Murder on the Safari Star Read online

  ‘You’ve made a friend.’ The boy laughed.

  ‘What is she?’ Hal stared at Chipo as she gnawed at the nuts. ‘A meerkat?’

  ‘A yellow mongoose.’

  ‘She’s cool.’ He looked up. ‘I’m Hal, by the way.’

  ‘I’m Winston.’ Chipo snatched the last nut from Hal and jumped back on to Winston’s shoulders. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘England,’ said Hal. ‘I’m travelling with my uncle on the Safari Star.’

  ‘Were you drawing?’ Winston nodded at Hal’s sketch pad.

  ‘Yeah, I draw trains mostly.’ Hal showed his sketches from the sheds. ‘But on this journey, I’m going to draw animals too.’ He flipped to the page with the moody porcupine.

  ‘It needs a face!’ Winston laughed.

  ‘It didn’t want to sit still.’

  ‘Chipo will sit still if you give her more nuts.’

  As if she disagreed, Chipo leaped off Winston’s shoulder and scampered away into the trees.

  ‘Not again!’ Winston said, exasperated. ‘Mama said I could bring her on the train if I kept her under control.’ He hurried after her and Hal followed him. ‘Chipo, come back here! Mongooses usually live in packs and she thinks she’s the leader of ours.’

  Hal was pleased they were coming on the train. ‘Is your mum a passenger?’

  ‘She’s the safari guide.’ Winston peered through the bushes towards some old sidings. ‘She knows everything there is to know about animals in South Africa and Zimbabwe – she’s a zoologist. This is the first time I’ve been allowed to come on the train. Normally I have to stay at home with Pa. I’ve promised to be helpful – run errands, stuff like that. I really want to see Victoria Falls. Mama made me bring my schoolwork with me.’ Winston pulled a face.

  ‘Look, there she is.’ Hal pointed at Chipo who was a few metres away beside a tree, standing on her hind legs, sniffing the air. Her ears went flat. Darting across the ground, she leaped and caught a damselfly between her paws, which she stuffed in her mouth.

  Winston put his lips together and made a squeaking noise. He made to move through the bushes towards Chipo, who ran towards him, but he froze, then drew back. ‘Oh no! There’s Mr Ackerman,’ he hissed. ‘Mama told me to keep Chipo out of his way.’ Winston grabbed the yellow mongoose and hugged her to his chest. ‘C’mon, let’s go.’

  Intending to follow, Hal glanced over his shoulder. Luther Ackerman was speaking in hushed tones to a short, sallow man in a khaki shirt and trousers. His shoulders were hunched, his head low and secretive. Hal put his charcoal to a page in his sketchbook, as the other man nodded, passing Mr Ackerman a roll of money held by a silver clip that glinted in the sun. Goose bumps rose all over Hal’s body.

  Creeping away, he knew with chilling certainty that he’d witnessed something he wasn’t supposed to see. His heart was pounding. There was a case aboard the Safari Star, and he was going to solve it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  COME DIE WITH ME

  ‘Winston!’ Hal ran to catch up with him. He lowered his voice. ‘I just saw something suspicious.’ He described Luther Ackerman taking the roll of money.

  ‘It’s not wrong to give someone money.’ Winston frowned.

  ‘It was a lot of money, and they were hiding in the trees.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say they were hiding, exactly . . .’

  ‘Look, I drew this quick sketch.’ Hal showed him his sketchbook, hoping the picture would convince him. ‘Mr Ackerman is being paid money.’

  ‘You’re really good, to draw something so accurate so quickly.’ Winton nodded at the picture. ‘I suppose they do look suspicious,’ he admitted. ‘But so what?’

  ‘What if they’re committing a crime?’

  Winston narrowed his eyes. ‘A crime?’

  ‘There’s something very mysterious about this.’ Hal leaned towards Winston, saying in a hushed voice, ‘I’ve learned to spot strange behaviour, working on previous cases . . .’

  ‘Oh! I get it.’ Winston hunched his shoulders and leaned in, mirroring Hal. Shooting a look over each shoulder, he put on a gravelly voice and said, ‘You want to play cops and robbers?’

  ‘No.’ Hal straightened up. ‘I’m a detective.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ Winston said in his gravelly voice. ‘We’ll both be detectives, or –’ he scowled – ‘shall I be the bad guy? Chipo can be my henchman.’

  ‘No.’ Hal was getting impatient. ‘You don’t understand. I’m a real detective. I’ve solved two cases in the last seven months, a jewel theft and a kidnapping.’

