Stolen Lives Read online

  The electricity was working, so she didn’t have to get up to unlock the door. She simply reached for the button under the right-hand side of her desk and buzzed him in.

  “Sit down.” She indicated the single chair on the opposite side of the desk.

  Close up, she saw the man was very thin. His cheeks were sunken and the whites of his eyes were yellowish and unhealthy-looking. He sat, placed his briefcase on his lap, and simply waited, lacing his swollen-looking fingers together as he looked round the small office.

  “So. What do you need?” she asked.

  Now the man stared directly at her.

  “Tikukwazisei,” he said, in his hoarse-sounding voice.

  Lindiwe blinked, trying not to look shocked. The man had given her this formal greeting in fluent Shona, her native language. Certainly it had been spoken within these four walls before, but she had always been the initiator in such circumstances.

  How did he know she was from Zimbabwe?

  “Kw—kwaziwai.” She stammered out the formal reply, suddenly terrified that her gut instinct had been wrong and this man was in fact a policeman. “How did you …?”

  He didn’t answer. After a brief pause, he carried on in perfect English, as if he’d never used Shona at all.

  “I understand you can help me with certain documents.”

  Lindiwe clasped her hands together tightly. Calm down, she told herself. He had recognised her accent, that was all. Her English was good, but even after five years in South Africa, she didn’t sound like a local.

  She’d had a few Zimbabwean customers who had sat in that chair and cried, and called her sister, and begged her to get their id books at a reduced price. No matter their circumstances, her answer had always been no. So perhaps, despite his wealthy appearance, this man was hoping to do the same.

  Well, he could keep on hoping. Lindiwe carried on in English.

  “I can get you the South African identity book and the passport. One hundred per cent genuine, and officially registered with Home Affairs.” She jerked her head in the general direction of Home Affairs’ head office in Waltloo, east of the inner city. “I take cash only, and no discounts.”

  Then she folded her arms across her substantial bosom and waited for the man’s next question. She was sure she knew what it was going to be, because they all asked the same questions. First, how much? Then, how genuine?

  There were a couple of other suppliers that offered low-quality fake documents, so badly done that even a child could tell the difference. You’d never get out of the country with one of those passports. You wouldn’t even get past a police roadblock with the id book.

  Thanks to Lindiwe’s connections, she was able to supply authentic documents of many kinds. The document holder would have their name listed on the computers and their fingerprints put onto the system. They would become a South African citizen with a valid, legal identity number. Lindiwe had recently started offering a very popular service—for an additional fee, a code eight driver’s licence could be printed on the correct page of the identity document for those individuals who didn’t want to go to the trouble of actually passing a test.

  Nobody else could offer what she did. The only other supplier Lindiwe knew of, a pawnshop owner, had stopped doing business last year after she’d reported him to the police.

  The man cleared his throat. “What is the cost?”

  Lindiwe glanced down at his smart leather briefcase. She loved window shopping in the expensive malls—Menlyn Park, Sandton Square—and she recognised luxury goods when she saw them.

  Ka-ching, ka-ching.

  She decided to double her price, just as she had done a fortnight ago for the drug dealer who needed a new identity in a hurry, and some time before that for three of the bodyguards employed by Zimbabwean president Robert Mugabe. They had wanted South African passports and identities as a fallback plan in case their boss ended up losing the presidency in the country’s upcoming elections.

  Thanks to the money that Lindiwe had charged them, she’d been able to buy the two beautiful diamond rings which she now sported on the middle and pinkie fingers of her right hand. She’d got them from a fence at a bargain price—considering the size and glittering clarity of the stones—and both were a perfect fit.

  Lindiwe had chosen not to burden herself by worrying about how these pieces had been separated from their original owners. Such things were surely beyond her control.

  What she did know was that the seller had shown her a lovely diamond pendant; their perfect partner.

  In all likelihood, that piece of jewellery would still be available at the weekend.

  “Four thousand rand per document,” she said.

  The man’s mouth twitched.

  Lindiwe waited for the next question, but it didn’t come.

  Instead, the man asked, “How long will four passports take?”

  “Three days.” Lindiwe was proud of the fast turnaround time. Normal South African citizens waited months, sometimes years, to get their id books or passports. Choked to death by uncaring employees, or by those who refused to perform their jobs unless bribed to do so by the public who were supposedly their customers, the system had become so slow and inefficient as to be useless.

  With documents so hard to obtain, officials so corrupt, and procedures so tangled in red tape, it was not surprising that Lindiwe had been able to profit from the many South Africans who were prepared to pay a high premium to get what they needed in a matter of days. And, as she had swiftly discovered, foreigners needing new identities were prepared to pay even more.

  Lindiwe had obtained documents for men and women from every country in southern Africa, and a few others too.

  “I need them sooner than that.”

  She frowned. This man wasn’t following her script. “Quicker than three days? That is not going to be easy.”

  “If you can organise them by the end of today, I will pay you double.”

  Lindiwe shook her head in a show of reluctance, although her mind was racing at the possibility. Four thousand rand times eight? For that price, she was sure her colleagues in Home Affairs would be willing to come up with a solution. It would be far riskier, but they had pulled it off successfully once before.

