Chapter 4

Noordhoek, near Noordhoek Beach.

I stared at the wreck, my thoughts racing faster than my heartbeat. The BMW was utterly disconfuckulated — mashed up from the front end to just past the roofline. It wasn’t a car any more; it was a twisted hunk of metal, destined for the scrapyard. A total write-off. But the wreck itself wasn’t the puzzle; it was the questions swirling around it that stuck with me. Who? What? Why? The “where” was easy — it was right in front of me, smeared across the tar road.

Sticking around felt like the right move. I had a hunch that sooner or later, someone or something would show up. As I scanned the scene, my eyes landed on the number plate. My gut told me it could be the thread that unravelled this mess. A brain fart later — yeah, why not — I pulled out my cell phone and scrolled to my sister’s number.

Seven rings. Just as I was about to hang up, her voice came through, all smug and cheerful.

“Hello, my long-lost brother! What happened? Did you finally get arrested or something?”

“Hey, Nancy. No arrests today. I’m cool. But I need a favour.”

“I don’t have any spare cash lying around...” She chuckled, ever the joker.

“Not that. I need you to run a registration number for me.”

Her tone turned mischievous. “Oh, and I suppose you want her phone number while you’re at it?”

“Nancy!” I sighed, trying not to laugh. “This is serious. A guy just ploughed himself under a truck right in front of me. I need to find his next of kin.”

“Shouldn’t the cops handle that? It’s their job, you know. Why put yourself out for some stranger?”

I was ready to beg if I had to. “Nancy...”

“Fine, fine,” she relented. “Not my business, and I don’t want to know, anyway. Give me the number.”

I rattled off the license plate, and within seconds, she was in her element.

“White beige, or off-white, BMW. Five series, 2018 model. Registered to Anderson Shipping CC. They’re based in Industria, Johannesburg.”

“Anderson Shipping, huh? No contact number?”

“Got one here, probably for their fleet manager. Want it?”

“Yeah. I bet he’ll want to know one of his company cars just became a future tin can for veggies.”

Nancy burst out laughing. We traded a few more pleasantries — mostly her roasting me for not calling more often — before we hung up.

Anderson Shipping. Damn. Pieces started clicking together like a bad jigsaw puzzle. Why would they have someone tail me? Then it struck me like a lightning bolt to the brain. Fiona. They’d had her followed, and I’d just happened to pop up on their radar. I was the wild card in their deck, the unknown variable they couldn’t place. But if Anderson thought he could play this game, well, challenge accepted.

I turned back to the wreck, snapping a few pictures for good measure. The rescue crew was working hard, cutting the guy out through both back doors. As I edged closer, something inside the car caught my eye — a cell phone, lying on the floor in the back.

I glanced around. Everyone was focused on the rescue. Even the bystanders were gawking at the action. No one was paying attention to me. Acting on impulse, I reached in, grabbed the phone, and slid it into my pocket.

With that bit of improvised detective work done, I walked over to where the paramedics were stabilizing the guy.

“He’s critical but stable,” one of them told me. “We’re taking him to Constantiaberg Mediclinic.”

The cops were next, asking for my details since I’d witnessed the accident. No big deal — I handed it over, kept things cordial, and got the hell out of there before they started asking questions I wasn’t ready to answer.

By the time I got back to the guest house, my head was spinning. Anderson was playing a game, and now I was part of it. They’d followed Fiona, sure — but I was about to turn the tables. It was time to make some moves of my own.

Then I got in my car and drove to the guest house.

Back at the guest house, I pulled out my phone and called Fiona. It barely rang twice before she answered with a teasing lilt in her voice.

“Gee, Roy! That was quick! Have you found a clue to where the cave might be already?”

“Not yet, Fiona, but I did spot something when I pulled into the guest house parking. Something I think you’d enjoy.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“Can you ride a horse?”

“Of course, I can! But that was long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away...” She giggled, and I could picture her rolling her eyes in mock nostalgia.

