Deadly Mist: AIMEE ROBERTSON, #2

By Bronwyn Howard

A disturbing and compelling thriller for today's times.

In the lands bordering South Africa's Kruger National Park, wildlife is mysteriously dying en masse, putting regional tourism in jeopardy.   

When environmental journalist Aimee Robertson moves to the town of White River to join her attorney fiancé, Logan Springfield, she starts investigating the puzzle.  But she has barely begun when scholars and teachers at a farm school become fatally ill after exposure to chemical drift. 

As farmers, communities and even Logan are affected by a virulent new toxin, Aimee sets out to find the culprits.  But, as the couple soon discover, the offenders will stop at nothing to protect their deadly secret.  And suddenly, her life is in danger...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bronwyn Howard
• Release date: Oct 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780620856898

Bronwyn Howard

Bronwyn Howard is a South African-based author who is passionate about nature, wildlife and conservaton, as well as environmental issues.  She loves nothing better than being in the great outdoors and writing to make a difference.  She started out as a travel writer and wrote freelance for several South African magazines and newspapers before starting to produce her own digital magazines in 2009.  She lives in the small town of Utrecht in northern KZN in the shadow of the Balele Mountains, with her husband and a small, black cat.

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MPUMALANGA MAP.jpg

Glossary of South African Words & Terms

ACACIA - THORN TREES

bakkie - small truck with an open back

boerewors (wors) - farmer’s sausage

boma - circle, usually fenced, with a fireplace in the centre

braai - barbecue

braaivleis - braai (barbecue) meat

dankie - thank you

dassie - rock hyrax (looks like a rabbit with round ears)

eish - exclamation, rather like ‘oh dear’ or ‘my goodness’

howzit - greeting: ‘hello, how are you?’

ICU – Intensive Care Unit (at hospital)

ja - yes

mielies - maize, corn

skelm - criminal

stoep - porch

taxi - minibus taxi

veld - open countryside

Authors Note

THE AVERAGE PERSON comes into contact with some 11,000 chemicals a day, many of them toxic, including novel or new chemicals, the effects of which are completely unknown.  The agro-chemical industry is one of the sectors which, for years, has been manufacturing often harmful chemicals for the purposes of growing plants, including food crops.  Today, the consequences of this are becoming alarmingly apparent.

As mentioned in this book, South Africa’s legislation governing the regulation of fertilisers and agricultural remedies harks back to the 1940s and is accordingly extremely out-dated; however, nothing has been done to update the laws, despite white papers and other submissions to this effect.  While the scenarios mentioned in this book are extreme and unlikely, agricultural poisoning is nevertheless a real and present danger, especially for farm workers.  Often poisoning events go unreported as those affected are concerned that their jobs would be jeopardised.  My research for this book indicated that agricultural poisoning is likely under-reported in South Africa.

One of the areas subject to the misuse and abuse of agro-chemicals is the Lowveld; from time to time, reports surface in local community newspapers regarding unintentional poisoning of the public, sometimes including children and young people, when agricultural crops are sprayed. 

There is currently no chemical that would do all the damage that is described in this book - I combined the effects of a variety of very toxic agricultural chemicals to create the entirely fictitious product that is featured in this novel.  It is, however, true that chemicals such as temick and carbofuran are being sold by street vendors without being labelled, usually having been obtained on the black market, as reported on by the media in recent years.

The 24 hour rule for reporting missing persons at the South African Police Service has been scrapped.  However, it has remained in this book for purposes of the story.

Bronwyn Howard, Utrecht KZN, October 2019

Acknowledgements

WRITING IS OF NECESSITY a solitary endeavour but is not accomplished alone.  I would like to thank my advance readers, who were also kind enough to provide my first reviews, Wendy Watson and Denise Hall. 

Thanks to fellow writer, Jay Aspen, who provided useful feedback and guided my ventures into the world of digital conversion. 

Thanks to my sister, Alison Langston, as well as Marilyn Liley, Debbie Verity and many others for circulating my promotions on social media. 

A very big ‘thank you’ to the folk participating in writers’ networks for their assistance, advice, suggestions and patience - too many to mention here.  Special thanks to Mark Dawson, James Blatch and Claire Hardy for providing information and support, as well as the folk at D2D. 

Last, but definitely not least, a very big shout out to my patient husband for supporting me in my author endeavours, helping me design my covers, checking my videos and listening to my plot outlines!

