Pale Horses (3 page)

Nevertheless, staring up again at the mirrored glass, Jade was sure of one fact.

If she’d been the one who’d been falling to her death, she certainly would have screamed.

The man sitting next to Ntombi Khumalo smelled sour.

She had a keen nose, which meant she caught a whiff of it from time to time, overwhelming the fake pine scent of the air freshener and the fainter but far more expensive smell of leather. It was the acrid stink of days-old sweat. The odour of a man who had been travelling too long without showering or changing. Beneath his immaculate jacket, she guessed that his grey collared shirt had been soaked in perspiration more than once. Wet, dried, and wet again.

Ntombi didn’t want to think about why. She gripped the steering wheel more firmly and tried to ignore the way her stomach felt; tight and sick with fear.

‘Is the heater on too high for you?’ she asked. She’d rather not have spoken to him at all, but she’d been told to make sure he was comfortable at all times.

He turned to face her. Black skin, deeply tinted glasses, and an expression darker than both. He didn’t answer; just looked at her for a couple
of long, cold seconds, as if he were memorising her face for future reference, before giving a small headshake.

Now Ntombi felt sweat spring up under her own armpits. God, she hated doing this. Hated it, and all the more so because now she had no choice.

She inched carefully over the final speed bump on the way out of the airport car park – the one that had little steel blades in it as an extra security measure. Right now they were inside the slits in the raised metal, but she still drove over carefully, in case the blades were accidentally activated, bringing their journey to a disastrous stop with their tyre-shredding sharpness.

But the blades remained out of harm’s way, which Ntombi thought was wrong, because they were designed to stop criminals, and they had just let one pass.

She was familiar with the route they would be taking. She’d studied it yesterday, using a map book she had since closed and put away in door’s side pocket. The car she was driving was equipped with a
GPS
, but Ntombi knew that it was not to be used for trips such as this, trips where no record could exist. And so the
GPS
on the dashboard was turned off, its screen blank, an unseeing eye.

On the highway, she took the route to Pretoria. They wouldn’t be going all the way there, they’d switch to the
NI
highway and turn off at Randburg.

Her passenger shifted in his seat. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, and as he took a document out of his inside jacket pocket, she glimpsed an empty leather holster buckled to his belt.

Ntombi’s stomach clenched still further.

She could imagine her employer reassuring him with the words, ‘She’ll be cool. You can trust her one hundred per cent.’

Or perhaps he had laughed and said, ‘Don’t worry – I own her.’ It was a phrase she’d heard him use more than once recently. Certainly he had used it the first time she had chauffeured this dark-skinned man, which had been a week ago now. She hadn’t actually expected to see him again, or at least certainly not so soon.

The man was a killer. That was all she knew; all she needed to know. Her mouth went dry when she realised the implications of this – what it meant for her and her son, affectionately known as Small Khumalo.

She should refuse to do this. But she knew she couldn’t. Not with Small Khumalo now in her sole care. The energetic and gifted young boy was already showing himself to be both an academic whizz and a force to be reckoned with on the soccer field. Thinking of him simultaneously filled her heart with love and with dread.

Small Khumalo had effectively made her a prisoner.

Don’t think of him – not now, she told herself. He was safely at school. A good school – Redhill, in Morningside. A school where she could never have afforded to send him had it not been for her current job.

‘Can you really drive?’ her prospective employer had asked, his tone one of amusement, when he had first interviewed her. ‘You come from a small rural community. Not many people from those parts of South Africa have an education, never mind a driver’s licence.’

‘The school I attended in Bronkhorstspruit was a rural school, but a good one. I passed my Matric with a distinction in Housecrafts,’ she had told him, raising her chin to display a confidence she did not feel. ‘My husband owned a car for a while. He taught me how to drive, and in that very car I obtained my licence.’

‘Well, I need a housekeeper who can cook, because I’m too busy to make my own meals. Your main job will be to keep my place in order and the fridge well stocked with food. As far as driving goes …’ At this, he’d looked thoughtful. ‘It’s certainly something I could make use of in the future. But tell me, why did you decide to leave your community and come to work in Johannesburg?’

