“What if we can’t trust him?”
“We have Julius.”
“And if he is bad, we’ll be tipping off our enemies to exactly what we know.”
“Then don’t tell him everything. If you don’t trust him while he’s here, just outline the suspicions that Dr. Marais brought to you as a lead to his murder. Don’t tell him what evidence you have until you’re comfortable with him. How does that sound?”
It made sense. It didn’t explain why she’d approached the general prior to the doctor’s murder, but she could just say she was going to ask him for advice on how to deal with the suspicions should the doctor find the evidence required. Would he buy that? Would she? Probably not, but what option did she have at this point? She couldn’t continue to sit on information that would help in the doctor’s murder investigation and bringing his killers to justice. Whether she liked it or not she had to go to the police.
“Laura, can you look into this guy for me?”
“Sure.”
“In the meantime, let’s give the general a call and fill him in on what the doctor was looking into and how we think it links to his murder,” she said to Imogen.
“Are you going to tell him about Thambo and the calls?”
“I’ll play that by ear.”
“Good plan.”
Thirty minutes later, Fred sat opposite them and listened to everything Amahle said, scribbling in his notebook from time to time, asking the occasional question, but mostly just listening.
“Well, Minister, this is a bloody awful mess.”
“You have a knack for understatement, General.”
He chuckled. “I’ve been told that before. Now, I need your full cooperation from here out. Agreed?”
“Any information I have, I’ll gladly hand over.”
“Do you have the raw data that the doctor had?”
Amahle shook her head. “Just the initial report he brought to me in my office.”
“And he didn’t send you a copy of anything else?”
“No.”
“That’s a damn shame. So all you have is the report to back up your story?”
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. He was being far too careful to clarify the point. “Yes, that’s all the evidence we have.”
“Right. Well, that’s a bloody shame. A real bloody shame. And have you spoken to anyone else about this?”
Something about his questions and his over-the-top, repetitive reactions just didn’t sit right. “Just the people on my security detail.”
She saw Imogen reach for her phone. “Sorry. Buzzing.” She pretended to silence it, but Amahle saw her send a quick message to Roland asking him to call her ASAP, and she was hugely grateful that Imogen had caught on to her wavelength so quickly. When her phone rang, she picked it up and looked apologetically at him. “I’m sorry, for them to keep trying like this it must be really important.”
“Of course.”
She stepped outside to take the call.
“Is there anything else that you can think of that might help us track down the people behind this?”
“I wish there was, sir. But I can’t think of anything.” She watched as Imogen shut off her phone and spoke briefly to Josh before stepping back in and nodding to Amahle.
“Sorry about that.”
“No need to apologize, Ms. Frost. We’re all very busy people. It’s a bloody shame you have no evidence, Minister. You’re making it very hard for me to do anything with this. I’ll fill in the detectives investigating his murder, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up that it will crack open the case. Sorry. I’ll see myself out, since you’ve just made me even busier.”
They stood side by side on the stoop until the car was out of sight. “Roland said he hadn’t mentioned Julius to our friend there.” Imogen pointed down the road. “He said he wouldn’t as it would just make the family angry. Apparently, Julius was a friend from university, and he’s not well liked by them. He asked me not to mention Julius to Fred.”
“Why not?”
“He said they don’t like his kind of journalism.”
“Ah. So he’s not aware that I’m unsure about the general?”
“Correct. So what happened in there? What made your mind up not to trust him?”
“Too much of a bloody shame.”
“I’m sorry?”
“He was too fixated on the fact that we have no evidence about the counterfeit pills. Made me uncomfortable.”
“That’s it?”
“Something just felt wrong.” She shrugged. “I can’t explain it. I’m sorry. Maybe it’s an overactive imagination, I don’t know, but sometimes I get this…feeling…like someone’s watching me but there’s nobody there. Or a chill that goes up my spine when it’s a hundred degrees. Something just feels wrong.”
“Are you ever wrong with this feeling?”
“Probably. But I’ve also been kept safe with it. So I tend to trust it.”
“A protective instinct.”
“I guess so.”
“So what about Roland? Do you think we can still trust him?”
“Not sure. I hope so.” She ran her fingers through her hair and pointed down the lane. “He may or may not be what Roland thinks he is, but if not, I hope that’s just family loyalty rather than anything sinister. I’m inclined to think that if it was anything else, he wouldn’t have introduced us to Julius.”
“How can you be sure that he’s not on the take or something?”
“Who? Julius?”
“Yes.”
Amahle shook her head. “No, he’s genuine. I’ve been interviewed by him before. I know his stories, and I know him. When you first mentioned talking to the press, he was the first name I thought of. His stories have been hard hitting and anti-corruption all the way. Roland hit the jackpot with him. So what do we do about Fred?”
“Well, you’ve got Laura looking into him already, and I asked Josh to stick a tracker on his car before he departed. I wasn’t sure what was going on in there, but I felt it was better to be safe than sorry. Did you get it?” she asked Josh.
