by Holly Watt
They sat in the airport, dispirited. Zac scanned the departures board. ‘Where are we going next, my little pillar of salt?’
‘I’m thinking.’
‘In your own time then.’
‘You don’t have to come, Zac.’ Casey’s temper flared. ‘You can get the next flight back to sodding Mauritius if you want. You’ll be back on your bloody yacht in time for sundowners. You can sit there and have a glass of champagne, and watch the sun go down. But then one day, maybe, you’ll start to hear about some horrible diseases making their way around the world. And those illnesses will get a little bit worse, and a little bit worse, and no one will quite know how to cure them. And then, maybe, the people you love and care about – if there are any, that is – will start to get ill. And you’ll always wonder, could I have made the difference? Could I have helped? Those tiny babies in St Agnes … Those patients in the Royal Brompton … But don’t worry, Zac, it probably won’t ever affect you.’
She subsided into silence. Zac opened a packet of crisps, and crunched one thoughtfully. ‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’
‘What?’
‘I mean, yes, I could be back on the Renaissance in a few hours, looking forward to a night with … ’ He paused contemplatively, ‘Tasmina, I think. But I’m here, aren’t I? I just wouldn’t mind knowing where we’re going next. Plan my wardrobe, that sort of thing.’
‘Oh, shut up, Zac.’
‘Order up Dodo’s next truckload of dog food. And a few more cushions to munch his way through.’
Casey stared at the neon blinking letters. There weren’t many flights taking off from Harare’s threadbare airport. Bulawayo. Johannesburg. Nairobi. Lusaka: cancelled. Lilongwe: delayed. Windhoek. Addis Ababa: delayed. Cape Town: boarding.
Cape Town.
Casey messaged Miranda: That story Bailey’s ex-wife tried to give to the Argus. Did you ever find out what it was?
Nothing interesting, Casey read a few minutes later. Delphine says Bailey was cheating on the wife. Same old, same old.
Casey stood up. ‘I’m off to Cape Town,’ she said. ‘You coming?’
46
Mrs Bailey, the butler said stiffly, was very busy and not to be interrupted.
‘It’s important,’ said Casey. ‘Tell her it’s the London Post about an article that didn’t appear in the London Argus.’
The butler was too good at his job to express confusion, but he vanished again, this time for a longer period. Casey fidgeted in the hall, surrounded by marble and chandeliers and perfect arrangements of freesias and hyacinths. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror – tired, smeary, grubby rucksack – and looked away.
They had checked into a hotel close to the beach at Clifton. ‘I’ll try on my own first,’ Casey had said, and Zac had nodded, exhausted.
Mrs Loelia Bailey’s house was on one of the best streets in Constantia, on the inland side of Table Mountain. Huge houses sat in spectacular gardens. The Bailey house looked as if a small French chateau had landed gracefully in the middle of this plush Cape Town suburb. Neatly trimmed lavender bushes lined the path to the front door, while a row of cypresses softened the high walls around the property. The garden sloped down towards a swimming pool, just visible through big glass doors at the back of the house. Blue hills loomed beyond.
The butler reappeared. He was carrying a small stack of notepaper.
‘Mrs Bailey is busy,’ he repeated. ‘But she says you can leave a note, setting out your request.’
Casey grimaced. ‘Thank you so much.’
She scrawled a quick note, with her name and number. She would have to think of another way of getting to Mrs Bailey. And that, Casey glanced at the high walls around the house, would not be easy.
Casey placed the note on the polished elm hall table, earning a brief nod from the butler. He opened the front door, and Casey felt him keeping an eye on her as she walked back down the lavender-lined path. The front door didn’t close until she had clicked the heavy side gate behind her.
Standing out on the road, Casey felt defeated. Loelia Bailey was the only lead she could think of right now. She had flown all the way to Cape Town on a hunch, and it had been a complete waste of time.
The streets in Constantia were not designed for pedestrians. Casey stamped along the side of the road, leaping out of the way of the cars that powered along the winding roads.
As she walked away from Loelia Bailey’s house, the street’s proportions reminded her of Harare. Wide roads, grassy verges, all edged with lush, glossy greenery. But unlike Harare, the wealth glinted everywhere in this expensive suburb. It motored down the road. It peered out coyly from behind the tall gates. It echoed in the hush of the streets after the last Defender had roared off.
