The Deal

By A. W. Lambert

Seventeen years ago teenager Nicardo Clarke grasped his brother's hand and a sibling deal was sealed. Now Nicardo's brother is dead, brutally murdered and Nicardo, forced to honor

the deal, is drawn to another continent and a dark world where life is cheap and one man fears placing his trust in another.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613092385

Book preview

Prologue

Late December 2013

Cape Town, South Africa

The call was registered at 09:33 on an already warming midweek morning. The caller, a woman, stuttered a brief description of what she had found and its location. The line died the instant the duty sergeant asked for her name. This was nothing new and the sergeant, an old hand who in his long career had seen both the best and the very worst Cape Town could offer, just smiled sadly and put out a call to the nearest patrol car. Because of an early road traffic accident, which involved a fatality, and the subsequent build-up of traffic, the patrol car was unable to attend the scene—a block of flats in one of the more rundown suburbs of the city—until 10:46.

The struggling rays from a single, grimy bulb hanging from the basement ceiling were dimmed even further by the infestation of dust-encrusted cobwebs. Walls, only a few feet away, remained shrouded in shadow...corners impenetrable black voids. The stale atmosphere was thick and stagnant, a throat-catching potion of stale cigarette smoke, urine and creeping fungus hanging motionless in ancient air. The two officers, their noses wrinkled distastefully, stood for some cautious moments in the doorway, eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom, taking in the scene. It was some moments before the full spectre of what lay before them became clear.

One body, that of a man, sat propped against the wall, his hands folded neatly in his lap and head drooped forward, his chin resting on his chest as if dozing. Only the spread of clotted blood from beneath his chin to his waist confirmed that dozing was the last thing this man was doing.

The second prostrate form, again a man, lay curled almost in a foetal position, in the centre of the room, a pool of blood fast congealing around his body.

The officers entered the area cautiously, hands hovering close to the handguns hanging on their hips, eyes darting this way and that, ensuring there were no dangers still lurking in the darkened corners. They had little need to worry; other than the two corpses, several broken wooden pallets and discarded cardboard boxes piled in one corner, they were alone. Relaxing, they stood looking from one body to the other.

Did the sergeant say a woman called this in?

Yes.

So what was a woman doing down here this morning?

The second officer chuckled and pointed to a spot alongside the pallets where a cardboard box had been crushed flat. Close by several discarded condoms lay in the thick dust, a syringe only inches farther along.

My guess, whoever she is, she uses this pretty regularly. Probably came down here this morning to earn her breakfast. Got the shock of her life.

His colleague gave a heavy derisive sniff. Well at least she called it in. That’s something, I suppose.

The two officers divided their attention, one to each of the bodies, the first kneeling in front of the man propped against the wall, taking care to keep his hands away from the victim. His lips peeled back distastefully as he peered below the man’s drooped head. Jesus, the poor bugger’s had his throat cut, he said softly.

The other officer, squatting beside the second victim, said nothing for some moments before straightening, a deep frown creasing his forehead. He stepped away from the body and looked across at his comrade. A knife’s been used on this one, too. he said. Looks like he took at least a couple in the chest.

One

Some people say if they didn’t have bad luck they wouldn’t have any luck at all.

Nicardo Clarke didn’t think like that. He’d always considered himself a lucky person. For instance, he came from solid stock; his mother and father both worked hard and cared lovingly for all three of their kids. They weren’t rich, but they made sure their children wanted for little, even though it couldn’t have been easy. As for the kids; when it came to making their own ways in life, they were backed with all the support and guidance they needed.

Big brother and little sister chose the academic route, both graduating with high level degrees; Brandon in finance and Selena as a doctor. Nicardo on the other hand, the boy in the middle, just wanted to get his hands dirty. Well, to have three clever kids would have been too much to ask of any parents, wouldn’t it? One out of three had to be a dumbo, right? And as far as Nick’s parents were concerned, it was probably a blessing. It was, no doubt, a stretch to finance two higher educations...a third would have probably broken the bank. Nick always guessed his mum and dad had to have felt a tad prouder of his brother and sister than of him. But if they did, it never showed, not for an instant.

