Stolen Lives Read online

  Reading through the details, David discovered that Jordaan had been arrested after a routine check-up on the Midrand premises of Heads & Tails. There, police had discovered four exotic dancers from the Slovak Republic working without visas, the thirty-day visitors’ permits in their passports long since expired.

  According to the dancers, they had been lured to South Africa by the promise of a five-year work permit and a high-paying job, neither of which had materialised.

  Jordaan had managed to wriggle out of a jail sentence, and the four Slovakian women had been swiftly deported. David could find nothing in the report that stated what the dancers’ living conditions had been, or whether they had been forced into prostitution.

  A more recent series of updates by Captain Thembi stated that Jordaan appeared to have been running a clean operation since then. The investigation team had discovered no further irregularities during subsequent checkups.

  Even so, his history meant that Terence Jordaan was still a “person of interest” for the division.

  When David attempted to exit the most recent report update, the computer hung again, forcing him to restart it for the third time that day. He didn’t go back into the records. He’d seen enough, and the four case files he’d taken from the filing cabinet that morning were all awaiting his urgent attention. Two were drug-smuggling cases, one was the investigation into the Sandton brothel that was currently under way, and the final file was an investigation into a brothel in Bez Valley that was also suspected of employing trafficked workers, code name “Project Priscilla”.

  Tomorrow night, he and his team would be conducting a raid on that establishment, and in the meantime David had a mountain of work to get through.

  He would call Jade later. Perhaps he could just send her an email. That way, he would be able to avoid speaking to her altogether, avoid that heady mix of guilt and desire that caused his stomach to churn whenever he heard her voice.

  As he opened the Project Priscilla file, David frowned and shook his head. Not because of the contents of the cardboard folder, but because of the irony of his situation.

  When he’d recommended Jade to his old acquaintance Pamela, he’d never dreamed that the wealthy woman’s missing husband would have a criminal record for human trafficking.

  Despite all his efforts to move on, it seemed that Jade was back in his life once again.

  Pamela had now been gone so long that Jade started to wonder if she was all right. Perhaps she’d passed out, or collapsed in a delayed reaction to the stress of the shooting or the bang on her head.

  That thought got Jade on her feet and halfway across the café, but she stopped in her tracks as the door to the toilets swung open and Pamela emerged.

  Her colour was better. She’d tidied her hair and washed her arm. The only evidence of the bloodstain was a damp patch on her blouse. She limped back to the table, shunting her broken sandal across the floor, and sat down.

  Considering what she had just been through, she was looking remarkably calm. Jade wished Pamela had been able to control her fear as effectively when she’d been behind the wheel of her car.

  She poured the blonde woman a glass of water from the bottle she’d ordered after speaking to David. When Pamela stretched across the table to take the glass, Jade noticed she had sustained another injury; a livid, blue-black bruise on the bicep of her right arm.

  Had her arm caught the edge of the steering wheel during the crash? Jade was about to ask when she realised that this bruise, with its deep purple centre and yellowed edges, was already a few days old.

  Pamela put the water down on the table and tugged her sleeve hurriedly over the bruise again. Something about the way she did it made Jade decide to keep quiet about what she had seen, although she couldn’t help remembering the comment David had made just a few minutes ago about rich bastards who smacked their wives around.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Pamela said. She raised the glass to her lips—freshly lipsticked, Jade noticed. She didn’t sound scared now. If anything, she sounded slightly annoyed. “I cannot believe that somebody has just tried to kill me.”

  “Do you have any idea who that biker might have been?” Jade asked.

  “Not a clue.” She picked up her bag and drew out the nail file, inspected her broken nail, and started to smooth its edge with quick, brisk strokes.

  “Are you or your husband involved in any court cases? Any business dealings that might have a bearing on this? Any problems with employees?”