  Winston crossed his arms. ‘Are you being serious?’

  ‘Deadly,’ Hal said, but he could see Winston wasn’t convinced.

  As they walked back to the station, Hal told Winston about catching the thief on the Highland Falcon and solving the kidnapping on the California Comet. ‘And now I’ve a hunch that Mr Ackerman is up to something,’ Hal said, ‘and I’m going to find out what it is. Do you want to help me?’

  ‘Um . . . I don’t think so.’ Winston shook his head. ‘Mr Ackerman is Mama’s boss, and she said I wasn’t to annoy him, so . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve wanted to do this safari for ages. It’s taken me months to persuade Ma to let me come. I don’t want to mess it up.’

  ‘Don’t you care if your mum’s working for a criminal?’

  ‘You don’t know Mr Ackerman’s a criminal, and I’d rather stay out of trouble.’ Winston stroked Chipo’s head and glanced towards the platform. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I said I’d help the porters load the bags. See you on board the train.’

  Taken aback by Winston’s lack of interest in having an adventure, Hal hurried across the tracks to tell his uncle about Mr Ackerman. When he arrived on the platform, passengers were emerging from French doors, plucking canapés from silver platters held by smartly dressed attendants, chattering about the arrival of the Safari Star. Hal spotted Uncle Nat sitting at a table. He was deep in conversation with a short, ruddy man sporting a sandy moustache. The man had thinning hair combed across his head, and the deep grooves across his forehead gave the impression of a life spent thinking. As if sensing Hal’s approach, both men turned their heads and his uncle smiled.

  ‘Hal! There you are. Come and meet my old friend, Detective Erik Lovejoy. I’ve just discovered that he’ll be joining us on the Safari Star.’

  ‘Detective?’ Hal felt a jolt.

  ‘Retired now,’ said Erik with a modest smile. ‘Thankfully.’

  ‘Did you finish your drawing of the station?’ Uncle Nat asked.

  Hal nodded, suddenly self-conscious in front of Erik Lovejoy, whose green eyes were bright and his stare penetrating. ‘You two are friends?’ he asked, sitting down.

  ‘Your uncle makes friends everywhere he goes,’ replied Lovejoy approvingly.

  ‘I met Erik almost ten years ago,’ Uncle Nat said. ‘I got into a spot of bother travelling through Johannesburg. I was mistaken for someone else, and thought I’d mislaid my passport, but it transpired it’d been stolen. Could have been a disaster, but Erik came to my rescue.’ He smiled at the detective. ‘And we discovered we were both rail enthusiasts.’

  ‘We were just admiring the Dolly,’ Erik said, nodding his head at a rusting locomotive in a siding across the tracks.

  ‘19D Class,’ Uncle Nat said.

  ‘Built in the 1940s.’ Erik wrinkled his nose as if he could smell freshly baked bread, and sighed. ‘A Zimbabwean model with a torpedo tender.’

  ‘Marvellous.’ Uncle Nat leaned back and smiled.

  ‘Is that a British accent I hear?’ A tidal wave of tweed descended into the fourth chair at their table. A woman with curly grey hair exploding from her head smiled at them all, fanning herself with both hands, her fingers squeezed by chunky gold rings. ‘Oh, I’m exhausted. It’s so hot!’

  ‘It is warm,’ Uncle Nat agreed. ‘I’m Nathaniel Bradshaw.’

  ‘And I’m melting!’ The woman huffed out her cheeks and guffawed, making Hal smile. She waggled her eyebrows at him, delighted to get a reaction. ‘It’s this blasted tweed. I haven’t changed since I left England. Can’t get into my luggage till we’re aboard the train.’ She straightened her blouse and Hal saw a shimmer of sweat on her pink cheeks. ‘Are you all going to Victoria Falls?’

  ‘Yes, we are.’ Lovejoy held out his hand. ‘I’m Erik Lovejoy, pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Beryl Brash,’ she replied, draping her hand over his and fluttering her eyelashes. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’

  ‘Forgive my impertinence, but are you Beryl Brash the mystery novelist?’ Uncle Nat asked.

  ‘Oh yes!’ she said brightly. ‘Do you know my books?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve only read one. I think it was called . . . Come Die With Me?’

  ‘That’s right!’ Beryl Brash’s eyes bulged with excitement. ‘A murderous dinner party where every guest is dishy, and every dish has a twist!’

  ‘It was . . . yes, very . . . lots of plot.’ Uncle Nat coughed.

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ Beryl Brash beamed.

  ‘Are you writing a book about the Safari Star?’ Hal asked.