Just a few miles away were the squatter camps: Cape Town’s bleak townships that sprawled for acre after acre. Thousands of shacks built from scraps of corrugated iron and scraps of wood, plastic sheeting and cardboard, despite all the promises. But here in Constantia, it was immaculate, only the rolling power cuts hinting at the struggles beneath the surface.
Casey tried to work out what to do next. Her rucksack was heavy on her shoulders, and she would need to get a taxi back to the hotel. She began to walk past rows of houses, gardens so big that you could only tell you were outside a different property because the wall design changed. Grey stone here, fifteen-feet-high painted white there.
As she walked, she rang Arthur, the Post’s crime correspondent.
‘Any news on Brennan? That bike accident in Colindale, remember?’
‘Soz, babe. Nada.’
‘When did you last speak to the police about it?’
‘Yesterday.’ Arthur sounded hurt. ‘I know how to do my job, OK?’
‘Thanks. Sorry.’
‘Where are you anyway, Casey? Haven’t seen you for weeks.’
‘Bit busy, Arthur. Got to go.’
Then she rang Miranda, bracing herself.
‘Where are you?’ Miranda demanded.
‘Cape Town.’
A short laugh. ‘Right time of the year for it.’
‘Loelia Bailey won’t talk.’
‘She didn’t exactly fit the profile for telling all, did she? But that’s a bugger about Njana, isn’t it? If it’s just saepio they’re working on out there.’
Casey had emailed Miranda her notes about Njana from the plane. Hansel and Gretel breadcrumbs, just in case.
‘It is.’
There was a silence.
‘Miranda—’
‘Casey—’
There was an awkward sprawl of words, and then Miranda was speaking. ‘Don’t you think you should be coming home, Casey? You know I’m all for wild goose chases, but isn’t it time—’
‘Miranda, I’ve got to go.’
‘Casey—’
‘I’ll call you later, OK? Bye.’
Ahead of Casey, a group of women were spilling out the doors of an expensive-looking gym. They all wore the same self-satisfied glow, a lustre to their toned limbs. There was a cacophony of goodbyes and see you next weeks and the chirrup of lavish cars being unlocked by key fobs.
As Casey waved wildly, one of the women stopped sharply.
‘My god! What on earth are you doing here, Casey?’
They hurried towards each other, broad smiles on their faces.
‘Delphine!’
‘It’s so nice to see you, Casey!’
They hugged, laughing. The other women were disappearing behind blacked-out windows, pulling away in an expensive flurry. Delphine was wearing yoga pants and a bright blue sports top, her short dark hair pulled back by a wide sweatband. She looked relaxed and happy. A good advertisement for abandoning journalism, Casey thought ruefully.
‘What are you doing down here, Casey? Is Miranda with you?’ Delphine’s eyes were alive with excitement.
‘She’s not,’ said Casey regretfully. ‘She’s back in London.’
‘That’s such a shame. I miss h
er so much.’
‘Me too,’ said Casey. ‘Me too.’
‘But what are you doing here?’
‘I … ’ Casey couldn’t think where to start. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Delphine. Do you live around here?’
‘Just around the corner. Now, where are you going, Casey?’ As Delphine spoke, she was chucking an exercise mat into the back of the car. ‘It’s far too hot to walk around here. Where do you need to go? I’ll drive you.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Casey realised how overheated she was. ‘But I’m staying all the way over in Clifton.’
‘It’s not a problem, really. It’ll be nice to catch up. Get in.’
The Volkswagen pulled away from the kerb smoothly.
‘So, Casey. Who have you just been doorstepping?’
‘How did you—’ Casey stopped, laughed, answered her own question. ‘What else would I be doing somewhere like Constantia?’
‘Well … ’ They grinned at each other.
‘I was just back there.’ Casey waved over her shoulder. ‘Actually, I was trying to speak to Loelia Bailey.’
‘Loelia Bailey!’ Delphine raised perfectly shaped eyebrows. ‘What do you want with her?’
‘Oh.’ Casey felt too tired to explain. ‘It’s complicated.’
