Blood Safari by Deon Meyer Read Free Book Online

office.
    The hefty policewoman had an inscrutable expression. ‘I do not know that man.’
    ‘I think he works here.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘He is investigating the Khokhovela murders.’ Emma’s voice was light and friendly, as if she were talking to a loved one.
    The constable looked at Emma without comprehension.
    ‘The traditional healer and three other men who were killed.’
    ‘Oh. That one.’
    ‘Yes.’
    The policewoman moved slowly as if the searing heat were holding her back. She pulled a telephone closer. The phone might have been white once. It was battered and coffee coloured now. She tapped in a number and waited. Then she spoke in staccato sePedi – phrases like bursts of machine-gun fire. She put the phone down.
    ‘He is not here.’
    ‘Do you know where he is?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Will he be coming back?’
    ‘I do not know.’
    ‘Is there somewhere I can find out?’
    ‘You will have to wait.’
    ‘Here?’
    ‘Yes.’ Still without inflection.
    ‘I … uh …’ Emma looked at the hard wooden bench against the wall, then back to the constable. ‘I’m not sure …’
    ‘They will phone,’ the constable said.
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘To say where he is.’
    ‘OK,’ said Emma with relief. ‘Thank you.’ She went over to the bench. Her skin had a sheen of perspiration. She sat down and gave the constable a smile of patient goodwill. I stood beside the bench and leaned against the wall. It wasn’t as cool as I had expected. I watched the constable. She was busy writing up a dossier. She did not perspire. Two black men came in and went up to the desk. They spoke to her. She scowled and upbraided them in short bursts. They answered apologetically. The phone rang. She held up a hand. The men stopped and looked down at their shoes. She answered the phone, listened and then replaced the receiver.
    ‘He has gone back to Tzaneen,’ she said in Emma’s direction. But Emma was gazing out through the door.
    ‘Lady!’
    Emma jumped and stood up.
    ‘He has gone back to Tzaneen.’
    ‘Inspector Phatudi?’
    ‘Yes. That is where his office is. Violent Crimes.’
    ‘Oh …’
    ‘But he will come tomorrow. Early. Eight o’clock.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Emma, but the constable was busy with the two men again, talking to them as if they were boys who had been up to no good.
    She navigated the way to the Mohlolobe Private Game Reserve with a printout of their web page in her hand. ‘There are so many places here,’ she said as we passed the dramatic entrance gates of the Kapama Game Reserve, the Mtuma Sands Wildlife Lodge and the Cheetah Inn, each a variation on the postmodern Lowveld theme of rough stone, thatched roof, animal motif and fancy lettering. I suspected that the room rates were directly proportional to the subtlety of these portals to Eden.
    Mohlolobe’s unique selling point was a pair of slender, tasteful elephant tusks moulded from concrete to guard the entrance. There was a gate guard wearing a uniform of khaki and olive green. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that was marginally too big for him and carried a clipboard with a couple of sheets of paper. On his chest was a metal name tag. It read Edwin. Security Official. ‘Welcome to Mohlolobe,’ he said on my side of the BMW with a glittering white smile. ‘Do you have a reservation?’
    ‘Good afternoon,’ Emma answered. ‘It’s in the name of Le Roux.’
    ‘Le Roux?’ He consulted his list, eyebrows raised hopefully. His face brightened. ‘Indeed, indeed, Mr and Mrs Le Roux, you are most welcome. It is seven kilometres to the main camp, just follow the signs, and please do not leave the vehicle under any circumstances.’ He swung open the big gate and waved us through with a flourish of his arm.
    The dirt road twisted through thick mopane forest, here and there a piece of open grassveld. A herd of impala trotted into theundergrowth in annoyance. ‘Look,’ said Emma. And then she inexplicably pressed her hand over her mouth, and stared,