Authors: Jassy Mackenzie
David had lived in those upstairs lodgings until a couple of weeks ago.
Superintendent David Patel, to give him his full title. Superintendent David Patel, who’d recently packed up his modest belongings and moved away. Lock, stock and barrel. His wife had been promoted, he’d told Jade. She had been transferred to the Home Affairs head office in Pretoria, and so he was moving back to his house in Turffontein, where she and their son Kevin had been living.
Jade had no idea whether that meant David was considering getting back together with Naisha. They were separated, not divorced. Easy to move back in with your married partner. Especially when it seemed her relationship with David was now history.
When he’d kissed her goodbye—a formal peck on the cheek— she’d looked for a sign of regret in his icy-blue eyes, but seen none.
His brown-skinned hand had clasped her fair-skinned one for a too-short moment.
“See you soon, Jadey,” he’d said. Then he’d straightened up to his dizzying six-foot-five inches and sauntered over to his car.
Jade clenched her hands more tightly. She wouldn’t think of the nights she’d spent with him up in that tiny room. How many nights had it been in all the time they’d spent as neighbours?
Not enough, Jade thought. Never enough.
“Get a bicycle.”
Those had been the last words he’d called out to her as he sped down the road and passed her on the start of a run. He’d leaned out of the window looking amused, his unmarked vehicle so overloaded with clothes, bedding, books and boxes that she’d meanly hoped he would be pulled over by the Metro Police and fined.
Get a bloody bicycle. What kind of goodbye was that? Damn him.
She hadn’t spoken to him since then. She had to admit, though, that the advice he’d given her was well worth taking. Riding a bicycle would be a lot more fun than this.
Jade quickened her pace, elbows pistoning. If she could make it past his house in twenty strides, he’d come back.
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. She hurled herself forward, aiming for the boundary line. It was too far off. She wasn’t going to make it.
Ahead of her, an engine roared.
Her head snapped up. She slowed her pace, and moved away from the centre of the road, ducking into the shade. She couldn’t run here; the sand was too thick. She dropped back to a walk, propelling herself along on now-wobbly legs.
A shiny silver sports car fishtailed down the road and skidded to a stop outside her gate, dirt flying. The blare of a horn shattered the stillness of the morning.
Gasping for breath, Jade pulled her t-shirt away from her body to draw in cool air. Her hair had worked loose from its ponytail and hung around her face in wet rats’ tails. She pushed it back and approached the car cautiously. She wasn’t expecting company. Still less, company driving what she now saw was a new-looking Corvette convertible with a vanity plate that read pj1.
The single occupant of the car was a blonde woman. Her face was turned away, looking back in the direction she’d come from, where the dust of her hurried approach still floated in the air. Jade could see the outline of her head in the wing mirror. If she checked the mirror, the driver would see Jade.
But she didn’t. She turned to look straight ahead again, staring directly at Jade’s rented cottage. Then she hooted a second time.
Jade walked up to the car and rapped on the window.
When she heard the sound, the woman screamed.
The sound was high and shrill and penetrated the tinted glass. The woman cringed away from Jade, cowering in her seat, arms flung up in defence.
Her face was ghostly pale, her features twisted with terror.
The woman peered through her raised hands at Jade. Looking more closely, she took in her faded baseball cap and sweaty ponytail, her white t-shirt and her old running shorts. Then she lowered her arms. She glanced over her shoulder, reached out an unsteady hand, and buzzed the window down.
“I’m looking for Jade de Jong,” she said, in a high, tense voice.
Jade stared at her, surprised. Although this woman obviously knew about her, Jade had no idea who she could be. She’d never seen her, or her car, before. Jade guessed she wasn’t from the area, because people who drove regularly on the rough country roads in her neighbourhood tended to buy big, high-riding suvs or trucks, not low-slung sportscars.
Sandton, she decided. Everything about this woman screamed Sandton, from her big, gold-framed sunglasses and the silver Patek Philippe watch on her left wrist to the oversized diamond rings that sparkled on her red-manicured fingers. A wealthy woman from Sandton, asking for her.
“I’m Jade de Jong,” she said.
The window buzzed down all the way.
