“Unfortunately, yes. I usually have a private stash in my desk. Locked up. Otherwise people bloody steal it. In a police station! I mean, really.”
“Where did they find the weapon?” she asked.
“It must’ve been thrown out of a car window. They found it in thick grass a few meters from the side of the road. On the highway back to Jo’burg, about twenty kilometers away from the crime scene.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Workers cutting firebreaks.”
David stood up and walked over to the opposite wall. “We might have a lucky break this time. The guys who found it didn’t touch it.” He smiled, a mirthless grimace. “Too scared. Apparently the blade and a good part of the handle are encrusted in blood.”
He returned to his desk and slid into his seat. “Forensics said they’d e-mail me photos as soon as they’d taken them.” He frowned. “Yup. Here they are.”
Jade got up and walked round the desk and leaned over David’s shoulder. His deltoids and biceps bulged under the white cotton fabric of his shirt. His hair was clean and shiny. She wanted to touch it, put her face close and feel it tickling her cheeks. And she wanted to put her hand on his shoulder and feel those thick, ropy muscles under her fingers. He had used some sort of cologne earlier on. It was faint but spicy in the air. Had he been thinking of her when he applied it? Was he regretting yesterday’s hasty departure? Or had she made a complete fool of herself by saying what she had? She moved away from him, her cheeks suddenly hot.
“Check this out,” David said. His muscles bunched as he pulled his chair forward. With a click of the mouse, he enlarged the photo of the axe until it filled the screen.
Blood had congealed across its blade and splashed onto the handle, leaving behind dark brown trails and drips. It was a grisly murder weapon. She wasn’t surprised the workers who’d discovered it had been afraid.
“They’re checking it for prints,” David said.
“You think they’ll find any? Would Grobbelaar’s killer have thrown away a fingerprinted weapon?”
He shrugged. “Maybe not. But people get careless. There’s always a chance. When they’ve checked, they’ll analyze the bloodstains. Would you like to make a million rand bet with me that the stains are a perfect match with Dean Grobbe-laar’s DNA?”
Jade shook her head. “I don’t think there was that much axe-murdering activity going on in North West province yes-terday. I’m not taking the bet with you.”
David leaned forward. “Here we go. I’ve got more mail.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Come on, come on. Open up. Tell us we’ve got a fingerprint here. And a match.”
Jade craned over his shoulder, waiting to see what it said.
“They’ve got a print!” David shouted. “One crystal-clear, beautiful print on the base of the handle.” He read further and his shoulders drooped. “Oh, shithouse.”
“What?”
“They’ve run it through the system. No result. One print, no result. No bloody use, then.”
“Why wouldn’t he get a result?” Jade asked. “Would the guy be an illegal immigrant or something?”
“No.” David sighed. He got up and poured himself a cup of coffee. He tipped in half the bowl of sugar, stirred, and took a gulp.
“God, you’re right, it does taste like crap.” Even so, he took another sip, more cautiously this time, and grimaced. “Yes, it could be the print of an illegal immigrant. But it could also belong to one of the millions of South Africans who don’t have a damn criminal record. Our wonderful constitution still respects every citizen’s right to privacy. The South African police cannot access Home Affairs data. Unless you’re trying to ID a body, of course, then it’s allowed. But the only fingerprints we have on our database belong to convicted criminals.”
“Is there any way of getting round the system?” she asked.
David looked as if he was trying not to smile. “That’s just the sort of question I’d expect from you.”
“Well, is there?”
After a moment’s thought his eyes lit up. Then he frowned. Jade thought he seemed nervous. He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie and hooked his pants up around his waist. Then he twisted his head from side to side as if he was trying to ease stiffness in his neck.
“I can call in a favor. I don’t want to. I shouldn’t. But I can.”
“How?”
“I’ve got a contact in Home Affairs who can look up the print for us. Only problem is we can’t use it as evidence in court. If it leads us to Annette’s murderer, we’ll have to find another way of proving he killed her.”
