The Fallen (35 page)

With her hands cuffed behind her, it was an almost impossible exercise. Almost. Jade was very flexible and, by stretching her right arm all the way backwards until it felt like her elbow might snap, she was able to get her left hand far enough into her pocket to touch the solid shape of the phone with her fingers.

But then the van swerved. Without her arms to balance her, Jade fell hard onto her side. She didn’t care. She had her index and middle finger firmly scissored around the phone. After some painful twisting and tugging, she managed to work it out of her pocket.

She grasped it tightly in her left hand.

There was only one person who could get her out of this situation, and she hoped to hell that he was not medicated, asleep or receiving a bed-bath at that moment.

Twisting her arms round her body as far as they would go, with her muscles and tendons at screaming point, Jade was able to see the bright screen of the phone. She managed to scroll through her recently dialled numbers to find David’s. It took three tries for her to press the ‘Call’ button. Then she placed the phone, screen side up, on the rubber floor of the van, shuffled backwards on bent knees and lay down on her side, balancing herself uncomfortably on her left shoulder and pressing her ear to the phone.

Faintly, above the rattle of the van’s transmission, she could hear ringing at the other end. It rang five, six, seven times. To her enormous relief, just as Jade was thinking it was about to go through to voicemail, her call was answered.

‘Kevin and I went to visit his cousins last night,’ Naisha said chattily.

Lying, propped up on pillows, in the high-care ward, David watched her stroking the dark, shiny hair of the boy by her side—not a young child any longer, he realised with a jolt, but a
boy who had started to sprout upwards like a runner bean and was only a couple of years away from being a teenager.

Naisha’s other hand rested protectively on the small bump beneath her red blouse. She shifted her feet, as if finding standing uncomfortable.

‘Go and get that plastic chair in the corner, please, Kev,’ she said.

The boy fetched the chair and placed it carefully next to the bed.

‘Watch out,’ David warned. His voice was still hoarse and weak, and talking still made his chest hurt. ‘Those seats are quite flimsy.’

Naisha lowered herself carefully down onto the seat with a sigh of relief and smothered a yawn.

‘Kev wanted to go to the beach for a swim today, but I don’t think we’ll have time,’ she told him. ‘We’re flying back tomorrow morning, and we have to see Auntie Bhavna and Uncle Sanjay for lunch, and then I said I’d go round to my mother this evening after we’ve visited you again.’ She turned to look at her son. ‘Maybe next time,
OK
?’

‘Let him swim,’ David croaked, taking in his boy’s disappointed face. ‘Can’t you make time … in the afternoon? I’m sure … he won’t want to spend all day … with relatives.’

‘Well, it’s not often that we get down to KwaZulu-Natal, you know,’ Naisha snapped, her tone defiant. ‘I have family obligations. And my relatives all live in Durban, which is a long drive from here and it’s already half past ten.’

David exchanged a sympathetic glance with Kevin. He remembered visiting Bhavna and Sanjay years ago. They lived in a tiny house in Pinetown. The interior had been hot and airless, stuffed with enough furniture and knick-knacks to stock a fair-sized shop, and overrun by three small, yappy dogs. Framed photographs and artwork covered the walls. For some obscure reason, there was a huge painting, done in garish acrylics, of Christ on the Cross. Pillar-box red blood ran down his face, which had been contorted in a rictus of agony.

After choking down a plateful of Bhavna’s extra spicy lamb vindaloo, David understood how he’d felt.

‘Maybe Kevin could swim … in Durban,’ he suggested.

God, the hole in his chest. It hurt so damn much, and he knew that the badly damaged, bruised and swollen flesh would continue to cause him pain for months as it healed.

He closed his eyes for a moment, tuning out Naisha’s chatter.

Again, he thought of Jade and the moment when the gunman turned his weapon on them.

Struggling with her seatbelt, she hadn’t looked scared. Not Jade. He clearly remembered the expression on her face being one of pure frustration.

He could so easily have ducked down out of harm’s way. But the thought had not even occurred to him. He’d simply leaned forward to present himself as a more appealing target for the deeply tanned man.

Why had he done that? He was a married man, soon to become a father of two. What he had done was completely irresponsible.

