The Score

by HJ Golakai

  Vee chuckled. “Well, ay betta be true you talkin’, ’cause I nah ready to go to no jail.” You better be right, because I won’t fare well behind bars.

  At the welcome sound of Vee’s laughter, Chlöe blinked her eyes open. Behind her lids, they’d started to water. Her throat felt dry; she was actually getting a headache. Let’s never go to West Africa, she advised herself bitterly. The patois could short-circuit the human brain. She wearily tuned back in when Lovett took off again.

  “You know you comin’ pay plenty for my services ehn? All dis one heah wi’ be on my bill,” he joked. Money, Chlöe sighed. Lawyers were all the same.

  “I beg you yaah. You fini zwapping enuff of my money and you’hn give me no news yet.” She’s broke. Chlöe knew that. But news about what?

  “I say, I nah fix de full report for you. I jes didn’t want talk about it heah.” Lovett shifted uncomfortably in his chair, turning away from Vee slightly. “We found him. But you won’t like it o …”

  Chlöe’s ears perked to the ceiling. There was a full report of some kind. That Lovett didn’t want to discuss. Which meant it was private, and Vee definitely wouldn’t want her knowing about it. And there was another ‘him’? Didn’t she have enough problems with phalluses to juggle?

  “Wheh he was at? How he doin’? Lovett looka me and tell me how my broduh –”

  Brother. Quentin. Vee’s mysterious elder sibling. Chlöe exhaled shakily.

  Lovett planted a quick squeeze on Vee’s knee and her eyes flitted around until they slammed into Chlöe’s. Their gazes locked for the longest time until they both looked away.

  “Finally, they’re back,” Lovett interrupted, rising to his feet.

  The four threaded from the foyer into the dining room, led by the pinch-faced general manager. Clad in a cream blouse with a pussy-bow neckline and a snug black skirt, Samantha Motaung hardly looked like someone who’d been spearheading damage control since daybreak. Taking in the GM’s neat cornrows snaking to curly tips over one shoulder, Vee felt another self-conscious pang as she passed a hand over her own scruffy hair. Motaung did a stellar job of masking her emotions, but her anxiety and shock at the morning’s turn of events bled through. Above all, she looked damn well put out that they’d transpired on her turf.

  “Well.” Motaung looked around at Sgt Ncubane, Zintle and the concierge before nailing Vee with a frown. Vee held her eyes until at last she broke, only to turn and find Ncubane drilling her with a scowl of his own. Now that she had a name and rank, and he’d finally succumbed and removed his ridiculous trench coat, the lead officer had lost his looming intensity.

  “I’ve located Trevor Davids as you requested,” Motaung darted looks between Vee and Ncubane, “and he’s happy to assist in any way. I’d love to have this cleared up as soon as possible.”

  That’s his name … Trevor, Vee exhaled as she regarded the concierge. Sans the dark-blue blazer of his uniform he looked different, unkempt almost, and his curly dark-brown hair had not the neatness of the previous day. They’d likely rushed him away from his morning routine. His vibe came off different too, without the suspicious squint or a cigarette in his mouth. Right now, Vee couldn’t tell if the lilt of his lips was a smile or a smirk. Let’s play nice now, Trevor, she thought with a touch of desperation. No need to turn our small fuss into a big palaver.

  “Can you tell us …” Ms Motaung prompted, hands palms-up to indicate the floor was open.

  Trevor launched into it, hesitant at first. He gave a vividly accurate description of Gavin Berman approaching Vee as she crossed the lawn at around twenty to one a.m. The group expelled a collective gasp as he gave extra colour to what he termed ‘a somewhat embarrassing altercation’ between the two guests. Vee chewed her lip as Trevor’s fingers stiffened into a vice, depicting the stranglehold she’d put on Berman. Motaung gaped; Ncubane clenched his jaw; Lovett threw her an indecipherable look lightly mixed with admiration; Zintle put a hand over her mouth.

  “Did you actually see her off the grounds?” Ncubane pressed.

