Bold-Faced Lie by Tracy Gilpin

Author:Tracy Gilpin [Gilpin, Tracy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: F - Fiction, FH - Thriller/suspense, FHD - Espionage+spy thriller, FHP - Political/legal thriller
ISBN: 9780620605915
Publisher: Tracy Gilpin
Published: 2014-05-07T00:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

‘What did the woman at the chemist say?’ Dunai asked as they pulled away in Carl’s four-wheel drive, heading for the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront. ‘Did she serve Cowley the night of Siobhan’s murder?’

‘She did,’ Carl said. ‘But she was extremely nervous, which means one of two things: she didn’t want to get involved or she was paid to provide him with an alibi.’

‘And the security guard?’

‘There were quite a few customers that night. He doesn’t remember him. But the woman on the till said he reads magazines while he’s on duty so he wouldn’t have taken note of a customer who wasn’t a threat.’

‘Or,’ Dunai said, ‘he doesn’t remember Cowley because he was never there.’

‘That’s the other possibility.’

‘What do we do now?’

‘See if there’s something connecting Cowley and the chemist assistant; maybe a member of his congregation or family friend.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Waterfront,’ Carl answered.

The Victoria & Alfred Waterfront was the most visited tourist destination in South Africa. Table Bay and Cape Town Harbour were generous with sea, mountains and colonial maritime buildings visible from restaurants, hotels, office blocks, shopping malls, tourist centres and residential marinas. There was always plenty to do with boat, helicopter and fishing charters, festivals, tours and museums.

Carl used the Coen Steytler entrance, took the South Arm Road and after some circling found a parking bay within the Clock Tower Precinct.

Dunai had assumed they were meeting the informant in the Clock Tower Centre, but they strode past it to the Nelson Mandela Gateway.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘Robben Island.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the ferries are full on a Saturday and you have to book a place days in advance. The informant has tickets for us, we’ll collect them at the last minute and hop on. It’ll make it almost impossible for someone to follow us on the spur of the moment.’

‘When does the ferry leave?’ Dunai asked.

‘Twelve.’

‘It’s quarter to.’

They strode into the Nelson Mandela Gateway; a triple storey glass building of museum offices, shop, restaurant and auditorium. Carl headed for one of the ticket booths, gave his name and took their tickets. Dunai glanced at her watch; they had five minutes to make the ferry.

They raced passed exhibits of prison documents and letters, out to Jetty 1, and boarded the sleek Robben Island ferry. Dunai followed Carl to the back of the boat as the engines started, and found a spot outside the cabin door.

Neither said anything as they glided across the Victoria Basin, out into Table Bay. It was a smooth ride across a calm sea; there was a cool breeze but no wind and the sun shone warmly between wisps of cirrus cloud.

As they moved further into the bay the wind grew stronger and the sea turned choppy. Dunai buttoned her khaki jacket, tucking pieces of dark hair behind her ears so they wouldn’t fly across her mouth when she spoke. She leaned close to Carl so she wouldn’t have to raise her voice. ‘When do we get to speak to this person and how will he know who we are?’

‘I’ve used him before,’ Carl said.

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