Payback - A Cape Town thriller (41 page)

Christa phoned Mace at 4:03 p.m. To remind him they were swimming that afternoon.

‘At five,’ he said, ‘I’m collecting you, as usual right?’

‘Just checking.’

‘You want to skip this one because of the weather?’

It’d rained all day. It was cold. People were calling into the radio talk-shows to say there was snow on the lower slopes of the
Hottentots
Hollands, it must be thick higher up. If you could even see higher up, the clouds were so low.

Christa giggled. ‘Never.’

‘I’ll see you at five.’

‘You can come earlier.’

‘No chance C, I’ve got this client, seriously strange man’ - and he dropped his voice to describe him.

‘Papa,’ she said, not really listening, ‘could we go to the
mountains
? To see the snow.’

‘Hey, there’s an idea,’ he said. ‘Why not? Talk to your mother. She’s at home?’

‘Downstairs.’

‘Ask her to make a booking for the weekend. At a farm B&B. The farmers do it when there’s snow.’

‘Papa,’ she said, drawing out the vowels, ‘what about our holiday?’

‘Your mother’s working on it,’ said Mace, ‘talk to her.’

At 4:12 p.m. Oumou phoned Mace.

‘What is it Christa is talking about?’

‘There’s snow on the mountains. She wants to see it.’

‘Ah oui. This is what she is saying, about sleeping on a farm.’

‘See if you can’t make a booking somewhere. I’d do it but I haven’t got the time.’

‘Later you swim?’

‘Five o’clock. I told Christa five. As usual, I’ll pick her up. You coming with us?’

‘This is possible.’

‘Make her day. Mine too.’

At 5:15 p.m. Oumou phoned Mace again. Got his voicemail and left a message: ‘Why are you late? We are waiting.’ Called again at 5:34 p.m. And then at 5:52 p.m.

‘Where’s your father?’ she said after the last call. ‘He said he would be here at five o’clock.’

‘He’s always late, Maman,’ said Christa. ‘You know.’ She put down her book, switched on the television to see the snow on the news.

‘For your swimming times he is never late.’

She phoned Pylon, said, ‘Is my husband with you?’

‘I’m at home,’ he said. ‘Mace said he was going swimming.’

‘We are waiting for him. Since five o’clock.’

‘You’ve phoned him?’

‘Oui. Three times already. There is just his voicemail.’

‘I’ll call you back,’ said Pylon.

At 6:01 p.m. Pylon phoned Mace and got his voicemail. He called Oumou immediately and said Mace was going to stop at the Mount Nelson on his way home to drop off some audio tapes. With an American called Francisco. About the murder case.

‘This is Isabella’s brother? He told me.’

‘Yes,’ said Pylon. ‘Maybe they’re having a drink.’

‘He would have phoned to tell Christa.’

‘I’ll talk to Francisco,’ said Pylon.

He phoned the hotel, was patched through to Francisco in the bar.

‘So where’s your partner, amigo?’ Francisco said. ‘He tells me half past four, I get here half past four, the barman puts together a dry martini that it turns out he learnt how to make in New York, but I’m stood up. Undeniably. I tell the barman give me another, my man says he’s coming, my man keeps his word. Like the French Louis says it, punctuality is the politeness of kings. Nothing truer my friend. To show respect. An attribution I believed of Mace Bishop. Up till an hour thirty ago. That’s way over my leeside. Ten minutes, this happens at the end of the day. Bad traffic. You’re running late through your schedule. This I understand. But you call. You say, give me ten, fifteen, whatever. This I would’ve thought of Mace. How he strikes me is what they call fastidious. Know what I mean?’

Pylon told Francisco that when Mace pitched up would he ask him to make some phone calls urgently. To his wife for starters, and to him, Pylon.

‘We’re talking some unusualness here?’ said Francisco. ‘Like maybe he’s had an accident?’

‘Wouldn’t know. I’m checking.’

Pylon got through to his contacts on the paramedics. The guys laughed. No crashes involving red Alfa Spiders in living memory let alone the last hour. Two Golfs, one Beemer, a taxi minibus, one pedestrian dead on the highway. Nothing serious otherwise. Fender benders in the wet.

He hung up, went through to Treasure in the kitchen. ‘I’m
supposed
to worry about Mace, d’you think?’

She asked him worry about Mace doing what? He told her. She said, ‘He’s got a woman, maybe?’

Pylon thought about this. About the rosebud in the box. About Mace and women. But it didn’t gel: Mace looked but wouldn’t go further. Whatever the rosebud was about, a secret admirer, a client getting cute, Mace wasn’t on the prowl. That he’d put money on.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Something must’ve come up. Could be over the fire. Could be Gonsalves about the case.’

‘He’d have let you know.’

‘This’s true.’

‘Unless it’s a woman.’

‘I can’t see that.’

Treasure kept stirring the risotto.

Pylon tapped his fingers on the countertop. ‘The best thing here is to sit it out.’

At 6:51 p.m. Oumou phoned Mace, the call went to voicemail. Christa wasn’t watching television anymore. The television was on, but she was staring at a book open on her lap not reading it either. Waiting. Oumou had to do something. Couldn’t sit there, went to the kitchen to put a meal together: a pot of fish stew on the hob, a ciabatta warming in the oven like Mace was going to walk in at any moment - Hey, girls, sorry I’m late, this client, you just wouldn’t believe … - stooping to give Christa a kiss, giving her a hug as he now did every evening. The loving Mace. At 6:51 p.m. she picked up the cellphone lying on the counter: names, search, Mace, thumbed on the key with the little green icon of a telephone. Listened to seven rings willing him to answer until the voicemail clicked in. She didn’t leave a message. Put the cell on the countertop, took the lid off the stew to stir it, turned the heat to its lowest setting. Replaced the lid, balanced the wooden spoon against the hob. She looked up, stared at the city lights smudged by the condensation on the window. Swallowed to stop the hollowness in her stomach, and phoned Pylon.