  There was a beat before Trevor replied: “Yes I did. I escorted her to the main gate myself. Sipho, one of the lodge’s night guards, took her from there back to the boot camp where one of the other security guards saw her to her chalet from there. He made very sure no-one left that chalet all night. All of us at Grotto know it’s highly frowned upon for boot campers to fraternise with lodge residents, and we wanted to prevent any more incidents of such. And yes,” he pressed on when Ncubane opened his mouth, “I did see Mr Berman alive when I returned. He was still outside.”

  “He was alive?”

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Trevor blinked. “I’m confident I can recognise a living person when I see one, Sergeant.” Motaung cleared her throat and clipped her eyes at him in reproach. “He was still lingering on the lawn where this lady herself had been sitting before he cornered her. I left him there and went back to the front desk.”

  “And what was he doing there?”

  “I can’t say exactly.” Frowning, Trevor shrugged. “Like, he was just standing there. Like he was looking at something in the distance.”

  Ncubane sighed. “At what exactly?”

  Under the razor eye of his boss, Trevor did his best to bite back a retort. “I really couldn’t say. It was late and very dark; he was by the trees near the boys’ quarters. It could’ve been anything. Maybe he was simply getting some fresh air and calming down after being …” he glanced at Vee with the tiniest of smiles, “woman-handled.”

  “Did you see this purple scarf she claims she left behind? On the lawn?”

  Trevor thought for a moment before shaking his head. “No, I didn’t see a scarf anywhere nearby. But she didn’t have it with her when she left. I didn’t notice anything like that on her when she left the gate.”

  As Motaung shared a quiet word with Trevor before dismissing him, Ncubane turned to Zintle. “Sisi, now I’m going to ask you some questions neh, and I want you to tell me the truth. Don’t try to be clever and just change things nje and think I won’t notice.” Zintle kept her eyes on the ground. Tiny bumps prickled up on the skin of her arms and collarbone. “Do you hear what I’m saying?” Ncubane barked, making Zintle jump. “Don’t bullshit me, my girl, or there’ll be serious consequences. You understand me?”

  Lovett, silent and observant with nothing save his usual slight frown, exhaled loudly. Vee narrowed her eyes and put a hand on the maid’s arm. Why did black people in authority still feel the need to treat each other like this, belittling each other publicly to flaunt how inflated their chests were? Trevor the Snide had breezed through his interview burn-free, but clearly he wasn’t black enough to incite such nonsense. Even Motaung grimaced, pivoting on her heels to shoot Ncubane a frosty glare.

  “Let’s watch our tone, shall we, Sergeant,” she intoned. “My staff have been very cooperative so far, and we’d like to keep the atmosphere as pleasant as we all can manage during this unfortunate event.”

  “Hhmph,” came the policeman’s reply. “Do you know this woman?” He jabbed a finger at Vee so violently she took a step back.

  Zintle looked confused. “Yes.” She nodded furiously. “Yes.”

  “Eh-hehh. How do you know her?”

  Zintle’s confusion doubled. “From the hotel. I met her here. I told you.”

  “Nxc! Just answer me what I’m asking. Tell me again what happened this morning.”

  Zintle cleared her throat. “I came in for my shift this morning at five o’clock. After I changed into my clean uniform, I dumped the dirty one into the laundry trolley and pushed it outside for the guys who load the laundry truck to find it. While I was outside, I saw Lwazi and Thomas talking between themselves like something was wrong.”

  “Those are the two groundsmen?”

  Zintle nodded. “They said they found a dead body, a white guy, who was hanging by their quarters. We went to look.” She swallowed hard at the
memory. “I didn’t want to but we did. None of us recognised him, but we can’t know all the guests. We started discussing what to do. I told them to go call the police and I would find someone who could help. So then I went across and called this lady, Ms Johnson, and she came with her friend. They waited with me until you guys came.”

  “Oh-ho-o-o. So you don’t know this lady from anywhere? Yet of all the people at this hotel, you went all the way across the fence to fetch her? Before you even told your manager?”

  For a moment as Zintle hauled in a gigantic lungful of air, lips blowfish-puckered, she resembled a desperate molecule, sucking in every drop of ambient energy to boost her own force field. Eyes closed, she said in one rushed breath: “I met her outside last night when the guests were arriving for the party. I was admiring her dress and she was nice, she told me where she bought it. We talked a bit.”