  “It depends on how you plan to use the passports,” she said after a suitable pause. “If you’re going to use them immediately, and only to leave the country, then I can do it.”

  Last time, she had done the favour for an Indian man who had needed to get out of South Africa as fast as possible, and under an assumed name. Instead of issuing a valid identity number and registering the man on the system as they usually did, the syndicate had simply substituted his photograph for that of a genuine applicant of a similar age and race whose passport was being processed that day. Her contact working in Computer Records had deliberately changed one letter of the passport-holder’s name and forty-eight hours later, when the Indian was safely out of the country, had erased the “faulty” record from the system and re-issued the passport, this time with the correct photo. And fortunately for Lindiwe, nobody had been any the wiser.

  The question now was whether four “mistakes” could be made and corrected without attracting unwanted attention. It would be much riskier. And she remembered one of her friends in Home Affairs had mentioned that security measures were going to be tightened up soon.

  Lindiwe hoped it could be done.

  “The passports will be used immediately,” the man said. “And their holders will not be returning. That I can guarantee.”

  “Did you bring photographs?”

  The man opened his briefcase and took out a big plastic folder. He shook two large manila envelopes out of it and onto her desk. Then he closed the briefcase and put it down on the carpet. Lindiwe noticed something glinting on his belt, but before she could think about it any further, her attention was caught by the topmost envelope, which was bulging with the distinctive shape of banknotes.

  “For you.�
�� The man nodded towards her. “Your money.”

  It was crammed with hundred-rand notes, new and crisp, clipped together in groups of ten. It took her only a minute to count them, her long, pink-tipped fingernails separating the notes with the ease of long practice.

  Thirty-two thousand rand exactly.

  How lucky for him.

  “Do I get a receipt?”

  “If you like.” Lindiwe opened the dog-eared duplicate receipt book lying on her desk, picked up a ballpoint, and scribbled out an entry that stated a cash purchase had been made from Mopani Transport Services. She ripped off the top copy and held it out to him.

  He didn’t take the receipt immediately. Instead, he doubled over, one hand pressed to his gut, the other gripping the chair tightly. He grimaced and half-closed his eyes.

  Lindiwe watched nervously. The man didn’t look at all well, and she found herself hoping he wouldn’t collapse on her carpet.

  He didn’t. Just straightened up, breathing hard, and looked at her with an unsettling gaze as if nothing had happened.

  “By the end of today?” he asked.

  “Six p.m.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can not afford a delay.”

  He spoke the words softly, but something about the way he said them made Lindiwe catch her breath.

  Was this old, sick man threatening her?

  “There won’t be any problems,” she snapped, making a mental note to tell Veli to run down and call the guard as soon as he saw this customer come back. Nobody was allowed to give her attitude in this office.

  “Good. I will see you then.”

  Lindiwe buzzed the door open for him and watched while it swung shut again. As soon as he had gone, she walked through to her back office, unlocked the little safe, and stashed the money inside.

  Then she picked up her cellphone and dialled the number for Eunice, her contact in Home Affairs, to tell her she had an urgent job coming through.

  16

  Pamela’s house was situated in a cul-de-sac called Autumn Road, in a quiet part of suburban Sandown. The entrance was in the form of an elaborate wrought-iron gate which stood in the deep shade of an enormous oak tree. The gate—motorised, of course— and the face-brick perimeter wall were topped with electric fencing which looked unbroken and undamaged.

  No rogue bikers had followed Jade here.

  When she depressed the buzzer on the bunch of keys she had taken from Pamela’s bag, the gate swung open smoothly, rustling a couple of the low-hanging branches as it moved. After a final glance in her rear-view mirror, she drove inside.

  She went past a small wooden hut that looked like a guardhouse, past a verdant expanse of lawn studded with trees. Near the house she could see a large swimming pool that sparkled in the sun. The grass was emerald green, the flowerbeds bursting with blooms.

  She parked near the back wall of what looked like an outdoor entertainment area opposite the swimming pool, so her car would be invisible from the road. Then she walked around to the oversized front door, listening to bees humming in the impressive display of French lavender under the windows. The door looked like it had been stolen from a giant’s castle, and the key to the lock had equal character. It was long and heavy, and it rattled in the lock, making her feel like a medieval jailer.

  Jade had expected clinical coolness and the smell of furniture polish or potpourri, but instead she wrinkled her nose at the whiff of blocked drains coming from the closed door on her right, which obviously led to a guest bathroom.

  The smell was very un-Pamela. Perhaps she shouldn’t have fired her housemaid so hastily.

  As Jade locked the door behind her, the distant ringing of a telephone broke the silence.

  She didn’t think anyone was home, but she guessed she’d soon find out if the phone was answered.

  She walked swiftly through the hallway in the direction of the sound.

  The house was the ultimate in open-plan living. Pamela and Terence had gone big on the front door, and gone without any of the others. It made her job easier. She walked through an expansive lounge-cum-dining-room whose furniture was so ultramodern that it looked more like a contemporary art gallery than somewhere to relax after a busy day. The kitchen could have been the control deck for the Starship Enterprise.

