by HJ Golakai
“No need. We’re all friends here.” Nico settled his rump on the edge of his desk and brought his hands together in a dull clap. “Let’s hear exactly what happened out there.”
“Umm, well. I’m sure you’ve been through the rough draft of the story I sent you last night. I know we already got something in for the Monday print run, but for Wednesday’s we’ll be going much deeper.”
“And the travel piece is completed and filed,” Chlöe piped up.
“Fully complete,” Vee echoed, nodding along.
“I’d like a face-to-face regaling of your adventures. Humour me.”
“Um.” Vee cleared her throat. “So … what had happened was …”
It didn’t take long. She avoided the scenic route and kept to the highway, managing to get in as much detail as possible with neither obfuscation nor embellishment. It was a hard story to come out of looking a justified champion. She couldn’t read much on either Nico or Portia’s face.
“Interesting,” said Nico.
“Hhmm!” said Portia.
“You can’t write it,” he continued. “Khaya and Andrew are stepping in to give us a really tight main. Hand your draft over to them, a copy of your police statement –”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Vee felt the hinge of her jaw slowly drop and pull itself back up. “How – what the hell do you mean I can’t write it? This is my story – our story. We saw it go down, how can you take it away?!”
“Can you stick to your inside voice in this office?” Nico snapped. He drew a calming breath. “You’re right, that’s why I have to take it away. You guys are more than too close to this, you are it. You’re right in the centre.”
“Exactly. For once we were there as the news happened, not hustling for a scoop with a hundred other vultures. That’s prime perspective.”
“Perspective that’s not objective. Your involvement means you’re part of an open investigation.”
“But it –”
Nico held up his hand. “It may not be an issue any more. If the police believe you’re perfectly in the clear, that’s great. For us and you. But there’s a possibility that it could change, and we need to consider that for legal reasons. From a journalistic standpoint, you know as well as I do you can’t report on events that happened to you. Newspaper,” he jabbed his finger in the newsroom’s direction, “not tell-all publisher.”
A knot clogged her breathing. The thought of absolute smugness radiating off the faces of Khaya and Andrew was almost too much to bear. “This isn’t fair,” she blustered.
“Fair isn’t the issue. This is how it has to go. Hand over your notes and whatever else you have so far to the crime desk so they can get a jump on a working layout. The word is out; the dailies have already run a dozen versions of this. They know two of our people were out there, and they know which ones. Some of them want an interview –” his hand shot up again over Vee and Chlöe’s protests, “– a request which has been denied for now. Not until we get back on top of it. The sooner you both get on with a sit-down with one of our own while it’s all still fresh in your minds, the better.” Nico absorbed their expressions. The points of his shoulders softened a touch. “Look, this isn’t even a lead story.”
“But it could be!” they chorused.
“It could possibly be. As it is, it’s simply not juicy enough. Yes it’s a murder but so what, welcome to one of the most violent countries anywhere. Juicy would be stumbling across kickbacks and bribery in the LEAD investment ranks. Or the bidders stealthily bumping each other off for the edge. All we have so far is a dead business owner. And he’s no Tokyo Sexwale.”
“We’re not even forty-eight hours in yet.”
“Still plenty of time to run stale in the news business.”
“That’s why we’re investigators. We dig. We’ll find more, ’cause there always is. This wasn’t some random shindig. LEAD’s a pretty big deal right now. We can’t afford to sleep on this.” Vee heard the childish quaver in her voice but couldn’t control it.
“All true. But you can’t write this story. Think about it. You know it makes sense.” He waited, scrutinising her face as it sunk in. “You can get a crack at it later on, maybe hit it from a different angle. Insider’s insight or something. But you can’t take the lead on what happened at The Grotto this weekend.”
Vee’s sandals ate up the floor in long strides, her shoulders tight, angry juts as she approached. Chlöe deflated. The debrief must’ve been a bitch of an ordeal then. She could only imagine it: Vee fighting to keep her cool, reciting details through clenched teeth; Khaya nodding with overplayed gravitas as he rewound and nitpicked her statement as a beaming Andrew flicked his fat, hairy fingers through their write-up, their hard work.
