The Magpie Trap: A Novel (36 page)

Despite being warned off, Hunter still made it his
mission to drive up to
Edison
’s Printers to conduct his on investigation. He
knew something was not right, that the police were allowing themselves to
believe a too-simple story. They wanted to
compartmentalise
, shut down, to reach a conclusion; they just
weren’t being careful enough in their route to this deduction.

He had always worked on
hunches, and he had a strong one now; he just didn’t believe that the Wardle
crew could have been as technologically-skilled as to set up a dummy network on
the night. Someone was involved who knew about the Intertel Network Shift, but
who?

           
Hunter
avoided the Security Lodge - he was still on suspension after all - and instead
concentrated on the perimeter. He wanted to cover every blade of grass on the
boundary. He knew that there would be some evidence waiting for him if he just
looked hard enough.

He wore his tough, warm
walking gear; hiking boots, a brown
cagoule
and a deerstalker hat; it was a good disguise. If he was discovered walking the
perimeter, he could simply say he was out for a walk… although he might have to
try hard to explain the evidence bags which he’d brought with him in his
rucksack.

           
Hunter
parked up by a small overgrown farm track to the side of the

He had to find
something which was out of the ordinary. Because of its close proximity to the
nearby eyesore of the print-works, his path was not a well
-travelled
one, and he knew that if he did find anything, it
would more than likely be something left by this mysterious ‘other group’ of
techno whizz-kids.

           
The
track began to descend into a thickly wooded valley, and Hunter had to hold on
to a dry stone wall in order to stay on his feet. The ground was still
saturated from the heavy rain of earlier and large amounts of muddy water
spilled over the top of his boots. He cursed as he lost his footing, and almost
fell over, but managed to rectify himself by grabbing an over-hanging tree
branch.

If the whizz kids did come this way, then they
surely wouldn’t have managed to stay on their feet either,
he thought to himself.
A man could easily twist his ankle in these kind of conditions,
especially as they would have had to do this in the dark.

           
Gradually
the track began to straighten out again, and the thick tree cover began to
thin. He realised that the track was now actually leading away from the
printers, and was instead running almost parallel to

There, on the dry stone
wall, was a long streak of blue paint, and it was fresh. A vehicle had clearly
tried to navigate the turn far too quickly and had scraped a huge wound in its
side, spilling its blue blood all over the wall.

Who would have had
needed to be driving so fast? Obviously someone was making a getaway. Jim
crouched to study the blue scar, measuring its length, height, and the exact
colour of the paint.

He removed one of the
smaller stones making up the wall, taking care not to knock the whole thing
over, and placed it carefully in one of his evidence bags. Looking up from his
task, he noted that despite the rain flushing out much of the depth of the
tyre
tracks, he could still see the route that the
vehicle had taken. He decided to follow the track still further.

           
The
track led once again into a densely wooded area; moisture retained by the trees
was now dripping steadily onto the muddy floor, making the area almost impassible.
Breathing heavily, Hunter made a beeline for a clearing in the centre of the
wood and sat down on the trunk of a gnarled, old fallen tree which had crashed
down onto the ground like a drunk at a party. He was not as fit as he used to
be, despite the fact that he’d given up the drink.

Jim loosened the laces
on his boots, trying to get rid of some of the dirty water which had collected
in them. Just as he had tipped the contents of the boot over the floor, he
noticed the second clue. There, under one of the spread-eagled limbs of the
inebriated tree, lay a pile of cigarette butts, and judging from their
condition, they hadn’t been there for long. He hastily dug out a second
evidence bag and placed them carefully inside with tweezers; there might still
be traces of
DNA
on them.

           
Hunter
could feel himself getting closer; he may have been a day or two behind the
criminals, but at least he had picked up the scent.

He was about to return
to his seat on the fallen tree when he spotted the flock of magpies at the edge
of the clearing. There must have been seven of them, and instead of being
scared of him, they simply regarded him with quizzical looks. They lent the
scene a menacing air, hopping about robotically looking for a gleam of
something to steal.

