“Huh? What?”
“No, I won’t dance with you.”
Imogen shook her head at the quick change of subject, but a fire in Amahle’s eye made her think there was more to her answer. “If we were somewhere other than the mayor’s ball in Stellenbosch, would you dance with me?”
Amahle bit her lower lip and dropped her eyes for a fraction of a second before meeting her gaze with a smouldering look that caused Imogen’s belly to flood with desire. “Maybe.”
“Amahle, what an unexpected pleasure.” An elderly white man with a well-established comb-over and a rotund physique clasped Amahle’s shoulder with his puffy, wrinkled hand. “You usually avoid these things like the plague, my dear.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek.
“James, it’s lovely to see a friendly face here.”
“Another friendly face, surely.” He indicated his head toward Imogen. “You always did have exquisite taste.” He held his hand out to Imogen. “If she won’t introduce me, I’ll just have to do it myself. James Wilson. Minister for Health.”
“Forgive me. I don’t know where my manners are.” Amahle shook her head. “James, this is Imogen Frost.”
“Ah, the lady who inherited that beautiful vineyard down the road.”
“That would be me, Minister. It’s an honour to meet you.”
“And it’s a pleasure to meet you. Amahle, could I have a moment?”
She nodded. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“No problem,” Imogen said. She watched Amahle follow him and what looked like a teacher giving a student a stern talking to. She chuckled to herself at the image it conjured in her brain.
“Imogen, this is Julius Steele,” Roland said as he approached her, startling her from her reverie. “He’s an investigative journalist with the Mail & Guardian Online.”
Imogen tore her gaze from Amahle and James and greeted him. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“And you, Ms. Frost. Roland here tells me you have a story for me.”
“Not me.” She pointed to Amahle. “She does. She’ll be back in a moment, I’m sure.”
“Not a problem. May I ask how you fit into the story?”
Imogen smiled as Amahle gestured emphatically at James and walked away from him, clearly pissed at whatever he had said to her. “Call me an interested bystander.” When Amahle returned her smile looked forced, stilted. “You okay?”
Amahle just nodded. “Julius, are you Roland’s friend?”
“I am. It’s a pleasure to see you again so soon. You have a story for me?”
“Yes. But this isn’t the right place.”
“I have to head back to Jo’burg on the five a.m. flight, Minister. Where would you like to talk?”
“We can head to the vineyard now.” Imogen looked at Amahle. She looked shaken. “This was the best plan we could come up with, remember? This way, whatever happens, it’s all out there. Genies don’t go back into bottles once they’re out.”
Amahle closed her eyes, and Imogen watched her gather her strength. “Let’s go then.”
Once they were in the car, Amahle began to talk. She told him everything, starting with her own suspicions and ending with Dr. Marais’s initial findings.
“Can I get a copy of that report?” Julius asked.
“Yes. I’ll call the doctor and have him email it through to you now,” Amahle said.
“I can do that.” She took the phone from Amahle and spoke quietly so that they could continue the interview. “Dr. Marais, you don’t know me, but I’m working with Amahle Nkosi.”
“Is she there? Can I speak to her?”
“Sure.” Imogen handed the phone over and listened as Amahle confirmed that she was okay and not acting under duress.
“What do you need?” he asked when she took over the call again.
“Can you send copies of your reports to the following emails please?” She read off the address that Julius had given her, Amahle’s, and her own. “Can you send a copy of all your data to the last two addresses too?”
“There’s too much.”
“Zip files?”
“Still too big to send. I have video files, as well as all the data that Claudia sent me from the Department of Health. I even managed to find some information on PharmaChem that I haven’t had a chance to look through yet.”
“Like what?”
“Shareholder profiles. FDA reports, pending drug trials, pending lawsuits. You name it, I have it.”
“How did you get it all?”
“Most of it’s in the public record. You just have to know where to look. The rest of it I managed to get hold of as the CEO of the hospital. If I say I’m interested in various drugs trials, the people over there tend to let me access what I like.”
“You’ve been busy, Doctor.”
“I have.”
“Is there any way you can get a copy of your data out?”
“You’re worried?”
“Cautious.”
“Semantics. I can post a copy on a large capacity pen drive. Do you have an address?”
She gave him the address at the vineyard and listened while he sent his daughter to the mailbox at the end of their drive with it. “Thank you.”
“Have you heard anything about Thambo?”
“Sizewe called earlier today. He’ll recover. I’m told he’s trying to decide on what prosthetic he wants. A hand or a hook.”
“At least he’s keeping his sense of humour. I don’t understand these people.”
“Life’s cheap.”
“But people aren’t, Ms. Frost.” He sighed. “Good night.”
“Good night, Doctor. And thank you.” She handed the phone back to Amahle.
“So what happens now, Julius?” Amahle asked.
“I go over the reports your doctor has. Try to verify some of this independently, and then I’ll be in touch.”
“You need to be careful.”
He nodded. “Always am. Now take me back to these threatening calls, Amahle.”
