By the time Lesedi Motlantshe had arrived at Soil of Africa’s office, a little later than he’d predicted, the sun had worked its magic. It would be a warm day. The two men shook hands and, despite their contrasting backgrounds, Kagiso felt it would be a meeting of equals.
Much later that day, in Dubai, Josiah Motlantshe’s phone rang. He opened his eyes, and still he could see nothing. There was a moment of terror before he pulled at the sleep mask. All the pieces began to fall into place: he was in Dubai; he’d come back from the casino (those private-equity chaps loved their gambling) a couple of hours before dawn. He stared at the screen on his phone, waiting for his eyes to focus. It was a number in South Africa but not one he recognised.
‘Who is this?’ he barked, in his default disposition.
‘Hello, is this Mr Motlantshe I am speaking to?’ He recognised the Afrikaner accent. ‘Mr Josiah Motlantshe?’
‘Yes, what do you want? It’s the middle of the night.’
‘Just a moment, meneer – I mean sir. Let me put you through.’
‘Hello, hello, put me through to whom?’ It was useless: she’d already transferred the call.
‘Is this Mr Motlantshe, Mr Josiah Motlantshe?’
‘How many times do I have to tell you people? Yes, this is he. And who are you?’
‘It’s Lieutenant General Jackson Sibande, sir, from the South African Police Service in Mpumalanga.’
‘From where? Mpumalanga?’
‘Yes, sir. We have some news for you, sir, and I’m just going to pass you on to the premier, Mr Jeremiah Bekelu.’
‘For Chrissake, what the hell is going on? … Jerry? Jerry, is that you? What the hell is happening?’
‘Josiah, something bad has happened here. It’s Lesedi …’
3
It was barely seven in the morning when Lindi Seaton’s phone rang. She fumbled around the bedside table as her eyes adjusted to the neon glare of a London streetlamp streaming through the ineffectual lace curtain. It was too early for Anton Chetty, her boss at South Trust, a high-profile and well-respected organisation dedicated to conflict resolution around the world. She checked the screen – she didn’t recognise the number.
‘Lindi Seaton here.’
‘I suppose it was your idea, was it?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘It’s Clive, Clive Missenden.’
‘And how lovely to hear from you too. Silly of me not to have recognised your voice instantly.’
‘Let’s get straight to the point.’
‘You’ve already done that. What exactly is supposed to have been my idea?’
‘Come off it,’ Missenden huffed. ‘All that guff on the radio just now from your man about South Trust having warned that something like this would happen. You couldn’t resist it, could you? The poor bastard’s hardly been dead a day and you’ve got it all sorted.’
‘You’ve got a bloody nerve! Just in case it’s slipped your mind, I no longer have to listen to your shit.’
‘You’re at it again, aren’t you? Most people put two and two together and get four. Not you! You’ve gone straight to the conclusion you want, never mind the facts.’
Lindi moved the phone an inch from her ear and sighed. ‘If you want to talk to me about Lesedi Motlantshe’s murder, call me at my office.’
‘I’m just warning you.’
‘A warning. That’s official, is it?’
‘I’ve left the Foreign Office.’
‘Oh? So who’s warning me now?’
‘I’m just trying to prevent you from making another … How shall I put it? Another error of judgement. I’m trying to be helpful, that’s all.’
The needling reference to their shared past was not lost on Lindi. ‘Helpful. Is that what you call it? As in when you helped me out of my job. Piss off, Clive.’
Lindi ended the call. She wasn’t sure whom she was angrier with: Clive Missenden and whoever he was working for now, or her colleague, Anton Chetty, for not talking to her before mouthing off in front of a microphone.
Lesedi Motlantshe’s murder had made the BBC’s News at Ten the previous night, breaking news. It was only a brief mention about a member of one of South Africa’s most prominent families being found dead shortly after visiting a group campaigning for land reform. The report said South African police had launched an investigation and were questioning a number of Mozambican migrant workers. Lindi had phoned Anton straight away. They’d argued about how, even whether, South Trust should respond. He said he was sure the murder was mixed up with the land thing; she argued back, said they should wait till they had some proof. They’d agreed to talk it over in the office in the morning. Anton hadn’t said anything about having had a request for an interview. It was still too early to call him, not if she wanted any sense out of him.
And Missenden, what was he up to? His call had unsettled her, not only because of what he’d said, his ‘warning’, but because of the memories it had brought back. Lindi Seaton thought she’d left all that behind.
Missenden had been her line manager in what she now regarded as a previous life. That was in the days when she was a junior diplomat at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, a position she owed to her fast-track appointment straight out of university. Because of her family’s links to South Africa, Lindi had been asked to prepare a draft paper on what South Africa might look like post-Nelson Mandela. Among other things, her report contained the memorable, if dramatic, assessment that if land ownership became an issue, the ensuing agitation would ‘make what happened in Zimbabwe look like a picnic’.
She’d argued that apartheid’s legacy of white ownership might be eclipsed by the more recent land purchases: everyone from Gulf sheikhs, Chinese government agencies and private-equity magnates, many of them based in London, had been at it. Whether justified or not, she’d said the British government would be dragged into the affair, held responsible for the actions of ‘land-grabbers’ based in its own jurisdiction.
It had taken Missenden all of a couple of minutes to give his verdict on Lindi’s report. ‘Shrill’ – that was how he’d described it. In the following weeks, what was supposed to be a draft for Missenden’s eyes became a water-cooler topic in the Africa department. The general assessment among her colleagues, doubtless egged on by Missenden, was that, despite her impeccable credentials – starting with a degree from an ancient university – she had, somehow, missed the point. In an era when the prime purpose of British missions abroad was to boost trade and investment, her report was deemed wrongheaded and unhelpful. A transfer to an unspecified role in HR followed. Some months later she walked out of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, carrying few reminders of her brief career in diplomacy and her self-confidence in tatters.
So now, despite her perennial irritation over Anton’s impetuosity, she rather hoped he was right. It had been a long time coming but she savoured the thought of an I-told-you-so moment. It would be in stark contrast to her prevailing mood since leaving the British diplomatic service – a dead weight of regret at having failed to stand her ground and fight. Her failure to do so had played into a private and punishing evaluation of her own worth.
It was a self-deprecating assessment at odds with how others perceived her. Lindi Seaton stood out from the crowd. If you met her once, you were unlikely to forget her: it was the intensity with which she seemed to relate to other people.