Pale Horses (17 page)

‘And then?’ He was frowning now.

‘I’ll know who they are.’

‘They’re not playing games, Jade.’

‘Nor am I.’ Bravado, she knew, even with the dubious assistance of an old pistol.

David said nothing. Just took another swallow of beer. The frown hadn’t left his face. The two deep lines in between his eyebrows looked as if they were about to become a permanent fixture.

‘Those notes. Have you had any more of them?’ she asked, changing
the subject. She was sure he must have done, otherwise he wouldn’t have wanted to meet up so urgently.

‘I have. One. This evening, in fact.’

‘Same place?’

‘Yes. At the gym, but this time it was taped to the door.’

‘And the message?’

‘Different this time.’

‘Well?’

David didn’t look like he actually wanted to tell her. He stared down at his empty plate and mumbled something inaudible.

‘You don’t
have
to tell me,’ Jade said.

‘You might as well know. It said: So who’s the proud father-to-be, then?’

Jade couldn’t help it. The mention of David’s pregnant wife triggered a surge of jealousy that made her want to get up, knocking her chair over and perhaps her half-full wineglass as well, and storm out of the restaurant. But that was only for an instant, before the seriousness of the situation hit home.

‘They’re involving your family now?’

‘Yes.’

And whoever was leaving the notes knew about his personal circumstances. This was all the more disturbing when Jade remembered that, as part of the Organised Crime division, David routinely dealt with drug dealers, arms smugglers and human traffickers. Ruthless, violent and powerful criminals who were more than capable of following through on their threats. And if they’d found out where he worked out, that meant they also knew where he lived.

With a nine-year-old boy and a heavily pregnant wife, David was at his most vulnerable, especially since Kevin had been abducted by kidnappers the previous year. Although the boy had been sedated for the duration of his capture, and was virtually unscarred by the event, David had been through the worst kind of hell, and Jade knew it was one of his deepest fears that something similar might happen again.

‘Naisha and Kevin are leaving town tomorrow morning for the long weekend,’ David said as if reading her thoughts. ‘Naisha’s uncle is over from London and they’re all having a big family get-together in the Pilanesberg. When she asked me this morning if I really thought it was
a good idea for her to go, I just about jumped with joy. I’m hoping now she didn’t realise something was wrong.’

‘Let me know the next time you decide to go to the gym. Someone’s obviously watching your movements. If you do, then I can keep an eye on the entrance.’

‘Thanks. I will.’ But he said it reluctantly, as if he didn’t want to expose her to his dangers when she already had her own to deal with.

‘Has anybody else in your team received similar notes?’

‘I haven’t heard anyone else mention it.’

‘And there’s nobody you suspect? No case causing any particular problems?’

‘Honestly, Jade, there’s nothing I can think of. And where there’ve been threats in the past they’ve contained specifics. You know the type. “Drop the Rajnee case or your family will suffer.” Usually arrives in a grubby envelope, printed in caps, with at least two spelling mistakes.’

Jade smiled. ‘Well, let’s think positively. Perhaps this is the disgruntled ex-partner of someone who you’ve already put in prison, and all they want to do is mess with your mind for a while.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ David said, sounding unconvinced.

He insisted on paying the bill, and just before they left, he dug in his pocket and slid a small bunch of keys and a black remote control across the table.

‘Take these and please use them,’ he said.

Jade stared down at them. ‘How? For what?’

‘They’re for my house in Turffontein. We tried to sell it a few months back, as you know, but the market’s stagnant, so we’ve been renting it out. It’s between tenants at the moment and I’d really appreciate it if you would stay there – for one or two nights at least.’

Seeing the doubt in Jade’s eyes and misconstruing the reason for it, he continued. ‘It’s very secure. The gate and the garage are automated now and there are reinforced burglar bars on the windows. It’s partly furnished – you’ll be comfortable there.’

‘Thanks. Really.’ Jade took the keys. They were still warm from being in his pocket. Lucky keys. She and David hadn’t touched at all.

