Hard rain, p.9
Hard Rain, page 9
part #1 of Rogue Series
Hamisi raises his hands to silence the buzz in the room. He begins to speak, setting out the circumstances around Billy’s death.
It’s clear that the policeman doesn’t want to be here. He speaks even more curtly than the vice president, if possible. His eyes sweep across the assembled journalists, then jump to the left of the room and linger, first on Ranna, then on me at the back.
I squirm in my seat. Why does he want to talk to me after the press conference?
“Do you have any leads?” asks a journalist to my left when Hamisi has finished. It’s the woman with the posh accent Tom spoke to earlier.
“Several,” he answers. “But there’s nothing we can share with you at this time. All we can say with certainty is that he was stabbed with a short, sharp object. We are not one hundred percent certain whether it caused his death. He also had several broken bones. This may be due to the collapse of his home. His house was completely destroyed. It might have been due to bad workmanship or because it was built much too close to the beach. The problem is that it all seems to have happened more or less at the same time—the collapse of the house and his death.”
“So it may not be murder after all?” The posh lady speaks again, quick to read between the lines.
“Anything is possible,” Hamisi says reluctantly. “Including murder. All we can say with reasonable certainty is that he didn’t drown.”
“What about suspects?” asks Tom.
“There are one or two.” Again Hamisi’s eyes stray toward Ranna.
She keeps taking photos as if nothing else matters.
“Come on!” another British voice calls out sarcastically. The press tag around the woman’s neck says she’s from the Times. “You can’t just stand there and not give us anything. Surely you’ve made some progress? Isn’t it true that the American government offered help with the investigation?”
There’s a buzz among the journalists in the room. It’s news to most of them.
Hamisi seems to be weighing his options. “Yes,” he admits. “Interpol and the FBI offered their help because Billy Jones was the leader of an international business conglomerate. We’ve accepted a degree of assistance. But it wouldn’t serve our purpose to bring in hundreds of foreigners. We don’t even have a crime scene.”
“What kind of help did they offer?” I’m surprised by the sound of my own voice.
Hamisi tilts his head slightly, his brown eyes suddenly sharper. A slight smile plays around his lips.
“Forensics. Pathology. An expertly conducted postmortem to determine the precise cause and time of death. It appears to be of crucial importance.”
Ranna swings her backpack over her shoulder. “Are you going to file?”
I jam my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Not yet. I want to have a quick word with Hamisi.”
“About?”
“The story,” I lie. “The postmortem.”
“Okay. Are you coming to my place when you’re done? Or how about yours?” A thought seems to strike her. “I’ve never seen where you live.”
“You haven’t missed much. It’s like a cramped torture chamber. I’ll come and write my story at your apartment when I’m done.”
“Sounds good,” she says, but remains standing.
“What’s the matter?” I check the urge to look at my watch.
“That woman from the Times wanted to speak to me this morning. About Billy. About how we found the body. She managed to cook up some excellent sources in a very short time.”
“And?”
“I said no. Told her we cover stories, we don’t make them. It’s just a coincidence that we found him.”
“Sounds like a good answer.”
“She wanted to talk to you as well. I gave her a wrong number. She asked what you look like. I told her short and ugly.”
“That should buy us a little time. And thanks for the compliment.”
She smiles. “Don’t mention it.” She looks around for her sunglasses and uses them to push back her hair. “So . . . see you later?” Her voice is small and uncertain.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I promise guiltily.
23
I follow Hamisi outside the Skylark. I’m not the only one. He walks as fast as he can, but the reporters follow him down the stairs to the foyer and through the hotel’s revolving doors. Outside on the sidewalk he looks up, annoyed, then sighs and turns to face them.
“It never rains when you want it to. Okay, then. Who’s first?”
When the last journalist has turned around and headed off, cursing, I approach. Hamisi clearly doesn’t want to say anything more to the press about Billy Jones. His repeated “no comment” still hangs in the air when I step up to greet him.
“Alex!” He sounds relieved. “I hope you don’t have a bunch of questions as well. Thanks for coming.”
“It didn’t sound like I could refuse.”
He lights a cigarette and draws the smoke deep into his lungs. “I suppose you could have, but your curiosity and your feelings for Ranna wouldn’t allow it.”
“Careful. You don’t always know what I think and feel.”
“Let me guess: one day I’m going to pay for my arrogance?”
“Without a doubt.”
“But until then we can assume I know everything?” His tone is light and mocking.
“If it makes you feel better.”
The policeman considers his next words carefully. “You heard what I said in there. It’s very hard to determine exactly how and when Billy Jones died. Almost impossible, in fact, though I did my best to put a positive spin on it.”
“Is that where the FBI and Interpol experts come in?”
“Mm-hmm. A forensic pathologist on loan from the FBI. She’s landing later today. I spoke to her on the phone the day before yesterday.” He frowns. “She’s not very positive she’ll find anything new.”
“But it’ll make a good story for the media.”
“The hounds of hell? I imagine so.”
“Will you let me speak to her?” Thunder rattles above our heads. We shuffle closer to the protection of the building.