It had been crazy.

‘… And you are looking tired. Your face is quite drawn. Do you need more pain medication?’

Naisha’s voice intruded once again into his troubling thoughts.

‘Think I’m
OK
, thanks,’ he managed.

And then his cellphone started to ring.

He opened his eyes and lifted his right hand—slowly, as if he was moving through glue. The movement caused him to hiss in agony.

‘Here, let me. Let me.’

Pushing herself up from her chair, Naisha hurried round the bed to the table where David’s phone lay.

She picked it up, glanced down at the screen.

David’s stomach clenched in dread as he saw her expression darken.

The police van hit a pothole with a bump that knocked the phone away from Jade’s ear and sent it sliding down underneath her chest. She wriggled along the floor, hoping to hell that David wouldn’t hang up and force her to repeat the whole painful process again.

‘Hello?’ she said, squirming to get her ear close enough to the phone. ‘Hello? You there, David?’

Jade recoiled as a woman’s voice spat down the line at her.

‘I cannot believe your cheek. I just cannot believe the cheek of you, Ms Jade de Jong, you inconsiderate floozy. Calling my husband on his cellphone while his family is visiting him in hospital.’

Jade’s eyes closed briefly and she suddenly felt sick.

It was Naisha who’d answered and with every word she spoke, Jade felt her hopes of rescue slipping away.

The squeak of shoes moving over linoleum. No doubt, Naisha was walking away from David’s bedside to continue the conversation in a more private place so that she could speak her mind freely.

‘You are a nuisance,’ she heard the other woman announce. ‘Nothing but a blasted nuisance, running after my husband like a … like a …’ Clearly unable to find an appropriate simile, Naisha continued, now in full flow, ‘Do you know how hurtful it was for me to find out that you invited him on holiday? And all this while I am expecting his child? If he hadn’t gone down to St Lucia, he wouldn’t have nearly been killed. You do realise that, don’t you? Now, do me just one favour, please. Leave our family alone. Do not contact David again. I will be turning his phone off now. He needs to rest. Are you understanding me, girl? Are you?’

Jade took a deep breath. All she could do now was plead.

‘Naisha, listen to me, please. I’ve been wrongfully arrested and I’m being taken to Hillbrow police station. Please, please, let me speak to David, just for a minute. He’s the only person who can sort this out. He …’

The van rounded another sharp corner and the phone slid away from Jade’s ear.

‘Wait!’ she shouted. ‘I’m still here!’

She inched her way over to the phone, but saw that Naisha had ended the call.

After redialling, Jade found herself listening to David’s voicemail.

A cold, helpless fury filled her as she realised that Naisha had ignored her desperate request.

Her last hope was gone.

The police van made a final turn before jolting to a stop. Jade managed to jam her phone back into her pocket before the back door swung open, letting in the bright morning light, and the police officer helped her out. ‘Fresh’ was not an adjective Jade would have thought of using to describe Hillbrow’s air, but after the rubbery stench in the police van, it smelled wonderful, and she breathed it in with relief. It might be some time before she tasted outside air again.

The officer—not the detective in charge of the Msamaya murder case, but one of his assistants—walked with her, keeping a hold on her handcuffs. They didn’t go in through the main entrance, but walked the short distance across the parking lot to a door that Jade assumed led directly to the holding cells.

‘What’s she in for?’ The large lady constable at the desk looked curiously down at the cuffs.

‘Escaping a roadblock and possession of an unlicensed firearm.’

‘Oh.’ The constable yawned hugely, putting her half-finished plate of food aside before reaching under the desk and producing a blurry photocopied form.

Her father would have spontaneously combusted if that slapdash attitude had been shown in his precinct. The officer who’d brought her in didn’t seem too bothered, though. He removed the cuff on her right wrist and clipped it to a sturdy handle set into the wall beside the desk. Then he turned and left.

Nothing like being a flight risk to complicate things, Jade decided.

Flight …

And then she thought again of the letters on the crumpled envelope addressed to Themba Msamaya.

ATCSA
.

The pieces of the puzzle finally slotted into place. Fitting neatly and well, but fitting together too late.

The meaning of the acronym.