  “Oh? And did she also tell you she and her colleague were gate-crashing a private event?”

  Zintle barely paused. “I work here, I don’t question the guests. What I remembered is she mentioned they were investigators. At first I thought she meant they came to check the hotel, like an audit, but she said they look into crimes. I thought she meant like private investigators or with the police somehow, that they would know what to do if there was a murder. That’s why I went to her.”

  Good girl, Vee exhaled along with her. Well done.

  Ncubane snorted and flailed an arm. “Hhayi mhani! They are investigative journalists! Those ones who look into stories and then write it for the newspaper. They are not private and for sure they don’t work for us. They don’t open or close police investigations. Now our case will be spread all over the papers! You –” His face was a thundercloud; he looked on the brink of spewing something akin to ‘bloody stupid cow’. Ms Motaung raised her eyebrows again and he spluttered to a halt.

  “She said investigation.” Zintle pulled a sullen face, crossing her arms tightly. “All I heard was she could do investigations. So I called her.”

  Lovett broke in with a low chuckle. “I beg your pardon Sergeant, but this sounds like a misunderstanding overblown. If we could just take this somewhere private and wrap it up …”

  “My office,” Motaung crisped, striding toward the door.

  Chlöe cooled her heels for another twenty minutes before they emerged. Lovett’s features remained inscrutable, but Voinjama’s gushed pure relief. Chlöe let herself breathe. Before they reached earshot, Lovett stalled Vee with a hand on her shoulder and a quick mutter. They both looked in Chlöe’s direction before descending into discourse so rapid and guttural that she could barely pick up any English in the mix. Chlöe sighed. They’d gone raw; she was out of the loop. Something was definitely up, but she’d have to follow that bunny down the rabbit-hole to Vee’s wonderland of secrets another time. They had bigger fish to fry.

  “What’re we telling Nico?”

  “Nothing but good news.” Vee’s tiredness cleared off with a smile. “Thank the good Lord for Trevor, and now another security guard on patrol after I left the grounds saw Berman too. My scarf may’ve gotten me into hot water, but that’s not enough to charge me with murder.”

  “That and your ability to go from zero to Hulk in twenty seconds. I know you flip out when strange arseholes feel you up because …”

  Vee’s face immediately folded into a snarl.

  “… of the thing of which we never speak, that happened in the not-war that we never mention. Whatever, I get it, but you have to work on that. Seriously, choking the guy?”

  Vee’s smile returned, sheepish. “I know. Sorry.” She fished her cellphone from her back pocket and eyed it a long time before slipping it back. “It can wait a minute. Food. There’s a demon hollerin’ in my stomach. Then,” she stuck her nose down the front of her T-shirt and grimaced at her own smell, “showers. You need to wash that hair. And change that T-shirt, it’s holier than Jesus.”

  “Then we can go home.” Chlöe frowned. Instead of an answering cheer Vee’s eyes took on a faraway look, gazing in the distance as she chewed the inside of her cheek. “We can go home, right? We’re cleared to leave any time?”

  “Hhmmm …”

  “What’s ‘hhmmm’? Why the ‘hhmmm’ing all of a sudden?” Chlöe scurried to keep up. “Don’t start. I hate that look.”

  “Which look?”

  “That one! The one where shit’s brewing between your ears and you’re not telling me shit!”

  Chapter Nine

  “Ohh-kaaaayy?” Chlöe’s eyes were wide.

  “Okay for true.” Vee tossed her phone on the table and went back to shovelling eggs and bacon into her mouth. “I can’t say that went well, but I won’t say it was a disaster either.” She chewed thoughtfully. “You were right; I should’ve called him earlier. He’s been pickling in rage since daybreak.”

  “You think? If he didn’t have grounds for firing us before, now he does,” Chlöe replied. “Which wasn’t my point. That entire conversation was news to me. What d’you mean by asking for more time so we can follow the story? What story? We’re done here, and like he says, you can’t write the story if you are the story. Remember that little gem called journalistic objectivity.”

  “When I might have been the story, you mean. It was unfortunate chance I was on their radar and now that I’m not, it won’t be a problem.”