PROLOGUE

SOUTH AFRICAN WINTERS ON the Highveld are clear and sunshine streamed into the large office in a low-rise building in Midrand, a sprawling peri-urban area halfway between the metropolises of Johannesburg and Pretoria.  The bucolic view beyond the windows took in rolling grasslands, sprawling houses on large smallholdings and quiet roads.  The Johannesburg skyline was a grey smudge on the horizon, partly obscured by haze.

Bennie van Tonder, top biotechnician at Leonotis Chemicals, fidgeted in his seat.  He was pale and thin, almost geeky-looking, with a narrow, slightly lined face, black-framed spectacles and thinning grey hair combed back.  He looked across the desk at Nico Botha, the laboratory manager.  The pair were having their bi-weekly meeting, when Bennie updated his boss on the progress he was making in developing a new product for the company. 

This is good, Bennie, Nico said, as he read through the report the biotechnician had handed him. 

Bennie said, My latest laboratory trials indicate it still needs some fine turning.  Even now, it appears to be much too - effective, if you get my drift.

Nico said intently, How long do you think it’ll take you to finish?

Bennie shrugged.  They had had this conversation before.  It’s difficult to say; it could be a month - or even six.

"Six months!"  Nico exclaimed, frowning at Bennie.

Bennie fiddled with the pens in the breast pocket of his white lab coat.  Look, it could be less.  I need to make sure the formula is one hundred per cent correct and that there won’t be any adverse effects.  There’s been that big fuss overseas about agro-chemicals causing cancer and having negative environmental impacts...

But there’s less concern here in South Africa, Nico pointed out.  I know the chemicals you’re talking about - everyone does - but their use here is still widespread.  Farmers are using them, and so are municipalities and gardeners.  There are a few activists getting excited but they’re in the minority.

Bennie rubbed his neck, stiff from hours bent over microscopes and lab equipment.  But, Mr Botha, this is a unique compound we’re developing.  There’s nothing out there that remotely resembles this.  If we get it wrong, it could do a lot of harm.  We have a responsibility...

Nico interrupted forcefully.  "Ja, Bennie, we do - to the shareholders of Leonotis Chemicals!  We assured them - and our investors - that we’d finally have this product in field trials six months ago.  Now you want to do another six months of lab work.  I appreciate that this is ground-breaking technology but everyone wants results - the directors, shareholders and investors.  And they want it now.  There’ve been too many delays, mostly due to your concerns.  I don’t think we can leverage any further investment, to be honest.  We need to get this thing registered and start producing, get it into the market."

Bennie bit his lip.  He found his work personally satisfying but he hated office politics.  He had left his university post not only because Leonotis had made him a good financial offer.  They had given him a state-of-the-art laboratory, presenting him with an opportunity to hone his craft and make a difference.  Six years later, however, things were looking decidedly less attractive. 

Facing Nico across the desk, he felt a growing unease.  He said, I get that but, in my, uh, professional opinion, it’s simply not ready for release into the environment.  When he saw Nico’s unyielding look, he said hastily, I know it’s not ideal.  Maybe it’ll be ready in under six months but I don’t want to promise and then...

Nico linked his hands behind his head.  This places us in a very difficult position.  I mean, we - you - promised the company they could have this formulation within about four years.  Now, we’re into six years and you’re telling me it’s going to take at least another six months.  I can’t keep running to the directors asking for extensions.

Bennie looked mutinous.  Ja but...

Nico went on, I doubt they’ll give us more research and development funding either.  We’ve had two extensions as it is and...

Bennie interrupted, When I came to work here, I was under the impression your R&D budget was significant; it was the main reason I moved to Leonotis.  Now you’re telling me the company’s running out of money!

Nico said belligerently, Leonotis Chemicals is a business and needs to turn profit.  We can’t keep messing around, doing R&D and tweaking forever.  I told you before - it’s not like working at a university.

Bennie’s eyes glittered behind his spectacles.  He took a breath and said, as calmly as he could, I do understand that.  But I’m just not sure...  He bit his lip.  I’m having the same problem as before.  The formulation still seems to be too - virulent.  I’m concerned...

Nico held up a hand and interrupted irritably.  Look, if it makes you happier, I can apply for another extension.  But, as I said, I doubt we’ll get it.  It was made very clear to me the last time that we really need to get this product into field trials and onto the market.

