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  “KATIE!”

  I start as Finn’s voice finally pierces my consciousness.

  “Jeez. There’s no need to shout.”

  “I’ve been trying to get your attention for ages.”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Good. Look, the police have got sweet blow all, but from his notes it seems as if the detective in charge might perhaps be halfway competent. His team is useless though, so I won’t hold my breath for any breakthroughs on that side.”

  “So now what?”

  “I’m going to speak to the guy. Detective Ngabadeli.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Lift your arms.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just do it.”

  I lift my arms, then gasp out loud as the pain in my chest and shoulder almost knocks my breath away.

  “Right. You’re getting another shot, and then you’re going to sleep.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! How can you expect me to sleep now? They’ve got Mandi!”

  “And it might take us weeks and weeks in untime to find her. So I need you to stay strong, Katie. I need you to get better. I can’t do this without you.”

  I have absolutely no defence against Finn when he’s like this. So I just sigh loudly. Then I give a reluctant nod and start rolling up my sleeve while he gets the injection ready.

  The painkiller works almost immediately, and it’s only now that I’ve given myself permission to rest that I admit how much pain I’ve been in for the past few hours. My body is actually still in shock after the assault, the drugs, the terrible news.

  It’s hard to believe this is all still the same night.

  I am incredibly tired.

  “You’re a brave girl, angel,” Finn says. He touches my cheek lightly before he leaves the room. Where his fingers rested so briefly my skin burns like fire.

  * * *

  When I wake up it’s daytime and I’m boiling. I pull off my warm clothes, wincing as I get out of my sweater, then I get into the shower. I can’t believe Finn has allowed so much real time to go by. What is he thinking?!

  As I quickly brush my teeth I notice that my face in the mirror looks a lot better. Some of the swelling on my lip has gone down, and my eyes aren’t so red any more. My ribs are still black and blue and my shoulder is horribly bruised though. I pull on a fresh T-shirt and a pair of shorts, both of which I can easily wear under my warm clothes later.

  Last night’s injuries are still painful, but I’m feeling better.

  I rush downstairs, ready to yell at Finn for letting so much time go by. But I don’t even get the chance. Finn silences me with a calm statement.

  “We need to work in daytime; it’s too difficult to get access to the necessary information otherwise. I’ve been using the hours well, don’t worry. I’ve got experts helping me out.”

  And just like that, I remember that the old Finn is back. That he knows exactly what he’s doing, and that I don’t have to make all the decisions any more.

  It’s just such an unspeakable relief that my entire body relaxes.

  So I just nod, absorb what he’s telling me. “Experts?”

  “Your mother, for one. She’s going through financial statements, following the money. And Winters is making enquiries underground.”

  “Winters … The assassin?”

  Finn shrugs off my reservations. “I’ve also spoken to the detective in charge. He was very helpful.”

  “Helpful.”

  “I’m inclined to trust his judgment.”

  “His judgment.”

  “He’s convinced the parents are involved somehow.”

  “The parents.”

  “Nothing else adds up. These kids have nothing in common. No hobbies, no activities, no friends, no background, nothing. But the parents move in many of the same circles.”

  My brain snaps into gear. “So he thinks that the parents are, what? … Getting rid of the kids?”

  I don’t want to believe it. But I also remember Skeletor’s fake grief in front of the mirror, Sammy’s aunt’s mind-blowingly callous email.

  “Something like that. It’s the only thing that explains the modus operandi.”

  “No alarms triggered, no evidence of break-in …”

  “Exactly.”

  I absorb this for a moment. “But surely if it was done by the parents, they would have made it look like a normal break-in or something, you know, to lead suspicion away from themselves …”

  “Not if they’re being clever.”

  He gives me half a second to think this through.

  “A double bluff.” I nod. “What now?”