Don’t think of that fateful interview now. Think of food instead. Her employer’s fridge was currently full, but she needed to cook for herself and her son. What should she make for dinner tonight?

Driving along the R21, keeping just within the speed limit, Ntombi forced her thoughts to her greatest passion in life apart from her son – her cookery. The kitchen in her furnished apartment was small, but it was well equipped, with multiple electronic gadgets and tools, expensive pots and pans, a whole cupboard full of recipe books, and her greatest joy – a state-of-the-art Kenwood food processor.

She’d make bobotie, she decided. A traditional Cape Malay dish, perfect for a winter evening, with spiced mince and raisins topped with an egg custard and oven-baked for an hour to bring it to sizzling golden-brown perfection. This would be accompanied by saffron rice and a simple
but tasty salad. Sliced avocado – there were some beautiful ones in the kitchen that had ripened to perfection – with wild rocket, chopped cucumber and crumbled Danish feta.

She could already visualise arranging the ingredients in shallow bowl, creating a pyramid with the avocado and chunks of cucumber. A good dressing – a balsamic reduction would work perfectly – with perhaps a few homemade croutons to top it off.

Ntombi’s fierce grip on the steering wheel started to relax as she planned her menu. But when she realised cars in front of her were slowing, the two lanes narrowing into one, and she saw the orange cones that signalled a police roadblock they tightened again.

Her heart started to pound fast and hard.

Her undesirable companion put the piece of paper back into his jacket pocket and fastened it, concealing the holster, before doing up his seatbelt and leaning back in his seat, eyes closed.

Let her get through this. It was bound to be a routine stop, with the police checking for valid driver’s licences and registration. Surely they hadn’t had a tip-off about the man she’d picked up at the airport barely fifteen minutes ago?

Stop it, Ntombi told herself. You can do this. The only thing that will give you away is your own fear.

An officer waved her over and she pulled into the emergency lane, the tyres bumping gently over an uneven patch in the tarmac. She buzzed the window down.

The black policeman bent down and peered into the vehicle’s plush interior.

‘Licence, please,’ he said, and although Ntombi could hear from his accent that he was Xhosa, he spoke to her in English.

She handed over the licence card that stated she was Mrs Thabiseng.

‘You coming from the airport?’ the cop asked. She got the distinct feeling that this was not just making conversation; that they were on the lookout for something.

‘Yes,’ she told him, and to her immense relief her voice sounded steady. ‘I picked up my husband from international arrivals earlier this morning.’ She inclined her head to her left. ‘Please don’t speak too loudly,’ she asked the cop, giving him one of her most vivacious smiles.
‘We might disturb his sleep. I think he enjoyed too many single malts in business class.’

The cop grinned. He gave her back her licence, walked around the front of the car, and peered in through the windscreen as he read the licence disc.

‘You can go,’ he said, waving her on.

Ntombi let out a long, shaky breath of relief as she rejoined the highway.

Whatever or whoever the cops had been looking for, it was not a newly rich black couple on their way home from the airport. A wealthy husband and wife, such as they appeared to be, and no doubt as well connected as they were well dressed put them instantly beyond suspicion.

Which was why her employer had ordered her to drive this client of his when he was in town.

Putting her foot down harder, Ntombi accelerated up to the speed limit, hoping that the dark-suited man wouldn’t be spending too much time in Jo’burg afterwards; that in fact her next journey might be to take him back to the airport.

At any rate, she prayed so.

To Jade’s surprise, Theron didn’t walk straight up to the entrance of Sandton Views. Instead, he pointed across the street to what she saw was a rather odd-looking, tall, cylindrical bronze monument with carvings covering its surface.

‘Before we go any further, I have to show you something. That’s the
Candle of Hope
,’ he said. ‘I come here sometimes just to stand and look at it. I don’t know if you know anything about it. Do you?’

Jade shook her head.