Bennie looked relieved.  Let me know what you can do. 

Feeling resentful and annoyed that he was once again being obliged to act as an intermediary between Bennie and the bosses, Nico reached for the phone on his desk.  Alright.

Bennie stood up.  Thanks, Mr Botha.  Whatever extension you can organize will be fine.

Nico picked up the receiver.  I’ll speak to everyone and let you know.

Thank you, Bennie said again and left the office. 

He hurried down to the lab, his coat flapping.  Time was of the essence.  But the work was intricate and he didn’t want to rush the process.  He placed his thumb on the biometrics scanner and also used his security card to get in.  He walked quickly through the well-equipped laboratory suite, hardly noticing that a few of the technicians stopped their work to eye him curiously.

In a small change room, Bennie donned a biohazard suit, boots and gloves.  Then he used his key card again to enter the temperature-controlled grow rooms, with their containers of vegetables, small fruit trees, maize and sorghum.  Overhead lights shone on the plants, simulating daylight.  He walked among the rows of containers and groaned inwardly.  All the beetles and caterpillars were dead.  But so were the rats, guinea pigs and even the rabbits.  He was seeing the same results every time.  The problem was the extreme potency of the formulation.  He sighed deeply.  He’d better get cracking.  Leonotis Chemicals wasn’t going to wait much longer for him to solve the problem. 

A few days later, Nico Botha called him in to tell him the directors had flatly refused to grant any more extensions.  They just haven’t got the funds and they’re under pressure from the shareholders, he had told a worried-looking Bennie.  My hands are tied.  They want you to present your findings at a directors’ meeting in two weeks.  That’s all the time I can give you.

Naturally, it wasn’t enough.  As a result, Bennie, infused with a sense of impending doom, had found himself expressing his misgivings with uncharacteristic force to men in suits around a boardroom table.

Dismissing Bennie’s concerns as being inappropriately alarmist, the directors issued instructions to fast-track the mandatory field trials.  These would be conducted by independent entities on agricultural lands in the Vaal Triangle, an hour’s drive south of Johannesburg.  After taking his desperate stand, Bennie was prohibited from participating and was banned from the site.  Instead, Leonotis brought in a consultant - Dr Ken Fisher, a South African biochemist who had been working in Europe.  During their briefings, Bennie attempted to warn Dr Fisher about his findings, but the overweening scientist, determined to advance his clients’ agenda, rebuffed him.  While the trials continued, Bennie, confined to the laboratory, awaited the results with increasing apprehension. 

At the end of the growing season, Fisher met him at a pub well away from both the laboratory and the farm fields, and quietly told him that the trials had been satisfactorily completed.  Still uncertain, Bennie asked the consultant how they compared with what he’d observed in the laboratory.

To his consternation, Dr Fisher clapped him on the back.  You’ve done a wonderful job!  This product is amazing, it’s extremely efficient.  I think the farmers will be very pleased with it - and so will Leonotis, once it gets into the market.

You did consider my findings? Bennie asked anxiously.

Yes, of courses, Fisher said, a little too glibly. From what we observed, you’ve nothing to worry about.  Today everyone wants hyper-efficient biocides.  And that’s exactly what this is.

Six months later...

IN A PRIVATE ROOM AT a boutique hotel in one of Johannesburg’s more salubrious suburbs, waiters served unobtrusively.  Everything was of the best: imported whisky and gin, superior vintage South African wines, springbok carpaccio from a game farm in Limpopo, lobsters and seafood flown in from Cape Town, grass-fed beef from the Free State, vegetables and salads from the hotel gardens.  Glasses and silverware sparkled in the light cascading from electric chandeliers, while piped music played in the background.  Beyond the mullion-paned windows, floodlights lit up the narrow trunks of lavender trees, the night beyond faintly sparkling with city lights.

But the setting and the night were lost on those gathered around the big dining table.  They were mostly older men, graying and balding, some paunchy, dressed mostly in black-and-white dress suits and bow ties.  They were becoming loud as alcohol and food were consumed.  I propose a toast, one said, when they were between the meat course and the pudding.  Everyone’s glasses had just been re-charged by the waiter.  Despite his growing inebriation, the man raising his glass still retained an air of authority.  The waiters had noticed that the others deferred to him.  He was tall and commanding, his virtually bald pate in no way diminishing his rugged good looks.  He lurched to his feet.  To Bennie van Tonder!

