the stock of his rifle tight. His heart thudded; he’d been here before and he felt the calm settle over him, stilling his urge to flee.
As he came around the bend, where Patrick had foolishly been, he saw the carcass of the rhino. Two men were kneeling on the far side of the butchered grey bulk; one was sawing frantically. ‘ Foda , foda !’ the other man swore and raised his weapon, a heavy-calibre bolt-action hunting rifle similar to Brand’s. Brand was quicker and squeezed off a shot. The gunman fell back, dropping his rifle and clutching his shoulder. The man with the saw got up and ran. If he was armed he had dropped his rifle on the other side of the carcass.
‘ Pare aí !’ Brand called, but the man refused his order to stop where he was. Brand stared down the sights of his rifle, placing the blade in the centre of the running man’s back. He breathed through his nose, his chest rising and falling. The adrenaline was supercharging his system and the hunter’s instinct, the primal killer within, was screaming at him to pull the trigger.
The man on the ground who had aimed at him was screaming in pain. The mist cleared from Brand’s eyes and he lowered the barrel of his weapon. He could not shoot an unarmed man in the back. He jogged forward, passing Patrick’s abandoned rifle and a long scuff mark in the sand that told him the younger guide had probably tripped and fallen when the first poacher had fired at him. He came to the carcass and saw the second poacher lying on his back. His rifle was on the ground next to him and Brand picked it up and tossed it further out of reach. He frisked the wounded man, who clawed at him in his pain, but Brand smacked his hand away. He was clean. Brand knelt and ripped the man’s shirt off his back, balled it and pressed it against the wound in the man’s shoulder.
He placed the man’s hand on the makeshift dressing. ‘ Manter a pressão sobre isto, seu bastardo .’ The bastard nodded and kept the pressure on the shirt to stem the flow of blood.
4
C aptain Sannie van Rensburg sat opposite Hudson Brand in the small interview room in the Skukuza police station, at Number 1 Leopard Street. The building was near the post office, on the staff village side of the fence that separated the administrative area from Skukuza Rest Camp, the largest camp in the Kruger Park.
‘Nervous?’ Sannie asked him.
He stared back at her. She remembered the first time she had interviewed him, four years earlier, while the FIFA World Cup was still in full swing. Given the euphoria and hype of the event, the news media had barely reported the case of the prostitute who had been raped and murdered. Sannie had picked up Brand in the Kruger Park, where he’d been driving a group of British soccer fans. Brand had been angry when she had shown up at Lower Sabie Rest Camp, where he and his clients were having brunch. He had tried to tell her he couldn’t leave his tourists stranded.
‘A woman has been killed,’ Mavis had yelled at him.
Sannie had laid a hand on her young partner’s arm and gently remonstrated with her afterwards about making a scene in front of people, but Sannie had brooked no protest from Brand. He’d called Tracey Mahoney and she had sent another guide into the park. The Brits had seemed content enough to sit on the deck at the Lower Sabie restaurant drinking beers at eleven in the morning until their replacement guide arrived. Sannie and Mavis had driven to the same station where they were now, with Brand in the car.
‘What’s this about?’ he’d asked, and she could smell the stale alcohol on his breath across the same interview table where he sat now, in the police station. His eyes had been bloodshot then, his skin paler than its normal coffee-coloured hue. She’d thought he could be handsome if he wasn’t so hungover.
‘Nandi Mnisi.’
‘Who?’
He’d seemed genuinely confused but, Sannie had reflected at the time, a killer didn’t need to know
As he came around the bend, where Patrick had foolishly been, he saw the carcass of the rhino. Two men were kneeling on the far side of the butchered grey bulk; one was sawing frantically. ‘ Foda , foda !’ the other man swore and raised his weapon, a heavy-calibre bolt-action hunting rifle similar to Brand’s. Brand was quicker and squeezed off a shot. The gunman fell back, dropping his rifle and clutching his shoulder. The man with the saw got up and ran. If he was armed he had dropped his rifle on the other side of the carcass.
‘ Pare aí !’ Brand called, but the man refused his order to stop where he was. Brand stared down the sights of his rifle, placing the blade in the centre of the running man’s back. He breathed through his nose, his chest rising and falling. The adrenaline was supercharging his system and the hunter’s instinct, the primal killer within, was screaming at him to pull the trigger.
The man on the ground who had aimed at him was screaming in pain. The mist cleared from Brand’s eyes and he lowered the barrel of his weapon. He could not shoot an unarmed man in the back. He jogged forward, passing Patrick’s abandoned rifle and a long scuff mark in the sand that told him the younger guide had probably tripped and fallen when the first poacher had fired at him. He came to the carcass and saw the second poacher lying on his back. His rifle was on the ground next to him and Brand picked it up and tossed it further out of reach. He frisked the wounded man, who clawed at him in his pain, but Brand smacked his hand away. He was clean. Brand knelt and ripped the man’s shirt off his back, balled it and pressed it against the wound in the man’s shoulder.
He placed the man’s hand on the makeshift dressing. ‘ Manter a pressão sobre isto, seu bastardo .’ The bastard nodded and kept the pressure on the shirt to stem the flow of blood.
4
C aptain Sannie van Rensburg sat opposite Hudson Brand in the small interview room in the Skukuza police station, at Number 1 Leopard Street. The building was near the post office, on the staff village side of the fence that separated the administrative area from Skukuza Rest Camp, the largest camp in the Kruger Park.
‘Nervous?’ Sannie asked him.
He stared back at her. She remembered the first time she had interviewed him, four years earlier, while the FIFA World Cup was still in full swing. Given the euphoria and hype of the event, the news media had barely reported the case of the prostitute who had been raped and murdered. Sannie had picked up Brand in the Kruger Park, where he’d been driving a group of British soccer fans. Brand had been angry when she had shown up at Lower Sabie Rest Camp, where he and his clients were having brunch. He had tried to tell her he couldn’t leave his tourists stranded.
‘A woman has been killed,’ Mavis had yelled at him.
Sannie had laid a hand on her young partner’s arm and gently remonstrated with her afterwards about making a scene in front of people, but Sannie had brooked no protest from Brand. He’d called Tracey Mahoney and she had sent another guide into the park. The Brits had seemed content enough to sit on the deck at the Lower Sabie restaurant drinking beers at eleven in the morning until their replacement guide arrived. Sannie and Mavis had driven to the same station where they were now, with Brand in the car.
‘What’s this about?’ he’d asked, and she could smell the stale alcohol on his breath across the same interview table where he sat now, in the police station. His eyes had been bloodshot then, his skin paler than its normal coffee-coloured hue. She’d thought he could be handsome if he wasn’t so hungover.
‘Nandi Mnisi.’
‘Who?’
He’d seemed genuinely confused but, Sannie had reflected at the time, a killer didn’t need to know
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