Free The Hunter by Tony Park Page A

lack of evidence implicating the American guide, and no other leads, her next strongest theory was that the rape and murder had been perpetrated by a foreigner. South Africa had been awash with tourists from all over the world back then, drawn by the FIFA soccer World Cup. Australia had played Serbia on the day of the killing and she had contacted police authorities in those countries to see if there had been any similar killings on their turf. Of course, there had been soccer fans from scores of other countries too, but none of the internet and other searches she and Mavis had done periodically over the years had turned up similar crimes.
    It was time to try again, she thought. She made a note to email the Investigative Psychology Unit tomorrow, to put in a request to talk to someone there about running a search on similar crimes since the last time she had checked. There would be no time, but she would have to make time. She knew this docket inside and out and she was sure she and Mavis had overlooked nothing. She needed a break, even if that break was news that another woman had been killed in similar circumstances. Sannie closed the docket and finished her wine; Tom had only poured her a small glass, perhaps thinking she would come to bed sooner rather than later. He was half smashed judging by the cluster of empty bottles he had left out on the kitchen bench for the maid to tidy up tomorrow. Sannie opened the fridge and poured herself another glass, a bigger measure.
    She went back out to the deck, sat down and re-opened the docket. She began to read, again, from the beginning. She must have missed something, other than her children’s day and her husband’s love.

5
    B rand nursed a Castle Draught in the Pepper Vine bar at Hazyview. His mobile phone sat on the table in front of him, next to the copy of the Lowvelder , which had a picture of him standing over the body of the slain poacher on the front page; the shot had been taken by Keith, the South African-turned-Australian tourist.
    Hannah van Wyk walked over and changed the ashtray. ‘Cheer up, it could have been worse. The poachers could have shot you .’
    Brand raised an eyebrow. ‘At least one of them still has a job.’
    Life had thrown a lot at Hannah in her thirty-five years. She was still attractive, though she had the flinty edges of a woman used to living nearly as hard as the customers she served. He’d described her as his girlfriend when Van Rensburg had taken him in for questioning in 2010 and when he’d spoken to Hannah after the interview she’d been surprised at his use of the word. ‘I never pictured you as the boyfriend type,’ she’d said.
    ‘The same cop interviewed me today as in the murder case.’
    ‘Oh.’ He saw how she gripped the cloth tighter in her hand.
    ‘It’s OK, we didn’t talk about the old case – much – and not about you at all.’
    Hannah gave a short nod. Their relationship was over, in a sexual sense, but their secret would bind them forever, or until she let it out. Hannah had told Sannie van Rensburg when she’d called in at the bar that she had driven Hudson home from the nightclub on the evening Nandi Mnisi was murdered, and that he’d been with her all night until he’d left for the Kruger Park. It wasn’t true. Hannah had grown tired of his carousing and had driven herself home at one o’clock. Hudson had stumbled into her bed around three in the morning and been gone an hour and a half later. She had lied for him; other guides who had seen Hudson being picked up by the police at Lower Sabie had already been gossiping and SMSing their friends and word had filtered quickly to the Pepper Vine that Hudson was being questioned in relation to the murder of the prostitute. When Van Rensburg had asked her about Hudson’s whereabouts the night before, she’d told the lie to cover for him. She had told him, afterwards, that she knew he was not the sort of man to commit such a crime, but in the days that