A Holiday to Die For Read online

  about the author

  Marion Leigh was born in Birmingham, England. She studied Modern Languages at the University of Oxford and worked as a volunteer in Indonesia before moving to Canada where she enjoyed a successful career as a financial translator. Then she retired to Spain to write.

  This is Marion’s third adventure thriller featuring Marine Unit Sergeant Petra Minx of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. The Politician’s Daughter, set in Spain and Morocco, was published in 2011; Dead Man’s Legacy, which takes Petra from the Bahamas to the Great Lakes, was published in 2015.

  Marion divides her time between Europe and North America. She loves boating and living close to the water. To learn more about Marion, visit www.marionleigh.com.

  a holiday

  to die for

  marion leigh

  Copyright © 2018 Marion Leigh

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire, LE8 0RX, UK

  Tel: (+44) 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 9781789011524

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd.

  This book is for Peter

  who opened my eyes to the beauty of Southern Africa

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements and Author’s Note

  By the same author

  Prologue

  Henny watched the girls from a discreet distance as they approached: giggling, unsuspecting, luscious in their ripe young bodies, just waiting to be picked. This was the part of the game he enjoyed most. In the off-season, when he was back in Port Nolloth with his fishing and diving buddies, he could fantasize about it to his heart’s content.

  The Master called it fishing with a difference. He’d got it all worked out. Take your time. Go where the fish are – the airport, the Waterfront, the line-up for the cable car at Table Mountain. Be patient. Wait for the young, fair-skinned, good-looking, unaccompanied ones. Check out their clothing, bags and electronic equipment. No bottom feeders and no princesses. When you’ve spotted what you want, use a variety of lures. Catch ’em but don’t get caught.

  Two more. That’s all Henny needed to complete his group. He moved out of the shadows and ran a hand through his blonded hair. The Mohawk fade along with the black rock band T and tight jeans pulled them every time. Holding out his flyers, he smiled in a tough but you-know-I’ll-be-good-to-you kind of way, the way he had been taught.

  ‘Welcome to Cape Town. Care to sample the real Africa?’

  Chapter

  1

  Marine Unit Sergeant Petra Minx folded the printout she had been studying, slipped it into her bag and pushed the bag under the seat in front of her. In a few minutes, they would be landing in Cape Town. Carlo, her friend from Italy who worked for Interpol, would be waiting at the airport to meet her. In a moment of what she now thought of as madness, she had agreed to accompany him to his cousin’s wedding. At the time it had seemed like a good idea – the chance of a lifetime to go to South Africa with someone who knew the country. But weddings were not her favourite thing. They reminded her that she was heading for 30, had no significant other, and while she didn’t particularly want one, her mother was beginning to drop hints.

  Carlo had warned her that his uncle, Tony Broselli, had remarried some ten years ago, not long after the death of his first wife. The “new” wife was, as he put it, a blonde princess from Johannesburg whose family owned a biscuit factory, among other things. Along with the factory, Sandrine had brought a teenage son named Florian who was almost the same age as his stepsister, Tony’s daughter Julia. It was Julia who was getting married in the style Sandrine dictated.

  Petra shuddered as she ran through the timetable for the next few days in her head. Everything had been planned down to the last detail. She wouldn’t have a minute to herself. As a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, she was used to regimentation and didn’t object to it in her professional life. Being told what to do, sent on special missions, shipped out on a moment’s notice was fine when she was working. Vacations were a different matter.

  Then there was the problem of Carlo. She had known him since her teenage years. He was one of the trio of young men she had hung out with during summer holidays in Italy with her mother’s Italian relatives. Carlo, Romeo and Ben. Ben had gone to Australia, Romeo had gone … to heaven, her mother had said when she heard about the motorcycle accident that had killed him. Had her mother known what was going on, she might well have come t
o a different conclusion, Petra thought wryly. She had planned to marry Romeo as soon as she turned eighteen, but his death had shattered those dreams.

  Petra shook her head and leaned towards her neighbour to catch a glimpse of Table Mountain. Cloud lay on the top like a clean white cloth. As she watched, it began to roll wispily down the side forming a lacy edge like a bridal veil. It had taken her years to get over the disappointment and a life dedicated to law enforcement to put things into perspective. Now here she was, attending a wedding with Romeo’s best mate. Madness indeed!

