Authors: Judith Stephan
Stratt parked in the drop-off zone in the elevated International Departures terminal. Fortunately the lodge logo on the side of the vehicle would prevent any bored traffic policeman whacking him with a parking ticket or towing him away.
He rushed into the bustling departure hall and scanned the sea of faces, the queues of travelers, hopefully. Nothing. He tried the first class lounge for British Airways passengers, but was met by a stern security guard with a strong Afrikaans accent, who was not interested in what Stratt had to say. In desperation, Stratt peered through the thick bulletproof glass into the plush lounge. His heart skipped a beat. He could see Dorianne and Michaela, and yes, there was the back of Shilo’s head.
“Please, I really need to speak to those ladies,” he said anxiously pointing towards them. “Call the one with the red hair for me.”
“You can’t go in and they can’t come out,” the guard reiterated, “They’ve already gone through customs.”
“But it’s very important. Can’t you just call her to the door … I just need to tell her something. ”
But the argument was futile. The guard was not going to be of any assistance. Stratt stood by the glass and waved frantically for several minutes until Dorianne finally spotted him. She called Shilo who turned around. Initially she looked shocked and then her face lit up. Like a model in slow motion, her hips swaying, her hair rippling and gently lifting with each step, her breasts rising and falling, she sashayed towards the glass barrier. He had forgotten just how beautiful she was. Again the guard was stubborn and refused to let her through, even though Shilo put on her “Do you know who I am?” speech and threatened to report him to some giant ghost of a manager that she pretended to know. The belligerent guard just shrugged and pointed to the glass window.
Shilo stood helplessly facing Stratt. She had hoped he would come before they left. For nearly a week she had searched for his face in the crowds in the hotel, in the street, in the shopping centres and in the hospital. His phone call, although a pleasant surprise, had made her think he was not going to show up. And now here he was, and she could not even talk to him or touch him with two inches of thick, bullet-proof glass between them. He shrugged and smiled. She placed her hands on the cool glass, her face frozen in an expression of regret for what might have been. He placed his huge hands over the form of hers on the other side of glass. A distant gong sounded and a flight was announced. Oblivious to the noise of the busy airport, to the throng of people around them, they gazed at each other – their silence speaking volumes. A myriad unspoken emotions, desires and regrets flowed between them. Michaela approached from behind, looking rather pale with dark rings under her eyes, and put a hand on Shilo’s shoulder and said something. Shilo nodded, her eyes never leaving Stratt’s.
Suddenly, without any forethought, Stratt mouthed “I love you” through the glass. Shilo’s eyes widened momentarily as a flash of pleasant surprise crossed her features. She blushed, lowered her eyes, and looked up once more … this time smiling.
“I love you too,” she mouthed back.
Then she turned around and walked back towards their mounds of hand luggage, where Dorianne and Michaela stood waiting impatiently. Michaela put an arm around Shilo’s shoulders.
“She must be crying,” Stratt thought. “Oh no, what have I done?”
At the door, where a stewardess checked the boarding passes, she turned and glanced back at him. Her cheeks were wet with tears … and then she disappeared into the black rectangle that was the exit to his life.
What had he done? He did love her. He knew that. But admitting it here and now, he had just complicated and confused matters … and made it worse for both of them. Some things were best left unsaid. He had wanted to beg her to stay. He had wanted to sit down and talk to her and convince her how happy he could make her … not just tell her he loved her. That was futile just as she was just about to leave. He watched from the side of the northbound freeway, where he had parked between the shrubs with a view of the runway, as the giant aeroplane took off and passed through the wispy clouds, dregs of the afternoon rain, like a graceful eagle gliding effortlessly into the darkening sky. He watched until it was only a shiny speck, a flashing light, and dissolved into the dusk. Shilo had gone and he must now begin his long, lonely drive back to the lodge.
CHAPTER 13
Corbett received two anonymous letters on the same day. There was something about both of them that exempted them from the piles of fakes and phonies that arrived from crackpots that sometimes accompanied high profile serial killer cases. And since there was no reward posted at this point, there was no blatant ulterior motive. He just knew, as if by some sixth sense, that these were the real McCoy.
The first was apparently from the killer himself.
“
Corbett
Just to set the record straight. I do not kill for sexual arousal as has been suggested. I sometimes kill to shut them up, to stop their existence, and sometimes because I can. It gives me a sense of power… of control. I am not some sick bastard … I am just setting the world straight, one woman at a time.
I deserve a nick name. How about The Lady Killer – double entendre – what do you think?
The Lady Killer
So he was a little sensitive about being labeled … or should he say not being labeled? Good. There was no evidence on the letter itself. No address, not even a date. The postmark said Coventry, but that simply implied he had posted it there. It was typed and was self-sealing. It had gone through the post, so sorters and postmen had touched it so there was no way of determining whether his fingerprints were on it or not. He was too clever for that and the killer had obviously been very careful. Corbett knew how to rile him: Pressing him for a reaction, generalizing, labeling and name-calling. A sensitive killer: What a paradoxical novelty.
The second letter was from a woman who wished to remain anonymous as she was “a high profile member of aristocratic circles”, as she put it. She said she had a vested interest in the case, and Corbett was amazed at her overt bravado.