The dark shape she’d been groping for rose to the surface of her mind, its form suddenly solid.

Of course. Why had she been so slow?

In a leisurely fashion, the constable in the chair completed the admission form. If Jade’s sense of humour hadn’t deserted her, she would have been amused to note that this was done manually, while the screen saver on the computer swirled in the background. As it was, she could barely stop herself from screaming in frustration as she spelled her name out for the constable.

‘De Jong. Two words. D-e, then J-o-n-g.

Soon, Jade’s pockets were emptied and her cellphone, wallet and car keys were lying in a neat row on the scarred wooden surface. Then she waited for what seemed like hours as the lady constable noted down each and every one of the items.

ATCSA
.

There was only one possible organisation it could stand for.

Air Traffic Controllers of South Africa.

At last, she had realised the link. Both Amanda Bolton and Themba Msamaya were air-traffic controllers. Or, to be more specific, ex-air-traffic controllers. Amanda had told Jade she’d left the industry and started working as a scuba-diving instructor six months ago and, from what she had hinted at, Jade had wondered whether there had been some sort of trouble in her past.

The numbers. 813. Could they be part of a flight number?

What had happened to Amanda Bolton and Themba Msamaya that had seen them both unemployed and then murdered in the same brutal way?

And now, here she was cuffed to a bloody metal handle and about to be escorted to the holding cells.

Jade looked over at the policewoman, who had now finished
misspelling the list of her personal items. ‘I was told I would be able to phone my lawyer,’ she said, trying to keep the urgency out of her voice.

The constable nodded and she raised her index finger.

‘One call only,’ she said.

‘Can I use my own phone?’

The constable’s brow furrowed in thought.

‘Yes, if you like.’

Quickly, Jade scrolled through her phone’s address book. She noticed her left hand was trembling very slightly. She really didn’t want to have to make this call, but she was out of options.

Robbie answered after one ring.

‘Babe. Is this a yes, then?’

Jade took a deep breath. ‘May I please speak to Mr Goldstein?’ She paused for a beat. ‘You have two people with that name there? I mean Mr Ian Goldstein, the attorney.’

Although Robbie hadn’t hung up, he wasn’t saying anything either. Just listening.

So was the lady constable.

Jade pretended to listen again, then responded.

‘I’ll wait. If he’s on another call, I’ll hold. Please could you tell him it’s urgent, though. I’m phoning from the police station.’

Now Robbie spoke, but softly. ‘Is this call being recorded?’

‘No.’

‘You’re in trouble, babe?’

‘Yes, I am. I’ve been arrested,’ Jade said.

‘Need help?’

Jade continued her conversation with the imaginary receptionist.

‘I wonder if you could do me a favour in the meantime, while I’m holding.’

‘Fire away,’ Robbie said.

‘Do you have a computer in front of you? I’d like you to look something up on the Internet. If you’re allowed to do that for clients, of course.’

‘I’ll check whatever you want on my BlackBerry, babe.’

‘Oh, that’s great. If it won’t be a problem, could you please do a Google search for flight number 813.’

The constable looked up sharply at those words.

‘I’m still holding for my lawyer,’ Jade told her quietly, her hand over the phone. ‘Just finding something out in the meantime. In connection with a case. I told you I was an investigator, remember? Look at your form. And I’m not fleeing the country, OK?’ She rattled the cuffs, as if to emphasise her words.

The constable cupped her chin in her left hand. But she kept watching Jade, and with more suspicion than before.

Robbie’s voice. ‘Interesting.’

‘What?’

‘It’s been discontinued.’

‘What? Why?’ Jade’s heart began pounding hard.

‘Withdrawn from service after an airline disaster, it says. Want the details?’

‘Please.’

‘August last year. Commercial airline flight Royal African Airlines 813 from Johannesburg to London. Flying via Freedom, Montapana, which is a tiny country on the northwest coast of Africa. The plane crashed on landing at the airport in Freedom. Everyone on board was killed. Is that the info you need? I can find out more for you if you like, but it’ll take time.’

The lady constable’s patience had run out. She grasped the desk and heaved herself to her feet.

‘He’s free. Oh, that’s great. Please put me straight through,’ Jade said hastily.