17
The dead woman wasn’t Tamsin. That was Jade’s first, illogically relieved thought. She wasn’t the same person that she’d seen in the framed photo earlier that day in the messy, cluttered house.
Who was she, then, and how had she ended up here?
The woman had been dead for at least twelve hours; the smell attested to that. A long streak of dried blood on the floor indicated that her body had been moved into its current position, but if she’d still been bleeding, Jade knew this must have been done either before or shortly after her death.
Perhaps the woman had received the first blow to the head elsewhere, and had then been dragged into this little room, where a second, fatal injury had been inflicted.
No doubt the pathologists would be able to paint a clearer picture of what had happened. One thing was clear to Jade, though. In spite of Pamela’s insistence that her husband had disappeared from their house, she herself could not have spent last night at home.
Shaking her head violently as a fly buzzed around her face, Jade kicked the bathroom door shut. She’d checked the entire house and she knew it was empty, but that fact didn’t stop her primeval feeling of dread that the woman’s killer might still be nearby.
This was a job for the police. Rummaging in her pocket, Jade pulled out her cellphone. She was going to call the Flying Squad, and while she waited for them to arrive, she was going to search the rest of the property. The garden, the garages, the staff quarters.
She didn’t want any other nasty surprises.
She was halfway through dialling when she heard a sound, faint but recognisable, through the thick walls and tall door.
The accelerating roar of a powerful motorbike.
Jade stood stock-still, grasping the phone.
She stared at the front door as if her gaze could somehow penetrate the thick wood and extend out to the paved driveway beyond.
Somebody else had arrived.
The engine cut out close to the front door. That meant whoever had just opened the gate to Pamela’s house and ridden so confidently up the driveway might not have seen Jade’s car parked in its secluded spot round the corner.
Not yet, anyway.
She heard footsteps approaching.
Did this person have a key to the front door? Probably, since the automatic gate had opened without any trouble.
Remembering her earlier thoughts about rogue bikers, Jade backed away from the door. Until she knew who this was, it would be better to stay out of sight. But where could she hide?
Moving as silently as possible, she carried Pamela’s suitcase back into the minimalist lounge and crouched down behind the only object large enough to provide decent cover, a white leather three-seater in the corner. Not very effective, because the couch was raised rather than flush with the floor, which meant that her feet would be visible through the gap underneath.
She unclipped her gun as she heard a key in the lock.
Whoever it was who came in didn’t go far. The footsteps stopped close to the door to the guest bathroom.
She gripped the butt of her gun tightly, forcing herself to breathe slowly, trying to calm the adrenaline-fuelled pounding of her heart.
The noise of a handle turning. Then a startled shout.
It was a male voice. Jade could picture him reeling backwards from the doorway, swiping frantically at the cloud of flies, just as she had done.
The door slammed and there was a muffled gagging sound. Jade knew how the man was feeling. She had felt nauseated, too, when she had seen where the smell was coming from.
The man didn’t leave after seeing what was in the bathroom, as Jade had hoped he might, nor did he call the police.
Instead, he walked straight into the lounge and headed purposefully across the tiled floor towards the study. She could hear his breathing, which was rough and fast. Now he was passing by the window. She could see his shadow move across the wall behind her and then disappear as he entered Pamela’s study.
There was a familiar click and then the same automated voice that she’d heard earlier on the fax machine.
“No … new … messages.”
“What the hell?” she heard him mutter.
Jade’s legs were starting to tremble but she didn’t dare to shift her weight. The man had expected to find messages. Having found none, he would know that someone else had already checked the machine.
Her breath sounded as fast and hoarse in her own ears as the mystery man’s. She willed herself to breathe more silently.
If he was listening for messages, that surely meant he must have left at least one. There had only been two voice messages when she had pressed the “Play” button earlier, and they had both been left by the same person.
Was the intruder the mysterious Naude?
There was another beep and the automated voice began again.
“Play … old … messages.”
“Pamela. Naude here —”
“Message … deleted.”
“Naude again —”
“Message … deleted.”
The man also deleted the third message that Jade had listened to, the silent pause followed by the click. Then he started walking back towards the hallway. Once again his shadow passed over her, but this time it stayed put, a dark, fuzzy shape against the white-painted wall.
And then it started moving downwards.
Perhaps the man had seen, or sensed, something. Either way, he was doing what Jade had prayed he wouldn’t. He was about to look underneath the couch, and if she didn’t act immediately, she was going to lose what little advantage she still had.
Jade grabbed the back of the sofa and leaped to her feet, aiming the Glock at the chest of the tall, black-clad man who stood just a few paces away.
He started to lunge towards her, but when he saw the gun he stopped.
He wasn’t holding a weapon, but he did have a holstered Beretta on his belt.
His eyes narrowed and he raised his hands slowly above his head.
Hands that Jade now noticed were covered by tight latex gloves. They were thick-fingered, large and strong-looking, in proportion to his solid physique. He was big, but carrying a few extra kilos. Dark hair, a heavy jaw and a thick moustache salted with grey.