“You’re Jade?” The woman moved her elbow onto the door-frame and regarded her more closely. “I phoned you just now, but you didn’t answer. I need your help urgently. Please.”
Jade’s legs were starting to stiffen up, and she was conscious of the sweat dripping off her hair and onto the back of her neck. She took the gate buzzer out of her pocket and pressed the button.
“Shall we talk in the house?” she said.
The woman clearly thought this was a good idea. The Corvette’s engine roared again and gravel sprayed out from under the tyres as she accelerated through the gate without waiting for Jade. The car skidded to an abrupt stop in the shade of a syringa tree next to Jade’s vehicle, a small entry-level runabout which she’d hired from a company called Rent-a-Runner. Every month Jade took her car back to them and switched it for a different model.
Right then she was driving a Ford. Or perhaps it was a Mazda.
At any rate, parked beside Jade’s hired car, the Corvette looked like a crouching silver dragon next to a little white mouse.
The woman climbed out, slammed the door, and hurried across to the cottage. Her high-heeled sandals were the same colour as her car. With the extra height they gave her, she was slightly taller than Jade.
Catching her up, Jade unlocked the security gate and the front door, and they walked inside.
The interior was gloomy after the glare of the morning sun, and the temperature dropped ten degrees instantly. That was thanks to the high, thatched roof. Although it made the place unbearably cold in winter, it kept it pleasantly cool in summer.
Jade shut the front door behind them and glanced at her cellphone, which she’d left on the kitchen counter. A blue light was flashing, indicating she had missed calls.
“Take a seat.” She gestured to one of the two sofas in the small living room. Pink floral upholstery, stacked high with a multitude of lacy scatter cushions in varying shades of pastel. When she first moved in, Jade had planned to stash these annoying items somewhere out of sight, but decided against it when she realised that they would take up most of the available storage space.
For a moment she was slightly embarrassed by the décor. She was tempted to explain to the woman that it wasn’t her choice; that she’d rented it furnished.
Jade didn’t, though. She just watched while she moved three cushions aside to clear an area large enough to sit in, and then took a seat opposite her, shoving the rest onto the tiled floor and reaching for her notebook on the coffee table.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I haven’t even … I came here in such a hurry, I haven’t told you who I am. My name’s Pamela Jordaan.”
Pamela spoke with an accent so refined it made Jade wonder whether it was the product of elocution lessons.
“How did you know where to find me, Pamela?”
“Oh, I asked Dave. I called him earlier this morning and he gave me your details.”
“Dave?” Jade frowned, confused.
“Dave Patel. You know, the police superintendent.”
Dave?
“David recommended me?” Saying his name out loud made Jade’s stomach clench uncomfortably. She wondered how on earth this woman knew him, and what their history was. David had never mentioned Pamela to Jade, that was for sure.
“Yes.”
“What do you need?”
Pamela took a deep, shuddery breath. “I need a bodyguard. He said you would be able to help.”
Jade paused before answering, surprised by Pamela’s request. She’d protected women in the past, a number of them, but she had never once been hired by one directly. The job had always been assigned to her by a wealthy husband or boyfriend who needed close protection for his woman, but didn’t want another man moving in on his territory.
In every single instance that Jade could remember, women who hired bodyguards for themselves wanted males, not females. Big, strong, muscular men to keep them safe.
“I can help you,” she said. “Could you give me a few more details, Pamela? Is there a specific reason why you need a guard?”
“My husband disappeared last night,” Pamela said in a shaky voice.
“Disappeared? From where?”
“From our home in Sandown, in Sandton.”
So her guess had been right, Jade thought.
Pamela cleared her throat, swallowed, and spoke again, gabbling her words as if she had rehearsed them. “His phone is switched off. I can’t contact him and I have no idea where he is. He was supposed to be at work this morning and he isn’t there. I’ve already reported him missing. I don’t want to start panicking unnecessarily, but until I know where he is and what’s happened to him, I want some added protection for myself and my daughter. Just somebody around to keep us safe.”
“Your daughter?”
“Tamsin’s grown up.” A small smile softened Pamela’s taut expression. Jade had noticed no such warmth when she’d mentioned her husband.
