Bad Seeds

by Jassy Mackenzie

  “Looks like an explosive device. The vehicle’s undercarriage is severely damaged.”

  “Casualties? Survivors?” Mweli was wondering exactly when her precinct had turned into the Wild West. A bomb? In Randfontein? That was as unlikely as—as South Africa winning the 2018 World Cup.

  “Nobody on the scene at all, ma’am. No driver, no casualties. The vehicle’s abandoned.”

  “Tell the team not to move it till I get there. And not under any circumstances to have it towed. I’m on my way now, and you can call the bomb squad and ask them to meet me.”

  Placing her palm on the arm of the couch, Mweli heaved herself to her feet and followed the worn path in the beige carpet that led from the couch to the living room door.

  Twenty minutes later, she arrived at the scene. Metro Police had followed instructions. They’d cordoned off a safe distance around the vehicle and blocked the entire road with traffic cones. Occasional passing cars were detoured through the side streets. As soon as she climbed out of the car, two young Metro cops, both wearing excited expressions and carrying heavy-duty flashlights, hurried over to her, offered a quick greeting and escorted her to the damaged sports car.

  Or rather, not all the way there. They stopped a safe distance away and regarded it cautiously. Grabbing a flashlight from the nearest cop, Mweli made the last few steps of the journey on her own, picking her way through chunks of metal, her feet crunching on broken glass.

  It would be more accurate to say this car had once been a Porsche. It was expensive, new and irreparable. She shined the flashlight onto the car’s undercarriage and drew in a sharp breath as she saw a gaping, ragged crater.

  Metro Police had not exaggerated. This, with little doubt, was the work of explosives. Where one had detonated, there might be more, which she assumed was the reason for the cautious attitude of the young constables.

  She moved carefully around the vehicle, assessing, breathing in the lingering smell of metal and plastic that had torn and burned. The trunk was empty, as were the seats, which were relatively undamaged by the blast. She narrowed her eyes and shined the light carefully on a smear of blood on the pale leather upholstery. Only a smear.

  She guessed that the driver had been alone, and he’d certainly been lucky. He hadn’t waited around, for which Mweli couldn’t exactly blame him.

  So who was he, and where had he come from?

  Thankfully, this car had an undamaged rear license plate, whose number Mweli jotted down. Then, training the flashlight beam on the faded tarmac, she trudged down the road in the direction of the motel.

  A few steps later, her guess was rewarded when the beam picked up two thick, parallel stripes on the road.

  This explosion hadn’t come from nowhere. The driver had not been unaware. He’d been speeding off, racing away. Why? Had someone been chasing him? Had he known something had been about to go wrong?

  Keeping her light carefully focused on the dark tire marks, Mweli walked down the street, step by deliberate step. A minute later, a sense of inevitability came over her as she found herself tracing their curving path through a sharp right-hand turn into the driveway of the Best Western motel.

  Looking across the forecourt to the well-lit scene on the road outside, she saw that the bomb squad had arrived. Their white van was parked a safe distance from the damaged car, and two uniformed technicians were widening the cordon.

  Narrowing her eyes against the glare from the lights, Mweli stepped off the walkway and planted her foot in a deep puddle that lurked on the side of the tarmac. She swore softly as the cold water seeped through the crack in the side of her shoe. Her sock turned cold and squelchy in an instant.

  Moving forward more carefully, squelching with each alternate step, Mweli headed to the office for a list of residents and their vehicles, and then made a tour of the motel’s parking area.

  Mr. Carlos Botha was the owner of the ruined Porsche. But Botha was no longer in his room. Mweli hadn’t expected to find him there—life was never so easy. Why he’d fled, and who had sabotaged his car, were questions that she could only hope tomorrow might answer.

  For the time being, she could do no more. The bomb squad was still at work, and based on their findings, the case might even be transferred to another department. Organized Crime would be her guess. Headed up by that new hotshot superintendent—what was his name? Ah, yes, David Patel.