“Well, they’ve got horses here. They take people out onto the beach for out-rides. What do you say? Are you game?”

“Or do you just want an excuse to see me again?” she chuckled, her tone playful. “Of course I’m game!”

“I’ll come pick you up.”

“That’s a waste of time! Just send me a location pin; I’ll drive over.”

“I’ll come pick you up.”

“Roy, how will I get back?”

“I’ll take you back.”

“This isn’t a ploy to get me to stay over at your place, is it?”

“Fiona, listen.” I kept my tone steady but serious. “It’s not safe for you to drive over here alone. There’ve been ... developments. I’ll explain everything when I get there.”

“What kind of developments?”

“I was followed when I left your B&B.”

“What?” The alarm in her voice made me cringe. “Followed? By whom?”

“I’ll explain everything in person. Stay inside, lock your door, and don’t go anywhere until I arrive. I’ll be there in about forty minutes.”

“You’re scaring me, Roy.”

“I know. Just trust me on this. I’m on my way.”

“Okay ... but hurry.”

“I’m leaving now.”

“Okay.”

The drive back to Bergvliet was uneventful, but my mind was racing. The pieces were starting to fall into place, and none of them painted a pretty picture. Anderson Shipping CC ... why would they have someone tailing Fiona? Or me, for that matter? The tangled web was tightening, and I didn’t like it.

As I turned into Gumtree Road, I called Fiona.

“I’ll be outside. Thirty seconds,” she replied curtly before hanging up. True to her word, she was standing outside the gate when I arrived, a small sling bag draped over her shoulder. Her expression was a mixture of confusion and apprehension.

She slid into the passenger seat and shut the door. “What’s happening, Roy?” she asked, her voice tight with nerves.

“Remember that beige BMW that was parked on the corner?”

She frowned. “I didn’t notice it.”

“Well, the guy in it followed me all the way to Noordhoek. Long story short, the car’s registered to Anderson Shipping CC. Care to explain why your benefactor might be spying on you or me?”

Her eyes widened. “What?! Anderson? Are you sure?”

“Positive. I had my sister run the plates.” I paused to let that sink in, then added, “I think he had you followed, Fee. And I think it’s time we figure out why.”

“Fee?” she asked, her voice softening slightly.

“If you don’t like it, I can stop.”

“No ... it’s fine. My mum calls me that,” she said, her lips curving into a faint smile.

“Good. Because ‘Fifi’ sounds...”

“ ... slutty?” she finished, chuckling despite herself.

“Exactly.” She’s finishing my sentences for me. Curious.

“I’m calling Anderson right now!” she said, pulling out her phone.

“Not yet,” I said quickly. “Wait until we’re somewhere safe and can plan our next move.”

Her nostrils flared, and her grip on the phone tightened. “The audacity! Having me followed? That’s an invasion of my privacy!”

“Calm down, Fee. We’ll sort him out together. Trust me.”

Her jaw tightened, but she nodded. Silence filled the car as we crested the Steenberg Mountain. The sun was just beginning to dip, casting golden light across Constantia Mountain’s cliffs. Fiona broke the quiet first, her gaze fixed on the dark spot on the rocky face.

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing. “That shadow over there.”

“Elephant’s Eye,” I replied. “It’s a cave in the mountain.”

“Can we go there?”

“Sure. But it’s just a shallow cave — maybe twenty meters deep at most. Not exactly the kind of place Sir Francis Drake would’ve hidden his treasure.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not visible from the sea, for starters. And it’s too exposed. The man was smart enough to pick somewhere less obvious.”

She studied the cliffs thoughtfully. “Have you been there?”

“A few times.”

“Possibly we should go anyway. The view must be spectacular.”

“It is,” I admitted.

She shifted in her seat, leaning slightly toward me. “Why’s it called Elephant’s Eye?”

“Because from an angle down from the valley below, the mountain looks like the profile of an elephant, and the cave is where the eye would be.”

