by H. J Golakai
‘Lucas, more in the beginning,’ Adele said. ‘Jacqui had problems with other girls, even from a young age. They either got along great immediately, or they couldn’t stand each other at first sight. After Sean died, it was easier to turn to her other brother. I didn’t see what they had in common, personally. Lucas was a bit awkward, though I haven’t seen him for some years now. I did get the impression that something changed between them after a while, because she got into Serena more, and then the little one.’
‘Did she give any specifics?’
Adele shook her head for the hundredth time. Vee suppressed a sigh. Too many gaps.
‘Well, I know they went to church together. She and Serena, and sometimes Rosemary,’ Adele elaborated. ‘Jacqui took it as a pastime in the beginning, a way to spend more and more time at that house. After school, on Sundays. But she actually became born again, to my disbelief. I didn’t buy it at first, knowing my daughter and her flights of fancy. It was too cute to be taken seriously. Then she started to live up to it and I had to accept it for what it was. What mother would complain? She didn’t become an angel overnight, but there was a big difference.’
That explains the ‘hidden’ condoms, Vee thought. Vestiges of an old life, squirrelled out of sight and mind but not discarded. ‘Difference how, exactly?’
‘Just different, in every way. Her life … her soul, it just changed. I … I don’t see how any of this is important. It didn’t save her in the end.’
Adele hunched, chin drooping to her chest, as if attempting to fold into her own body and implode. Touched to an uncomfortable degree, Vee stopped and let the silence spin out. She hugged her arms close, partly to ease the chill in the air and partly to prevent herself from reaching out and touching the woman. Not every grieving person received touch in a comforting way; she’d learnt that from past experience.
Adele started to shake, a series of minute tremors undulating through her, threatening to jar her completely off the bed. ‘You have to help me,’ she choked. She repeated the words as if in prayer, voice barely audible. Vee heard her tears before they came.
‘I’ll do everything I can,’ Vee heard her mouth promise. ‘But you … we need to be patient. It takes time–’
From the towelling of her gown, Adele produced a thick brown envelope. Her hands shook as she held it out, her face contorted like the thing would spring to life and bite her. ‘I can pay you,’ she said, nodding hard, reassuring them both. ‘If money’s the problem, if it makes the process faster …’
‘Ms Paulsen,’ Vee murmured, backing away from the bed. She couldn’t remember getting to her feet.
‘It’s twenty-five thousand. Take it,’ Adele said, thrusting out the packet. Vee gently pushed her hands away. ‘Please, please take it.’ Adele tried to stand, and, like a very old lady, shuddered back onto the mattress. Her shoulders quaked as she held her head in her hands and sobbed. Against her better judgement, Vee opened her arms and drew in the grieving mother.
Back on the street, Vee fumbled with her car door and a vibrating handbag. The air outside was cooler and much fresher. Away from Adele, everything felt less dour and stale. She dug out the Nokia. Blocked caller ID. She answered anyway.
‘I know how to help you and get you to go out with me.’
Vee sucked her laughter back in shock as she watched her breath puff white. A few days and September was over – how the hell was it still so cold? She yanked the door open and scrunched into the driver’s seat. ‘Dah whah dey white pipo payin’ yor good money for, Joshua Allen, to harass other pipo during working hours?’
‘Hear me out. Before you say no.’
‘No.’ She snickered and pressed the ‘end call’ button. She had hardly got the car’s engine pumping when her phone started tinkling again.
‘Are you sitting down?’ Chlöe breathed in her ear.
Vee switched the engine off. The blast of the heater was so loud she couldn’t hear a damn thing. ‘In a sense.’
‘Then check this out. First of all, I’m still tracing Jacqui’s steps. As in, making every stop exactly as she did that day, hazarding a guess about how much time she’d have spent at each place. I’m about to leave Newlands Sports Club, headed for Athlone, but I’m nearly done, which doesn’t work with our timeline. Either I’m moving way faster, which I’m not, or she must’ve gone somewhere or met someone, another stop that wasn’t recorded in the police report or any of the statements. Which makes me wonder: if she did make another stop, why didn’t whoever she met come forward to inform the police?’
