Excerpt of The Lion Hunter by Daniel Pembrey

Here is how The Lion Hunter starts:

He did have the look of a killer, now he’d alluded to it.

Jim Paterson was a tall man with close-cropped hair. His
physique was lean and wiry as opposed to muscular. He
still wore his green hunting vest; round the waist were
little loops for cartridges. He’d said he was from
Houston, but there was no drawl, no Texas swagger. A
neurologist, he’d mentioned.

Clearly he had money.

‘You’re here to hunt a lion,’ Andrew Riley confirmed.

Paterson smiled. ‘Was,’ he corrected Andrew. The fine
wrinkles round his eyes remained immobile. ‘I leave
tomorrow.’ His voice was deep, soft and laconic.

Andrew’s wife patted him wearily on the shoulder.
‘Darling, we leave tomorrow, too,’ Lavinia said. ‘I’m off
to bed.’

‘Wise words,’ Paterson remarked, his gaze lifting to her
face. His eyes warmed, or maybe it was the reflected
amber of his whisky catching the flecks in his irises.
The safari lodge was candlelit.

Andrew turned to smile at Lavinia but she’d already left,
her shapely rear retreating.

‘Fine creature,’ Paterson said as his mouth disappeared
into his cut-glass tumbler.

Andrew bristled at his word choice. ‘We’re on our
honeymoon,’ he said.

‘Yeah, you mentioned.’

He pretended to ignore Paterson.

It was their last night at the world-renowned Three Trees
Lodge. He was savouring the experience, just as he
savoured the aftertaste of the whisky. It was a good,
distinctive single malt. A Lagavulin, if he wasn’t
mistaken.

The stars above were brilliant. Before them, trees massed
darkly. Three Trees Lodge was famous for the tree-
climbing leopards that inhabited this end of the park.

‘All legal, of course.’

For a moment, Andrew wondered what Paterson was talking
about. His wife was a lawyer. It’s funny, he was still
getting used to calling her that. Wife. The word felt
odd, blunt. But Paterson wasn’t talking about Lavinia.

‘All the permits and paperwork are in order, in case
you’re curious,’ Paterson was saying.

Andrew recalled that he’d told the Texan he wrote for The
Times.

‘You know that lion stocks have fallen eighty per cent
across Africa in the last couple of decades?’ Andrew
said.

‘Well . . .’ Paterson was swirling his whisky, dissolving
the remaining ice, which tinkled. ‘Tens of thousands
remain, so I doubt you can attribute much of the decline
to lil’ old me.’ He made as though to leave, and smiled
again. His eyes almost did, too.

‘Did you . . . find one?’ Andrew asked.

Paterson was halfway out of his chair.

‘Yes,’ he said, sighing contentedly. ‘She really was
magnificent.’

He stood and gathered up his sunglasses and the book that
he was reading: a collection of Hemingway’s short
stories, of course. No doubt a valuable edition.

‘Goodnight,’ he said. ‘All the best for your onward
journey.’

‘Night.’

Andrew sat for a few more moments, taking in the cool
night air. There was a hum of insects, and the sound of
swishing in the undergrowth. Strange woofing noises as
well.

He could have sworn there was another man present, but he
couldn’t see anybody. Perhaps it was one of the guides,
standing guard in case one of those leopards became
adventurous or just plain hungry.

Andrew drained his whisky and returned to his room and
his wife.