As he came level with the fence surrounding Chetti Singh's property, two dark shapes detached themselves from the shadows and hurled themselves against the wire mesh. German Rottweilers, Daniel noted, as the two guard dogs clamoured for his blood. My least favourite animals, after the hyena. On the other side of the fence, they kept pace with him as he followed the sidewalk to the end of the property.
As he passed the gates at the entrance to the driveway he noted that the padlock on the chain was of simple construction.
Two minutes' work with a paper-clip.
He left the two Rottweilers staring after him hungrily and turned the corner into an unlit side street. From his pocket he brought out the packet of doped minced meat and divided it into two equal portions.
Then he walked back the way he had come. The dogs were waiting for him. He tossed a portion of the meat over the fence and one of the dogs sniffed it and then gulped it down. Then he threw the second portion to the other dog and watched while it was devoured.
He returned to the Volkswagen and drove back into town.
He parked a block away from the supermarket. Still sitting in the front seat, he lit the ends of the mosquito coils protruding from the packet of match heads. He blew on them gently to make sure they were burning evenly, then left the Volkswagen and sauntered down the alley behind the supermarket.
It was dark and deserted. With barely a check in his stride, he dropped the incendiary bomb into one of the cardboard cartons that made up the pile of rubbish and sauntered out of the alley.
Back in the Volkswagen he checked the time; it was a few minutes before ten o'clock. He drove back and parked three blocks away from Chetti Singh's home. He pulled on the black leather gloves. From under the driver's seat he brought out the twelve-gauge shotgun still wrapped in its sheet of light tarpaulin. He broke down the weapon into its three component parts and wiped them down meticulously, made certain there were no fingerprints. Then he refitted the forestock to the double barrels.
When he stepped out of the Volkswagen he slipped the barrels down one leg of his trousers, while the breech and buttstock section he tucked under his leather jacket.
The barrels in his pants hampered his gait, but it was better to lien a little than parade fully armed through the streets. He had no idea how often the police patrolled this area. He checked his pockets to make sure that he had the spare cartridges and Chawe's warehouse keys.
Then he limped on one stiff leg towards the Sikh's home.
There were no guard dogs to greet him when he reached the corner fence of the property, and neither of them appeared even when he whistled softly for them. The dosage of the drug he had given them might have put them out for good and all. At the gates to the driveway it took him even less than the two minutes he had estimated to deal with the padlock. He left the gates wide open and moved quietly across the lawns, avoiding the crunching gravel of the driveway.
Daniel was prepared for a challenge from a night-watchman; even though Malawi was not as lawless and uncontrolled as Zambia there might have been a guard. However, Chetti Singh seemed to place more faith in animals than in humans.
No challenge came, and from the shelter of a spreading bougainvillaea arbour he surveyed the main house. It was in low ranch-house style with large picture windows, most of which were curtained and lit.
Occasionally he saw the shadows of the occupants flit across the curtains and he could distinguish between the silhouettes of Mama Singh and her more sylphlike daughters.
The double garage was attached to the main house. One of the doors stood open and through it he made out the gleaming chrome work of the Cadillac.
Chetti Singh was at home.
Still standing in shadow, Daniel reassembled the shotgun and slipped two cartridges into the breeches. At close range they would almost cut a man in half. He closed the action, and set the safety-catch.
Turning the dial of his wristwatch to catch the light from the windows he read the luminous numerals. In something under twenty minutes, depending on the burning rate of the mosquito coils, the packet of match beads would explode into bright phosphorous flame. The garbage pile should burn with a heavy outpouring of smoke and within seconds the fire alarms would detect it.
Daniel moved quickly across the open lawn, watching the windows of the house. The gravel crunched lightly under his feet and then he was into the garage. He tensed for any outcry, and when none came he checked the doors of the Cadillac.
They were all locked.
In the garage wall nearest the driver's side of the Cadillac there was a door that obviously connected with the main house. Chetti Singh would have to come through that.
He probably had another fifteen minutes before the fire alarm was reported and Chetti Singh came rushing into the garage to drive to the scene of the fire. It was a long time for Daniel to wait, and he tried to put from his mind any consideration of the morality of what he was about to do.
Killing Chawe had been an act of self-defence, but Daniel had killed deliberately before, during the bush war. However, he had never derived any pleasure or satisfaction from it, as some of the others had done.
Even though it had been his duty as a soldier, the sickening guilt and remorse after each episode had built. up slowly within him. That guilt had contributed overwhelmingly to the final revulsion and rejection of the whole ethic of the war which had led him to join the Alpha group.
Yet here he was preparing to kill again, in a much more cold blooded and calculating manner. Those other nameless victims that he had left as blood-soaked bundles lying in the battlescorched veld had been patriots too, in their own light, brave black men, almost certainly braver than he, who had been prepared to die for their own vision of freedom and justice. In the end they had succeeded where he had failed. Even though long dead, their vision still burned brightly where his had dimmed and faded away. The Rhodesia he had fought for no longer existed. For him those long-ago killings had been an obscene ritual, without passion and, he now realised, without morality.
On the other hand, could he justify what he was about to do by the memory of Johnny Nzou? Could he convince himself of the justice of it, become executioner when no judge had passed sentence? Was there enough angry fire in his belly to carry it through?
Then he remembered Mavis Nzou and her children, and the fire burned up brightly. He knew he could not turn away from it. He had to do it.
He knew he would be sick with guilt after the fire of his anger had turned to cold grey ash, but he had to do it.
Somewhere in the house beyond the door he heard a telephone ring.
Daniel stirred, shaking himself like a spaniel coming from the water on to the bank, throwing off the doubts and uncertainty. He tightened his grip on the stock of the shotgun and lifted it to high port.
There were hurried footsteps beyond the door, the lock turned and then it was thrown open. A man came through. The light was behind him and for a moment Daniel did not recognize Chetti Singh without his turban. He stooped beside the Cadillac.
His keys tinkled as he searched for the lock, and cursed softly when he could not find it and turned back to the light switch on the wall.
Light flooded the garage.
Chetti Singh was bare-headed. His long, never-trimmed hair and beard twisted up into a top-knot on his head were lightly streaked with grey.
His back was still half-turned to Daniel as he fingered the bunch of keys, and then thrust one of them into the Cadillac's door lock.
Daniel stepped up behind him and poked the muzzle of the shotgun into his back. Don't do anything heroic, Mr. Singh. Mr. Purdey is looking down your spine. Chetti Singh's body froze, but his head swivelled slowly until he was gawking at Daniel over one shoulder.