Nicardo’s career choice was inevitable, because from as far back as he could remember, he’d had this infatuation, more an addiction if he were honest, with cars. For some reason, from a very early age, he couldn’t keep his hands off them. Pity of it was, they invariably belonged to someone else. He got over it eventually when he was just seventeen and, in the back room of a South London police station with his mother and father looking anxiously on, a very senior policeman gave him the option: join up or go down. It was, as they say now, a no-brainer.

So it can be seen how Nick Clarke considered himself lucky. Firstly, the senior copper was under no obligation to give him the break he did; he could just as well have signed the charge sheet and walked away. That would have undoubtedly led to a spell in some institution or other. And secondly, what initially terrified him as twelve years of hell, turned out to be nothing of the sort. Truth was, during those twelve years which, by the way, flew by, he’d had a ball. He made lifelong friendships and travelled to far-flung places he would otherwise never have seen.

Okay, some of those places were a bit hairy, but his luck held there too and he came out unscathed. And to top it off, during those twelve years he became highly qualified in the one single subject he’d loved since childhood: motor transport. By the time he had finished his military service, he had climbed to the rank of Warrant Officer and could troubleshoot and repair any vehicle used by the British Army. Now how lucky was that?

And it didn’t end there.

Nicardo was born and spent his formative years in South London, Battersea to be precise, and until his coercion into Her Majesty’s Service, the only glimpse he’d had of anything that could be remotely classified as countryside was the occasional visit to one of the London parks. He didn’t realise it, of course, not until he encountered the beautiful wide open spaces of some of the countries to which the British Army took him, that deep down he was a country boy. To him even the deserts of Afghanistan and Iraq, though racked with the dangers and devastation of conflict, were awe-inspiring. He was soon to make himself a promise: when the time came for him to leave the army, he would not return to London. He would not return to any town. The country was where he should be and it was where he would be.

But some promises are not easily kept, however determined you are, and when eventually demob came, he found himself back in London. Finding a job was easy; his military training saw to that. One of the largest car sales operations snapped him up and in no time he found himself earning a good salary heading up their repair and maintenance wing. All very well, but he was still in the smoke and, if he were honest, it was only the salary keeping him there. He was pulling far in excess of anything he could have earned anywhere else and however much he would have liked to get out of town, he wasn’t prepared to give it up. So much for that promise.

But his luck kicked in again on the day he was called to the boss’s inner sanctum and made an offer he just couldn’t refuse. The company were about to expand and open a facility in Norfolk. They wanted him to move there and take over a brand new maintenance and repair facility. It was obvious the boss man expected an instant refusal because almost before he’d finished making the offer, he was shaking his head and holding up a hand in an apologetic manner.

I know, I know what you must be thinking and I can fully understand why you wouldn’t want to move to remote Norfolk. He gave a sad smile. Who would? It’s the county that leads nowhere and where old people retire to die, right? He didn’t wait for a reply. All I can ask, Nick, is you give it some thought. The company is prepared to increase your salary. Nothing huge; remember we’re still in a recession, but in my opinion enough not to be sneezed at. And we’ll pay all relocation costs, including whatever rent you incur for the first six months.

Know what he must be thinking? He had no idea. A million exciting thoughts were already bubbling inside Nick’s head. He’d been to Norfolk just once...a few days embarkation leave before being shipped off somewhere or other, but the memories had lasted. Sure some would say it was the country’s favourite retirement county, but if he remembered rightly, that would be for a good reason. The pace was slower, with little villages tucked away with plenty of space around them and a coastline with its miles of rugged beaches. And traditional pubs that dished out good grub and the most delicious beer. People were happy to pass the time of day, too—not like London where sometimes you could feel alone even among eight million.

He puffed out his cheeks, exhaling slowly, making it look as if this would take some considering. An increase in salary, expenses paid? Think about it...he was thirty-two years old, had no ties and was paying a fortune in rent for a flat in an area he didn’t want to be. It was all he could do to stop himself biting the boss’s arm off.

