Pale Horses

by Jassy Mackenzie

  Four … don’t drop it … Five.

  Above the noise of his own staggering breath, David thought he could hear soft footsteps coming down the stairs. He was going to be sharing his gym session … or perhaps it was Obji, the owner, checking up on who was using the facilities.

  Six … Seven … Eight. He had to stop now. His arms were quivering. He was going to end up dropping the weighted bar onto his chest. Crushing his ribs. People had died that way. No one was supposed to do free weights without a spotter. He knew this, but still he broke the rules.

  Nine … Ten. Whoever had arrived, it wasn’t Obji. He could hear the sound of the treadmill starting up again. The humming of the mechanism sound grew higher and louder as the speed built up. Whoever this person was, they were running as if the devil himself was in pursuit.

  Or were they?

  Because, listen as he might, David couldn’t hear anyone actually running.

  Eleven …

  And then he almost dropped the weights as, with an explosive crackle, the ghetto blaster burst back into life. At full volume this time. Gangster rap louder than he’d ever wanted to hear it. The sound bounced off the walls and reverberated in his head.

  Ignore it. Just ignore it, OK? He blinked stinging drops of sweat out of his eyes.

  Twelve …

  Thirteen …

  And then the strip light above him suddenly went out.

  His first thought was that this new arrival, whoever they were and for whatever demented reason, had also plugged in the rowing machine and tripped the power. But he swiftly realised that was impossible, because the music was still playing and he could still hear the frantic whine of the treadmill’s machinery being pushed to the edge of its limits.

  So, he or she had deliberately turned off the lights.

  And here he was, effectively trapped by sixty kilograms of solid steel, his shaking arms rapidly reaching the stage where they could lift no longer. But a gym injury was now the last thing on his mind.

  With no one at the front desk, he realised that anybody could have entered the gym. He’d left his wallet in his trouser pocket, with all his cards and six hundred rand cash inside. As well as his brand new iPhone, and his car keys inside his good leather jacket, the one he treasured, the one Jade had given him back in the days when they had been lovers. Why hadn’t he put his stuff in the locker?

  Because he’d planned on having a short session. Because there was never anyone else in the gym. Well, he’d pay for his naivety, he was sure. He’d be robbed.

  With an effort that wrenched every fibre of his body, David sat up and dropped the bar to his right. It fell with a crash onto the floor, sending sparks flying. He gulped in fast, deep breaths, feeling suddenly as if there was nowhere near enough oxygen in the room to meet his needs.

  He stood up on wobbly legs, flexing his sore fingers, almost crying out at the sharp bolt of pain that lanced through his right side. He really had pushed himself too far this time, and he knew he was going to pay for it, probably in more ways than one.

  David made his way over to the light switch by the stairs. He held his left hand out in front of him, groping like a blind man to avoid crashing into anything, but even so, his shin connected with the edge of the rowing machine, causing him to swear as much from disgust as from the impact itself.

  He snapped the light switch on and after a two-second pause, the strip lights flickered back into life.

  David narrowed his eyes against the sudden brightness and checked that there was nobody still in the room. Then he turned and strode more quickly towards the locker room, stopping on the way to turn off the damn ghetto blaster and to punch the ‘Stop’ button on the treadmill before it burned its motor out.

  It was then he noticed that nothing else had been plugged in and socket number three was still empty.

  He shouldered his way into the change room, already formulating in his mind an angry request to the Nigerian for a security door.

  He stopped in surprise when he saw that his clothes were there, seemingly in the same tidy pile that he’d left them, and his jacket hanging on the back of the chair.

  ‘Well, bloody hell.’ The words burst from his lips.

  Who had been in the gym, then, and why on earth had they done what they did? Had he been a victim of a practical joke? Or was it somehow possible that the new arrival had not even noticed David in the corner, and had simply turned the lights off to conserve electricity when he or she had left?

  That explanation made even less sense when he considered that the music and equipment had been left on.

  It was only when David picked up his clothes, intending to put them inside the locker before getting back to his gym session, that he noticed the slim white envelope that had been placed underneath them.

  It was addressed, in laser-printed letters, to Superintendent D. Patel – Organised Crime.

  David shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cooling sweat on his body. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing apprehensively over his shoulder, but there was nobody behind him, nor any sounds outside.

  Suppressing the questions that were flooding his mind – What the hell? Who knows I come here? What is this, a death threat? Which sensitive cases am I handling right now? – he tore it open. Forensics be damned, because whoever had done this had surely been careful enough to leave no prints or DNA behind.

  Inside he found a single piece of A4 paper containing a single typed sentence. He read it through twice before refolding it and putting it back in its envelope.

  Two minutes later, dressed in his work clothes once more, David Patel left the Nigerian’s gym and headed back towards Johannesburg Central police station at a run.

  8

  It was after ten p.m. when David opened the door of the small Pretoria townhouse and walked inside, breathing in the combined scents of mutton curry and disapproval.

