Danyon Loader broke through the finishing tape and collapsed in a heap on the track. Reporters and photographers rushed around him and, looking up, Danyon couldn’t make out their faces because of the stadium floodlights. He gasped to catch his breath. His coach shoved his way through the crowd and bent over.

“You all right Danyon? That was a good run! I’m proud of you – you did it!”

He helped Danyon up, put one arm under him and carried him down the tunnel to the dressing rooms. His feet were bruised, but otherwise he was fine. He smiled at the coach.

“I did it Pete, I really did,” he said.

A few days later, Danyon was at his London flat, drinking coffee and flicking through some travel brochures. The prize money for winning the 10,000 metres, his first professional win, was sitting in the bank. He could finally afford that holiday he’d always dreamed of – a month’s safari in Tanzania.

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A week after that, he was all set. At Heathrow, he boarded his plane and, ten hours later, walked out of Dar es Salaam airport into the blinding sunshine. He took a taxi to the Holiday Inn and tried to sleep off his jet lag. He was woken by reception, who told him that his guide was waiting in the lobby. The clock said 10am.

The man waiting for him introduced himself as Ngoko and they shook hands. They had coffee together in the morning room where Ngoko laid out a map and pointed to all the best places to go and see the big five – elephant, lion, leopard, rhino and cheetah. To Danyon, all of it looked wonderful. He nodded and told Ngoko that he was in his hands. Ngoko arranged to pick Danyon up the following morning and said goodbye.

Danyon went to his room and packed his boots, a pair of ‘dusters’ to wrap around the lower legs, a thermos flask, a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of high-strength binoculars. The following morning, Danyon was ready and waiting outside the Holiday Inn as Ngoko pulled up in a dusty old car. Danyon put his stuff in the back seat next to a large rifle and got in. Ngoko was dressed completely differently, he now wore khaki from head to toe instead of the shirt and trousers he’d worn yesterday. They drove west out of Dar es Salaam and soon hit the open country. Danyon sat back enjoying the hot African sun on his back and the wind in his hair.

On the way, Ngoko explained that there were many more animals in the wild now that international laws prevented poaching. But, he said, there was the new threat of poachers kidnapping or even killing foreigners for their money or their car. That’s why he used the same old car, he said patting the steering wheel. “This old baby’s been going for years,” he said.

The next few days were bliss for Danyon. By day, they drove deeper into the savannah, watching lions, leopards and cheetahs from afar through the binoculars and taking photographs. At night, Ngoko chose a place to stay and they pitched camp, built a fire and prepared the evening meal. In their sleeping bags, Ngoko told Danyon stories about the African wilderness and Danyon listened, amazed.

ON the fifth day, they had just struck camp and driven off when the car suddenly stopped. Ngoko tried to start it again, but nothing happened. He looked at the petrol gauge and noticed they had run out of petrol. “No problem,” he said, “I have a spare can.” He got out, opened the boot and took out a jerrycan. It was empty. Ngoko looked at the can and discovered a hole in the bottom. “Oh my God,” he said.

After the initial panic, they looked at the map and calculated they were 27 kilometres from the nearest town, where there was a petrol pump. They had enough food, but there was only enough water to last one person for a day. They had planned to return to town before the day’s end to replenish their water supply. There was a moment of silence as each man thought of the alternatives. Finally, Danyon spoke.

“Look, one of us has to go to the town to get more petrol. I’m an experienced runner, so I should go. It’s that simple.”

Ngoko looked at him and swallowed. “It’s a long way,” he said.

“I know. But there’s no alternative.”

Ngoko nodded.

“I’ll take half the water in my flask and the rifle. You stay here, lock the doors and sit tight. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ngoko said.

Danyon measured out half the water and picked up the rifle. “See you in a few hours,” he said, and ran off.

As he ran, Danyon tried not to think about his predicament, or Ngoko’s. He got into a rhythm with his running, not beginning too quickly so that he could cover the distance. He’d run 27 kilometres before, but never in such a dangerous environment and never in such an unforgiving heat. This would be something to tell his grandchildren, he thought.

Two and a half hours later, he saw the town in the distance. Oh thank God, he thought. His whole body was wet with sweat, the insides of his boots, his hair, everywhere. After a few minutes, he hit the outskirts of the town and ran towards the centre. He found the garage and explained to the attendant what had happened. Soon, he was being driven towards Ngoko with two litres of petrol in a new jerrycan.

Half an hour later, they came to the car. Danyon could see Ngoko sitting inside. The windows were rolled up and, when Danyon tried the doors, he found that they were locked. Danyon looked closer and realised Ngoko was dead. There were several bullet holes in his body, but no powder marks, indicating that he had been shot from a distance of at least three or four metres. The car was untouched and there was no sign of forced entry.

If all the windows were up and the doors locked, and there were no bullet holes in the car or signs of forced entry, how had Ngoko been shot?

 

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