Delphine stopped the car abruptly.
‘What are you doing?’ Casey asked, as Delphine shifted the car into reverse.
‘I’m taking you back to Loelia’s house,’ said Delphine cheerfully. ‘We go to the same yoga class on Wednesdays. I’ll have a word.’
The butler looked positively friendly when he opened the door this time. Delphine had grinned down the camera at the security gate. ‘Horton, it’s me, hey? Delphine.’
‘I’ll go and talk to Loelia first,’ said Delphine when they had been ushered in. ‘Smooth the way a bit. Wait here, Casey. I won’t be a minute.’
Casey sat on a gold silk sofa, avoiding the mirror. ‘Thank you so much, Delphine.’
‘It’s really no problem.’
Delphine reappeared in a few minutes, a wide smile on her face. ‘She’ll talk to you. She’s not delighted at the idea, but she’ll give you a few minutes at least. But don’t screw her over, Casey. She’s a friend of mine.’
‘I won’t push it,’ said Casey. ‘I just want to ask her a few questions.’
‘Cool,’ said Delphine. ‘I must dash now. Have to pick up one of my boys from rugby practice.’
‘Thank you,’ said Casey, meaning it. ‘Thank you so much, Delphine.’
47
The gardens were exquisite, the grass defying any drought. Mrs Bailey was waiting for Casey beside the swimming pool. She was wearing a silvery kaftan, and smoking a cigarette.
She hadn’t been sunbathing though, thought Casey. Not with that carefully protected pale skin. Behind Mrs Bailey, a novel lay spine up on a padded sunbed. Next to it sat a small table bearing a bottle of white wine in a silver cooler. Not a bad life, all things considered. And not that busy.
‘Can Horton get you anything?’ Mrs Bailey asked as they drew closer.
‘Just water would be lovely,’ said Casey, and the butler disappeared, still disapproving. ‘You have a beautiful home, Mrs Bailey,’ she added.
‘I know.’
Mrs Bailey waited until the butler had moved uphill out of earshot, then she crossed the marble paving stones to a more formal table and chairs placed on the other side of the pool. She carried her wine glass and the bottle with her, settling under yet another sunshade.
Delphine hadn’t softened her up very much, thought Casey. The atmosphere was glacial.
‘I received your note,’ Loelia Bailey said. ‘And, of course, I like Delphine. She’s had a very difficult time, poor girl, since her husband died. But can I ask you … ’ Her tone was balanced precisely halfway between polite and menacing, ‘why you are here, Miss Benedict?’
As Casey sat down, Loelia Bailey regarded her coolly. The older woman’s make-up was applied impeccably, the pale grey eyeshadow expertly blended. Casey had seen an old photograph of this woman, and knew that she had worn her silver blonde hair pulled back in a dancer’s bun for at least two decades. A staggering beauty back then, icily elegant now. She was roughly the same age as her ex-husband, thought Casey, although she looked a good ten years younger: a rich South African divorcee.
‘I wanted to ask you a few questions about Elias Bailey,’ Casey said.
‘I have nothing to say about Elias,’ Loelia said briskly. ‘I haven’t laid eyes on him for almost five years, and do not expect that to change any time soon.’
There was a hint of bitterness in the woman’s face at the mention of Bailey, but the anger was too carefully contained to exploit.
Casey mentally ran through what she knew about Mrs Bailey from Delphine’s quick description in the car. A bright child, Loelia Colvile had grown up in the Cape, the only child of two besotted – and well-off – parents. At eighteen, she had travelled back to England – the family had only been in South Africa for one generation – to go to university. It was while Loelia was up at Cambridge that she had met Elias Bailey, a fellow South African.
Elias had been studying chemistry, Loelia law. After Cambridge, he had reached for the stars, while Loelia gave up her plans for a legal career in order to run their home. At some point, she had returned to South Africa full-time. It was unclear to Delphine which came first: the cracks in the marriage or the move. Either way, Loelia had kept the Constantia house after the divorce, and Bailey had bought a new place in Llandudno, an expensive little seaside village just south of the centre of Cape Town.
All that bright promise wasted on housekeeping; no wonder there was a severe twist to her mouth.
