“Bit of a difference there, Jim.”
“Well, you know how these things go. It depends on how good his lawyer is, how stubborn you both are.”
“Two years might not be long enough,” she said.
Jim chuckled. “Is that right?”
“Hmmm. And while this is ongoing I can’t sell?”
“No. Not while the will is being contested.”
“Fine.” There’s no way I’m getting stuck with this shit for two years. I want this done and finished. And I want it done yesterday. Rearranging her life in Cambridge had taken a colossal effort, and it wasn’t something she was planning to keep on hold forever. Certainly not for two years. There were a limited number of options for resolving the situation and a limited number of ways she could entice her opponents into ending this situation quickly. She had no doubt that Amahle would be offering her brother advice, and Amahle was most definitely a worthy adversary. “Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to tell them that I’ll agree to split the estate with Sipho—”
“What? Why? That’s a terrible—”
“If you’d let me finish. I was going to say on the condition that he takes a DNA test. If that proves he is my brother, then I’ll split the estate.”
“Ms. Frost, as I said, even if he is your brother, your father made provision for him in the will. We can contest that it is valid as it stands, and you need never have to give up any of the estate.”
“Mr. Davitson, that man is not my brother.” She knew it in her bones. “I know this sounds like I’m taking a terrible risk. Gambling with this place. But I’m not.”
“That’s what all gamblers say. That it’s a dead cert.”
“I know. But I want this claim settled and over with as soon as possible. I want to get back to my life. I have a job, a very important one, waiting for me. You’re a lawyer; you understand that. A DNA test is the quickest way to end this. If we drag our heels and try to negotiate with him, he will continue with this charade. I will dig my heels in more, and this will only get messy. I won’t have it. I can’t have my mother’s name dragged through the mud.”
“You’re prepared to risk losing hundreds of thousands of rand for the sake of the reputation of a dead woman?”
“I don’t believe it to be a risk.”
“Ms. Frost, I have to advise against this. Yes, we need to get the DNA test, but agreeing in advance to giving away half of the estate in the event of a positive result is ludicrous.”
Imogen closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, controlling the temper she could feel rising inside her. She knew she was still riled up from her encounter with Amahle, and taking it out on Jim wasn’t going to help. No matter how much she felt like lashing out or how unwelcome his assessment of her decision. All she needed from him was to do as she instructed. “Are you or are you not my lawyer?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then do as I am instructing.” She stared at him. “As your client.”
“I have to advise against this.”
“I know.”
“The risk is too great.”
“Not for me.” She held up a hand to stop him carrying on. “Look, I get it. If I were in your place, I’d advise my client to do anything but what I’m suggesting now. You’re right. It’s ludicrous, and risky, and insane. But it’s also the right thing to do. For me. Right now I need to do something to resolve this. I can’t stand hanging around, waiting. It’s not something I’ve ever been very good at.” She grinned. “Sometimes you’ve gotta take a chance, Jim.”
“Go big or go home. Isn’t that what they say?” He sighed. “Well, you’re my client, and I will do as you ask.” He clicked his tongue and grinned. “Man, you got some rock solid balls to even suggest this.”
“Ovaries, Jim. I don’t have any balls.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Goddamn it.” Derek Marais grabbed the stress ball off his desk and launched it at the door. “Fuck.”
“What’s going on?” His secretary, Melissa, opened the door and stared at him.
“Sometimes I hate being right.”
She smiled and picked up the stress ball. “No, you don’t.” She put it back on his desk. “Didn’t Isabella give you that?”
“And?”
“Don’t abuse your daughter’s gift.”
“It was meant to relieve stress. Squeezing the bloody thing wasn’t working.”
“And throwing it against the door did?”
“No. But arguing with you has.” He slumped back in his chair.
“So what are you right about now?”
He shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”
She put one hand on her hip. “Are we getting sued?”
“I wish.”
“Christ, it must be bad.”
He waved her off. “Just a mix-up, I’m sure. I’ll get it sorted just now.”
“Need me to do anything?”
“Nah. Thanks.”
She closed the door behind her. He waited until he could hear her tapping away at her computer before bringing up the test results again. “You bastards. You’re fucking killing people.”
He entered the data into a spreadsheet under a new heading. “Steve Biko, Pretoria.” A third hospital supplied by PharmaChem, Ltd. Another batch of fake pills confirmed. And the results of his new batch of Combivirine just minutes away. If they came back as fake, he knew he’d have to approach someone about it. He couldn’t sit on it any longer. He knew he needed more evidence, but he couldn’t let it continue while people’s lives were at stake. The question was who? There were few people he would—could—trust with the information. And fewer still who would be able to do anything about it. Maybe there was one. He tapped his fingertips on the desk. Maybe.
The computer pinged and his heart sputtered in his chest as his fears were confirmed. PharmaChem were supplying him and as many hospitals as they could contract with aspirin instead of the antiretroviral drugs they ordered. There was no mistake in his results. He’d run the tests far too many times for that to be possible. There could be no misunderstanding in what they were doing either. The first batch he’d received had been genuine. Sent to deceive him and any test he wanted to put them through in order to gain his confidence.