There was a general chorus of, Bennie, as everyone raised their glasses.

The man of the moment wore an off-the-peg grey suit and dark tie.  He flushed slightly, as he took a mouthful of merlot.  Thank you, Mr Steenkamp, everyone, he mumbled.

Get up, man, Steekamp said benignly.  Thanks to your work, we’ll be pulling off a real coup in this industry.  Agriculture will never be the same!

Van Tonder shambled to his feet, almost spilling wine on his shirt.  Thank you, sir.

The others began getting up, some moving around to shake his hand or clap him on the back.  Best biochemist in Africa, if not the world, Steenkamp effused, "and we got you working for us.  Was that a good move or what?"

He glanced across at the human resources director.  Dave Brown was a large man, who was noticeably unsteady, bow tie askew.  He nodded his head at Steenkamp.  Thank you, sir.

You’ll get a special bonus, Steenkamp said.  I’ll action it tomorrow.

We’re going to turn this industry upside down, Schalk Kleynhans, marketing and sales director, enthused gleefully.  He had either drunk less than the others or was better at holding his liquor.  His eyes glittered, as he considered unique selling points and price advantages.

The financial director nodded, swaying slightly.  We’re going to be market leaders with this tech, he said.  He glanced at Steenkamp.  Is Bennie getting a special bonus too?

Yes, yes, of course, Steenkamp said quickly.  We’ll do better than that.  He looked over at Bennie.  What about we give you a twenty five per cent salary increase - and I’ll personally throw in that SUV I know you’re keen on.  He glanced over at Brown.  Do the necessary.  Bennie’s raise is to take effect from the end of this month.

Bennie smiled.  Thank you, Mr Steenkamp, he said courteously.  He wondered whether Brown would even remember, come morning.  Bennie had not drunk as much as the others.  He lived on a small farm in the Magaliesberg, a low range of mountains north-west of Pretoria, and the taxi service had refused to drive him all the way there late at night.  He was going to need to drive himself home when this show was over.  And he had the odd feeling he’d need his wits about him. 

The waiter came over, asking Steenkamp if dessert could be served, and everyone began settling down.  Bennie sat nursing his wine and glancing self-consciously at the others, who were talking about skiing in Europe, electric luxury cars and the cost of renovations to their enormous houses.  After sherry trifle had been consumed, and coffee and brandy snifters drunk, Bennie decided to leave.  Those around him were either growing maudlin with alcohol or still talking about their high-end lifestyles.  Despite the dinner being in his honour, he had little in common with anyone and he wasn’t making much contribution to the conversation.  He doubted they’d even realise he was gone. 

He went over to Steenkamp, who broke off a diatribe about funding his son’s gap year in the US.  You’re going already?  But the party’s hardly started!

The taxi service isn’t prepared to drive me home, so I need to get going, Bennie made his excuses.

Oh, that’s right, you live in the Magaliesberg, don’t you? Kleynhans remembered, still sharp as a tack.

Thinking the man couldn’t have indulged much, Bennie said, That’s right.

Isn’t it a bit dangerous, living out there on your own?  You’re divorced, aren’t you?

It seems fine, Bennie said, putting on his jacket.

You can’t be too careful with all these farm attacks these days, Steenkamp put in tactlessly.  He patted Bennie on the arm.  Drive safely.  We don’t want to lose our best biotechnician, he joked.

Bennie felt an icy finger slide down his spine as he said, Thank you, sir.  He walked across to the sideboard, where he’d left his briefcase.  Inside, was the formula.  It was supposed to be locked in a safe, pending registration, patenting and other intellectual property protections, but he had taken to quietly removing it, covertly assisted by an awe-struck secretary, in a desperate effort to fine-tune the formula before the product went to market.  He was conducting trials on vegetables and fruit trees at home, with limited success.  Once he was finished, he hoped to quietly update the formula and leave it in the safe, no one the wiser.

He traversed the fringes of the sprawling city, passing the last residential developments and lifestyle estates, shadowed and silent at this hour.  A half moon sashayed across the sky, silhouetting trees, houses and shuttered general dealers, silvering roadside guard rails and streams.  The urban edge surrendered to the faintly illuminated countryside, rocky ridges etched against the sky.  Closer to home, Bennie crossed Hartebeespoort Dam’s western shore, the water a glittering sheet beneath the elevated road, starlight tracing the Magaliesberg’s contours.  He turned off and drove through the miniscule town of Hekpoort, where only the garage and police station showed any light.  Presently, he reached the entrance to his farm. 

