Legacy of War Page 18

  ‘None of my people have any such intentions,’ Leon said.

  ‘For that reason,’ De Lancey repeated, ploughing on, ‘I have been authorised to conduct inspections of European-owned properties to check that the proper precautions have been taken to render them secure and to keep their owners safe.’

  ‘Are you telling me that you wish to inspect this house?’ Leon asked.

  ‘Yes, as well as any other white-owned properties on your estate, and the grounds of the estate itself.’

  ‘You are aware that Lusima covers more than one hundred and eighty square miles?’

  ‘Only the Delamere property is larger, yes. And Lord Delamere has been most cooperative.’

  ‘Is that so . . .?’ Leon found it hard to believe that a man as grand as Thomas Cholmondeley, the fourth Baron Delamere and owner of the Soysambu Ranch, would allow anyone like De Lancey to go sticking their nose into his affairs. But he couldn’t be bothered to argue with De Lancey. He wanted this whole business done and dusted as quickly as possible.

  ‘Very well then,’ Leon said. ‘This is what I will allow. You may inspect the exterior of this house and its outbuildings. You may also inspect the ground floor, accompanied by one of my people. You may not inspect my daughter’s house, since she is not presently in the country and I will not allow anyone into her home without her consent. And I will absolutely not have you “inspecting” my land.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Courtney, but I must insist.’

  ‘You can insist all you like, but a detailed strategic survey of the Lusima estate would take days, even weeks, and would require airborne reconnaissance. Do you have any aircraft at your disposal?’

  ‘No,’ grumped De Lancey.

  ‘Very well then – this is what I am prepared to offer. You may look at my estate maps, which show the topography of the area, plus all significant features, including the various roads, airstrips and so forth that I have put in. As you examine them, you may conclude, as I have done, that it would take a sizeable army to defend the borders of my land, as a result of which, such defensive measures as I have contemplated are centred on this house. The hunting and gamekeeping activity on the estate means that I have a number of guns. You can find the details, I am sure, in my licences, which will be on file at Government House. Satisfied?’

  ‘For the time being,’ De Lancey replied. ‘Of course, I may well have a number of recommendations to make, in terms of improvements to your security.’

  ‘Put them in writing, I’ll read them at my leisure.’

  Leon gave a sigh. De Lancey might be both uninvited and unpleasant, but he was still a guest. It would not be in his interests to alienate someone in a position of authority, especially in these febrile times, no matter how detestable. And it was almost lunchtime.

  ‘If you’ve driven up from Nairobi, I’m sure you could use a bite to eat,’ he said. ‘We had roast chicken for dinner last night, I dare say there’s enough left over for cook to make you a sandwich.’

  De Lancey was caught in a bind. The thought of a freshly made chicken sandwich was tempting. But by accepting it he would acknowledge Leon’s hospitality, which he hated to do. Greed, however, trumped De Lancey’s misgivings.

  ‘That would do nicely,’ he said. ‘And a cup of coffee, if you please.’

  Pieters had been standing to one side, taking in the entire conversation, jotting down the occasional note. From time to time he had glanced out of the open window, through which a gentle breeze was blowing. The view was enough to catch any reporter’s eye: a charming English country garden in the foreground, set against the magnificent backdrop of rolling African hills. Now Leon turned to him and asked, ‘And a sandwich for you, Mr Pieters?’

  Before Pieters could reply, the unmistakable sound of young children laughing drifted in on the wind.

  ‘My grandchildren.’ Leon smiled as he thought of the youngsters.

  ‘Charming,’ said Pieters, then added, ‘I don’t think I’ll have that sandwich, thank you. But you mentioned we could examine the exterior of your house. Would you mind if I took a little walk around the place, stretch my legs?’

  ‘By all means,’ said Leon.

  ‘Thank you.’ Pieters put his dark glasses back on. ‘I’ll find my own way out.’

  As von Meerbach was walking out of the house, a middle-aged white woman, informally dressed, carrying a shallow wooden basket containing a bunch of freshly cut roses was coming the other way. This, he realised, was the lady of the house, Harriet Courtney.