All this she assessed in a split-second.
Her eyes moved back to his hands. If his right arm moved towards the holster, she was going to shoot.
“Who are you?” he said.
His voice was deep and grainy, and he sounded surprisingly calm. The same voice as the one on the answering machine? Definitely.
“You’re Naude,” she said.
His gaze darted left and right before fixing, sharp-eyed, on her again.
“You’re not a policewoman.”
“No, I’m not.” Jade moved around the couch and took another step towards him. Naude took a step back.
She should have shot him there and then.
She should have put a bullet through his foot, immobilising him, and then called the police.
She should have, but she didn’t. Something made her decide against it—perhaps the memory of that fateful argument she’d had with David about shooting and revenge. It was a spur-of-the moment decision, and she soon realised it was a bad one, because she couldn’t hold Naude at gunpoint forever.
She was going to have to force him upstairs and lock him inside one of the bedrooms. There she could keep him penned long enough for the cops to arrive.
“Go—” She was going to say, go upstairs.
Too late, Jade realised Naude had noticed her hesitation. Clearly believing that she wasn’t going to shoot, he did something she hadn’t even anticipated.
He turned and ran. He sprinted through the lounge, round the corner and out of her sight, his footsteps slamming on the tiles.
She was already in pursuit, furious with herself for not having blocked his exit route in time. She skidded round the corner, her hand tight around her gun. He would have had time
to draw his own weapon by now, and for all she knew she could be running straight into his line of fire.
As she reached the hallway, the big wooden front door swung closed. It slammed shut with a bang that seemed to shake the house, and the key rattled in the lock.
As she snatched Pamela’s keys out of her pocket, she heard the bike start up again.
Jade jammed the key in the lock, twisted it frantically and pulled the front door open.
Naude was already speeding down the driveway towards the opening gate, riding on a red Ducati that looked identical to the one that had pursued Pamela’s car earlier that day. He twisted round, and this time Jade saw he was holding the Beretta.
They fired at exactly the same moment.
Naude swerved as he shot, and that must have allowed him to avoid the bullet she’d aimed at his centre mass, because he didn’t go down.
His bullet thumped into the wooden door, so close to her body that when she checked, with trembling hands, she discovered two holes in the black fabric of her jacket, barely an inch from her waist.
Entry and exit. In and out, like the tracks left by a giant needle.
With a roar of his engine, Naude disappeared from sight.
18
Jade ran down the long driveway to the gate where Naude had recently made his escape. The sun was shining directly through the open door of the guardhouse, and the small building smelled unpleasantly of creosote.
She opened the main gate and jogged all the way to the intersection in case Naude had ditched the bike and was coming back on foot, but he seemed to have disappeared.
Heading back to the house, the only pedestrian in sight on this hot, quiet afternoon, Jade thought about what Naude had said. About his entry into Pamela’s home and the messages he’d deleted.
She thought about the bullet that had passed so close to her that it had made a neat hole in her jacket before ploughing into the solid wood of the front door.
The slug was embedded in there now. The hole in the wood had looked small from the outside, but Jade guessed it would be bigger inside, a cavity punched into the wood as the bullet flattened and deformed. She could poke the first joint of her finger through the holes in her jacket, which she’d now taken off and tied around her waist. Jade was uncomfortably warm, but even so, she shivered when she thought about that bullet.
That wasn’t what was bothering her the most, though.
This was a wealthy area, and in Jo’burg the very rich were often specifically targeted by burglars. It was worth the risk, because well-off homeowners had so much more to steal.
She noticed that every single house that she passed had elaborate security precautions in place in addition to the usual electric fences and automatic gates. Some had cameras mounted on top of the walls, others had security guards sat in the driveway under giant umbrellas, looking bored and hot, but nonetheless present and doing their job. Some homes had packs of dogs that roused themselves from their shady resting places and barked at Jade as she passed by.
Big dogs for intimidation and attack; little dogs because they were more alert and faster to sound the alarm.
Every single one of the houses that Jade passed had a steel-blue and-grey notice board attached to their wall or gate. “This Property Protected By Peacetime Security”, the phone number and website address of the security firm printed underneath.
Peacetime Security had Autumn Road sewn up in terms of business. Except for just one home. Pamela’s mansion had no reassuring notice board outside. It had no cameras, no infra-red beams, no armed guards and no dogs. Just an empty wooden guardhouse.
If having good security meant being better protected than your neighbours, then this house was a soft target.
That didn’t make any sense to Jade at all.
On impulse she took out her phone and called Peacetime Security. The control room operator was unable to answer her questions. She asked to speak to the sales director, but was told he was out of the office. Then she asked for the owner of the company. He wasn’t available either.
Out and about, working hard to spread the peace, she supposed.
Jade left an urgent message asking that one of them return her call. Then she walked back through Pamela’s emerald-green garden, peering under bushes, looking around trees and checking under her own car.
She tugged her shirt away from her body to cool the hot sweat that had sprung up on her skin.