“Well, then.” Jade stood up. “Can you phone him?”
He nodded. “It’s a woman. And yes, I can phone her.”
Jade looked at the telephone. “Go ahead. Maybe she can check it now.”
“This line’s terrible. It’s been bad all morning. I’ll phone from the downstairs office.” David pointed to the empty chair in front of his desk. “Wait here. I’ll be back soon.”
He hurried out. Jade stared after him. What was his problem? She picked up the phone on the desk and dialed zero to get an outside line. It sounded fine to her.
She went over to his filing cabinet and peeked inside. It was crammed with paperwork. So this was where his knee-deep pile of case files was now stored. At least they weren’t such a fire hazard any more.
Exploring further, she opened his desk drawer. She wanted to find the damn paperweight. She’d had “To David from Jade” engraved on the base. It had cost her a fortune. What had he done with it?
Apart from the most basic stationery items the drawers were empty.
Jade only just managed to return to her chair before David hurried back into the office.
“I’m putting this on a CD. It’s too sensitive to e-mail. She doesn’t want to get into trouble. She’ll put it on the system on her side, when she can.”
“Are you hand-delivering it?”
“Yes. She’s just down the road, in the Market Street office.” David quickly copied the file. “There we go. Done.” He glanced up at her. He didn’t look happy. He looked tense and grim.
“Is everything OK?” Jade asked.
“Perfect. Fine. I’ll chat to you later, then. Just push that button on the door latch when you leave. It’ll lock from the inside.”
With that, he disappeared round the corner.
Jade sniffed the air. Was it her imagination, or was the scent of cologne stronger? She took another sniff. Definitely stronger. David must have doused himself in the stuff when he went out to make his phone call.
She pressed the button on the latch and closed the door behind her. Then she followed the trail of cologne down the stairs and out of the police station.
Jade had tailed people on foot before. Some of them had been jumpy and suspicious, others had strolled along in blissful ignorance. She’d never been spotted, because regard-less of the behavior of the target, she’d always been careful.
Following David down Commissioner Street, she sus-pected she could have let off flares and sung lewd songs at the top of her voice and he wouldn’t have noticed. He was striding ahead, weaving through the slow-moving pedes-trians on the pavement and dodging the roadside hawkers, swift and single-minded. Jade’s only worry was that his speed would take him too far ahead of her.
He slowed abruptly and turned down a narrow side road. She expected him to continue along it until he came to Market Street, but he ducked into the entrance of a building instead. She couldn’t follow him, because he would see her. She slowed to a dawdle, hoping that the woman he was due to meet was still on her way.
Jade had expected her to be unfamiliar, a stranger. She wasn’t. To her dismay, she recognized her as soon as she saw her hurrying down the street from the opposite direc-tion. The crimson jacket was unmistakable. She was the same dark-haired, coffee-skinned woman that Jade had seen climbing out of the car in the driveway of David’s house in Turffontein.
&nbs
p; Jade moved closer to the building’s entrance and risked a glance through the dirty glass doors. In the lobby, the woman and David stood locked in a close embrace, heads together, arms entwined.
She whirled away and jogged back down the street. She felt sick to her stomach. What the hell was going on? Who was this woman? What did she mean to David, and why was she living in his house? More troubling still, who was the young boy she’d seen racing away from his mother to the gate? Could he be David’s son?
Jade’s legs suddenly went weak. It was as if a carpet had been yanked from under her. She’d spent ten years drifting round the world. Working, hiding, biding her time. But what had she expected David to do during those years? Sign up for the nearest monastery?
She crossed her arms and threaded her cold hands into her sleeves. She hadn’t expected him to wait. But she hadn’t imag-ined he would make such permanent life changes either.
She bit her lip and turned back, fighting to get some per-spective on the situation. Any minute now they’d be out of the lobby, and then she could catch up with him and find out what was going on.