  ‘This is my nephew, Harrison.’

  ‘Hello, Harrison. I have indeed come on this journey hoping to be struck by divine inspiration. My readers demand one book from me a year, and I mustn’t let them down.’ Beryl thrust a hand to the sky. ‘The romance of an African sunset . . .’ She snapped her head to the left. ‘Steaming through wild and dangerous lands . . .’ Baring her teeth, she made her fingers into claws. ‘Surrounded by hungry lions and venomous snakes.’ She relaxed her hands and chuckled. ‘There’s bound to be a tasty mystery around here somewhere.’

  Hal suppressed a smile, knowing he’d already found it. ‘Uncle Nat writes books.’


  ‘You do?’ Beryl Brash swung round, ogling Uncle Nat.

  ‘Travel books, non-fiction.’ Uncle Nat batted the question away with his fingers. ‘I specialize in train travel.’

  ‘Are you writing about the Safari Star?’ Beryl Brash pursed her lips, unhappy about the idea of competition.

  ‘I’ll be writing a newspaper article. I have no plans to write a book.’

  ‘Good!’ Beryl seemed relieved and turned awkwardly in her chair. ‘I wonder who else is travelling with us?’

  ‘Ours is the only train leaving today,’ Erik Lovejoy said. ‘Everyone here will be on board.’ He nodded towards a couple on a double seat. They were turned towards one another, holding hands, deep in conversation, half-smiles on their lips. The woman was wearing an electric-blue knotted headwrap that matched her dress and complemented her ebony complexion. ‘That’s Portia Ramaboa. She’s a successful entrepreneur. She owns a chain of private medical clinics, bringing healthcare to remote areas. She’s a high-profile campaigner for women’s rights.’

  ‘Impressive,’ said Beryl Brash. ‘And who’s her gentleman friend?’ She leaned towards Erik. ‘Is he her lover?’

  ‘That’s Patrice Mbatha. He’s a very famous soap actor, a heart-throb, and yes –’ he paused dramatically – ‘he’s her lover.’

  Uncle Nat cleared his throat to stop himself from laughing, as Hal studied the tall, athletic black man. His hair was cropped short, and his pronounced cheekbones and dark eyes were symmetrical. Hal thought about the only other film star he’d met – her face had been perfectly balanced too.

  ‘My heart is throbbing,’ said Beryl, clapping a hand to her chest. ‘Oh, he’s too handsome. I can’t look.’ She turned away. ‘How about those two?’ She pointed her little finger at a couple strolling along the platform’s edge.

  ‘I heard Mr Ackerman greeting them,’ said Erik. ‘Their name is Sasaki. I think they’re from Japan.’

  The couple had stopped to watch an ostrich stalk across the tracks. Mr Sasaki had a calm demeanour and was wearing a tailored navy jacket with dark jeans. He walked with grace and authority. Mrs Sasaki wore a sun hat and a burgundy linen smock that hung loosely over her petite frame. She said something inaudible and rested her head on his shoulder. He put his hand to her forehead, then took her wrist and looked at his watch.

  ‘He’s a doctor,’ Hal said.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Beryl asked.

  ‘He’s taking her pulse.’

  ‘Nicely observed.’ Erik nodded and Hal felt a glow of pride. ‘Hal’s right. My guess would be a specialist surgeon. That’s an expensive watch, designer shoes. If he’s in medicine, he’s at the top of his game. And look at his hands – immaculate. Surgeons take care of their hands.’ He winked at Hal.

  ‘Oh, phooey! I’ve done doctors to death. Literally.’ Beryl closed her eyes. ‘I’ll make him an acrobat, one of those contortionists that can put their feet behind their ears and fit into tiny spaces. Yes, that would be particularly handy in a mystery novel. She can be a knife thrower.’ She pulled a notebook and pen from her jacket pocket and scribbled something down. ‘I’ll pretend they’re on the run from the circus.’

  Erik Lovejoy raised an eyebrow and glanced at Hal and Uncle Nat.

  A crashing sound made them all turn.

  A rotund man in a gaudy striped blazer and pink shirt had strutted on to the veranda, knocking over the side table that had held the drinks of Portia Ramaboa and Patrice Mbatha.

  ‘Watch where you’re putting your tables,’ he barked in an American accent to a man in a waistcoat who’d immediately appeared with a dustpan and brush to clear up the mess.

  Portia Ramaboa was on her feet, wiping at a dark stain on her dress. ‘Where are your manners?’