  As she was heading back to her truck, Mweli saw something that hadn’t been there when she left it. A large brown envelope, crumpled and damp, had been placed under her windscreen wiper.

  She was about to grasp it when her brain finally caught up with her actions.

  Wait.

  Who had put it there, and why?

  She glanced from side to side, unable to prevent the chills that suddenly prickled her spine at the thought she was being watched. But the roads were quiet. The ruined Porsche was gone now, winched onto the back of a tow truck after it had been photographed from all angles and declared explosive free.

  Mweli rummaged in the back of her truck for a pair of gloves. It was unlikely this coarse brown paper would hold any prints, but procedures had to be followed. After stretching them on, she lifted the wiper and removed the envelope. It was unsealed and felt heavy. She peered inside and could not help a hiss of indrawn breath as she stared down at a wad of banknotes.

  And then, from in her pocket, she heard the trill of her cell phone.

  Mweli nearly dropped the envelope. She placed it hurriedly on her truck’s hood and looked to see who was calling.

  Number withheld.

  “Hello?” She could hear she sounded sharp, stressed.

  “Detective.” In contrast, the caller’s voice was a silken purr. Mweli stared wildly to her left and right, clutching for straws of evidence that would help with an ID.

  She saw only the muted lights of the town in front, the blinding crime-scene spotlights behind. Otherwise, darkness. And she was certain she’d never heard this voice before. It was deliberately low and soft. The speaker was a man. She couldn’t detect a foreign accent or any other distinguishing traits.

  “Forget about the woman,” the speaker continued. “She’s a nobody. A hired prostitute. Identifying her would only bring shame to Loodts’s family. He was a well-respected man.” For a moment, the voice took on a wheedling tone before hardening again. “We’ve left an incentive for you on the windscreen. We hope it will be enough to convince you. We don’t want to have to resort to anything further.”

  “Wait,” Mweli began, her voice hoarse, but the caller did not wait.

  With a click, he disconnected.

  Chapter Fifteen

  For that night, the best solution Jade could think of was to check into a big hotel in a busy part of town. Safety in numbers, she decided. She still felt uneasy, as if danger was following close behind.

  It was nearly midnight by the time they reached central Sandton, but the Central Business District was still humming. There was traffic on the roads, lights on in apartment windows. They followed two large tour buses down Grayston Drive. The buses stopped in front of the Radisson Blu, opposite the Gautrain station.

  Jade drove around to the basement parking, and after a jog to the elevator, they arrived at reception second in line, with one German couple in front of them, and a large, noisy group of tourists behind.

  The hotel had just two available rooms: one standard room on the fourth floor, and one family room on the tenth, which had two bedrooms. “I’ll take the family room,” Jade said, handing over her ID. “Name’s de Jong.”

  Botha paid in cash, handing over a slim sheaf of crisp notes. In the pressured rush of checking them in as fast as possible, the receptionist didn’t notice that he hadn’t supplied his ID.

  The hotel was spacious, with a stunning view of Sandton from the window in the elegant lounge area. Everything in th
e room smelled clean and fresh. The television was enormous and flat-screen; the leather furniture was plush. All in all, this room was about as far removed from the Best Western motel as one could imagine.

  Going back to the door, Jade checked that it was properly closed. This was a modern hotel with key cards. She would have preferred one with an old-fashioned security chain on the inside. Sure, an intruder could break a chain, but the sound gave you some warning. What warning would there be if someone got hold of a master key card? Nothing more than the buzz and click of the latch before the door swung soundlessly open, the intruder’s footsteps muffled by the thick pile carpet.

  That scenario had been one of her recurring nightmares ever since the night when her father’s killer had come for her. Alone in the house, she’d woken from a troubled sleep to hear floorboards creaking in the passage. She’d escaped through the window moments before he’d forced the flimsy lock and broken into her bedroom.

