CHAPTER SIX
‘It won’t be him.’ Pete fastened his seat belt, his eyes still crinkly from his nap. He wore a nicely pressed polo shirt, new chinos and his ‘going out’ trainers.
‘I’m eighty-six per cent sure it’s not going to be him either, but I need to find out what’s going on and his phone is still off so what else can I do?’
‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ Pete made a show of pretending to consider grand ideas as Trust steered the van out of our security gates, fist-bumping a guard through his open window. ‘Maybe you could go to your best friend’s wedding, climb Table Mountain, go to the beach and . . . oh, that’s right; understand that your Dad is just doing his job?’
I checked my hair in a pocket mirror. Underneath the heavy side fringe my hairdresser convinced me was going to nail ‘sexy detective on American TV network’, the heat was doing sweaty things to my forehead.
‘What harm does it do? We’ll look at the art, ask the gallery owner about the E. Roberts exhibition, eat, drink then go home . . . and I’ll do that thing you like,’ I said with a saucy wink. ‘Besides, I’m not sure I can climb Table Mountain.’
This was more of a concern to Pete than my father’s potential lie/affair/illegal diamond trading/illegal arms trading/illegal animal trading (yes, my anxieties had increased and yes, it sounded paranoid but we are who we are and I am the Princess of Darkness).
‘Why not? It’s the most recommended highlight!’ Pete said, brandishing his ever-present Lonely Planet and his stapled printouts from TripAdvisor. Why could he not make bookmarks on his iPad like a normal Gen Y-er? Or, more importantly, why could he not use the iPad without a deep furrow in his otherwise smooth forehead and a torrent of annoyed huffs and puffs?
‘Because of the snakes,’ I said. A tremor of revulsion worked its way down my spine.
‘Evil snakes!’ Trust shuddered. ‘Very many snakes.’
I gave Pete a pointed look. I definitely considered myself an animal lover when it came to every other creature on this planet. I didn’t set mousetraps, I encouraged spiders to go outside (via the plughole) and I abhorred all things ‘animal tested’, but if I had the funds . . . oh, if I had the funds! You can forget Brexit; I’d have Snexit. Snakes exit planet earth. Preferably in a big robot-driven spaceship that would explode in space, obliterating those limbless swathes of evil. But other than that, all creatures were created equal, blah blah blah.
‘They run away when they hear people,’ Pete said.
‘They run, do they?’ I mocked. ‘With their little feet?’
Trust chuckled.
‘You know what I mean. I asked the guy at the pool. He climbs it every weekend and he’s never, not once, seen a snake.’
‘There are spiders too,’ I said. ‘Big ones.’
‘Yes, Sisi.’ Trust nodded gravely.
Pete gave me a look.
‘And rabid monkeys and marauders and plague-ridden rats,’ I added and then frowned because I seemed to be getting a walk up Table Mountain confused with the plot of an Indiana Jones movie.
Pete rolled his eyes. ‘No there aren’t.’
‘And there’s the mountain.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s very big.’
‘That’s the whole point!’
It’s not as though I was averse to exercise. I loved exercising. I did a spin class and yoga and Pilates and yoga-lates. I didn’t partake in anything running-related any more; these boobs were made for walking (as the song doesn’t go). But I was truly, claw-your-own-skin-off, run-away-in-your-skeleton-screaming-like-a-hurricane terrified of snakes. And, according to Pete’s Lonely Planet, which I’d read on the plane while he kipped, Table Mountain was crawling with them.
‘Well, what about the environment then?’ I protested. ‘Won’t the foot traffic be causing erosion which could lead to the entire tectonic plate shifting?’
Pete scoffed.
‘You have heard of the butterfly effect, haven’t you? A pretty little monarch flaps its wings in Kent and moments later a chunk of Australia breaks off. We end up with a whole new country and all the maps in the world need to be changed. Not to mention the koala families that were in side-by-side trees one moment and the next butterfly-flapping minute their trees are on different islands, separated by shark-infested ocean.’
Pete’s discussion-wearied gaze weighed heavily on me.
‘We clomp up there,’ I waved in the direction of the monolith that was visible from every part of the city, ‘changing the shape of that mountain with every step and who knows what could happen?! I’m only thinking of the koalas.’