“
I am almost sure, and would be prepared to stake my life on it, that this serial killer is an acquaintance of mine. He sleeps around a bit, fits the physical description exactly and drives a BMW – which he has since sold. He was away for some days in November and early December …he just disappears without even an explanation and is evasive when questioned. It has to be Charles Lambert-Carr. He was quite defensive when I commented on the likeness of him to the published identikit … and he is sporting scratches on his cheek.”
It was a lead but not a certainty. Maybe just a jealous girlfriend getting her own back. But it was worthwhile checking up. Maybe if he put a tail on the chap he could get some concrete proof. Charles Lambert-Carr. Where had he heard that name before? There was a Viscount Lambert Carr and he wondered if it was the same man. Imagine a viscount being mixed up in an awful thing like this. Shockwaves would certainly unsettle the close-knit little circle of British aristocracy.
*
Shilo awoke from a dreamless sleep for no apparent reason. As she sat up in her huge double bed, a wave of nausea flowed through her. Why did she feel so sick? Maybe her brief stay in Africa had made her used to a different sort of food, or perhaps it was the water, maybe even a relapse of her bout of malaria. Stratt had said that in rare cases it could come back and haunt you for many years after the original attack. And now with Christmas approaching at a rate of knots, the rich food served at the annual charity functions, the cocktail parties and pre-Christmas get-togethers was probably too much.
Shilo drew back the thick goose down duvet and swung her feet onto the polished wooden floorboards and stood up. The room began to spin, her vision blurred, and like a tree, she fell gracefully to the floor.
When she came to, Michaela was at her side with a cold cloth dabbing her forehead. Her mother hovered in the doorway.
“What happened?” Shilo murmured.
“You tell us,” Lady Carina said, “Michaela heard a crash, and when she came in, you were out cold on the floor.”
“I stood up and suddenly felt very dizzy,” Shilo said as she pulled herself to her feet. “I’ve been feeling strange ever since I returned from Africa. I’ll go and see Doctor Levine this morning. Maybe I have picked up something.”
“Yes, dear,” her mother said, “that’s a very good idea. I hope you haven’t caught some dreadful tropical disease like a hemorrhagic fever or Congo fever or beriberi. God knows what you could have caught out there in the bush. Maybe it’s just low blood pressure. I used to get that at your age.”
After a light breakfast of toast and black tea, Shilo approached Michaela in the library. Her sister reclined on a leather couch reading a magazine.
“Micky?” she whispered, “I’ve just got this feeling in the pit of my stomach… this nausea and dizziness? I think I could be pregnant.”
“Stratt’s?” Michaela said looking up, and the news did not seem to have taken her by surprise.
“Of course,” Shilo answered. “Who else? Maybe it is just blood pressure… but I don’t think so. Will you come with me today?”
“Just imagine,” giggled Michaela, “both Delucci girls pregnant out of wedlock in one year! What a scandal!”
Shilo could not help but laugh at the irony of it all.
“Will you tell him?” continued Michaela. “Surely you will tell him.”
“Absolutely not.” Her reply was emphatic.
There was an abrupt knock on the door and Forbes entered.
“Madame Shilo, Viscount Charles Lambert-Carr is here to see you.”
Shilo winced and raised her eyes to the pressed wedding cake of a ceiling. Even his poncey name had begun to rile her. She was decidedly irritated with him as he hadn’t even showed up at the airport to meet her when she had returned from Africa. Charles walked into the room dressed in a grey pinstriped suit and a pastel pink Tommy Hilfiger shirt. Suddenly he repulsed her. She had always found him tolerable in the past, but now he just looked quite ridiculous. She immediately compared his sinewy build to Stratt’s muscular form; his tailored clothes to Stratt’s attractive casualness. God! What on earth had he done to his hair?
“Hello, Shilo,” he said in his affected Oxford English accent, “You’re back from Africa! How I’ve missed you, my darling.”
She stood up from her seat, and he put a hand on each shoulder and pecked her on each cheek. She cringed at the smell of expensive after-shave lotion that tingled in her nostrils, and immediately compared it to Stratt’s distinctive masculine cologne of which she had grown so fond. Her mind was full of Stratt as Charles rambled on about his hectic social life in her five-week absence. All at once Charles seemed like a sinewy, pasty-faced weed when she thought of Stratt. His clothes, his hairstyle, his annunciation all seemed so artificial, so affected. And besides his remarkable change in appearance, he seemed oddly distant as if he was harbouring some huge secret. She chastened herself for her vivid imagination. He had probably just had a fling or two while she was away. What was new? It certainly would not be the first time. She had to try and forget Stratt… he was six thousand miles away, on another continent, in another life. So with forced congeniality, she entertained Charles to steaming tea and scones with jam and cream in the salon overlooking the bleak winter landscape of London.
The snow lay thick and deep like a thick-piled carpet, the sky was an iron grey and heavy with the threat of more snow. England had seemed so dull and cold and damp after the glorious sunshine-filled days in South Africa. Africa was extreme. The sky was not just blue – it was a brilliant azure; the sun seemed brighter and hotter than it had ever been in Great Britain; the vegetation was either a startling green or a dusty brown – Nothing in between. And Africa was vast – There was just so much space. Even the sky seemed bigger. There were landscapes that stretched out forever to far unreachable horizons. Here in England, the grey, clouded, low heavens made her feel claustrophobic, as if it were all closing in on her; and the miserable cold weather made her feel depressed … She hated to admit it but she was missing the glorious climes of that distant continent.