From Trinity Luhabe’s cellphone inbox

To: Trinity Luhabe
From: Stephanie O’Farrell

R U at work?

To: Stephanie O’Farrell

From: Trinity Luhabe

Yes. Why?

To: Trinity Luhabe
From: Stephanie O’Farrell

No reason. Not coming home early today, RU?

To: Stephanie O’Farrell
From: Trinity Luhabe

Doubt it. Boss lady told me to check facts, so that’s what I’m doing. Prob be here till late.

To: Trinity Luhabe
From: Stephanie O’Farrell

OK then.

To: Stephanie O’Farrell
From: Trinity Luhabe

Why??? Have u ordered 3 Chippendales to come round 4 orgy?

To: Trinity Luhabe
From: Stephanie O’Farrell

LOL! Of course not. Just wondering. C U later.

SO Barbara wants me to check my facts?

Fine. I’ll check them. I’ll check them until my right ear shrivels up and turns to toast. I’ll check them until Media Inc’s phone bill goes through the roof and Telkom cuts us off.

I spend the whole of Wednesday morning on the phone, trying to get answers to all the questions this story has thrown up. Not just the questions Barbara wants answered, but the ones I want answered too.

If only every answer I get didn’t lead to more and more questions. So far, I have phoned schools, police stations, government departments, London, Paris, Rome, and even a couple of former Eastern bloc countries. And I still haven’t got to the bottom of it all.

The schools are definitely the easiest to deal with. I’ve been getting lovely, efficient secretaries on the phone that either answer my questions themselves or find me someone else.

The most difficult to deal with are the government departments and the Eastern bloc countries. They have an approximately equal lack of clue as to what I’m talking about. But at least with the government departments, I can switch to Xhosa or Afrikaans to communicate when they don’t understand English. But that’s not really an option when I’m on the line to Latvia or Estonia.

By early afternoon, I’ve got about as far as I can. My questions have led me into a minefield of financial data that I can’t make head or tail of. I’m beginning to wish I’d done a degree in accountancy rather than economics.

I know just enough to realise that I’m wading into really deep waters here. It has to do with untangling a very complicated web of ownership and co-ownership of certain companies. There are CCs, sole proprietorships, shelf companies, private companies, and even a public listed company. Then there’s a network of businessmen who seem to sit on every board in the country. Even my dad’s name comes up a few times – but of course, he does sit on an awful lot of boards.

I just know that the answers I’m looking for are hiding in these financial statements somewhere. But the longer I stare at them, the more the numbers start blurring together. I’m obviously not the right person to figure this out.

Then maybe I can find someone who is?

I lift my head for what feels like the first time in hours, and have a look around the newsroom. It’s pretty empty. Most of the reporters are out on stories. It’s been a hectic news day, with new stories breaking every few minutes. A couple of people are still here, but I don’t know them very well.

It’s at times like this that I wish I’d made more of an effort to get to know my colleagues. Because now there’s no one I know well enough to ask a favour of.

Then Matsimela walks in, and my eyes brighten. He might not be a particular friend of mine, but he’s known for being willing to mentor younger reporters.

He’s walking to his desk with the head-down, single-minded look of someone who has a story to write up for a deadline. This probably isn’t the best time to bug him, but I’m running out of options here.

“Matsimela?”

“Hmm..?” He sits down at his desk.

“I need to ask you something.”

“Mm-hmm?”

I start talking a bit faster. “I need to speak to someone who can interpret some financial statements for me. And also untangle the ownership of various companies. I’ve got all the papers I need, but I can’t make sense of them.”

“Talk to Gidon Lazar,” he says, nodding at a desk behind us. “He’s your man. He’s a computer geek and an accountant. The best of both worlds, when you’re working with financial stuff.”

“Oh … right … him. Thanks, Matsimela.” I know I don’t sound hugely enthusiastic, but this is the guy who sits behind me and cleans out his ears with matchsticks.

Gidon Lazar is a wispy little dude with long strands of brown hair that he combs carefully over the bald spot on top of his head. (Why do white guys do that? Seriously, why?) It took me three months to notice that he was even there, and another month to start wondering what he actually did. I peer behind his computer.