  “Let’s see what Nico says about that. Anyway, if there is a story it’s for the crime beat, which we don’t cover. We’re here to write about the lodge and the retreat experience and go home.” Chlöe dug fingers into her hair and scraped hard enough to make Vee wince. “I want to go home. Like, yesterday.”

  “I know, and we will. But you gotta admit, something doesn’t feel right. All these stuffed shirts gather for this evaluation, meaning they’re competing against each other, right,” Vee’s gaze skittered round the dining room at the breakfast crowd, half of whom had clinked glasses with them last night. “An innocuous bunch, or so it seems. In the space of one weekend, two people turn up mysteriously dead in an environment ripe with motive. How’s that not suspicious?”

  “Whyyyy …” Chlöe released a long, pained groan, “why do you keep on about two murders? The other manager was a suicide or death by misadventure or whatsit. It had nothing to do with Berman. Who is now officially the police’s problem.” She bit a pork sausage, glowering. “This isn’t some Agatha Christie whodunnit, where ten morons go on holiday in Egypt and only two come back alive.”

  “Look.” Vee snatched up the Nokia and switched to the photo gallery. “Something’s off about this entire scene. From the way the body was lying, to the bruises to the head –”

  “Bloody shitters! You took photos?!”

  “Ssshhh! Dammit Bishop, pipe down.” Vee peered up from their huddle at the other diners, all thankfully either too sleepy or shell-shocked to be paying much mind to their surroundings. The only person who seemed enthralled by their whisper fest was the young Indian woman from the party, who was shooting them the same arrow-eyed interest from her own table across the dining room. This time round she caught Vee’s eye and tossed her a toothy grin. Vee returned a puzzled smile and hunkered back down.

  “Yeah, I took a few. Like I said, it didn’t sit right. I thought …” Vee shrugged. “If the cops came back with enough to point to a suspicious death, at least there’d be some documentation of the scene. I had to do something, in case it was important later on.”

  “First you took photos of a dead woman. Then you took your business card out of the dead man’s pocket this morning, which I witnessed you doing, by the way –”

  “That was different! You saw those cops, foaming like a pack of rabid dogs. One piece of my property was bad enough … but the scarf and business card? Of the kwerekwere with the unpronounceable name? Psssh. Unless you were planning on leaving me here behind bars.” Vee huffed, chewing as she pushed the phone under Chlöe’s nose. “Girl, look at the ones of Gavin. The dirt on his trousers’ kne
es and the way it’s sticking out on the back of his shoes. The sprinklers were on yesterday afternoon so the ground was still moist last night. Assume the attacker jumps him from behind, scarf goes round his neck, squeezes till he falls to his knees and kow! Unconscious. Then whoever it was finishes him off and hauls him to the boys’ quarters, which was the nearest hiding place, and the best, since he wasn’t found till this morning. We didn’t check the surroundings. I’m sure if we’d looked we’d have seen drag marks in the dirt from his shoes.”

  “We’re not people who look for drag marks. We’re girls. At least I’m a girl. A girl who’s eating,” Chlöe groaned. “Can’t you see I’m eating?”

  “This stinks. But at least now I’m free to move round. I’ll get cleaned up, head into town –”

  “Town?! And I’m sup–”

  “Oh my word! Did they think you were a real suspect?”

  Chlöe jumped a metre off her chair and Vee nearly choked on a mouthful of scone. Looming over them wide-eyed, the Indian girl immediately helped herself to a vacant chair and pressed her hand into each of theirs before they had a chance to object. Vee edged her phone to elbow and killed the screen.

  “Aneshree Chowdri,” the girl said slowly, casting a wide net of weighted pause in Vee’s direction. One pregnant pause and several blinks later, she shifted in her seat. “Okay. Anyway … I asked, did they really consider you a murder suspect?”

  Her accent was poshly affected, a nice muddle of ‘larney’ with the Asian lilt peculiar to South Africa, India by way of Durban most likely. The sultry droop of her sooty eyes and curve of jawline Vee found quite becoming, though her tone was sharp to an almost nasal vibration, at jarring odds with her looks. She had the air of one used to getting immediate compliance to a perpetual litany of demands.