And then, to her astonishment, he took her hand. Reached across the table and closed his long, slim fingers over hers. His grasp was as warm as the keys had been and his touch felt heartbreakingly familiar.

‘Just be careful, Jadey, OK?’

Jade didn’t reply. She didn’t have the words. How could she tell him that she’d only now realised this meeting was not about him. This was about her. He was worried and doing his best to look after her.

David released her hand and got to his feet, and waited for her to do the same. Then he walked her to The Baron’s open door and out into the half-empty car park.

David’s Turffontein house was indeed tightly locked up – security gates closed and windows closely barred. It resembled a mini prison in a street that looked shabbier and more dilapidated than Jade remembered from the last time she’d been there.

As it was being rented out, Jade didn’t expect to find any personal stuff of David’s around, and there wasn’t. The interior smelled of furniture polish and fresh paint. Turning on the hallway light, which was covered by what looked like a brand-new lampshade, she made her way into the bedroom. The bed was stripped, but the black bin bag on top of the mattress contained bedding, clean and ironed. In lieu of a bedside table, a wooden chair stood beside the bed.

Before Jade went to sleep there was one final and important task she had to do.

She took the stolen gun and clipped a fresh magazine into place. Then she went outside into the chilly night, holding it muzzle-down, feeling the comfort of its grip in her hand, the shape simultaneously familiar and new.

The house and its tiny garden didn’t provide many opportunities for target practice. She would have to make do with standing up against the wall and aiming it at the tool shed on the other side of the dry stretch of grass.

She took a steady breath. Sighted. Tightened her finger on the trigger and sent a silent apology to the residents in the surrounding houses for disturbing their sleep, even though she was sure that in this area
gunshots were not an uncommon sound, and equally sure that nobody would be able to pinpoint exactly where it had come from.

She aimed for the centre of the second board from the left, about a foot below the corrugated-iron roof. As she pulled the trigger she felt the sound blast her eardrums and the hard kick of the grip in her hand as the muzzle flash briefly flared and the used shell tumbled to the ground.

Jade picked it up and held her breath. Some dogs began to bark, but apart from that there was no response of any kind.

The gun worked, at least. Now to find out how accurate it was.

The bullet had left a perfect circle in the exact centre of the second plank, a foot from the top. From a distance it looked like a knot in the wood. She was sure David would easily be able to fix it with a tube of Pratley’s putty, if he noticed it at all.

It had punched right through the half-inch board but the wood had slowed its speed, flattened and distorted it, and sent it tumbling down onto the shed’s dusty floor. She put it in her pocket with the shell.

She had a weapon that not only worked but was also superbly accurate.

Double bonus.

Back inside, she locked the front door and then the bedroom door. In one of the built-in cupboards she found a small fan heater to help to dispel the empty chill of the room. Then Jade unpacked the sheets and duvet and made the bed, put her cellphone on the chair after setting the alarm for six a.m., undressed quickly and eased herself between the cold sheets.

‘That’s enough for one day, I think,’ she said aloud.

Five hours of sleep was all she could have, and tomorrow would be another long day. She needed to trace Harris. He was a potential source of information and she was annoyed that he’d left while she was being interviewed. Whilst finding him would be a relatively easy job, it would take up time she didn’t have.

She also needed to report back to Victor Theron. To inform her client about the latest developments in the investigation, and establish whether the police had been in touch with him, or made any progress regarding the circumstances surrounding Sonet’s death.

But her biggest priority was going to be keeping ahead of the men
who had slashed her tyre at the hospital and then turned up at Zelda’s house a few hours later. Although logic told her she was safe and that they wouldn’t think to look for her here, and that she needed her sleep, instinct disagreed.

Instinct told her to be wary of every noise. Better sleep-starved than dead.

Eventually, Jade’s thoughts drifted to the man and the horse she’d met earlier in the day at the abandoned farm. The sheen of the Arab’s coat, the smell of leather and sweat, the surefootedness as the pair had cantered away over the stony ground.

Jade slipped into sleep; her dreams punctuated by the rhythmic beat of horses’ hooves.