That had happened two years ago and he’d been building himself a life in Norfolk ever since. He was doing okay, too. The facility the company opened was situated just to the north of Norwich, covering an area of almost twenty thousand square feet. It housed a new and used car show room and an extensive repair and maintenance workshop...Nicardo’s domain.

Twelve months after he arrived in Norfolk he found the cottage: a two up two down just outside the little coastal village of Sea Palling. It was small but sat on a large piece of land and the plan, in time, was to extend the building. But that would come later. Right then, it suited him down to the ground. It’s true he had a forty minute drive to and from work six days a week and the weather in Norfolk could sometimes be pretty grim in winter. However, as his position entitled him to a company car, extending to a four by four, he’d never missed a day’s work yet. And the upside was the cottage was surrounded by countryside and literally a few minutes’ walk from the beach and a very friendly pub.

So it wasn’t surprising he considered himself lucky. He was a fit thirty-four year old doing what he’d always wanted to do and getting paid for doing it. And to top it off, he was living in an area he loved.

Then there was the icing on the cake; only a few months before, he’d started dating the girl of his dreams. So was he one very lucky dude? Absolutely.

Well, that’s what he thought, until the two men arrived at the garage and dropped the bombshell.

Two

With a whole bunch of vehicles in for service and repair, it was all hands to the pump in the workshop. It was also a good excuse for him to get stuck in alongside the half dozen mechanics he had working with him. As the supervisor, he wasn’t obliged to, but he enjoyed keeping his hand in. It was appreciated, too, particularly when the pressure, like this morning, was on. Of course, there was always friendly banter about white collar workers getting their hands dirty. White collar worker? He owned just one white shirt and that only saw the light of day at funerals.

It was approaching lunchtime when the manager came into the workshop and beckoned him over. You’ve got a couple of visitors, Nicardo, he shouted above the usual workshop clatter and piped music.

Visitors?

The boss nodded. You’d better wash up and come to the office.

Ten minutes later, Terry, the boss’s secretary, showed him into the office. The boss was sitting behind his desk facing two men. As he entered, both swung round and one of them stepped forward and offered his hand. He was the taller of the two and, Nicardo guessed, probably in his late forties, with dark, neatly cut hair, greying at the sides. He was clean shaven with the pale complexion of someone who rarely enjoyed the sun. His hooded eyes were deep set and shadowed, instantly searching, assessing. His smile, as the handshake, was brief, businesslike. Mr Clarke?

Yes.

Nicardo Clarke?

Yes.

He turned back and faced the boss. We’d appreciate talking to Mr Clarke alone, if you wouldn’t mind, he said. It was worded as a request, but sounded more like an instruction.

The boss hesitated, his eyes resting on Nicardo. You okay with that, Nick? he asked.

Shouldn’t I be?

The boss made to say something, but was stopped by the man’s upraised hand. Your employer is concerned because we are police officers, Mr Clarke. Again the brief flick of a smile. I can understand his concern, but you have nothing to fear from being alone with us, I can assure you. We have some news for you and we would like to ask a couple of questions, gain some information you may be able to help us with. Nothing more.

News?

Yes. Personal news. He tilted his head to one side and looked again at the boss.

Nick could see there was going to be no option. Okay, if that’s the way it has to be.

The boss gave a shrug and pushed himself out of his chair. I’ll be outside. Shout if you need me.

They dragged the boss’s chair out from behind the desk and sat in a circle facing each other. The second man wasn’t very big and probably a tad younger than the first, but not much. He was black with close-cropped salt and pepper hair, maybe an indication he was older than Nicardo first thought, or maybe, as his sad dark eyes indicated, he’d seen life, some of which hadn’t been good. So far he hadn’t said a word and had retained a deadpan expression.

The first man, who looked to be the senior of the two, kicked off. I’m Chief Inspector Sanders of the CID, he said, then indicating toward his sidekick, And this is Major Atu Coetzee of the South African Police Service.