‘That’s what we find out. I like the way your mind works. You did great, taking the initiative to physically trace her steps.’ Vee could practically see the tendrils of Chlöe’s gingerific blush wafting down the receiver. Bishop was clever but pampered; she needed her pats on the head. As long as she walked the walk, Vee saw no reason to withhold.
‘Next, I traced her cell,’ Chlöe said. ‘By some miracle – I guess because after she went missing no one considered it was the most pressing thing to do – the phone wasn’t blacklisted. It’s still in use somewhere in town. Actually, it was last used early this morning in Gardens, only it’s under a different number now.’
‘Gardens? How’d you swing that?’
‘Well,’ Chlöe yelled above what sounded like a pack of tennis enthusiasts trash-talking about their last match, ‘all cell phones have this chip thingy embedded in them to give them a specific identity. It’s called the International Mobile Equipment Identity, or IMEI number. If the phone gets blocked that should render it useless, but nowadays any dodgy Nigerian shop can unblock it for you for, like, a hundred, two hundred rand.’
Vee cleared her throat pointedly.
‘Oops, er, sorry. Not that I’m implying that all Nigerians are shady, or that dodgy cell phone shops are only run by Nigerians. No offence to your people. Uh, no wait, sorry you’re Liberian, so–’
‘Bishop.’
‘Right, um … so you can pay to have a stolen phone unblocked by anyone with the smarts. It’s done by duplicating or changing the IMEI number so it’s not accessible to being traced any more. Phone goes off the grid as stolen, somebody else can use it. But Jacqui’s phone wasn’t reported, and whoever this moron is, they didn’t bother to change the IMEI as a precaution. They just got a new SIM card. So technically it could be traced, but nobody’s looking for it. I’ve got records for this cell on the old line when Jacqui had it and on the new one the thief’s using. Do we care who the thief is? Are we tracking him or her down?’
‘Whoa, li’l missy! Gimme a minute.’ Vee fired the ignition again and blasted the heater. She couldn’t remember if running a car’s engine was only dangerous in enclosed spaces, but screw it. ‘How do you know this stuff, anyway? I’ve never had to track a cell. I just hunt the owner. And how’d you get IMEI tracking and phone records and all that? Surely you need permission from the cell phone company.’
This time, tendrils of guilt filtered down the line into her ear.
‘I have this friend, this guy who knows a lot about technology and gadgets. He’s a wizard and a hugely useful contact to have. Let’s just call him The Guy to keep it simple. He can–’
‘Was any of this legal?’
‘Well …’ This time Vee pictured Chlöe’s masterful pout. Of course she’d be a pouter; had to be. ‘Look, no offence, but we’re not lawyers looking for admissible evidence; we’re looking for a story. Of course legal is best, but you agreed it’s not the quickest, most innovative way to meet a deadline. Which is looming. And again, I really need this job and appreciate you taking time to mentor me, so if it looks like I’m doing anything and everything to impress you right now, I am.’
Chlöe Bishop: both charmer and snake. ‘Okay, okay,’ Vee conceded. A few hours ago she’d championed all wayward means of getting information as long as they were circumspect; now here she was sounding like a hypocrite. ‘I did give the go-ahead to bend the rules a bit, so you’re off the hook. An
d stop calling me a mentor, I’m not that old.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘I don’t know if we need to worry yet about tracking down stolen phones. It may be important, it may not. For now it’s on a back-burner. What else you got?’
‘As far as the records go, I haven’t looked at them too closely yet. But it does show that on the twenty-second, the day Jacqui went poof, the phone was switched off at about 4:30 p.m. – hang on … 4:43 p.m. exactly. The last incoming calls were from another cell and a landline, both belonging to her mum. She did try calling her, like she told the police, to find out where Jacqui was and tell her to come straight home.’
‘Adele had her on lockdown. She could only go out for practices and sometimes on weekends, provided she kept in touch. I guess she took that day to go on her own mission and give Adele the slip for a few hours.’
‘I can relate. That’s all I’ve got on that score. I also tried to find Tamara and Bronwyn. Tamara works for a fancy dress shop called Bella Blues in Claremont, but she’s on leave until tomorrow so I’ll have to try her again. Bronwyn I can’t get hold of at all. I keep getting her voicemail and I haven’t had time to check if her address is still the same.’