“He’s not there,” I say.

“He’s probably at the Absa news conference,” Matsimela says. “They’re announcing some changes to their senior board this afternoon. You should go along to the Sandton Convention Centre and try to catch him there.”

“Why don’t I just phone him later?”

“Because he keeps his phone permanently switched off. This is a guy who plays by his own rules, Trinity. If you want him, you’re going to have to go and catch him in person.”

I walk slowly back to my desk.

Barbara was talking about that Absa conference just this morning. I’m sure she said it was starting a two o’clock and ending at about four. Yes. That’ll give me more than enough time to go home first and smarten up.

***

I’m almost at the flat when I suddenly remember Steph’s weird text messages from this morning.

I suppose I should really have phoned to let her know I was coming home. But I’m practically there now, and, honestly, who cares if she has some guy coming over or something? I’ll just slip in, get changed, and slip out again. They won’t even know I’m there.

But the moment I let myself into the flat, I realise I’ve made some kind of a mistake.
Steph’s face says it all. She’s standing there goggling at me with an expression of total horror in her eyes.

“You’re back!” she gasps. “But you said you wouldn’t be home until later.”

“I’m just popping in very quickly to get changed,” I say soothingly. “I’ll be five minutes, if that. Then I’m off to the Sandton Convention Centre, and you can get back to doing … whatever it is you’re doing.”

I stroll casually towards my bedroom to hide the fact that I’m absolutely popping with curiosity. What on earth is she up to? I glance down the passage and see that her bedroom door is closed.

Hmm. Fishy. Very fishy.

I’m convinced she’s got a guy in there.

As I turn into my room, I hear the sound of footsteps trotting up behind me.

“What do you want to change your clothes for?” Steph demands with a forced laugh. “You look perfect just the way you are.”

“Stephanie, I’m gatecrashing an Absa news conference at the Sandton Convention Centre,” I explain. “The least I can do is not turn up in jeans. You know what bankers are like. They’re always wearing suits and stuff.”

“Well, I still think you look absolutely fine. Those are your True Religion jeans aren’t they? Yes, I thought so. So, in a way, those are actually smarter than anything the bankers might be wearing. I really think you should just go as you are. Plus, you might get stuck in traffic and be late.”

She plucks urgently at my sleeve.

“Steph!” I say, half-laughing. “This will literally only take five minutes. Then I’ll be out of your hair, I promise. So, if you’ve got someone coming over or …”

I tail off as I suddenly notice something odd about my room.

My cupboard doors are standing open.

I never leave my cupboard doors open. I’ve been locking them every single day to keep Ajala’s parcel safe. How did they get open?

I quickly feel in my handbag for the key. It’s not there.

Then I remember.

When I got dressed this morning, I left the key in the lock. I was so freaked out at the thought of being fired, and so determined to get into work early to concentrate on my story, that I completely forgot to put the key in my bag.

But I know I locked the cupboard. I remember that quite clearly.
“Trinity …”

Without looking at Steph, I walk slowly to my cupboard and look up at the top shelf, already knowing what I’m going to find.

It’s gone. The parcel is gone.

I turn back to her with the question already on my lips, “Steph …”

Her face is all screwed up in apology. “I’m so sorry, Trinity! You know I’d do anything for you. But that parcel was going to mess up both our lives. I had to do it – I didn’t have a choice.”

“Do what?” I ask ominously. “What did you do, Steph? Where did you put it? Just tell me where it is and we can get it back with no harm done.”

She leads me silently back along the passage to our sitting room. And there it is – lying on the coffee table. Still wrapped up in its duct tape.

“Oh, thank God!” I feel quite weak with relief. “I thought you’d thrown it into a builder’s skip or something. My mind was boggling at the thought of how we were going to explain it to Ajala.”

The doorbell rings and I turn my head irritably. “Now what?”

“I’ll get it.” Steph says in a slightly strangled voice. She walks stiffly to the front door.

What on earth is going on?

