Chapter 15
Markham and his driver Bo were driven by ambulance to the hospital in Mawabane. The accident and emergency department doctor checked them over.
Bo was cleared as fit, no broken bones or cuts. He was driving, of course, and somewhat braced for the crash, sudden that it was. And he didn’t have his arm out the car window. That was Markham’s problem. He had snapped the ulna when his arm caught on something when the car turned over. Bo had been in a cocoon of airbags.
Bo hung around the hotel cafeteria until Markham came out of the department, his left arm in plaster, a sling round his neck. By this time it was three o’clock in the morning. The hospital arranged a couple of rooms at a local hotel, and they picked up a cab at the hospital entrance. All the way to the hotel Markham moaned about that artist McBride, and how he wouldn’t be alive for long. Bo wondered if he would be expected to kill him.
At the hotel Bo phoned the insurance company and reported the car crash. He was in the process of hiring a car. He told them the name of the garage that the crashed car had been taken to. The insurance company said they would pick up the tab for the hire car. Markham had already gone to his bedroom.
It was eleven o’clock the next morning that they came down, both looking haggard with lack of sleep. They were eating a late breakfast when their rental car was delivered, another BMW. But only a five series. That gave Markham something else to moan about, but Bo shut his ears to the man.
After breakfast they set off to drive back to Jo’burg. There was the post to deal with, and some phone messages. Markham settled down in his study to deal with them. Money was slow to come in, because South Africa was still in the grips of a downturn that had lasted nearly five years. Most tenants, both business and private, had not even paid any interest charges on loans, never mind the rents.
Markham would have to mortgage further property in order to pay his living costs. And he had lost his biggest property to the banks. Damn McBride.
The next day was a Tuesday, and Markham reminded his chauffeur that he wanted to meet his solicitor as usual. Bo brought the car round at prompt ten o’clock, and at ten-thirty Markham was stepping out of the car outside the hotel. The commissionaire saluted him, but Markham ignored him. He walked through to the bar, and the little Indian was sitting at his usual table, coffee in front of him, and reading a newspaper.
Markham lumbered up to him. “What a bloody awful life,” he greeted Malik Kadakia.
“Goodness gracious, you have broken more bones.” He pointed at Markham’s sling.
“Car crash,” Markham said shortly. “And you were right, the loan was a scam. The money won’t be repaid. I know that now.”
“As I predicted.” But Kadakia said it under his breath. No need to upset his client further.
Markham was looking round for the barman to place an order. He started to wave. A young man in a white coat appeared at the table, note pad in his hand.
“ A black coffee as quick as you can. And a full breakfast, bacon and eggs, toast.”
When the waiter left Kadakia was immersed in his newspaper again.
“I sometimes think you don’t read newspapers except here in the hotel,” Markham said.
“Correct, at home I watch television, particularly the business news.”
Markham noticed that this morning he was reading the popular South African morning paper Daily Sun.
“I have to find that artist McBride. He was behind the scam you know. I need to find him before he returns to England.”
“No problem. He’s visiting the Kruger Park. It says so in the newspaper,” he flicked through the pages, searching. “Yes here.” He turned the paper flat on the table so that Markham could read the small article. “The park has a big publicity machine, always reporting on various important people visiting the park.”
“I wouldn’t call him important. A tin-pot jumped-up artist who stole my money.”
“Maybe so, but at least you know where he will be. It even tells you the camp he is staying at. If you kill him, for god’s sake make it look like it’s an accident, or you may be in serious trouble. If you do get into that sort of trouble, you will need a criminal lawyer, I am only a commercial lawyer. Please bear that in mind.”
The young man returned with Markham’s coffee, and also with his breakfast, against his express instructions that the coffee preceded the meal.
The service here was going to pot. They must consider a change of venue. It made him even angrier.
“I’ve never been to the Kruger Park. Do people stay in tents, and shit in the woods?”
Kadakia, who had returned to his perusal of the newspaper looked up.
“It is illegal to shit in the woods, I understand, unless you bury it. But I have never been to the park. They have hotels and chalets if you prefer not to live in a tent. Also ablution blocks, to avoid what you mentioned.” Kadakia was a bit of a prude.
Markham was gulping his breakfast down, eating with a fork in his right hand. He hadn’t bothered to cut up the bacon. Now he speared a rasher, and bundled the whole of it into his mouth. Kadakia looked at him, folding the hotel newspaper.
“I have to go now to see a client. Will you phone my secretary and make an appointment for you to see me? We need to discuss how to clear your outstanding debts with us.”
He strode out of the bar, leaving Markham with bacon sticking out of his mouth.
Outside in the BMW 5 series, Markham was talking to Bo.
“Tomorrow, we’ll go down to Kruger Park. I have found out where McBride is staying, which camp. We’ll have a talk about it back at my house. This operation can earn you a big bonus.”
Bo pulled the car out into the midday traffic. “I’m not going to kill McBride,” he said.
“No you are not. I’ve had a rethink. I may as well try to get some of my money back. That’s more sensible. So I’ll kidnap him, and ransom him back.”
“Tell me what my bonus is, and I’ll consider it.”
Markham thought for a while. Bo effortlessly weaved the car through the traffic.
“Well, how about a cut of the ransom, say twenty percent?”
“How much is the ransom going to be?”
Markham considered. Should he tell the truth, or lie. No, he needed Bo. He told the truth. “Well I lent ten million, but I would accept seven million back to get some quick result. Pounds sterling.”
Bo whistled. “Twenty percent? That’s like one and a half million. I can retire.”
“I don’t want you to retire. It’s slightly less than that. Also we might have to compromise to get the deal done. But it is a lot of money.”
“Of course, what if we don’t get the ransom?”
“That’s the chance you take.” Markham was firm on that point. He was taking a chance, too. “Look, wait until we get back to the house.”
Markham leaned back in his seat, staring out of the window, but his mind was working on the problem.