  ‘You said you’d be home by eight,’ Naisha called accusingly from the lounge. ‘I wanted to discuss Kevin’s extramural activities with you, if you remember.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Work was …’

  ‘Yes, I know. Your dinner’s in the microwave.’ Her voice sounded flat and toneless, and only David could recognise the anger seething beneath the words. ‘I’m tired now. I’ll decide on the activities myself and fill in the form tomorrow morning.’

  He thought of going into the lounge and kissing her on the cheek, offering another apology. Then he decided against it, doubting that the gesture would do anything to thaw her frosty demeanour. He caught a glimpse of her as he passed by the door. Hands laced over her swollen belly; stockinged feet up on the padded stool; eyes fixed firmly on the television. Kevin’s bedroom door was closed, which hopefully meant his son was sound asleep and unaware of the friction his timetable had unwittingly caused.

  David twisted the dial on the microwave and waited for the ping. He carefully removed the plate and added a large dollop of mild chutney on the side. Where to eat – here or in the lounge? Neither appealed, but in the end the relative comfort of the lounge chairs won him over. He lowered himself into the sofa next to Naisha and stretched his legs out in front of him. For a while, the clinking of fork against china almost drowned out the muted babble of the television.

  David hadn’t expected to be hungry. He’d thought he’d never be rid of the cold nausea that had clenched at his stomach when he’d discovered that note. But now he found himself shovelling food into his mouth as if it had been a week since he’d last eaten.

  His enthusiasm didn’t last long. The curry was so highly spiced that he could only manage a few mouthfuls before he had to put his plate down, walk to the fridge and take out two cold beers. The first he downed where he stood, in a series of large gulps, before crushing the can and tossing it into the bin. The second he took back with him to the lounge before recommencing his attack on the food, this time more cautiously.

  Naisha knew his stance on chillies. Half-Indian or not, he couldn’t handle th
em. She usually humoured his needs, cooking mildly spiced dishes, but he had a nasty suspicion that this evening, every time she’d checked her watch and realised he wasn’t yet home, she had lifted the lid of the pot and shaken in another teaspoon of chilli powder to punish him for his tardiness.

  Now she was looking at him in a quizzical way that made him wonder if she’d heard the telltale pop of the first beer can opening, and if so whether she was going to comment on how fast he had drunk it.

  ‘How was work?’ he asked, hoping to sidetrack her. He hadn’t expected much of a response, but to her surprise she muted the television’s sound immediately.

  ‘It’s difficult at the moment,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ David guided another fiery forkful into his mouth then clasped his hand around the cold beer can. Naisha worked for Home Affairs, and last year she had been promoted to the Pretoria head office. Her job was to stamp out corruption in the department, a task that David knew was the equivalent of trying to extinguish a bonfire with a water pistol.

  ‘I’ve had to investigate my ex-colleague from the Commissioner Street office. You might remember her. Prana Govender. Until recently, we were close friends.’

  With a jolt, David realised he did remember Prana. She was a short-haired, cheerful woman a few years older than Naisha. He recalled her warm smile, her gold tooth, her air of capability. She had indeed been good friends with his wife. They’d attended the same flower-arranging classes, although that had stopped when Naisha had moved to Pretoria. And in the old days, he’d come home to the Turffontein house more than once to find them sitting on the couch and chatting over coffee. The sudden silence that had normally fallen when he’d walked in had made him wonder uneasily and self-consciously if they had been speaking about him.

  ‘So she was investigated? Why?’

  ‘Because somebody there has been accepting bribes. She deals with work and study permits, you remember? A number of those permits have recently been issued to people who didn’t actually qualify for them or hadn’t filled in the necessary paperwork, and would never have got them even if they had done.’

  ‘Surely not Prana? I know you never can tell, but still …’ David chewed on another mouthful. This one was mostly rice, offering him some respite.

  ‘The evidence points towards her, David. We suspended her from work for a week, pending the outcome of the investigation, but we couldn’t find any concrete proof.’

  David nodded. He could sympathise with that.

  ‘You sure she wasn’t being set up by somebody else?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. The problem is that the only person in a position to do that is the department manager, and he’s the one who reported the discrepancies in the first place. Prana has since handed in her resignation and left.’

  ‘But no matter who stayed or who went, those discrepancies would have been picked up by somebody else later on, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Oh, yes. All the information is now double-checked.’

  ‘So if the manager knew that, and he needed someone to pin it on …’ David reached for a paper napkin as by now his nose had started to run.

  ‘We are looking into it.’ Now Naisha sounded annoyed, as if she didn’t need David to tell her how to do her job. Or perhaps it was because he was using his napkin to blow his nose. He wasn’t sure.

  ‘Can’t have been much fun for you, having to investigate your friend,’ he said, steering the topic back to safer ground.

  ‘It was horrible, and it ended up getting really ugly. Our friendship is over. She and I were so close, David … she was like a sister to me. My very best friend. We exchanged so many confidences. We trusted each other all the way.’

  David crumpled his napkin and put his empty plate on the coffee table. ‘So sad when that happens.’

  There was silence for a while.

  He wondered if he should tell her about the notes. They’d spoken more in the past few minutes than they had in the past month. Perhaps this would be a good opportunity to get her input on the matter.