The plot number was conspicuous in reflective paint, something local law enforcement had recommended in the light of the current wave of farm attacks, making it easier for emergency services to find properties.  Bennie opened the wide gate, annoyed to see someone had left the padlock dangling, unlocked, from its chain.  A new maid had come that day to clean and he made a mental note to impress upon her the importance of locking up. 

He drove up the track, dust billowing behind him in a moonlit cloud.  On reaching his house, he noticed that the electric gate leading into the yard was partly open and he frowned, unsettled.  His headlights lit the house at an oblique angle.  The place was dark and he could see no signs of life.  He pulled up, put the vehicle into reverse gear in case he had to make a quick getaway, and opened his window.  He turned off the ignition, keeping his hand on the key, and listened.  Wind sighed through a bluegum stand.  Somewhere in the hills, jackals called and a baboon barked. 

But where was his dog?  Egoli, his big German shepherd, always rushed out to greet him, no matter how late the hour.  He began to sweat, moisture tumbling into his eyes.  He wiped a hand across his brow, trying not to think of local stories about atrocities committed against landowners, often for no apparent reason.

There was no cell phone reception here and, for once, he regretted his decision to be gun free.  He was not strong and doubted he’d be able to fight his way out of a confrontation.  It was pointless driving to the police station; they hadn’t had a vehicle for months and couldn’t respond to calls.  He had to get inside, to his land line phone.  Once inside, he could barricade himself in and phone the local farm watch to come out and take a look around.  But getting to the house was going to be a problem.

His mind racing, he wondered whether there was anything he could use to defend himself if it came down to it.  Glancing into the passenger footwell, his eye lighted on the briefcase.  It wasn’t ideal but was all he had.  He lifted it onto the seat beside him, then turned off the headlights and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark.  He looked around, seeing nothing unusual, and carefully unlocked his door.  He slid out of the vehicle, briefcase at the ready.  He ran through the yard, sprinting for the house.  A motion-sensing light went on, blinding him, and he half-fell up the few stairs to the front stoep. 

On the stoep, he fell over a large obstacle, going down on his knees.  The briefcase crashed down beside him.  He saw he’d fallen over Egoli’s corpse, the big dog lying on her side, swollen tongue hanging from her mouth.  He felt a spasm of grief for his faithful companion but there was no time to dwell on it.  Poisonings of domestic dogs had become commonplace when trespassers entered properties.  Dimly, he noticed the commotion had not drawn anyone and he began to relax slightly.  Perhaps the intruders had gone. 

Somehow, he had not dropped his keys and, shaking, he eventually got the key in the lock.  To his consternation, the door was unlocked and he carefully opened it, reaching in to switch on a light.  He hadn’t replaced all the furniture after his ex-wife left and the enormous living room was sparsely furnished.  The glass doors leading onto the long, wide verandah that looked out over the valley were closed and intact.  The room was tidy after the maid’s cleaning, books and magazines neatly stacked, dirty cups and plates removed, cushions plumped.  He stood listening but the house was silent, smelling faintly of lemon-scented polish.  He hoped the intruders had left.

He locked the door behind him, still alert but already calmer.  If there was someone on the property, they’d not get in easily.  He turned to walk to the study and his land line phone.

The attack began in the passage.  He glimpsed a burly shape in the dim light from the living room and raised the briefcase to ward off his attacker.  But there wasn’t space to swing and it was wrenched from his grip.  The man grabbed Bennie and slammed him face-first into the wall.  Bennie’s spectacles flew off; he heard his nose break and blood seeped down his face.  For a moment, he saw stars as he splayed his hands against the wall, fighting to stay upright. 

A second man spun Bennie away and tripped him, so he pitched onto the tiled floor.  Terrified he would be tortured, as had happened in many farm attacks, Bennie struggled to his hands and knees, breathing through his mouth, only to have his arms kicked from under him.  So far, the assault had happened in complete silence, a fact that frightened him even more.  He barely noticed his injuries, save for the blood dripping down his face, while he focussed on getting to the phone.  He attempted to crawl down the passage, towards his study. 

