprus. Although the pair had left no paper trail this time round, the airline recovered their address via a previous booking, when they had flown first-class to the Seychelles.

Mackay had told Edmonds that they had either made a stupid mistake in revealing their home address, or else been super-confident that they wouldn’t be traced.

“The police raid on Number Six was an unlucky coincidence for them, that’s for sure,” he’d said. “If it hadn’t been for us arriving at that time, they’d have got away free and clear.”

The shorter of the two detectives, a sleepy-looking man with a large black moustache, stepped forward and shook their hands. He introduced himself as Barak. Edmonds was glad that he spoke good, if strongly accented, English. Earlier, in the southern part of the country, Richards had earned her undying gratitude by communicating with the car hire company in fluent Greek.

“You can go inside,” Barak said to her. “We have searched the place and taken fingerprints. The information has been sent to our offices. We are waiting … ” At first Edmonds thought the detective had paused to search for an English word, but then she noticed the well-dressed woman approaching on foot. A neighbour, perhaps.

When the woman started speaking, Edmonds was surprised to hear a distinctly British accent. An expat, then; one of the five thousand or so who lived in this part of the world. And, if Richards was to be believed, hopefully one of the few who were not criminals in hiding.

“Good afternoon, officer. I’m Maggie Rawlins from across the road. I got a message you wanted to speak to me. What’s the problem? Is Mr Soumare all right?”

The house wasn’t a crime scene, so if the Cypriot detectives were prepared to allow her inside, Edmonds definitely wanted to take a look around. Moving away from her Turkish colleague into the cool, high-ceilinged hallway, Edmonds could hear Maggie Rawlins’ outraged responses to the questions she was being asked.

“Impossible! Absolutely impossible. Xavier and his partner Mathilde are lovely people. I’ve known them for years. They’d never do anything like human trafficking.”

Edmonds stepped further into the house, through the archway that led to the living room. The floor was tiled, the room felt surprisingly cool. Apart from the silvery smudges of fingerprint dust that Edmonds noticed on several surfaces, the tasteful interior was pristine.

Taking in the plush leather furniture, paintings on the wall that she didn’t recognise, but which looked like expensive originals, a cabinet with a collection of porcelain, Edmonds felt the same choking rage rise up inside her that she’d experienced the day she had searched Mathilde’s room in the five-star hotel.

How dare they? How
dare
they enrich themselves in this way, by abducting young women, subjecting them to the worst and vilest invasions of their being, changing them in such a way that even if they escaped their prison one day, they could never escape its legacy?

Human traffickers were thieves, but what they stole could never be given back or compensated for, because it was the very souls of the people they trafficked that they took.

“Officer, you
don
’t understand.” Maggie Rawlins’ high-pitched voice was still clearly audible. “These people have done an enormous amount for charity. They are certainly not criminals. Ask their staff—they have a cleaner who comes in every morning and a gardener twice a week. And Mr Soumare couldn’t possibly commit a crime now, in any case, not with his health the way it is. He’s been going to the boc Oncology Clinic in Nicosia three times a week for aggressive radiotherapy and chemotherapy. He has cancer, you see.”

A triumphant silence, as if the woman was sure this fact would change everything.

Hearing this, Edmonds clenched her jaw so hard that it hurt.

“Good,” she uttered fiercely.

She stomped across the room, out of earshot of Maggie Rawlins’ irritating voice. In a smaller adjoining room that opened onto a verandah, two comfortable-looking armchairs were positioned on either side of a glass coffee table. In contrast to the other furniture, these chairs looked as if they had been regularly used.

So this was where Xavier and Mathilde had sat. In the evenings, perhaps. Looking out at the sunset, sipping on cool drinks, paging through one of the books that she saw on the coffee table. And all without a twinge of conscience, she supposed.

A Lladro china figurine also stood on the table, next to a slim white cordless telephone slotted into its charger.

The idea came to Edmonds in a flash.

She picked the phone up in her left hand and turned it on, while digging in her jeans pocket for her own mobile.

She had the phone number for Amanita’s grandfather in its memory.

He hadn’t been answering any calls from the United King-dom—but would he answer a call that came from here?

