Stolen Lives (18 page)

Naisha was standing in his way, her fingers curled round the white-painted metal bars. He waited for her to move, but she didn’t. Instead, she looked him in the eye and asked him a simple question.

“How’s Jade?” Her voice sounded slightly strained.

He flinched, as if she’d slapped him. He couldn’t help it. He blinked rapidly, trying to absorb the impact of this bombshell. Bloody hell. How did she know about Jade? He hadn’t said a word about their relationship, hadn’t wanted her to know; hadn’t felt ready to discuss that issue until he’d sorted his head out.

On the other hand, Naisha wasn’t stupid. If she had wanted to know if he was involved with anybody, there were a hundred ways she could have found out, and she’d clearly chosen one of them.

“I—er … ” His voice tailed off as he felt sweat dampen his armpits.

Naisha spoke again, gently.

“I’m not a fool, David.”

“Of course you’re not, I know that.”

“This arrangement we have.” She swept her arm towards the inside of the house. “It can’t carry on like this forever.”

“No, it can’t.”

“You’re going to have to make a choice.” Her voice was gentle, but her eyes had the intensity of laser-beams. “And sooner, rather than later, I think.”

Then Naisha stepped aside and allowed David to make his way down to his car, his stride automatic, his mind whirling in confusion.

21

David was dog-tired. He’d worked until after ten p.m. every night that week. Even so, going back to work was far better than going home to the empty house in Turffontein, to choose a packet of instant noodles from the three that were left in the cupboard, or buy yet another takeaway burger to be wolfed down in front of the television. And he knew he’d end up washing the taste away with one of the Black Label beers that were the sole inhabitants of his fridge right now.

He wasn’t an alcoholic—two beers were just about his limit at the best of times—but if Naisha saw the contents of his fridge, he knew she’d freak out big-time and spend the next hour explaining to him, in no uncertain terms, why he was a sloppy male pig and a bad role model for Kevin.

Tonight, he’d work until nine, he decided, and then go home via the Engen garage shop. Buy a couple of pies for supper; that would make a change from burgers. And perhaps a box of cereal and a carton of milk for breakfast.

He removed a file from the cabinet and sat down at his tidy desk. Before he’d had time to do more than jot his first note in the margins of the first page, the phone rang.

Frowning because it had interrupted his train of thought, David grabbed the receiver. “Patel speaking,” he snapped.

There was a pause and a tell-tale click. Then he heard a tinny male voice with a British accent.

“Good afternoon. This is Detective Inspector Richards from the Human Trafficking department in Scotland Yard. I wonder if you could put me through to Superintendent Van Zyl, please, if he’s there.” He pronounced “van” as if it were the car and “Zyl” as if it were the start of “xylophone”.

“I’m sorry, but Van Zyl emigrated to New Zealand in July.”

“Ah. Did he, now?” A short pause. “Come to think of it, I remember him saying something about that last time we spoke. Are you by any chance his replacement?”

“Yes, I am. Superintendent David Patel.”

“Well, Superintendent, it’s good to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise. How can I help?”

“I’m ringing because we’ve got a letter of request on the way to your department, so I thought I’d give you a quick heads-up on it.”

This sounded interesting. David had dealt with those letters on a few occasions. They represented an official request for police assistance with an international investigation. The couple of times that he’d needed to send them off himself, he’d also discovered it was wiser to call ahead first.

“What’s it about?”

“We’ve just identified a fugitive who’s fled to South Africa, and we need your help in locating her.”

“Right. Who is she?”

“Name’s Ms Mathilde Dupont, a French national. She resisted arrest during a brothel raid in Leyton, and ended up injuring two of our officers rather seriously, so we’ve got a warrant out for her now.”

“Right,” David said again. More would-be cop killers, he thought. Just what we don’t need.

“Anyway, your immigration officials have confirmed she landed at Cape Town International airport on the twenty-second of this month, although we’re not sure yet what flight she came in on, because the information she filled in on her landing card was false. But the six victims we rescued from the brothel came from South Africa, so we can’t yet say if Ms Dupont has a home base on your side of the world, or if she’s involved in trafficking, and has come back to do more business.”