“Yup. Even managed to get one in his coat pocket when he was getting back in the car.”
“Well done,” Imogen said.
“No sweat.”
“Laura, do you think we can find out what’s happening to the doctor’s little girl?” Amahle asked. “I hate to think of her out there alone and scared.”
“I’ll make some inquiries.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you okay?” Imogen asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’d like to go for a walk, but I don’t really want the entourage with me.”
“What if we go to the orchard and sit in a tree for a while? We can make them stay out of the orchard. By the time we get there, they’ll know there’s no one around, and we can pretend to be by ourselves.” She smiled. “How does that sound?”
“Sounds pretty good.”
“Let me go and fix it with Nick and Greg. I think Josh and Laura have other things they need to do right now.”
“Okay.” She watched Imogen walk away and wondered how everything could feel so wrong and yet so right at the same time. She hadn’t felt at home on the vineyard since she was a girl, but right now, she felt like she belonged. She felt whole again in a way she hadn’t imagined she ever could. And as Imogen stepped back into her view, she realized why. It wasn’t the vineyard that made her feel like she belonged. It was Imogen. It had always been Imogen. She’d looked everywhere for her, all her life. The blond hair, the tall, willowy frame—barring the brown eyes, Grace was a dead ringer for Imogen. Physically, at least. Even down to the high cheekbones and long, long eyelashes. But the steel core of Imogen was hers and hers alone. And something that was magnetic to Amahle.
Imogen held out her hand. “You ready?”
Am I? She looked up into Imogen’s eyes shining with trust and hope and she knew Imogen was thinking the same things s
he was. Everything she’d ever wanted was there for her if she was just willing to let go of the fear that held her frozen.
She placed her hand in Imogen’s and smiled as she was tugged to her feet and shuffled out the door, Imogen never letting go of her hand.
“I’ve no idea.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Nick and Greg trailed behind them as they stepped off the stoop and headed for the vine field that led to the orchard. Stealing shy looks from one another, they entwined their fingers and walked silently between the gently rustling leaves.
“Is it wrong that I feel happy right now, given everything that’s going on?” Imogen asked.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Are you happy because of what’s going on, or despite it?”
“Definitely the second one.” She squeezed again. “Definitely despite it all.” She felt something impact her back and put herself between Amahle and whoever was aiming at them as a high-pitched scream cut through the air.
“You traitor.”
“Mama.” Amahle turned to look at her mother, jostling Imogen behind her.
Greg and Nick took closer order of their protectee, and Imogen was pleased to see how quickly they closed the gap between them at the first sign of trouble. She just wished that trouble wasn’t in the shape of a dishevelled looking Mbali Nkosi. She glanced over her shoulder at the spot where something had hit her and saw a handful of red dust. The remnants of a mud ball, no doubt.
“Haven’t you shamed us enough with your other white whore? You have to do it again? With this…this…bitch.”
Oh hell, no. I’m not taking that from you, you lying old witch. “Excuse me?”
“Mama, I won’t have you talk to Imogen that way.”
“You never would. Stubborn as a mule. Always was, always will be. Except when it came to her. All she had to do was click her fingers and her little nigger came running. Didn’t ya, girl?” She clicked her fingers, but her coordination was off, and the motion made her stumble and the sound inaudible. “Just like a little puppy dog.”
“Stop it, Mama. You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?”
“No.” Amahle took hold of her arm and turned her back toward her house. “Go to bed and sleep it off.”
“It’s you who doesn’t have any idea, daughter.” She spat on the ground. “You don’t know anything.” She threw her head back and cackled. “It was my idea, you know?” She pointed at Imogen. “To send you away. I told him you wouldn’t be safe here. That the men who killed your mother were so angry with her that they were looking for you too.” She chortled to herself. “He believed me. Stupid fool that he was.”
“Mama, why? Why would you do that? She was just a little girl.”
“She was making you believe you could be something you couldn’t. She was making you think like you were a white child.”
“You had her sent away to keep me in my place?”
“That’s right.”
“To stop me dreaming of better things?”
“You had to learn. And so did she.”
“I graduated top of my class, Mama. I worked my way up from intern to being the first open lesbian to be elected to the Houses of Parliament. I am the highest ranked woman in the House. I did all that on my own. I did all that and more without help from you or her. What could she make me want that I haven’t achieved?”
“It was a different South Africa then. You couldn’t have had it then.”
“You’re wrong. It was already changing. Because of people like Imogen’s mother, and the ANC, and all the other people who fought for our freedom. It makes no sense, Mama. Why did you make him so afraid for her?”
“Because he didn’t want me,” she screamed. “Because I wasn’t good enough for his bed.”
