The Score

By HJ Golakai

Vee Johnson has been banished. And to Oudtshoorn, of all places . . . for daring to be an investigative reporter. Vee and her sidekick, Chlöe Bishop, have barely checked into their lodge when two bodies are discovered. And so they uncover an underworld of cybercrime and corruption as all trails lead to Xoliswa Gaba, the enfant terrible of Cape Town’s IT industry.
Sex, drugs and BEE, The Score is an unflinching romp through what remains of the rainbow nation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kwela
• Release date: Oct 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9780795707278

HJ Golakai

Born in Frankfurt, Germany, Hawa Jande Golakai spent a vibrant childhood in her homeland Liberia. Due to the civil war in 1990 she bounced around the continent, and after living in several countries considers herself a modern-day nomad and cultural sponge. Her 2011 crime debut The Lazarus Effect was thrice nominated for literary awards. She is currently a laureate of the Africa39 Project, which celebrates 39 of the most promising contemporary authors under the age of 40 on the continent. She enjoys performing autopsies and investigating peculiar medical cases for her storylines. In addition to writing full time, she moonlights as a medical immunologist and health consultant. She lives between Monrovia and anywhere else she finds herself.

Book preview

Kwela Books

This is mine.

He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind …

Proverbs 11:29

The Holy Bible

King James Version

Prologue

Dawn snuck up out of nowhere. Across the grass, patches of morning gold swelled and merged, creeping over stretch by stretch of dewy lawn. Blinking as rays striped across her face, Vee swallowed hard and picked up the pace.

She squatted and examined the dead man’s feet. His shoes were relatively clean, bar disks of dried mud and grass caked to the back of the soles. Flecks of mud spattered the bottom inch of his chinos. She leaned closer and snapped a picture with her phone. Gingerly, Nokia pinched between two fingers, she inched up the cuff and peered up his leg.

A flurry of gasps made her jump.

Hhayi, wenza ntoni! Zintle yelped.

You flippin’ crazy? Chlöe growled.

What I should do? Vee hissed over her shoulder. Y’all got a better idea?

Huddled like lovers, Chlöe and Zintle wild-eyed her in silence, ample bosoms undulating in unison. Zintle tightened her grip on Chlöe’s arm, chunky fingers digging trenches of red into Chlöe’s milky skin. Dah helluva mark dah one will leave, Vee thought, wincing.

We’re not supposed to touch anything. And you’re touching things!

Dammit Bishop, I touched one thing! Vee wobbled getting to her feet and reached out to steady herself. Her flailing hand grappled over dead leg, immediately sending her stomach contents into a slow roil. The man’s body, strung by the neck to the coat hook, took up a gentle pendulous swing, the fabric of his jeans and leather of his shoes making a low, eerie rasp against the grainy cement wall. Chlöe and Zintle shrieked and leapt away. Vee toppled onto her butt, scrabbling in the gravel till she found her footing and scurried over to them. Together, the circle heaved in harmony.

I’ve never seen a dead person before, Chlöe whispered. "No, I mean I’ve seen a normal dead person before. At a couple of funerals, when they’re clean and stuffed and make-upped. But not like this. Knuckles to her cheek, she moved her hand in frantic circles against her skin, a sure sign she was freaking out. Not, like, a brutal murder."

Vee sucked her teeth, a biting ‘mttssshw’, clipping it short in consideration of the sombre atmosphere. "Dah whetin you call a brutal murder? It somethin’ like a very orange orange?"

Ag, man. Chlöe rolled her eyes. I mean … you know …

I’ve been to hundreds of funerals, Zintle breathed, then stopped, mouth agape. From her expression, this was clearly a new one for her too.

"Exactly. Who’s seen this kinda thing happen every day?"

Vee held her tongue. In her time, more recently than she cared to recall, she’d seen far too many abnormally dead people. Shot, hacked, diseased, starved … And once, bloated flesh piled high enough to darken the horizon of her young mind for months, years even. In comparison, this hapless soul had gone with reasonable dignity.

She averted her eyes, the violence of her heartbeat reaching up her chest like a witch’s claw, squeezing her throat closed. Now was not the time to let an acute phobia of dead bodies run riot. The dangling man had her property. Every time she peeked, tried not to, her eyes were drawn to his neck, a thickened, bruised pipe wrapped in purple fabric. Her flesh tingled and shrank, drawing her face tight. Time to think clearly and quickly. Neither was happening.

