Ivory Nation, Andy Maslen [e manga reader .txt] 📗

of the thorny branches of acacias. Eventually they retrieved a small trove of items that could be returned to base and matched to their deceased owners.

A battered, steel-cased Timex watch with a red, white and blue woven nylon strap; the property, according to its engraved back, of Moses Haunda.

The bullet-starred back-half of a human skull that would have to be sent to a DNA lab to establish its identity.

An elephant-hair bracelet consisting of several wiry black strands with a copper ring adjuster that Eustace recognised as belonging to Virtue.

A pitted and gouged femur, the ball-joint cracked off.

A second set of ID discs that had belonged to Private Stewart ‘Stewie’ Pearce-Edwards.

Several small scraps of camouflage fabric, on one of which remained the corner of a name tape bearing the letters RTER. Acheson made this deduction for himself: Private Robert Carter.

And a handful of small pieces of bone that might have been human, or animal, all of which, along with the skull and the femur, would be analysed for DNA.

Once Acheson was sure they had enough evidence to take away from the site of the massacre, he called a halt to proceedings and gathered the men around him in a wide semi-circle.

‘I want to thank you for coming here and helping to retrieve the remains of your brothers in arms, and the brave Botswana Defence Force men whom they were training,’ he said, looking at Eustace as he mentioned the man’s slaughtered colleagues. Eustace nodded back. ‘They were doing good here, combatting an illegal trade conducted by ruthless criminals. We will hold the paras’ funerals in England and although I am sure you men,’ he nodded at the SAS contingent, ‘need to be going, I will stay for the funerals here.’

Eustace touched the colonel on the arm.

‘Excuse me, Colonel. Please may I say some words?’

‘Of course, please go ahead,’ Acheson replied.

Eustace smiled and half-turned so he was facing the semi-circle of tired men, their faces coated in a greasy mixture of sweat and red dust.

‘Moses and Virtue were my friends. We went to school together,’ he began. ‘Rob and Stewie and Stevo came to help us, thanks to the kindness and friendship of Colonel Acheson. They were my friends too, and friends to Botswana and our elephants. Please, I would like us to pray for them.’

In front of him, the troopers and soldiers bowed their heads and clasped their hands in varying attitudes of prayer. Acheson followed suit, listening as the Botswanan’s mellifluous voice soothed his burning soul, just for a minute or two.

‘Heavenly Father. Please, we beg you, shepherd into Heaven the souls of our dear friends Moses Haunda, Virtue Jonathan, Stevo Wallingham, Rob Carter and Stewie Pearce-Edwards,’ he intoned. ‘Let them always have clear water to drink, sweet honey and tender meat to eat, and the sun on their backs. Send them our love and our gratitude for laying down their lives. Tell them we will find their killers and avenge their deaths with great wrath. Amen.’

The chorus of amens floated upwards into the African sky. Acheson added a silent prayer of his own: ‘Let me be successful in finding those bastards, Lord. Amen.’

6

LONDON

Smiling beneath the skilfully applied makeup, and sweating lightly under the TV lights, Joe Tammerlane waited to be introduced by Becca Price, Wake Up, Britain!’s glamorous host.

Beneath his immaculately tailored suit, he could feel his heart thrumming with anticipation. Not anxiety, instead a heightened sense of reality. He looked at her while tuning out her excitable gabble and smiling that famous smile. He could see the downy hairs on her upper lip. The weave of the multicoloured threads in her skirt. A tremulous flutter of the skin on the side of her neck where the veins ran.

He sensed his moment was approaching. The moment when everything would change. He tuned back in.

‘Our next guest is a man who, until recently, was mainly of interest to the political commentators,’ she was saying. ‘Then, on that tragic day last week, when the nation was celebrating the latest royal wedding, he tackled the terrorist who killed poor Princess Alexandra. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Joe Tammerlane.’

The studio audience burst into what sounded to Tammerlane like genuinely spontaneous applause. A couple of the men whistled loudly, and he could see one older woman dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

He lowered the volume on his smile and composed his features into a suitably sober expression, part-acknowledgement of his unbidden heroism, part-sadness that he hadn’t been able to act in time to save the princess.

Becca turned to him. He caught the hiss as her nylon-clad legs rubbed together.

‘Joe Tammerlane. You killed the man who had just assassinated Princess Alexandra and might well have gone on to murder Thad Carty. How did you do it?’

‘Can I just say, Becca, before I answer your question, that as leader of Freedom and Fairness, I want your viewers to know that I stand with them in mourning this beautiful young woman.’

Becca nodded her head, furrowing her brow.

‘Of course. I think we all do.’

‘I know I have been vilified by parts of the mainstream media for my views on the monarchy, but at the end of the day, what we saw was the senseless murder of a young woman on her wedding day.’

‘And how did you stop her killer?’ she prompted.

‘Actually, purely by accident. I was supposed to be in the congregation as a party leader, but my train was delayed. I hoped I could reach the castle quicker by using the back roads and that’s how I happened to be running past the old fire station.’

‘And you saw the shooter?’

‘I did. I don’t know why, but I looked up as I ran past and I saw what I instantly recognised as a gun barrel sticking out of the top floor.’

‘Most people would call the police. What made you decide to tackle him yourself?’

He ran a hand over his hair and shrugged.

‘Honestly? I don’t know. I guess sometimes you just act without weighing up the risks