The Score. HJ Golakai
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breath: “I met her outside last night when the guests were arriving for the party. I was admiring her dress and she was nice, she told me where she bought it. We talked a bit.”
“Oh? And did she also tell you she and her colleague were gate-crashing a private event?”
Zintle barely paused. “I work here, I don’t question the guests. What I remembered is she mentioned they were investigators. At first I thought she meant they came to check the hotel, like an audit, but she said they look into crimes. I thought she meant like private investigators or with the police somehow, that they would know what to do if there was a murder. That’s why I went to her.”
Good girl, Vee exhaled along with her. Well done.
Ncubane snorted and flailed an arm. “Hhayi mhani! They are investigative journalists! Those ones who look into stories and then write it for the newspaper. They are not private and for sure they don’t work for us. They don’t open or close police investigations. Now our case will be spread all over the papers! You –” His face was a thundercloud; he looked on the brink of spewing something akin to ‘bloody stupid cow’. Ms Motaung raised her eyebrows again and he spluttered to a halt.
“She said investigation.” Zintle pulled a sullen face, crossing her arms tightly. “All I heard was she could do investigations. So I called her.”
Lovett broke in with a low chuckle. “I beg your pardon Sergeant, but this sounds like a misunderstanding overblown. If we could just take this somewhere private and wrap it up …”
“My office,” Motaung crisped, striding toward the door.
Chlöe cooled her heels for another twenty minutes before they emerged. Lovett’s features remained inscrutable, but Voinjama’s gushed pure relief. Chlöe let herself breathe. Before they reached earshot, Lovett stalled Vee with a hand on her shoulder and a quick mutter. They both looked in Chlöe’s direction before descending into discourse so rapid and guttural that she could barely pick up any English in the mix. Chlöe sighed. They’d gone raw; she was out of the loop. Something was definitely up, but she’d have to follow that bunny down the rabbit-hole to Vee’s wonderland of secrets another time. They had bigger fish to fry.
“What’re we telling Nico?”
“Nothing but good news.” Vee’s tiredness cleared off with a smile. “Thank the good Lord for Trevor, and now another security guard on patrol after I left the grounds saw Berman too. My scarf may’ve gotten me into hot water, but that’s not enough to charge me with murder.”
“That and your ability to go from zero to Hulk in twenty seconds. I know you flip out when strange arseholes feel you up because …”
Vee’s face immediately folded into a snarl.
“… of the thing of which we never speak, that happened in the not-war that we never mention. Whatever, I get it, but you have to work on that. Seriously, choking the guy?”
Vee’s smile returned, sheepish. “I know. Sorry.” She fished her cellphone from her back pocket and eyed it a long time before slipping it back. “It can wait a minute. Food. There’s a demon hollerin’ in my stomach. Then,” she stuck her nose down the front of her T-shirt and grimaced at her own smell, “showers. You need to wash that hair. And change that T-shirt, it’s holier than Jesus.”
“Then we can go home.” Chlöe frowned. Instead of an answering cheer Vee’s eyes took on a faraway look, gazing in the distance as she chewed the inside of her cheek. “We can go home, right? We’re cleared to leave any time?”
“Hhmmm …”
“What’s ‘hhmmm’? Why the ‘hhmmm’ing all of a sudden?” Chlöe scurried to keep up. “Don’t start. I hate that look.”
“Which look?”
“That one! The one where shit’s brewing between your ears and you’re not telling me shit!”
Chapter Nine
“Ohh-kaaaayy?” Chlöe’s eyes were wide.
“Okay for true.” Vee tossed her phone on the table and went back to shovelling eggs and bacon into her mouth. “I can’t say that went well, but I won’t say it was a disaster either.” She chewed thoughtfully. “You were right; I should’ve called him earlier. He’s been pickling in rage since daybreak.”
“You think? If he didn’t have grounds for firing us before, now he does,” Chlöe replied. “Which wasn’t my point. That entire conversation was news to me. What d’you mean by asking for more time so we can follow the story? What story? We’re done here, and like he says, you can’t write the story if you are the story. Remember that little gem called journalistic objectivity.”
“When I might have been the story, you mean. It was unfortunate chance I was on their radar and now that I’m not, it won’t be a problem.”
“Let’s see what Nico says about that. Anyway, if there is a story it’s for the crime beat, which we don’t cover. We’re here to write about the lodge and the retreat experience and go home.” Chlöe dug fingers into her hair and scraped hard enough to make Vee wince. “I want to go home. Like, yesterday.”
“I know, and we will. But you gotta admit, something doesn’t feel right. All these stuffed shirts gather for this evaluation, meaning they’re competing against each other, right,” Vee’s gaze skittered round the dining room at the breakfast crowd, half of whom had clinked glasses with them last night. “An innocuous bunch, or so it seems. In the space of one weekend, two people turn up mysteriously dead in an environment ripe with motive. How’s that not suspicious?”
“Whyyyy …” Chlöe released a long, pained groan, “why do you keep on about two murders? The other manager was a suicide or death by misadventure or whatsit. It had nothing to do with Berman. Who is now officially the police’s problem.” She bit a pork sausage, glowering. “This isn’t some Agatha Christie whodunnit, where ten morons go on holiday in Egypt and only two come back alive.”
“Look.” Vee snatched up the Nokia and switched to the photo gallery. “Something’s off about this entire scene. From the way the body was lying, to the bruises to the head –”
“Bloody shitters! You took photos?!”
“Ssshhh! Dammit Bishop, pipe down.” Vee peered up from their huddle at the other diners, all thankfully either too sleepy or shell-shocked to be paying much mind to their surroundings. The only person who seemed enthralled by their whisper fest was the young Indian woman from the party, who was shooting them the same arrow-eyed interest from her own table across the dining room. This time round she caught Vee’s eye and tossed her a toothy grin. Vee returned a puzzled smile and hunkered back down.
“Yeah, I took a few. Like I said, it didn’t sit right. I thought …” Vee shrugged. “If the cops came back with enough to point to a suspicious death, at least there’d be some documentation of the scene. I had to do something, in case it was important later on.”
“First you took photos of a dead woman. Then you took your business card out of the dead man’s pocket this morning, which I witnessed you doing, by the way –”
“That was different! You saw those cops, foaming like a pack of rabid dogs. One piece of my property was bad enough … but the scarf and business card? Of the kwerekwere with the unpronounceable name? Psssh. Unless you were planning on leaving me here behind bars.” Vee huffed, chewing as she pushed the phone under Chlöe’s nose. “Girl, look at the ones of Gavin. The dirt on his trousers’ knees and the way it’s sticking out on the back of his shoes. The sprinklers were on yesterday afternoon so the ground was still moist last night. Assume the attacker jumps him from behind, scarf goes round his neck, squeezes till he falls to his knees and kow! Unconscious. Then whoever it was finishes him off and hauls him to the boys’ quarters, which was the nearest hiding place, and the best, since he wasn’t found till this morning. We didn’t check the surroundings. I’m