Why isn’t anyone coming? Why the hell’s it taking so long? Chlöe whined.

Zintle turned her back to the hanging man. They’re coming. We called them, so they should be here soon. But you’re right, it’s taking forever. Eyes fixed to the gravel, she smoothed down the front of her maid’s uniform and shuffled her feet. I want to leave this place.

Chlöe clucked sympathetically. It’s cool if you want to go back to reception. We can all wait there. Vee whipped her a withering look. Or maybe hang around a bit longer. Please. It’ll look weird to the cops if we’re left alone with him, when we’re the ones …

Vee launched another eye, sharper still, watched Chlöe taper off to gnawing at her lips.

The situation was bad enough already. Why help it escalate from strange to outright damning, which it sure as hell would when the police inevitably found out exactly which guest had been present when the body was found? The less incriminated she looked, the better.

I can’t keep working here anymore, Zintle elaborated. Too much bad luck.

Vee softened. The last forty-eight hours had been rough on all of them, but Zintle had borne the brunt. If she heard the phrase ‘excelling outside of one’s job description’ ever again, she would think of hospitality’s unluckiest ambassador.

Zintle’s face contorted. Ugghhnn, I feel sick. She doubled over, clutching her stomach.

Chlöe’s horror magnified. Sies man, don’t throw up. She rubbed a soothing hand over the maid’s back. If I see or even hear someone throw up, it makes me sick too.

I … uuggghhnn … won’t vomit … Zintle compelled herself, gulping air like a landed fish.

Oi! Can you not say ‘vomit’ either? It’s not helping.

Vee edged closer. The man’s eyes were shut, tiny slats of the whites just visible when she crouched. She’d always thought the standard strangled expression was one of bulging, terrified eyes, shot through with harried blood vessels. Tongue drooping over toothy grimace for effect. Nothing like that here. Facial muscles slack, expression … not peaceful, or particularly anything for that matter. Just gone.

She sucked in a deep breath and clamped her airways, creeping even nearer. Once upon a time in a faraway lab somewhere, super-nerds had taken time to ascertain that the soul allegedly weighed twenty-one grams. They probably hadn’t bothered identifying its odour, but some process made the human body smell torturously different after death. Not decay exactly; this man had been gone a mere matter of hours. But there was that subtle yet unmistakable turn after the flesh and spirit parted ways, the most repulsive aspect of the thing. She stared at the noose around the man’s neck, throbbing alternately with regret and then shame for feeling such regret.

Don’t even think about it.

Vee whipped around. Eyes narrowed, Chlöe stared her down over the head of a wilting Zintle, now snuggled in her bosom.

I wasn’t, Vee snapped. Maybe a tiny, foolish part of her was. But if she removed the scarf … hide it where? And explain the lack of a murder weapon how? Massive shitstorm potential.

The silk had been knotted twice, then twisted completely along the length stretched across the man’s windpipe. The noose closed in a third knot at the back of the head, where the loose material had been fashioned into a loop of sorts, easily slung over a worthy hook. Under the substantial weight, the workmanship of the coatrack was literally holding up. The tips of the man’s shoes barely touched the ground. Breath held again, Vee zoomed her Nokia’s camera and took a close-up of the garrotte. She stared at it a long time, nonplussed.

A triangular tip of white poking out of his pants caught the corner of her eye. She exhaled shakily. A furtive peep over her shoulder ran smack into Chlöe’s glare, drilling a hole through the back of her head. Throwing a puppy-eyed plea, Vee deftly plucked the object from the man’s pocket and stuck it in hers. She turned her back on Chlöe’s widening eyes and frantic head-shaking.

They’re here, she said.

Three older men, flanked by two strapping groundsmen in blue jumpsuits, trudged across the expanse of grass. The groundsmen were no less frantic than they had been when, short of two hours earlier, they’d come across the florid-faced white man strung up outside their workroom door. They hung back with a couple of the older men, wildly gesticulating over what Vee knew was a colourful extrapolation of a story they’d told several times already. The last of the group, hard-faced and decked in a trench coat that was absurd considering the building heat, made a beeline for them.

Is it a coincidence that the police look the same every damn where, Vee wondered, or do they follow an international manual? A sudden surge of weariness cut through the shock, overcame, left her feeling like a jaded witness in a cheap private-eye novel, until the policeman tripped on the downhill verge of the lawn and nearly fell. She turned away to hide a giggle.

