‘It’s Tiffany Zaldain not Zaider. And The Star is speculating. She didn’t break her neck – well, they don’t think she broke her neck. She died in hospital, not at the house,’ Tracy muttered. ‘They always get their facts wrong.’
‘So give me the facts. Who was this woman? What was she doing at the Silvermans? For fuck’s sake, Ms Jacobs – I think I’m going to ask Duduzile to take over.’
‘No!’ Tracy yelped. ‘No. I can handle it. I just... they’re my friends!’
‘So what are friends for? A story, TT. A decent story. And it’s deadline in 30 minutes so get fucking moving.’
Twenty-five minutes later Tracy filed her story. It was, she knew, a bloody good one. She’d left nothing out: Tiffany’s marriage to Cecil Zaldain, a man at least 30 years her senior, and then being stranded in America after Zaldain’s death until rescued by Yair; Tiffany’s and Yair’s long on-again, off-again relationship (Tracy had speculated a bit here but why else had Tiffany hinted very strongly that she and Yair had slept together in Avi’s bedroom years before?). She had even included the facts that made her sick to her stomach even as she typed the words... pregnancy, engagement, argument. All details that no-one else had made public, yet. Details that provided a pretty good motive for murder. And the police had unofficially confirmed that a charge of murder or culpable homicide might be investigated. It all depended on the autopsy report. Hating herself, she had also added a couple of paragraphs about the bizarre death of Yair Silverman’s mother, Brenda, a couple of years before and how suspicion had fallen on Yair’s father, Alan, who had died before he could be charged.
She had held nothing back. Every sordid fact was there, in digital black and white. There was nothing for Mafuta to complain about. Her story was that journalistic holy grail – a Scoop with a capital S.
‘Well, well, well TT. We’ll make a journalist of you yet,’ Mafuta crowed as he finished reading. ‘You are sure about this? She was pregnant? They argued?’
‘Yes. They told me themselves. They thought I was their friend,’ she muttered as she ran out of the newsroom. She couldn’t let Mafuta or Duduzile see her cry.
Chapter 6
Tracy
Tracy squeezed her eyes closed and swatted blindly at the invisible, high-pitched whine. The evil little mosquito buzzing around her head flew off. But it would be back. It was persistent. And clever. And mean. It knew exactly when she was just about to drop off and then would come zooming back, almost into her ear, keeping sleep at bay. She debated whether to get up and plug in a ‘mozzie mat’, but she didn’t have the energy. Anyway, it wouldn’t work. Despite the claim on the box—‘keeps mosquitos away for 12 hours’—it was useless. She should report the manufacturers to the Advertising Complaints Commission for false advertising. She knew she’d be covered in bites in the morning. Mozzies just adored her blood. She could be in a room with one hundred people and one mosquito – and she’d be the only one to get bitten. She should have closed her windows before going to bed but it was so hot. All the evening Highveld storm had done was to compound her sweltering misery with horrible humidity that would ensure her hair was an even worse-than-usual tangle of knotted frizz in the morning.
She tossed her duvet off again, dabbed at her wet forehead with the back of her hand, and glanced at her cellphone on the bedside table. Only forty-five minutes since she had last checked the time. She groaned. Her alarm would go off in less than two hours and she hadn’t slept a wink. She propped herself up on her left elbow and pummelled her pillow. She flung herself down, rolled over, closed her eyes and willed the image of Yair in handcuffs to go away. The mozzie shrieked just above her left ear. She ignored it and kept her eyes closed.
She woke. She was cold. She swore and reached for her duvet. It always got colder just before dawn.
‘Please don’t let it be morning. I can’t face today. Please don’t let it be morning,’ she muttered in a futile mantra. Her alarm clock played the Big Ben chimes. She let them play on.
Her bedroom door slammed open and an avenging demon in a pink satin robe with flying black hair and a folded newspaper in her fist appeared at the foot of her bed. Tracy hoped it was a dream – one of the nightmare scenes her mind had played over and over again through the long, miserable night.
