Endgame

  ENDGAME

  WILNA ADRIAANSE

  Translated by Elsa Silke

  TAFELBERG

  For all my loyal readers

  PROLOGUE

  The sun was going down when Ellie drove into the town. Old houses and orchards lined both sides of the broad street. A dog scampered across the road. Two elderly people were chatting at a garden gate.

  The sign that read Pub was small. It was the string of coloured lights on the veranda that caught her eye. She stopped, got out of the car and went inside. A few tables were occupied. She crossed to the long bar counter and chose the last stool against the wall.

  The man who looked up reminded her of Joe. He was younger, but his hair was also thinning and he was strong and sturdily built. Just like Joe, he had a dishcloth hanging at his side.

  “What will it be?”

  Ellie looked at the rows of bottles against the wall. She paused at each one, considering. If ever there was a good time, it was now.

  “Whisky on the rocks.” She didn’t have to do everything at once. She had all the time in the world to change to something else.

  He poured her drink and when he put it in front of her, he paused.

  “I had my money on white wine. I’m seldom wrong.”

  Ellie smiled and shook her head. “Not tonight.”

  “Long road behind you, or ahead?”

  She sipped her drink. Relaxed her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Both.”

  He held out his hand. “Wynand Bruwer.”

  “Eleanor.”

  She hadn’t been looking for a specific place. Nor a specific road. Just a road. She had no idea why she had taken the turnoff. Maybe the place had found her, she thought, standing in front of the house. It was on a hill. Just high enough to see the town a few kilometres in the distance. When she turned around, there was a mountain at her back.

  There was a small lawn with a big oak tree, and an irrigation dam with muddy water. Where the lawn ended, someone had made flowerbeds that could be watered from the dam. Neat concrete furrows channelled the water. The beds were bare, except for an occasional weed or spinach plant gone to seed.

  She sat down on the swing suspended from a branch of the jacaranda and slowly swung backwards and forwards. The young couple who had lived in the house had clearly had a child.

  She had told the owner she wanted the place for six months. Maybe she would move on someday, but for now she wanted to stay under the jacaranda beside the dam.

  If she was patient, she might even catch up with herself.

  CHAPTER 1

  Ellie spotted them in the mirror mounted next to the organ the moment they entered the church. She had never seen them before, but she recognised them immediately. For a moment her body went slack. Subconsciously she had probably been expecting them for some time. She watched as the two young men pushed their sunglasses up onto their foreheads and looked around before taking a seat in the last pew at the back.

  Marius stuttered as if he had forgotten his words, but concluded his sermon and announced the closing hymn.

  The organ pipes on the wall in front of her sounded the first notes. The music and the voices of the worshippers converged at a point somewhere behind her back.

  While she was playing, she watched the two men in the mirror. She tried to remember the past month’s newscasts. A load of abalone intercepted on the N1. Two suspected rhino poachers shot dead in Limpopo. A shooting at the home of a druglord on the Cape Flats. A police chief arrested, another one under investigation. The usual weekly circus.

  The two men got to their feet with the rest of the congregation, but didn’t join in the singing. One of them was openly looking around, while the other was fiddling with his cellphone.

  Ellie felt relieved when the last note faded away. Marius pronounced the benediction and the congregation responded with a final “Amen” before they began to file out.

  The two at the back were watching her openly as she switched off the organ and closed the lid. With her handbag over her shoulder, she began to descend the stairs of the organ gallery. She looked back and saw them turn and leave through the front door. She looked at her watch. If they hurried, she had about a minute. If they took their time, she had three minutes at most. She raced down the stairs.

  Outside, she ducked behind the first row of shrubs. The nearest car began to reverse out of its parking spot, and she opened the passenger door.

  “What the …” The older man’s head jerked to the left. “Oh, it’s you, Eleanor. You gave me a fright!”

  “Sorry, Uncle Dirk. Can you give me a lift to Carlos’s café, please? It’s too hot to walk.”

  “Sure.” When he pulled away, she didn’t look back. “Where’s your car?”

  “Something’s wrong with the ignition. I’ll ask Manie to take a look at it tomorrow. How’s Auntie Patti?”

  “Fine. The children are here for the weekend; that’s why she didn’t come to the service this morning. She misses you.”

  “I miss her too.”

  “How have you been? Why do we see so little of you?”

  “I don’t want to make a nuisance of myself.”

  He looked at her and shook his head.

  “Oh, bull— Look how you nearly made me swear on a Sunday.”

  She laughed and touched his arm. “I’ll pop in sometime soon.”

  “Why don’t you come along now and join us for lunch?”

  She shook her head. “Not today, thanks. Say hello to everyone at home.”

  Two cars were parked in front of the café and, after a quick glance up and down the street, she headed for a house set slightly apart. Years ago someone had put a sign on the gate that read Last house. The red paint was faded and peeling in places. A warm gust chased scraps of paper and dust around the corners of the buildings. Even the dogs looked miserable on a day like this. Ellie walked around the back of the house. When she climbed the steps, the boerboel growled, but didn’t get up. She patted his head in passing.