Coetzee gave an almost imperceptible nod and for the first time almost smiled. He still said nothing.

Is it okay if we call you Nicardo? Sanders came back.

He shook his head. It’s Nick.

Ah. Sanders smiled. But just to confirm our records, you were christened Nicardo?

Yes.

Okay, good. Now, as I said, we’re here to ask you a few questions, but first I’m afraid, it falls upon us to impart some bad news.

Those last few words made Nick’s pulse kick up a notch. What sort of bad news?

Have you ever been to South Africa, Mr Clarke? Coetzee spoke for the first time, his voice surprisingly soft, his words precise.

Nick turned and studied Coetzee closely. It was true he was not very big, but something— maybe the strong angle of his jaw, or the positive, upright way he held himself—projected a strong, authoritative bearing. The neat suit over an immaculate white shirt and perfectly positioned neck tie gave the impression of someone who thrived on order...a place for everything and everything in its place. It was also, Nick thought, why he persisted with Mr Clarke instead of Nick as Sanders had requested. No, never.

You were born here in England?

Yes.

Coetzee smiled for the first time, his dark face accentuating the whiteness of perfect teeth. Would you mind telling us a little about your family?

Nick didn’t know where this was leading, but it was making him feel uncomfortable. No, I don’t mind at all, but what’s this about bad news? Shouldn’t you tell me...?

Yes and we will, Sanders broke in. But just go with us for a moment, please.

Nick chewed back the objection hovering on his lips. Okay, what do you want to know?

Just a little family background, that’s all.

He gathered his thoughts for a moment, recalling what his parents had proudly repeated like a mantra from the time he was able to understand. From day one, they’d insisted, no other country in the world could have possible given their family the opportunities England had. My grandfather came to this country in nineteen fifty-three, he began. He came from Jamaica, which was then a British colony.

Coetzee gave an almost imperceptible nod. It had been since sixteen fifty-five, he said.

You know?

It’s my country, Mr Clarke. If I know nothing else, I know its history, Coetzee said. It also explains your name. Nicardo is of Jamaican origin, I believe.

Nick nodded, remembering. It is. My grandfather and my father believed England to be the best country in the world. They were English through and through. But grandfather insisted it would be wrong to forget their birthplace, their roots, altogether. He insisted they make just one concession; each of the children should be given a name that could be traced back to Jamaica. Hence Nicardo for me, Selena for my sister and Brandon for my elder brother.

I see, Coetzee said. Please go on.

There’s not a lot more to tell, Nick said. Both my grandparents worked hard all their lives. They had a son and a daughter. The daughter, my aunt, moved back to Jamaica years ago. The son, my dad, stayed in England and married my mother who had also come to this country from Jamaica. He shrugged. That’s about it.

Your parents are still alive, I believe?

Yes. They still live in Battersea where I was born.

And your brother and sister?

Look, all these questions. When are you going to tell me what this is about?

Soon, but please bear with us for just a moment longer. It’s important. Nick held Sanders’ eyes, on the point of balking...insisting on being told what was going on before he gave any further information. Finally common sense said otherwise. Okay, my sister lives in Chelsea. She’s a GP. She’s married to a cardiologist. They have two kids.

And your brother?

Brandon is a year older than me and brighter. He was always a bit of a swat. Unlike me he never wanted to get his hands dirty, so he studied hard and ended up graduating with a law degree.

Commendable, Coetzee said softly.

Yeah, we all thought so, Nick agreed. But it didn’t last. Brandon couldn’t get on with what he called the total insincere bullshit embedded in the profession, so he moved on. He changed to finance and is now a Chartered Accountant. Last I heard, he was working for an outfit in Birmingham. We talk on the phone from time to time, but I have to admit I haven’t seen him for over a year. Mainly my fault...I’ve been busy building my life here. We last spoke a couple of months back. On the phone. He told me he was thinking of going freelance as a personal financial advisor. Said his work could be taking him abroad for a while.