Steph opens the door and I hear a man’s voice speaking with an Afrikaans accent.

“Afternoon, lady.

“Um, hi,” she says nervously. “Come on in.”

She unlocks the security gate and lets two guys into our flat.

Oh for God’s sake, I do not believe this. She went and called the cops.

“I’m Sergeant van Vuuren from Narcotics,” the one guy is saying. “And this is Constable Mugwadi from the Sandton police station. You phoned in connection with a suspicious parcel?”

They both hand over their identification for us to inspect.

“There it is.” Steph points at the coffee table. “That’s it.”

Then she takes a huge step back as though it’s about to explode. Honestly, what does she think this is – the Crime and Investigation network?

Sergeant van Vuuren eyes the parcel expressionlessly. “Right. If you could just give us a brief statement about how it came to be in your possession?”

“But I already told the officer on duty when I phoned the police station,” Steph objects.

Constable Mugwadi takes out a notebook and pencil, and they both wait silently for her to continue.

Tell us again, their expressions are saying.

“Steph takes a deep breath. “Okay. It was given to us by this guy who lives upstairs. He’s a Nigerian.”

Constable Mugwadi shakes his head. “Nigerians. Eish. Nothing but trouble, those guys.”

“How can you say that about a whole group of people?” I say angrily. “Just because you’ve had trouble with some Nigerians in the past, you automatically assume they must all be criminals. It’s not right.”

“We can’t do our jobs without a certain amount of profiling, lady,” Sergeant van Vuuren says ponderously. “We have to make snap decisions in the heat of the moment. Those decisions could save our lives, or the life of a member of the public.”

“He said it was a gift for his mother,” Steph goes on. “He said she was staying with him and that he wanted to keep the gift a secret from her. But there’s no one staying with him. No one at all. The other thing you should know about this guy is that there’s a court case against him for selling drugs.”

“No there is not!” I say.

Constable Mugwadi has been writing away furiously, but he stops and looks up at me.

“So, this man has already been arrested for dealing narcotics and has charges pending against him?” Sergeant van Vuuren asks.

“No, he hasn’t!” I splutter. “It’s not a criminal case at all. It’s just some local residents who are trying to shut down his club.”

“My friend’s right,” Steph admits reluctantly. “We have no idea whether this guy has ever been arrested or not. It is a civil case, not a criminal one. But the point is that he has a very bad reputation. The more we find out about him, the more uncomfortable we feel about keeping this package in our flat. That’s why we called you. We want you to take it away for us so we don’t have to worry about it any more. So will you do that, please?”

The two policemen exchange glances. Sergeant van Vuuren turns to us with a patronising smile. “I think we’ll open it first, young lady, if it’s all the same to you. And if we do find narcotics inside, I’m afraid your troubles are just beginning. You did the right thing by calling us, but being in possession of illegal drugs is a very serious offence. You will have to come to the police station with us to answer some questions.”

I close my eyes and sigh. I’m supposed to be at the Sandton Convention Centre by four o’clock. I’m starting to wish Steph had just dumped the package in a builder’s skip after all.

Sergeant van Vuuren holds out his hand.

“Knife,” he says to the constable, like a surgeon on Grey’s Anatomy.

Constable Mugwadi fiddles in his pockets then produces a rusty old penknife. He hands it to the sergeant, and the surgery begins.

Van Vuuren plunges his knife into the package and starts to saw. I glance over at Steph. She’s holding her breath, just like I am.

The crisscrossed layers of duct tape are making it difficult for the Sergeant. His shoulders tremble with the effort of cutting through it all, and he gives a little grunt of annoyance.

Then, suddenly, the layers all give way at once. A great gash appears in the side of the package and the contents explode all over our carpet.

The crunchy, scented, multicoloured contents.

Ai wena!”

Wat de bliksem?”

We stare uncomprehendingly at the mess. Then, suddenly, I get it.

“It’s pot-pourri,”

“Poe what?” demands the sergeant.

“Petals that have been dried and impregnated with aromatic oils,” I explain. “I find it a bit overpowering myself, but Ajala’s mom is obviously a fan.”