‘How do you know this much about her?’ Casey asked Delphine.
‘Cape Town,’ Delphine gestured, ‘is a very small place.’
‘We’re interested in Mr Bailey’s work up in Zimbabwe.’ Casey tried now. ‘What he’s up to in Njana.’
‘I don’t know anything about that place,’ Loelia Bailey shrugged.
‘You never visited the reserve?’
‘I went once or twice.’ Loelia’s mouth turned down at both ends. ‘But I couldn’t see the point in it. There was nothing to do up there. Nobody we knew.’
She glanced around the manicured beauty of the garden, a certain complacency in her eyes.
‘Mrs Bailey—’
‘What is this all about?’ Loelia Bailey asked abruptly. ‘What do you actually want, Miss Benedict?’
Mrs Bailey was bored, Casey diagnosed. Bored enough to let the pesky journalist in, just to see what she wanted. Lonely, too. Abandoned in this beautiful memory box, with no one to share the memories. Delphine’s intercession had opened the door, but it was boredom and loneliness that was keeping Casey by the swimming pool.
‘Mrs Bailey, could we possibly talk off the record about the Njana ranch? My colleagues and I are investigating Adsero’s work in the antibiotic sector, and it would be very helpful to have a proper chat with you about it all.’
‘I don’t know much about anything,’ Loelia Bailey said moodily. ‘I was never told what Adsero was doing. And Elias would hate me talking about the little I knew with anyone, least of all a journalist … ’
‘But I know you did talk about it, once,’ said Casey. ‘You spoke to journalists at the Argus about his activities.’
There was the flicker of worry in Loelia’s blue eyes. ‘Those journalists also said that I could talk to them in confidence. They promised that they wouldn’t publish anything, not unless we agreed. Such crooks.’
‘I am sorry about that,’ said Casey. ‘I suppose it must have been that Elias Bailey offered them a good interview, and they just went with that instead.’
The blue eyes sharpened. ‘Is that what happened? I guessed it was, given the timeline, but I wasn’t sure.’
Miranda would kill her: better a white lie. ‘I’m not at all sure about the sequence of events, Mrs Bailey
. But I heard what happened, and saw the interview, and wondered if Elias Bailey had … ’
Mrs Bailey’s eyes narrowed. ‘Elias was always manipulative.’
Casey sat in silence. The butler appeared with a glass of water, lemon floating, ice tinkling. They waited until he had gone again, proceeding back up the hill with imperious disapproval.
‘I was in a state of some distress at that time,’ said Loelia Bailey. ‘I would never normally speak to a journalist. I was quite distraught.’
‘I am sure,’ said Casey. ‘And I am aware that I am invading your privacy even further by coming out here today, but I hoped … ’
Casey knew these steps of old. Loelia Bailey wanted to be convinced that she wasn’t the sort of person who would talk to the press by the journalist to whom she was speaking. And she was nodding now, mollified.
‘But it would be so helpful for my piece,’ Casey nudged her a bit further, ‘to get a sense of what Elias Bailey is like as a person. You really know him the best of anyone.’
An appeal to pride. You’re the expert. Because what is the point of a secret unshared?
Mrs Bailey’s eyes were tracing the vines that tangled along the wall. Casey waited.
‘All off the record? Delphine said I could trust you, but … ’ Loelia Bailey waited for Casey’s nod. ‘In that case, I can tell you. Elias Bailey is one of the biggest shits to walk this earth.’
The swear word reverberated in the air, a shock beneath the elegance of the periwinkle blue sunshade. The two women shared a small, conspiratorial smile.
‘You understand, Miss Benedict, that I can’t be quoted in any article,’ said Mrs Bailey. ‘During my divorce, I signed papers … ’
‘I understand completely.’
‘And I don’t know much about Adsero’s work,’ said Mrs Bailey, looking down at her hands. ‘I never did.’
Loelia still wore her wedding ring, Casey noticed. And a sapphire circled by engagement diamonds, heavy on her finger. She was very definitely Mrs Bailey, not Ms Colvile. A Mrs Bailey clinging to a happier past.
‘We’re looking into an antibiotic that Adsero was researching,’ said Casey. ‘The drug is called Corax.’