Читать книгу The Score - HJ Golakai - Страница 17

“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 sure if we’d looked we’d have seen drag marks in the dirt from his shoes.”

“We’re not people who look for drag marks. We’re girls. At least I’m a girl. A girl who’s eating,” Chlöe groaned. “Can’t you see I’m eating?”

“This stinks. But at least now I’m free to move round. I’ll get cleaned up, head into town –”

“Town?! And I’m sup–”

“Oh my word! Did they think you were a real suspect?”

Chlöe jumped a metre off her chair and Vee nearly choked on a mouthful of scone. Looming over them wide-eyed, the Indian girl immediately helped herself to a vacant chair and pressed her hand into each of theirs before they had a chance to object. Vee edged her phone to elbow and killed the screen.

“Aneshree Chowdri,” the girl said slowly, casting a wide net of weighted pause in Vee’s direction. One pregnant pause and several blinks later, she shifted in her seat. “Okay. Anyway … I asked, did they really consider you a murder suspect?”

Her accent was poshly affected, a nice muddle of ‘larney’ with the Asian lilt peculiar to South Africa, India by way of Durban most likely. The sultry droop of her sooty eyes and curve of jawline Vee found quite becoming, though her tone was sharp to an almost nasal vibration, at jarring odds with her looks. She had the air of one used to getting immediate compliance to a perpetual litany of demands.

“Um … we happened to be around when the staff members found the body, so the police wanted to question us too,” Chlöe said.

“Really? And how’d that happen? That you were around?” Aneshree studied them, eyes probing. “You’re journalists, right?”

Vee opened her mouth, thought better of it and stuffed in the last bite of scone. She got to her feet. “I’m heading out to finish doing the thing. You stay here and …” she eyed Chlöe over Aneshree’s head, “rub shoulders for a while.”

“But – should I – what if –”

“Won’t take long.”

“She really didn’t place me,” Aneshree muttered.

“Aaagghhhhh …”

Insides knotting up in distress, Chlöe watched Vee’s retreating back as it hustled into the foyer. What the hell could be in central Oudtshoorn, besides more trouble and drawing unwanted attention to them? What was she supposed to do in the meantime? Call Nico? Try me and dare call Nico, so I can wire your flat butt good, Vee’s voice growled in her mind. Chlöe gulped. Between a tongue-lashing from the top and the mere threat of an ass-whupping from the middle, she made the easiest hard decision she’d made all week and tucked her cell away.

“Her.” Aneshree flicked her dark head in the foyer’s direction. “She didn’t make me out in the slightest.”

Chlöe blew a weary breath. “Sorry, was she meant to?”

“I thought so, but …” Aneshree shrugged and smirked. “Considering she’s the one keeping my brother’s dick in her purse.”

Chlöe coughed toast into a napkin. “Say what now?”

Aneshree giggled, preening. “You two seemed pretty close. Or maybe you’re not.”

“We are.”

“Then come on. Chowdri. As in …” Aneshree hiked her eyebrows and let them hover. “Joshua Allen Chowdri. His sister.”

Chlöe gawped. “Huh?” Joshua Allen has another sister? Wait, Joshua’s other surname is Chowdri?! She’d absorbed enough info from Vee to recall a vague mention of a younger Allen sibling, an overprotected model wannabe working in catalogues somewhere in America. This one was neither black, not even partly, nor American. “How are you here? How do you know Vee?” Squinting now, Chlöe leaned closer, teeth bared. “Are you following her?”

Aneshree broke into raucous laughter. “Geez, calm down. What are you, her pitbull? No-one’s following anyone. I don’t know know her but I know of her; Cape Town’s small enough. Besides,” one shoulder tugged in a semi-guilty, semi-proud way, “I tend to follow my brother’s antics with some interest. Depending on what it is.”

“So how …” Chlöe threw a quizzical look around the dining room.

“Oh, how am I part of this motley crew?” Aneshree popped a forkful of orange wedges into her mouth. “Work.”

“Work as in …”

“Software developer. Graphics here and there.”

“Ah, you’re with …” Chlöe took a shovel to the terrain of last night’s memory, already fallow under layers of hangover, little sleep and a healthy dash of morning trauma. The plump, older lady, waterfall hair, what had been her name? “Mishra? Moodley? Moodley, mm-hmm. Thought she was in catering or something like that. Oh I get it, you do their website.”

“Events management. And no, I don’t work for them. Not all Indians are in business together. She’s my aunty’s friend.”

“I didn’t mean –”

“I’m here as an independent observer. Humouring my boss, you could say. So far …” She flip-flopped a hand.

“Not good, I’m guessing? Like, I don’t know jack about any of this, but this new development hardly bodes well for a smoothly running process.”

“Well, let’s just say I didn’t expect it to be an easy ride from the beginning and it hasn’t been one. Didn’t expect a dead body served up with breakfast, that’s for sure.”

“Can say that again.” Chlöe licked her yoghurt spoon absently as she cast her mind to Vee, out there stirring up plumes of drama. She scratched her scalp until she flinched. First things first: get cleaned up. Thoroughly. Then she could think clearly, probably along the lines of an escape route, party of one if it came to that. Vee could chase villains on her ace if that’s what she wanted.

Aneshree shifted her chair closer. “How long has she been frolicking with my so-called brother? Is she really from Libya? That’s so hectic. What with this Arab Spring going on right now, and all the, like, Arab rage, how crazy is that. She must be worried sick about her family.”

“Uhhh …”

“Not that she looks Libyan. Maybe she’s from one of those nomadic sects who look black. Hey, is it true my so-called brother got her knocked up and deserted her, then she had an abortion and a crazy meltdown?”

“Are you kidding me right now?”