She waited, watching the throngs of passersby. Two men were strolling down the street holding greaseproof paper packets and the air filled with the vinegary smell of hot chips as they approached. As a rule, Jade couldn’t resist chips, espe-cially with lashings of chili sauce. Right then, the smell only made her feel sick all over again.
The woman left first. She marched out of the building, head turned aside, fumbling with the clasp of her handbag. She was wiping her hand across her eyes when she passed Jade.
David departed in a hurry, almost colliding with a passing pedestrian as he turned onto the street. He didn’t apologize, but continued on his way, head bowed, arms crossed in front of him. Jade saw him shrug his shoulders as if he was ridding himself of unwelcome thoughts.
She ran after him and tapped him on the shoulder.
David swung round with a thunderous expression on his face. Then he saw it was Jade. His anger dissolved. He stared at her for a moment, but she couldn’t read what she saw in his eyes.
Jade felt a surge of furious disappointment. She knew if she looked at David for one second longer, she would give in to the powerful urge to punch him squarely in his stomach. Not that she expected to cause much damage. But she didn’t want him to realize how strong her feelings for him were. If she hit him he would. She pushed past him and carried on walking. After a moment, she heard David’s footsteps hur-rying after her.
“Thanks for telling me,” she said, looking ahead at the oncoming traffic and the clusters of people.
“Jadey.” His voice was anguished.
“What’s the situation?”
“She’s my wife.”
“Your wife. Right. What’s her name?”
“Naisha.”
“And the boy?”
David didn’t ask how she knew. “My son. Kevin.”
“Your wife and son. Why aren’t you living with them?”
“We’re separated.”
“Not divorced?”
“Nope. Separated. Jade, do you have to walk so fast? Can’t you stop for a minute?”
“No. Right now, I can’t.” She dodged to the left of an oncoming pedestrian and, with a stretch of empty pavement ahead of her, increased her speed. “Why are you separated?”
“It’s a trial separation.”
“How long?”
“We’ve been apart for a few months now.”
“Do you still love her?”
“Jesus, what kind of a question is that? Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Whose idea was the separation?”
“Her idea. Jade, please wait. Please stop.”
She looked back at him. “What?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I know I did, and I’m sorry.” He met her eyes and she saw the pain in his face. “If it’s any consolation to you, I’m living in hell at the moment. Please give me a break here. Help me out. I didn’t want this to happen, any of it.”
Jade didn’t answer. Instead, she turned away from him and stalked off up the street. David didn’t follow her and she didn’t look back to see where he went.
24
Whiteboy was frustrated. His huge, airy house felt like a prison. Despite the bright windows and high ceilings and open-plan design, the interior was becoming claustrophobic. He was impatient. He wanted action. He needed the hot, brutal adrenaline-rush that was a perfect stress-reliever.
Whiteboy hadn’t killed anything since the private detec-tive, other than a couple of unseasonal mosquitos that he’d crushed after he’d caught them biting his arm. That was because of the damn fountain. Mosquitos weren’t supposed to be able to breed in moving water, but somehow they were breeding there. He was certain of it.
When he felt this way, he was usually able to get rid of his tension by going out clubbing and picking up girls. The right type of girls. He liked them young and innocent, but susceptible to his own particular form of charm. He’d go back to their place, or book into a motel. Never to his place. He didn’t want them knowing too much, in case there were repercussions down the line. Out of their minds on alcohol and cocaine, they were ready and willing to party the night away in the style that Whiteboy particularly enjoyed. He didn’t care if they cried with shame and pain when they came down in the morning. He’d had his fun and would simply walk away.
Tonight, he didn’t want to go clubbing because he was worried about the current situation. It was volatile, with too many variables. They needed to get it under control, and fast.
His contact had told him the girl was a looker. A spunky chick. Cheeky, with attitude. Whiteboy hadn’t seen her up close, but he trusted his friend’s opinion on her looks. And he knew she was daring. He’d seen her reverse into some guy’s car and burst his airbag. The incident had amused him intensely.