I steal a glance at Steph. The blush rising to her face is like the sun coming up on a Lowveld morning.

“No, man, this can’t be right.” Sergeant van Vuuren hacks irritably at the package. “This guy is a Nigerian. There must be something hidden inside all this flower kak.”

He digs around with his penknife until our carpet starts to look like the honeymoon suite of a tacky hotel. But he doesn’t find one single trace of illegal drugs.

Constable Mugwadi pulls a face.

“Now the sergeant will be in a bad mood the whole day,” he mutters to me in Xhosa. I give him a sympathetic smile.

Sergeant van Vuuren turns angrily to Steph. “Wasting police time is a serious matter, lady.”

“I know,” she gulps. “I’m so sorry. I really thought there was something else in there. You said yourself that we were right to have called you.”

“That was when I still thought we were on the point of seizing a kilo of heroin.”

Sergeant van Vuuren sighs and stares into the distance, apparently lost in a happy dream of all the glory that would have been his. Then he snaps out of it and reads us a stern lecture about the evils of wasting police time, including all the innocent people who could have been killed while he and Constable Mugwadi were messing about in our flat.

Steph and I say sorry about a million times, but he doesn’t want to hear it.

“Next time call a … a florist or something!” he says as the two of them sweep out the front door, which neither of us has bothered to close yet.

Steph and I stare at the carpet in silence. Then a giggle escapes me.

“A florist. That’s a good one!”

“For goodness’ sake, open a window,” Steph says crossly. “It smells like Toilet Duck in here.”
But now that I’ve started laughing, I can’t stop. “Did you see his face when the pot-pourri exploded all over him? There were still a few petals on his uniform when he left. I wonder what his captain will think.”

Steph grins reluctantly. But then she drops her head into her hands and gives a long, loud groan.

“Oh my God, I will never live this down. I have never been so mortified in my entire life. This is officially the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me.”

***

Steph and I get down on our hands and knees and start gathering up pot-pourri. She sweeps it up with a brush and pan, while I scoop it into my hands and drop it in a Pick ’n Pay packet. We have some vague idea of trying to wrap it up again with plastic and duct tape.

I’m totally engrossed in scraping up the crunchy petals when I hear a soft footstep on the carpet behind me, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

Scrambling to my feet, I almost dislocate a hip.

It’s Ajala. He’s staring at the drifts of pot-pourri all over the carpet like he can’t quite believe his eyes. His mouth is opening and closing but no sound is coming out.

“Your front door was standing open,” he says at last. “I just looked in to see if you were all right. There was a police van pulling out of the complex just as I arrived. I thought there might have been an incident here.”

He swallows carefully and points at the carpet. “What … is that?”

I catch Steph’s eye. I can almost see what she’s thinking: This is officially the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to her.

I clear my throat. “There’s been a slight … um … accident with your pot-pourri”.

“Yes, I can see that. But how …?”

He breaks off as he spots the ruined corpse of the package that once contained his mother’s gift. It looks like Jack the Ripper lost his temper with it.

“You are telling me this happened by accident?”

“Well … um … not exactly.” I squirm.

A light seems to go on behind his eyes. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with those two officers of the law I saw driving out of here a moment ago?” he asks.

Ajala is not stupid. I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. He’s almost got it figured out already.

“Sort of,” Steph says reluctantly. “We called the police because …”

I clear my throat loudly.

“I mean, I called the police,” she corrects. “It was all me. Trinity had nothing to do with it.”

I see how upset she’s looking and immediately start feeling sorry for her. I can’t let her take the blame for this whole thing on her own.

“I thought you were right, too, in the end,” I admit. “I thought I’d probably been naive all along.”

Ajala listens to what I’m saying, but immediately turns back to Steph. “What did you think?” he asks gently.

“I thought … I thought …” She blinks hard. “I didn’t know …”

To my amazement, I realise she’s almost on the brink of tears.

“We didn’t know what was in the parcel,” I explain. “You said it was a gift for your mother, but Steph had never seen you with her. And then there was the court case, with all those people saying terrible things about you. We thought you’d given us …”

“Drugs,” he finishes, with a twisted smile. “Because I’m a Nigerian and everyone knows that Nigerians deal drugs.”