Did he say where?

No.

Why was that?

Nick shrugged. He said he couldn’t be certain until a contract had been signed and that hadn’t happened yet. He said he would contact me again when he knew. He glanced from one to the other of the two men and held up both hands. Okay, I’ve said all I’m going to say until you tell me what’s happening here.

Yes, of course. Sanders took a deep breath and let out a sigh. Well, it’s as I said, we have some bad news. I’m afraid I have to tell you your brother is dead.

Nick’s heart lurched and he felt his mouth fall open. Dead? No, that can’t be. I mean, how is it possible...? I spoke to him only...

I’m afraid it’s true, Sanders interrupted softly. It’s why we had to come and talk to you.

But how? Was it an accident? A heart attack? What?

No, not an accident. Or a heart attack, Sanders said. I’m sad to have to tell you your brother was murdered.

Three

It was as if he’d been punched in the abdomen. The breath left his body and for a frozen moment, his mind went into freefall, unable to even sensibly consider what he was being told. Brandon dead? Not just dead, but murdered. His thoughts went immediately to the inner city gang problems constantly being put out on the news channels. London, Manchester and others. But Birmingham, he couldn’t recall anything recently. How...? I mean, where did this happen?

South Africa. Cape Town.

South Africa? He looked to Coetzee, making the connection, but only vaguely, the chasm between what he thought he’d known about his brother and what he was now hearing being far too wide for his brain to make an instant leap. Brandon had never even mentioned South Africa as a possible destination. In fact the last time they spoke, though he wasn’t specific, he’d hinted at maybe somewhere in Europe. So where in hell’s teeth did South Africa come from? And if his brother had decided to go there, why hadn’t he let the family know? Sure communication with his brother had been infrequent, but they’d always made sure each knew where the other was, or was going. His mind flipped again, this time remembering his mother and father, still in the family home in Battersea. And his sister with her husband and two kids, not a stone’s throw away from them in Chelsea. Did they know, had they been told? He felt a hand on his arm.

Are you alright, Nick?

He swallowed hard, his throat tinder dry. Can I get a drink?

Sanders eased himself out of the chair, crossed the office and pulled open the door. Think we could get a drink of water?

Is everything okay? The boss’s voice.

Yes, no problems, but a drink of water would be good.

The door closed again and Sanders was standing in front of him offering a tumbler of water. He took it and drank gratefully. Thanks.

So before, when you talked to Brandon, he never mentioned Africa? It was Coetzee again.

No, never. His pulse had begun to slow, his head beginning to clear. My parents, he said. Have they been told?

Sanders shook his head. No, not yet. It was important we talk to you first.

But someone needs to tell them. I must go and...

Yes, as soon as we’ve finished here you’ll be free to go. But there are things we need to know. Important things we hope you’ll be able to help us with.

Nick drank more water. Okay, but could you please explain...tell me how it happened.

Yes, of course, but first just one more question. Have you ever heard the name Louis Verwoerd?

It didn’t take much thought. No.

You’re sure? Maybe a name mentioned in passing by your brother at some time?

The agitation bubbled over. For Christ’s sake, don’t you think I’d remember a name like that?

Easy, Nick. Sanders was keeping his tone low, gentle even. But there was an underlying persistence; one way or another he would get what he wanted. I wouldn’t be asking these things if it weren’t important.

Nick bit back the frustration. Okay, okay. No, I’m sure I’ve never heard the name before.

Sanders glanced toward Coetzee who shrugged his shoulders and nodded. Sanders turned back to Nick. Okay, at this time I believe you are telling the truth so I’m about to tell you things that are for your ears only. He tilted his head questioningly. And, Nick, it’s critical you understand this.

Nick had absolutely no idea what the Inspector was talking about, which made him angry. Telling the truth? he snapped. Of course I’m telling the bloody truth. For Christ sake, why wouldn’t I?