  He lifted his hat a fraction off his head as he said, ‘Good day, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, yes, absolutely,’ she said, giving him the absent-minded smile of a woman whose mind is on other things. By way of explanation, she added, ‘Sorry, just got to pop these in some water,’ and scurried past him into the house.

  Von Meerbach walked out into the sun feeling better than he had done in months. He knew, because he’d spent his entire boyhood being told it, that he had inherited his father’s blue eyes, along with his reddish-blond hair. Had he let Courtney see both, the connection would have been too obvious. The eyes alone were not enough to make an immediate connection, or not yet at any rate. Though the thought of Courtney’s discomfort when he finally worked out his true identity, put a contented smile on von Meerbach’s face. Now all he had to do was to track down those children.

  He turned right out of the front door, heading round to the side of the house that the study windows looked out on to. The ground sloped away from the building, and a raised terrace had been constructed beside the house, on which various metal tables and chairs were scattered. All of them, however, were unoccupied.

  Below the terrace lay an immaculately mown, weed-free expanse of lawn. Von Meerbach walked downhill and onto the grass. As he turned around the corner of the terrace, he saw something that stopped him dead in his tracks.

  Two small children, a boy and a girl, were playing on the grass not far away, watched over by a young native woman in a neat, pale blue cotton dress. The boy, whom von Meerbach estimated to be about five or six, was busily pedalling a red car, making ‘vroom-vroom’ noises as he went. The little girl, who appeared to be somewhat younger, had assembled a collection of dolls and stuffed animals in a circle around her and was busy serving them tea.

  Von Meerbach knew that Saffron was Leon Courtney’s only child. These must therefore be her children, staying with their grandparents while their mother and father were away. To chance upon them like this, without even trying was an astonishing stroke of good fortune, like a prospector glancing down into a mountain stream and spotting a nugget of pure gold in among the pebbles. It was all Von Meerbach could do to stop himself cheering and waving his hat in the air.

  The boy was wearing a white peaked cap, like a little naval officer. The girl had a pink dress with short, puffed-up sleeves. He had dark hair and brown eyes. She was blonde and blue-eyed. They really were adorable.

  The nanny was a pretty thing too, just like her charges. Von Meerbach imagined punching her hard in the face, three or four times, beating her delicate features to a shapeless pulp. He saw himself picking up the boy by the throat in one hand, and grabbing the girl the same way in the other. He would squeeze his fingers tight, throttling the life out of them. Von Meerbach gave a shiver and a silent intake of breath. The image in his mind was so delicious as to be almost sexually thrilling.

  On the night when he and Francesca had discussed what he should do, they had specifically rejected the idea of killing the children. But, oh, it was tempting. There was no one else in sight. He could do it and damn the consequences. The pain he would cause his brother and the Courtney whore would be worth it. Then he sighed as he contemplated the hangman’s noose and, which was more disturbing, his humiliating helplessness as he was led towards the gallows.

  No, I’m not ready for that, he thought.

  Von Meerbach said, ‘Good morning,’ politely to the nanny.

  She smiled at him and rep
lied, ‘Good morning, bwana,’ naturally assuming he must be a friend of the Courtneys’. Deference was ingrained and the white man was above suspicion.

  Von Meerbach took off his hat and put it down on the ground, deliberately revealing the colour of the hair that he had kept hidden from Leon Courtney. He turned his attention to the boy and said, ‘That’s a very fine car.’

  The boy grinned proudly. ‘It’s a Humber,’ he said. ‘I got it for my birthday.’

  ‘I know how to make cars go very fast. That’s my job. I know all about engines. I can make any car go as fast as a rocket.’

  ‘Whoa!’ the boy exclaimed, wide-eyed.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘My name is Alexander Courtney Meerbach . . . but everyone calls me Zander.’

  ‘And what is your sister’s name?’

  ‘Well, we call her Kika, but she’s Nichola Courtney Meerbach, really.’

  ‘I see. Well, Zander, I have a question for you . . .’

