Stolen Lives (11 page)

Jade smiled.

“Anyway … ” David said. He didn’t complete the sentence. Perhaps he felt he’d said enough about Pamela. Or said enough to Jade. This was the longest conversation they’d had for a while. The longest they’d had since the one that had caused all the trouble.

Jade took a mouthful of her coffee, noticing that it tasted suddenly bitter, in spite of the two heaped spoons of sugar she’d added.

“What’s in that box?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Oh, the box.” David glanced at it as if he’d never seen it before. “I found it yesterday, in my house in Turffontein, when I was looking for Kevin’s cricket bat. It’s been in the back of the cupboard in the spare room for so long, I’d forgotten all about it. I should’ve given it to you when you came back to South Africa.” He patted its top. “After your dad died, I sorted out his house, you know.”

“Oh.” Jade felt her face grow hot.

After she’d murdered her father’s killer, Jade had fled the country and hadn’t returned for ten years. Sorting out her dad’s house before she left? She hadn’t even thought about doing that. All she knew was that it had been sold in her absence and, in accordance with her father’s will, the modest proceeds deposited into her bank account.

“There wasn’t a lot of personal stuff worth keeping,” David continued. “But what there was I put in here. I thought if you ever came back, you’d like to have it. If not—well, I didn’t want to throw it away. There’s things in here that I know have sentimental value.”

He didn’t say to whom. A small smile creased the corners of his mouth. It lit up his dark-skinned face, warmed his icy eyes. “I read one of your school reports from when you were six. It said you didn’t play well with others.” His smile widened.

“Yes, well, I was only six, I suppose.” Now Jade’s face felt as if it was on fire. Her school reports. What else had he read? What other embarrassing documents were in that stupid box? She took another gulp of coffee to cover her confusion, hoping David hadn’t noticed her blush.

“Don’t worry,” he said, as if reading her mind. “I only looked at a few.”

Jade put the cup down again, adopting a business-like tone. “I’m sorry you had to deal with packing up my dad’s stuff. That was a job I should have done.”

David shrugged. “You had other things on your agenda.” His long, elegant fingers tapped the top of the box in a brief, rhythmic tattoo.

Another uncomfortable silence ensued.

People never change. That was one of David’s favourite sayings, and for good reason, because as a police detective he’d seen it proved over and over again.

He knew what Jade had done to her father’s killer, and why, because she’d told him. But perhaps he had been trying to convince himself since then that she was different; that she had changed.

For a while, after that Sunday-morning conversation, Jade had considered apologising. She’d toyed with the idea of telling David that she had been the one playing devil’s advocate for the sake of a good argument, and that she hadn’t realised what effect her words would have on him.

It wouldn’t have been the truth, though, and David probably wouldn’t have believed it anyway. And even if he had, was she prepared to live a lie for the sake of being with him?

The answer had been no.

And now here they stood, on a scorching, bone-dry summer afternoon, staring at each other over a musty-smelling cardboard box, the air around them thick with the debris of unresolved issues.

“Well, thanks for bringing it. And thanks for looking up Terence Jordaan. Are you sure you won’t have a coffee?” Jade said.

He shook his head. “I’d better be going.”

“Right.”

Jade picked the keys up off the kitchen counter and unlocked the door, but David didn’t move. He just stood there, leaning on the box, picking at the packaging tape with his fingertips, glancing over at the kettle as if he regretted saying no to Jade’s offer.

Then he looked at his watch, heaved a deep sigh, and followed her outside like someone walking through glue. He didn’t kiss her goodbye, didn’t touch her at all. She stood in the shade of the wilting syringas and held the Jack Russell in her arms while David climbed into his car.

She could feel Bonnie’s body quivering with anticipation. She was straining against Jade’s grasp, and uttering tiny growls. Clearly, all she wanted to do was to bolt across the driveway and launch herself at the tall police detective. Jade couldn’t blame the little dog. She wanted to do the same, but for different reasons.

13

“Detective work is ninety-nine per cent perspiration, one per cent inspiration. Just like genius, only more difficult.”

Edmonds couldn’t remember who’d told her that, shortly after she’d been promoted to Detective Constable, but she’d soon discovered it was only too true.