“Nature’s illusions are incredible,” she murmured, her voice soft with wonder.

“From your B&B, look west towards the mountain range, and you will see it. At midday around 11:00 the sun shines directly on the cave entrance and lights up a pine tree right in the entrance. Awesome.”

I smiled, but my focus was on the winding road ahead. Fiona must have noticed my pensive silence because she tilted her head and said, “You’re thinking.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Your short, cryptic answers.”

“I’m concentrating. This road’s winding, and there’s a beautiful woman in my passenger seat, distracting me.”

“Where’s she?” Fiona replied, looking around. “It’s only ugly duckling me here...”

“Yes! She’s you.”

Her cheeks turned pink, and she glanced down at her hands. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Yes,” I simply said.

For a moment, she said nothing, then she leaned back with a small, mischievous smile. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought my crash bag.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s your crash bag in the back? I thought it was full of more documentary academic bombshells.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Just drive, Roy. Take me horse riding.”

And just like that, some tension between us eased. But I knew it wouldn’t last. Not with Anderson’s shadow looming over us.

We pulled up to the lodge and parked in front of my suite. Fiona grabbed her sling bag, and I led her inside, where she immediately dropped it onto the lounge sofa like it was her personal claiming ritual.

“Hmm ... Nice!” she said, spinning slowly to take in the room, the little kitchen and the passage. “A little more luxurious than my place.”

“Oh, come on, Fiona, it’s basic. The same as yours, just with slightly different furniture,” I countered, already knowing this conversation was going to turn into a full-blown critique.

Fiona gave me a look that could dismantle governments. “Roy, this is not just a room; this is a cottage with a private garden and all! Two rooms with double and queen-size beds! It’s like a secret love child of a hotel and a spa.” She flopped onto the couch, as if to test its cushioning, and with a smile of approval got up again.

“Well ... it’s home away from home,” I mumbled, trying not to sound too smug. “And it’s not that expensive.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Dollars or rands?”

“It sounds better in dollars,” I admitted, scratching the back of my neck.

“Yes, Mister ’I’m a Published Author’, ” she teased, her smirk growing wider.

I shot back with a grin of my own. “Well, you’re also a published author. Twice!”

“How do you figure that?”

“Two doctoral theses,” I said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“But those aren’t bestsellers that rake in mega bucks. I’m lucky if twenty or thirty people even download them, let alone buy them.”

“Still counts as publications. Your name is out there!” I pointed at her dramatically, like a lawyer making his closing argument.

She rolled her eyes. “But it doesn’t pay the rent. I have to work for that!”

“Fee, don’t give me that nonsense. A professor at UP gets, what, 1.2 million rand a year? That’s more than I make in two years.”

“I’m just a senior lecturer,” she corrected, waving her hand like it was no big deal. “I’m not even on the max scale. I get much less than that.”

“But you’re a professor! A double PhD! They should be paying you twice what you’re getting now!”

“Oh, thank you, Roy. I’ll be sure to let the university Senate know you think that. Slave labour — that’s me.” She leaned back into the couch, clearly done with discussing her pay cheque. “But let’s not let your bestseller income hinder you in your lifestyle, hmm?”

“You only live once. Enjoy it while you’re young. What’s money to old people? They can’t enjoy it like we can,” I said, with the confidence of a man who justifies every impulse purchase with this exact logic.

“Let’s skip the subject, Roy. Now, make me coffee and tell me what you know. More importantly, tell me how we’re going to wring Anderson’s neck.”

“Make yourself at home,” I said, gesturing to the couch. Fiona plopped down like she was claiming squatter’s rights.

I moved to the small kitchenette and grabbed the kettle. Filling it with water, I set it to boil. “I didn’t have time to go shopping, so you’ll have to settle for whatever coffee they left here.”

“Nescafé Gold?” she asked, her tone dripping with faux disapproval.