  “Eat. Then take these pills.” He puts some blue tablets in front of me. “Get some warm clothes. I’m expecting the detective’s feedback any minute now. As soon as I get what I need we’re going into untime again. Every minute Mandi spends in those bastards’ hands …”

  He doesn’t have to say more.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “See what the situation is at Dawid’s house. You know the drill. I’ll text you when we’re about to change time.”

  He gives me a strained half-smile as he walks towards the stairs. “And stay out of your mother’s way. She was too upset to notice anything last night, but the woman – heaven preserve us – is back and she’s bad. I don’t want to be around when she sees that lip of yours.”

  He gives me a quick wave and then he’s gone.

  * * *

  Dawid Rademan’s parents live in Tamboerskloof, a quaint, upmarket suburb on the other side of the mountain overlooking the city bowl and harbour. Their property is surrounded by a two-metre-high wall and protected by two hysterically barking Rottweilers, so I don’t even try to break in until Finn calls untime.

  Normally I’m pretty good at clambering over walls, but my ribs are sore and I need to be careful so it takes me a while. On the other side of the wall I notice that the garden is big and neglected: dead yellow grass, overgrown flowerbeds, weeds sprouting all over. Even the dogs look kind of thin, uncared for.

  I get the same idea once I’m inside the house (through a window, really easy). It’s as if the people living here just stopped caring: the décor is out of date, there are no pictures on the walls, and although everything is clean and the furniture obviously of good quality, the whole vibe is kind of soulless, if you know what I mean. Like they’ve got money, but they can’t be bothered spending it.

  I find Dawid’s parents in the main bedroom. Dawid’s dad is frozen sitting on the bed, his hand on his wife’s shoulder. She’s lying in a little ball beside him, the bed covers high over her face. Apart from her greying auburn hair I can’t see what she looks like, but her husband is clearly a midlife crisis waiting to happen: his jeans are too tight, and he’s trying to disguise the fact that he’s losing his hair by wearing a bandanna. A bandanna, for pity’s sake.

  Now Finn’s got a hunch that the parents are the baddies in this tale, and Finn isn’t often wrong. So I’ve been suspicious of Dawid’s dad, even before I saw the bandanna.

  I mean, the guy’s a lawyer.

  And yet … I just can’t help but be moved by the open grief on the man’s face. There’s nothing contrived about that, I tell you – it’s raw and private and incredibly difficult to look at. Nor is there anything contrived about his gentle (if perfectly manicured) hand resting so uncertainly on his wife’s still body. It’s a sad picture.

  I don’t stay long.

  Above the Telkom phone in the hallway is a pinboard with a few business cards and yellow Post-it notes stuck to it. I pull out my notebook and quickly jot down the numbers and names, but it all looks pretty much above board: plumber, carpentry services, personal numbers, spa, swimming lessons, Mr Delivery.

  Then I enter Dawid’s room, and for the first time I don’t get the feeling of neglect and carelessness. The place is amazing, a testament to the love and attention his parents have lavished on him. It’s a huge room with an
enormous play area and every toy imaginable. There is also a corner with a neat desk, a library, a globe, a computer. Everything looks well organised and cared for, as if it’s just waiting for its owner to come home.

  But it’s the parents I need to check out, so when Finn texts me I hide in their bedroom closet. I don’t have time to take off my warm clothes though, and soon I’m sweating in the cramped space. And let me tell you, the conversation I overhear doesn’t make me any more comfortable either. [34]

  “Darling. You have to get up. Please.”

  No response.

  “Oh, my darling.”

  Long silence.

  “I know this is hard …”

  A sob from under the covers.

  “Elsa … Elsa …”

  I was wrong. It’s the dad crying, not the mom. I feel my own eyes starting to tear up. Another long, long silence.

  “I love you so much.” It’s the dad again. “You are so perfect. You are my whole life.”

  He waits a while, but when he still doesn’t get a response he leaves the room. A few moments later I follow him to the kitchen, carefully, on tiptoes. But there’s nothing to see; he just sits there, staring into space, clutching a cup of tea.