  ‘I’ve got a work problem that’s troubling me as well,’ he began, rather hesitantly.

  Naisha yawned. ‘You know I don’t like discussing your work. If you’d wanted to speak about it, you should have come home earlier. I’m going to bed now. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  She stood up with some effort, picked up David’s plate and his empty beer can, and walked out.

  9

  Jade had been living in her rented cottage for more than eighteen months. She guessed that was long enough to classify it as ‘home’. She was used to turning off the main road and juddering up the rutted dirt road and parking underneath the narrow steel carport that only offered any useful shade when the sun was directly overhead. She’d grown to enjoy sitting in the treed garden with flowerbeds that were now somewhat overgrown through neglect.

  Jade had never quite grown to like the cottage’s décor, the plague of frilly scatter cushions and the liberal use of pink. It just wasn’t her style, although she’d never bothered to change it. She doubted that all the feminine frills and fluff would have been Sonet’s style either. An intrepid base jumper would surely have preferred cleaner, sleeker, more neutral décor.

  One of the few personal touches Jade had added to her living quarters was the framed photograph of her mother that she’d hung on the arch between her kitchen and living room – Elise de Jong’s face full of love as she looked down at the tiny baby in her arms.

  The quest to find out more about her mother might have been cut disappointingly short, but even so, whenever she looked at that photo she found it impossible to banish the ghosts of her own past. Memories swirled around her, as suffocating as smoke.

  The feel of the Glock in her hands as she’d raised it, her arm steady, her aim true, to deliver the killing shot to the man who’d organised her father’s death. The coldness in the pit of her stomach that she felt when she thought about what she had done. She had no remorse for anyone she’d gunned down – in each case she felt that the killings were justified. The dread she felt was for herself … for her soul and, more practically, for her future. What could the life of an assassin ever be except an existence based on constant fear, forever running and hiding, evading not only the authorities but also those seeking their revenge or looking to cut off loose ends.

  She sat down at her kitchen table, where no sooner had she opened her laptop and got out her cellphone than she was interrupted by a forlorn scratching at the wooden front door.

  Getting up again, Jade let in Bonnie, the Jack Russell from the house down the road who’d become a regular visitor. Try as she might, Jade had never managed to spot her squeezing through the palisade that surrounded the cottage.

  Jade bent down and scratched the dog’s head, an action that prompted her stump of a tail to wiggle like crazy. Then she tossed a couple of dog biscuits into the plastic bowl that had now become a permanent fixture on the floor next to the fridge.

  Jade thought having a timeshared pet wasn’t a bad arrangement. It was a whole lot better, in fact, than having a timeshared man. But she wasn’t going to allow thoughts of David Patel to prevent her from focusing on the new job she’d taken on, albeit reluctantly.

  Using Google and the phone directory, she found contact numbers for all twelve of the companies that had already moved into their new office space in Sandton Views, as well as the number for building management. The phone calls that followed would, she knew, be routine research, a process that had to be done, even if the chances of getting a successful result were slim.

  If she ticked all the boxes and followed all the leads, there was surely a chance that somebody at one of these companies would have known Sonet personally and might be able to explain to Jade how she had been able to gain access to this otherwise secure building.

  Before she’d had a chance to get started, however, her cellphone rang and she found herself speaking to Wouter Wessels, her ex-client who’d given her name to V
ictor Theron.

  ‘Jade. How are you this morning?’ Wessels always sounded upbeat and cheerful, as if everything was right with the world. He’d even sounded that way when he’d phoned her a year ago to ask if she could investigate his wife, who he suspected was having an affair and who had just requested a sizeable divorce settlement. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I passed your number on to a gentleman who handles some of my investments. Victor Theron, his name is. I told him if anyone could help him, it would be you.’

  ‘Thanks, Wouter. Actually, he’s already been in touch with me.’

  ‘Good, good! Excellent. I know you’ll sort him out. He’s a good fellow, Theron. Trustworthy. No social skills, of course – all he can talk about is the markets. Pots of money, though, so mind you charge him your full rate.’ Wessels laughed heartily.

  ‘I will do,’ Jade replied, trying to sound lighter than she actually felt.

  ‘I owe him, you know. Years back … it was soon after 9/11, actually – my business got into some serious trouble and I needed to withdraw all my savings at short notice. I’d taken out a year’s investment contract but when I phoned Victor he said he’d organise the funds for me within a month as a special favour. He sounded rather harassed and I felt bad asking for it.’

  ‘Go on,’ Jade said.

  ‘It was only later that I found out he’d literally just heard that his wife had been shot dead during an attempted bank robbery.’

  ‘Really?’

  Bonnie pushed her nose against Jade’s leg and she leaned down and stroked the dog’s ears absent-mindedly, her attention entirely focused on what Wessels was saying.

  ‘In spite of that, during what must have been the most traumatic time, he made a plan for me and thanks to his generosity I was able to save my business. I felt terrible when I realised that. So I owe him, Jade, I really do. Anyway, got to run now, I can see my secretary giving me wild semaphore signals so it must be something important. Chat soon, and thanks again.’

  Jade spent a few minutes digesting the information that Wessels had given her.