“Maybe. You’re not really a suspect, so I suppose I could get you an interview. Dr. Julia Gomez.” He grinds out his cigarette butt with the heel of his shoe. “Her services are free. Won’t cost me a shilling. The US Department of Defense is highly upset about Billy’s death. He was doing work of a sensitive nature for them. Something to do with their ballistic missile program. They’re fearing the worst in terms of state security.”
Hamisi lights a fresh cigarette. “Of course, they’re always fearing the worst, but that’s their problem. From where I stand, Billy’s death seems personal. An act committed in anger, yet with precision. Remember his missing fingers? The thing we urged you and Ranna not to mention to anyone? If it hadn’t been for that, I might have considered his death accidental, but those cuts seem too precise, like someone played with a very sharp knife.”
He jabs a thumb against his chest. “So, while Dr. Gomez is conducting her investigation, I have to work out why someone wanted Billy Jones dead. And in order to do so, I have to find out more about his relationships with the people around him. His relationship with Ranna, to be more specific.”
He stops talking, but the silence speaks volumes.
“You keep harping on the same string,” I say. “But like I’ve told you before—I can’t help you. Ranna says her relationship with Billy ended before his death. That’s all I know. All I want to know.”
“Even though he paid thirty thousand dollars into her bank account a few days before his death?”
“Yes.” I try to keep my expression neutral.
Hamisi smiles smugly. He must have noticed the confusion in my eyes.
“It’s one advantage of international collaboration, Alex. Ranna and Billy both have US bank accounts. And I’ve received certain information about them. Interesting information.”
I shrug. “The money doesn’t prove anything. She worked for him. She’s a very good photographer. So what.”
“Thirty thousand dollars’ worth of work? Maybe. Or maybe she was blackmailing him.”
“Why would she blackmail him?”
The first raindrops drift down from the sky.
“It’s impossible to know every little detail of what goes on between two people, Alex. Most of the time we’re just guessing, don’t you think?”
I dig in my pocket for my car keys. “Why are you giving me all this information? What do you want me to do with it? Print it?”
Suddenly I’m angry. What’s the policeman’s game? And more importantly: What’s Ranna’s game? Why didn’t she mention the money? Why didn’t she tell me about Billy in the first place?
Hamisi looks past the anger and sees my conflicting emotions. “I must get Ranna to talk to me, Alex. Something’s wrong, but she refuses to answer any of my questions. She might know something that could help the investigation. Things aren’t looking good for her, and if you’re honest with yourself, you’ll agree. I don’t have enough evidence to charge her, but I can’t eliminate her as a suspect either.”
“And you want my help? I can’t make her talk to you.”
“Maybe we should try something else, then.” Hamisi steps on the cigarette butt. Looks up at the sky, shivers. Clasps his hands together as if he is cold. “Tell me what she’s doing. What she did. Whether she’s hiding anything. If you’re convinced of her innocence, prove it. And if that doesn’t work, I appeal to your survival instinct.”
“What do you mean?”
“You really have no idea, do you?”
“Listen, get to the point—quickly. I’m tired of your bloody games.”
Hamisi’s eyes drill into mine. “Ranna got money from Billy Jones on three occasions. She was questioned by the police in two countries in the course of murder investigations. The victim on each occasion was a man she’d been involved with. Only, three years ago her name wasn’t Ranna Abramson. It was Isabel Baker.”
24
“I don’t fucking believe it!”
I bang on the steering wheel in anger and frustration. Swerve around an old Peugeot that has broken down in the middle of the road. What else is Ranna hiding from me? What else is she blatantly lying about? Murder, lust, theft—she single-handedly takes care of all of the ten biblical commandments.
And yet I refused to help Hamisi. Why?
Maybe it’s incredulity rather than reluctance. Or maybe pride. I just can’t believe she has lied to me so often and so freely. Or, how did she put it? Kept quiet.
She has kept quiet about many things—more than Hamisi realizes. I remember the name Isabel Baker. It’s well-known in photographic circles. Isabel Baker refused to accept the World Press Photo award. What kind of person says no thank you to the World Press Photo award? And why would you say no after you’ve taken the trouble to enter?
I wonder whether the answer hasn’t just landed in my lap. What if you wanted to avoid the attention it would bring? Especially from the police?
Ranna Abramson and Isabel Baker have to be one and the same woman. Isabel took a series of photos of a fire that destroyed a children’s home in San Francisco. Eleven children and one fireman died. It was big news in South Africa because one of the firemen in the photos was originally from the East Rand.
The photos were excellent—just like Ranna’s.
I always assumed Isabel Baker was American. But Ranna has an American passport, I remind myself, although she’s originally from South Africa. At least I know that about her.
I must find out what the hell is going on. The only way I can make an informed decision is by gathering more information. Anger will serve no purpose. No one knows that better than me. People disappear in anger. Everything disappears.
Hamisi mentioned Paris and San Francisco. Two men. Two murders. Three cash deposits from Billy Jones, but countless possibilities. Even Hamisi had to admit that.
The money could have been a gift from Billy, or perhaps a loan. Or Ranna might have done some work for him, and he paid her in cash to avoid putting it through the books.