  Von Meerbach reached into his jacket, extracted his wallet and took out a banknote issued by the East Africa Currency Board. On one side there was a picture of King George VI. On the other was a magnificent lion.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked.

  Zander nodded. ‘That’s a one-shilling note.’

  ‘Would you like it?’

  The little boy’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, yes please!’ he exclaimed.

  By now, Kika had got up from her tea party and come over to see what was going on.

  ‘Very well then,’ von Meerbach said. ‘I will give one of these notes to you, Zander, and another to Kika . . .’ The little girl beamed with delight. ‘And all you have to do is deliver a message. Can you do that?’

  ‘I think so.’ Zander’s face screwed up as a worrying thought struck him. ‘Is it a difficult message?’

  ‘No, Zander, don’t worry. All you have to do is wait until your mummy and daddy get home and tell them, “Uncle Konnie sends his love.” ’ That’s not difficult, is it?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then say it after me, “Uncle Konnie sends his love.” ’

  Zander repeated the words.

  ‘Good man,’ chuckled von Meerbach, patting Zander on the back. ‘Now, I am going to give these two notes to your nice nanny . . .’

  ‘She’s called Loiyan,’ Zander said, helpfully.

  ‘Very well, then, I am sure that Loiyan will remind you to pass the message on to Mummy and Daddy.’

  ‘I will do that, bwana, I promise,’ Loiyan said.

  ‘Then I will add another note to you, my dear,’ von Meerbach said. ‘Oh, and perhaps you could remember to tell your mistress a few words, too. Tell her that I am greatly enjoying my new home, which is so close to her family. I’m sure she will be pleased to hear that.’

  ‘Of course, bwana. You are close to her family. That must be very nice for you.’

  ‘Oh yes . . . very.’

  He gave her the money, put his hat back on and then said, ‘Goodbye, children, I must be on my way. Goodbye, Loiyan.’

  ‘Goodbye, bwana Konnie,’ she replied.

  As he walked away, von Meerbach heard Kika’s voice declaring, ‘He was a nice man.’

  ‘Uncle Konnie can make cars go as fast as rockets!’ Zander said.

  Then Kika asked, ‘Loiyan, why does he have orange hair?’

  Von Meerbach smiled to himself as he completed his walk around the house. All things considered, that really could not have gone any better.

  He was back home the following day. When he told Francesca what he had done, the look on her face only confirmed his opinion. Von Meerbach had never seen her smile with such joy.

  ‘Oh, you brilliant, brilliant man,’ she purred. ‘Your plan worked perfectly.’

  Von Meerbach noted, with considerable satisfaction, that his wife had praised him for an idea that she had originated.

  And now she added, ‘It will be just as you predicted. The knowledge that you were there, close enough to touch her children, in the very place where she feels most safe, will drive Saffron mad. That worm will eat away at her, and Gerhard will be furious!’

  But then a thought struck her, and a note of concern entered her voice.

  ‘But how will you know that they are coming? What if they take you by surprise?’

  Von Meerbach gave a smug smile. ‘Ahh . . . I already thought of that.’

  ‘Of course you did, my darling. So what is your solution?’

  ‘I have a spy in the enemy camp. The moment my brother and your old friend arrive in this country, I will know about it. And then we will prepare to give them a suitable greeting when they come knocking on our door.’

  Francesca gave a delighted little clap of her hands. They opened a bottle of champagne. For the first time in years, they made love without any games or pain. And as she turned out the light, Francesca whispered, ‘Now let them lose sleep.’

  Saffron and Gerhard landed in Nairobi the day after Von Meerbach left the city. They passed through passport control and customs, then headed to the area of the airport that dealt with private aviation. Earlier in the year they had rolled a flat patch of ground close to Cresta Lodge until it was hard enough to form an airstrip. Gerhard had bought a small, propeller-driven Piper Tri-Pacer aircraft to give himself the pleasure of flying again, and to provide an easy means of crossing the vast Lusima estate, and Kenya as a whole. At the start of their trip he had flown Saffron to Nairobi Aerodrome in the Tri-Pacer and it was waiting for them, fuelled and serviced, when they returned.