“How’d it go?”
“Assholes.” Vee tossed her notebook across her desk. It skidded, sending pieces of stationery skittering off the tabletop to the floor. A few co-workers met her gaze and scuttled theirs back to their paperwork.
“Umm, are we actual pissed or pretend pissed?”
“Dah so-so bullshit heah!”
“Okaaay, actual pissed it is.”
Vee sagged against the desk and dropped her head into her hands. Chlöe scooted a chair over, dropping her voice. “Come on, you really didn’t see this coming? You had to. We can’t write a story we were – you especially were – in the thick of.”
Vee looked up, almost tearful. “I know. Deep down of course I knew … it’s just …” Her head shook, then reared like a fearsome dragon’s. “It’s ours. And we sure as hell keepin’ it.”
“How?”
“You heard what he said in there. We can’t do the angle about this weekend. Let those two dummies enjoy swinging their dicks around. The story they’ll do is a one-shot, one-off. But if it was an investigation …” Befuddled, Chlöe nodded along to her enthusiasm, unsure of what else to say. “Meaning if we turn this around, if we get something solid then it’s officially ours again, and of course we’ll be taking the by-line.”
“Ehhhh …” Chlöe narrowed her eyes, “that’s not quite what I heard Nico say.”
“Yes it is. What we need is a game-plan.”
“Isn’t that what I –”
“Because if we slack off those two idiots will muscle us out completely, which ain’t happenin’. First thing, let’s get an edgier angle on the LEAD rigmarole. Nobody wants to read another dry regurgitation of another scheme fluffing every promising start-up. They can grab a financial daily for that. They’ll be in it for the murder; that’s the angle we push. A participant was strangled at their conference – we can count on it being linked to them. Let’s poke around Berman’s personal life first, though. We’ve already put together a file on the stuff we can get easily enough, so let’s probe deeper. Who knows, maybe his ex-wife got shafted in the divorce or suffered a delayed psychotic break, drove all the way out there to get her own back. She could be spilling her guts to the cops right now, cut the whole palaver short.” Vee stroked her nose. “Though I think the venue and the viciousness combined makes this a non-domestic beef, personalised to LEAD. Start looking into the backgrounds of all the companies in depth. There’s bound to be a red flag flapping around.”
Chlöe barely masked a wince. In-depth anything meant mind-melting interviews. “All of them?”
“Well … the principals. The evaluation’s in the final stages. How many finalists would you say attended?”
“About,” Chlöe wagged her head, “a baker’s dozen. Companies, I mean. Maybe more. As to total number of attendants, whew. People were in cliques, some companies were represented by more than one staff member … hard to tell. But remember we got the list from the spokesperson and program organiser so it’s a snap to get a head count.” Please don’t say we’re going to interview each and every one on that list.
“Of course, we won’t need a face-to-face with everybody. That would be crazy.”
Chlöe gulped down relief.
“But with the to
p dogs, definitely. There’s more than one perspective to consider here and I know the best place to start.”
“About that. I’ve been trying Akhona Moloi all morning, you know, for an exclusive. I figured she’d be sympathetic to Chronicle journos above a couple of randoms, seeing as their debacle put us through the wringer. I’ve called Berman & Moloi Financials several times, no joy. I finally got hold of a personal assistant, who let me know it’s not happening, least not today. Moloi’s been tied up with the police since we left Oudtshoorn, going over her statement, possible motives, Gavin’s state of affairs I imagine. Sounds like right now they’re crawling up her ass. I mean, we can do our usual casual drop-by-and-push-in, but …”
“Yeah, I figured as much. If we plan on getting anything out of her, we can’t aggravate the situation or she’ll clam up. Nah, my head was in a different direction, for a different slant. Think less to lose, therefore less reticent and more verbal diarrhoea.” A tiny smile danced in Vee’s eyes. She gave her thighs a determined pat, nodded and pushed off the edge of the desk. “Your car or mine?” she called, threading to her cubicle. She tossed a look over her shoulder. “Bishop, come on you geh, let’s hustle. There’s a ton of ground to cover.”