‘Consider me impressed, Chlöe. One more thing: can your computer guy extract hidden or encrypted files? Jacqui’s desktop may need an expert eye. He’s trustworthy, right?’
‘Hundred per cent. Free … noooo, but don’t worry about that. He owes me one. He’ll need to see it himself. Either bring the entire hard drive or copy it onto an external.’
Vee exhaled. ‘I was afraid you’d say that,’ she said, looking through the windscreen at the Paulsen’s blue-and-white house. There was nothing for it; she’d have to go back in. The already squally sky lurking over the house’s lifeless outline doubled in gloom.
11
The two schoolgirls in front bopped with confidence, while two more flanked at their elbows and one lone girl trailed like a forgotten piece of string. Their black stockings in leather lace-ups made a tiered line as they exited the grounds of Pinelands High, blue blazers flapping as they escaped into a nippy afternoon’s freedom. Vee watched them. She didn’t need to be near enough to hear their animated conversation, since it was bound to run along universal, predictable lines – boys, where to shop, accursed assignments, more on boys, the weekend.
Wind surged past the narrow lane, lifting curlicues of debris and leaf fragments into the air. The girl in the lead tilted her head, a tumble of blonde curls, into the wind, trying to catch a leaf in her mouth. Something went up her nose instead, and even from a distance Vee could tell the sneeze she gave was the cute kind associated with all pretty young things.
This teenager was not the one Vee sought. The formation of girls dissolved as more students hurried past, and then Vee spotted her target. The straggler. Unlike the sneezing Pre-Raphaelite blonde, Rosemary Fourie was far from delicate. Bulky and broad-shouldered for a girl of fifteen, she lumbered, shoulders hunched like she knew she was working with more than the other girls, and not in a good way. Cut off her ponytail and she could have been a pubescent boy with a bright future in rugby. A member of the posse gave her a punch on the shoulder and Rosemary gave a friendly shove back, sending the girl flying into another friend, who caught and steadied her. The group erupted into laughter, a self-conscious Rosemary joining in reluctantly, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked like a baby bear among china dolls.
Vee trailed from a measured distance, keeping Rosemary in her crosshairs as she crossed the sidewalk outside the school and strolled down the road towards the petrol station. Vee kept one eye on Rosemary and the other on general alert. She wasn’t a fan of blindsiding kids, candy from a baby and all that, nor did she want to get stopped for being some kind of pervert. These schools tended to be quite strict about who they allowed around their impressionable students. Or maybe her conscience was growing back.
She’d dawdled outside the gate for what felt like forever, watching child after child either take off for home on foot or get picked up. Much to her relief, no car opened its doors to swallow the solitary teenager and Rosemary’s amble was clearly aimless, not to mention that her size made her easy enough to pick out from among the other schoolkids.
Rosie dropped to one knee, tied her laces, popped to her feet and swung around with a scowl. ‘Are you following me?’ she yelled. A pair of strong, brown eyes set in a square, heavy-boned face bored into Vee’s. Rosemary looked scared, and curious, but she had a pre-adult air of learning to stand up for oneself about her.
Vee shrugged. ‘Uh, yes. Yes, I am. Sorry. Are you Rosemary Fourie?’
Shrug. ‘Yeah. Just Rosie.’ The girl waited.
‘I’m Vee Johnson. I’m a journalist. I’d like to talk with you privately for a minute, if you don’t mind.’
Rosie’s curiosity faded and her fear went up several notches. ‘Ja, okay, so you’re that journalist. So I do mind, ’cause I’m not supposed to talk to you.’
Wonderful. So the family, dysfunctional or not, did actually communicate. Vee expected Rosie’s parents to have told their children that a member of the press was poking around, had called them multiple times for information. She just didn’t think they’d have told them right away, giving her an opening for a clean sabotage. Whatever happened to protecting kids from the truth?
‘Come on, it’ll only take–’
Rosie broke into a lumbering run, her schoolbag bouncing around on her back. She squirmed through the door of a white minibus taxi idling for customers at the roadside. ‘I’m not supposed to talk to you! Stop harassing my family!’ she shouted. The gaatjie slammed the minibus’s door, cutting off the rest of Rosie’s words. Vee couldn’t hear what she said but whatever it was made every head in the taxi turn a look of disgust in her direction. The taxi pulled off Forest Drive.