A crowd of gawkers, guests and staff from the lodge was in full fluster by the time the officers had questioned them. The single crime scene technician, whom Vee had anticipated would be an entire team working with scientific flourish, simply clicked away at different angles on a basic Kodak and cut the body down. Another stab twisted under her ribs as the massive pair of scissors worked through her silk scarf.

Chlöe sighed. "I feel cheated after all these years of watching CSI. We could’ve done that. Well, not take the body down ourselves, but …"

Vee tuned out. The best bit was kicking off. The cops formed a scrum of whispers for what felt like forever. They pulled Zintle, sobbing by now, aside. Head down with hands clamped under her armpits, she seemed to be speaking in fits and bursts. She shook her head and shrugged a lot. As the probing wore on, she stole guilty glances over her shoulder at Vee and Chlöe. One of the cops snuck a comforting arm around her shoulder and leered down the front of her uniform. Finally, Hardface Trench, who was clearly in charge, broke the huddle and set about creating another expert beeline. He had thrown off the coat, revealing a crisp blue shirt and pants of a brown so similar to his complexion that from afar he looked naked from the waist down.

Ohhh Gooood … Chlöe groaned. Vee steeled her spine and set her expression to ‘concerned but oblivious’. In the pockets of her jeans, her fingers started to tremble as they stroked the rectangle of paper.

What’s your name, ma’am? Hardface scowled in Vee’s direction, not sparing Chlöe a single glance.

Voinjama Johnson. She let him blink, purse his lips, mouth the name soundlessly many times as he scribbled in a battered notebook, and offered no help. She wondered what highly revised version he’d put down. Probably just Johnson; most people went with Johnson.

It’s my understanding you know this man.

No, I don’t.

Hhhmmph. He’s one … He squinted, flipping at leisure through the notebook.

Gavin Berman, Vee blurted.

Hardface stopped and raised his head very slowly. You just said you didn’t know him.

You asked if I know him, not if I know his name.

The policeman’s head reared a barely perceptible inch as his eyes hardened. His body language computed a rapid adjustment from ‘the easy way’ to ‘the hard way’, now clearly the only option on offer. Eh-hehhh. Would you mind coming with me so long? So we can work out how everyone here knows everyone else, which you seem to know a lot about. His arm executed an upswing as if to shepherd her along the path. Neither Vee nor Chlöe, crowded to her back like a fledgling to its mother, fell in line. The arm dropped. He flicked his head in the direction of the front entrance and abruptly strode off, a click of his tongue punching the air.

Find Lovett now. Start with that blonde’s room, then his, Vee whispered to Chlöe. I doubt they’ve left yet. And call Nico.

I thought we weren’t calling Nico!

Change of plans, Vee muttered.

Shifting of Shape

Chapter One

Johnson …

Vee flipped a hand for silence, frowning over the document open on the flatscreen. It was all over the place. Jumbled, wordy in the wrong places, the punch sucked out of it. The online team were a pack of butchers – why else would every thing of beauty that passed through their feral mitts come out the other end looking, sounding if that were possible, like a mangled carcass? Prose was doomed to play the ugly stepchild to graphics in their world, as if readers only visited the digital page to look at pretty pictures. She chopped a few limp lines off the third paragraph, thought better of it and deleted it completely. Dammit! she threw her hands up. What’ve you done?

This, Darren Februarie tapped the screen, is a masterpiece.

This is shit spattered on a bathroom wall, that’s how readable it is. She readjusted her chair. Last time I give you anything for comments.

C’mon. You’re not gonna do a full re-write while I –

Febs, hush your mouth. This is what you do, make a mess and throw it in my lap to fix at the last minute. Who told you to merge all this? It was separate for good reason.

It read better.

"It read better? Did you actually read this tripe back to yourself after you butchered it, or is comprehension another handicap of your Bantu education?"

Ohh-hooo! Bitch switch on, people! Darren guffawed, then slowly, very carefully, raised his middle finger in her face. Vee bared and snapped her teeth as if to bite it off, sending him stumbling backwards, laughing some more. She swivelled back around, dead serious as she sliced the cursor across the screen, muttering to herself. You are no Hemingway, and I’m no Mark Zuckerberg. Instead of trying to do a mash-up, let’s play to strengths until … The rest of the sentence – ‘I’m officially part of the team’ – soured in the back of her throat. She shook her head. Well, just until. The cursor flitted like a scalpel, ripping out the heart of the story gasping for air amidst entrails of inconsequential fluff, and transplanted it to the top of the page. "Otherwise we end up with this."

