Rift (12 page)

‘There you see it: an archaeologist’s nightmare. A geologist’s nightmare!’ declared Véronique.

The full sweep of the land was revealed, its gradual fall northwards towards the long, snaking spine of rock that was Chomlaya. To their left, at its western end, the fractured and fissured dying line of the ridge was visible as the occasional jagged barb speared upward through the earth. At the eastern end, to the right of the student camp, the huge bulbous formations of reddish rock seemed to Murothi like a vast head, half-turned to look at him, resting in the afternoon sunshine.

‘You may see now,’ murmured Otaka, considering it through binoculars, ‘why for some it is known as Snake Rock.’

‘And why do you say it is a nightmare?’ enquired Murothi.

‘Do you know anything about rocks, Inspector?’ was Véronique’s reply.

‘Nothing.’

‘With Chomlaya, it is impossible to unpick the course of its life. There is a volcanic core spewed upwards in multiple eruptions many millennia ago. But on this there are deposits of other rocks, formed from sediments swept here by wind and water over millions more years. None of this is unusual, of course. But what makes it so difficult to understand is that it has been ruptured again and again by more recent volcanic activity.
It has split, buckled, twisted. Everything is topsy-turvy, up and down and round each other, jostled and tilted. And then it is confused even more by recent soil movements. We expect caves, but there are none. But the real point is this, Inspector: there has never been any serious exploration of it. Over the years, everyone has circled warily round about; we snoop to the west and east and south, but never at Chomlaya’s feet –’

Otaka put a hand on her shoulder. ‘My friends, something happens!’ Quickly he passed the binoculars to Murothi.

Beyond Chomlaya, the dark insect shape of a helicopter was rising, circling, dipping again. And from the trees shrouding the camp, three figures could be seen running forward on to the open ground where the Land Rover had parked only half an hour before. And what Otaka had seen, and what Murothi saw now, was that all three were waving. Something white, in long high sweeps. Signalling and signalling and signalling. As though somebody’s life depended on it.

‘It’s Matt, Matt, Matt!’ Joe was yelling, careering in a demented jig round the Land Rover as it slewed to a halt, and swinging a laughing Ella with him. ‘I heard him, I heard him, I heard him . . . ’ and the two of them plunged back into a knot of jubilant students.

At sight of Murothi, Constable Lesakon rushed towards him. ‘Sir, you have seen us signal! We hoped you will see us!’

‘What does Joe mean? Are they found?’

‘Ah, no! Just Matt,’ emphatically the constable shook his head. ‘The helicopter, just now, it sees him. He lies on the ground. Now the helicopter will lift him up, and they will go to the hospital.’

‘The others?’

‘No, Sir. No one else.’

Murothi breathed deep, relief and disappointment warring in equal measure. He climbed out of the vehicle. ‘And what does Joe mean – this
I heard him
?’

The constable waggled his head and looked at Samuel for help.

‘The boy thinks he heard Matt play the pipe.’ Samuel sighed. ‘Inspector, it cannot be so. Matt is unconscious. It is true that he clutches a pipe – the pilots have told us this. But Matt is very weak! How can he play this pipe and be heard here? It is more than two miles away! Across the rock? It is impossible. Joe has heard a bird! Or it is the voice of hope in our young friend; I see this.’

‘This may be true, Samuel.’ Murothi slammed the vehicle door and moved towards the milling crowd, scanning for the sergeant. He took in the presence of Ian Boyd, the other teachers. And Miss Strutton. She stood to one side.

‘Constable Lesakon, do we know if the climbers are still on the rock?’

‘Sergeant Kaonga tries to reach them on the radio – the reception is very troublesome. But he has talked to DC Meshami in Nanzakoto. The DC is very happy! He has ordered a repeat search of all . . . ’ He flung his arms wide, denoting the length and breadth of Chomlaya. ‘We will discover these others!’

‘And Matt was found where Joe was found?’

‘Ah, no – it is on the top, a mile away. And it is that way. That is why we search all over there again.’ The constable pointed to their right along the rock, beyond the camp, beyond
the dark cross-cut of the ravine, etched hard in deepening afternoon shadow.