‘It was commissioned by a developer called Dorrestein. He heads up the Legacy group, which built Da Vinci Towers. He had it put up a couple of years back after his son was killed in an attempted hijacking. They call it a candle, but it’s supposed to be modelled on a fig tree. The
scenes on it are beautiful, if you look up close. So many important moments in South Africa’s history.’

‘I never even knew it existed,’ Jade confessed.

‘That tall glass wall behind it is covered with etchings of trees and inspirational sayings. And below the wall is a well of water. That’s supposed to be where the tears of those who have suffered and lost are collected.’

‘That’s amazing,’ Jade said, genuinely surprised. She’d driven through that intersection several times in the past couple of years and had never noticed the monument until now. ‘I’ll have a closer look at it on the way back.’

‘You want to go into Sandton Views, while we’re here?’

They turned away from the
Candle of Hope
and took in the far more imposing structure ahead of them. Sandton City’s tallest building. For a few years at least, it would dominate the CBD’s skyline.

‘I can go in if you like,’ she found herself saying to Theron.

‘Here.’ He took a white access card out of his wallet and handed it to her. ‘Security’s tight, but this card’ll get you through the turnstile. It’ll also allow you to take the lift to the top floor. Make sure you hold the card against the magnetic sensor while you press the button. If you don’t the lift won’t go beyond the twenty-fourth floor. They won’t let residents go up to the top floors because they’re still under construction. From twenty-five up, the building is basically a shell.’

‘How did you get the card?’

‘Sonet gave it to me,’ Theron said. ‘I don’t know how she got hold of it. I suppose she found a way. I guess I’ll have to give it back at some stage, but nobody’s asked me for it yet.’

Jade supposed that, for a base jumper, gaining illegal access to buildings was all part of the thrill.

‘You don’t want to come with me and show me where you went?’

He shook his head. ‘The card only admits one person. And, to be honest with you, I never want to go up there again. Not ever.’

‘I understand.’

‘Take the service lift. It’s the one on the far left as you go in. You’ll see our footprints at the top. And be careful. The flooring is uneven and parts of it are missing altogether. I put my feet exactly where Sonet trod, literally followed in her footsteps, and I suggest you do the same. Oh, and you’ll need this.’

He unclipped a small flashlight from the bunch of keys he carried on his belt.

‘It’s very dark up there,’ he said.

Inside the building, Jade’s rubber-soled shoes squeaked softly as she walked across the shiny marble floor. A female guard was seated at the wooden reception desk near the turnstiles that looked distinctly temporary in the otherwise grand lobby. She glimpsed scaffolding set up behind a boarded-up area to the right of the entrance door, indicating that the builders’ work here was not yet complete.

The place smelled brand new. Jade supposed it would for a while. Concrete had to harden, paint had to dry, adhesives had to set. The whole process could take weeks, and until they did their distinctive odours would continue to fill the air.

There was a turnstile for visitors and one for residents. Jade went confidently up to the residents’ turnstile and held the card against the sensor. A green light flashed briefly and with a muted click the steel bar moved smoothly forward to allow her through.

On the wall ahead of her, Jade saw the signs for the companies that had already set up offices. These too were temporary looking, if a little smarter. The building had only a handful of tenants so far, all of them located on the first five floors. Two attorneys, a construction company, no fewer than three psychologists, a dentist, a private bank, a recruitment consultancy and a few other organisations whose names gave no clues to their functions.

She took out her notepad and scribbled down their details before heading towards the lifts, keeping close to the wall that sported an African-themed pattern of tiles in gold, ochre and brown.

Inside the nearest lift, Jade pressed the button for floors number three and four. She waited at three while the doors opened and closed again, just in case the security guard was watching where she went, and then got out at four. Here, she walked towards the furthermost lift. This was the service lift, its floor untiled and its sides swathed in heavy-duty canvas.

With the help of her illegal access card, Jade pressed the button for the topmost level, number sixty-seven.

The floor pressed hard against her feet as the elevator shot upwards. When the doors opened, she stepped out into almost total darkness.