  After a while I can’t take it any more and I press the buttons on my watch. I’ve had enough. My emotions feel raw and jangled and halfway unhinged.

  I want to go home.

  Chapter 19

  We stay in untime for so long that my ribs start hurting again in spite of the blue tablets. Finn is frustrated, pacing up and down. He looks like he wants to hit someone. I know just how he feels.

  While I was at Dawid’s house, Finn spent time snooping around at Macy’s. He found out just as much as I did. Which is nothing.

  Mom made equally little progress with the financial statements, apparently, which is depressing as she’s much better at accounting than either Finn or I are at investigating. She told Finn that no obvious unexplained amounts suddenly appeared or disappeared anywhere, that everything seems completely regular.

  When he called untime she was still poring over masses of papers. I take the top one from the pile, skim it through. It’s an old credit card bill of Sheila Kunene’s.

  Heaven knows how Mom makes any sense out of this.

  When I put the statement back I stroke her hair lightly. She’s doing her best, I know that. I turn away from her, as always a bit guilty that she can’t experience untime like I can, that she doesn’t even know what I’m doing right now.

  Finn gives me more bad news.

  According to Winters, [35] the word “on the street” is that “nothing special is going down”. In other words, nobody he spoke to knew anything about these kids.

  And Misty told Finn that organised crime has no stake in any of it, as far as she knew. And she knew a lot. And she really, really wanted to help, apparently, because she’d learnt her lesson, and she now completely understood that she shouldn’t mess with Finn, and she really respected him and everything, and she was dead sorry she’d wanted him killed and all.

  Whatever. Point is we have nothing. Nothing.

  And by now Mandi’s been gone for two and a half days.

  “I want to question Macy’s father,” Finn says. “I don’t like him.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Difficult to say. He just sat there for hours, staring at a picture of Macy. Just frowning. Thinking.”

  “Seems kind of understandable,” I say.

  “Except the picture was of her in some kiddies’ beauty pageant,” Finn says. “Full make-up, short dress, high heels. Probably all of four years old. Creepy.”

  “Doesn’t mean he’s a pervert,” I say.

  “No. But I’d still like to talk to him.”

  “I don’t want us to work outside of untime any more,” I say. “Not until we’re sure we’re on the right track. Too much time has passed already.”

  He nods. We’re both quiet for a while.

  “What did you think of the mother?” I finally ask.

  “Fricken gorgeous.”

  “Finn.”

  He sighs. “Neurotic, self-centred, desperately unhappy. Delusional. Pretty-girl syndrome.”

  “Pretty-girl syndrome?”

  “You know,” Finn says. “Born beautiful, everything comes too easily, expects it all and then some. Can’t handle the reality of life after thirty.”

  “Jeez,” I say, thinking of those Bambi eyes. “That’s a bit harsh.”

  “Should’ve heard her,” he says. “Going on and on to her husband about how they should rise above all this. About how the past is the past. About how they can still have a perfect life.”

  Something in his words makes me go cold.

  I grasp at the fleeting insight, grasp at it … but it’s gone.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “Something …”

  He nods. Gives me time to think.

  I run through everything in my head, sure that I’ve found a link. But it’s like I’ve got information overload. There are too many variables, too much information to process.

  “Katie?” Finn says.

  I open my eyes. “Just say it again,” I tell him. “What you said about her mother.”

  “She’s neurotic and sad,” he says. “She has pretty-girl syndrome. She can’t believe that life doesn’t owe her anything. That she’s not special just because she’s beautiful. That bad things will happen to her just like they happen to everyone else.”

  “It’s not that,” I tell him. “I need more. Try to remember your exact words.”

  “She was nagging at her husband,” Finn says. “She was saying that life goes on, that all is not lost. That they can still have a perfect life.”

  It hits me like a freight train.

  “Bloody hell!” I yell. “That’s it! That’s it!”