One of their number was
pecking at something on the ground, and the others kept barging in, beaks
tearing into their rival’s feathers. But this magpie was strong, and didn’t
want to lose his place at the feast; he flapped his wings in warning and
resumed tearing at the floor. It was a dead animal; a mouse or a vole, and its
head was missing. A stream of blood poured from the magpie’s beak as he
continued to pull out tasty entrails.

Hunter felt sick; he
picked up a nearby stone and threw it hard amongst the creatures, scattering
them all over. They screeched noisily at him, and for a moment, he thought they
were going to attack him, but then they just returned to the ominous quietness
as they sat in a tree and watched him leave the clearing.

This is a brutal world
, Hunter thought.
Those magpies have the same vicious mentality as the people who
conducted the heist. They have the same desperate greed which will be their
undoing
.

The Beach

The small plane
plotted its course toward the Tropic of Capricorn and the
island
of
Mauritius
, a flashing
dot on an air traffic control monitor somewhere. Most of the passengers were
cramped in together in Economy Class towards the back of the plane, but Chris,
Mark and Danny had virtually the whole of Club Class to themselves. Mark slept
for the entire duration of the flight; he didn’t wake for the in-flight meals,
nor did he wake up screaming, as Danny and Chris had feared that he might.

Danny and Chris luxuriated in the spacious leather seats, enjoying the
full attention of the hostesses. They were too energized to sleep, and loved
the fact that they were being waited on, hand-and-foot by the beautiful
Mauritian girls in the flight crew. Enjoying another round of gin and tonics,
they continued their excited whispering, plotting conversation free from fear
that Mark might overhear.

‘He doesn’t know you got the Precisioner, chief,’ said Danny, stifling a
giggle. He was drunk again and it felt good. It helped carry the weight which
was pressing down on his shoulders

‘You’re saying we leave him out altogether?’ asked Chris. He looked at
Danny with a quizzical expression, head cocked to one side like a bird.

‘What I’m saying is that he has gone off the rails mate. You saw him
when we dropped the van off in Harehills… He sounds as though he’s going to
have a nervous breakdown…’

Danny tore at the napkin which had been given to him with his drink,
compulsively folding it into concertina shapes and then ripping off small
squares which he sprinkled onto the carpeted plane floor.

‘Well, you know how easily persuaded I am. I say that we do it. Do you
have a plan?’ Chris leaned over the arm-rest, greed shining through his tired
eyes.

‘Yes I do. We can’t afford to have him around us any more. He’ll bring
us down. We have to be allowed to enjoy this. I’m sorry that he had to do what
he did, but nobody forced him to be involved. Leave it with me, cock. I’ll sort
it.’

Danny settled back into his leather chair, feeling relief spread over him.
He would now, finally, let sleep come. When he awoke, he would be in paradise.

The plane began
to descend at
midday
, Mauritian
time. Sweeping low over the coastline, they were afforded a marvellous view of
the coral reef surrounding the island, and from the starboard side they could
see the awe-inspiring mountains of the inland region, complete with the famous
gushing waterfalls.

Feeling the anticipation of adventure upon them, Chris and Danny almost
ran off the plane as soon as it touched down. They were met by the noisy buzz
and frenzied heat of a new country as soon as they stepped out of the plane
door.
 
The heat played hazy patterns on
the melting tarmac, shimmering puddles of petrol looked like rainbow oases.
Flanking the runway on both sides were row upon row of tall sugar cane plants.

Mark stared at this utterly foreign place and felt nothing but
trepidation. After they descended the rickety steps which were loosely attached
to the plane once it had landed, they were herded into a waiting frail minibus
which drove them towards the main terminal building. They were wedged into the
loose flesh of a sweaty group of wearied travellers; the masses from the rear
of the plane. Within the bus, a heady concoction of the smells of a night being
uncomfortably cramped into too-small seats, eating slop for food and irritable
bowels began to choke their initial optimism.