Hold him! one of the men said and Bennie was shocked to hear the guttural Afrikaans.  What was this?  Who was breaking in?  This wasn’t an ordinary farm attack.  But he was being hauled to his feet, flung against the wall again, a jarring blow.  Bennie felt his arm break and his head bounced painfully off the wall.  He cried out with pain.  The man holding him said to the other, Have you got it?

Bennie heard scuffling and tried to wrench himself free but the man holding him laughed unpleasantly and grasped his arms even harder.  Wincing, Bennie tried to kick out but the man slammed him against the wall again, not quite as hard as before, but the pain increased and another cry escaped the biotechnician.  He heard the other man saying, I’ve got it.  Come, man...

Relax.  There’s no cell phone signal.  Anyway, we haven’t finished yet.  Bennie’s blood ran cold.  Despite his pain and disorientation, he began to feel more afraid than he had ever felt in his life.  He struggled to free himself, sweating with pain and fear.  Aren’t you the wild cat? a voice said in his ear.

Bring him here, I need some light, the other man said, moving towards the living room.

The first man half carried, half dragged the bleeding, stricken biotechnician into the bright room.  They set him on a dining room chair and tied him to it with ropes they had brought with them.  Bennie was fading in and out of consciousness.  He didn’t see one of his attackers pull out a gun, and put a bullet through his brain and then his chest. 

The men rifled through Bennie’s pockets, removing his wallet and cell phone before switching off the lights and running out of the house, closing the door and avoiding the dead dog.  They hurried down the road to where their car was parked behind an old barn and drove through the dark to the main road.

FOUR YEARS LATER

STAN

CHAPTER 1

THE DAM, WITH ITS MANY bays and inlets, sparkled in the late afternoon sun, reflecting the cloudless blue sky.  In South Africa in late August, spring was starting, the weather already pleasantly warm in the Mpumalanga Lowveld.  The countryside between White River and Hazyview was a mosaic of timber plantations and orchards - bananas, pawpaws, avocados, citrus and, more recently, macadamia nuts - interspersed with thick bush.  Beyond Hazyview, the road swept north, through a vast land of rolling savannas bounded by high mountains, to the mighty Limpopo River, with its hippos, crocs and fish eagles, elephants, baobabs and ancient legends.   

It was the middle of the afternoon when Andre Joubert walked across the lawns of Kingfisher Lodge, down to the jetty where the sightseeing boat was moored.  He carried a clipboard and a cooler box of drinks and ice.  He was accompanied by Tengisa from the kitchens, bearing foil-wrapped snack trays.  At his side bounced a lively Jack Russell, christened, rather unimaginatively, as ‘Jack’. 

They boarded the small craft, which swayed on its moorings.  While Andre checked the battery-operated engine, Tengisa set the trays on a plastic table and arranged chairs around the deck so guests would have the best views of the dam on their sundowner cruise.  She sashayed back to the kitchens, while Jack lay down at a command from his master, tail wagging.  As Andre waited for Tengisa to return with glasses, he ran his eye over the list of tourists on today’s cruise.

There were the Greens, honeymooners from Johannesburg in their late twenties; the Oakleys, a middle-aged couple from Durban; and international tourists - the Caileys from England, as well as Jennifer and Tamsin, two professionals from the States, taking time out in Africa.  He looked up as Tengisa returned with the glasses, to be greeted enthusiastically by Jack, and they managed to get the glasses on the table in spite of the dog’s exuberance.  Tengisa left, taking Jack with her, and Andre checked that the craft’s canvas canopy was firmly secured.

Shortly before four o’clock, people started drifting down to the jetty, carrying jackets, binoculars and cameras.  When everyone was aboard, Andre gave his usual spiel about safety, what birds they might see and where they’d be going.  The trip lasted an hour and he usually stopped in a quiet bay for sundowners.  He cast off and took the wheel, slowly drifting out onto the water.  They glided past the lodge’s sweeping lawns and crossed the inlet to round a spur of land covered with tall pines and rocky outcrops. 

He travelled slowly, frequently throttling back to allow the birders to see and photograph flocks of bishops getting their summer plumage, bee-eaters looking for nesting sites on the muddy banks, black crakes and three-banded plovers foraging in the shallows, as well as several kingfishers and a Goliath heron standing to attention, a breeze ruffling its neck feathers.  An African fish eagle uttered its distinctive call and one of the birders spied it in a tall tree. 

