‘Don’t you have a bloody emergency cut-off mechanism here on this ship? Something that will free the damn line? What the hell good is a tugboat without a contingency plan in place for …’
But the tug lurched sideways and Chetty tumbled out of his seat and slid backwards down the near-vertical floor, howling with fear.
Moments later, Zulu felt the inexorable downward pull.
The tanker sank to the ocean floor, dragging the Amandla down along with it.
Dark, oily water surged around the tug and there was a sudden smoothness as the choppy surface of the ocean was replaced by still water. The power flickered and then died. The pressure of the water forced open the doors to the steering room and Zulu felt it lift him swiftly up against the canted ceiling. He kicked hard, desperately striving to keep his head above it, but his head banged against the ceiling and then there was no room.
There was no room.
Zulu’s last thoughts were strangely comforting.
If Bradley had tried to double-cross them, he would not have lived to see the fruits of his efforts. Just a few moments after the explosives were detonated, he too would have died.
Jade waited for the call to connect. All it took was a couple of seconds, although it felt like half a lifetime, before she heard it ringing.
It rang once. Twice.
Then she heard a click and the call was cut off.
Standing in the old station, holding the phone with its broken lanyard in both her hands and looking down at its screen, Jade had absolutely no idea if her hunch had been correct. They were too far away from the sea to hear, or feel, the blast, which would in any case have taken place underwater and been muffled by tons of water.
Had she managed to sink the Karachi before it reached open water?
She had no idea.
Perhaps she should redial, to be sure. If it rang again, that would mean that the SIM card at the other end was still in existence and that the explosives hadn’t been detonated.
But she didn’t.
Jade couldn’t have said what made her do what she did next—whether it was just one factor or a combination.
Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps blind luck. Perhaps it was the feeling she had that every loose end in this operation was being cut off with ruthless efficiency.
With a gentle underarm motion, she tossed the heavy phone back to Bradley. It landed on his thigh and slid down onto the floor.
‘Oh, no, Ms De Jong, don’t give it back to him now,’ Pillay warned. ‘He’ll destroy any evidence on it.’
Eyes bulging, Bradley lunged forward with his handcuffed hands and grabbed hold of the instrument, groaning again as the effort hurt his damaged shoulder. Pulling himself into a kneeling position, he bent over the phone.
‘Take it away from him and put it in an evidence—’
In a blinding flash of light, the cellphone that Bradley was clutching exploded.
Jade twisted away from the white-hot fireball, squeezing her eyes shut as she heard Pillay and his assistant shouting in shock. Flying shards stung her back and pricked her arms like miniature daggers.
She looked back and saw that, for Bradley at least, it was over.
His hands were gone.
The project manager lifted bloody stumps to a sightless face, a face that was running with blood. His starched shirt and shiny tie looked as if somebody had taken a shredder to them.
He collapsed into a crouch, and then forward onto his head. His choking gasps soon fell silent.
46
David blinked, bright lights piercing his strangely sensitive eyes.
Where was he? Lying face-up on a hard mattress, the muted beeping of machinery all around him and the sweetish smell of disinfectant in his nostrils.
A tube in his wrist that tugged painfully at him when he shifted his arm, and his chest hurt.
Clearly, he was in hospital somewhere, but his befuddled brain refused to tell him where or why.
Memories trickled back, interrupted by periods of drowsiness when he fell asleep again, although whether this was for moments or minutes, he wasn’t sure.
He remembered being shot and that Jade had been in the car with him when it happened.
Was she all right? When he tried to recall exactly what had happened in the time after the shooting, the best he could come up with was a confused and painful blur.
She must be alive. She must.
She was. Another memory, this one more puzzling than the others. Jade had been standing by his bed. Her hair was wet and bedraggled—she looked for all the world like she’d just climbed out of the sea.
‘You took a bullet for me, David,’ she said. ‘You should never have done that, but you did. I love you.’
David smiled at the memory. And then he opened his eyes to see her there again, standing at the foot of his bed, watching him.
‘Jade,’ he said in a voice that was surprisingly hoarse and rusty.
The figure moved closer and David focused on her face.
It wasn’t Jade.
It was Naisha. Dark hair tied back in a neatly pinned knot. Wearing a pale-blue maternity blouse over a pair of grey trousers. One hand protectively over her stomach and a look of confusion in her eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ David whispered. ‘I didn’t mean …’
She shook her head. ‘It’s all right,’ she said in a small, hurt voice. ‘I’ll come back later.’
She turned and left his bedside, walking swiftly away.
‘Naisha, no!’ David’s attempt at calling her back didn’t work. Shouting made him cough, which sent a lance of agony into his chest and set a machine behind him beeping loudly.
A nurse hurried over and fiddled with his drip.
‘No talking,’ she reprimanded him. ‘Please, Mr Patel. And definitely no shouting.’
The world faded away into a grey blur.
When David woke again, another figure was standing at the top of his bed and staring down at him. Luckily, the identity of this solidly built man was unmistakable.
Moloi.
‘Welcome back, Sup,’ the black detective said.
‘Where the hell am I?’ David now found himself able to think more clearly.