“Send the information and I’ll follow it up. You can email it if you like. That’ll be quickest.” He gave the British detective his email address.

“I’ll do it in the next five minutes,” Richards said. “I’ll also send a passport photo of Dupont and a picture of her accomplice from a security camera in the hotel where they were staying. We don’t have any positive identification for the accomplice yet. He may or may not have fled to South Africa with her. Either way, we’re doing what we can to find them, and we’d appreciate your cooperation.”

“You have it, of course.” David glanced at his metal cabinet, which was already crammed to capacity with case files, and sighed inwardly.

“Our people will also need to be in touch with your Home Office about repatriating the five girls in the next few days. Is there a chance your Home Office might be open now?”

There was more chance of Cape Town putting up border posts and declaring independence from the rest of South Africa, David thought. “It would be better to try them in the morning,” he said, diplomatically. Then, realising what the British officer had said, he frowned. “Five girls? Didn’t you say there were six?”

“There were seven originally, from all accounts. We’re still following up on that. Seems one of them was sold on somewhere else. Of the six, one is not a South African national. She’s Senegalese.”

David gave the officer his email address and rang off.

Two minutes later, with trademark British efficiency, the email arrived. David opened it and printed out the pages. Then he sat with his forehead propped against his palm, all thoughts of pies and burgers forgotten as he familiarised himself with his newest case.

22

Jade parked at an angle in a white-painted visitors’ bay at The Seasons hotel, grabbed Pamela’s suitcase from the boot and rushed inside, calling out a greeting to the receptionist as she hurried down the carpeted corridor. Ahead of her, a patient in a wheelchair was being taken back to her room by a nurse. Jade stepped round the wheelchair and then speeded up again as she saw Pamela’s door ahead.

When Pamela opened it, Jade almost knocked her over in her haste to get inside.

“Sorry I’ve been so long. I … ”

“Please tell me. Is there any news on Tamsin?” Pamela’s eyes were swollen and bloodshot and worry lines carved deep paths between her eyebrows and across her forehead. In the four hours that Jade had been gone, she seemed to have aged ten years.

“Nothing yet,” Jade said, closing the door behind her. “But there’s a more serious—”

Pamela interrupted her again. “I’ve been checking my voice-mail using the hotel phone every ten minutes. I feel sick. I mean physically ill. And I’ve been praying.” She smiled faintly. “I’ve been an atheist ever since I discovered what the word meant, but in the last few hours, all I’ve been doing is praying to whatever god might be listening that my daughter is safe.”

Shoulders sagging, the blonde woman collapsed onto the bed.

Jade took a deep breath.

“Pamela, right now we have other major problems.”

“What problems?” Pamela stared up at her through red-rimmed eyes.

“I went round to your house to get your things.” She placed the suitcase on the chair as she spoke. “And while I was there, I found your—”

Yet again Jade was interrupted, this time by the ringing of the bedside phone. A moment later, there was a loud knock on the door.

Pamela leaned over and grabbed the phone.

“Hello?” she said, breathlessly. She listened, and then her entire body slumped.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, all right.”

She turned to Jade with a stricken expression. “The receptionist said the police are here.”

Captain Moloi was standing outside the door, his large shoes making sizeable impressions in the thick carpet.

He treated Jade to the same dour stare that she’d endured for the past two hours during her questioning. That had taken place in Pamela’s garden while his investigation team searched the house. She’d also witnessed two paramedics gently loading Terence onto a stretcher. The younger medic had been as white as a ghost. He had looked the same way Jade felt when she thought about the not-quite-dead body of Pamela’s husband and the scorched, oozing wounds where his eyes had been.

As he had done during the interview, Moloi gave nothing away now except the fact that he did not like Jade. Actively disliked her, in fact.

Pamela eyed the tall black officer apprehensively as he walked into the room.

“Mrs Jordaan. First, I have just received some news on your missing daughter.”

For a terrible moment, Jade thought he was going to say the words Pamela least wanted to hear. That Tamsin was dead. That they’d discovered her body and she’d been tortured as well, just like her father. She was so convinced by her own fears that it took her a moment to realise that wasn’t what the officer was saying at all.