It hadn’t worked, and now he needed to figure out what to do with the information he had. He’d worked alongside many politicians over the years. His position in the hospital had necessitated it, especially when they had been trying to convince the powers that be that nutrition and lifestyle choices were all it took to fight HIV. He shook his head. Bloody fools.
“So why do I feel like we’re back at square fucking one, man?”
He put his head in his hands and tried to come up with a name, a face, someone he could trust with this. Someone who would fight for what was right, rather than what was right for their coffers. Was there someone in PharmaChem he could take it to? He remembered Mrs. De Fries and her defensive attitude. It didn’t fill him with confidence that taking it to anyone there would be a good idea. The hospital board had already congratulated him on the savings he was making with the new drug regimen. Half of them had gone straight out and bought shares in PharmaChem.
That left him with three options. The police, the press, or the politicians. Otherwise known as the rock, the devil, and the deep blue sea. What I need is a life vest.
Chapter Fourteen
Sipho cradled the phone to his ear. “She wants what?”
“It’s a non-invasive procedure, Mr. Nkosi. All they do is take a few skin cells from the inside of your cheek and they make a DNA profile from it. They can compare your DNA profile to that of Ms. Frost and determine if you and she are siblings.”
“And if I don’t want to do that?”
“Well, she’s been very accommodating, in all honesty. She has agreed that when the DNA test comes back positive she will agree to share the estate with you. To refuse the DNA test in the light of that doesn’t look good, s
ir. In fact, it looks very incriminating.”
“Incriminating?”
“Like an admission of guilt, or in this case, an acknowledgement that he’s not your father.”
“I haven’t done anything.” He barely recognized the squeaky voice that escaped his mouth.
“Neither has Ms. Frost. But she must also have the procedure to give the doctors a comparison.”
Sipho felt trapped. He knew his lawyer was right. He couldn’t refuse the test. But at the same time, he didn’t want to know. Either his mother was lying to them all now, or his mother and father had lied to him all his life. He wasn’t sure which version of that he wanted to be true anymore.
“Is there a problem, Sipho?”
“I hate doctors.”
“Don’t we all. But seriously, is there something you want to tell me?”
“You mean, am I lying?”
“It can be easy to get caught up in something that is very difficult to get out of sometimes.”
Sipho wanted to laugh at the truth in the man’s words. “I was as shocked as everyone else at my mother’s claim. I have no more idea than you do what the truth of the matter is.”
“Very well. I’ll call you with the appointment for the test.”
“Thank you.” He hung up the phone and rubbed his hand over his face and shaven head as he contemplated what it would mean to them all if it turned out he was Alain Frost’s son. He wouldn’t have to worry about the money for his mother’s care again. He’d be able to get her into one of the private clinics for treatment and make sure she was taken care of in comfort. As well as discreetly. It wouldn’t have to impact Amahle’s career.
He’d always been so proud of his big sister, forging a career in the crucible against all the odds. He loved how she had always fought to do what was right, no matter the personal cost. It was something he couldn’t stand to see ever taken away from her. She did too much good. Achieved so much, helped so many people. If all he could do with his life was whatever it took to keep her in office, then he considered his life well spent. The ramifications of their mother’s condition on Amahle’s political career were unpredictable, but he was pretty sure that given her vehement campaigning for the HIV programme, people would immediately suspect that she did it all for her mother’s good. The fact that she didn’t know wouldn’t be believed against a backdrop of corrupt politicians doing nothing more than feathering their own nests. The thousands of lives she had helped to save, the millions that she had given hope and care to would not make the slightest bit of difference. He was certain it would mean the end of her career. He wouldn’t allow that to happen.
He chuckled to himself. Maybe I can use some of the money to help her too. Fund her next campaign. Maybe even toward helping her further her career. He smiled. President Amahle Nkosi has a nice ring to it. Maybe it will all be okay, after all.
“Sipho?”
He sighed. Or maybe not. “Yes, Mama?”
“Where are you?”
“In the kitchen.”
She stumbled through the door and dropped heavily into the chair beside him.
“Mama, what’s wrong?” He looked up and clocked the dishevelled appearance, the drooping shoulders, and the uneven, cruel looking smile upon her lips. She looked drunk.
She sucked air through her teeth and pointed at him. “You didn’t get me all my medicine.”
“The pills were all there, Mama, I checked before I left.”
“The medicine, the liquid, that wasn’t in there.”
“What liquid?”
“The morphine liquid.”
“It was at the bottom.”
“Shit, that one little bottle?”
He nodded.
“That’s gone already.”
“Mama, that’s for emergency use. Only when the pain gets too bad.”
“It has been very bad, boy. Very, very bad.”
So not drunk then. High. “It shouldn’t be so bad, Mama. Are you taking your pills?”
