Chapter 29

Stafford withdrew from the crest of the ridge as Hardin flopped down beside him. 'What is it?' Hardin asked. He was short of breath.

'Gunnarsson. He's coming straight here as though pulled by a magnet. Now, how the hell does he know where we are?' No one answered him, so Stafford said, 'Ben, you get lost. You, too, Nair; but stay close and available. Curtis and I will form a welcoming committee. Come on, Sergeant.'

'What about me?' said Hunt.

Stafford considered the matter and shrugged. 'That depends on whether you want to get involved. Come if you like.' He peered over the ridge. Gunnarsson's boat was heading straight as an arrow to the roughly-made jetty which formed the landing place.

'I'll come,' said Hunt.

The three of them traversed the ridge heading north and keeping below the crest, then went over at a place where the jetty was screened from view by trees. They moved fast because Stafford wanted to intercept Gunnarsson at the jetty before he set out to explore the island. A waterbuck exploded out of a thicket, panicked by their sudden presence, and went galloping across a glade ahead of them. As they went by it stopped and stared and then, reassured, resumed its browsing.

Stafford slowed his pace as he neared the jetty close enough to hear the puttering of an, outboard engine. The jetty came into view, half hidden by a leafy screen. He stopped and moved a branch and saw Gunnarsson getting out of the boat. There was a distant mutter of voices and then the raised note of the motor as the boat pulled away. Gunnarsson stood on the jetty and looked at the boats moored there: the one in which Nair had brought the camp supplies and the other in which Hunt had arrived.

Stafford whispered to Hunt, 'Did you come from the Lake Naivasha Hotel?'

'No – from Safariland.'

Stafford frowned. That made it unlikely that Gunnarsson had been following Hunt, so what had brought him? He watched Gunnarsson inspecting the boats. He got into each and appeared to be searching them thoroughly. Not that there was anything to find.

Gunnarsson climbed back on to the jetty, and Stafford said, 'Let's ask him what he wants.' They left cover and walked along the shoreline.

Gunnarsson had his back to them but, as he heard their approach, he turned. A grim smile appeared on his face and he put his hands on his hips and stood with arms akimbo. They got close enough for conversation and Stafford said pleasantly, 'Good morning, Mr Gunnarsson. How are your feet today?'

'By Christ!' said Gunnarsson. 'Stafford, you are one magnificent liar. You had me fooled, you really did. So you were pulling out and going back to London? And I believed you.'

Stafford was comforted by that. If he had fooled Gunnarsson then he might have also fooled Brice and Hendriks. He said, 'What are you doing here?'

'I'm looking for a guy in a turban, but I suppose you wouldn't know anything about him.' He raised his hand before Stafford could speak. 'And don't tell me you don't know anything about him. I wouldn't believe you now if you told me that the thing shining in the sky is the sun.'

Stafford shrugged. 'That sounds like Nair Singh, our guide.'

Gunnarsson looked at Hunt. 'You're from Ol Njorowa. I saw you at breakfast this morning. So you're in this, too.'

'My name is Hunt. What am I supposed to be in, Mr Gunnarsson?'

Gunnarsson looked frustrated. 'If I knew that I wouldn't be screwing around here in this half-assed manner.' He glanced at Curtis. 'Who are you?'

The reply was characteristically brief and brought Gunnarsson no joy. 'Curtis.'

Gunnarsson's attention returned to Stafford. 'This Hindu guy you say is your guide. Where is he?'

'I wouldn't call him a Hindu; he might take umbrage because he's a Sikh.' Stafford waved his arm. 'He's back there. Do you want to talk to him?'

'Yeah, I want to ask him if he usually drives a phoney taxi equipped to track a beeper bug,' said Gunnarsson with heavy irony. 'It's standing in the hotel parking lot right now. I suppose you don't know anything about that, either.'

'I know now.' Stafford smiled. 'You've just told me.'

Gunnarsson snorted. 'So what is a tourist guide doing with triple antennas and a signal strength meter? Why was he trailing me?'

'Let's ask him,' Stafford proposed. 'I'll lead the way.' He walked away from the jetty and Gunnarsson fell into step beside him. Curtis and Hunt tagged along behind. 'What led you to Crescent Island?'

'That goddamn taxi was in the parking lot when I got back to the hotel this morning,' said Gunnarsson. 'I asked at the desk where the owner was and I was told he'd come here.'

So it had been as easy as that, thought Stafford. Nair had made mistakes; first with the beeper and then not getting rid of the Mercedes. Still, no harm had been done.

They climbed the ridge and went down the other side to the camp site. Stafford shouted, 'Nair!', and Nair got up from where he was unobtrusively lying in the shade of a tree. 'A man here wants to talk to you.'

Nair approached them. 'What about?' he asked innocently.

'Jesus; you know what about!' said Gunnarsson belligerently. 'Why are you so goddamn interested in me?'

'Do you have something to hide?'

Gunnarsson's eyes nickered. 'What's with the double-talk?'

'I think he has something to hide,' said Stafford. 'For instance, I'd like to know what happened to Henry Hendrix.'

'We've been through all that before." Gunnarsson took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow and his neck. 'I'm tired of telling the story.'

'Oh, I don't mean Corliss,' said Stafford casually. 'I know what happened to him. But what happened to Hendrix?'

'Hendrix is…' Gunnarsson began, and stopped as the meaning of what Stafford had said sank in. He moistened his lips and swallowed before saying, 'Who is Corliss?'

'Your friend who disappeared in Tanzania.'

'You're crazy! That was Hendrix.'

Stafford shook his head. 'Gunnarsson; you're a bigger liar than I am. The Hendrix you took to London was not the Hendrix found in Los Angeles.'

'Not Hendrix!' said Gunnarsson numbly. 'You must be kidding.' He forced a smile.

'Definitely not Hendrix,' said Stafford. 'And proveable.'

'Look, the guy was brought to me in my office. He had everything right; a pat hand. Everything checked out.' He paused in thought. 'I sent an operative to pick him up in Los Angeles. Could he have pulled a fast one on me?'

'What was his name? This operative?'

'A guy called Hardin. Something of a dead beat. I had to fire him.' Gunnarsson was sweating as he extemporized his story. 'If anyone pulled a fast one it must have been Hardin. He's a…'

Stafford cut him short by raising his voice, 'Come out, come out, wherever you are.' As Gunnarsson gazed at him in astonishment Stafford said coolly, 'Why don't you ask him? He's just behind you.'

Gunnarsson whirled and his eyes bulged as he saw Hardin who smiled and said, 'Hello, you lousy cheapskate.'

'You've been under a microscope,' said Stafford. 'Every move you've made has been noted ever since you pitched up in London with Corliss and palmed him off as Hendrix. I won't say we've recorded every time you went to the loo, but damned nearly. And Corliss has been singing as sweetly as any nightingale. The jig's up, Gunnarsson.'

Gunnarsson looked defeated, rather as Stafford had seen him when he hobbled into the game lodge at Keekorok. He mumbled, 'Where is Corliss?'

'Where you'd expect him to be – in a police cell. And that's where you're going.'

To Stafford's surprise Nair stepped forward and produced a pair of handcuffs. 'You're under arrest, Mr Gunnarsson. I'm a police officer.'

Gunnarsson whipped round and began to run. Unfortunately Curtis happened to be in the way and it was like running into a brick wall. Hardin collared him from behind and brought him down. Then Nair manacled him, right wrist to left ankle. 'Best way of immobilizing a man,' said Nair. 'He can't run. His only way of getting around is to roll like a hoop.'