Chanteuse From Cape Town

John Constable

Description

How far would you go to take revenge?When Sol Nemo, a rich but mentally-troubled private investigator, learns of the kidnap of the wife of the man who's been like a father to him, he responds instinctively to the call for help. But, unfortunately, Sol's bargained without the betrayal of his trust and the life-threatening consequences that follow. So begins this intriguing tale of murder and revenge set against the backdrop of South Africa's breathtaking landscapes and the vibrant cities of Cape Town and Port Elizabeth. Step by step, as the story unfolds, Sol has to confront a web of deceit and corruption with which he must wrestle; just as he must wrestle with the crippling anxiety that periodically overwhelms him. And, as if this wasn't enough, Sol must also decide his response to his on-off lover's recent overtures. Is her sudden rekindled interest no more than the lure of his vast inheritance or does she really wish to cement a long-term future together?From all this, Sol emerges as a protagonist with many of the doubts and weaknesses that afflict us all but, in the final reckoning, he too must answer the question: How far will I go to take revenge?

Sujets

• Southern Africa
• Cape Town
• Le Cap

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 novembre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800467507
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

The Chanteuse from Cape Town
John Constable
Cover design by Mike Bastin
Copyright © 2020 John Constable

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781800467507

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This one is for Hester, my darling wife, without whom, for so many reasons,
this book would never have been written.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Afterword and Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Leaving the God’s Time Car Wash, I made the steep descent down Russell Road with the warm waters of the Indian Ocean spread before me. Where the road forked, I took the exit for Summerstrand and drove past the Campanile following a route as soulless as an LA freeway. The traffic though was done with its rush hour frenzy and so I made good progress past the apartment blocks overlooking the waterfront. They had names like Sea Spray and Ocean View; and architecture with not nearly as much creative flair.
I was on my way to a meeting with chartered accountant, Eugene du Toit. He wanted to see me urgently but not at his firm’s plush offices in a converted bungalow off the Cape Road. Rather he requested a tête-à-tête , as he put it, at an apartment he leased close to the Boardwalk.
Yet as I drew near my destination my cell phone sang out. I fumbled it to an ear and heard a voice tell me the venue for my appointment had been changed because of a re-scheduled meeting in Cape Town. This made no sense as I was no more than ten minutes from Port Elizabeth’s airport. But, like that guy who sang about having no particular place to go, I got directions and pointed the Mustang’s nose northwards.
I drove inland beyond the town of Uitenhage and into farming country where I picked up a dust trail that wound up by a copse of wild fig. From there, a sign marked a track leading to a gate topped with razor wire and cameras. At my approach, the gate opened revealing a corridor with electrified fencing. At its end was another gate and it too slid aside noiselessly.
On the far side was a large house constructed in the Cape Dutch style. The façade was brilliant white and the windows barred, as was the glass in the heavy front door. I stopped the car in the shade of a carob tree and killed the engine.
In the hot still air, I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing to ease the churning in my stomach and the pounding of my heart. There was no reason for these symptoms. It was simply what the psych profession calls anxiety. It was a feeling of insecurity, of being unsafe, and it could be as debilitating as living with one leg.
But this time I wasn’t discomforted for long as a couple of Alsatians provided distraction by hurtling towards the car. Startled, I looked up and saw a tall thin man by the open front door. He was wearing sand-coloured chinos and a light blue shirt, open at the neck. Stirring himself to acknowledge me was evidently too much effort as he did no more than bark an order at the dogs and gaze at me, much as one might view some strange specimen of wildlife that had unexpectedly fetched up on his doorstep. It reminded me of the looks I was given when I took up golf. Some of those old Dutchmen thought I should be pulling their golf trolleys, not striding the fairways with them and airing my views about the uncomfortable reality of white monopoly capital.
When the dogs retreated, I climbed out of the Mustang and approached him lifting my shades onto the top of my head.
I flashed a smile in greeting. In response, the man offered a hand with long bony fingers. ‘Eugene du Toit,’ he said, bloodless lips forming the words with care.
I took his cold claw. ‘Solomon Nemo. But you can call me Sol.’
‘Come with me, Mr. Nemo.’ Abruptly, du Toit turned on his heel, leaving me to shut the door.
I followed the accountant’s spare figure through the house. From the kitchen area, I heard low voices and a radio playing Afrikaans pop; not my bag at all.
We went as far as a huge living room where a collection of mounted heads on one wall looked down upon a collection of stinkwood furniture. I couldn’t decide which occasioned the greater dislike.
My host led me through double doors to a stoep which had a view over a well-tended garden. At its boundary two lines of tall electric fences five metres apart ran parallel to each other, each topped with razor wire. This level of security piqued my curiosity.
Du Toit offered me a cane chair at a circular table topped with a mosaic of blue and white tiles roughened with age and wear. Awaiting deployment was a silver tray laden with china and an ornate coffee pot plus a jug of iced lemonade and crystal glasses. Nearby were a propped tablet and two smart phones. An open pilot’s case loaded with files stood on an adjacent chair.
‘If you want refreshment, help yourself,’ my host said carelessly as he sat down. At his back was a brick-built braai or BBQ with a stack of wood to one side and a line of empty whisky bottles on a shelf above. I doubted any were other than single malts. ‘I trust you weren’t incommoded by my summons,’ he added.
I was suddenly irritated by his arrogance. ‘I’m trying not to feel pissed off if that’s what you mean.’ Abruptly, I settled myself into a chair opposite him. I grabbed the lemonade and poured a glass as my mouth was parched.
Du Toit gazed at me with piercing eyes. He was long in the trunk and so he sat taller than me. ‘What I wish to tell you, Mr. Nemo, surpasses secrecy,’ he began, looking down his thin nose. ‘Nothing I tell you today is to be repeated at any time, anywhere, under any circumstances. Do I make myself clear?’
I would have ventured some wisecrack but didn’t get the chance as one of the phones vibrated. Du Toit started and then picked up. ‘Ja ?’ he said.
What followed meant little to me. There was some stuff about commercial mortgages, a lot more on the valuation of goodwill, and a textbook’s length of blah on the subject of different debt instruments. In response, du Toit wrote in a leather bound notebook using a Montblanc fountain pen.
Me, I tuned out.
Sipping my lemonade, I looked beyond the electric fences where rough pasture fell away into a valley. In the distance I discerned the glint of water on a reservoir and a gaggle of farm buildings at one side.
Friend Eugene finished at last and laid the phone and notebook aside. He seemed perplexed by something and his prominent forehead, accentuated by a receding hairline, was furrowed with worry lines. In my experience, this is often the effect money has on people. How much or how little you have isn’t relevant in the worry stakes if you’re built that way.
‘Time’s money,’ I said, trying to be helpful.
That snapped du Toit out of it. ‘We were talking about the need for secrecy,’ he said. ‘I’d started explaining…’
I cut in. ‘Message received first time round.’
My host looked at me pointedly. ‘I’m acting for Mr. Franco Zarakolu,’ he said.
It was my turn to be perplexed. ‘You work for Frank?’
‘Work for isn’t the expression I’d use. He’s been a client for about 18 months. We provide accounting and legal services.’
‘Frank had an accountant in Jeffreys for 20 years or more,’ I said. ‘I don’t recall him ever having much use for lawyers.’
If my host was annoyed at my sideswipe, it didn’t show. Instead, he carefully lifted the propped tablet and turned it to face me. ‘Tell me what you see,’ he said.
Fact was I could see less than Jonah inside the whale. The sun was the main culprit, but the screen was also smeared. I turned my ch