Chapter 7

Gumtree Road, Bergvliet.

It was still early evening, but the Cape Town winter night had already settled in with a kind of weighty inevitability. Darkness came fast this time of year, stretching long over the city, wrapping its streets in an almost tangible hush. The short suburban road, usually alive with the sounds of passing cars and the distant chatter of families winding down their day, was now cloaked in silence. Only the occasional muted bark of a dog echoed from behind a high garden wall and was quickly swallowed by the night.

Warm yellow light seeped through thick curtains, casting faint glows against the cold, damp walls of houses tucked behind their hedges and wrought iron fences. It was the kind of evening where no one lingered outside unless necessity forced them to — winter’s sharp bite kept people indoors, pressed up against heaters and wrapped in thick blankets, while the world outside grew still.

A handful of cars sat haphazardly parked along the curb, their positions careless — half on the pavement, half in the road — evidence of drivers eager to escape the cold as quickly as possible. Their windows had already fogged over, misted with condensation that clung to the glass in uneven streaks. Droplets collected along windshields, slow-moving beads of moisture tracing meandering paths before dripping onto the slick asphalt below.

The skeletal trees lining the sidewalk stood bare and motionless, their thin, spindly branches stark against the low glow of the streetlights. Every so often, a droplet of water fell from the brittle tips of a branch, landing with an almost imperceptible tap on the pavement. The streetlights, dim and haloed by the thickening mist, cast an eerie, diffused glow, making the street look like a scene lifted straight out of a noir crime thriller — dark, moody, and filled with an unnamed tension.

From the south, beyond the mountain ridge, a light fog began its slow, creeping approach. It rolled in from Muizenberg and Lakeside, seeping over the lowlands like a silent tide. The mist thickened as it slithered into the Constantia Valley, swallowing the hard edges of the world. Garden walls blurred, street signs softened, and the street itself seemed to shrink under the weight of the encroaching fog.

A chill crept into the air — not just from the cold, but from something less tangible, something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. There was an anticipation in the air, a quiet expectancy, as though the night was waiting for something to happen. And at that moment, as the fog curled its fingers around the street, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something — or someone — was still out there, just beyond the veil of mist. Watching. Waiting.

Fiona had earlier parked the Land Rover inside the gates of the B&B. I’d planned it that way, knowing she’d only check out in the morning. My SUV, however, was tucked neatly lower down the street, blending into the condensation-coated tableau of parked cars. I’d killed every light on the vehicle — roof light, dashboard, everything. Turning off the ignition key and removing it cut the electrics completely. Even opening the doors wouldn’t set off so much as a flicker of light. Locking it manually with the key instead of the fob ensured there’d be no betraying flash of indicators. It was all part of the plan.

“Forty minutes,” I’d told Fiona. “Maybe less.”

True to my calculations, thirty-eight minutes later headlights swept into the street, illuminating the fog like spectral beams. The car came from Dreyersdal Road, moving slowly, too slowly to be anything but suspicious. It rolled up to the T-junction with Stark Road, then made a clumsy three-point turn before heading back up Gumtree.

At the gate of the B&B, it stopped. One big guy got out, and I felt Fiona stiffen beside me.

“What now?” she whispered, her voice betraying the nervous energy she was trying to contain.

“We watch,” I said simply, keeping my eyes on the scene. “You got a tube of lipstick on you?”

She shot me a bewildered look. “Lipstick? What the hell are you planning to do with lipstick?”

“You’ll see.”

She rummaged through her handbag, chuckling nervously. “Here. It’s an old one. Knock yourself out, Picasso.”

The car reversed slightly, lining up with the gate. The big guy vaulted over with ease, expertly avoiding the electric fencing. I had to admit, the guy knew his stuff. He fiddled with the gate motor for all of twenty seconds before the gate swung open.

“Hmm,” I muttered. “Old hand at this.”

The car crept forward, halfway into the gate opening, and stopped. The guy clearly understood the gate sensors wouldn’t close on an obstruction. Both men exited, disappearing around the left side of the house.

Fiona leaned closer. “What are you going to do now? There’s two of them.”

I grinned and reached for the lipstick she’d handed me. “My turn.”

“Roy — wait! What are you —”

“Just watch.”

I slipped out of the SUV and made my way toward the car. The cold bit through my jacket, and the quiet crunch of my boots on the damp pavement seemed far too loud in the stillness.

The car door wasn’t locked. Amateurs. Even better, the idiot driver had left the keys in the ignition. I moved on to the tires. My pocketknife was out in a flash. The blade whispered through the rubber as I slashed both tires on the right side.