Two covered carports stood next to the garages. One of them was occupied by a black bmw x5 with tinted windows. The other, which Jade supposed had housed Pamela’s car, was now empty.
She guessed the garage doors would be automatically operated by one of the other buttons on Pamela’s remote control. There were four buttons—red, blue, yellow, green. The red one was for the gate. Jade pressed all the others in turn, and watched as the three garage doors rolled smoothly upwards.
The backs of three brightly coloured sportscars sparkled in the sun. Red, yellow and blue, just like the buttons on the remote control. Ferrari, Maserati, Aston Martin. Their angled, aerodynamic bodies looked as if they were ready for a rubber-burning getaway, coiled in the “Get Set” position on their thick, black tyres.
Expensive toys for a wealthy boy. Cars that, individually, were each worth millions of rand. These powerful machines made Pamela’s Corvette look like a simple and economical choice.
She moved between the cars almost on tiptoe, aware that she was holding her breath. She let it out slowly and breathed in again. She couldn’t hear anything suspicious, or sense anybody watching her. The garage was empty apart from the three cars, as shiny and expensive as precious jewels.
When Jade moved closer to the back wall of the garage, she heard a tiny noise. Looking up at the small window above her head, she saw a bluebottle buzz against it briefly, as if stunned, before recovering and flying away.
Then she picked up another sound, which seemed to be coming from somewhere beyond the garage wall. A soft but unpleasant scraping noise that made her think of fingernails on a blackboard.
What on earth?
Jade walked out of the garage and cautiously made her way around the building to the entertainment area that she’d glimpsed earlier when she’d parked her car. The tiled patio had a lovely view over the pool. Behind the row of smart cane chairs, she saw a large braai built into the back wall. It was a sturdy structure, with an adjustable grill supported by four thick metal posts.
But below the metal posts …
Jade’s world spun around her and she sank to her knees, clapping her hands over her mouth in horror.
“Jesus Christ,” she breathed. Unable to take her eyes off the dreadful sight in front of her, she stared and stared, swallowing hard.
The body of a naked man was sprawled on the tiles below the braai. His wrists had been bound with wire to the two front posts. His torso was slumped forward, his head lowered, hanging from his outstretched arms. His hands were blackened and grossly swollen from the wire’s tight bite.
His ankles were trussed together with more of the wire. That must have prevented him from struggling and fighting against whoever had worked on him.
And worked on him they had. Peering at him, unable to breathe, Jade saw that giant tracts of his skin had been burned away. The flesh was puckered and scarred by terrible, oozing wounds, coal-black around the outside and deep red in the centre, populated by buzzing clusters of flies.
His eyes were missing. His genitalia were a scorched, bloody ruin.
A mound of coals, now greyish-white, powdery and cool, lay in the braai. Like every other meat-eating South African, Jade knew that the heat generated by the smouldering charcoal would have been ferocious.
The tools that his tormentor, or tormentors, had used still lay on the grill. Tongs, skewers, a solid-looking poker, their tips thick with ashy residue.
Grasping a chair for support, Jade stood up again. She felt dizzy and had no idea whether her wobbly legs would hold her, but she managed to t
ake another step forward. She choked on the sweetish, smoky smell she’d noticed when she’d first arrived.
It was not the aftermath of a braai, as she had thought, but rather the lingering odour of charred flesh.
Lifting his chin with a gentle hand, Jade saw that the man’s lips were studded with enormous blisters. In places, the flesh had been half melted away. Looking at the grey dust and darker, bloody patterns of saliva that oozed from the man’s ruined mouth, Jade realised that a red-hot coal had been forced between his lips, all but burning his tongue away, searing itself immovably into his flesh, and no doubt suffocating him with the fumes of his own broiling body.
A destructive, deadly gag.
Her next thought was that identifying him might be difficult because his face had been so badly disfigured. But then she realised the strong shape of his jaw was exactly the same as the one belonging to the groom in the wedding photo she’d so recently seen.
This was Terence, Pamela’s missing husband.
Missing no longer. Right here at home, in fact.
Why, then, had Pamela reported his disappearance to the police?
Looking more closely at the deep burns on Terence’s ribcage, Jade froze in horror as she realised the most terrible fact of all. His chest was moving, erratically and almost imperceptibly.
As Jade looked on, his feet twitched. A tiny, weak effort, but enough to scrape the rough end of the wire that bound his ankles against the tiles to make the unpleasant noise that Jade had heard minutes before.
Terence Jordaan had not suffocated; nor had he died of his injuries. Somehow, impossibly, he was still alive.
19
Edmonds hurried along the corridor of the Royal London Hospital in the Whitechapel Road. She was on her way to meet Amanita, the Senegalese victim rescued from Number Six, who had been recovering here for the past fortnight.
Amanita had allowed the detectives to access her medical records. Scanning the report earlier, Edmonds had seen that her list of injuries was horrifying. Smashed left cheekbone, broken jaw, concussion, three broken ribs and severe abdominal bruising. The doctors had suspected damage to her internal organs but, in this respect at least, she’d been lucky.
Stolen Lives Page 11