  Pamela turned her attention to her other hand. “No court cases. I don’t work, and I fired our maid last week. Terence’s business does have its problems from time to time; it’s the nature of the industry.” Pamela looked up from her mini-manicure. “He did mention he’d be heading out of town in the next day or so. And I know in the past he has gone away when he’s in trouble. Gone underground. When there’s something he’s trying to avoid. Or someone.” She shrugged, managing to make the gesture look elegant, and turned her attention back to her nails.

  “He couldn’t have decided to leave early?” Jade asked.

  “No, dear. Our plane is still in its hangar at Lanseria Airport, and all the cars are at home,” Pamela said, somewhat testily. Then, “He goes … usually, anyway, to a private country residence we own in Dullstroom. It’s state-of-the-art. He had it specially designed, you know, and the levels of security there are unsurpassed.”

  “So did Terence really disappear from your home, then?”

  Pamela frowned. “What?”

  “If all your cars are where they should be?”

  The only sound in the sudden silence was the heartfelt tones of the tenor singing in the background. Jade noticed Pamela was now sitting very still.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said finally.

  “If I’m going to be able to do my job properly, I need to know.”

  Pamela shook her head. Jade detected a stubborn set to her jaw.

  The big steel espresso machine on the bar counter made a loud grinding noise, followed by a steamy hiss, and the smell of fresh coffee wafted across the restaurant towards them.

  Jade sighed inwardly. This was getting more complicated by the minute. Was Pamela trying to protect her husband? Or did she know more about his disappearance than she was prepared to let on?

  Jade had no idea.

  “I need you to turn your phone off,” she said.

  Now Pamela glanced up in surprise. “My phone? Why?”

  “That man on the motorbike knew where you were. Maybe he just got lucky because he was in the area looking out for you, but it’s also possible he was tracking you via your phone. So, until we’ve ruled out cellphone tracing, I don’t want you to turn it on again.”

  “But I need to call my daughter to tell her we’ll be late. She’ll be worrying by now.”

  Jade nodded. “Tamsin’s our first priority. Call her on my phone and tell her we’re on our way.”

  Pamela took the phone. “I’ll text her, then, if it’s all right with you. Tammy won’t answer a call if it’s from a number she doesn’t recognise.”

  While Pamela was keying in the message, Jade walked across to the counter, where the waitress was busy making the second of two large, frothy cappuccinos. She paid for their water and used the restaurant’s phone to call a taxi. Then she borrowed a silver paper clip from the receptionist and used it to do a temporary repair job on Pamela’s sandal. Bodyguarding 101: Ways to keep your client mobile.

  The taxi was one of the Gauteng yellow cabs, bright and shiny, with an interior that smelled new, but not in the same moneyed way that Pamela’s Corvette had.

  After a short drive, they pulled up outside Tamsin’s housing complex in Illovo. Pamela had called it a flat, but looking at the spacious buildings that she saw through the bars of the gate, Jade guessed that an upmarket, self-contained, high-security, threebedroomed palace with a private garden and a koi pond was probably a more appropriate description.r />
  There were only five numbers listed on the intercom. Pamela told the cab driver to press the button for number three.

  The bell made a muffled trilling sound. Pamela buzzed the back window down, leaned out and listened for a response.

  Silence.

  “Ring again,” Pamela ordered the driver.

  He rang the bell again, and they sat and listened to more silence. It was uncomfortably warm in the car, and the light breeze that wafted in through the open windows wasn’t helping in the least. All it was doing was forcing more hot air inside.

  “I’m worried,” Pamela said in a small, quiet voice. “She didn’t respond to my text message either, and I specifically asked her to.”

  “Do you have a gate buzzer for her house?”

  Pamela shook her head.

  Jade climbed out of the cab and walked round to the intercom. She pressed all five buttons in quick succession and was rewarded with a little orchestra of trills.

  A minute later, a man answered. A light-sounding voice, rushed and breathy.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. I’m looking for Tamsin Jordaan,” Jade said.

  “Sweetie, she lives in number three. You pressed the wrong bell.”