In between photographing and consulting their field guides, he heard the tourists discussing what they had done that day.  The Brits had driven up the escarpment to take in the historic town of Pilgrim’s Rest and the waterfalls near Sabie.  The honeymooners and the Oakleys had visited the Kruger National Park, while the Americans had gone horse riding near Hazyview and visited a cultural village. 

Andre glanced at his watch, guided the craft into a small bay and throttled back the engine.  The boat lifted gently on the slight swell.  How about those drinks? 

He mixed and poured, got himself a soft drink and joined in the talk about tourist attractions, wildlife, birds and the history of the Lowveld.  While they talked, the sun festooned the sky in pink scarves, the colours mirrored on the water.  Will you look at that? John Cailey exclaimed, reaching for his camera.  When the drinks were gone and everyone had had their fill of snacks, Andre closed the cooler box and started up the engine, taking the boat back out into the open water.  The sun dropped behind the hills and his passengers drew on jackets and jerseys.

As he neared the jetty near Kingfisher Lodge, he felt a bump on the boat’s keel.  It was unusual to encounter crocodiles or hippos here but minimal rainfall the previous summer had seen hippos appearing in new places, as rivers and dams dried up.  Hoping it wasn’t one of these lumbering creatures, which are notorious for their bad tempers, Andre carefully backed off to what he hoped was a safe distance and waited for the animal to emerge.  He needed to see it and avoid it.  He didn’t want the small craft overturned by a quarrelsome hippo. 

What was that? Brenda Oakley asked.

He said, trying to appear casual, Seems to be something in the water.

I hope it’s not a hippo, Jennifer said bluntly.  Remember, Tams, we read about them.  They kill more people in Africa than any other animal.

Andre waited but nothing happened.  He said, If it was a hippo, we’d see something by now, even if it was just the top of its head.  They don’t swim - they walk along the bottom and it’s quite shallow here.  It might be a log or something; they were felling some trees the other day.  I’m going to go round and come in from the other side. 

The tourists fell silent, watching the water intently.  He carefully turned the boat in a wide sweep, hoping to avoid the animal - or log.  Keeping his eyes peeled, he approached the jetty from the other direction and noticed something strange.  There was indeed a hippo near the jetty but it seemed to be lying upside down.  The wake of their boat, although not large, had nudged the enormous creature into the jetty.  He throttled back and waited.  He could sense the tourists becoming nervous.  Don’t move anyone, he said, throttling back even further, until the boat was practically drifting in the swell.  He borrowed Brenda Oakley’s binoculars and got a good look.  The animal was indeed upside down in the water, its head submerged, lower belly and feet extended into the air.  He handed the binoculars back and wiped his hand on his shorts.  It seems to be dead, he said in surprise.

They don’t play dead, do they? asked Tamsin nervously.

Andre took the wheel again.  Not as far as I know.  Anyway, if it was alive, we’d probably know about it by now.

He turned the boat again and approached the jetty from the usual side.  Telling his guests to remain where they were, Andre cut the engine, hooked a line around a bollard and went to take a closer look.  He wondered how long the carcass had been floating around the dam and if there were others.  Everyone else disembarked and inspected the huge beast reduced to a bloated, pig-like mass.  Jennifer took a few pictures with her phone.

The South African guests wanted to know what would be done about the carcass.  Andre said vaguely, We’ll probably have to get someone in to remove it.  While the guests wandered back to their units, excitedly discussing the dead animal, Andre glumly picked up his cooler box and went around to the hotel kitchens.  He needed to report this to Stan Blackwood, who both owned and managed Kingfisher Lodge.  Andre knew he would not be pleased.  If they had to remove the carcass, it would mean cranes and heavy vehicles churning up the grounds and wrecking the gardens - just as the summer tourist season started.  He rather hoped the carcass would float off to another part of the dam.  He sighed.  Where was a pride of lions when you needed them?

Stan was a burly man with a shock of black hair, greying at the edges.  Andre found him in his cluttered office, talking to an employee about airport transfers.  When the staff member left, Blackwood waved a hand at the recently vacated chair.  Andre!  Sit down.  How did the sundowner cruise go?

It was great.  We had some birders and they were very happy with all the birds they saw.

That’s good.  After a moment, Stan said, I take it you’re not here to give me a blow by blow account?