Pete blinked. ‘You’ll love it.’ He turned and looked out of the window. ‘You just need to put yourself out of your comfort zone.’
I decided against replying. I was out of my comfort zone right now. Annabelle was at home without Mum or me to help and Hunter had probably googled how to make a bomb using window cleaner, a microwave and melted Lego pieces and the CIA would have tracked his internet search and would be bursting into the house right now; they’d find Annabelle’s ‘medicine’ stash and the kids would end up in care and Katie would be signing for juice and her foster carer wouldn’t know that Katie calls almond milk ‘juice’ (because she’d seen Mum squeezing the nut-milk bag, therefore thinks of it as being ‘juiced’) and they’d give her orange juice not knowing she’d end up with severe hives and respiratory difficulty. My stomach cramped. I dialled Annabelle.
‘Hey,’ she answered.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Yep.’
‘What’s Hunter doing?’
‘He’s . . .’ Her voice sounded like she was craning her neck. ‘. . . eating an avocado with Marcus.’
‘Who’s Marcus?’ I said, thinking CIA agent.
‘My client. Remember? The guy with the sister. Mad Mandy?’ Annabelle stopped. ‘Oh god, he just heard me say that. He’s got quite big ears.’
I rolled my eyes.
‘Oh god, he just heard me say that,’ she continued, still not clicking that lowering her voice might be an advisable option. ‘He’s—’
‘OK, OK!’ I said, stopping her from insulting Big-eared Marcus any further. ‘I just wanted to check Hunter hadn’t been googling anything incriminating.’ Pete gave me a very strange yet not unfamiliar look. ‘But if it’s all OK I’ll let you go. Heard from Dad?’
‘No. You?’
‘No, I’m following a lead right now though.’
‘Following a lead?’ Annabelle ridiculed. ‘That fringe didn’t make you Kate Beckett, you know.’
‘I’m going. Goodbye,’ I said, hanging up and adjusting my fringe. It SO did make me Kate Beckett.
*
Trust turned down a side street and pulled up in a ‘no parking’ bay outside a dove-grey building with purple window frames. The purple doorway was framed with blue Perspex glitter hearts the size of saucers. A strip of green AstroTurf lay across the footpath from the doorway to the road like a red carpet and electric-orange velvet barriers attached to brass poles flanked either side.
‘Many famous people come here,’ Trust said.
I leapt out of the van into the heat of the afternoon. While I waited for Pete to put his Lonely Planet in his ever-present backpack and climb out after me, I considered the building. There was no signage, just the glitter hearts, the AstroTurf and an outdoor ashtray on a stainless steel pole. According to some of my googling, James Franco was seen here downing shots and dancing on tables with model-esque locals a few months previously. Trust told us to text him when we wanted to leave and drove off looking for somewhere to park and wait (snooze).
‘Right,’ I said to Pete. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
‘After you, Miss Marple.’
‘Detective Beckett,’ I said, flicking my hair and following the AstroTurf carpet to the entrance.
The door opened into an intimate space by South African standards but perhaps what an English home would consider a large reception room. Tables of all shapes and sizes were painted glossy white and surrounded by differently styled chairs, also white and shiny. The wallpaper was an opulent patterned burgundy and ornate gold picture frames displayed tongue-in-cheek paintings of renaissance-style characters holding loaves of bread suggestively. A small raised stage took up the back wall and housed a polished black piano. Along the left-hand side of the room ran a flamboyant gold rococo bar, behind which stood a sandy-haired guy speaking baby language to a bichon frise. The bichon frise lay on a tasselled velvet pillow on top of the bar, luxuriating in the praise.
‘Oh hi,’ the bar guy said, looking up from his amour and noticing us standing in the doorway. He was English, which surprised me. ‘Can I help you?’
‘We’re looking for the gallery?’ I said, walking closer.
A brown shaggy dog trotted by me and I stooped to give him a scratch behind his hairy ears before he continued towards a door behind the bar, probably the kitchen considering the clanging sounds emanating from there. Pete followed me and narrowly missed treading on another dog lying partially under a table.
‘It’s through there,’ the guy indicated to a closed door opposite the piano, his grey eyes flicking between Pete and me. ‘But it’s not open. Where’re you guys from?’
