Authors: Judith Stephan
It was then that Shilo noticed that Michaela was wearing a red blouse – and it suddenly dawned on her how presumptuous she had been. Stratt had been singing “Lady in Red” to Michaela, and not to her. She felt a pang of betrayal, and a glut of envy that rushed through her uncontrollably... Her egotistic arrogance had deceived her once again... What a little fool she was. Stratt was not interested in her. Why should he be? She had only treated him like dirt since their arrival. This afternoon had just been a dutiful act of kindness and nothing more, and she chastised herself for reading anything else into it. She tried to convince herself that she was glad that that issue had been sorted out now in her mind… they were from two different classes…. Two different worlds. It could and would never work.
They were brought steaming mugs of strong coffee or hot chocolate into which they dunked traditional hard biscuits called
rusks
(10)
,
and they toasted marshmallows in the diminishing flames, and joined in the singing well into the night. Shilo joined in this assumed gaiety, but was silently sulking – regretting her departure from her secure little English world into this land of uncertainty and doubt.
Shortly before eleven, couples starting drifting off to their rooms, and the ring of guests around the glowing embers began to disintegrate slowly. Dorianne approached Shilo and Michaela.
“I’m off to bed, girls,” she said grinning, “I think Maureen and I have had a little too much to drink. Philip kept on giving us sherries on the house.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Michaela, and stood up and stretched, “I need a shower; I feel all smoky.”
Shilo sat alone, mesmerised by the dying fire. Then she too stood up, aware of her tightening skin. Suddenly, a rush of dizziness and nausea made her feel like fainting. She swayed dangerously and clutched a nearby pole bearing a glass orb of a light.
“Lady Delucci? Are you alright?”
And there was Stratt standing in front of her, his guitar in his right hand.
“I’m just feeling a little dizzy,” she said faintly, “I will be fine.”.
“Probably too much sun – it could be the start of sunstroke. Let me feel…”, he said putting out a hand to feel her forehead.
“Get your hands off me!” she snapped.
“For God’s sake, woman! I’m just trying to help you... I need to feel your head to see if you have a fever,” he snapped, “Please don’t flatter yourself. Feeling you up is furthest thing from my mind.” If only she knew the truth, Stratt thought to himself.
She visibly recoiled at his outburst, and he immediately regretted it. She allowed him to place his smooth hand on her forehead, trying to ignore the electric jolt that went through her as he touched her. His words had hit home. He was right. Why on earth would he want to touch her?
“You’re ice-cold,” he said.
“I’m just fine. You’re right, I’ve probably just had too much sun. A good night’s sleep is all I need.”
“Does that mean our date is off?” he asked.
“What date? I don’t have a date with you, do I?” her tone was leaning to sarcasm again, but she checked herself.
“Our early morning date to watch animals at the waterhole. I can wake you at three-thirty, if you feel up to it. I promise you, you won’t regret it,” he said enthusiastically.
She hesitated, obviously deciding to decline, but she found herself impulsively saying: “Okay, that will be lovely.” Her head said, what the hell are you doing, girl?
She turned away, and walked briskly and self-consciously towards her
rondawel
. Her heart beat in her chest like a jungle drum and she felt his eyes burning into her back.
CHAPTER 4
Melanie Thomas’ body was found at about
nine o’clock as a farmer took his tractor down the lane to his neighbour’s farm. It was caught in his high beams, and it didn’t take too long for him to realize what it was. She lay there, face drooped down towards the ground, blood coagulated on side of her face and neck from her crushed skull and pooling black and sticky on the ground. Her hands and legs lay awkwardly in the dirty snow.
Sergeant Andrew Corbett was the first on the scene, and the minute he saw her, he saw the connection between this murder and the four others that had happened in as many weeks. They were all women, they all had been murdered in different ways, in remote out of the way villages and all were found in very awkward positions: This one over a log, the other spread-eagled on the ground, two sitting on elevated objects (a bench and a rubbish bin, to be precise) and the most recent one against a back alley wall. The indignity of it all really got to him. He had called a profiler in after the third body had been found. A profiler very familiar with the sordid, yet organized mind, of a serial killer. But there had been nothing yet. There was nothing they could use to point them in the direction of a suspect. There were no witnesses who had come forward. No one had seen anything. The killer was good. Very good – but everyone was human, right? He had to make a mistake soon. And Corbett would be waiting.
*
Shilo’s slumber was deep yet restless. She had left the bathroom light on because the African darkness was so extremely claustrophobic, thick and suffocating. And she felt very afraid. There were so many noises: Rustling in the vegetation outside, the chirrup of night insects, the calls of the birds and animals, the creak of the wooden beams as they contracted with the cool night air, the sound of insects hitting the ceiling and the window screens in some nocturnal flight. But she did not hear Stratt’s gentle knocking at a quarter past three.
Stratt stood outside her door and knocked repeatedly, progressively louder each time. But there was no answer and no sound came from within the room. Eventually he tried the door. It was unlocked and so he let himself in.
Shilo lay underneath the mosquito net like a princess. The covers were long since kicked off in the torturous heat, and she wore a pair of silk shorts and matching camisole in electric blue – appropriate in a London apartment, in a five-star hotel, but certainly not in Mpumalanga, South Africa.
