The Hunter Read Online Free PDF Page A

fences, as well as big dogs, and armed response security. A sign on the street warned me that men with guns were but a call away.
    ‘Here it is, number twenty-two,’ I said. Lungile was quiet now. When we worked she was the consummate professional, not the brash party girl she was the rest of the time.
    She checked her watch. ‘It’s one thirty; the real estate agent should have packed up and left half an hour ago.’ Lungile reached into the cramped back seat of the car and grabbed the red cushion decorated with a vinyl cut-out of a rhinoceros I had bought at Mr Price that morning. She undid the single button of her jacket and then her blouse, placed the cushion against her belly, then buttoned up again.
    I indicated left and drove up the short drive to the electric gate. Its bars ended in sharp spikes at the top and these were crowned with wires promising several thousand volts of electricity. A Rhodesian ridgeback ran up to the bars and started barking.
    Fixed to the wall beside the gate was a Pam Golding real estate ‘ for sale ’ sign, with professional pictures hinting at the wonders that lay beyond the fortress walls. In the lower right corner was a mug shot of the agent selling the property. His name was Frikkie. I dialled the mobile phone number under his name and he answered. It sounded like he was in his car, on hands-free.
    Like most whites from Zimbabwe I had friends and relatives living in Australia and I’d visited the country a couple of times. I fancied I could do quite a good imitation of a South African living among the diaspora down under. ‘Frikkie, howzit , I’m outside number twenty-two, at Rosebank. I’m over here on holiday from Australia and I’m really interested in buying in this neighbourhood. My husband and I have had enough of Australia – it’s too boring and over-regulated.’
    ‘ Ag , no, but I’m sorry,’ Frikkie said, ‘I’m on my way to another house showing. The open house for number twenty-two finished at one o’clock. Can we maybe make a plan for me to meet you there tomorrow?’
    I already knew Frikkie’s schedule – it was easy to deduce from the advertised listings on the property company’s website – and he was busy for the next three hours at least. ‘Sorry, but I’ve got to fly back to Sydney this evening on the six o’clock flight. I was just out shopping with a friend of mine and we passed this place on the way. From the pictures it looks ideal. My husband told me not to leave South Africa without making an offer on something and, well, I’m worried I’ll be in trouble now, Frikkie.’
    There was a pause as he deliberated. The South African property market was flat and there was nothing like the sound of a foreign accent and the promise of overseas cash to get a real estate agent’s pulse pumping. ‘I’ll have to call the owner. Maybe the maid can let you in if she agrees.’
    ‘That would be so good of you, Frikkie.’ I gave him my mobile number and hung up. While I waited I reached out the car window and pushed the button on an intercom mounted on a pole.
    ‘Hello?’ said a voice from inside the house.
    ‘Is the madam home?’ I asked into the intercom, knowing full well she was not.
    ‘Ah, no. She is not back until five.’
    ‘We want to come inside and look at the house.’
    ‘Ah, no, it is not possible,’ said the maid, her voice distorted by the tinny speaker.
    My phone rang and Lungile winked at me. ‘ Howzit , Frikkie,’ I said, recognising the number.
    ‘Fine, and you? OK, the owner, Mrs Forsyth, says you can go inside and have a look. She’s calling the maid now.’
    I thanked him and promised I would call him back to let him know what I thought of the place.
    A woman in a brightly printed pinafore emerged from the house and walked down the long curving driveway. Her accent had sounded Zimbabwean and she looked like a Shona; it wouldn’t be unusual for Mrs Forsyth’s maid to be from the same bankrupt country as Lungile and