The buzzing of the alarm tore Ntombi from a night of troubled rest. She fumbled for the ‘Off’ button, sat up and tugged her sweat-damp nightie away from her body. Her thoughts were racing so fast that the ticking of the old-fashioned clock next to the bed seemed sluggish by comparison. She switched on the light, banishing the oppressive darkness of the room.

She would never rely on an electric alarm clock. Not in a city where power cuts were so frequent. Besides, this clock had been a birthday present from her husband two years ago. Khumalo had thought it would be useful for her to help time her cooking, and it had been. Dish after dish had been cooked to perfection thanks to the clock that had stood on a trestle table in her hut, safely out of the way of the steaming pots on the hot plate and the baking trays slotted into the tiny oven.

Pushing the thoughts of her husband aside, Ntombi scrambled out of bed, calling to her son to get ready; that they needed to leave in forty-five minutes. His excited response told her that he’d woken up long before her, anticipating the fun of the day ahead. It was the last school day of term and his class was going on an outing to the Apartheid Museum and Gold Reef City.

‘Take your school bag just in case you need it,’ she told him.

What did her boy need to take with? Muzzily, she remembered Small Khumalo having given her a printed list of requirements for the day. Where had she put it? It had been the day when her employer’s anonymous
client had arrived, and everything since then had been eclipsed by the horror of what she’d had to participate in.

After a frantic search, tipping the contents of her handbag onto the duvet and then turning her bedroom practically upside down, she remembered she’d left it in the BMW’s cubbyhole.

‘Stupid, stupid woman,’ she chastised herself. She hurriedly tugged on a pair of blue jeans and a black woollen jersey. Wriggled her feet into her comfortable moccasins. She grabbed the keys and headed for the front door.

She was about to close it behind her when she heard the faint trilling of her cellphone in the bedroom.

Ntombi snatched the door open again and rushed back to the room. She grabbed the phone and retraced her steps, glancing down at the screen as she did so.

Her heart sank when she saw it was her employer on the line.

‘Hello,’ she said softly, closing the front door behind her and pressing the button to call the lift.

‘Plans have changed for today.’ She realised to her dismay that he sounded as hyped-up as Khumalo, which could only mean trouble. ‘You need to pick up our guest in half an hour. He’ll be waiting outside the main entrance of the Sandton Sun hotel. It’s going to be a very long day; in fact, you’ll probably only get back tomorrow. Make sure the car has a full tank before you leave. Oh, and your dress code is to be smart-traditional, suitable for a road trip, and with shoes you can walk in.’

But …

Ntombi never even uttered the word out loud. How could she?

‘I’ll be there,’ she said in a low voice.

The lift arrived and she stepped inside. Ntombi pressed the button for the basement without even having to look and stared blankly at the closed doors as she descended the five floors.

Half an hour. She needed to get going right now. Going to the petrol station and filling up the car would take fifteen minutes, and getting back to the Sandton Sun another five. That left her only ten minutes to pick out something suitable to wear.

It also meant Small Khumalo couldn’t go on his school trip; the outing he’d been looking forward to for a fortnight.

The day would turn into another of those that her boy spent locked
up alone in the apartment while Ntombi racked her brains for another excuse to explain his absence from school. Another handwritten note lying about him having a temperature that day; that the car had broken down; that he’d had an appointment with the bereavement counsellor – as much as she hated to use his father’s death as an excuse, desperation had driven her to do so in the past two weeks.

The lift doors sucked open, exposing her to the oily tang of the basement air.

Leaden-footed, she trailed over to her car. She’d better go and fill it up right now and then come back, get changed and explain the situation to her son, who would be devastated. Then she would lock him in the apartment and leave.

Leave.

That was what she needed to do – leave. Get out. Run. More urgently than ever before, she needed to go.

She’d realised now her employer was never going to keep the promise he’d made. He’d assured her that he’d find out what had happened to her husband and her community. He’d guaranteed that he’d get in contact with the woman whose details she’d passed on to him.