Andre looked down at the desk, then back at Stan.  Mr Blackwood, you know those dead hippos the local paper’s been reporting on?

A cautious look came over Stan’s face.  Ye-e-s?

One of them has ended up at the jetty.  We saw it when we got back.  I think the current must have pushed it there.  It’s upside down.

Stan scowled.  Oh, for Pete’s sake!  Seriously?

Ja, Mr Blackwood, I couldn’t believe it myself.

Stan got up.  I’d better come and take a look while there’s still some light.

The two men, this time accompanied by Jack, strode swiftly to the water’s edge.  The short African twilight was beginning but it was still possible to see without needing to use torches.  Night lights had come on automatically around the jetty and in the gardens.  Stan and Andre stopped at the edge of the lawns.  I don’t believe this! Stan said, walking onto the jetty.  The carcass was clearly lit up by the lights.

What are we going to do? Andre asked.

How many people were on your cruise? Stan wanted to know.

About eight.

Stan groaned.  This area will need to be off limits to all guests.  We’ll have to try and keep this quiet.  It’s not going to be good for business - and as for the cruises...  Did anyone take pictures?

Andre thought. Oh, yes, that American - Jennifer Scarlett - she took some pictures with her phone.

Blast.  Let’s hope the thing floats away by morning.  It looks like it’s full of gas, so it might.

Stan and Andre walked back to the offices, Stan laying out a plan of action.  If the carcass is still here in the morning, we’ll have to cancel the cruises.  We’ll say we’ve got a problem with the boat.  We’ll have to get someone to remove the animal, maybe tow it away.  I don’t want the grounds messed up.

Andre nodded.  Okay, sir.

But that evening, as he played host and chatted to guests, Stan came to the realisation that they weren’t going to be able to keep the hippo incident quiet.  Word had spread and those who hadn’t been on the cruise were asking whether the story they’d heard about a dead hippo was true.  There was nothing like the rumour mill at a lodge filled with guests.  Stan sighed inwardly.  It’s not that unusual, you know, he said to a German tourist who was being particularly insistent about getting all the gory details.  We’ve had a drought and the hippos are finding it difficult to find enough food and water.

The following day, he went down to the jetty at first light and discovered that the carcass had not, as he had hoped, floated off during the night.  Later, the staff glimpsed tourists going down to the jetty, fascinated by the possibility of seeing a dead hippo.  I don’t know why they don’t go down to the Sabie River or the Kruger Park and find a few live ones, Stan grumbled to his bookkeeper.

"What you really need are a few lions, she remarked. Then folk would come to see the lion ‘kill’ and you’d get rid of the carcass at the same time."

Unfortunately, we’re not in the Kruger National Park, he said sourly.

Tina says some of the guests are taking selfies with it, the bookkeeper said and he grimaced.

Just what we don’t want.  We’d better get hold of the wildlife services people.  Maybe they’ll have some suggestions as to what we can do.  The carcass is going to get pretty stinky in this heat and it won’t be so good once the novelty wears off.

Having obtained special permission to use a motorised craft on a dam where this was normally prohibited, wildlife rangers arrived that afternoon to tow the carcass to another, less frequented, part of the dam.  With them was wildlife vet Willem van der Riet, who Stan knew socially.

Stan asked, Are you in on this too?

I’m trying to take blood samples from all the affected animals, Willem explained, opening his veterinary case.  He went on, I suppose you’ve heard there are all these hippos dying in the Sabie River?

You’d have to be blind and deaf, Stan said disagreeably. It was just about all they could talk about at the tourism meeting the other day.

Willem nodded.  There are too many deaths for it to be lack of water at this stage, even though we’ve been very dry. I’m taking blood samples and sending them to the labs at Onderstepoort. Onderstepoort was a veterinary training hospital in Pretoria, which also doubled as a research facility. 

Stan said, What do you think it is?

I’m really not sure.  I hope it’s not anthrax - they had that in Namibia and Botswana a few years ago and hundreds of hippos died, also during a drought.

When will you get the results?

Willem shrugged.  I’m not sure.  I’ve told the labs it could be anthrax and asked them to make it a priority.  We don’t want people or other animals being affected.  Willem referred to the deadly, spore-forming bacteria that often appeared after extended dry spells and droughts, when spores in the soil were stirred up by wind and animal movements.

Stan thought of his full reservations calendar