Chapter Thirty
Sipho sat in the back of the car this time, the Professor had been promoted to the front after their last “mission.” He hated Cape Town, he hated Tsotsi, and the Professor, but most of all he hated himself. The stench of guilt and fear clung to his skin and hung in his nostrils. It made his stomach constantly queasy, and every time he passed something reflective he saw disgust etched on his face.
The farmhouse was a simple one. Single story, wraparound stoop, and a pair of dogs asleep in the yard. The chain-link fence was six feet high and topped with razor wire. Typical. What he knew would also be typical was the alarm that would notify the police or a private security firm in the event of intrusion, the affluent neighbourhood which would have periodic drive-bys from the police.
The Professor tossed a pair of steaks under the gate as Tsotsi instructed him to. The hungry dogs seemed unable to resist the scent of the fresh bloody meat and wolfed them down.
“Twenty minutes, boys. Then we cut the chain and give this guy his message.”
“What about the police patrol?” Sipho asked.
“What about it?”
“If they drive past before we go in, or when we go in, it’s over.”
“It’s all taken care of.”
“What do you mean?”
Tsotsi grinned. “Patrol has been taken care of.”
“I don’t understand.” Sipho frowned at him. “How has it been taken care of?”
“Let’s just say I have friends in high places.” Tsotsi spat on the ground. “You don’t need to know anymore than that, boy.”
Friends in high places meant only one thing to Sipho. Someone in the police was on the payroll. A chill ran down his spine. If it was big enough to pay off officials then it was much bigger than Sipho had realized. Who else was in on this? And more importantly, what exactly was this?
Tsotsi checked his watch and rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Fifteen minutes, boys.”
S
ipho swallowed hard. “Tsotsi, no knives this time.”
“Afraid of a little blood, Sipho?”
“No. Afraid of jail.”
The Professor laughed. “Fucking pussy.”
It had become his new mantra, and Sipho was sick of being the butt of the joke. He turned his head and stared out the window, watching as a young girl came out the door, illuminated only by the weak porch light. She stroked the dogs’ heads and skipped down the garden path to the mailbox. She stuffed her envelope inside and raised the flag to let the postman know it was full then she skipped back to the stoop, stroking the dogs’ heads again.
Sipho hoped that neither Tsotsi nor the Professor had seen her. He didn’t like the possibilities of where that scenario ended.
Half an hour later, Tsotsi clicked his fingers and they pulled their masks over their heads. The chain gave way easily under the bolt cutters he wielded, and the sleeping dogs never stirred as they passed them and smashed their way into the house. Screams emanated from two directions. Tsotsi and the Professor headed for the loudest. Sipho turned a corner and ran toward the room of the softest scream. He prayed he’d picked the right room and quickly located the girl trying to crawl under her bed. He gripped her ankle and pulled her out, wrapping his hand around her mouth and whispering into her ear.
“If they don’t know you are here, they will not hurt you. I can only protect you if you stay silent and hidden. Nod if you understand me.”
She did.
Sipho quickly opened the window and looked out, the child still in his arms. There was no drop to speak of, but the path to the road was too exposed and he didn’t know the layout of the house. If Tsotsi or the Professor could see to the road from where they were, they were both dead before the girl could reach the gate.
“Hide in the bushes just there.” He pointed along the house. “Whatever you hear, do not come out until that car leaves. Do you understand me?”
She nodded again.
“Good.” He lowered her out the window and let go of her mouth, holding a finger to his lips. “Go.” She nodded and disappeared.
“Where you gone, man?” Tsotsi opened the door.
“I thought I heard something in here.”
“Well? Did you?”
“Can’t find anything.”
He sucked his lips though his teeth. “Pussy. Get in here. We’ve got work to do.”
The woman cowered on the bed, her hands bound with tape. Her mouth was covered, and a thin cut down the length of her cheek seeped blood down her chin until it dripped onto her nightie. She looked toward the door, terror written on her face. He looked toward the girl’s room and mouthed a single word to her. “Safe.” Her shoulders relaxed a little and a sob wracked her body.
“Eh, man, looks like missus there’s just dying to meet you.” Tsotsi pushed him toward the bed.
“I don’t want no white bitch round my Johnson. Fuck that shit.” He hoped she could see the apology in his eyes as he said the only thing he could think of. Tsotsi and the Professor laughed.
“You ain’t got no worries about your little dick dropping off if it touches white pussy, have you, Prof?”
“Nah.” He shoved his filthy jeans down his legs and dragged her down the bed as Tsotsi held the man up by his hair to face her.
“You getting the message now, boss?”
The man was crying, his bound hands held up before him, begging in the only way he could for them to stop. The woman screamed as the Professor tore off her underwear, and Sipho couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t stand by and let this happen. He grabbed the gun from Tsotsi’s hand and squeezed off a round into the ceiling.
“Fuck, man, you’ll have the bloody boers here. What the fuck you doing?”
“Get off her.” He pushed the barrel of the gun against the bare skin of the Professor’s leg. “Now.”
He jumped up and fell over as he tried to pull up his pants. “What? Fucking pussy, man.”
“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Enough. They’ve got the message. Right, man?” He looked at the man on his knees in front of Tsotsi, his hair still held tight in his hand, but he nodded for all he was worth. “Right. So we’ve done what we came here to do. We gave him the message, now we can leave, Tsotsi. We can just go, man.”