She was sitting in the front row of chairs in the small meeting room next to Richards, who smelled strongly of Brut. Perhaps she had plebeian taste, but Edmonds didn’t find the fragrance unpleasant. She rather liked it; it reminded her of the first lad she’d kissed, back in the little village of Corfe Castle in rural Dorset where she’d grown up.

“Right, people.” Mackay called the meeting to attention, jolting Edmonds out of her reverie. “Operation Platypus. Let’s see where we are. What’s the update on Number Six? Edmonds, will you give us your latest?”

Richards gave her a nudge and Edmonds scrambled to her feet, aware of the small sea of faces observing her. She suddenly felt flustered and disorganised despite her morning of careful preparation.

Operation Platypus—the police computer system that assigned the names to their cases was currently working its way through an alphabetical list of mammals—had been handed over to her, and she was now in charge of the investigation. She hadn’t expected to be assigned her own case so soon, but as DS Mackay, the team leader, had explained, they were critically short-staffed and it was the best way for her to learn.

“I trust you,” he’d said, words which had sent a nervous thrill down Edmonds’ spine.

Now, standing in the meeting room, she almost dropped the folder with her notes inside, but Richards grabbed it before the pages could slide out. He handed it back to her and Edmonds nodded her thanks, her face hot.

“We’ve interviewed the victims, sir. All except one.” Her voice was squeaky, like a little mouse. Nothing she could do about that. “They were recruited from South Africa. The only people they had contact with were the customers, each other, Salimovic, and his cousin Rodic, who we arrested during the raid. He—er—helped to—um—break them in. Unfortunately, none of the victims is willing to cooperate with us any further. They’ve chosen not to become witnesses, and they aren’t offering any other information on how they were recruited in their home country.”

“What about the victim you haven’t interviewed yet?” Mackay asked.

“Hospitalised. She was badly injured and had to have three operations. Her grandfather’s here from Senegal, and he’s been with her almost constantly. She’s recovering well, so I’ll be going to the hospital straight after this meeting to try and have a chat.”

Mackay scratched his chin. “And Rodic?”

“He’s not talking either.”

“Not talking?” Mackay asked, sounding surprised. “I thought he was going to do a deal with us.”

“He’s not saying a word, sir.”

“Any updates on Salimovic’s whereabouts?”

The team had discovered that the brothel owner, in a display of what waseither dumb luck or an uncanny sixth sense, had taken a taxi to Heathrow and boarded a Croatia Airlines flight a few hours before the raid. By the time Edmonds had climbed the fire escape of Number Six, Salimovic had already landed at Butmir airport. His passport number was now flagged and, according to the Bosnian immigration authorities, he hadn’t attempted to leave the country since then, but Edmonds knew only too well that people like him would have access to false passports and forged identity documents, allowing them to cross borders with ease.

The Bosnian police were investigating his whereabouts. As a matter of priority, too, if the number of increasingly desperate phone calls she’d had from her foreign counterpart was anything to go by.

“Nothing further on him yet. We’ve searched his house in South Woodford, but it had been broken into, so some evidence might have gone missing. We have had better success with identifying the red-haired woman, though.”

Glancing down, she saw Richards touch a protective hand to the small dressing taped to the side of his neck.

Edmonds cleared her throat and continued, her heart pounding so hard she felt as if she were halfway up Everest. “We checked the footage of street cameras in the surrounding area, and we spotted her climbing out of a cab an hour before the raid. The cab driver said he picked her up from a hotel in Chelsea, and they had a photocopy of her passport. According to that, her name is Mathilde Dupont. The hotel staff told us she had a black partner, but we haven’t been able to get any id on him yet. The hotel forgot to ask for his passport, unfortunately.”

Edmonds paused for breath.

Mackay nodded approvingly. “And where is Ms Dupont now?”

“When we searched the room, it was obvious they’d packed up and left in a hurry.” Edmonds remembered the hours she’d spent in the palatial sixth-floor suite, in the hot confines of her protective overall, dusting for prints with the forensics team and crawling around on the pale, thick-pile carpet, collecting trace evidence. She’d earned herself a good case of backache as well as a friendly warning from Richards that her time was valuable and she should have let forensics do that job on their own.