“She has been found.”

Pamela’s face flooded with relief.

“Tamsin’s been found?” she repeated shakily. “Is she all right? Where is she? What happened to her?”

“A cleaner discovered her in a petrol station toilet on the n3 highway, just outside Heidelberg. She was unconscious and she has not yet regained consciousness. She’s been taken to Heidelberg City Clinic.” Seeing Pamela’shorrified expression, he continued quickly. “She’s unhurt, and she was fully clothed. The doctors suspect an overdose of a pharmaceutical drug, possibly ghb. Not fatal, but enough to send her into a deep coma.” He eyed Pamela closely. “Your daughter has used such drugs before?”

“Well, only once or twice, I think—she does have psychological issues that sometimes require her to use … ” Pamela blinked rapidly. Her voice sounded breathy and rushed. Jade knew she was lying. Lying like a rug, as the saying went, and watching Moloi’s reaction she knew, for the first time that day, that he agreed with her.

“Once can be fatal, Mrs Jordaan. Anyway, her cellphone is missing, but she had her id and driver’s licence on her, and also a gold chain around her neck with a small diamond pendant on it.”

Pamela gave him a wobbly smile. “I gave her that for her eighteenth birthday.”

“We’ll be able to ask her more when she wakes up, but the evidence does suggest it was probably an experiment gone wrong,” Moloi continued. “You should tell her to seek help for her problem. She was lucky this time, but the consequences could have been much worse.”

“Yes, of course. Absolutely. I do agree with you. I’ll have a serious talk with her. Perhaps I can get her some counselling, or send her to Tara for rehab. She went … ” Pamela bit off the words, cutting short her own relieved babbling, but Jade was pretty sure she knew what she was going to say—she went there before.

“Now.” Moloi squared his shoulders and adjusted the knot of his yellow tie. “Moving on to more serious matters, Mrs Jordaan. We were called out to your house this afternoon by your hired guard.” He nodded at Jade, managing to inject a disproportionate amount of disapproval into the small gesture. “We discovered the dead body of a young woman inside your house, and the semi-conscious body of your husband outside. Mr Jordaan is very seriously injured and suffering from smoke inhalation after what appears to have been a prolonged session of torture. He’s been taken to the burns unit at Netcare Milpark Hospital, where he is on life-support. I’m sorry to have to tell you that the prognosis is not good.”

Pamela let out a small moan. The sound was loud in the quiet room. She clapped her hands to her mouth and stared at Moloi in total disbelief.

“Where was the dead woman?” she asked after a long pause, her hands now clutching at her face.

“In the downstairs bathroom,” the detective replied, seemingly unperturbed by this odd question, and by the fact Pamela didn’t appear more concerned about her husband’s state of health.

“Who—who is she?”

“We’re not entirely sure yet. However, one of my team has discovered that she matches the description of Celia le Roux, a dancer at the Midrand branch of your husband’s business who went by the stage name of Crystal. The assistant manager of the Midrand branch is on his way to the Hillbrow mortuary now with one of our detectives, to see if he can identify the body.” Then he leaned in closer, his face intent. Jade recognised the expression and although she wasn’t sure exactly what Moloi was going to say next, she was certain that it was going to be more bad news for Pamela.

“The manager has also informed us that it was common knowledge at the club that Crystal was involved with your husband.”

Oh no, Jade thought.

“Involved?” Pamela repeated in a high voice. “How do you mean?”

“They were having an affair, Mrs Jordaan.” Moloi sounded impatient now.

Pamela stood up and stumbled over to the window, where she stared out at the tranquil gardens.

“My God,” she whispered, without looking round. “You can’t be serious. An affair? I had no idea … ”

“I am sorry to be the one to break it to you,” Moloi responded with barely a trace of irony.

But she had known about it. Jade had seen it in her face. She could read it in her response to the detective’s questions.

“I am going to have to ask you to accompany me to the police station, Mrs Jordaan. We need to question you in connection with the torture and attempted murder of your husband.”

“But I … this is crazy.” Now Pamela turned back to the detective. “I’ve just had an attempt made on my own life. I’m in danger. I need to be somewhere safe.”