Phone to ear, Chlöe quickly pressed hold when the line picked up and lowered the call to her neck. “Sure, I’m right behind you. Lemme get that disk sent off and I’ll meet you outside.”
“You didn’t courier it already, after your debrief? Did you at least make copies?”
“Uhh, yeah I … I did, I did.” Chlöe nodded, a tad too emphatically she realised, and willed herself to stop. “Richie’s been busy and absent-minded. And you know how paranoid he gets about strange packages showing up to his address; don’t want him chucking it out. Let me make double-sure he knows to watch out for it and confirm delivery. It’s top priority, right.”
Vee frowned, eyes flicking over her from top to toe. Tucking a plastic binder under her arm, she said, “I’m outside.”
“You know I hate being on hold, CC. I could be traced.”
“Dude, go die. No-one would bother tracing you. You know I can’t stand people who stay in bed past twelve.”
“That’s kak, it’s not twe–”
“Blah blah blah, Richie, shit. Paranoia’s only cute when you’re actually important, so chill,” Chlöe snapped. “I need a favour. Ja, shut it, you’re doing it. And Vee had better not find out about it. Noooo … kind of … look, you’ll get it once I explain …”
Chapter Fifteen
“Bravo. Intensity meets practicality.” Ryan Walsh flashed a wide, guileless grin. “Short is always more eye-catching. Not that you need extra help.”
Vee touched her hair. “You’ve switched it up too, I see. Whole other vibe.” On him the crisp suit, a clipped and tame mane and pointy-toed shoes of blinding shine were an unsettling overhaul. If not for the glasses he’d be unrecognisable. “More professional, less unbridled nerd.”
Crunching on a ginger biscuit, Chlöe bounced a ‘what’s happening here’ squint between them. Vee shifted her weight in the plush armchair. “That being said, you need to elaborate, because I’m lost. We both are.”
“In the weeds,” Chlöe intoned into a glass of orange juice.
Walsh shrugged off his jacket with a murmured ‘excuse me’, lancing it with some disdain over the headrest of his swivel armchair. “What I meant when I said I’m done, is I’m done. Out. Pulling in the line, hitting the road. It’s a factor of – is the temperature okay in here? I can switch off the air-con. Would you ladies like more refreshments?”
“We’re fine,” they echoed.
His hands waved in defeat. “Sorry if I’m being a fusspot. We’ve recently redecorated. I’m used to more austere surroundings but since we’ve gotten sharkish about attracting bigger business, my assistant’s been on me to pull up my socks.” He looked around at the office’s aesthetic – tastefully printed curtains, furniture of heavy varnished wood, thick moss-green carpet – as if himself in awe. He met Vee’s eyes, lips tilting. “More classy, less unbridled nerd, I’d say.”
God, was he flirting? It was best to ignore it. “You should be stoked at how well you’re doing. Computer software developers aren’t exactly thick on the ground on the continent,” she said.
“It’s a growing industry, believe you me, and Africa’s not doing too badly keeping up. Of course business software and solutions, our core product, doesn’t and never will have the rabid popularity of gaming technology and cellphone apps, but,” he shrugged, “for a pack of boring old fogies we do alright.”
“Old fogey? At thirty-seven? And one of the wealthiest innovators we have? Tsk tsk. Is that you going for modest?” Chlöe grinned wickedly. “Might I recall SA’s Men’s Health, what, few years ago. Eligible bachelors list. Shirtless edition.”
Walsh bloomed red so immediately and intensely, Vee spluttered. An enduring quelle suprise it was, these blushes of white people, and far removed in real life from the phenomenon described in the novels she’d grown up reading. No gentle unfurling of rosebuds here; Walsh looked like overripe tomatoes had exploded under the epidermis of both his cheeks. She collected herself, hand over her mouth.
“Ag, man. That was … I was younger. More deluded. Thought myself more of a stud than I really was, as men are wont to do at some stage in life,” he blustered. He fiddled with the top button of his shirt as if they’d requested he unbutton it, or worse, like he anticipated one of them leaping across the desk and ripping it open. “Truly, I was dared by friends, it was only for publicity and a bit of a laugh.”
