The Lazarus Effect (10 page)

‘Gardens? How’d you swing that?’

‘Well,’ Chlöe yelled above what sounded like a pack of tennis enthusiasts trash-talking about their last match, ‘all cell phones have this chip thingy embedded in them to give them a specific identity. It’s called the International Mobile Equipment Identity, or IMEI number. If the phone gets blocked that should render it useless, but nowadays any dodgy Nigerian shop can unblock it for you for, like, a hundred, two hundred rand.’

Vee cleared her throat pointedly.

‘Oops, er, sorry. Not that I’m implying that all Nigerians are shady, or that dodgy cell phone shops are only run by Nigerians. No offence to your people. Uh, no wait, sorry you’re
Liberian
, so–’

‘Bishop.’

‘Right, um … so you can pay to have a stolen phone unblocked by anyone with the smarts. It’s done by duplicating or changing the IMEI number so it’s not accessible to being traced any more. Phone goes off the grid as stolen, somebody else can use it. But Jacqui’s phone wasn’t reported, and whoever this moron is, they didn’t bother to change the IMEI as a precaution. They just got a new SIM card. So technically it could be traced, but nobody’s looking for it. I’ve got records for this cell on the old line when Jacqui had it
and
on the new one the thief’s using. Do we care who the thief is? Are we tracking him or her down?’

‘Whoa, li’l missy! Gimme a minute.’ Vee fired the ignition again and blasted the heater. She couldn’t remember if running a car’s engine was only dangerous in enclosed spaces, but screw it. ‘How do you know this stuff, anyway? I’ve never had to track a cell. I just hunt the owner. And how’d you get IMEI tracking and phone records and all that? Surely you need permission from the cell phone company.’

This time, tendrils of guilt filtered down the line into her ear.

‘I have this friend, this guy who knows a lot about technology and gadgets. He’s a wizard and a hugely useful contact to have. Let’s just call him The Guy to keep it simple. He can–’

‘Was any of this legal?’

‘Well …’ This time Vee pictured Chlöe’s masterful pout. Of course she’d be a pouter; had to be. ‘Look, no offence, but we’re not lawyers looking for admissible evidence; we’re looking for a story. Of course legal is best, but you
agreed
it’s not the quickest, most innovative way to meet a deadline. Which is looming. And again, I really need this job and appreciate you taking time to
mentor me, so if it looks like I’m doing anything and everything to impress you right now, I am.’

Chlöe Bishop: both charmer and snake. ‘Okay, okay,’ Vee conceded. A few hours ago she’d championed all wayward means of getting information as long as they were circumspect; now here she was sounding like a hypocrite. ‘I did give the go-ahead to bend the rules a bit, so you’re off the hook. And stop calling me a mentor, I’m not that old.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘I don’t know if we need to worry yet about tracking down stolen phones. It may be important, it may not. For now it’s on a back-burner. What else you got?’

‘As far as the records go, I haven’t looked at them too closely yet. But it
does
show that on the twenty-second, the day Jacqui went poof, the phone was switched off at about 4:30 p.m. – hang on … 4:43 p.m. exactly. The last incoming calls were from another cell and a landline, both belonging to her mum. She did try calling her, like she told the police, to find out where Jacqui was and tell her to come straight home.’

‘Adele had her on lockdown. She could only go out for practices and sometimes on weekends, provided she kept in touch. I guess she took that day to go on her own mission and give Adele the slip for a few hours.’

‘I can relate. That’s all I’ve got on that score. I also tried to find Tamara and Bronwyn. Tamara works for a fancy dress shop called Bella Blues in Claremont, but she’s on leave until tomorrow so I’ll have to try her again. Bronwyn I can’t get hold of at all. I keep getting her voicemail and I haven’t had time to check if her address is still the same.’

‘Consider me impressed, Chlöe. One more thing: can your computer guy extract hidden or encrypted files? Jacqui’s desktop may need an expert eye. He’s trustworthy, right?’

‘Hundred per cent. Free … noooo, but don’t worry about that. He owes me one. He’ll need to see it himself. Either bring the entire hard drive or copy it onto an external.’

Vee exhaled. ‘I was afraid you’d say that,’ she said, looking through the windscreen at the Paulsen’s blue-and-white house. There was nothing for it; she’d have to go back in. The already squally sky lurking over the house’s lifeless outline doubled in gloom.

The two schoolgirls in front bopped with confidence, while two more flanked at their elbows and one lone girl trailed like a forgotten piece of string. Their black stockings in leather lace-ups made a tiered line as they exited the grounds of Pinelands High, blue blazers flapping as they escaped into a nippy afternoon’s freedom. Vee watched them. She didn’t need to be near enough to hear their animated conversation, since it was bound to run along universal, predictable lines – boys, where to shop, accursed assignments, more on boys, the weekend.