  “I’d also much rather be lying in the shade.”

  The door opened and Wynand looked out. “What are you doing, snooping around my house on a Sunday morning?”

  “The elders sent me to ask why you weren’t at the service.”

  “Tell them if they quit drinking earlier on a Saturday night I might get to bed at a decent hour.” He held the back door open for her but she shook her head.

  “I’d like to borrow the bike.”

  “What bee have you got in your bonnet this morning?”

  She pushed back her hair and smiled up at him. “When did you become so nosy?”

  He turned and she followed him into the kitchen, where he lifted a key from a hook on the wall.

  “I’ll get the helmet.”

  “Is Gerda back from church yet?”

  Wynand shook his head. “No, she’s probably having tea.”

  “Better not tell her I was here … or about the bike.”

  He held out the helmet and nodded. “You’re not going to ride in that outfit, are you?”

  “Just home.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “I left it at the church.” She handed him her car keys. “Do me a favour and ask Manie to fetch it tomorrow and keep it for me? And while it’s there, he might as well give it a service and check the ignition. It plays up now and again.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s all.”

  “Will you be at work on Wednesday?”

  She tucked her hair under the helmet. “I’ll call you.”

  “Don’t make me regret the day I taught you to ride!” he called after her as she hurried down the steps. “Take care.”

  Ellie walked around the back of the house to the outbuilding where the bike wa
s kept. Moments later she rode through the gate, waving at Wynand who was watching from the porch, frowning. She set off through the veld. It had been a dry summer and the soil was baked solid. The first autumn rain had not yet fallen. The sun scorched her skin and the air was hot – but gradually the tight knot at the pit of her stomach relaxed and she sat more easily, her body finding the rhythm of the bike. Her dress had escaped from between her knees and fluttered up to expose her thighs. The day Wynand had taught her to ride she’d discovered a brand-new love. She had begged him to sell her the bike, but he’d refused. Just the sight of it probably still gave him a sense of freedom.

  “It’s not that I can’t or don’t want to ride any more. It’s just not worth getting the silent treatment for the next week. Gerda says it’s silly at my age and she refuses to visit me in hospital or take care of me if I break something,” he said one day when she asked why he didn’t ride any more.

  She stopped behind a cactus and walked to the first rock, from where she had an unrestricted view of her house. The yard was deserted. Only the swing under the jacaranda tree moved slightly. The water in the dam nearly made her change her mind, but it wasn’t worth it. She dabbed at the sweat in her neck but a trickle escaped and ran down her chest.

  She turned and walked to the ruins of an old building. In a corner of what used to be the front room she lifted a sheet of corrugated iron and retrieved the plastic bag with her backpack. The metal sheet was hot and she dropped it hastily. The bag was covered in dust and cobwebs. She shook off the worst of it and removed the backpack. She pulled her dress over her head and took out a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a short leather jacket. She exchanged her sandals for woollen socks and leather boots, pinned up her hair and put the helmet back on. Then she sent Marius a message.

  Sorry I left in such a hurry. Won’t make it for lunch. Something urgent has come up. Talk to you later.

  She switched off her cellphone and hesitated before putting it into her handbag. She pushed the handbag, dress and sandals into the backpack, strapped it to the bike and climbed on. She let the bike run down the hill before she started the engine. The incline was steep and she had to concentrate to keep her balance. Ten minutes later she was on the tarred road. She took a deep breath, opened the throttle and felt the bike respond.

  She had hidden the bag of clothing under the metal sheet about a week after her arrival in the town. She wasn’t sure why, but a nagging unease inside her had subsided after she had done it.

  She could ride the road with her eyes closed. She felt her body anticipate the bends. She suspected it was the kloof that had made her stop that first evening. When it was behind her and the town lay ahead of her, she breathed easily for the first time in a long while. Like a baby taking its first breath, having passed through the birth canal. The world on this side of the kloof looked different from the one she had come from. It was a new world, with a slower rhythm. Even the colours seemed brighter. If you listened carefully, you could make out faint sounds. A guinea fowl, a car pulling away, two dogs barking in turn. A hadeda taking flight from the roof of a house. Things here had not been reduced to a cacophony, where separate sounds could no longer be distinguished.

  She was aware of every car on the road and her eyes kept shifting to the rearview mirror. On the other side of Worcester she stopped at a filling station, filled the tank and bought a sandwich and some fruit juice. She parked the bike under an awning and ate the sandwich standing next to the bike, watching the vehicles that were pulling up. Most were occupied by families on a Sunday outing. Were they on their way to visit someone, or just taking a drive to get out of the house?

  At the turnoff on the Du Toitskloof Pass she chose the road over the mountain. Better not to drive through the tollgate and past the cameras. When she crested the ridge, the Peninsula lay beneath her in a haze. There had to be a fire somewhere.

  She could have been swimming in the dam under the tree now, she thought with some irritation.

  Once she was over the pass, she was glad to speed up again. At the Goodwood off-ramp forty-five minutes later, she hesitated a moment, then carried on. She would come back another day. When she didn’t have to look over her shoulder.

