Chapter Two
Part Two
Part Three
The police tape looks unnatural in the lush green surrounds of the safari lodge complex. The doors are all open, now, as the forensics team come in and out, their clinical white uniforms catching the light of the sun as it burns down on the empty, parched plains. Dotted on the wooden walkways and inside the five lodges are numbered yellow markers – that’s where they found the first body, that’s where they found the second. Over there is where one of the more junior officers uncovered the first victim’s shoe. On the edge of the Limpopo river, in amongst the sticky, thick mud and the shiny-backed insects, that’s where the blood spatter was, bright and viscous. They were lucky it didn’t get washed away.
Above, a helicopter circles, the drone of it loud and relentless, a harsh man-made noise disrupting the constant hum of the cicadas. From the cockpit, you’d be able to see the whole site, in all its glory – here, the main lodge, able to sleep twelve people. At each corner, a smaller lodge, set up for one guest, alone. The four glistening plunge pools, one of which contained the missing knife, the blade of it circling lazily around the drain. The wooden walkways that connect the lodges look like a maze from this height – or an elaborate board game, designed to catch you out.
In this game, though, half the players are dead.
The forensic officer thinks this place will be shut down, now, forever haunted by the events of one hot, dreadful weekend in March. He feels the loss; it seeps from the windows of the lodges, rises up from the river, rustles with the wind through the gum trees, whispering a warning to anyone who might come near Deception Valley. Briefly, a white butterfly lands on his arm, weightless against his uniform, but just as quickly, it is gone. He stares at the patch on which it landed, remembering the imprint of its tiny limbs.
How easily beauty can be destroyed.
14th February
London
Grace
The invitation lands like a grenade on my doormat early on Friday morning: You are invited to celebrate Felicity’s 30th birthday. Date: 28th March. Place: Botswana, Southern Africa. I stare at it for a few moments; the swirly, smug font, the thick, expensive card it’s printed on, the way her name sits elegantly on the page. The edge of the invite is embossed with gold foil; it must have cost her a fortune. I imagine them shooting through letterboxes all over the country, pretty missiles just waiting to detonate. Her friends scooping down to pick them up, fingers slitting open envelopes, eyes running over the words. Who else will come? I think to myself, who else will be invited?
My watch beeps, signalling to me to get up even though I’m well awake now. My eyes flicker across the date – of course, Valentine’s Day. Sending out invitations to arrive today is so very Felicity that I almost want to laugh, despite the curl of anxiety percolating in my stomach. Although I haven’t seen her for almost two years, I still know Felicity inside out. At least, I think I do.
‘Grace?’
Without warning, the letterbox is rattling and I take a step backwards, heart pounding, as the front door to the flat swings open, letting in a blast of cold February air and a rush of London noise; the scream of the traffic, the faint wail of sirens, a maelstrom of voices, people going about their busy lives. My fingers clutch the invitation as I step backwards, pulling my dressing gown around me, my feet bare and freezing on the tiled floor. Someone is coming in.
‘Grace? What are you doing up?’
My flatmate Rosie is panting in front of me, and I let my breath out, relief flooding through my body as she shakes her head like a dog, sprinkling tiny droplets