  Patrice Mbatha jumped up, puffing out his chest. Portia put a hand on his arm as the American’s slack pink eyelids drooped over his cold blue eyes. ‘You want a new dress, honey? I’ll buy you a new dress.’

  Portia didn’t reply. Her mouth was open in surprise. She and Patrice clearly recognized the man.

  ‘Amelia!’ He called to a pale, thin, blonde woman standing in the doorway of the old ticket office, giving instructions to a porter. He patted his leg, calling her over as you would a dog. He pointed at Portia. ‘Get the details of this lady’s dress. I’m gonna buy her a new one.’ He sniffed and turned away, walking to an empty table.

  ‘Oh-ho! I know who that is,’ said Beryl Brash under her breath.

  ‘We all know who that is,’ Erik Lovejoy muttered.

  ‘Mervyn Crosby,’ Uncle Nat said to Hal. ‘He’s a media magnate. That’s his wife, Amelia Cooper Crosby, a Texan socialite, and that must be their daughter, Nicole.’

  A bored-looking teenage girl was leaning on the door frame as if she were too tired to walk. She wore a denim skirt and white T-shirt and had long blonde curly hair.

  ‘What’s a media magnet?’ Hal asked.

  ‘Magnate,’ Beryl corrected him. ‘Someone who owns several newspapers and television companies. Mervyn Crosby’s a very powerful man.’

  ‘The way he sounds now –’ Erik was glaring at Mervyn Crosby’s broad back – ‘you’d never know he was from South Africa.’

  ‘He arrived in New York without a dime, aged eighteen, and became one of the wealthiest men in the world,’ Uncle Nat said. ‘Isn’t that how the rags-to-riches story goes?’

  Erik nodded, his expression stony. ‘He grew up in Joburg, like me. His origin story isn’t so shiny.’

  ‘His television networks are tawdry,’ Beryl Brash said, looking like she’d sucked a lemon. ‘They rejected a series based on my Detective Deirdre books. I was told Mervyn Crosby described them as old-fashioned nonsense.’ Her nostrils flared. ‘All that man’s interested in making is reality shows about weight loss and plastic surgery. He wouldn’t know a quality drama if it bit his bottom!’

  Her rant was halted by the high whistle of a steam engine.

  Hal’s heart quickened to beat in time with the chuffing pistons, and they all turned to see the Safari Star pulling into the station.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Big Five

  Coal dust peppered the air, the smell reminding Hal of his journey on the Highland Falcon. Pushing his chair back, he ran down the platform.

  The locomotive was painted forest-green, and the chimney, smokebox and running board were picked out in gold, glistening in the sunlight. Above the bright red buffer beam, a nameplate screwed to the front declared the engine’s name was Janice. It was the largest steam locomotive Hal had ever seen. Including the tender, it was the length of a swimming pool, and the height of two men. He had his sketchbook and charcoal out in a second, drawing a circle within a circle, a handle in the centre. Either side, like an upturned collar framing Janice’s circular face, he drew the tall dark streamlining sheets.

  ‘She’s got a four-eight-four wheel configuration,’ he said, drawing the coupling rod that joined the wheels to the piston, as Uncle Nat came to stand beside him. ‘I’ve never seen that before.’

  ‘Janice is a South African Class 25NC. Built to haul freight through scorching desert,’ said Uncle Nat approvingly. ‘She means business.’

  ‘She’s a beauty and a beast,’ said Erik Lovejoy, joining them. ‘It’s an amazing restoration job. Mr Ackerman’s team are artists.’

  ‘Flo’s the artist,’ Uncle Nat said. ‘Mr Ackerman’s sister. She’s passionate about her locos.’

  ‘Nice of you to say so, Mr Bradshaw.’ Flo leaned out from the engine cab and waved down at them. ‘Want to climb up and have that tour of the footplate I promised you?’

  Hal snapped his sketchbook shut and bounded over to the ladder, followed by his uncle and Erik. They didn’t need to be asked twice.

  Climbing up, Hal scrambled on to the footplate and grinned at Flo. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘This is Sheila and Greg,’ Flo shouted over the hiss of the boiler.

  Sheila was a wiry woman with russet-brown skin and short hair. She wore a green polo shirt and slacks and was standing at the controls. Hal guessed she was the driver. Greg was a stocky man with leathery, olive skin. He wore the same uniform as Sheila and a grubby cap. Flo grinned. ‘Best driving team this side of the Limpopo River. Eh!’ She smacked the back of Erik’s hand as he reached out to touch the regulator. ‘Look with your eyes, not your hands. You could burn yourself.’