16

Pamela’s house was situated in a cul-de-sac called Autumn Road, in a quiet part of suburban Sandown. The entrance was in the form of an elaborate wrought-iron gate which stood in the deep shade of an enormous oak tree. The gate—motorised, of course— and the face-brick perimeter wall were topped with electric fencing which looked unbroken and undamaged.

No rogue bikers had followed Jade here.

When she depressed the buzzer on the bunch of keys she had taken from Pamela’s bag, the gate swung open smoothly, rustling a couple of the low-hanging branches as it moved. After a final glance in her rear-view mirror, she drove inside.

She went past a small wooden hut that looked like a guardhouse, past a verdant expanse of lawn studded with trees. Near the house she could see a large swimming pool that sparkled in the sun. The grass was emerald green, the flowerbeds bursting with blooms.

She parked near the back wall of what looked like an outdoor entertainment area opposite the swimming pool, so her car would be invisible from the road. Then she walked around to the oversized front door, listening to bees humming in the impressive display of French lavender under the windows. The door looked like it had been stolen from a giant’s castle, and the key to the lock had equal character. It was long and heavy, and it rattled in the lock, making her feel like a medieval jailer.

Jade had expected clinical coolness and the smell of furniture polish or potpourri, but instead she wrinkled her nose at the whiff of blocked drains coming from the closed door on her right, which obviously led to a guest bathroom.

The smell was very un-Pamela. Perhaps she shouldn’t have fired her housemaid so hastily.

As Jade locked the door behind her, the distant ringing of a telephone broke the silence.

She didn’t think anyone was home, but she guessed she’d soon find out if the phone was answered.

She walked swiftly through the hallway in the direction of the sound.

The house was the ultimate in open-plan living. Pamela and Terence had gone big on the front door, and gone without any of the others. It made her job easier. She walked through an expansive lounge-cum-dining-room whose furniture was so ultramodern that it looked more like a contemporary art gallery than somewhere to relax after a busy day. The kitchen could have been the control deck for the Starship Enterprise.

The phone was ringing in a little alcove off the lounge, where a chair, desk and bookshelf formed a miniature study.

Pamela’s study, she guessed. An in-tray held a pile of letters from various charities, all addressed to Mrs Jordaan. The ringing was coming from a smart but rather outdated-looking faxanswerphone.

It rang eight times before it gave a high-pitched beep.

The blinking light indicated there were new messages.

Jade pressed Play, and listened.

The first one was from someone with a deep voice and a rough South African accent.

“Pamela. Naude here. Call me, will you? As soon as you can.”

The second message was from the same man. He spoke faster this time. Stressed or in a hurry, she guessed.

“Naude again. Call me urgently.”

The third and final message was short and to the point—the sound of a replaced receiver.

She turned away from the study and headed towards the staircase. At the bottom she noticed an ornamental Masai shield with a wooden spear displayed on its right. Two empty brackets marked the spot where a second spear should have crossed its partner.

She carried on up to the landing and checked the other bedrooms and bathrooms before entering the master bedroom. Here, the large television flickered soundlessly. The bedcovers were rumpled and faint scents still clung to the fabric. A musky male cologne, a hint of flowery perfume.

Jade moved to the dressing-room and opened a cupboard at random. She was confronted with an ostentatious display of silk shirts, shiny suits, snakeskin belts and fashionably faded jeans.

So this was Terence’s wardrobe. She wondered if he had ever worn the pair of form-fitting dkny leather pants hanging right at the back.

Surely not.

On one of the shelves Jade saw an empty alligator-skin concealment holster, but she couldn’t find a gun anywhere.

She opened the double cupboard opposite. It was stuffed with colourful designer outfits.

Jade chose a few of the most casual clothes on offer, which wasn’t an easy task. Pamela didn’t possess any sensible shoes, so Jade picked out a pair of wedge-heeled sandals from the ranks of footwear that jostled for space on the bottom rails. What else? Underwear? Cosmetics?

She pulled open one of the wooden drawers in the cupboard. A tangle of bras and panties spilled out. Although the lingerie was high quality and expensive-looking, there were no garments that Jade would have described as sexy. The panties were full-cut, the bras designed to conceal rather than reveal, and all were in neutral colours. Whites, blacks, beiges.

Jade couldn’t help thinking again about Pamela’s early career as an exotic dancer and an organiser of private parties for men.

David was right. She certainly had reinvented herself since then.

Another drawer contained socks and stockings and, on top of them, a framed photograph. Jade took it out and held it up. It was a wedding portrait. Pamela and Terence, head-and-shoulders, smiling at the camera. Very much the happy couple.

Terence was brown-haired, fit-looking and tanned, with an aggressively jutting jaw. To her surprise, he was somewhat shorter than Pamela, who Jade supposed would have been wearing ridiculously high heels.

Jade had no idea why the wedding photo was face-down in the sock drawer.

She closed the cupboard door and turned away.

Terence hadn’t been snatched from the house; Jade was certain of that. Nothing looked out of place, there were no signs of a struggle, nothing appeared to be missing apart from one of the two spears on the landing and the gun that should have been in the holster.

How had he disappeared, then? Had he rushed out of the house with his unholstered gun in one hand and the Masai spear in the other?

Jade smiled at the fanciful notion. People like Terence didn’t walk out of their homes—they drove. So, if none of the cars were missing, someone must have picked him up. A “trusted” business associate, perhaps.

But wouldn’t Pamela have heard him leaving?

Jade discovered a matching set of leather luggage in yet another cupboard. Four bags in sizes ranging from weekend-in-Cape-Town to fortnight-in-New-York. She packed Pamela’s clothes into the former and added a selection of toiletries and cosmetics from the bathroom, which was fragrant with the scent of roses.

Then she made her way downstairs with the suitcase. Through the lounge, with its cloying smell of furniture polish. Past the shiny kitchen, which smelled of nothing at all, and back the way she had come.

With the front door closed, the stink in the hallway was far stronger. It hit her like a slap in the face. She breathed out hard, grimacing at the odour, which was suddenly, horribly familiar.

Surely it couldn’t be …?

Her spine contracted with shivery unease.

Jade walked up to the white-painted guest-bathroom door she’d noticed on the way in. She grabbed the handle and pulled it open.

Freed from the confines of the hot little room, the smell rushed out to meet her, bigger and nastier than she’d expected, closely followed by a swarm of excited bluebottles.

Jade staggered back, stifling a cry. She dropped the suitcase, which thudded down onto the tiled floor, and swatted frantically at the cloud of flies.

Propped up in the corner below the half-open toilet window, a woman stared at Jade with sightless blue eyes. Blood was matted in her blonde hair, and a thick trail of dried blood led from one of the two deep wounds on her temple to the corner of her gaping mouth.

The dead woman looked much younger than Pamela. She was wearing a short black dress and one high-heeled gold sandal. The other sandal was lying on the tiles near the door. On her lap, broken in half, lay the ornamental spear that was missing from the display on the landing.

Stolen Lives
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