  Then he hung up on her. Jade heard a clunk that sounded like an intercom receiver being placed back on its rest.

  The glare from the bright white wall in front of her was blinding. When she blinked, she saw the white-painted bars of the gate had seared themselves onto her retinas, forming floating black ghosts that drifted across her vision.

  She had no idea which number the man lived in, so she pressed each button again.

  He responded, this time sounding irritated.

  “Number three, I told you.”

  “Wait.” Jade said rapidly, before he could disconnect again.

  A pause. Then, “What do you want?”

  “I need to come in. Tamsin’s mother is here to collect her, and she’s missing. She’s not answering her phone. Her mother’s worried something is wrong.”

  “Pamela’s here?” The man sounded surprised.

  “Waiting outside.”

  Jade heard the sound of the intercom clattering down again, and a moment later, the gate rolled smoothly open.

  She told the driver to park on a strip of grass in the shade of a nearby tree. Ahead of her, she saw five double garage doors arranged in a horseshoe shape.

  “Which is Tamsin’s house?” she asked Pamela.

  “That one there. Shall I come with you?” Pamela pointed at the middle set of doors. Jade heard a tremble in her voice, a sign of the same fear that she’d noticed when the blonde woman had arrived at her house earlier that day.

  “Better not,” Jade said. She didn’t want to elaborate any further on the reasons why, but looking at Pamela’s face, she saw she didn’t have to.

  The house had a private garden which was fenced off by dark green palisades. Looking through the bars, she saw mowed grass and lush flower-beds blazing with colour.

  And a koi pond. Perhaps she was psychic. Jade concentrated hard, but no other revelations were forthcoming. Glimmers of white and gold appeared briefly in the water as the fish lazily circled their little world.

  “There you are.” The light voice again, from behind her. Its owner was a young, slender man wearing trendily ripped jeans and a Calvin Klein shirt, with hair gelled into a series of ferocious-looking black spikes.

  He glanced at the pond, then back at her.

  “Do you like koi?” he asked.

  It seemed an odd introduction.

  “I’ve never tried them,” Jade said.

  “Sorry?” He frowned, looking confused.

  Jade held out her hand. “Jade de Jong. I’m working for Pamela.”

  He clasped it in a gentle grip. “Raymond Arends. I’m Tamsin’s neighbour, and her hairdresser. I also do Pamela’s hair.”

  “Have you seen Tamsin recently? Do you know where she might be?”

  The diamanté earring in Raymond’s right ear twinkled as he nodded. “I don’t know exactly where she is, but I’m assuming she’s with her aunt right now.”

  “Her aunt?”

  “Yes. She was with Tamsin when I popped round to borrow some Candarel earlier this morning. So I’m sure Tammy’s fine.”

  “Oh.” Jade said. “Thank you.”

  Raymond pulled a tiny silver phone out of his pocket and glanced down at the display. “Look at the time!” he exclaimed. “I don’t want to be rude, but I must fly. I just popped back home to change my shirt because I splashed tint all over the one I was wearing, can you believe it?” He laughed merrily, then rummaged in his pocket again and drew a business card from his wallet. “Take this, sweetie. I’d love to do your hair. Come down to the salon any time. I work in the Thrupps Centre. Oh, and if you drive right up to that gate you’ll activate the sensor and it’ll open to let you out again.”

  He turned, trotted back towards the double garage to the right of Tamsin’s house, and pulled out in an electric blue Peugeot. As he passed the yellow cab, he hooted and waved.

  Jade hurried back to the cab, which was still too hot, in spite of the fact that it had been parked in the shade with the air conditioning running. The meter was still running, too.

  “Does Raymond know where Tamsin is?” Pamela asked anxiously.

  “He said she’s with her aunt,” Jade said. “Do you think she’ll be safe there, or should we go and pick her up?”

  Pamela stared at her with a blank expression for what seemed like a very long time.