  The phone was ringing in a little alcove off the lounge, where a chair, desk and bookshelf formed a miniature study.

  Pamela’s study, she guessed. An in-tray held a pile of letters from various charities, all addressed to Mrs Jordaan. The ringing was coming from a smart but rather outdated-looking faxanswerphone.

  It rang eight times before it gave a high-pitched beep.

  The blinking light indicated there were new messages.

  Jade pressed Play, and listened.

  The first one was from someone with a deep voice and a rough South African accent.

  “Pamela. Naude here. Call me, will you? As soon as you can.”

  The second message was from the same man. He spoke faster this time. Stressed or in a hurry, she guessed.

  “Naude again. Call me urgently.”

  The third and final message was short and to the point—the sound of a replaced receiver.

  She turned away from the study and headed towards the staircase. At the bottom she noticed an ornamental Masai shield with a wooden spear displayed on its right. Two empty brackets marked the spot where a second spear should have crossed its partner.

  She carried on up to the landing and checked the other bedrooms and bathrooms before entering the master bedroom. Here, the large television flickered soundlessly. The bedcovers were rumpled and faint scents still clung to the fabric. A musky male cologne, a hint of flowery perfume.

  Jade moved to the dressing-room and opened a cupboard at random. She was confronted with an ostentatious display of silk shirts, shiny suits, snakeskin belts and fashionably faded jeans.

  So this was Terence’s wardrobe. She wondered if he had ever worn the pair of form-fitting dkny leather pants hanging right at the back.

  Surely not.

  On one of the shelves Jade saw an empty alligator-skin concealment holster, but she couldn’t find a gun anywhere.

  She opened the double cupboard opposite. It was stuffed with colourful designer outfits.

  Jade chose a few of the most casual clothes on offer, which wasn’t an easy task. Pamela didn’t possess any sensible shoes, so Jade picked out a pair of wedge-heeled sandals from the ranks of footwear that jostled for space on the bottom rails. What else? Underwear? Cosmetics?

  She pulled open one of the wooden drawers in the cupboard. A tangle of bras and panties spilled out. Although the lingerie was high quality and expensive-looking, there were no garments that Jade would have described as sexy. The panties were full-cut, the bras designed to conceal rather than reveal, and all were in neutral colours. Whites, blacks, beiges.

  Jade couldn’t help thinking again about Pamela’s early career as an exotic dancer and an organiser of private parties for men.

  David was right. She certainly had reinvented herself since then.

  Another drawer contained socks and stockings and, on top of them, a framed photograph. Jade took it out and held it up. It was a wedding portrait. Pamela and Terence, head-and-shoulders, smiling at the camera. Very much the happy couple.

  Terence was brown-haired, fit-looking and tanned, with an aggressively jutting jaw. To her surprise, he was somewhat shorter than Pamela, who Jade supposed would have been wearing ridiculously high heels.

  Jade had no idea why the wedding photo was face-down in the sock drawer.

  She closed the cupboard door and turned away.

  Terence hadn’t been snatched from the house; Jade was certain of that. Nothing looked out of place, there were no signs of a struggle, nothing appeared to be missing apart from one of the two spears on the landing and the gun that should have been in the holster.

  How had he disappeared, then? Had he ru
shed out of the house with his unholstered gun in one hand and the Masai spear in the other?

  Jade smiled at the fanciful notion. People like Terence didn’t walk out of their homes—they drove. So, if none of the cars were missing, someone must have picked him up. A “trusted” business associate, perhaps.

  But wouldn’t Pamela have heard him leaving?

  Jade discovered a matching set of leather luggage in yet another cupboard. Four bags in sizes ranging from weekend-in-Cape-Town to fortnight-in-New-York. She packed Pamela’s clothes into the former and added a selection of toiletries and cosmetics from the bathroom, which was fragrant with the scent of roses.

  Then she made her way downstairs with the suitcase. Through the lounge, with its cloying smell of furniture polish. Past the shiny kitchen, which smelled of nothing at all, and back the way she had come.

  With the front door closed, the stink in the hallway was far stronger. It hit her like a slap in the face. She breathed out hard, grimacing at the odour, which was suddenly, horribly familiar.

  Surely it couldn’t be …?

  Her spine contracted with shivery unease.

  Jade walked up to the white-painted guest-bathroom door she’d noticed on the way in. She grabbed the handle and pulled it open.

  Freed from the confines of the hot little room, the smell rushed out to meet her, bigger and nastier than she’d expected, closely followed by a swarm of excited bluebottles.

  Jade staggered back, stifling a cry. She dropped the suitcase, which thudded down onto the tiled floor, and swatted frantically at the cloud of flies.

  Propped up in the corner below the half-open toilet window, a woman stared at Jade with sightless blue eyes. Blood was matted in her blonde hair, and a thick trail of dried blood led from one of the two deep wounds on her temple to the corner of her gaping mouth.

  The dead woman looked much younger than Pamela. She was wearing a short black dress and one high-heeled gold sandal. The other sandal was lying on the tiles near the door. On her lap, broken in half, lay the ornamental spear that was missing from the display on the landing.