‘I’ve been waiting for you to wake up,’ her mother said.
‘Go away. I’m still sleeping.’
‘No you’re not. No one could sleep through the racket your alarm makes. Don’t tell me you wrote this.’
The newspaper landed right next to her face on the pillow.
‘Wrote what Mom? If my byline is on it, I wrote it. If not, I probably didn’t.’
‘Don’t be facetious. You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
Tracy sat up and glanced at the Daily Express, and then grabbed it in both hands. And stared. Wow. They hadn’t just given her a byline – there was her photograph right next to her name. On page one. Under the headline: ‘Silverman, pregnant fiancée, argued before her death’. Shit! They couldn’t have been more accusatory if they’d tried.
‘Is this true? She was pregnant? They were engaged?’ Maxine demanded.
‘Yes.’
‘But there’s nothing about this in The Star. And I listened to Radio 702 and they are just quoting from your story. Good God, Tracy – why can’t you leave the Silvermans alone? I thought Yair was your friend. Actually, I thought he was more than your friend. Hey! You didn’t write it because... well because he... because you’re jealous about him and Tiffany? Was that why you were crying when you came home from the party? I knew you didn’t have a migraine. You never get migraines.’
‘No!’ Tracy yelled. ‘No. I’m not jealous. Why would I be? We’re just friends. That’s all. Anyway, is that what you think of me? That I’d make up a terrible story like this out of spite?’
‘No, of course not. You’re my daughter. But it isn’t in The Star!’
‘Mom, I’ve told you before. The Star is not the flipping news bible. It’s a newspaper, like the Daily Express. Journalists work there. Journalists just like me. This time, I got the scoop, which just goes to prove—as I always tell you—that I’m a good reporter.’
‘But you’ve made it seem like Yair is another Oscar Pistorius, killing his girlfriend...’
‘Nonsense! No! No way! I never said that. This is nothing like Oscar Pistorius. No one got shot cowering behind the toilet door. Tiffany... well, no one knows yet exactly what happened to Tiffany. It could have been an accident and... and, even if it wasn’t, there’s no proof Yair had anything to do with it. He would never hurt anyone – not like that!’
But even as she spoke the words, Tracy knew she was grasping at straws. If Tiffany hadn’t tripped and fallen down the stairs—if it turned out that she had been pushed—there was more than enough evidence against Yair, maybe not to convict him, but to put him right at the top of the list of suspects. And she had helped to put him there.
***
Tracy hurried across the newsroom to her desk, ignoring the sarcastic applause from Mafuta and Duduzile. She knew she was late. They didn’t have to rub her nose in it. But really, was it her fault the stupid municipality couldn’t keep the traffic lights working, especially at major intersections? Was it her fault that the fucking minibus taxis were a law unto themselves and that this morning, of all mornings, a guy driving a BMW had decided not to wait for the taxi that had ignored the red light? Traffic had come to a standstill while they tried to get the taxi passengers into ambulances and the debris off the road. She tumbled into her chair, switched on her computer and waited for Mafuta’s coming tirade.
‘Good job, TT,’ Mafuta said as he approached her desk, still applauding. ‘But what the fuck are you doing here?’
Tracy’s jaw dropped. Mafuta congratulating her? She glanced out the window, but there were no pigs flying past.
‘I didn’t think you’d come in this morning. I thought you’d be at Silverman’s house – this
is Oscar Pistorius all over again. Mark my words. Everyone is going to be crawling all over it, so get going.’
‘But... are you sure? What about Mpho? It’s a crime story, maybe, and he knows the cops...’
‘Mpho is working the cops from here. You know the family. I want an interview with Yere Silverman. Don’t come back till you have it.’
‘It’s pronounced Ya-Ir not Yere,’ she blurted as the blood drained from her face. Interview Yair? Was Mafuta crazy? She’d be the last person he’d speak to. She couldn’t face him, not after what she had done to him. And poor Stembiso... what if he got into trouble for speaking to her? She just couldn’t do it.