Imogen wanted to feel angry at her. This pathetic, bitter old woman who had been so insecure she’d had to vent her rage at the world on the only victim she could find. A seven-year-old child. She wanted to look at her and be able to hate her, for everything she’d stolen, but in those few words she’d told Imogen that it was never the child she was that Mbali had been angry at. It was everything she had represented then. A white child. A child of privilege. A child of opportunity. A child who had a prosperous future all mapped out before her. A child with choices and a voice that would be heard in their world. And those were options Mbali had never had. But worse, they were options that she could never see appearing for her, or her children. Mbali was a child of oppression, a child of fear, a child subjugated to the vile will of a regime that not only treated her as less than human, but labelled her as such. She had every right to be angry at the world she’d been born into. Imogen couldn’t deny it. She couldn’t blame Mbali for the way she felt. For her actions, yes. For the hurt she’d caused her, yes. But if she were honest with herself, she couldn’t say with any certainty that she wouldn’t have done something just as spiteful. She looked over Amahle’s shoulder and saw not an old woman who had caused her so many problems. Instead she saw the legacy of apartheid. Or at least of those who were unable to let go of it.
Imogen refocused on Amahle’s back, and her pride in Amahle grew with every word she spoke. If Mbali was the rotten legacy of apartheid, then Amahle was a true child of the rainbow nation. Inspired by greatness to let go of the hatred and fear that threatened to destroy every possibility of peace, Amahle followed a noble path. The path lit by wisdom and compassion, and she would take every step. Even if she had to do it alone.
“Does Sipho know?” Imogen asked. She had no desire left to fight with Mbali. None at all. All she felt for her was pity, and in the pit of her stomach, shame. Shame that she had in any way been a part of that. Shame that any part of her represented it to someone else, and it made her feel more uncomfortable than she could have ever imagined.
“Know what? The stupid boy knows nothing. Nothing at all.” She tipped a bottle to her lips. “Besides, he’s gone.” She wiggled her fingers. “Poof, just disappeared.”
“Give me that.” Amahle snatched the small bottle from her hand and passed it to the person closest to her, Nick. “What is it?” She tried to hold her mother up as she struggled to regain possession of the bottle.
“It’s Oramorph,” he said, reading the label. “It was prescribed for your father, Imogen.”
“You stole it from my house?” Imogen shook her head. Nothing really surprised her about this woman any more.
“What?” Amahle asked her mother.
“A solution of oral morphine. It’s prescribed as a painkiller,” Nick said, misunderstanding who her question was aimed at.
“I know what it is. I meant—never mind.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing that I know of.”
He shook his head. “You can’t get this stuff over the counter, and it isn’t the usual stuff for a junkie looking for a high. People tend to get addicted to this shit after they’ve been prescribed it for something.”
“Where is he?” Mbali threw herself at Imogen, her dirty fingernails curled like talons aimed at Imogen’s eyes.
“Mama, no.”
Greg caught her around the waist and hoisted her off the ground. “Which way is her home?”
Amahle pointed. “It’s easier if I show you.”
“My boy. My boy’s gone. What did you do to him? Where is he?”
“I haven’t done anything to him. Why would you even think that?”
“Because he went out for my medicine and he never came back.”
“What medicine, Mama?”
“That medicine.” She pointed to the Oramorph. “He didn’t get enough when he got the rest of the pills.”
“What pills?”
“Many, many, pills.” She stopped struggling in Greg’s arms and tried to snuggle into his chest as the Oramorph took hold of her.
“Is she okay?” Imogen asked.
“Passed out, I think,” Gr
eg said. “Thank God,” he whispered, not quite low enough to prevent him being heard.
Amahle led them into the small house that Imogen had spent so much time in when they were children. The rooms were small and squalid. The once clean and tidy surfaces were littered with beer cans, uneaten food, and a half empty packet of condoms. Amahle looked around, and Imogen could see the look of shame settling on her features. But that wasn’t right. She wouldn’t allow Amahle to feel ashamed of where she had come from. No, not where she had come from, but where her mother had sunk to. They weren’t the same place.
She grasped Amahle’s hand and whispered into her ear. “That look on your face, right now, I’ve seen it before. I see it every time I look in the mirror and I think I wasn’t good enough to help my father through his grief. I see it every time I look in the mirror and think I wasn’t good enough to keep my mother from going that day. Neither was anything I could affect in any way. Was it?”
“No, of course not. They made their own choices.”
“Your mother has made hers. Feel sorry for her, try to help her. But don’t take on responsibility for her choices. Don’t feel her shame.”
Amahle turned her head to look at her. “Is that what you feel?”
“For far too long.” She blinked. “It gets inside you and poisons everything.”
Amahle covered her hand. “I know.” She squeezed gently. “Thank you.”
She showed Greg to the bedroom and watched as he gently deposited her mother on the bed, pulling a blanket over her.
“For what it’s worth, she looks sick, ma’am.”
“Don’t all junkies look sick?”
He dipped his head and left the room without saying a word.
Imogen touched her arm. “Maybe we should have a look around. See if we can figure out what’s going on?”
“I’m not sure I want to know.”
“She’s your mum.” Imogen smiled. “It’s the law.”
Amahle offered a tiny smile. “Damn you lawyers.”
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