  Half an hour later they were flying over the Kikuyu farmlands at the southern end of the Lusima estate. These gave way to the open savannah of the game reserve, where the Maasai herded their cattle and the Courtneys had their two homes. The house where Saffron had been raised and Leon and Harriet still lived lay a couple of miles into the reserve. For most of her life, Saffron had simply thought of it as home, but now the family called it the ‘Estate House’, to distinguish it from the lodge. Seeing it in the distance was enough to bring a lump to her throat.

  Leon had installed a landing strip of his own to enable Gerhard to land, and had threatened to buy himself an aircraft to go with it.

  ‘I learned to fly when you were a glint in your father’s eye,’ he’d told Gerhard. ‘I dare say the crates are more complicated since then, but the basic principles must be just the same.’

  There was no indication that Leon had acted on the impulse while they were away. The only sign of life was a station wagon waiting to meet them. Gerhard landed safely and taxied the Tri-Pacer under the large, open-sided sun- and rain-shelter that served as a hangar. Their luggage was transferred to the cavernous rear of the station wagon, an American Ford Country Squire, complete with wooden panelling on its flanks. They set off for the house where their children were waiting for them.

  It had been built in the early twenties, when Saffron was still a little girl. Her parents had wanted a property that was British in its layout, but reflected the land in which it was set. The walls were faced in small, irregular blocks of local stone, set into cement like flints, and criss-crossed by sturdy wooden beams, cut from trees that had grown on the estate. The roof was thatched, as a native hut would be, albeit on a greater scale.

  The gravel drive that led to the house opened onto a forecourt, ringed by flowering shrubs. Beyond it stood the façade of the house: two gabled ends on either side of a slightly recessed central block. The verandah that ran around three sides of the house deepened into the recess, creating shelter for the front door and a balcony for the master bedroom upstairs. It was a large home, even by the standards of colonial Kenya. There were six bedrooms, all of which had their own bathrooms, a number of spacious living rooms downstairs and a kitchen block at the rear, which opened onto a yard where tradesmen made their deliveries. A garden room, on the left of the house, led to a terrace with spectacular views of the hills that ringed the estate, and stone s
teps down to a broad flat lawn on which croquet, badminton and even tennis could be played.

  These details meant nothing to Saffron, because what she saw as the car rolled to a halt was a building constructed of memories. She recalled the joy of her life with her mother; the awful pain of her loss; the years she and her father had spent, the two of them rattling round a house intended for the bustle of a large, energetic family; and the joy that had returned to the place when Harriet brought love back into Leon’s life.

  Blinking away a tear, she squeezed Gerhard’s hand and said, ‘It’s good to be here.’

  They got out of the car and as they did so, a small, dark, human rocket exploded, piping, ‘Mummy! Daddy! Mummy!’ at the top of his lungs before hurling himself at Saffron’s legs.

  ‘Zander!’

  Saffron laughed as his arms wrapped around her thighs. She bent to give her son a kiss and as soon as she had done so he let go, turned to Gerhard and in a calmer, little-manly tone said, ‘Hello, Papa.’

  ‘Hello, Alexander,’ said Gerhard seriously. ‘Have you been good while we were away?’

  ‘Oh yes, Papa . . . almost all the time.’

  Gerhard did his best not to laugh. His son was so gleeful, so joyfully determined to have as much fun as he could, every minute of the day, that it was impossible to be cross with him.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘You know, it sounds to me as though you have in fact been very . . . very . . . naughty!’

  Gerhard bent down, grabbed Zander under his armpits and lifted him high into the air, shrieking and laughing in excitement. He lowered the boy until they were face to face and said, ‘And if you are naughty, then I will have no choice but to punish you . . .’

  ‘No!’ Zander cried, squirming in Gerhard’s hands.

  ‘. . . with the most awful, terrible, horrible punishment . . .’

  ‘No, please, please!’

  ‘. . . known to mankind, the dreaded, unbearable torment . . .’

  Zander was wriggling like a fish in a net.