  “Tamsin doesn’t have an aunt,” she said slowly. “I’m an only child, and Terence’s sister died way back when he was in the army.”

  Then she opened the back door of the cab, leaned out and vomited onto the lush, irrigated grass.

  8

  Cash Is King was located on the corner of Church Street and Central Road in Halfway House. Ten years ago, Halfway House had been a quiet village, so named because it was located halfway between Jo’burg and Pretoria. Today, thanks to the rapid development that had taken place in the surrounding area, it had become a mini cbd that, in turn, was becoming part of the megalopolis as Jo’burg spread north and Pretoria south. The two cities were gobbling up the empty veld between them at an ever-increasing rate, spitting out uniform housing estates, cramped office parks and busy road networks.

  The traffic lights at the litter-strewn intersection were out of order. This had caused problems all morning and now, in the lunchtime rush-hour, it was creating chaos. Battered-looking taxis pushed their way in and out of the slow-moving queues of traffic, dodging pedestrians, tooting their horns, stopping wherever and whenever to cram yet another passenger into already overloaded vehicles.

  Perched on a bar stool that was rapidly approaching the end of its natural lifespan, Garry Meertens glanced out of the dirty window on his left as the intermittent honking changed into one long, angry blare. Some arsehole had managed to piss everyone off at once. He squinted through the brownish glass, his view sectioned off into small squares by the thick metal mesh that covered every inch of his shopfront. He would have put his money on the offender being a taxi driver, but instead he watched the white Merc that had crossed the intersection out of turn swing off the road and park on the pavement behind his battered Ford Bantam.

  That hour’s sideshow over, he turned his attention back to the shop’s interior. A couple of raggedly dressed customers were browsing the dusty shelves in the area where the second-hand hi-fis and music systems were displayed. One of them, a stocky coloured man, was a frequent visitor but had yet to buy anything. Garry was starting to suspect he was planning some kind of trouble. Moffat, his assistant, was busy nearby, ostensibly cleaning the display but in fact keeping a close eye on the two browsers.

  Then the doorbell buzzed, and Garry’s stool squeaked as he twisted round to check out the new arrival.

  In contrast to the rest of the windows, Garry kept the glass around the entrance door s
parkling clean so that he could check out every customer before letting them in. He’d looked down the barrel of a gun three times in his career, in spite of having the surrounding area pretty much sewn up in terms of security, and that had been three times too many as far as he was concerned.

  A lone black man waited at the door. He held a walking stick in his right hand in a way that made Garry think he’d used the tip of it to ring the buzzer bell. He was slim, very dark-skinned, respectably dressed in a button-down shirt, jacket and dark trousers. His head was completely bald, and it gleamed in the bright afternoon sun. Apart from the cane, the man appeared to be empty-handed. Not a seller, then, unless he’d brought along small goods like jewellery, which they didn’t deal in, because neither Garry nor his business partner was an expert in stone identification, and it was too easy to get ripped off.

  A buyer, then. Garry’s finger hovered over the button behind his desk for a fraction before he pressed. With a buzz and a clanging sound, the door sprang open.

  The man walked slowly through the aisles. Past the other two customers, who were still staring longingly at the hi-fis that Garry had known from the moment they entered they could not afford. Past the ranks of mountain bikes and racing bikes that Moffat was now dusting. Garry saw the assistant’s gaze follow the older man as he headed towards the furniture section, and then return to the coloured guy.

  Garry shifted his weight on the stool and it squeaked again.

  “Damn thing,” he muttered.

  He stepped off it and fumbled underneath, his fingers exploring the area where the seat was attached to the four steel legs. The problem was here, he was sure. A screw that needed tightening; a nut or a bolt that was misbehaving. He couldn’t feel anything wrong, though. He squatted down, tipped the stool sideways and peered underneath. Couldn’t see anything wrong, either. He’d have to take it home tonight and dismantle it, see if he could put it back together in a way that would make him feel he wasn’t sitting on top of a badly tuned musical instrument every time he moved.