Sanders hoiked his chair a little closer. Let me explain. I’ve already said I’m with the CID, and it’s true. But there’s a little more to it. A few months ago, I was given a special commission to become involved in a specific investigation which included liaising with Major Coetzee and his team in South Africa. Unfortunately we can’t give you any specifics because details are classified. But what I can say is it involves tracking down a criminal organisation involved in millions of pounds of illegal trade not only affecting South Africa but also UK interests.

Nick tried to digest what he was being told, and more importantly why they were telling him this. Then a worrying thought crossed his mind and he felt his heart begin to pump again. Wait a minute...you’re not suggesting Brandon was part of...

Sanders held up a hand, giving a sharp shake of the head. Let me finish and I’ll explain, okay?

Tight lipped, Nick eased back in the chair.

So, as I said, Sanders went on. I have been involved for just a few months, but the problem has been with South Africa for a good deal longer. I can tell you...whoever is doing this is extremely clever. So far the South African police have nailed just one small operator. And in that case the collar was pure luck. And I sympathise with them. There’s a huge amount of goods moving back and forth across their country. To cover everything would be impossible and so far they can’t be sure where the contraband is coming from or in what form it’s being transported. So until now, progress has been agonisingly slow, but recently something happened we believe could be important. He stopped, looked across at Coetzee and gave a nod of his head.

My team is based in Cape Town, Coetzee took over. And a few days ago we received a message that local police in a suburb of the city had been called to a murder. A tipoff had taken them to the basement of a house where they found two bodies. Normally my team would not be involved in everyday policing, but we were informed of this particular crime because one of the victims had been identified as a man we suspected of being involved in our own investigations. We had nothing specific on him and anyway, if he were involved, he would be a small time player...we guessed little more than a gofer. Nonetheless, he was on our list, so we immediately dispatched one of our people to the murder scene. He stopped, his eyes holding Nick fast for a moment. The deceased was indeed identified as our man. He’d been stabbed twice in the chest, one of the stab wounds penetrating his heart. Another pause, eyeing Nick closely before continuing. I’m afraid the other victim in the cellar has since been identified as your brother.

It was as if a thunder-flash had been let off in Nick’s head, scattering everything and preventing any form of sensible reasoning. He wanted to speak, to ask a question, anything, but his lips hung open, refusing to form words.

Your brother had received a violent stab wound to the neck.

Nick felt the bile flood the back of his throat. With shaking hand, he drained the glass of water. Jesus.

I know and I’m sorry, Sanders said softly.

So what then? I mean, that’s it, is it? They were both stabbed?

Not quite. There were signs a violent struggle had taken place in the cellar. Both victims show signs of extensive bruising, particularly Verwoerd. The officers on the ground believe there could have been a fight among several people before the stabbings.

Sanders held up a hand. Look, I realise how painful this must be for you. There really is no need for you to know every detail unless...

His words and the obvious implication behind them conveyed a chilling inevitability that brought an abrupt reality to what Nick was facing. It had happened before, more than once. In particular, Afghanistan, when the vehicle directly in front of his in the convoy had virtually disintegrated after hitting the buried IED. First the confusion, the uncontrollable shaking, the mind in utter turmoil. Then the understanding, the reality of the devastating here and now, followed by cold, icy calm and total focus. And right now, it was happening again. Looking from one to the other of the two men sitting before him, Nick ran his tongue around dried lips. He took a deep breath, holding it for seconds before exhaling slowly, the calming effect of the extra oxygen in his lungs almost immediate. The shaking began to subside and fragmented thoughts starting to knit together. Everything, he said finally, the single word little more than a whisper. I want to know every single thing.

You are sure, Sanders persisted.

I said everything.

And so they told him; told him how, in a dingy, foul-smelling basement of a rundown house in a suburb of Cape Town, his brother had been subjected to a horrendous beating before being killed.

The bastards, Nick hissed. Again he breathed deeply, attempting to quell the rage rising in him.

The room was quiet for some moments before Sanders spoke again. Nick, have you any idea at all how your brother came to be there? Why he was even in Cape Town?