  After the overnight flight from London, passengers were keen to deplane and it wasn’t long before Petra found herself wheeling her animal-print weekender towards passport control. Ahead of her she noticed two giggling girls, barely old enough to be out of school, wearing fancy tops, leggings and metallic sneakers. One after the other, they were cleared for entry into South Africa.

  Petra was next in line. She approached the desk and waited while the Immigration Officer scrutinized her passport. Unconsciously she felt for the black and silver cross that she normally wore. Tom Gilmore, RCMP Liaison Officer in London, had advised her not to take expensive jewellery to South Africa and cautioned her that despite outward appearances and some improvement the country was still a violent place.

  ‘Don’t flaunt it,’ he had said more than once during the hours she spent with him.

  When she had told him she was breaking her journey in London, he had insisted on meeting her, driving her to her sister’s house, and taking her back to the airport next day.

  Petra smiled as she remembered the first time they met: how he had surprised her in the bathroom at Dolphin Square, drying herself after a long hot shower. She had turned on him in fury and swept his glasses to the floor with her towel. How long ago had it been? Two years? Three years? Whatever. After that inauspicious start, they had worked well together on the Mortlake case and become firm friends.

  The Immigration Officer gave Petra a quizzical look. She realized he was waiting for an answer to his question and felt her usually pale face flush with blood. She realized too that there was nothing round her neck.

  ‘I’m going to a wedding, then on safari,’ she managed.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said, fixing his dark eyes on her chest. ‘Enjoy your stay.’

  By some miracle, Petra’s soft-sided suitcase had made it to Cape Town without apparent damage. One of the giggling girls had not been so lucky. The zip on her sports bag had broken. The girl shrugged and stuffed a mass of clothing back inside.

  Petra followed the signs through Customs to the exit and eagerly scanned the waiting crowd. Despite her misgivings, she was looking forward to seeing Carlo. His smile was catching and his eyes – “bedroom eyes” someone had once called them – sparkled with humour. Where was he? She scanned the crowd again, more slowly. Plenty of good-looking men, but no Carlo. And no one holding up a card with her name on it.

  She began to push her trolley towards the main exit, wondering if he was waiting outside. The two girls she had noticed earlier were a little way in front, giggling again. She hoped someone was meeting them. They looked much too young to be on their own in a strange city such a long way from home.

  When she reached the main exit doors, Petra stopped. There was still no sign of Carlo. Frowning, she steered her trolley to one side and parked it next to a bench. She pulled out the itinerary the Brosellis had provided and the smart phone Tom had given her. Thank God he had insisted she bring it.

  ‘Just in case,’ he had said. ‘If you have any problems, use it. It’ll work.’ No issue there, but his next words had thrown her completely off balance. ‘The boss is worried about you – he wouldn’t want to lose one of his best investigators.’

  Had Tom guessed that she had started to think about leaving the RCMP? Worse, had A.K. guessed? She loved her job but A.K. was a frustrating boss. He withheld information and seemed to take her for granted. When she had asked him for three weeks’ holiday in order to make the trip to Africa worthwhile, there had been an initial silence. Then, in his customary gruff voice, he had said ‘Fine’. No more, no less.

  A feeling that she was being watched made Petra look up. Across the hall, a skinny guy in black jodhpur jeans and a black T-shirt with some sort of image on the front was leaning on a pillar. Even from a distance, she could tell he was assessing her.

  She stared back. Mohawk-style fair hair with shaved sides, square chin no doubt covered in stubble, broadish nose. After a minute or two, he turned away and walked off with what appeared to be a slight limp. Petra kept her eyes on him until he disappeared from view then filed his face in her new “Africa” memory folder. She would know him if she saw him again.

  She glanced at her watch. ‘Bugger Carlo,’ she muttered, using the same kind of language her RCMP partner Ed would have used. There was no point hanging about any longer. She fired off two texts, one to Tom to say she had arrived safely and one to Carlo asking where the hell he was.