But as Chris and Danny finally walked through passport control, their
excitement returned. Mark lagged behind, still trying to rub away the claggy
build-up of sleep in his eyes and shake off his exhaustion. He could not share
his companions’ enthusiasm; waking to that same dread feeling that it had not
all been a dream, had winded him. He found it hard to control his breathing in
the intense thirty degree heat.

The trio waited in line to hail a cab to
Port Louis
, the island’s
capital city.
Port Louis
was not far
from the airport but they had their heavy bags to contend with. There seemed to
be neither rhyme nor reason to the queuing system, however it was finally their
turn when a sleek, black, fully air-conditioned four-by-four vehicle pulled
into the parking bay in front of them; it seemed that these vehicles were
reserved for tourists.

Inside the vehicle, it smelled faintly of disinfectant and the dead
smell of tanned leather. A small figurine was tacked to the dashboard; it
portrayed a small, fat man adorned with jewellery. Apart from the fact that the
ornament had three legs and four arms, he resembled the chubby taxi driver in
almost every respect. He had the same long straggly black beard, the same
dry-stone wall of a mouth, complete with gaping holes where his teeth should
have been, and the same cocky grin.

Having deposited their bags in the boot, the driver hoisted himself into
the front seat - no mean feat judging by his lack of height - and giving them a
cheery thumbs-up, he pulled away from the airport, whistling lightly under his
breath. They drove through a series of slum-looking villages, passing numerous
abandoned wrecks on the side of the road. The shaded windows lent the view from
the window a sepia tint; it was as though they had stepped back in time. But as
they rounded a long almost ninety degree bend, they were confronted with the
towering view of the capital city. Danny, looking out of the window, was amazed
by what he saw.

‘Have you seen this place? It’s not exactly on-its-knees poor is it?’

The skyline of the cityscape was full of slick high-rise buildings.
Western advertising hoardings lined the streets. Most of the cars on the roads
appeared to be Mercedes or BMW. As they entered the city, they realised that
the wastelands surrounding the airport had given them a rather false impression
of the place.

‘It looks like bloody
Dubai
,’ Chris
muttered, reaching into his bag to get a local guidebook which he began to leaf
through.

‘Ah, at least we’ve missed the cyclone season,’ he said, as he read the
introduction.

The driver, who had been silently listening to them discussing his
homeland turned around as they paused for what seemed like an interminable wait
at traffic lights.

‘You guys have just missed a particularly bad cyclone season,’ he began
in almost perfect English, his belly shaking with every booming word that he
said. ‘But for the rest of the summer, it’ll be hot, hot, hot! How long are you
guys over here for anyway?’

‘For a while,’ snapped Chris, annoyed at the intrusion.

‘Business or pleasure?’ queried the driver, obviously not catching the
warning tone of Chris’s voice.

‘Both mate,’ said Danny, who was doing the talking now. ‘Look, we’re
after a decent hotel for a couple of nights, and somewhere good to go drinking.
We’ve got some celebrating to do, cockeroo.’

‘Ah! Well, you’ve come to the right place. Everything’s fine for
tourists like you. You’ll be welcome everywhere. And women!’

The man had now turned completely around in his front seat and was
rubbing his hands with glee; his short legs made him look like a dwarf.
Unfortunately the lights then changed to green, and his stationary vehicle was
met by a volley of horns from the queue behind them. The driver finally sat
back down properly and continued his speech.

‘
Mauritius
is the second
richest country in the whole of
Africa
. I see you
didn’t realise we were so economically stable. We have sugar cane, which you
saw in the fields by the airport, tourism and we also have off-shore banking
here. Is that what you guys are here for?’

At ease again, Chris laughed, ‘I guess you could say that!’

‘Look,’ the man yelled at them, pointing at the small, fat figurine on
the dashboard. ‘This is Kubera, the Hindu God of Wealth. He watches over all of
the riches in the world… Any investment you make here will be safe, safe safe!’