“The night porter at the hotel told me he called a taxi to take them to the airport, but at this stage I don’t know where they flew—if they flew at all. I’ve done almost two days’ worth of investigation at the airport already, and I’m going back again later this afternoon, when I’m finished at the hospital.”

Mackay nodded again, thoughtfully. “Try checking Dupont’s passport number with South African immigration,” he said.

Edmonds frowned. “South Africa?”

“Well, the victims came from there, didn’t they? It’s possible Mathilde Dupont or her anonymous black accomplice might have connections in that country. Now, we don’t yet know exactly what these two were doing at Number Six that night, do we?”

“No, sir. Rodic denies knowing them at all—but then, he’s denying everything.”

“Hmm. At this stage I’m inclined to think they might be business associates. So, if we can trace Dupont or her partner, they could lead us to Salimovic.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll do the checks this afternoon, sir. Or I’ll put one of my team onto it,” she added hastily, remembering Richards’ words.

“Thanks, Edmonds. Now, is that all for Platypus? Right. Richards, can you give me the report-back on Operation Raccoon?”

Relieved her grilling was over, Edmonds sat down. Her face was still warm, and to her dismay her underarms felt wet with sweat. Ninety-nine per cent perspiration was absolutely correct. Nobody had told her police work would involve a scarier equivalent of public speaking, but at least now she understood why Richards doused himself in aftershave before these meetings.

14

Back in the kitchen, the musty smell hit Jade immediately. The box was impossible to miss. It sat on the table like an accusation, dominating the room, daring her to ignore it for any longer.

By now, Jade’s coffee was lukewarm and her half-eaten pita bread cold. She stuck them both in the microwave for sixty seconds. When she took them out, they were both steaming hot and the coffee smelled of chilli. Fusion food, de Jong-style.

She took a searing gulp of coffee and turned back to the wretched box. Steeling herself, she ripped the packing tape off the top, pulled open the cardboard flaps and stared down at what was left of her father’s life.

The neatly stacked contents stared back up at her. All the papers were arranged in see-through document wallets as if they were sections of case files. She didn’t know if that was her dad’s doing or David’s. Both, perhaps.

Jade risked another swallow of coffee, then set to work.

The topmost file contained her school reports. Thanks, David. She didn’t read through them. She had no memory of what the teachers had said about her when she was younger, and she didn’t want to be reminded now. She would just have to take David’s word that she hadn’t mixed well with other children. It sounded likely enough.

Her father’s personal documents took up two large sleeves. She found his id book, his passport. Commissioner de Jong stared up at her from the photo page, his face stern, his hair as grey as she remembered it, a navy-blue tie knotted around his neck. There were tax returns, insurance documents, her dad’s birth certificate. He’d been born in Howick, Natal. She found a copy of her parents’ marriage certificate. Elise Delacourt and Andre de Jong. So now Jade knew her mother’s maiden name. There was Jade’s birth certificate. She’d been born in Richard’s Bay, where her father had been posted at the time. And her mother’s death certificate just a few short months later, also in Richard’s Bay. Cause of death, kidney failure. That would have been as a result of the cerebral malaria that her father explained had killed her, Jade supposed.

Her death had been quick, her dad had told her. Quick didn’t mean easy, though. He’d never talked about it. In fact, he had spoken so little about her mother it was as if she had never been an important part of his life. But Jade knew she had, because he’d always kept one photo by his bedside, a tiny print of them on their wedding day. It was so small that all she’d been able to make out was that her mother was smiling and wearing white flowers in her hair.

Opening the next plastic sleeve, Jade was astonished to see that there were more.

She stared down at the pile of photos before examining each one carefully. Some large, some small. A few in black-and-white, the majority in colour. Some were of the wedding. Here were her parents together, sitting at an outdoor restaurant. Cars in the background, their boxy shapes and square-looking headlights evidence of an earlier decade, and beyond that a couple of distant palm trees. Had this one been taken on honeymoon? It was a close-up of her mother, strands of brown hair blowing across her face, her eyes narrowed against the sun.