I hang my head. “Why didn’t you tell us what was in it?”

“Because you didn’t ask. And also, to be truthful, because I don’t tell everyone that I make pot-pourri. It changes the way they look at my – what is the word? My man-ness?”

“Your masculinity.”

“Exactly. My mother sews it into bags to sell at a market in Lagos. She thought I’d stopped making it since I came to South Africa. I wanted to surprise her. But she is like a busy little dog, sniffing here and sniffing there, all over my apartment. So I had to hide it. But pot-pourri is very sensitive. It has to be kept completely airtight until you are ready to use it, and at a constant temperature all the time. Pot-pourri does not like to be disturbed.”

Steph and I glance guiltily at the mess on the floor. I’m pretty sure that ripping it open and scattering it all over the carpet would count as disturbing it.

“We’re really sorry.”

“Come,” says Ajala. “I have something to show you.”

I take a step towards him, but then I notice that he’s not looking at me. He’s talking to Steph.

She takes a deep breath and follows him out of the flat.

I’m a bit miffed that I don’t get to go along too, but it has suddenly occured to me that my five-minute stop-off to change my clothes has turned into more than an hour.

Shit. It’s half past four already. The conference must be long over. I wonder if anyone is still hanging around. It all depends on whether they’re serving food and drinks afterwards.

I quickly phone the convention centre, only to be told that the last delegate left ten minutes ago. Then I try calling Gidon Lazar’s cellphone number, only to find that it’s switched off – just as Matsimela predicted.

Damn, damn, damn.

I’ve lost another day. Barbara’s patience is running out fast and I’ve still got nothing to show her. I somehow doubt that she’d accept the pot-pourri as evidence that Ajala is a good guy.

I settle down at the dining-room table to organise my papers into some kind of user-friendly order for Gidon Lazar. I’m about halfway through when Steph comes back in. She’s looking unusually subdued.

“So, what did he want to show you?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing much,” she says hollowly. “Just his mother.”

“Oops. You mean she is staying with him, after all?”

Steph sighs and nods her head.

“But where’s he been hiding her all this time? You said he’s always on his own, with no one else in sight.”

Ja, that’s what I thought. But come and have a look at this.”

I follow Steph to her bedroom.

“This is where I sit while I’m working, right?” she says, indicating her desk. “From here I can see heads bobbing up and down the stairs all day long. I know exactly who’s coming and going.”

“I know. You’re better than a security camera. So …?”

“So he took me upstairs and introduced me to his mother and she’s, like, five foot nothing in heels. She’s this really short little Nigerian lady. Which means …”

“You couldn’t see her from where you were sitting.”

“Exactly. They’ve been going up and down that staircase for weeks but I only ever saw his head, not hers. So I assumed he was on his own.”

I sink down onto Steph’s bed, laughing.

“Oh God, that is classic! Talk about one misunderstanding after another. Thank goodness it’s all sorted out now.”

Steph looks anything but relieved. “It’s not sorted out at all, Trinity. I called the police on him. I ruined his pot-pourri. I feel completely terrible about everything.”

“Oh, don’t worry, he’ll forgive us, you’ll see. Ajala’s not the type to bear a grudge.”

“He’s already forgiven you.” she says bitterly. “He knows you had nothing to do with it. I’m the one who caused all the trouble.”

I stand up and give her a pat on the arm. “He’ll forgive you soon, too. I promise. Just give it some time.”

***

I can’t wait to get to work the next morning.

I know there’s not much chance of Gidon getting in early, but I look around eagerly for him, anyway. By half past nine, I can’t stand the suspense any more and ask Matsimela when he’s expected to come in.

“Whenever he feels like it,” Matsimela says with a shrug. “He’s a law unto himself, that guy. He comes in when he feels like it. Leaves when he feels like it. Keeps his phone switched off.”

“Does Barbara know about this?”

“Of course. There’s not much going on here that Barbara doesn’t know about.”