A spunky chick sounded fun. He wondered if she’d struggle, scream, try to bite him when the time came. He hoped so. At the moment, he was so wound up the only way he was able to keep himself in check was by fantasizing about how he’d get his money’s worth with her later on. He hoped he’d have the opportunity before he killed her. Just before would be his preference.
He was relieved when his other contact called back and gave him the go-ahead for a mission that he, Whiteboy, had suggested a while back.
“It’s time for some misdirection,” the contact said. “Let’s do it.”
“About bloody time,” Whiteboy snapped. He didn’t like to be ordered around by third parties. He operated best as an individual. He was a good leader, but nobody who knew him would call him a team player, that was for sure. In fact, most teams wouldn’t dare to conduct the operations that Whiteboy handled on his own.
He got into his car, taking with him the Colt .45, carefully wiped, and the Z88, which fired 9mm rounds. The Z88 was a police-issue weapon, a local copy of the Beretta that had come onto the market at around the same time apartheid was ending. He’d chosen it for a reason. When the gun was first manufactured locally, they’d had endless problems with mis-firing and other technical failures. Many of the faulty weapons found their way into criminal hands. They worked well enough most of the time, since their primary role was to scare people shitless. And if they fired once in a while, that was usually enough for your average dumb township criminal.
Whiteboy’s Z88 had never failed him. But he always believed in creating a plausible scenario. He thought ahead. That was what separated him from the rest of the rabble. So in the townships, he would use a typical township gun.
He headed out onto the highway in time to ride the last wave of the evening rush hour. Where to go? Soweto would be easiest, but he was worried about the police presence there. The place had been awash with cops and private security vehi-cles the last time he’d driven through. It was as well policed as Sandton. Good news for the residents, bad news for him. Alexandra was also too civilized these days. The township had lost its violent ed
ge. He would have to look further afield. An area where there was gang activity and recent unrest. Preferably a place where even the police were nervous and stayed away from the trouble spots.
He turned the car onto the highway heading north, deci-sion made. The informal settlement of Diepsloot was the perfect location. There had been riots there recently. Taxi wars. Innocent commuters caught in the crossfire, leading to more violence and unrest.
Twenty minutes later, Whiteboy pulled off the highway and followed a stream of taxis up the main road. Past the neon sign for the Indaba hotel, which he was sure once had some sort of a reputation as a brothel. Pity he’d never had the chance to go there before it turned respectable. Past the turnoff for Dainfern, the swanky high-security golf estate. Whiteboy had no interest in that. The land was already devel-oped. There was no opportunity there for him. And in any case, he hated golf. It was a pointless waste of time.
Whiteboy drove down a short, steep dip in the road and up the other side. He wondered if this was the diep sloot—the deep ditch the informal settlement had been named after. The road curved sharply and a taxi with a headlight missing veered into his path. He pounded his horn and the taxi driver corrected his steering, swerving the other way. Whiteboy seldom had a problem with taxis. He thought the drivers instinctively understood that they shouldn’t try their luck with him.
He shifted his weight in the seat and turned the heater down. He slowed at a traffic light. This was Diepsloot. On his left. A dark, smoky labyrinth of tin shacks and cardboard walls and the shells of cars. From the smell of it, the resi-dents weren’t only burning wood to keep warm. They were burning anything they could lay their hands on, from garbage to car tires. A few houses had electric light, but their power was stolen, channeled down from the main lines via illegal cables. Every so often, he knew, some power thief would hit the headlines by getting fried when trying that trick.
Taxis bumped off the tarmac and stopped and started in an endless rhythm, floods of passengers emerging from the doors, hunched and hurried.
He saw two prostitutes standing at the traffic light. Their short, brightly colored skirts revealed brown chunky legs, and their arms were wrapped around their bodies for warmth.
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