‘I don’t give a fuck how Mr Oscar Silverman pronounces his name. Get going – and take Precious with you.’
Tracy picked up her notebook and walked reluctantly towards the photographers’ office to call Precious.
‘Good story, Tracy. I trust you are following it up?’
Tracy looked back. Mr February was standing at his office door. He was smiling. At her. The editor did know that she existed!
‘Yes. Yes. Of course. Yes. I’m... I’m just getting a photographer and I’ll be heading to the Silverman house... Yes. Thank you. Thank you very much. I won’t let you down,’ Tracy said and flew down the corridor on winged feet.
***
By the time Buttercup had spluttered to a halt behind a long row of what she presumed were media cars lining the street outside the Silverman house, Tracy’s euphoria had evaporated. She had no idea what to do next. Should she just join the throng of reporters standing outside the Silvermans’ high gates? Should she ring the intercom and ask nicely to be let in – as a family friend? Should she try and phone Yair and... and what? Say what? Ask what? Ask him if she could come in and speak to him? Ask him to explain why he had lied to her – or not exactly lied, but even he’d have to admit that he’d played her for a fool. So perhaps she would just ask him why he had humiliated her. And then, while he was fumbling for an answer, ask him why he had pushed Tiffany down the stairs. If he denied it—when he denied it because there was no way he would have deliberately hurt anyone, not physically—she would still have a story: ‘Yair Silverman denies pushing pregnant fiancée’.
‘TT, are we going to sit here all day?’ Precious asked.
‘What? No. Of course not. Let’s go. And don’t forget your camera.’
‘Very funny,’ Precious sniffed and slammed the car door so hard, Tracy flinched. Precious might have improved as a photographer over the years, but her sense of humour hadn’t. She hated being teased about her rookie incompetence when she missed getting great photographs because she didn’t have her camera with her, but Tracy hadn’t been teasing. This was too big a story for Precious to mess up.
‘Make way. Make way for the next Pulitzer Prize winner Tracy Jacobs of the Daily Express,’ Lerato announced as she approached her media colleagues. ‘Who told you she was pregnant? Or about the fight? By the way, where’s Mpho?’
‘Morning Lerato. Morning everyone. What’s up?’ Tracy said and smiled sweetly at The Star’s crime reporter as she pushed past him and walked directly to the intercom. She pressed the buzzer. She waited. She could see a police car parked at the house, and a big silver Mercedes she didn’t recognise. She buzzed again. And again. She tried to ignore the titters of her so-called colleagues. She could feel her cheeks growing hot.
‘Oh Great One. It looks like you are just going to have to stand out here and wait, like the rest of us mortals,’ Lerato crowed.
Tracy glared at him. She moved closer to the gates, pulled out her cellphone and called Yair’s number. She held her breath and prayed that he’d answer. And prayed that he wouldn’t.
‘Tracy,’ Yair said.
‘Open the gate. I need to speak to you,’ she whispered.
‘So you can screw me over again...’
‘No! No I never... Open the gate and let me in. I can’t speak to you from here,’ she whispered frantically, aware that everyone had fallen silent and was straining to hear her conversation.
‘The cops say this is a crime scene.’
‘It is? I mean is it? What happened...’
‘You tell me. I only know what I read in the newspapers,’ Yair said.
‘Yair! Let me explain,’ Tracy began but Yair had hung up. She blinked furiously as Lerato sidled up to her.
‘Go away,’ Tracy said. ‘Just go away.’
‘Oooh, just because you couldn’t get another little scoop is no reason to cry.’
‘Oh fuck off!’ Tracy pushed back through the crowd, crossed the street and sat down on the pavement in the shade of a Jacaranda tree. She held on to her cellphone, willing it to ring. She checked her text messages, her WhatsApps, her missed calls, her voice messages, everything. Over and over. Nothing. Yair didn’t contact her. He wasn’t going to contact her. He hated her, there was no question about that now. She sniffed.
***
Tracy waited. Like all the other reporters, photographers, TV crews, she waited. The minutes crawled past. She played Solitaire on her cellphone, then stopped. She was using up too much battery.