But I wasn’t done. Using the sleeve of my jacket, I wiped a clear patch on the misted windscreen. With Fiona’s waterproof lipstick, I scrawled in bold, angry letters:

“IF YOU OR ANDERSON FUCK WITH FIONA, I’LL FUCK WITH YOU! LAST WARNING.”

Satisfied, I stepped back to admire my handiwork. The crimson letters glistened under the streetlight, dripping slightly in the damp air. It looked menacing. Perfect.

I made my way back to the SUV, slipping in beside Fiona, who was practically vibrating with nervous energy.

“What did you do?” she demanded, her voice somewhere between a whisper and a hiss.

I grinned, starting the engine. “You’ll see when they see it. Now, how about some hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate?” she repeated incredulously. “Roy, just drive! Get me away from here!”

“Awe, come on,” I teased, pulling away slowly. “You don’t want to stick around for the show? Their faces are going to be priceless!”

“No!” she said, louder this time. “The excitement is far too much for me! Just drive!”

I laughed, glancing at her as we turned onto Dreyersdal Road. “You’re no fun, Fiona. No fun at all.”

This earned me a slap on the biceps. “Ouch!”

Jimmy and Alf at the B&B.

Light from the pool area cast a half-shadowed gloom over the side entrance door, shimmering off wet tiles and dappling the walkway with shifting reflections. Jimmy moved with the ease of a man who had done this a hundred times before, his steps soundless, his breath controlled. He knew this door was rarely locked — guests came and went, slipping through without a second thought, leaving no need for keys or codes. With a glance at Alf, he tested the handle. It turned smoothly. No resistance. No alarm.

They slipped inside.

The hallway was dimly lit, the low hum of distant conversation and soft music filtering through the walls. They moved with purpose, heading for Room Three. Jimmy reached into his pocket and retrieved his lock picks, the cool metal familiar between his fingers. The lock was basic, a cheap hotel-grade mechanism. It yielded to him in twenty seconds flat.

The door clicked open.

Jimmy pushed it wide, his hand flicking the light switch the instant the gap was wide enough. A sudden flood of yellow-white light cut through the darkness, searing into every corner of the room. Experience had taught him that a burst of light was often enough to disorient someone inside, giving him precious seconds to act.

But there was no one inside.

Jimmy’s stomach clenched. The bed was made, sheets undisturbed. His eyes darted across the room — no clothes draped over chairs, no shoes tucked near the door. He strode to the bathroom and yanked open the door. Empty. The sink was dry. No toothbrush. No toiletries. Not even a stray hair left behind.

His pulse pounded in his ears as he turned back into the room, scanning for any sign — any trace — that she had been here at all. He flung open drawers. Empty. He pulled the closet door wide. Bare.

No suitcases.

No personal effects.

Nothing.

Jimmy inhaled sharply through his nose, then turned to Alf, his expression dark. “She’s gone. Fuck!” His fist slammed into the palm of his other hand with a sharp smack, frustration boiling over.

He dropped onto the bed, pulling his phone from his pocket and hitting the dial button. The line rang once before Anderson picked up.

“She’s not here, Boss,” Jimmy said, his voice tight with restrained fury. “It looks like she moved out.”

“What do you mean, she’s moved out?” Anderson’s tone was sharp, suspicious.

“I mean there’s nothing here. No clothes, no toiletries, no luggage. The place is fucking empty. Only her car is still in the driveway.”

Silence. Then...

“Shit, shit, shit!” Anderson’s voice was like gravel grinding through the speaker. “She’s with that paper boy!”

Jimmy exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “But would she leave her car?”

“We were set up.” Anderson’s voice was flat, cold. “Get back here. Pronto.”

“Okay, Boss.”

Jimmy ended the call, stood, and strode for the door. Alf followed without question.

They stepped outside into the cool night air, the street lamp casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement. Jimmy’s foot had barely touched the asphalt when something made him freeze. His eyes locked onto the windshield of their car.

His stomach turned to ice.

The words scrawled across the glass were thick, smeared — written in something dark.

A warning.

He swallowed hard and stepped closer, his pulse hammering in his throat.

Then, he rounded the car and stopped dead.

Two flat tires.

Jimmy’s jaw clenched, rage coiling in his gut. He yanked the car door open and dropped into the drivers’ seat, fingers closing around the car keys, starting the car.

“For fuck’s sake!” Jimmy’s voice was a low growl of barely contained fury. His fist slammed against the steering wheel. “I’ll kill that bastard!”

Behind him, Alf shifted uneasily. “What now?” He hesitated. “Just let’s go.”

Jimmy turned his head, slow and deliberate, his expression a storm barely held back.