I shook my head. “Nah, Douwe Egbert’s Dark Roast, number four out of five. One hundred percent pure freeze-dried Kenyan coffee from the slopes of Kilimanjaro.”

“Yum!” she said, her face lighting up. “I haven’t had that in ages. Poor, poverty-stricken professors can’t afford to buy that,” She teased.

“Two spoons of coffee, three sugar, and a cat-spit of milk?” she replied as I’m already reaching for the mugs.

“Exactly as I like it as well.”

She giggled. “Now you’ve got my tastes memorized. Next, you’ll be telling me you’ve got a secret stash of biscotti hidden somewhere.”

“Coming right up!” I replied, grinning as I got to work on the coffee. My hand hesitated over the milk carton as I debated what exactly a “cat-spit” of milk looked like. Hopefully, she wouldn’t notice if it turned into more of a dog-dribble.

“The Lodge left you biscotti?” She asked with wide eyes.

“No. I indulge in it also, so I brought three boxes along.”

“Looks like the two of us are going to get along just fine,” She laughed.

Silently, and without her seeing it, I sent a small prayer towards St. Francis of Assisi and crossed my fingers.

Not wanting to come across as crowding her, I sat down across from her on the other couch. The warm aroma of coffee and biscotti filled the air, adding a sense of calm to the otherwise charged atmosphere as I recounted the full details of the incident with the white BMW and how I tracked down the ownership of the vehicle.

Fiona kicked off her shoes, tucking her legs beneath her on the couch, her expression growing more intense as she listened in silence. When I finished, she leaned back slightly, tilting her head in thought.

“And where is that cell phone now?” she finally asked.

“Right here.” I reached into my trouser pocket and pulled it out, holding it up like a trophy.

Her gaze narrowed slightly. “So, what now? What’s your plan?”

“I need to verify the service provider and somehow get hold of the call records,” I replied, turning the phone over in my hand.

Her brow arched. “And if it’s a burner phone? They won’t have call records,” she said, stating the obvious.

“You do know that I’m, first and foremost, an investigative journalist, right?” I shot back with a small smirk.

“Yes, but what has that got to do with the price of eggs?”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “I have access to resources that sweet, innocent, poverty-stricken professors don’t have.”

“Touché,” she admitted, rolling her eyes with a grin. “Now what’s your plan going forward?”

“Simple,” I said. “Find out what calls were made from this phone and to whom.”

“And if Anderson’s number pops up, you’ve got proof to nail him?”

“IF,” I emphasized, “and only if he’s not also using a burner phone.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “And if he is?”

“Then we’re screwed.”

Her head tilted as she considered that. “No other options?”

I smiled faintly. “There’s more than one way to kill a rat.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Okay, Roy ... and by that, you mean?”

“Attack is the best defence. We call him and confront him.”

“Roy,” she said, the last biscotti halfway to her mouth, “ain’t that dangerous?”

I shrugged, leaning back and stretching my legs out. “We’ll observe the Eleventh and Twelfth Commandments.”

She blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Doeth unto others, before they doeth unto ye,” I replied solemnly.

Her giggle turned into an outright laugh. “And the Twelfth Commandment?”

“Ye shalt not be caughteth,” I said, keeping a completely straight face.

That did it. Fiona doubled over, her biscotti almost forgotten as she dissolved into hysterical laughter. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably as she gasped for air.

I took a sip of my coffee, savouring the moment. “Glad you find the sacred commandments so inspiring.”

“Roy,” she wheezed between giggles, “if journalism doesn’t work out for you, stand-up comedy is your calling.”

“Noted,” I said with mock seriousness. “But first, we have a rat to catch.”

“First, take me horse riding.”

“Tomorrow maybe. I think the stables are closed now. But after that whole packet of biscotti, I think a stroll along the beach will do us both good.”

“You’re a sly and dangerous man, Roy Reasor. Sly and dangerous, but I like it. Let’s go!”

Johannesburg (Gauteng)