Tsotsi roared and wrapped one arm around the man’s neck, let go of his hair, and gripped his chin. In one swift motion, he ripped his arms open and twisted the man’s neck to an unnatural angle.
“Don’t ever say my fucking name.” Tsotsi moved so quickly that Sipho couldn’t react. He was still staring at the body of the man on the ground when Tsotsi yanked the gun from his limp grip, fired three shots into the woman on the bed, and smashed his fist into Sipho’s face.
Sipho felt like he couldn’t move his feet as he was dragged from the house and tossed into the trunk of the car.
“Light up the house, Prof. Here, use this shit.” Tsotsi grabbed a can from behind Sipho’s back. The unmistakable odour of petrol wafted over him. He slammed the boot closed and the Professor’s sick laughter faded.
He wanted to go home and try to forget what he’d done. He wanted to go home and forget why he’d done it, but he knew that would never happen. She’d be there, demanding her drugs and telling him how worthless he was until he gave in and went to fetch them for her. She didn’t care how he got them. Only that he did. He cursed his own weakness and stupidity at how easily he’d let her manipulate him. He’d tried so hard to be a good son. A good brother. But what had it gotten him? More nightmares than he could count, and a prison cell in his near future. Or a coffin. Probably the coffin.
He didn’t care anymore. He just wanted it to end.
Chapter Thirty-one
“Are you always up early?” Amahle asked, yawning from the doorway.
“Pretty much.” Imogen smiled. “Boarding school habit.”
“What was it like?”
“You read the letters.”
“I did. Sounded like you hated it.”
“I did.” She shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, I did very well, and I’m not sure I’d have forged the career I have without it. I made a lot of connections while I was there, and it got me through the door to Cambridge, but would I have ever chosen to go there? No. Would I ever send a child there myself?” She shook her head. “Never.”
“Why?”
“A couple of thousand young girls all under one roof. It was a breeding ground for over-competitive bitches. I was seven, I had a weird accent, and I cried for you in my sleep. What do you think happened?”
“I hate it for you.”
She smiled. “Thanks. Coffee?”
“A bucket should do.”
“Coming right up.”
“Did Julius make his flight?”
“Yes. Greg drove him to the airport and waited till the plane took off.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“How come you aren’t married?”
“Excuse me?” Imogen’s voice was more like a squeak.
“You heard me.”
“Yes, I just wasn’t expecting that.” She put the coffee mug down.
“Well?”
“Never found a woman I wanted to wake up next to.”
Amahle took a mouthful and swallowed quickly. “Shit, that’s hot.” So I’m not imagining the attraction between us.
“Just brewed.”
“What do you mean by that anyway?”
“You’re not exactly the blushing virgin, Ami. Work it out.”
Amahle chuckled at Imogen’s theatrically wiggling eyebrows and her meaning became abundantly clear. “But why?”
“What do you mean, why? I like to have sex, but I don’t want a relationship. Why do you think?”
“I mean, why don’t you want to wake up with them?”
The smile slid from Imogen’s lips. “Because I don’t want to care about them.”
Amahle stared at her. It didn’t make any sense. Imogen
was one of the most caring women she’d ever spent time with. How could she not care about them? Why would she withhold that part of herself?
“I’ve lost everyone I ever cared about. They were all taken from me.”
“So you purposefully keep yourself lonely so that you don’t get hurt?”
She shrugged. “Is it any different from you keeping yourself lonely so that they don’t get hurt?”
“I don’t do one-night stands.”
“Maybe you should.” She winked. “Let loose a little, Minister.”
“No, thanks. Not my style.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Amahle?” Laura said from the doorway.
“Yes?”
“There’s something I think you need to see on the news.” She followed Laura into the living room and stared at the TV. The picture of Dr. Marais and his wife, and a second of a burned down house filled the screen as the newscaster gave his monotoned report.
“That news again, ladies and gentlemen, last night Dr. Derek Marais and his wife Sylvie were murdered in their home before it was set alight. Police say they are looking for three armed men. The couple’s only child, nine-year-old Isabelle, managed to escape out the window and hide until the attackers had fled.”
“But I spoke to him last night.” Imogen wrapped her arms around Amahle’s shoulders and held on. Her voice shaky and her gaze fixed on the screen.
“I need to call Thambo,” Amahle said and wrapped her arms about Imogen’s waist. She needed to feel something solid and real. “I need to make sure he’s okay.”
“I’ve just spoken to his brother, Minister,” Greg said. “No change at that end.”
“That’s good at least.” She leaned in against Imogen, glad to feel the warmth of her body against her own.
“Call Julius—”
“Already on it,” Josh said and waved the phone toward her.
“Seems like I’m surplus to requirement.”
“Never, Minister. But when you surround yourself with good people,” Laura said, “things get done.”
“So it would seem.”
“Perhaps it’s time to call Fred?” Imogen whispered against her hair.
“It would seem like it.” The niggling in her gut increased at the mere mention of his name. Is it just because he’s a police officer? I have no other reason to distrust him. So why does he make me feel so uncomfortable?
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