She lay just outside the rectangle of light from the bathroom door. Her long auburn hair was spread out on the pillow like an oriental fan, her slim, shapely figure silhouetted against the stark whiteness of the sheets, her skin shining silvery-white in the moonlight. He reveled in the sight of her, and stood still just watching her sleep. He felt guilty at his almost lecherous gaze. Something about this enigmatic woman touched him deeply.
But something was wrong. Very wrong. She was groaning softly, and her head tossed and turned as if she were locked in some ghastly nightmare. He lifted the veil of the mosquito net, and touched her forehead. It was burning hot and dry. She had a raging fever, evidence of severe sunstroke. He fetched some ice water from the thermos flask on the dresser and tried to wake her. His gentle shaking and the calling of her name caused her eyes to flicker open, and she tried to speak but her mouth was dry.
“What are you doing here?” she finally asked. Her voice trembled and was hoarse.
“Here, have some water,” he said, lifting her head off the pillow and cradling it as he let her take small sips from the glass.
“Where am I?” she whispered.
“It’s fine, Shilo,” he soothed, forgetting the Lady Delucci title she had insisted on before, “I came to wake you for the game drive, but you are sick. You have a fever and you need to drink plenty of fluids. Africa is giving you a taste of sunstroke …”
She tried to pull the bedcovers up, still coherent of who was there and what she may be revealing to him, as she suddenly became aware of her near nakedness. Stratt helped her. His hands touched her smooth skin on her back and arms accidentally as he did this, and although it could have been a sensuous moment, it was searing hot and dry. She needed water. He had to get this fever down.
“I’m sorry to let myself in like this, but I knocked for nearly five minutes.”
She smiled wanly.
“My head is throbbing terribly,” she said, her voice slurring slightly, and she placed both her hands on the sides of her head and closed her burning eyes, “and I’m so thirsty.”
He held her head up again and helped her to drink more water.
“Listen, Shilo, I have to quickly go to the reception. They’ve got some medication there for your fever. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Do you want me to call Michaela or Dorianne?” he asked.
“No, no, I’ll be fine. Please don’t wake them. Just get me something for this bloody headache,” she answered. And then, as if someone had internally scolded her for her rudeness, she added, “please?”
Stratt could not find the key for the dispensary, and had to go upstairs and wake Philip, who had a spare one on his set of keys. The receptionist, who had the other key, and who would only be back at six thirty, stayed in the staff cottages in a nearby camp, and it was a short drive to get there. Philip was a quicker option. And this was an emergency.
*
Shilo was eight and playing in the barn at their country house in Yorkshire. She was sliding down the hay chute with glee, and landing in the soft hay at the bottom. She was dressed in her favourite pink dress. The gardener, a Bill Moffatt from Scotland, was working nearby and could hear Shilo screaming with gay abandon. He had worked on the estate for as long as anyone could remember.
She saw him watching her and waved casually as she climbed the ladder into the loft once more. This was one place where she could drop the airs and graces of the city, of her staunch boarding school and be a real little girl. She would pretend she was a fairy or a great adventurer, a wicked witch or a beautiful maiden stranded on a desert island. She would be Annie Oakley or Joan of Arc, Cinderella or Pocohontas. Michaela was never with her, as Michaela was older, and even when she was younger had only been interested in Barbie dolls and tea parties. Their brother was always away at school, so Shilo was pretty much left to amuse herself. She loved the outdoors and spent hours in the various parts of the vast country estate. She loved the shady groves, secret gardens, the orchard, the little brook where she fished for minnows, and especially the old barn.
Bill Moffatt had moved closer. He was raking leaves in the area just ten feet from the bottom of the hay chute, and he watched her and smiled. He was fun. She remembered last summer when he used to play tag with her, and always managed to get her and tickle her all over until she was crying with laughter. He was a typical country man, with calloused hands and a weathered face. She had noticed that he had cool grey eyes and hair that grew from his ears and nose and the bushiest eyebrows she had ever seen.
Bill Moffat stood at the bottom of the chute and watched, as Shilo stood at the top, ready for her next exhilarating descent. He could see her long slender legs; he could see right up her favourite pink dress and see her white underwear. She shrieked as she slid down, legs splayed and landing laughing in the soft hay at the bottom.
“Ya having fun, little girl?” he asked.
“Yes, Bill,” Shilo answered, flicking her long braids over her shoulders.
“Can I have some fun too?” he asked.
“Sure, you can, Bill,” Shilo replied, “Do you want to slide with me?”
“No, I’m too big to slide with ya. D’ya wanna play catches again?”
“Okay,” she said, “You’re It!”
She dived out of the haywell at the bottom of the chute, and started running. She could hear his heavy feet behind her, and she shrieked with excitement and at the thrill of the game. She darted into the bottom of the barn, and stood behind a huge barrel. If he came one way, she could dart out of the door the other way. She was giggling uncontrollably, and he was smiling a strange smile.
“You can’t catch me!” she taunted.
“I can, and when I do, I’m gonna tickle ya!” he said in a husky monotone.