There was a flurry of excitement as another police car arrived and drove through the gates, which quickly closed again. And then they waited again. Precious wandered over, sat down next to her, fumbled in her camera bag and withdrew a bottle of water. She opened it, took a sip and offered it to Tracy, who shook her head.
‘What do you think is going on?’
‘How would I know?’ Tracy snapped.
‘I thought you had inside information.’
‘Well, I don’t.’ Not any more, she added silently.
They waited.
The gates opened. The horde of journalists scrambled out of the way as three cars emerged. Precious shot to her feet and snapped away. Tracy just caught of glimpse of Yair in the second vehicle, which looked like an unmarked police car as it turned down the street and raced away, closely followed by the Mercedes and another police car. Yair looked right through her.
She jumped as her cellphone rang. Mafuta.
‘TT. Be alert. Mpho just heard that Yair Silverman is the prime suspect in the death of his fiancée.’
‘I think he might already have been arrested,’ she whispered.
Chapter 7
Carol
It wasn’t so much the loudness of the knock on the door that startled her, it was the force with which the door was flung open.
‘Carol Aronowitz,’ he said, filling the doorway with his bulk.
‘That’s what it says on the door, and that’s my name,’ she replied, as she did every week. ‘Good morning Shlomo. You’re early. Our appointment isn’t until 10 o’clock. If you’d like to sit in the waiting room, I’ll call you when I’m ready for you. As you can see, I’m busy.’
She indicated the pile of case files on her desk. She had a mountain of process reports to complete but she hadn’t managed to get through nearly as many as she had hoped, despite having come in early. But the glimpse of the newspaper poster on her way to work had shocked her and she’d grabbed a copy of the Daily Express from the pile in the foyer as she hurried to her office.
‘I’m not waiting,’ Shlomo said, and shuffled towards her. ‘I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to sit around while you read newspapers.’
‘Fine. Okay. Leave the door open,’ she said and turned the newspaper over so that Shlomo could not see the front page story that she had read and reread so many times she virtually knew it by heart.
‘Have you still got that cold? You always sound like you’ve got a cold, not that I care. You are all a bunch of fucking shits.’ He oozed onto the orange plastic chair opposite her.
‘I don’t have a cold,’ she said, breathing through her mouth. She leaned back in her chair and tried not to grimace as the fat man’s breath assailed her. She wished her desk was wider; it wouldn’t have made much difference in terms of her client’s body odour or halitosis, but it would have pr
ovided a little more protection from the spittle that accompanied his every word, particularly those containing B’s and P’s and S’s.
‘Bloody shits. You are all fucking shits. Crooks and shits. I’ve just been to admin. They won’t give me my money,’ he said
Carol pulled a tissue from the box on her desk and wiped her cheek. ‘Shlomo, I’ve told you. You will no longer receive your full grant from the Chev until you agree to random drug tests.’
‘And I’ve told you, I’m not using. I need the money. I’m starving. I can’t survive on what you give me. And I can’t get a job because I need new clothes for the interviews...’
‘There were new clothes in the parcel we gave you last month. And some soap to wash them, and an iron. There was also bath soap, toothpaste and deodorant. What did you do with that parcel, Shlomo?’
‘I gotta eat,’ he whined. ‘I can’t eat the shit meals you deliver. They’re bad enough warm, but even a dog wouldn’t eat them cold.’
‘What happened to the microwave we gave you? You didn’t sell that too, did you?’
Shlomo wobbled to his feet, slammed both his hands on the desk and leered over it towards her. ‘Get off my case. Just get off my fucking case. I’ve had it with you. All of you. You are supposed to take care of Jews who need help but you treat me like I’m a piece of shit and you don’t give a damn that I’m sick and I need money and you just wait and see what I’m going to tell the Jewish Report about how you treat people, people you are supposed to help, and I’m going to tell that fucking arsehole Chief Rabbi just how useless you are and that you steal the money donated by the community to use for yourselves and...’
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