“Do you think I’m stupid, boy?”
“No.”
“I need more medicine.”
He closed his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.” He walked out of the room and climbed the short flight of stairs. He dragged his laptop from under his bed and booted it up, quickly logging on to the Internet. He tried his password for the vineyards bank; he needed to know how much was in there. He knew the morphine was going to cost him. He stared at the screen. “Incorrect Username and/or Password.” The message directed him to try again. He did. And again, and again, and again. He checked the notebook with the codes all written down and tried again. Still he couldn’t log on. There was only one thing that made sense. They’d been changed.
And if they’d been changed, that meant they at least suspected about the missing money. He couldn’t get any more. He wouldn’t be able to take the cash he’d need to get the morphine.
He checked his watch, picked up the phone and dialled the bank. If he could mortgage the land that Alain had left him, it would be a start. It took them less than twenty minutes to turn him down. He couldn’t mortgage land, as the will was being contested. All assets of the estate were frozen until the claim was settled.
Sipho tried to pull air into his lungs but it felt as though they too were frozen.
He could hear his mother singing downstairs, a lazy, languid song. Her words slurred, and there was the occasional bang on the table, her attempt at a drum beat. It was only a matter of time before she needed her next dose. She was in pain, she was suffering, and he couldn’t deny that. Did she make matters worse—for both of them? Every step of the fucking way.
He picked up the phone again and dialled a number he wished he didn’t know.
“Yeah, man?”
“It’s Sipho.”
“Well, well, well, my friend. Long time no see.” He sniggered down the phone. “Not.” He laughed at his own joke. “What can I do for you today?”
“I need more morphine.”
“Sure, sure. That’s not too hard to get hold of. How much you want?”
“As much as you can get.”
“You looking to start selling this shit, man?”
“No. It’s for someone who’s sick.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious.”
“Well, serious or not, it’s not cheap. Morphine’s the good shit, man. Fifty rand a bottle.”
“I haven’t got any money.”
“Don’t bullshit me, man.”
“I’m not. The old man died. I can’t get any more money.”
“Well, well, well. Looks like you’re walking back on earth with the rest of us kaffirs now. Hey, boy?”
“I need the medicine.”
“You ain’t got no cash, you ain’t getting nothing from me.”
“Wait, Tsotsi.” Sipho cringed as he spoke the next words. “I’ll earn it.”
Laughter rang in his ears. “How you gonna do that, boy? Peel me grapes until I get sick of you and send you away with your precious morphine?”
“I know you know people who need help. Put me in touch with them. You know I boxed at school.”
“You wanna play the little heavy, man?”
“I’ll do what needs to be done.”
“All right. I got a job for you.”
“What is it?”
“Not over the phone, fuck wit. I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“Right.”
“Boss.”
“Excuse me?”
“You want to work for me, you call me boss.”
Sipho swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. “Yes, boss.”
Chapter Fifteen
Amahle had returned to Cape Town and spent the night tossing and turning, trying to get Immy’s stunningly smug face out of her mind. She drifted from the thought of it being stunning to smug, to stunningly smug, and back again. Until she’d tried to recall any other face to take its place. She’d even been willing to risk a nightmare an
d tried to picture Grace’s face. It hadn’t worked. In the end, she’d stumbled from bed more tired than when she’d crawled between the sheets. She poured her third cup of coffee and crossed her fingers that this time the caffeine would kick in. She placed it on the table a little too hard and cursed as the hot liquid sloshed over the rim, drenching the papers on the wooden surface.
“Christ. What next?” She mopped up the spillage and tried to save the papers. The phone rang, startling her and causing her to knock over the cup. “For fuck’s sake. Me and my big mouth. Claudia, I need some help in here.”
“Coming.”
She picked up the phone. “Yes?” She mouthed her apology to Claudia as she left the room to gather supplies.
“Minister?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“It’s Dr. Marais.”
“Doctor, what I can do for you today?” She covered the mouthpiece while she thanked Claudia for cleaning up the mess she’d made and asked her to make another copy of the report she’d ruined.
“You may remember me. We worked together briefly some years ago on the HIV treatment programme.”
Amahle tried to place the name, but couldn’t. “I’m very sorry, Doctor. I’m afraid I don’t recall.”
“No matter. I’m the CEO of the Tygerberg Hospital in Cape Town.”
“Of course. An excellent facility, Doctor. I’ve worked with your people on many occasions then.”
“You have and thank you. Your charitable work over the years has been invaluable.”
“You’re most welcome. So how can I help you today?”
“I wondered if you had time to meet me. I have something I wish to discuss with you that is both urgent and sensitive.”
“And that would be?”
“Something I’m unwilling to discuss over the phone.”
Amahle shook her head. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I don’t have time to play games.”
“This isn’t a game, Minister. I assure you this is deadly serious.”
Something about the tone of his voice made her pause.
“I’ve been running some tests over the past three or four weeks, Minister. Tests that you need to see the results of.”
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