  The backpackers’ lodge in Sea Point had secure parking for the bike. The young man at reception got to his feet slowly, sleepily. The small television set behind him was tuned to a reality show.

  He handed her a room key and sat back down. On days like these she was glad of people’s inherent laziness and lack of attention.

  The room was like any other room in a backpackers’ lodge. Two single beds. Clean linen that had seen better days. The guests who stayed here were not looking for a luxury experience. They believed they were seeing the real South Africa. Like people who choose to sit in the front row at the circus to be salivated on by the clowns and elephants.

  Ellie locked her backpack in the wardrobe, locked the door behind her and walked down the passage. The wooden floorboards creaked under her weight.

  There was a convenience store on the corner and she was glad to see they still had the Sunday papers. She walked back, carrying the newspapers and a bottle of water. In her room she took off her jacket and boots and lay down on the bed. A few minutes later she got rid of her jeans as well. She opened the curtains and the window. She could smell the sea. It wasn’t a fresh smell – old kelp that had lain in the sun too long, and fish. The room smelled of people.

  She scanned the articles in the papers. Nothing drew her attention. There was the usual violence, politics, scandal. All over the world. The shadow on the opposite wall had disappeared, which meant the sun had gone down over the ocean. When she looked at her watch, she saw it was almost six o’clock. She stretched and put her jeans and boots back on. She retrieved a cap from her backpack and put it on her head. The young man was no longer at reception. In his place was a girl with a German accent. She gave Ellie a friendly greeting. The heat still rose from the pavement when she stepped outside. People were loitering, eating ice cream. Tourists were strolling, bottles of water in their hands.

  The small restaurant was packed, but she managed to find a table on the pavement, where she ordered a Hunter’s Dry and pasta. She had just taken the first bite when she heard tyres squeal and the sound of a stern voice. Instinctively her hand reached under her arm. Then she remembered she had left her firearm at home. She looked up to see a motorist and a pedestrian shouting at each other. She sipped her cider and carried on eating.

  Different scenarios were going through her mind. Who was looking for her, and why? Her first hunch was that Reggie had sent them. Five months down the line, he might have decided she was a liability after all and that something should be done about it. She didn’t think he had expected her to survive the attack. At the time, the investigating unit couldn’t find enough evidence to pin it on him. Being unconscious so long meant that two weeks had lapsed between the incident and her testimony. It had not helped her case, especially since she could not remember the finer details. In the end a psychiatrist had testified that she’d probably identified Reggie as her attacker simply because he was the last person she’d laid eyes on. There was a car full of people who swore that they had dropped her off at home and left. That it was impossible for Reggie to have assaulted her. They had finally managed to make her doubt her own evidence, which is fatal for any case. Once the image in your mind has made room for a different possibility, you can never ignore the alternative again. She still didn’t know Albert’s version of the night’s events. There had been no time to talk about it. Maybe she would ask him one day.

  Clara had been so distressed that her recollection of that night had, at best, been incoherent.

  And now someone was looking for her. If it wasn’t Reggie, who was it? Ellie pushed away her half-eaten food and knocked back the Hunter’s.

  CHAPTER 2

  When she had invited him for supper earlier this afternoon, Nick Malherbe knew there’d be more than pizza on the menu.
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  He wasn’t wrong. She wasn’t a woman for playing games or dropping hints. The plates with the pizza crusts had not even made it to the kitchen when she began to unbutton his shirt.

  He slipped his hands under her silky blouse and felt her skin contract under his fingers. He couldn’t remember when last he had felt the touch of a woman’s skin. Better not to remember. He might start feeling sorry for himself.

  He was undoing her bra with one hand when his cellphone rang. Her hands stopped moving and he groaned. He should have switched the damn thing off, or at least put it on silent.

  He looked at his watch and then at the screen. It was Monica – senior analyst at Interpol, and technically his boss. When Monica Blake phoned on a Sunday night, you answered. Especially if you were waiting for good news. If the reason for the call was what he thought it might be, he was about to wind up the biggest and longest case of his career. In his imagination he saw the sign: Gone fishing. Maybe he should invite his neighbour along.

  “Malherbe.”

  “Can you talk?”

  Nick felt warm lips on his neck. “The signal is weak, give me a second to go outside.” He got to his feet. “Sorry, I have to take this. Work.”

  “As long as you come back.” She stretched out on the couch.

  “Do you have visitors?” Monica asked.

  “It’s just the TV.”

  “When was the last time you saw Clara Veldman or heard from her?” Monica cut to the chase.

  Nick hesitated a moment. It wasn’t the conversation he had been expecting. “I ran into her in the city a month or two ago, but Williams’s men were with her so we just exchanged a quick greeting. She seemed nervous. Why do you ask?”

  “She appears to have been kidnapped outside a restaurant in Camp’s Bay on Friday night.”

  The heat of a few moments ago seemed to evaporate and a chill passed through his body. With one hand he held the front of his shirt together. “Where did you hear this?”

  “I still have a few reliable contacts down there. You know they don’t always have the details. They tell me what they hear. Sometimes it’s no more than rumour.”