That stopped Murothi in his tracks. He pondered the information. One boy near the bottom of the northern cliffs of Chomlaya, coming down the gully of a dried-up river. The other, three days later, on its summit. Neither one on
this
side, on the southern face that might be reached direct from the camp.

It made no sense.

‘And, Sir, I have this,’ continued the constable. ‘Joe and the clever little sister of the journalist, they find them for us.’ He took a bundle from under his arm and presented it proudly to Murothi. ‘It is the journalist’s writings, Sir, and –’

‘Oh!’ interrupted Véronique, starting forward. ‘That is Anna’s sketchbook, the one Charly showed to me – I told you, Inspector!’

Murothi took the books. He did not open them. His mind fizzed. He struggled to think calmly. The hullabaloo from the students was infectious. He wanted to dance with Joe and Ella. He wanted to leap up the cliff and find Charly and Anna and Silowa, now, this minute, alive and well . . .

‘It will be night.’ Across the clamour of voices, Mungai’s deep, unhurried tones floated clearly. He was standing nearby,
his eyes ranging backwards and forwards along the rock. ‘If two are there, it is that all are there.’ He gestured to the lengthening shadows, the already dipping sun in the west. ‘But night will come.’

‘Mungai, they can go on with these big helicopters,’ Samuel told him. ‘It is the army. They have giant lights.’

‘Inspector, Otaka and I will stay for the night,’ Véronique announced briskly. ‘We will help in whatever way we can. Now you are busy. We talk later?’

They did not wait for an answer, climbing into the Land Rover, rattling some way across the bumpy ground before stopping. Among the low scrubby bushes, the battered old vehicle merged like the tired brown hulk of an animal settling for the night.

Sergeant Kaonga’s words tumbled out in excitement: ‘In a few minutes the helicopter will depart with Matt. The DC will receive him in Nanzakoto, and go to the hospital with him. There will be someone with good English with Matt through all the night. We will know
the moment
he wakes up, Sir. Straightaway! We must remain here. We must encourage Joe. It is very odd that he says he hears something and then the same moment the helicopter soldiers call us! It is very surprising!
I think this boy has these things hidden just here,’ he tapped his forehead, ‘just wanting to come out! This talking, this walking about, it is all helping! It is hopeful now! But we must be quick,
quick
to find the others . . . ’

Murothi was watching Joe and Ella, surrounded by Tamara, Janey, Zak and Antony. Everyone was talking exuberantly. He imagined Matt, as he had first seen Joe, bruised and battered in the hospital. Matt would be weaker than Joe, because three more days had passed. But perhaps with memories, knowledge . . .
It is hopeful. It is, it is.

Beyond the students, Miss Strutton turned away. Murothi saw she had not entered into the jubilation, merely watched, without expression. Noting the direction of the inspector’s gaze, the sergeant remarked, ‘I have to report, Sir, I fail to get these student writings. She says they are “not important . . . you have no right . . . it is an invasion of our privacy.”‘

It was a clever mimicry of the teacher’s tart tones, and Murothi could not help a smile. ‘We could instruct her. But it is a false trail, I think, and there is nothing there that we should not freely see. I am sorry to make you waste your time.’

‘She says no, because it is in her nature to say no,’ commented Samuel darkly. ‘She becomes a teacher because children are smaller than her, and she can say
no
more often.’

This time Murothi laughed, and the constable laughed, and the sergeant clapped Samuel on the shoulder, the relief at Matt’s rescue, all the renewed hope it brought, becoming for that moment an interlude from serious business. It was interrupted only by the teacher, Ian Boyd, appearing suddenly in their midst.

‘Inspector, Sergeant, anything I can do – we can do – the teachers, I mean? Or the students?’

‘Ah,’ Murothi blurted, ‘you are the first teacher of these missing children to ask!’

The man flushed deep red, and looked away. And Murothi wished he had kept his mouth shut: now a door that
had
been opening would be slammed shut again. But then Ian Boyd volunteered, ‘Yes . . . well, point taken, Inspector. Miss Strutton insisted she must handle everything. Everyone else to stay away and not
confuse
matters.’ He cleared his throat. ‘With what’s at stake, that is plainly ridiculous.’