  Twenty minutes later she was racing along the N2 in a licensed taxi whose driver clearly didn’t know what a licence was. Dwellings lined the highway on both sides: on the left, acres of miserable shacks thrown together from scraps of wood, metal, cardboard, anything that might offer some protection from the elements; on the right, row after row of concrete cubes. These were a cut above the shacks. They might have electricity and running water. The shanties had communal taps, shared outside toilets and overhead floodlights. An ominous sign hung above the road: ‘High Crime Area. Do not stop at night’. But the most striking thing, apart from the litter, was the sheer number of satellite dishes on the meanest of roofs.

  Chapter

  2

  Petra left the Waterside Hotel with a spring in her step and a determination not to worry about Carlo. After a wonderful hot shower and four hours’ sleep, she was ready to enjoy whatever the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront had to offer. The map showed a vast area of historic buildings, modern apartments, luxury hotels, shops and restaurants set around Cape Town’s working harbour. There was entertainment to suit every taste – museums, markets, an amphitheatre, an aquarium, even a croquet lawn – and most inviting from Petra’s point of view, boat basins and docks.

  She set off quickly, keen to begin exploring before evening fell. Against the dramatic backdrop of Table Mountain, Capetonians of all hues mingled with tourists from around the world. The hustle and bustle reminded her of the Toronto waterfront on a summer’s day, yet she didn’t feel quite as comfortable.

  Mindful of Tom’s warnings, she slung the shoulder strap of her bag over her head and across her chest. She made sure the bag was in front of her where she could see it and checked that the zip was firmly done up. Elementary precautions she told herself, as she battled her way through a tour group. The women were in saris, the men in jeans and the children all over the place. Perfect cover for pickpockets.

  It was approaching six o’clock. The sun began to sink slowly towards the horizon, spreading tendrils of orange and purple across the sky. Petra pulled out her camera. Just as she was taking the picture, someone walked in front of her.

  ‘Shit,’ she said before she could stop herself.

  ‘Sorree.’

  Another voice chimed in. ‘We were admiring the sunset.’

  Two girls. The same two she had seen at the airport. At close range, they looked very alike, except for their hair colour: one fair, one reddish. Probably natural.

  ‘So was I. Didn’t you just arrive from London?’

  ‘Yes. Me and Hilary are travelling together.’

  Petra winced.

  ‘I’m Megan,’ continued the red-head. ‘Isn’t it awesome?’

  Indeed it is, Petra thought, then relented. They were kids. ‘What are you doing in South Africa? Are you staying long in Cape Town?’

  ‘This is our gap year. We left school last July and are going to Uni in Septe
mber, but for now we’re travelling. We made loads of money sorting the Christmas mail in Colchester, then as chalet girls in Switzerland.’

  ‘Chalet girls?’

  Hilary took up the baton. ‘Yes, cooking and cleaning at a ski chalet. It’s fun and the pay’s good if you include the tips. The only snag is if you get a bunch of guys who think the all-inclusive includes sex too.’

  ‘Did you have that problem?’

  ‘Nao! Me and Megan know how to deal with that kind of thing, don’t we, Megan?’

  Petra winced again. ‘What are your plans now?’ They still looked too young to be out on their own.

  ‘Sightseeing, whale-watching, chilling on the beach … then we’re going to volunteer …’

  ‘Yes,’ Megan interrupted Hilary. ‘You can go to the Kruger Primate Sanctuary or there’s a place in Plettenberg Bay where you can learn about Orca Conservation …’

  ‘It sounds as though you’ll have a whale of a time!’

  Megan and Hilary grinned at Petra’s deliberate pun. ‘We will,’ they chorused.

  ‘Just be careful,’ Petra couldn’t help adding. ‘Not everything’s always what it seems. If you need anything, I’m staying at the Waterside Hotel. My name’s Petra … Minx, Petra Minx.’

  Once the sun set, the sky darkened quickly. Henny watched Megan and Hilary walk away from the older girl, the one with the wing of black hair that fell across her face. Minx, Petra Minx, staying at the Waterside, she had said. Her colouring was wrong, and she was probably too old for his purposes, but cute nevertheless. There might be something they could use her for. He chuckled as a number of possibilities occurred to him. For now, though, his focus had to be on the two teenagers.

  They were chatting happily to each other, unaware of his interest. At this point, that didn’t phase him at all. In fact, it was how it should be. He upped his pace a little as they turned into a walkway that led to the Victoria Wharf Shopping Centre. He pulled his phone out of his pocket.