  As she checked the door, she felt the cell phone in her pocket start to ring. Her heart accelerated in sync with its persistent buzzing. She glanced behind her to make sure Botha wasn’t watching, and then took a quick glance at the caller ID.

  It was Gillespie on the line.

  A call at this hour had to be important. She’d have to phone him back as soon as possible. The rest of Botha’s story would have to wait till tomorrow.

  “I guess we’ll be okay here for tonight,” she said. “Let’s meet up at eight in the morning. We can talk then and decide what to do. Where to go.”

  Botha nodded. Jade thought he looked relieved by her decision. He was hollow-eyed with exhaustion, and she wondered just how many sleepless nights had contributed to this.

  “Sleep well,” he said before closing his bedroom door.

  “You, too,” Jade said.

  She waited a minute in case he came out again, prowling impatiently around the suite. Taking a biscuit from the jar, she crunched down on its chocolatey sweetness, suddenly craving the sugar hit. Then she closed her bedroom door so that he’d think she had gone inside, left the suite and walked swiftly down the corridor to the elevators where she called Gillespie back.

  “Jade. Where are you?” He sounded worried.

  “I’ve checked into a hotel in Sandton,” she told him.

  “What is happening with Botha? I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m on the run with him.”

  “On the run?” Gillespie echoed, his voice high.

  “The man who was murdered is Mr. Loodts, from Inkomfe. Botha went to the motel to meet him. I happened to hear intruders breaking into Botha’s room, so we left in a hurry. They’d wired his car to explode, so I ended up giving him a ride to safety.”

  Her statement was met by a short pause. If silences could talk, Jade guessed Gillespie’s would have sounded shell-shocked. “That’s crazy. Absolutely beyond belief. Loodts? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. He had his ID on him.”

  “Jesus, Jade. I . . . I don’t know what to say. I think I have to discuss this with you in person,” he said eventually. “I need to see you.”

  “Okay,” Jade said. “Tomorrow morning?” She and Botha would have to go to a police station to report the accident. Maybe she could slip away afterward.

  “I don’t want to wait till then,” Gillespie told her. “Tonight would be better.”

  “Tonight?” Jade echoed, incredulous. It was well after eleven. Her eyes were red and scratchy, and every cell in her body felt depleted from stress. But Gillespie was her client. He called the shots. He paid her the money. Well, he’d promised to, at any rate. If he wanted to see her, she would have to go. “Where are you?”

  “At Inkomfe. I’ve been double-checking our perimeter fences.”

  Jade’s heart sank. Inkomfe was more than an hour’s drive from Sandton. Exhaustion wasn’t her main problem anymore. Her main problem was what would happen if Botha discovered she was gone.

  “If you can,” Gillespie said, but his tone told her it was an order, not a request.

  So much for a good night’s sleep in that sumptuous bed. She took her car key out of her pocket and rode down in the elevator. Ten minutes later she was driving out of Sandton, heading west on streets that were now quiet and empty.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Late as it was, the guard at Inkomfe’s main gate looked alert as he stopped her, searching her car thoroughly. This time, she didn’t have the press invitation that had opened doors for her so easily, and she wasn’t directed to the same welcoming reception area. Instead, he told her to drive straight up to the closest parking lot and to go through the main security entrance.

  The brilliant white walling and space-age décor she remembered from last time had not been installed in this building. The walls here were painted a dull, industrial gray with a yellow stripe at waist level. Steel signs with printed safety warnings were prominently displayed. Other notices directed her to areas whose functions she could only guess at from their Zulu names. Amahhovisi. Behlangana. Inqaba.

  One of the guards at the desk escorted her to an office down the corridor where Jade was photographed and fingerprinted.

  She saw a printed warning on the wall which read, attention, all visitors. no cell phones permitted in the complex. please hand your phones, cameras and id in to reception for safekeeping.