  * * *

  Finn is frowning at the evidence I’ve stacked in front of him.

  “It makes sense, Finn! It does!”

  “I don’t know, angel … All we have are some words.”

  “But think about it! Just think about it! People don’t just use words randomly; you tend to use the same kind of words and phrases as the people around you. Or, like, maybe if you’re bombarded with an idea, or a slogan or whatever, you kind of start thinking that way – you begin to believe it’s just something natural or normal. I mean, think of all those women buying ridiculously expensive make-up because they’ve been made to believe they’re ‘worth it’ –”

  “Katie …”

  “It’s true, Finn! And this just has the ring of a logo to it. I can feel it in my gut. It’s like ‘Just do it’. Or ‘People with a taste for life’. Or ‘Life’s Good’. Or –”

  “I get your point, angel. I just don’t think we can say –”

  “We CAN!” I interrupt him. I know I’m right, I just know it. “Look at the email Sammy’s aunt wrote. look at her exact words.” I push the BlackBerry under his nose. The screen is frozen on Sheila Kunene’s email to Zuki.

  . . . a matching set of emerald earrings and necklace. I’m a diva now, babes!!!! I’m finally getting the perfect life I deserve! Anyhoo, got to go get ready …

  “Yes, I read it.”

  “And Macy’s mom said basically the same thing. I mean about having a ‘perfect life’ and all that. And isn’t it just a little bit strange that Skeletor just happens to have weekly beauty sessions at a place called Perfect Life?”

  “It’s a leap …”

  “I would have thought so too! But when I was at Dawid’s house I made a note of all the numbers on their pinboard. And look! Here it is: Perfect Life Spa 021 667 9999. It has to be the same place Skeletor goes to!”

  “What would Dawid’s parents be doing at a place like that?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit, but then I have a vivid mental flashback of Dawid’s dad’s perfectly manicured hands. “Actually, I think I do!”

  Finn listens to me, then runs his finge
rs over his eyes.

  “Do you know anything at all about this place?” he asks. “I mean, except that it’s called Perfect Life and that it offers manicures to rich lawyers?”

  “Not really,” I admit. “All I know is it’s the first even halfway decent lead we’ve found.”

  “A lead,” he shakes his head, “just two words – ‘perfect’ and ‘life’.”

  I suddenly remember something else, run to the room Mom’s sitting in, grab the top paper from the pile again.

  “Aha!” I cry, jumping up and down with excitement. “Read that last entry!”

  21 Nov Autobank No022113 1000.00

  24 Nov Kentucky Fried Chick … 184.20

  27 Nov Perfect Life Spa and … 2500.00

  Finn sighs. “I’ll give you two minutes of real time.”

  “That’s all I need,” I say, already pulling off my sweater and running to the computer.

  Less than two minutes later we’re in untime again, staring at the printouts I’ve made from the internet. We begin with the home page:

  “Have a look at who’s the director of the place!” I yell.

  “Dr Bowers, MBChB, FCS,” he reads.

  “Macy’s dad! So what do we do now?”

  But he’s already grabbed his keys and is heading for the door.

  Chapter 20

  Perfect Life Spa and Lifestyle Rejuvenation Centre is situated on the top floor of a newly built, hyper-modern building in the Foreshore. The reception area is large and airy with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the ocean. White Italian leather couches with low marble coffee tables stand in two corners. In the middle of the room a white marble counter rises seamlessly from the floor, and behind it stands a woman dressed top to toe in white. She’s holding a telephone to her ear and her collagen lips are pouted mid-word. Behind her are six white doors with golden plaques on them.

  I can’t decide whether the place looks like a trendy bar or an asylum. Maybe a bit of both.

  We search the place thoroughly, Finn covering one side, I the other. Some bad luck: we don’t find any evidence of a central filing system, which means that this is the kind of paperless business that only keeps track of its clients on computer. Which means we’ll have to snap back into real time. Which is annoying.