Nick shook his head. No. We may not have talked very often, but I’ve never known my brother not tell us—my mother and father, my sister and me—whenever he was on the move. Again his parents came to mind and he could only imagine the horrendous trauma this news would bring them.

But he did indicate he would be working abroad, Sanders persisted.

He did, but he never said where.

Your brother was single, right?

Yes. For a fleeting second, a pleasant memory. He was a bit of a ladies’ man. Always said before he tied himself to one, he wanted to try as many as he could.

Were you familiar with any of his associates? Workmates, friends? Girlfriends, maybe?

No, Brandon and I lived in different worlds. We came together from time to time for family occasions. You know, weddings, funerals, the odd Christmas. With Brandon, girlfriends came and went. I must have seen one or two, I suppose, but I never got to know any of them.

And you mainly only spoke on the phone?

Yes.

Did you ever communicate by text?

"Yes, but very occasionally. Like, if I hadn’t heard from him for longer than usual, I’d get something silly such as, ‘I’m still alive, how about you?’ that sort of thing.

Sanders nodded thoughtfully. I see, but nothing recently?

No. The answer was spontaneous, the question given little thought.

You’re absolutely sure?

There was an inference in the question which made Nick think again, remember the last text he had received from Brandon. It was a little weird and, considering the way the two of them were scrutinising him, maybe he shouldn’t... What do you mean by recently? he asked, hoping they hadn’t noticed the hesitation.

Sanders cocked his head to one side, his eyes studying Nick’s face closely. Let’s say the last few weeks.

Well yeah, in the last few weeks, probably, he conceded.

And what did your brother say; can you remember?

Nick shook his head. Not specifically, no. My brother’s texts were mostly short, sometimes stupid one liners, quotes I didn’t even understand. And mostly I didn’t try to. Just hearing from him, knowing he was okay, was good enough. I can’t be sure, but the last one was probably just the usual stuff, I suppose. He looked from one to the other, both still studying him closely, his gaze coming to rest on Sanders. What?

Do you leave the texts on your phone, Nick?

Nick gave a positive shake of his head. No, I never do. It’s not an expensive phone and the memory’s not up to much. Anything not important, which is most stuff, I delete after I’ve read it. Neither Sanders or Coetzee spoke and again Nick could feel two pairs of suspicious eyes holding him fast. He felt the anger bubble up inside. Shit, what’s the matter with you guys? he snapped. I’m telling you the truth, for Christ’s sake. He pushed his hand into his pocket and snatched out the mobile, shoving it toward Sanders. Take it. Check it out. Do what you like, but just give me a break here, will you?

Sanders’ expression remained completely passive and he made no attempt to take the phone. Okay, cool down, Nick. We have a job to do here and we’ll do it one way or another. You getting on your high horse will only make things more difficult. He paused, his face tightening. More difficult for you, I mean. So simmer down and let’s just assess the situation, shall we?

Nick clenched his teeth. Whichever way he looked at it, they had him over a barrel. He could only make things worse by losing his rag. He slid the phone back into his pocket and relaxed back in the chair.

Sanders nodded, recognising Nick’s submission. Okay, it seems obvious the motive for your brother’s murder was not robbery or any of the other usual reasons for the many random daily killings in South Africa. He eased himself forward on the chair, leaning closer to Nick. So, in our opinion, the inconsistencies surrounding his trip, together with the manner of his killing, leads us to believe there is much more to your brother’s visit to Africa and subsequent murder. There is also an indication you may know more than you have so far chosen to tell us.

Nick jerked forward in the chair. "What? You must be joking. I have no idea what Brandon was up to."

Sanders held up a restraining hand. "Hold on, Nick. I did say you may know more. Now we’ve spoken to you, both Major Coetzee and I tend to believe what you say; we don’t think you are consciously holding anything back. There is, however, something we need you to explain, particularly if you want to find who did this to your brother."

Totally confused, Nick slumped resignedly back in the chair. D’you know what? I haven’t got a bloody clue what the pair of you are talking about.

"But you do want to know who