Fine. I defer to your brilliance only – she’s coming!

Vee jerked one eye over his head and through the door to the newsroom. A missile of purple bore down on them in the form of a short, plump brunette. She clicked ‘save’, wiggled out the flash drive, tossed it at Februarie’s rapidly retreating back and sprang from the chair.

She didn’t get far.

Ah, Voinjama! Swathes of plum crowded out the nearest escape route. Vee groaned inwardly as Saskia Schoeman executed her trademark plastic smile, lips stretching by fractions like they were being tugged at the corners by invisible drawstrings. There you are.

Here I am. Where I always … am.

Indeed you are, Saskia sniffed. One would think you were hiding from me!

"Haha. One could think that. And before you ask, I’m headed there already."

Wonderful. The smile cranked up a few extra tight degrees. Trouble brewing, Vee cautioned herself. Experience had shown there was very little difference between office manager and Gestapo in Saskia’s mind. The witch’s cauldron was always on the boil, and as the unfortunate newbies, she and Chlöe often served as the freshest ingredients.

"Oh, and when you run into your, umm … friend, perhaps you can impress upon her the importance of attending my meetings. Again, hard to miss how Schoeman’s saliva practically curdled at the prospect of using the word ‘assistant’, a luxury no-one below her was supposed to have. We start in fifteen. If you can spare her, that is."

Vee ignored the jibe, frowning. What meeting? She thought for a second. Oh, the interns’ thing. Chlöe’s not an intern.

She’s not a journalist either, is she? Saskia’s head did a sly cat’s tilt.

Vee primmed her lips. "Thought that was two-thirty this afternoon, with the group from Urban. She flicked her watch: closing on nine-thirty a.m. I was hoping to attend."

"Not necessary. I have it under control. You’ve stretched yourself quite thin as it is. Something vulgar insinuated itself in her tone, another of her slithery, unsettling talents. Schoeman flicked her gaze across the newsroom to Darren, who had hustled himself a long, safe distance away and now stood looking pointedly nonchalant as he sipped coffee and conferred with another colleague. She dragged her eyes back to Vee, the film on her irises taking on an oily, vaguely threatening glint. May I add that I believe the office runs far better when we all look to our assigned duties, and concentrate on performing them exclusively and well. No-one need step outside the confines of their job description. It’s disruptive."

And I believe you look like a rolling grape, Vee smirked at her back, watching her duck-waddle away.

She rotated kinks out of her neck and shoulders down the corridor to the managing editor’s office, apprehension stirring up her breakfast. She really wasn’t up for crap this early. Investigating for Urban magazine had been one thing, but wading through the innards of the City Chronicle beast had so far proved a different adventure altogether. Yes … definitely a Jonah-in-the-belly-of-the-whale level of wading. Nico van Wyk captained his ship using strangely different coordinates, ones she had yet to decipher.

Bugger off, he barked in answer to her knock. Unless it’s Johnson.

The office was cool and furnished with spartan, practical taste; a man’s space. The premises of Chronicle were close to the top floor of the high-rise, the room made larger somehow by a perpetual cool breeze. Envious, Vee thought of her cubicle next to a sealed-off window. Then the memory of her new, private spot lifted her heart. Before it plunged immediately. They’d be ‘having a chat’ about that too, of course.

Overtaking specific projects without permission.

She blinked. Beg your pardon?

Rifling through the filing cabinet opposite his desk, he didn’t turn or look up. Seat, he pointed. She toyed with being a badass, thought better of it and sat. Nico towered almost two full heads over her and though his temperament was closer to a surly simmer than full-on belligerence, she’d seen him lose it a few times, really flip his shit, leaving underlings cowering on the brink of tears. Male underlings. Best not rock the boat.

He pulled a sheet from a folder and sank into his armchair. He vigorously massaged his face with both hands before dragging them over his head, his honey-gold hair buzzed short to downplay the balding dome on top, and down the back of his neck. Deep-set, grey-green eyes that saved his face from being plain were rimmed faintly red.

He stared for ages. Vee let him. Van Wyk was a consummate eyeballer; it seemed to temper his mind and mood. She waited it out, bouncing the tips of her heeled sandals against the floor a tad impatiently.

Finally, he smacked a palm on the desk in a ‘let’s get down to it’ manner.