‘London,’ I said. ‘I’m Jess and this is Pete.’
‘Jimmy,’ the guy said, offering his hand over the bar. He wore a white T-shirt, kind of grubby, and his forearms were tanned and muscled. ‘I’m from Richmond. Are you here on holiday?’
‘We’re here for a wedding,’ Pete said, a bit more blokey than usual. ‘Thought we’d tag on a bit of holiday.’
An ugly chihuahua/pug-type dog wheezed and waddled past and I picked it up. ‘Aww, how cute is he?!’ I said, hugging it and holding the dog’s face up to Pete. It immediately sneezed and covered Pete’s polo shirt in viscous snot.
‘Jess!’ Pete screeched.
‘Ooops!’
Pete gave me a death stare and I hid my sniggers behind the wheezy, snotty dog.
‘Here,’ Jimmy said, passing over a filthy-looking dishcloth, trying to supress a laugh. ‘And he’s a she. Lucy.’
Pete looked at the filthy dishcloth and Lucy’s snot and appeared to be wondering which was the lesser of the two evils.
‘We were wondering about an artist you’re exhibiting?’ I said, putting Lucy back on the floor before she gave Pete another coating.
‘You were wondering,’ Pete said, dabbing at his shirt with a corner of the cloth.
‘I don’t know much about the exhibitions,’ Jimmy said, glancing at Pete, then checking the levels of a liquor bottle. ‘I’m just the barman. You’ll have to wait until we’re open. How long are you here for?’
‘Two weeks,’ Pete said. ‘Wedding is tomorrow, then we’re seeing what Cape Town has to offer.’ He handed Jimmy back the filthy rag.
‘You guys are going to love it!’ Jimmy said, cracking into a wide grin. ‘There’s so much to do!’
‘I’ve been reading about it.’ Pete fished his Lonely Planet out of his rucksack, eyes a-sparkle. ‘I want to go shark cage diving, and there’s a triathlon next week, and we want to climb Table Mountain.’
I snorted. ‘You want to.’
Pete rolled his eyes. I rolled my eyes right back. The barman seemed to find us amusing.
‘They have the best nightlife here,’ Jimmy said. ‘And markets and beaches and festivals. Oh man, the festivals! There’s this one where the bands are on the banks of a river and everyone floats on the water in rubber rings, drinking beer! You’ll want to come back, two weeks isn’t enough to fit it all in.’
Pete looked pained at the thought of ‘not fitting it all in’.
‘Can we just see the gallery?’ I asked, trying to get the conversation back on track despite the fact that a very clear picture had filled my head of Pete floating past me on a rubber ring, his abs tensed pleasingly and his straight-toothed grin shining in my direction.
‘We’re not open yet,’ Jimmy replied.
‘But surely the gallery is?’
Jimmy shook his head.
‘But it’s daytime?’
‘I don’t make the rules. I make margaritas!’ Jimmy held up a bottle of tequila, the worm banging against the side. ‘And if you come back when we’re open I can make you one on the house.’
‘Sounds great!’ Pete said.
‘I don’t want a margarita, thanks,’ I said. ‘I want to speak to someone about an exhibition. Is there anyone here I can speak to?’
‘The gallery isn’t open. The bar isn’t open. The restaurant isn’t open. We’re not open,’ Jimmy said, but not unkindly. He flashed a wide grin to Pete. ‘Persistent, isn’t she?’
‘You have no idea,’ Pete smiled back.
I shot him a look that said you’re supposed to be on my side, punk, and if you want any future blowjobs you’d best keep that in mind. Pete gave me a repentant smile because he did want future blowjobs.
‘What kind of gallery isn’t open during the day?’ I asked.
‘This kind.’ Jimmy emptied one bottle into another. ‘T.I.A.’
‘Huh?’ I was starting to lose my ‘Kate Beckett’ coolness.
‘T.I.A. This Is Africa. It means . . . things don’t make sense. That’s the only thing that makes sense.’
‘That things don’t make sense?’
‘You got it!’
‘So, the gallery isn’t open until night time?’
‘Nope.’
‘Because it’s part of the bar/restaurant/dog hotel you’ve got going on here?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So, if I want to see if it’s my father’s work in that exhibition . . .?’