“ALF!”

Alf stiffened. “Yes, Jimmy...”

Jimmy’s voice was ice.

“SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.”

Jimmy’s hands clenched into fists, his nails biting into his palms as he forced himself to take a slow, measured breath. Shaking with rage wouldn’t help now. He needed to think. To act. To get the hell out of here before everything went to shit.

His mind worked fast, snapping through priorities. First: Get the damn car out of the driveway before someone inside noticed the gate hadn’t shut. If that journalist — if he — was still lurking, they couldn’t afford to be sitting here like ducks on eggs.

Jimmy started the car and pulled out slowly Inch by agonizing inch, the car lurched backward, the ruined tires resisting, dragging rubber against asphalt in a slow, grating crunching. Jimmy felt his pulse hammer in his throat. Too slow. Too loud. Too fucking obvious.

A bead of sweat trickled down his temple as he flicked a glance toward the house. No movement yet. No sudden lights switching on.

They crossed onto the pavement — And the gate hissed shut behind them.

Jimmy exhaled through his nose. One problem down.

And now, sitting in the darkness of an unfamiliar street with two flat tires, he needed a fix. Fast.

A flash of movement caught his eye.

At the lower end of the road, a pair of headlights bloomed from around the corner, slicing through the dim glow of the streetlamps. A car. Moving slow.

Jimmy went still.

Alf straightened, stepping away from the car as the approaching vehicle crawled toward them, its engine a soft purr against the night. Jimmy could barely make out the silhouette of the driver.

The car looked familiar. That of the paper-boy.

Jimmy’s breath hitched. The dim glow of the dashboard illuminated the shadowy figure of a woman inside. She didn’t look their way. Didn’t speak. But the way how she opened the window was that for them to see who she was. The grave robber bitch? Yes it was she. The window slid shut.

And in a blur of taillights and roaring acceleration, the car was gone.

Jimmy stared.

For a long moment, silence stretched between him and Alf.

Jimmy’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. Someone had played them like fools — taken their escape right out from under them and left them here like stranded dogs.

That mother fucker had known exactly what to do. Rage roared back, white-hot and suffocating.

“I’ll kill that bastard,” he snarled under his breath.

Alf, who had been watching him in silence, finally shifted uncomfortably. “Can we go now?”

Jimmy inhaled sharply through his nose. Think. Focus. Move.

“Get in,” he barked.

Alf hurriedly complied, scrambling back into the passenger seat.

He exhaled a sharp breath. Finally.

But there was still one problem.

His gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, to the reflection of their crippled tires sagging against the pavement. The car could run, but they wouldn’t get far on flats. They’d be lucky to make it a few blocks before tearing the rims to shreds.

Jimmy’s mind raced. Where? They needed a repair shop. An all-night service station.

Then he remembered —There was one up the street. In Ladies Mile Road.

He gritted his teeth and shifted the car into gear, steering onto the road with a sharp jolt. The ruined tires groaned against the pavement, the sluggish drag of the rubber sending vibrations through the steering column. He didn’t care. They just had to make it.

And when they did?

Someone was going to pay!

Noordhoek beach cottage.

I took the long way around, circling the block before looping back onto Gumtree Road. The wreck and its occupants were gone. Probably limping away on two flat tires, leaving a sad, rubbery trail of their misfortunes behind them. They wouldn’t get far—not in that state—but it didn’t matter. They were someone else’s problem now.

Fiona retrieved her Land Rover and drove off toward the Noordhoek cottage, and I fell in behind her, just to make sure everything was as it should be. The night had a sharp edge to it, the kind that seeped into your bones when the adrenaline wore off. The wind off the Atlantic wasn’t helping either. It rattled through the trees, whistling through the cracks in the old cottage walls, bringing the salty tang of the ocean with it.

Once inside, I shut the door behind us, sealing out the chill. Fiona shivered and rubbed her arms.

“I need a shower,” she declared, peeling off her jacket. “I’m stinky from all the excitement. And I am cold. I need to get some warmth in me.”

I chuckled and headed for the kitchen, fishing out the heavy brown bottle of Sedgwick’s Old Brown Sherry from the top shelf. “When you’re done, come right back. I have just the thing. A tumbler of this will chase away the polar bears.”

She giggled, already undoing the buttons of her shirt. “You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?”

I held up a hand in mock innocence. “Noooo! But a good buzz might do you some good.”

Fiona narrowed her eyes in exaggerated suspicion, then pointed two fingers at her own face and back at me. “Hmm ... I’m watching you with my one wooden eye...” She grinned mischievously before turning toward her room.