“She doesn’t live at home anymore,” Pamela continued. “She doesn’t even know Terence—my husband—is missing yet. But she works for him, and if something’s happened to him then I’m worried for her.” She twisted her manicured fingers together, then stopped and adjusted one of her rings. Jade wondered whether the big diamond had been digging into her hand. “I’ve never had anything like this go wrong before, but we are involved in an industry where these things have been … well … known to happen.”
“What industry is that?” Jade asked.
“One that has a rather unsavoury reputation, I’m afraid. Adult entertainment.” In response to Jade’s questioning glance, she continued. “Terence owns a chain of strip clubs. You might have heard of them. They’re called Heads & Tails. They’re upmarket, totally legitimate and above board. He offers his patrons good, clean fun.”
“I’ve heard of them.” Jade gave a small nod, struggling to keep her expression carefully noncommittal. Good, clean fun at Heads & Tails? But of course. Bring along the whole family for a jolly evening’s entertainment. Even Granny would approve.
“The problem isn’t Terence’s business. The problem is the industry itself. It attracts more than its share of ne’er-do-wells; people looking to make quick money or who are simply obsessed by sleaze,” Pamela said.
Jade nodded again. She couldn’t remember the last time anybody had actually used the term “ne’er-do-well”.
“Tamsin’s not a dancer, of course,” Pamela added hurriedly. “She runs the admin office at the Midrand branch. But I’m still worried for her.”
“I can see why you would be.” Jade nodded for a third and final time.
Given the nature of their business, she could now understand why Pamela might feel more comfortable hiring a female bodyguard to look after herself and her daughter.
“I operate on my own,” Jade told her. “So if you’re looking for full-time, round-the-clock protection for yourself and Tamsin, I can’t help. You’ll need to contact one of the big firms and get a team of guards.”
“No, no, I don’t think I’ll need that. Just somebody to be with us when we’re out and about, and to check on security wherever we stay.”
“Will that be in Jo’burg, or are you planning on travelling?”
“In Jo’burg, I should imagine.”
“And have you or your daughter had any other problems with security recently? Any reason for you to feel in personal danger?”
Pamela gazed out of the window for a few moments, then shook her head. “I don’t think there’s been anything,” she said.
Jade nodded. This sounded like a low-to medium-risk job. She’d worked a few of those in the past, one-on-one with an employer who could not afford, or did not think it was necessary, to hire a team. Sometimes Jade had been stood down during her employer’s working hours, but more commonly she had guarded the client during the day and gone home at night, leaving her employer’s safety in the hands of the local police or home security company until the next morning.
In a job like this, it was common for the bodyguard to be asked to do other, unrelated tasks. Jade knew one close protection officer who had survived a two-year stint in Iraq, but had quit after a week when the spoilt Beverly Hills heiress who had hired him on his return assigned him “gardening” duties—walking the dog, scooping poo, mowing the lawn.
Although she’d spent innumerable hours waiting outside fitting rooms in clothing boutiques, Jade had never been asked to mow the lawn, but she had walked quite a few dogs in her time.
“I usually agree on a set period of time with the client in advance,” she said. “Given the circumstances, though, I think it would be better if we take it day by day, and wait to see whether there’s any news on your husband.”
“Thank you.”
In spite of her reassurances that there had been no problems with her own security, Pamela still looked tense—she was perched on the edge of the squishy sofa as if poised for flight. Her body language puzzled Jade. In her experience, disappearing spouses were usually a cause for anxiety rather than fear.
As if making a concerted effort to relax, Pamela let out a loud sigh, rifled through her white Gucci handbag and produced an orange emery board. She stared distractedly at the brightly painted nails on her left hand, then started filing the nail on her index finger.
There was silence, apart from the erratic scrape of the emery board. Then Pamela turned her head towards the door and asked, “What’s that? I can hear something.”
Jade listened too. She heard a low, drumming noise. It was the sound of a car approaching fast, its tyres hammering over the deeply rutted road. She got up, hurried over to the kitchen window and looked out. The car shot past the cottage without slowing. She thought she recognised her landlady’s white Isuzu, but the clouds of dust made it difficult to tell.