  Safekeeping? Jade hoped they wouldn’t ask her for her possessions, but of course they did.

  “Your ID, please,” the guard said. “And I need your cell phone and any cameras.”

  “I don’t have a camera,” Jade said. She handed over her driver’s license and cell phone. Instead of giving it back, he placed the items in a labeled box.

  “Wait!” Jade told him. “Can I make a phone call?”

  The guard frowned. Clearly she was defying protocol.

  “I’ll hand it in as soon as I’ve finished,” she said. “Or I can go out to my car and make the call there.”

  He gave a nod. “All right. Make your call, and then I’ll take you to the waiting room.”

  Praying Gillespie would answer quickly, Jade dialed his number.

  “Are you there already?” He sounded surprised. She could hear loud noise in the background—clattering and bangs.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not there yet. I’m going to be another half hour. Tell them to take you to the waiting room.”

  Jade bit her lip. Hadn’t Gillespie had said he was on-site earlier? Another half hour seemed like a very long time. But she was already here, committed.

  She handed her phone to the guard, who gave her an ID tag on a lanyard in exchange. “You must keep this on you at all times,” he told her.

  The guard led her through a warren of corridors. Up ahead, a steel security gate blocked the way. Quickly, he pressed a code into a keypad, and the gate snapped open. After another couple of turns, he opened a door on the left and showed her to a waiting room. This was not as welcoming a space as the visitors’ center had been. Uncomfortable-looking metal benches lined the walls. In the corner, a large urn bubbled. Sachets of coffee and sugar were stacked on a nearby shelf, together with plastic cups and spoons.

  The waiting room was chilly, and the neon light was hard on the eyes, but these were minor problems compared to the fact that she was supposed to be in bed and asleep in her luxury hotel suite. Her cover was shaky to begin with. If Botha realized that she was investigating him, her assignment was finished, and she could find herself in worse danger.

  Her head snapped around as she heard the faraway blare of a horn from somewhere down the passage. Was it Gillespie arriving earlier than expected?

  She retraced her steps after making a couple of wrong turns. The place was a concrete-walled labyrinth. And it didn’t help her mood when she arrived at the security gate she had originally come through, only to find it locked.

 
Realistically, she was still so far from the parking lot that she shouldn’t have heard a horn. But there it was again, somewhere within earshot.

  “Hello!” she shouted, pounding on the dull metal to no avail and feeling like a prisoner in a holding cell. “Anyone there?”

  Her voice reverberated through the empty corridors.

  She stomped back toward the waiting room, but on the way saw another passage leading to the left.

  Had the sound come from there? Curious, Jade walked down the new hallway and reached another solid door a minute later. She assumed it would be locked like all the others, but tried the handle in any case. It moved smoothly under her grasp, and she nearly fell over in surprise when the door opened.

  She found herself standing outside, in a floodlit courtyard. In the distance, Jade saw the taillights of a departing van and heard the third and final blast of its horn, louder this time. It was one of the vehicles she’d seen on her tour, which transported the nuclear waste to its dumping site. Gillespie had mentioned that they traveled at night. This one must be setting off on its journey.

  From the left, she heard the rattle of a cart. An elderly black man wearing khaki overalls had come out of a door on the opposite side of the courtyard, pushing a cart piled high with garbage bags.

  The man glanced in her direction. When he saw her closing the door, he stopped in his tracks and stared at her open-mouthed, looking her up and down as if he’d seen a ghost.

  “Eish,” he said. “This I cannot believe. In forty years, I have never seen such a thing. Never, ever.”

  “Seen what?” Jade said, glancing down at herself with some concern in case she hadn’t noticed a bloodstain on her shirt, or mud on her socks or a large tarantula clinging to her cargo pants. The way he was staring, there had to be something very wrong, but although her clothing was a bit scuffed, she couldn’t see any blood or spiders.

  “I am shocked,” the man said, abandoning his cart and walking toward her.