‘Who’s your father?’ he said, looking interested.
‘Teddy Roberts?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘How about Edward Roberts? Or E. Roberts?’
Jimmy shook his head.
‘You’ve got an exhibition for an E. Roberts starting in just under two weeks and you’ve never heard that name?’ I said, sceptical.
‘I told you, I’m just the barman.’
‘Then why did you ask who my father was?’
‘Seemed polite at the time.’
‘That was thirty seconds ago,’ I growled.
Jimmy seemed unperturbed. ‘If you come back tonight Frankie will be here and will be able to answer any gallery-related questions.’
‘Can’t you just take me in there?’ I didn’t know what I thought I’d find. An incriminating self-portrait of my father perhaps? But the website had said E. Roberts was exhibiting a collection of erotic nudes, so I put that mental picture in the mental shredder. Twice.
‘I’m not allowed in there any more,’ Jimmy said.
Pete and I frowned.
Jimmy glanced towards the kitchen then leant on the bar. ‘My brother shows in there sometimes, and once,’ he paused. ‘Twice.’ He paused again. ‘OK, every time . . . I’ve sneaked in before opening and put some real piece of shit up on the wall with his name under it.’
I giggled and, encouraged, Jimmy continued with a twinkle in his grey eyes.
‘You know that drawing of the dog that has a story that helps you draw it . . .? About a guy in a cave with bees and a bear or something?’
‘Yes,’ I said, captivated.
‘No,’ Pete said, confused.
‘Well, I did one of those on the back of a menu then taped it to the wall and called it Dog’s Dinner.’
I sniggered.
‘Another time I dropped tomato juice on a napkin and pinned it to the wall with a green drawing pin. They loved that one.’ Jimmy grinned. ‘My brother didn’t. His art is quite serious.’
‘What kind of art does he do?’
‘Takes photos of bridges.’
‘Brilliant,’ I said, with growing admiration for stubbly chin, scruffy shirt, practical joker Jimmy.
‘Anyway . . .’ He picked up another half-filled bottle and wiped it with a cloth. ‘Like I said, I can’t help you but you can come back later tonight and talk to Frankie if you like.’
‘Will do,’ Pete said, taking my hand in his and giving it a gentle tug towards the exit. ‘See ya, mate,’ he said to Jimmy, who raised his arm in return. ‘We’ll come back for that margarita.’
I followed Pete outside, who’d begun flicking through his Lonely Planet, but then remembered a photo I had in my phone and rushed back to the bar.
‘Have you seen this man in here before?’ I said, holding the screen towards Jimmy, watching for his reaction.
For a tiny instant I thought I spotted recognition behind his eyes, then he frowned and shook his head.
‘It’s a pretty terrible photo,’ he said, getting back to his bottle-cleaning.
This was true. It was out of focus, shadowy and Dad was dressed as Santa, his elasticised beard pulled down under his chin and his hat on wonky. But Jimmy had recognised him. I was certain of it.
‘Are you sure? Really sure?’ I pressed.
‘Two fucking portions of salmon starter?!’ A woman’s gravelly voice with a strong Afrikaans accent travelled out of the kitchen, then a diminutive lady with a messy grey chignon, wearing a blue and white striped catering apron over her chef’s shirt marched into the restaurant, cursing and pulling a packet of fags from her apron pocket as she went. ‘What do I pay you for? You’re fucking useless! Saturday night and only two salmon starters? Two?! Two fucking portions isn’t going to feed anybody!’
The lady barrelled past me without acknowledgement but as she reached the front door she said, ‘Jimmy, what have I told you about having your lady friends visit?’ then tugged open the door and stalked through, lighting her cigarette.
‘I’m going to kill her dead this time,’ said a young Hispanic guy as he emerged from the door behind the bar, his catering apron barely covering his wide chest and his face like thunder. ‘I’ll put arsenic in her cigarettes, I’ll feed rat poison to her dogs, I’ll put acid on her eye mask. I will kill her, Jimmy.’ He pronounced the ‘J’ more like a ‘Y’.
‘I’d better go,’ Jimmy said with an apologetic shrug. He turned, slung an arm over the Hispanic guy’s meaty shoulders and sweet-talked him back to the kitchen.