Saskia can’t stand you. You’re not madly in love with her either. She says you’re mucking about with the online team, making it hard for her to do her job. Why can’t you learn to stay out of her way? You’ve been here over a year. You should have the hang of it by now. He squinted at the piece of paper. Meddling. He looked up. Why?

Vee sighed. He was quoting off one of the reference letters in her file, and bet her right arm this one was from none other than her old boss, Portia Kruger. I’m not meddling. Not exactly. It’s just … Saskia’s fulla wahala, everything got to be palaver with her. She’s more concerned with running us than quality output. Who cares if I help Darren and them? They’re understaffed.

They’re doing fine, all things considered.

They’re not. What things considered? That we’re a small newspaper with a tiny staff and if we all stuck strictly to our job descriptions we’d sink within six months?

Backchat and authority issues. He tapped a line on the sheet, nodding emphatically at her sceptical blinks. Seriously, that’s really on here. Kruger’s thorough.

I can get a copy of that?

What do you think? He leaned back. Talk me through this Saskia animosity. I detect something deeper.

Vee spread her hands, an open-palmed question mark. Wherever this was going, it stank already. Ahhhh. We got issues with each other, and if she want make it her business to gimme free cheek day in and out, no problem. We both grown. We can squash it, or be civil enough to manage to work together. But, she stabbed her finger into the desk, she’s hellbent on harassing Chlöe’s life and I won’t have it. We made a deal when I started here. Where there’s room for me, there’s room for her.

His mask cracked by a whisper, a hint, of a smile. There’s room for both of you.

"Then what? Saskia’s style, if I can call it that, she steamed on while she had the floor, is turning underlings into toilet paper. And Chlöe may be a junior but that, she is not. Hell, she even helps out on the Afrikaans editorial."

Does she now?

Yes! She’s half Afrikaans but grew up mostly English. She learnt by pushing herself out of her comfort zone. Plus she studied languages at UCT. You know all this. Bishop is no typical boarie-missy.

"Boeremeisie," Nico corrected.

The wolfish glint in his eyes was by now too rabid to miss. Shit, you know better than this, she cursed silently, wanting to kick herself. Constantly read the room – miss no shifts, however subtle. And never, never incite conversation or turn the spotlight on Chlöe. He’d done this before, baiting her, but he was definitely improving at blindsiding. Bishop was her charge but unqualified, uncategorised; the target on her back was huge. She’s caught on amazingly fast. You can’t honestly tell me she’s not an asset around here, she hurried on.

Propensity to preach and pick up strays, Nico intoned, making an invisible tick against the paper, which he dangled limp-wristed. Vee muttered a curse and sat back. If all he’d hauled her in for was to dish out a verbal flogging, let him get it out of his system.

His eyes bored through her forehead, a hint of a frown making a crease between his brows. He leaned forward, resting on his elbows. The pink streaks under his eyes looked angrier up close. What are you doing up there? he asked.

My job, she snapped. But if –

He shook his head. "Not out there," he tipped a nod in the general direction of the newsroom. He lifted a solitary index finger, pointed it towards the ceiling and mouthed ‘up’, gaze never wavering from her face.

Vee cursed again under her breath.

After fifteen months, the urge to go crawling back to Urban still niggled her occasionally. Even crappy jobs had perks, and she deeply missed having a real office, with a real desk, a sprawl of polished wood on which to dump assignments and empty mugs to her heart’s content. And her old view, of downtown Cape Town and the ABSA head office building. Chronicle’s newsroom feel had the allure of the old guard; she was spoiled now, over it. The persistent undercurrent of noise … the guy with no sense of personal space, who always talked right in your face after his lunch … the irksome treks to an exit for sunshine and breeze … it couldn’t be borne.

The haven was her godsend. Snooping around the second floor, she’d stumbled on it: a small, dingy room crammed with unused office furniture and discarded odds and ends. A hole in the wall, with power outlets and a working sink. And a view, through a window that actually opened. A bribe to one of the cleaners saw the excess junk shifted and the space made presentable.

One of the cleaners sold you out, Nico preened. He took annoying pride in his spy program.

I need a place to think, she insisted.

Use the inside of your skull. At work, unfortunately, one must learn to play with the other children. What kind of self-respecting journalist hates a newsroom?

"I don’t hate it. There’s just no … elbowroom sometimes. I’m not up there during working hours." Usually.

The answer’s no, Johnson. Shut it down.