‘I do not mean to be impolite,’ Murothi apologised. ‘To tell you the truth, Mr Boyd, I have been told that you have frequent disagreements with Miss Strutton.’

A frown creased Ian Boyd’s face. ‘Well . . . difficult to explain. Some teachers measure intelligence by how well the tasks they give are performed. Curiosity, exploration, initiative,
experiment – they see these as indiscipline and disobedience.’

‘Are you saying Miss Strutton is like that?’

‘She’d probably be shocked if you said that to her, but, yes, that’s the
effect.
The thing is, normally I wouldn’t challenge another teacher in front of students. Certainly not in these circumstances, when running the camp with clear lines of authority is so important. Safety – all that – don’t need to explain it to you, I’m sure, Inspector.’

The teacher stared away, and Murothi had the impression he was not going to say more. But he suddenly switched his gaze firmly back. ‘If you can imagine, these weeks here are to encourage the students to be curious about things beyond themselves – to look outward. That’s what we
meant
it to be: Helen and Keith and me. That’s why we contacted Charly, to get her to document the experience for her magazine.’

‘And . . . ?’ urged Murothi, because to his immense frustration, Ian Boyd had fallen silent again.

‘It’s also meant to be about fostering team work,
real
team work. Team spirit. Leadership. That’s the
theory.
Trouble is, in our leader’s mind “team spirit” is “competitiveness”.’ He laughed sourly. ‘And leadership means, “I’m right, you’re wrong, don’t argue!”‘

‘We all get a dose of this medicine,’ Murothi observed drily,
and the teacher gave him a direct look, almost of relief.

‘Well, Elisa Strutton’s a Deputy Head of the school – one of three – it’s a big school. Headteacher puts her in charge of this trip to Africa – bingo, she’s not one of three any more! Big fish, small pond –’ He caught sight of the books in Murothi’s hands. ‘Anna’s book!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought it was lost.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh – Anna said she didn’t have it when we collected them in.’

‘It will be instructive?’

‘I haven’t seen what’s in it. But maybe. You probably should know Anna is a casualty of resisting Miss Strutton.’

‘Explain.’

‘Oh, well, not much to say. Miss Strutton teaches technology. Last term she humiliated a boy whose work wasn’t very good. Threw some piece into the corner, so it smashed, couldn’t be marked. Anna objected, complained to the head of year. Fireworks! Now Anna’s A Class One Troublemaker. Elisa even opposed her coming here . . . ’ A horrified expression came over his face. ‘You don’t think it has anything to do with their disappearance, do you? I
really
don’t –’

‘No, Mr Boyd, not directly. But I need to understand the “mood” here. I find it strange. You are not able to influence it?’

‘Well . . . ’ Discomfort was now visible in a shift of stance and hunching of Ian Boyd’s shoulders. ‘Elisa’s difficult to persuade, even at the best of times! Here, you get a backlash, when you’re not looking. Usually against one of the students. Makes you pull your punches, if you see what I mean. Anyway, arguments about the way the camp is run, too often a bit public . . . not good for general morale . . . ’

This man has run away from the problem
, thought Murothi.
And he knows it, and now he is ashamed.

There was a sudden throaty roar, and from beyond the ridge a helicopter cleared the summit in an ear-splitting acceleration. It veered across the camp, the chop of its blades deafening, swirling dust into miniature tornados. It zigzagged in a final jaunty signal which raised a cheer from the watchers. Then it swung away, setting course towards the south-west and the hospital at Nanzakoto. Rapidly it dwindled to a tiny black speck in the sky.

From the north-east a distant droning became steadily stronger. Within minutes two new helicopters could be detected heading towards them, growing larger and larger by the minute.

‘I really just wanted to say,’ asserted Ian Boyd, ‘we’re here, if you need us for anything . . . ’

‘It will be a long afternoon, perhaps a long night, Mr Boyd, while these searches continue. We look for anything, anything that will help direct the helicopters. We wait and hope for information from Matt. We try to help Joe’s mind to open a little more.’ Murothi found himself looking up at Chomlaya. ‘We look for help from any quarter it comes.’