Suddenly everybody in this goddamn city’s an advocate for children’s rights. Vee started her car, wondering whether she had the speed and crazies to match that of a taxi driver. As far as white taxis went, Main Road supported a string of indistinguishable pearls at all times, more during peak hours, so keeping a tail was a nightmare. She managed to maintain a three-car distance and for one absurd moment considered driving alongside and shouting ‘Her sister was murdered! Ask her about that!’ She tossed that plan immediately, envisioning the driver flicking his crooked cigarette into her car and setting her ablaze in traffic. Rosie was strong and surprisingly fast for her size. If the taxi stopped and she bolted, Vee doubted there’d be enough time to track her down.
She needn’t have worried. Passengers disembarked and boarded along numerous stops but not one was Rosie. Once they hit Claremont, Vee breathed easier. How would any teenager in a halfway decent town want to kill a few hours after school, if not hang out in a mall? Cavendish Square was the best place to get swallowed in when you were fifteen with an allowance to blow.
Vee scrambled for parking down a side street next to Adult World and pressed a clutch of coins into the palm of a parking marshal. She broke into a jog, elbowing through the lunchtime crowd, in time to spot Rosie jumping out of the minivan. Just follow the blue blazer, Vee thought.
It worked until a hive of taxis zoomed into the designated drop in front of Shoprite supermarket, disgorging school blazers in a Picasso of colours, scattering adolescents to the wind like butterflies. Vee swore and craned her neck over the throng of after-school specials.
ANATOMY OF A MURDER
Diamonds on the soles
The endless wait for the throng of sweaty health nuts to clear off before hitting the showers was worth it. Newlands Sports Club wasn’t abuzz in the winter months, but now that spring was on the horizon, they couldn’t get the place to themselves on a weekend.
‘Hey, Tammy!’ Jacqui yelled from a toilet stall. ‘There’s no toilet paper in here. Bring me some?’
Tamara blew an extravagant sigh. ‘Remember the golden rule: scan before you squat? Drip dry, you’re gonna have a shower right after, anyway.’
Tamara clenched her fists. This was Jacqui all over, every time. Me, myself and I; everyone else – go die. Like during the tennis match … what had that been about? Jacqui being more Jacqui than she needed to be: super-competitive, grinding every winning set into the opposing side’s face and haggling over every fault. Her cell rang in the middle of a deciding serve and when Jacqui called time to get it, which she never did, Tamara couldn’t help her curiosity getting the better of her. Jacqui had turned into quite the secret agent with all the whispered phone calls. Secrecy drove Tamara bloody mad.
Jacqui had stepped off the court and, despite how accomplished an eavesdropper as she was, Tamara couldn’t make out who the caller was. Probably Jacqui’s mother, who was such a stalker, checking up on them every flipping minute. Could’ve also been that airhead Bronwyn. Jacqui slipped into her ‘special needs voice’ several times, which she only put on when she was speaking to her Bible buddy or that dumb younger sister of hers, Rosie. It could just as well have been Ashwin, who took every shot he had at the championship medal for losers, grovelling every chance he got. Tamara couldn’t believe she’d considered shagging him to piss her girl off. She had moved closer, pretending to put her visor cap back into her gym bag while she kept an ear cocked. Jacqui was agitated for sure, but all Tamara managed to pick up was, ‘Look, I’ll come, okay, I swear. I promised and I won’t let you down.’
Jacqui’s game had gone to hell after that and so had hers, Jacqui too distracted and she too absorbed in watching her lose her edge and wondering why. To top it off, she hadn’t had the gall to retrieve the visor without feeling she’d need to explain why she’d put it away in the first place, and now her face was fried. Tamara rubbed the red surface of her forehead and hissed at the soreness. A sparkle of tears prickled in the back of her eyes. It looked majorly disgusting, and when it started peeling and make-up couldn’t hide it, just forget it. Why the hell was she always obsessing over Jacqui? Why couldn’t she learn to focus on her own bloody life?