through his scalp.
“I believe this is yours.” He held out a length of purple material, whispery in the night breeze, and it was a moment before Vee recognised her scarf. She took it with muttered thanks, draping it over her arm.
“It’s Vai … Velajoma … Vanaijema?”
Here we go, she thought wearily. “It’s pronounced Vahn-jah-ma, almost like ‘vine’… as in ‘grapevine’. Or Voi-een-jah-ma. Either way is fine.”
He chortled, flushing. “You gave me your card.” He waved it under her nose. “Been wondering what the pronunciation was. It’s a lovely name. I’m Gavin Berman, if you remember.”
I did what? A vague recollection of executing the schmooze shuffle, business cards slipping with ease through her fingers, flashed in her mind. She pressed her eyes closed and ran a caress over her forehead. How many had she had?
“So. Johnson.” He twiddled the card, flicking it under his fingers. “Hhmm. Interesting. Are you coloured?”
God, this country. “Do I look coloured?” Vee picked a twig off the scarf.
He laughed far too loudly. “No, no, clearly not. It’s rather curious, though. Why is your name Johnson then?”
“Because my father’s name is Johnson. Look, I’m really sorry, but –”
“No I’m sorry, for going about this the wrong way. It’s obnoxious. I see you’re a journalist.” He flicked the card against his thumb before slipping it into his pants pocket. “You must be covering the event. Would you like to have a drink? I’m a mine of information at the witching hour.”
She relaxed. Slightly. “Oh no, I’m actually not on this. Just visiting. Thank you for the offer, but no thanks. I have a very early day ahead of me tomorrow.” She turned to leave and heard him bound up the stairs after her.
“One drink.” He barred her way. “I’ll walk you back to your room.”
His eyes roamed over and stuck to her body like something wet and slimy. He stepped close enough for a blast of his breath to hit her in the face. Vee back-pedalled, heart starting to thud. “Wha–”
“Just think about it …” As his arm snaked around her waist, Vee saw her own arm shoot out with a will of its own. His eyes bulged as her fingers closed around his neck and shoved him against the nearest wall. A croaky gargle escaped his throat.
“Listen here, mister ass,” she whispered, appalled at her shaking voice. “If dis dah you not being obnoxious, you better rethink it quick-quick.” She shoved him once more before releasing her grip, letting him sag against the wall. Bent double and coughing, surprise and outrage bubbled in his eyes as he looked at her.
“Want start some kinda nonsense dis late night. You think dah brothel here?” She sucked her teeth viciously and hustled across the stretch of lawn, throwing cautious glances behind her every now and then.
“Ahem. Ma’am.”
The voice hailed from her far right. Swallowing a squeak of surprise, she squinted into the dark, shaking as she tried to attach a body to the voice. Darkness melted back a tad; the concierge from earlier that morning solidified, nib of his flicked cigarette bouncing sparks onto the concrete. Tony was his name, if she remembered right. Timothy maybe. Tom?
“Are you alright?” Even as he asked his eyes filled with knowing, a little pity, a touch too much smugness. Uninvited guests were always uninvited guests.
“I’m fine.”
“I could escort you back to your room.” He nodded in the direction of the main building behind him. Through the glass doors, silhouettes crisscrossed the large dining area. The festivities were still in full swing.
Vee pursed her lips. You know damn well my room ain’t on this side of the wall. “No, thank you,” she replied curtly, picking up pace again before common sense hit, slowing her to a halt. “Actually,” she turned back, “I’d appreciate that, thank you.”
“No problem. I’ll walk you as far as the gate. The security guard will see you safely through to the other side.”
As he fell into step beside her, Vee hugged her handbag to her chest, huddled against the sudden chill.
On the steps of the concrete walkway several metres behind them, her forgotten scarf billowed and snaked.
Chapter Eight
“I can’t believe this,” Lovett said.
“You can’t believe this?!” Vee exclaimed.
Her phone vibrated: another missed call from Nico. Five in total. She should’ve held off on letting Chlöe call him. She typed a quick text along the lines of getting back to him as soon as she had a free second and slipped it in her back pocket. ‘Silent mode’ could take the flack when he lost it.
She peeped across the room at Chlöe, tucked away in a corner seat next to Lovett’s hyper-blonde, Slavic-cheekboned companion. Chlöe’s eyes kept zipping round, a new emotion swiping another off her face every few seconds; worry in Vee’s direction, rabid puzzlement and hope in Lovett’s, barely veiled amazement at the blonde’s impeccable attire at just gone seven in the morning, distaste every time she scratched her scalp and terror every time her phone beeped. Vee turned back to Lovett, who kept releasing a relay of soft sighs as he ever so calmly paced the wood-panelled floor of the small dining room, stirring a warm draft of toothpaste and men’s cologne every time he strode past.
“It’s ridiculous. They’re holding you on a very flimsy premise. They know that, hence the time-wasting while they get their act together.”
“Lovett.” Vee stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Lovett ooo. You boy, dis not play-play. A man is dead. Strangled with a piece of my property. They saw the marks round his neck where I choked him.” She drew in a long, shaky breath to steady her voice. “Now, I don’t know if you trying to approach this as a lawyer or as a fr–” She stopped, bemused by the audacity of what she’d been about to say. Were they actually friends? Did Lovett even do friendship? She had no clue.
Lovett returned what approximated an amused smile and patted her hand. “Look, all I mean is it’s taking longer than it needs to. The police haven’t laid charges because they don’t have evidence enough to charge you with. Besides the damn scarf, which is circumstantial. They’ve questioned you for an hour this morning, and you cooperated and stuck to your story. Because it’s true. Nothing … untoward transpired between y’all?”
“Ehn? Like I’hn got better things to do than screw Papa Smurf?”
He cocked his head sternly; she sighed and shook her head. “So then. They just have to find this concierge fellow and everything will be settled.”
He strolled back to the sliding doors, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply as the morning sun struck his face. Vee noticed that his shirt had not a single wrinkle in sight. She edged away from the aura of suave, pressing her armpits to her sides to conceal half-dried circles of sweat on yesterday’s rumpled T-shirt.
“But what if they don’t find him? What if this killer got to