The keys of the cordless phone gave shrill beeps as she punched the number in. The noise seemed very loud to her, and she found herself glancing nervously over her shoulder. She wasn’t sure if she was allowed to do this, and she knew she should check with Richards first, but she had no idea where he was now. He hadn’t followed her into the house; that was all she knew.

Edmonds finished dialling the number and waited, standing alone in the quiet room, aware that her legs felt as tense as if she was waiting for a starting pistol to go off.

After a short pause she heard the ringing sound that had become all too familiar to her. It rang three times, four times, and she was beginning to think that it would go through to voicemail yet again.

Then, with a click that seemed to stop her heart, the call was answered and she heard Mr Soumare’s voice.

He said just one word.

“Xavier?”

That was enough. Edmonds snatched the phone away from her ear as if it had bitten her. Then she punched the disconnect button and quickly replaced the mobile on its rest. Her haste made her clumsy; on her first try it fell off and clattered onto the coffee table.

She couldn’t believe that her suspicions had been so easily confirmed. Without a doubt, Amanita’s grandfather knew Xavier Soumare, and from the sound of it had been expecting him to call.

Edmonds jumped as she heard footsteps on the tiles outside, and a moment later Richards walked onto the verandah.

“There you are. Come and have a look at this,” he said.

Edmonds followed him outside and across the lawn to a covered patio where Barak was waiting. Nearby, a swimming pool of near-Olympian proportions sparkled in the sun.

Her mind was racing. She wanted to tell Richards about the call she had just made, but she didn’t want to do it while she was within earshot of the Cypriot detectives, in case her actions ended up getting them both into trouble.

She decided it would be more sensible to tell him later.

“Down there.” Richards pointed to a stone archway. “In the wine cellar.”

Following the men down a steep flight of stairs, Edmonds saw the sturdy steel security gate at the bottom had been cut open— by the police, she supposed—and was standing ajar. She stepped into a gloomy room that didn’t just feel cool, it felt cold. Wooden shelves lined the walls, with curved indentations on which hundreds of bottles rested.

Edmonds stared at the opposite wall, where two large wine barrels had been moved, stained rings on the floor indicating that they had been resting there for years.

The Cypriot police had done their work well. Behind the barrels, in a small recess, was a sturdy-looking safe door.

“This is what Barak just showed me,” Richards explained. “They’ve got a professional safe-cracker already on the way, coming to open up. Another hour or two and we’ll know what’s inside. Apparently the house is clean. The detectives found no criminal evidence anywhere upstairs. So whatever secrets Xavier and Mathilde have been hiding, it’s my bet we’re going to find them in here.”

47

On the highway to Dullstroom, Jade felt as if she was driving straight into a vast wall of cloud. Occasionally, lightning flickered eerily across the bulky piles of cumulus, or forked, hard and bright, to the ground. The trees swayed theatrically in the high wind, throwing leaves and small branches against the windscreen. When particularly strong gusts blew, the unmarked shuddered as if a hand were pushing it gently but insistently sideways.

The weather was as disturbed as Jade’s own thoughts as she considered what motives Salimovic, Tamsin, Naude, and the mysterious Xavier and Mathilde might have for their actions. They seemed to her like pieces placed randomly on a chessboard— but who was on which side? And why?

Jade was beginning to worry that they were missing at least one crucial piece of information. She wished she could call for police backup, but police backup could mean certain death for Kevin.

Better to arrive quietly.

She reached the town just before eleven p.m. and drove slowly along the main road. Dullstroom was situated in the highlands of Mpumalanga, and she remembered it well because her father had taken occasional fishing trips there in the past. It was typical highland country—forested slopes, rolling hills, and countless dams. These, her father had optimistically informed her, were filled with trout, although Jade couldn’t ever remember him having caught so much as one.

She was surprised to see that the town itself had tripled in size since she’d last been there. From the direction signs she passed, fly-fishing was still the main attraction, but now ranks of new-looking shops, restaurants and other businesses lined the main road, clamouring for customers’ attention.

She was now just a few kilometres away from her destination. There was the turnoff that would lead her to the country house. She left the main road, and after a couple more turns was soon driving through dark and empty countryside, down the long and rutted road that led directly to the smallholding.