Fine, she scowled, and waited.

Oudtshoorn.

Hehn?

Oudtshoorn. You know where that is?

Vee flicked through her mental archive. Mossel Bay?

Further. Out in the south-western Cape, Klein Karoo country. The Grotto Lodge is a two-star establishment out there, and they’re gunning for their third this year. They put on their best face when we held the World Cup here last year, and still didn’t get it. They’re not giving up this year, and that means all the stellar reviews they can get.

He pushed over a thin manila folder, opened to a brightly coloured pamphlet. Looks nice enough. Apparently it was a hotspot during the soccer, though why anyone would want to be marooned on any stretch of the Garden Route when it was pissing down at kick-off last June is beyond me. Bloody tourists … never give a damn about realities like the weather. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes hard enough to wrinkle his forehead. It’s gone up in the revolving door ratings with the number of tourists and ministers’ wives that have been passing through. If they need more positive spin, it can’t hurt. They get publicity, we get advertising.

She perused the leaflet. Adorning the front was a hulking, rustic building of indeterminate architectural style squatting amongst some dusty boulders. ‘Quaint’ was the first word that leapt off the blurb inside. She closed it. The look she shot him was an admixture of ‘I’m not following you’ and ‘I think I am, but you can’t be serious’.

Van Wyk looked weary. Look, I’m sure you’re aware of Lynne’s being on maternity leave. Again. She’s all we’ve got on travel and tourism right now. The usual piece on accommodation hotspots can’t marinate till she gets back. It needs wrapping up.

Wide-eyed, Vee shot, And who say I know about travel writing? I’hn know nuttin about it o, I beg you. I can’t even whip up a dozen synonyms for ‘picturesque’.

He almost smiled this time. It’s a tad more involved than that.

And I’hn know jack about what those involvements are. She opened the folder, didn’t know why she had, and slapped it closed again. Why can’t somebody from the arts and entertainment page handle it?

Because we’re stretched that tight. He paused. "You’re well aware how it’s been finding capable free hands around here since we had to downsize, here and at Urban. You and Tinker Bell can step up for this. He coughed. Sorry, that came out wrong. I’m confident you two can handle this."

So … Vee took an indignant pause. "This you’re volunteering me for. Yet you bar me from the crime desk full-time. When that’s the job I was promised. She was whining but she couldn’t help it. Khaya Simelane and Andrew Barrow, autocrats of the crime page, had done a stellar job pissing on their tree to keep her out. Even after all my courses on web media and editing, which I put to good use every day. But no, I still can’t join the online team that’s got only three people on it despite it being more popular than the print. Darren appreciates the extra help, but I can’t even contribute my two cents without issues. Because of Saskia." Your top spy. Who you’re sleeping with, on top of your liquor problem. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if you got drinking problems because you messin’ round with her. But we only here to explore my shortcomings. She clamped her lips shut with her teeth.

"It’s complicated. Yes, I fully appreciate how empty that sounds. You were candid and emphatic in your interview about not being shunted through departments willy-nilly as you’d been at Urban. For the most part I’ve kept my word, but –"

I know. It’s an emergency. Isn’t it always.

Van Wyk replied with a long, granitic stare. She nodded, took the folder and got up.

Hang on. He folded his fingers and eyed the ceiling, as if toying with an idea. I’ve been meaning to, and I guess now’s as good a time as any to ask. Did you take it?

Vee frowned.

Year before last, that case … with the hospital … and the crazy family … He twirled a finger in the air, indicating she jump in to supply the elusive words. The missing Paulsen girl, he snapped his fingers finally. The pay-off. That the mother offered you for your … diligent services. Did you take it?

"Excuse me?"

Johnson, come on, he huffed. Look, you’ve got something. First of all, you don’t play silly buggers, which, he clasped his hands in gratitude, goes a long way to making my life easier. Top reason I can’t stand working with women. Besides the melodrama and all the time off they need to pop munchkins, of which I’m bloody gatvol. He sat up straighter. "What I’m getting at is, in a hive, you need to know your bees. I need to know my people. Now you know there’ve been whispers. And I know that you know that I’ve heard, and if I’ve heard, then I’ve speculated. I hate speculation. So … he spread his palms. You’d hardly be the first or last journalist to take an incentive if they felt it was deserved."

Stock-still, Vee felt a nimbus of heat pluming between her eyes. You joking me, right?

Van Wyk shook his head.

