The train was late as usual. It was supposed to be here five minutes ago but there was only darkness. It was unusual, though, that there were only three people on the platform at Gobowen for Oswestry. Although this was a small station near the quiet village of Oswestry, there were usually a fair number of people waiting for the 8 O’clock train.
Jaye moved to a sheltered place to escape the frosty wind. She should have brought her overcoat. Jaye was a regular on the 8 O’clock train because she worked at the Co-operative Supermarket in Oswestry. At the far end of the platform Jaye could see a man dressed in a shabby overcoat drinking cider from a two-litre bottle. He looked wasted already but was determined to see to it that he finished his cider. He appeared to be talking to himself. A well-dressed man who appeared lost in his thoughts stood with a blank look as he gazed into the distance. Eventually as if waking from a slumber he picked up his briefcase and walked towards Jaye.
“Excuse me ma’am. Do you know what time the train will be here?”
Jaye looked up and met the most amazing dark eyes she had ever seen. For a moment all she could do was stare then it dawned on her that he had asked a question.
“Oh sorry,” she smiled nervously.
“The train is never on time. It was supposed to be here ages ago. It will come”
“Thanks”
He moved a few paces away, placed his briefcase on the ground and looked into the distance again as if to will the train to come. Jaye took the chance to appraise him. He had dark pin stripe suit peeping out of his long cashmere overcoat. He was tall, dark and good looking. From the way he was dressed she imagined him a banker or a lawyer. Although he had spoken with an accent he was clearly educated. She started mimicking his accent without verbalising the words. She smiled. She was desperately trying to place his accent. He was obviously not from the Caribbean because he did not speak like her former boyfriend. Eventually she summoned the courage to speak.
“So what brings you to this small village?”
Silence.
She spoke again. “I asked you a question.”
This startled him back to reality. For a moment he appeared lost for words then he said,
“I am sorry I did not hear your question. What did you say?”
“What brings you here?”
“I am trying to track down the granddaughter of one of our clients. We were told that she used to work at the Co-op in the village. Unfortunately she is no longer working there and nobody seems to know where she went after she left.”
“What is her name? I have worked at the co-op for years so I might know her”
“Jenny Isaacs”
“Oh! I know Jenny”
At this point lights appeared in the distance. They looked like two motorcycle riders riding side by side a few metres above ground. The man in the suit picked up his briefcase and walked towards the platform edge. Jaye moved from the alcove in which she had been sheltering and stood next to him. The wind stung her face and sent a shiver up her spine.
They didn’t speak again until the train stopped next to the stone paved platform. The man stepped aside allowing Jane to go in first. They were plenty of empty seats so she walked to the one with a table. She didn’t look back but secretly she hoped he was still following. As she sat down he quickly moved into the seat opposite and began fiddling with his briefcase. After several false starts he managed to open it and pulled out a yellow document wallet.
Jaye watched him with interest as he settled down to reading what appeared to be his work papers. Occasionally she caught his eye drifting away from his papers. She wanted to speak but she didn’t. Then he spoke.
“Umm… Do you think you could give me your phone number? I mean…”
There was a moment of awkwardness as he struggled to pull out his card holder from his pocket. He pulled out a business card and passed it to Jaye. She quickly scanned for the name. It simply said George Muchena.
“Please could you give these details to Jenny and ask her to contact me as soon as soon as possible. We need to finalise her case soon”
Jaye smiled and said, “You can have my number.”
She scribbled her name and number on a piece of paper and handed it to the man. For the remainder of the journey from Gobowen to Shrewsbury they didn’t speak.
When they arrived at Shrewsbury Jane stood up to leave promising to keep in touch.
“I have parked my car here so I am getting off as well.”
They silently followed the other passengers as the train emptied its belly before allowing others to walk into its wide open mouth. This was always the case with the 8 o’clock train.
Outside the train station the wind had turned to rain; sleet lashed at their faces.
“I catch my bus across the street. Speak to you soon,” Jaye smiled.
“It is a horrible night to be waiting for a bus. I could take you home if you don’t mind. I live in Wolverhampton so I could drop you off on my way,” he offered.
Jaye’s jumper was getting wet fast and she knew that she would be soaking by the time the next bus came. This decided it for her. She nodded meekly and followed George to his car. They drove in silence until the voice on the satellite navigator said,
“You have arrived”
After saying good bye Jaye ran to the front door of the house. It was still raining. She turned and gave him a quick wave before disappearing behind the white door. George drove away.