Chris began to laugh even more, delighting the driver. He slapped his
thigh in enthusiasm and then winked across at Mark.

‘See Mark; everything will be great here, just like we told you.’

Mark had remained silent throughout the journey, and was still finding
it hard to breathe properly. His ankle was agonising now, and he felt on the
verge of passing out. He couldn’t handle the constant movement of the driver of
the four-by-four; his bouncing eagerness to tell them about his native land was
making Mark feel sick. Also, Chris and Danny’s dismissal of the events of the
past two days astounded him. Surely moving yourself to some other country does
not change the essence of what you are?

‘But you know what
Mauritius
is most famous
for?’ The man was almost shouting at them now, interrupting Mark’s ruminations.
“The dodo; this was the only place in the world in which the dodo lived! Now he
is no more, but we remember and respect him!’

Mark wished he could be extinct as well…

The taxi driver
dropped them off, bags in tow, at the beach. As Chris reached for the first of
the crumpled notes from the bag, he had a sudden wary feeling. Would there be
any suspicion about the currency? But no, the driver took the money with that
same gap-toothed smile, and repeated the information he had only just given
them.

‘I tell you. The Midas Hotel is the best hotel on the island. Hidden
away; a quiet paradise. Off the beaten track for most tourists, you find it by
walking along the beach. Beautiful beach; you have to see it to believe it. And
look out for Dodos!’

He shook Chris’s proffered hand and screeched away, still laughing
manically, looking for the next tourists he could regale with his stories.

The three men walked down a dusty path, tiredness almost clamping up
their limbs. The path was flanked by piles of litter, through which small,
feral cats dug around, looking for remnants of food. Mark just wanted to
collapse; his aching bones, his ruined ankle and the insistence of the eager
sun which was beating down upon his shaven head, all beat the tune which was a
constant reminder of what he had done.

But gradually, the litter which lined the path began to disappear, and
then they were walking on fine grained sand rather than the grey dust. In the
distance, Mark could hear the lulling resonance of the sea.

Finally, they passed through an archway of palm trees and then they saw
it. A vast expanse of piercingly white sand, azure blue sea, the lush greens of
the forest; they had never seen such colour. It was as though they had lived
their entire lives in monochrome, and only now had their eyes been opened to
the true tones and textures of the world. The brushstrokes of nature’s artistry
were unequalled; no person could paint such a picture. Mark had to squint, the
sand was so bright. He looked round at Danny, who had simply flopped down on
his bag, his mouth open in awe at the scene. Meanwhile, he saw that Chris was
already running full pelt into the sea.

‘We’ve done it!’ yelled Chris. He careered through the first of the tame
waves and threw himself into the salty water. ‘We’ve done it!’

He swallowed a mouthful of the bitter sea but gurgled his refrain with
unrestrained delight. He cupped handfuls of the deep blue water and let it
trickle down onto his sweaty head.

           
Tears pricked at Mark’s eyes for
what felt like the hundredth time over the past couple of weeks. Surely such
beauty could not occur in a world in which such cruel, ugly things happened.
The crimson blood colour which thudded through his mind was far outweighed by
the immediacy of this scene, though, and he was reminded of the old postcard he
kept behind the sun-visor in his old EyeSpy Security van. It was surely this
very beach.

In a way, he felt that he deserved this one, pure moment of bliss. He
had been through so much; surely his mind deserved some rest from the pain. Would
he ever get over what he had done? Could he ever live with himself? Mark didn’t
know, but for that one moment, he was at peace.

           
Danny was now frolicking in the sea
with Chris; they were kicking great swathes of water over each other, screaming
in child-like delight. This was freedom like they had never known before;
perhaps you have to go through such hell, such dark nightmarish places, to be
able to really appreciate what freedom is. The chains of reality had been
loosened; they thought they were going to get away with it.