‘Something has happened,’ she said. ‘Please.’

Pylon forked up another mouthful of risotto, his favourite risotto with the toasted almond flakes and the croutons. Began to wonder if settling in front of the TV to watch the Bafana match mightn’t be at stake here.

‘It is two hours,’ said Oumou. ‘This is not normal for Mace. At five o’clock he was swimming with Christa. That was what he arranged. For his swimming, Mace would not be late. Please. Something has happened. Still he is not answering.’

Pylon put down the forkful of risotto. Two hours in the life of Mace Bishop was not a long time to go missing.

‘Why don’t we wait another hour,’ he said. ‘You know Mace.’

‘Non,’ she said. ‘Not for this time. For this time he is in trouble. I can feel it.’

Pylon glanced across the table at Treasure and Pumla. Both were looking at him. Treasure reached out her hand for the phone. He gave it to her, thinking, so much for the chances of watching soccer.

‘Oumou,’ she said. ‘What’s it?’

He could hear Oumou talking, Treasure nodding as she listened. He ate the forkful of risotto, crunching almond flakes.

Treasure said, ‘Alright, alright. Oumou listen. We’re coming over. Give us half an hour.’ She put down the phone, said to Pylon. ‘She’s crying. She knows something’s wrong. Oumou doesn’t cry for nothing.’

He scraped his fork around the plate. ‘So it’s not another woman suddenly?’

‘No.’

‘Still Mace we’re talking about. For twenty-four hours he disappeared the last time. Playing the big white hunter. Didn’t tell anybody where he was going. Just poof, Mace’s gone.’

‘He told Oumou.’

‘Oumou didn’t know.’

‘She did. Mace told her. I know that. Also Mace wouldn’t do it to Christa.’

Pylon pushed his plate aside. ‘He forgot. Something came up. Could be half a dozen reasons.’

‘Let’s go,’ said Treasure.

* * *

Pylon dropped Treasure and Pumla with Oumou and Christa. The women really worked up about this. He couldn’t take it seriously that Mace had disappeared, but okay he’d go through the motions: check Mace’s diary, see if there were any notes lying about on his desk. Put through a few calls to clients. Ducky Donald. Gonsalves. Francisco again. On a night like this it was the last thing he wanted, running through the rain from his car to the office door. The restaurants on Dunkley Square empty. No cars in the parking lot. Every sensible person indoors. What I don’t do for you Mace Bishop, he thought.

Mace’s diary had Francisco, Mount Nelson written at 4:30 and Christa at 5:00 p.m. No other engagements for the night. He paged back, but no strange names, no unattributed telephone numbers leapt out. Then Mace wasn’t a doodler, his diary a sparse record of appointments. No notes in the waste bin either.

Pylon made his phone calls, telling each one he was trying to track down Mace.

Ducky said, ‘I’m my brother’s keeper? Hell, china, if nobody knows where Mace is then Mace’s gotta be screwing his arse off somewhere. Randy bugger. So he should of been home three hours ago. So that’s news? Mace is a grown man last time I looked.’

Gonsalves said, ‘When you find him, tell him he can relax. Tear up the subpoena. The captain’s waved his wand.’

Francisco said, ‘I’m eating this cabulyou fish, got good texture to the flesh like I like it. No fishiness like I like it. Not bad with a sharp sauce. The waiter says to me, they’ve got it in fresh today, it’s their specialisation, been nowhere near the inside of a freezer. Bring it on John I tell him. Mace’d played his cards right he coulda been eating this too with some chardonnay. Tell him he missed out big time. Tell him justice is a donkey’s ass.’

Pylon sat back in Mace’s chair, played through the sequence so it looked to Oumou like he’d done the homework.

Four o’clock Mace tells Christa he’ll pick her up at five. Fifteen minutes later he tells Oumou he’s going to be home at five. He’s supposed to drop audio tapes at the Nellie at four-thirty. Must have been about four twenty-five, Mace shouted he was leaving. He gets into his car he drives out of Dunkley Square down Dunkley Street, left into Hatfield up to the traffic lights. Goes right into Orange, two hundred metres later swings left into the Nelson between the columns. Maximum couldn’t have taken more than three minutes even allowing for a red robot. Four-thirty Francisco’s waiting for him. He never pitches. In five minutes Mace Bishop disappears.

You laid it out like that, Pylon thought, it looked wrong. Unlikely that Mace suddenly thought of something he should have done. He would have made calls. He would have made the drop with Francisco, he was right there. No point in not doing it. So what happened?

Pylon locked up, drove to the Mount Nelson. Two security men at the entrance in trench coats and pith helmets came out of their warm sentry box when he beckoned.

Polite in the rain: ‘Can we help you, sir?’

Pylon asked if they could recall a red Alfa Spider coming in about four-thirty. The old style. They shook their heads, water spraying off their helmets. The one said he’d have remembered that sort of car, he’d seen it before, just a few days ago in fact. Probably, said Pylon, and made a U-turn on Orange, thinking, this was not a good scenario to lay before Oumou. Not encouraging at all.

He’d been through nights like this one was shaping up to be. They were long and dark, waiting for someone to pitch up. He put through a call to the vehicle tracking company that monitored their cars, asked the controller to get a reading on Mace’s Spider.

Not thirty seconds later the controller said, ‘I’d say he’s at home. Or in the vicinity. On that block of the grid anyway.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Pylon, hanging up, thinking any minute he’d get a call to say Mace had walked in. Maybe watching the soccer match was still a goer.