Wind surged past the narrow lane, lifting curlicues of debris and leaf fragments into the air. The girl in the lead tilted her head, a tumble of blonde curls, into the wind, trying to catch a leaf in her mouth. Something went up her nose instead, and even from a distance Vee could tell the sneeze she gave was the cute kind associated with all pretty young things.

This teenager was not the one Vee sought. The formation of girls dissolved as more students hurried past, and then Vee spotted her target. The straggler. Unlike the sneezing Pre-Raphaelite blonde, Rosemary Fourie was far from delicate. Bulky and broad-shouldered for a girl of fifteen, she lumbered,
shoulders hunched like she knew she was working with more than the other girls, and not in a good way. Cut off her ponytail and she could have been a pubescent boy with a bright future in rugby. A member of the posse gave her a punch on the shoulder and Rosemary gave a friendly shove back, sending the girl flying into another friend, who caught and steadied her. The group erupted into laughter, a self-conscious Rosemary joining in reluctantly, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked like a baby bear among china dolls.

Vee trailed from a measured distance, keeping Rosemary in her crosshairs as she crossed the sidewalk outside the school and strolled down the road towards the petrol station. Vee kept one eye on Rosemary and the other on general alert. She wasn’t a fan of blindsiding kids, candy from a baby and all that, nor did she want to get stopped for being some kind of pervert. These schools tended to be quite strict about who they allowed around their impressionable students. Or maybe her conscience was growing back.

She’d dawdled outside the gate for what felt like forever, watching child after child either take off for home on foot or get picked up. Much to her relief, no car opened its doors to swallow the solitary teenager and Rosemary’s amble was clearly aimless, not to mention that her size made her easy enough to pick out from among the other schoolkids.

Rosie dropped to one knee, tied her laces, popped to her feet and swung around with a scowl. ‘Are you following me?’ she yelled. A pair of strong, brown eyes set in a square, heavy-boned face bored into Vee’s. Rosemary looked scared, and
curious, but she had a pre-adult air of learning to stand up for oneself about her.

Vee shrugged. ‘Uh, yes. Yes, I am. Sorry. Are you Rosemary Fourie?’

Shrug. ‘Yeah. Just Rosie.’ The girl waited.

‘I’m Vee Johnson. I’m a journalist. I’d like to talk with you privately for a minute, if you don’t mind.’

Rosie’s curiosity faded and her fear went up several notches. ‘Ja, okay, so you’re
that
journalist. So I
do
mind, ’cause I’m not supposed to talk to you.’

Wonderful. So the family, dysfunctional or not, did actually communicate. Vee expected Rosie’s parents to have told their children that a member of the press was poking around, had called them multiple times for information. She just didn’t think they’d have told them right away, giving her an opening for a clean sabotage. Whatever happened to protecting kids from the truth?

‘Come on, it’ll only take–’

Rosie broke into a lumbering run, her schoolbag bouncing around on her back. She squirmed through the door of a white minibus taxi idling for customers at the roadside. ‘I’m not supposed to talk to you! Stop harassing my family!’ she shouted. The
gaatjie
slammed the minibus’s door, cutting off the rest of Rosie’s words. Vee couldn’t hear what she said but whatever it was made every head in the taxi turn a look of disgust in her direction. The taxi pulled off Forest Drive.

Suddenly everybody in this goddamn city’s an advocate for children’s rights
. Vee started her car, wondering whether she had the
speed and crazies to match that of a taxi driver. As far as white taxis went, Main Road supported a string of indistinguishable pearls at all times, more during peak hours, so keeping a tail was a nightmare. She managed to maintain a three-car distance and for one absurd moment considered driving alongside and shouting ‘Her sister was murdered! Ask her about that!’ She tossed that plan immediately, envisioning the driver flicking his crooked cigarette into her car and setting her ablaze in traffic. Rosie was strong and surprisingly fast for her size. If the taxi stopped and she bolted, Vee doubted there’d be enough time to track her down.

She needn’t have worried. Passengers disembarked and boarded along numerous stops but not one was Rosie. Once they hit Claremont, Vee breathed easier. How would any teenager in a halfway decent town want to kill a few hours after school, if not hang out in a mall? Cavendish Square was the best place to get swallowed in when you were fifteen with an allowance to blow.

Vee scrambled for parking down a side street next to Adult World and pressed a clutch of coins into the palm of a parking marshal. She broke into a jog, elbowing through the lunchtime crowd, in time to spot Rosie jumping out of the minivan. Just follow the blue blazer, Vee thought.

It worked until a hive of taxis zoomed into the designated drop in front of Shoprite supermarket, disgorging school blazers in a Picasso of colours, scattering adolescents to the wind like butterflies. Vee swore and craned her neck over the throng of after-school specials.