"You must be joking me," she insisted, surprised at the dangerous rasp in her voice. She stalked out of the office, almost slamming the door behind her.

Nico fiddled with a pen absent-mindedly for a few minutes before reaching for the landline. It rang twice on the other end before it was picked up.

Ja, Kruger? It’s me.

A sigh blew in his ear. What?

Nice to hear from you too. Tell me … He paused. Where exactly is this venture of yours headed?

"Of ours. Venture of ours, Portia Kruger corrected. It sounded like she was chewing. Don’t make it sound so dramatic. What happened?"

We had a chat. A loud groan vibrated in his eardrum. She stormed out of here. Probably to go stick pins in my voodoo doll. In the groin area. Where’s she from again . . aren’t they all black magic-y over there?

Don’t be a racist dick, it’s not cute. Another sigh. She’s not on the crime desk, so she’s near wit’s end. You want performance, make her fight you for it.

I want her to do her job.

Which she has been. But you want more. It’ll take a second. In the meantime, can you stop bringing up that incident? It’s a dirty rumour. I’m pretty sure she kept her nose clean.

Pretty sure? I need to trust my staff. I can’t have a poisoned apple in here.

Geez, such a drama queen.

And don’t you forget I did this as a favour to you.

"Bollocks. You did it for yourself. You wanted her over there, you actively poached her, now you live the dream. There came a sound of slurping. If that’s all, I’m quite busy. Goodbye." The line went dead.

Nico snorted and replaced the receiver. I bet you’re busy, running your girlie dishrag. Nonetheless, he felt it allowable to be put in his place. For now.

Vee fumed in her cubicle for a quarter of an hour, eyes adrift out of the window as a pulse thumped in her neck. Finally, spewing a string of expletives under her breath, she grabbed laptop, handbag and keys.

I beg your pardon?! Where’re you off to?

She shoulder-bumped past Saskia and continued to the exit without a backward glance.

Hey! What’s up?

She stopped and whirled on Chlöe, unable to stop the mist building in her eyes, not caring if it showed.

Chlöe stepped back, mouth agape. Yoh. Bosslady, what happened now? Why’re you leaving?

The interns’ meeting’s at two-thirty. You be there, Vee snarled. She continued down to the underground parking, leaving Chlöe staring after her with a ‘what the hell?’ look on her face.

Chapter Two

Vee tore into the guava, spat out brown and popped the rest in her mouth. A welcome breeze ruffled her hair. Lifting both arms, she made a disgusted face as the material of her blouse smeared against moist armpits.

Where de hell dis child at? she muttered, swinging the front gate back and forth. Waves of heat shimmered off the tarmac of the deserted street. Tiny lasers of sunshine drilled into her scalp and corneas, making her crabbier by the second. Twinkie!

Nothing except another sweep of air. Tristan Heaney! For God’s sake if I –

Right behind you.

Vee jumped, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea that more African countries had laws protecting minors from corporal punishment. Because this lil pikkin was going the right way …

Told you I was getting an ice lolly. Why you got to be all yelling on the street and acting country? Tristan brushed a wheat-blond fringe off his forehead and shot a cheeky grin as he tore the wrapper off the frozen treat.

Vee bit back a smile. Tristan’s delight was imitating her, never mind how ridiculous it sounded in his Rondebosch Boys prep affectation. It’s ‘ackin’ kuntry’, mister man. And you shouldn’t be shopping for goodies on your employer’s time. Get to work.

I needed sugar for the trip. He chomped into a lolly of the most unnatural green – if she had to describe it ‘neon-lime’ would do – and held it out. Want some?

No, I’hn want none of your diseased ice cream. Didn’t I tell you to stop buying from that nasty shop, before you go catchin’ sum’n? Tristan shrugged and carried on chomping. Vee shook her head. At his age, food from a sparkling supermarket or the creepy kiosk down the road was all the same thing. Another child headed down the highway to street food hell. She wasn’t one to judge.

You sound like my mum. Only old people have to eat properly because it’s good for their health. He tipped his chin at the bulging bag looped over a slat of her picket fence. That’s why I brought you those.

Very delicious, thank you. Vee took another guava from the plastic shopper. Never seen the white ones before, though. And guava jam! That’s sum’n else.

Mum makes it herself. Since Dad died … Tristan averted his eyes and concentrated on the lolly, she does stuff like make jam.

Vee nodded quietly. All she knew about her young neighbour was that not long ago he’d been part of a happy