“So, why does she put up with it?” I try to imagine using those same tactics myself, but just the thought is enough to make my palms sweat.

“She can’t do without him. None of us can. He’s indispensable – and he knows it.”

I wander back to my desk, trying to get my head around the idea of that funny little guy being one of the most important people in the newsroom. It took me months to realise he even existed.
Gidon finally drifts in at about half past ten, just as I’m about to start biting my nails. He’s carrying a greasy old filofax under one arm and a lunch box under the other. He keeps his eyes down and greets nobody.

He gets to his desk and starts setting his stuff out with fussy precision. The filofax is placed exactly in line with the edge of the desk, and the lunch box is lined up precisely with the opposite edge. He dusts his chair down with a hanky, and pulls out an antibacterial wipe to clean his keyboard. Then he opens his lunch box and I suddenly realise why I always get a whiff of liver-paste at this time of the morning. Finally, he takes out a box of matches and lines that up at right angles to the lunch box.

For a dizzy moment I wonder if he’s so above the law that he’s about to start smoking in here, but the matchbox stays where it is.

Just as he’s about to start typing, I dart forward with my hand outstretched.

“Hi, Gidon? My name is …”

“Trinity Luhabe,” he says, ignoring the hand. “Daughter of Abel and Sunet Luhabe. Majored in English and Economics at Rhodes Univeristy. You got thirds for both subjects, didn’t you?”

I give a nervous laugh. “Well, as long as you’re not confusing me with some other Trinity Luhabe.”

God, what a weirdo.

“What do you want?” he asks abruptly.

I was hoping to ease into this gently, but he’s obviously not one for social chit-chat. So …

“I need a breakdown of the shareholders for this company, and this company, and this company,” I say, putting down three piles of paper on his desk, one after the other. “I need a list of all the companies that these guys have a financial interest in, including CCs, sole proprietorships, shelf companies, and anything that might be in their wives’ or kids’ names. Then I need to know about this man.” I lay down another piece of paper and tap it with my forefinger. “Is he connected to these guys in any way, especially financially? And finally, I need these financial reports translated into plain English so I can understand them. And most important of all, I need it all to be kept completely confidential.”

He flicks expertly through the papers I’ve given him. His eyebrows rise slightly as he sees some of the names I’m interested in. His glasses slip down to the end of his nose and he pushes them back up again.

“Playing with the big boys, are you?”
I nod, trying to ignore the squirmy feeling in my tummy. “Even more reason why I need this to be kept quiet. There’s no way they’ll find out that you’re looking into their business, is there?”

Gidon doesn’t seem to hear me. He reaches for the matchbox, opens it, and carefully takes out a match. Then he closes it again, taking care to line it up exactly as it was.
Oh, no. Please, no.

Holding it daintily between thumb and forefinger, he inserts it into his right ear until it disappears almost up to the match head. Then he starts twiddling and rotating it with a faraway look in his eyes.

This is possibly the grossest thing I have ever seen in my life.

After a long, long time, he pulls the match out of his ear and lays it on the desk. There’s a dark little piece of ear wax clinging to the tip.

I think I’m about to faint.

No, I’m not. I need him to answer my question first.

“Is there?” I repeat insistently. I find if I focus on a spot just above his head, the match stays out of my field of vision.

“Not likely,” he says at last. “I’m not in the habit of leaving trackbacks to my server. You just leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.”

I thank him stiffly and am about to return to my desk when he suddenly says, “You know, someone else was looking at this stuff a couple of days ago.”

That gets my attention. “Really? You mean another reporter? How do you know?”

“It was at some conference or meeting I attended the other day. Someone was talking about some of these people. Not someone from Jozi.”

“Who was it?”

He shrugs his shoulders all the way up to his ears. “Can’t remember, sorry.”

I stare at him in frustration. What’s the point of being an eccentric, ear-twiddling genius if you go and forget stuff?

I sit down at my computer again. I don’t like the sound of this at all. I thought I was the only one looking seriously at this story. I’ve been at Jozi long enough to know that this is not good news. Not good news at all.