Moloi looked pleased with himself. ‘Richards Bay General Hospital. I took the early flight to Durban this morning, along with your wife.’ He shifted his feet, frowned down at them and winced. ‘You know, these new shoes are killing me. I’ve been standing here in them for about half an hour waiting for you to wake up.’
The black detective looked round for a chair. Spotting one at the other end of the ward, he walked over and fetched it. He lowered himself down into the flimsy plastic seat with a sigh of relief.
‘I’m in ICU?’ David asked.
Moloi nodded.
‘How’d you get in here then?’
‘It was difficult.’ The smug expression on Moloi’s face dissolved as the chair let out an ominous cracking sound. Planting his feet more firmly on the floor, he continued. ‘They said family only. I said I was family. They didn’t believe me. Said if I was family, I’d be an Indian, like you. So I had no choice, Sup. I told them I was your brother-in-law. Do you even have a sister?’
David found, to his cost, that laughing produced the same painful results as coughing.
‘Anyway, they let me in.’ Moloi continued.
David tried to speak, but choked, each movement of his chest prompting a fresh wave of extreme pain.
‘Take it easy, sir.’ Moloi had obviously noticed his struggle.
David fell silent for a while. Every fibre in his ruptured, damaged body seemed to be screaming at him. He prayed for it to stop, but it didn’t of course.
‘I followed up on Themba, your man in Yeoville.’ Moloi said.
The chair gave another loud creak and the black detective jumped. He stood up and carried it back to the corner of the ward. Then he returned to David’s bedside and stood, shifting his feet uncomfortably.
David wa
s still trying to make sense of his last words.
‘Themba who?’ he asked.
‘Themba Msamaya, according to his lease agreement. The one you asked me to investigate.’ Seeing David’s blank look, Moloi hastened to explain. ‘The postcard in the bedroom of the dead scuba-diving instructor. Something about 813. You said it might have relevance to her murder.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’ The facts surfaced in David’s befuddled mind, as did the recollection that something about the postcard had been nagging him. ‘So, did you go there? What did you find?’ he asked, realising he’d lost his familiar impatient tone, and instead sounded quivery and frail, like he’d suddenly aged by thirty years.
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘Msamaya wasn’t in.’
‘What do you mean, wasn’t in?’
‘I mean he was out. Not at home. His flat was locked.’
‘Did you speak to anyone else?’
Moloi nodded. ‘I spoke to the landlord, who also happens to be the caretaker. Not that it looks like he’s been taking much care of the building.’
‘What’d he say?’
‘Said Msamaya hadn’t caused any problems since he’d moved in, which was about six months ago. Paid his rent on time, lived quietly. The only issue Msamaya had was wanting Internet access, but the landlord couldn’t organise a Telkom line so I think he gave up on that and found another way.’
‘And the Internet?’
‘He was job-searching. Apparently he’s unemployed.’
‘Oh.’
It all seemed plausible enough.
‘The landlord thought I’d come to ask about his neighbour.’
‘Msamaya’s?’
‘Yes. It seems the man who lives next door to him has had a couple of run-ins with the local police. He’s suspected of dealing in heroin.’
‘Ah.’
‘Seems the neighbour is two months behind with his rent. He’s been ducking and diving, and the landlord has a feeling that he’s going to end up doing a runner. I said I’d go back later this week. I’ll see if I can have a chat to Msamaya. Ask him about his neighbour and about the contents of that postcard.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll come and visit you later this afternoon, sir. Oh, and when you’re out of ICU, I’ll bring you some flowers, like a devoted family member would do.’
This time, David’s chest was too sore for him to think about laughing. Besides, Moloi’s mention of the word ‘family’ brought the situation with Naisha to mind, in all its painful clarity.
He groaned.
‘I’d better go. Take care.’
David’s eyes closed again as Captain Moloi walked out of the ICU.
At nine-thirty a.m. Richards Bay General Hospital was busy. Day-shift nurses in fresh-looking uniforms bustled down the corridors between the wards. The distinctive aroma of well-done toast still hung faintly in the air, signalling to Jade that the patients’ breakfast had been far better than hers.
In fact, Jade hadn’t eaten anything at all and, although she was tempted to buy a coffee from the cafeteria she could see across the road from the lobby, she didn’t want to risk missing Dr Abrahams.
If, indeed, he was still planning to visit the hospital that morning.
She stood in the corner next to a row of chairs that were all occupied. An elderly man in a wheelchair was parked at the end of the row. Jade waited as minute after minute ticked by, trying to suppress the urge to pace back and forth as David did in times of stress.
She’d decided she was going to drive back to Johannesburg as soon as she’d spoken to Dr Abrahams. The new rental car that she’d picked up earlier that morning was packed with holiday gear—David’s as well as her own.
She checked the time on her phone again.
Nine thirty-five.
She could go now, if she wanted to. She didn’t have to wait for Dr Abrahams. She could simply walk away with her questions unanswered. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. She told herself she’d managed to live quite contentedly for nearly thirty-five years without the answers.
Admittedly though, until recently she hadn’t even known that there were questions to ask.