“That aside, from what I know of the field, I’d say The IT Factor does a lot better than alright,” Vee steered things back. “Way better, for a guy who started as a solo consultant at twenty-five and built up a respected company. You’re a self-made man. On your way to being the next Mark Shuttleworth.”
“I’ll say,” chimed Chlöe. “Wasn’t The ITF the one who did the records interface for that cluster of private schools a couple of years ago? And got one of the government contracts to do voter registration and national ID card systems?” She reeled at the looks she got. “What? I have a friend who’s a complete tech-head. He blabs on and on, regardless of whether I’m interested. It comes in handy now and again, when you meet the people who matter.”
Vee rolled her eyes surreptitiously as Walsh fussed behind his computer monitor, about to rupture from flushed pleasure. He briefly got up to speak to an employee in the doorway, and she leaned over. “Look, brown-noser, I know I said butter him up, but reel it in. You researched the company yesterday,” she hissed, almost forehead to forehead with Chlöe. “Lay it on any thicker and we’ll be wading through bullshit.”
“No, man. He’s a UCT graduate, like, a famous one. He gets invited to speak at their IT and innovation courses, was part of the graduate recruitment seminars few years in a row. Walsh is one of the alumni they still make a big fuss over. One of those who aren’t like me, if you get my meaning. And he gave us biscuits.”
“And I’d like to stay that way.” Walsh plopped back into his seat and swivelled the monitor to the wall, allotting them his full attention. “A self-made man, I mean. Not self-destructing. Extra emphasis on remaining made, which I hope to maintain by not falling into the age-old trap of chasing fool’s gold in the quest for instant and explosive success.”
Vee crinkled her nose. “LEAD was promising that? I don’t mean to sound rude, but from what I know and saw it didn’t look like it had that level of clout.”
“Ah.” He sighed. “They were definitely offering something too good to be true, certainly for this economy. And don’t be fooled by a humble exterior. This is merely the beginning, at least it’s meant to be. The venture’s government as well as privately funded, serving as an investment launch-pad for small and medium-sized businesses. Had it worked, Lord only knows what a formidable force it could’ve become.”
A speech heavily reminiscent of Berman the inflated bullf
rog’s soliloquy on the night of his death. Vee shuddered. “You’re eulogising. Fine, you’ve pulled out but surely this one little glitch isn’t the death knell of everything?”
“One little glitch?” Walsh tilted his head, expression that of a man wondering if she might indeed be a mere pretty face. “You clearly don’t grasp the magnitude of this.”
She bristled, pressed her lips tight, crossed her legs. “Why don’t you explain it.”
“Do you know what the date will be in three days?” His silence measured their blank stares. “First of April. Quite monumental, because come Thursday a new piece of legislation is poised to go into effect concerning the Codes of Good Practice. The laws governing varying aspects of black economic empowerment.” Another pause. “You do know –”
She perked a warning eyebrow. Dis man heah nah seriously about to give us a damn workshop on BEE like we stupid.
He chuckled. “Good, I can skip the lecture. I’m sure like most of the public, you’ve got a fair grasp of how our previously disadvantaged history has influenced the strategic landscape to the point of no return.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Vee shared a sidelong smirk with Chlöe.
“I say that like it has the potential to wreck the solid foundation that’s been built so far, if we’re not circumspect.” He used his chin to nod at a document atop his desk. “Peruse at will. It’s not confidential.”
“Pretty strongly worded,” she observed after flipping through the first two pages, passing it to Chlöe. “Was it necessary to be so …”
“Abrasively instructive?” He shrugged, then shook his head in disappointment. “LEAD has essentially been a time-wasting exercise. This memo expresses my displeasure and outlines the steps I think the committee should take, should have taken, or at the very least what pre-emptive strike they should have anticipated in this eventuality. The committee works with government officials and should’ve been abreast of changes that would affect our eligibility. But everyone just let it coast, thinking it would resolve itself magically. What’s left is a brewing mess. I mean, seriously.” His jaw worked as he rumpled the inch of hair he’d left unshorn. “In three days, at least five of fourteen companies will be out in the cold because of one simple amendment.”