Or Ranna might be a hit woman, and Billy paid her to get rid of the men. Maybe Ranna then killed him when he threatened to go to the police when she ended their relationship.
Or Ranna might be a serial killer.
One thing is certain, I promise myself: I’m going to find out exactly what Ranna Abramson is hiding.
Back home I make myself a cup of coffee and sit down in front of my laptop. I write my news stories and then start the search for Ranna Abramson and Isabel Baker.
It’s surprising what people will post on the Internet. They’ll give their names, email addresses, and details about their workplace, children, family, and friends. They’ll announce on Facebook whether they’ll be home for Christmas and broadcast their future plans on Twitter and Instagram.
It’s easy to find information if you know where to look. You gather almost everything you need from résumés, CVs, conference attendance, employee registers, and company websites. Not to mention school and university reunion databases. No problem.
But after a two-hour search I have to admit that Ranna Abramson is the exception. Ranna, or Isabel, or whatever her real name is, is barely present in the virtual community. There are a handful of articles that speculate about where she might be at present, but besides those, it’s as if someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to erase every piece of information on Isabel Baker.
A single reference to Ranna Abramson dates from about three years ago. The most recent murder, of Gerard Peroux, occurred at about the same time. In Paris.
Ranna is a photographer, but I can’t find any photographs of her. She’s not on Facebook, and evidently never supplied any of her employers’ websites with a portrait shot. It also seems she never got a photo credit. Ranna Abramson remains firmly on the other side of the lens.
Isabel Baker lived in Paris. Before that, in San Francisco, where she was a freelance photographer. For two and three years, respectively. After Paris she vanished into thin air.
This means that Isabel must have changed her name to Ranna while she was in Paris. It’s the only place where the two names overlap.
The only sign I can find of Ranna in Dar es Salaam is on the Facebook profile of Hadhi’s daughter-in-law, who posted the photo I took at the wedding, the one of everyone together on the dance floor.
Slim pickings for someone who has been in the city for almost three years.
I sit back from my laptop, yawn. It’s almost twenty minutes past midnight. I called Ranna earlier to cancel our date. My reasons weren’t very convincing—too tired, too much work. And the hours spent at the computer didn’t deliver any results. I’m no wiser than when I sat down in the early evening.
Hamisi’s Interpol and FBI colleagues must have better sources. I still don’t know anything about the money Billy paid Ranna. Besides the photo on the cover of Time, I haven’t been able to find any connection between her and the IT magnate.
I’ll have to come up with something. Use better sources than those available to Hamisi or Interpol or the Americans.
Perhaps it’s time to call Sarah.
Every journalist has a little black book. Whether the information is written on paper or saved in an iPhone is beside the point. I consider myself old-school and, true to the way Tank taught me, I keep all my contacts in a small notebook. It’s the size of my palm and contains all the numbers and email addresses I might ever need, including those of Sarah Fourie.
Sarah grew up in Pretoria West. In what used to be called Church Street, in a tiny apartment over a café that sold everything from washing powder to chewing gum. Her parents loved her dearly, but they couldn’t understand how, since the age of nine, she could spend so many hours at the computer—which had taken them three years to save up for.
Her father, an official at the Department of Water Affairs, wished Sarah was more like his other four children. But his pale, thin daughter was not at all interested in the Springbok rugby team, fishing, the beach, or camping. She was hooked instead on Coca-Cola, nicotine, and white chocolate.
When Diederik Fourie’s eldest son was suddenly awarded a university scholarship despite his mediocre grades, no one paid much heed. Nor were they unduly surprised when the city council paid a refund into the Fouries’ utility bill after having overcharged them for years. It was only when Nellie Fourie opened the door one morning to take delivery of a brand-new living room set, which no one had ordered, that Diederik smelled a rat.
Still he remained silent. He had a feeling that his oldest daughter was up to something illegal on the computer she kept upgrading, but he hoped she was clever enough not to get caught.
But Sarah became a little too generous.
The judge agreed, and seeing that she’d just turned eighteen the previous week, he sentenced her to eighteen months in prison and ordered her to pay back the money.
There were mitigating circumstances. She was young, a first offender; her father had made an emotional plea on her behalf, and she had used the money to benefit her family, not herself.
It was true. Sarah had not spent a cent on herself, except to support her habit of six cans of Coke and twenty cigarettes a day.
I covered Sarah’s trial and did a little more work than was strictly necessary. I wrote about poverty, white-collar crime, and blue-collar pain. About Sarah, the why and the how.
She tracked me down from prison—heaven knows who gives a hacker access to a computer in prison—and said she liked my story. Apparently I had been the most objective among all the sensation mongers. Pale, delicate Sarah is exquisitely beautiful, and a beautiful young woman committing a crime to help her family almost compares to the fourth marriage of an Afrikaans pop singer on the media Richter scale.
I did two exclusive interviews with Sarah. She promised to help me if I ever needed anything.
I’ve already asked her once, just after she was released from prison. My request wasn’t perfectly aboveboard, and I insisted on paying her. I suffered no guilt about what we did. It was the right thing to do. Sarah helped me to track down a pedophile, and neither of us had any regrets afterward.