Perhaps that was the problem. Once she had known there were questions, she was compelled to find out the answers.
Why was there no Elise de Jong buried in the Richards Bay cemetery?
Why had Mrs Koekemoer said it was a secret?
Right now, establishing the facts seemed like a good way to occupy her mind. To distract her from the memory of what had happened the night before, from the sound of Bradley’s choking gasps and the sight of splintered bone protruding from ragged stumps.
Her arms would have looked like that if she hadn’t followed her instincts and thrown the phone away. Her chest would have had a crater-sized hole in it, and her face would have been torn and shredded from the effects of the powerful explosives.
Jade rubbed her forehead to physically clear the thoughts.
Then she allowed herself to smile at the memory of the paramedic’s utter confusion when he’d arrived at his latest call-out to find her there, yet again.
‘Are you stalking me or something?’ he’d asked. ‘We can’t carry on meeting like this. People will talk!’
Jade gave another private smile as she remembered how she’d waited for a moment when Pillay and his assistant were preoccupied with the forensics crew at the other side of the station. Then she had unzipped the gym bag that Bradley had handed to Kobus just before shooting him, and quietly passed each of the filthy, oil-streaked prisoners a generous wedge of the tightly packed money inside. It was the only way they were going to get any payment, she reasoned. Once the bag reached police headquarters, who knew what would happen to the cash? In any case, they deserved a sizeable bonus as compensation for their imprisonment, their near-starvation and their consequent health problems.
The news of the oil spill had travelled fast. It had been the top story on the radio earlier that morning. Clean-up crews were working hard to contain the oil. Thanks to the fact that the tanker had gone down when it was still in the harbour waters, it appeared that only that area had been contaminated. To Jade’s relief, the spill had been successfully contained, and the St Lucia estuary and the surrounding coastline would remain an unspoilt paradise.
The elderly man in the wheelchair next to her began to cough, bringing her attention back to the present. It was a soft, dry cough, but once he had started, he couldn’t seem to stop. Hands gripping the arms of his chair, shoulders shuddering, the man hunched over as the coughing overpowered him.
Jade turned away and walked out of the hospital’s side entrance and into the cafeteria. The smell of toast was replaced by the aroma of coffee, and once again she was sorely tempted to order herself a mug.
Later, she decided.
She took a small plastic bottle of still water off the shelf, paid for it, and returned to the hospital lobby.
The elderly man was sitting upright again, taking in small, careful sips of air, as if frightened that breathing too deeply would provoke another round of coughing.
‘Here you are,’ Jade said, loosening the cap and placing the bottle gently in his lap.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘My throat …’
Jade nodded. ‘The air is very dry in here.’
He seemed to be breathing more easily now. And if he started coughing again, at least he would have some water to soothe his throat.
Jade turned her attention back to the lobby and saw Dr Abrahams. Or, rather, the back of him. That distinctive silver head of hair atop another dark suit. He was heading down the main corridor, walking briskly.
Today he was alone.
Stepping away from the elderly man in the wheelchair, Jade ran after the doctor, calling his name.
Dr Abrahams didn’t look pleased to see her again, although Jade couldn’t help wondering if he ever looked pleased about anything.
‘You sai
d I should wait for you in the lobby this morning and that you’d tell me about my mother.’
The doctor nodded, pursing his lips as if considering what he should say next.
A nurse holding a clipboard hurried past them, followed by an orderly who was walking more slowly and pushing a large steel trolley piled high with crumb-encrusted plates and dirty cups. The crockery rattled as the trolley bumped over a gap in the linoleum.
Jade wondered if Dr Abrahams would prefer to go somewhere quieter or more private, but he didn’t move. After a short pause, he began to talk.
‘Your mother was admitted to this hospital after a near-drowning incident when she was pregnant, and again when you were born. Then, a few months later, she came back for the third and last time.’
Jade nodded. Mrs Koekemoer had told her this, too.
‘So the third time was after she developed cerebral malaria?’ she asked.
With her question, Dr Abrahams’s frown deepened. Behind him, another orderly with a loaded trolley approached and Jade stepped closer to the wall to allow him to pass.
‘Your mother never had malaria,’ he said. ‘We tested her for it, of course, when she was admitted. But malaria was not the cause of the kidney failure that led to her death.’
‘But …’ Jade felt her mouth fall open and she made a conscious effort to close it.
But my father told me she died of cerebral malaria.
Or had he?
Had he ever actually said so in so many words? Or had he simply allowed Jade to assume that that was how she had died?
Had he simply presented her with a series of facts that led towards an obvious conclusion that she, as an investigator’s daughter, would be drawn to make?
Old, half-remembered fragments of conversation spun through her mind. Her father answering her questions, or so she had thought at the time. Now, she realised, he had not been answering them directly at all.
‘How did my mother die?’
‘Kidney failure.’
‘What caused that?’
‘Cerebral malaria causes it sometimes.’
‘How did my mother get malaria?’
‘There was a very wet summer the year you were born. A lot of mosquitoes around. They can carry it. Richards Bay is a high-risk area for malaria in summer.’
The Fallen Page 24