George was 23. He had graduated from Keele University in Staffordshire with a first class degree in Law. He had graduated top of his class. After unsuccessfully trying to get a training contract with a firm of lawyers, he settled for a job as an investigator/ legal secretary for Murray and Ferguson. While at university he had taken he had taken the advice of one of his fellow African students to train as a security guard. Odinga Odimwile had told him it was an easy job for a student because you could work nights in places where you could sleep. Being paid to sleep is what Odinga had called it. He had undertaken the Level 2 Award in Security Guarding and the Level 2 Award in CCTV Operations (Public Space Surveillance) with City and Guilds which then allowed him to be registered with the Security Industry Authority (SIA). His love of the ITV Drama ‘Hercule Poirot’ had led to him doing a private investigator course with the United Kingdom Private Investigators Network (UKPIN). He saw this as taking one step closer to being the infamous Poirot. For the three years that he was at Keele he worked as a security guard at the main Tesco store in Hanley, Stoke-on-Trent. This provided him with the money for rent and other expenses. Although he had loans and bursaries from the government he was a man with expensive taste. He no longer wanted to burden his mother by asking for extra support. She had done her part ever since they moved to England.
It was his useless piece of paper from UKPIN that had tilted the bar in his favour when he applied for the job at Murray and Ferguson, a small firm of lawyers which specialised in wills, debt collecting, contract law and the defence of petty criminals. Mr Ferguson had seen the benefit of having a legal secretary with ‘other skills’ as he termed it. Ms Murray had been duly persuaded. The firm had an office at 56 Waterloo Road, Wolverhampton. It was here that George hoped to one day launch his legal career but for now he had to run errands and type legal documents.
Kenny Ferguson was a small man with mousy, greasy hair that looked like someone had dipped him in a jar of fat. His eyes were set apart which made his forehead seem disproportionately large. A small nose was perched on his face as if someone had put it there as an afterthought. He always wore the same black suit to work except on days when he had to go to court. On court days he wore a greyish brown tweed suit with his solicitors’ gown. George always found his dress sense hilarious. However, Kenny was a keen legal mind who was very good at criminal law. The corporate and family law expert for the firm was Lindsay Murray. She was tall, slim and good looking. She had the most striking green eyes and the reddest red head. She was always immaculately dressed in a business suit. She wore skirts that were just above her knees which emphasized her full figure and shapely legs. She was very conscious of the effect she had on men and she used it to her advantage. Although she was nearly fifty she had never been married. You had to watch her in court to appreciate how good she was. She just did not fit in the dingy offices of Murray and Ferguson.
As George drove on the M54 towards Wolverhampton his mind wandered back to the events that led to him leaving his home country. His dad, Enoch Muchena, had been a well-known lawyer who had made it his life’s work to defend opposition politicians from the numerous trumped up charges. His name became synonymous with the fight for human and political rights in Zimbabwe. Although he was not in ‘politics’ his work made him a target for the political thugs that operated with impunity in the country. He was a founding member of Zimbabwe Lawyers for Human Rights (ZLHR), an organisation set up to defend victims of human rights abuse. He was a senior partner at Muchena, Nyamai and Chinogwenya, a well-respected indigenous law firm in Harare.
It was on a Friday. The one day when Enoch never stayed in the office. He called it ‘Farai day’. On other days of the week he would still be in the office at 8pm long after everyone else had gone. However, on a Friday he dutifully cleared his desk at 4.50pm, locked away important documents and wished all the people in the office a good weekend. He would, then, go to the local supermarket where he would buy himself several bottles of the Lion Lager before driving home. He spent his weekends working in the garden of his Glen Lorne home. He refused to take calls from work because it was his ‘play time’ as he called it. Although he employed a gardener he always liked to spend some time tending his vegetable patch which occupied the furthest corner of the two acre garden. Tending the vegetable plants and watering them reminded him of his boyhood in sleepy Rambanapasi village in Buhera he claimed. On Sunday he went to the morning service at All Souls Church, a joint Anglican Methodist church.
On this particular Friday Enoch was sitting in his office putting final touches to the papers he had been working on when the phone rang. It was about 4.20 in the afternoon.
“Someone on the line for you, sir” announced the receptionist in a fake British accent.
“I thought I told you to hold all calls? Is it urgent?”
“I think so. The man insists that he wants to speak to you. He says it is something to do with the Madzore case.”
“Put him through.”
A few minutes later Enoch left the office telling his PA to ensure that his desk was cleared and all his documents locked up in the safe. It was the last time he was seen. His wife went to the police on the Saturday but they told her to wait for the statutory 48 hours before reporting him missing. Even after the 48 hours, there didn’t seem to be any urgency in the police enquiries. They even suggested that he may have run away with a young girl. His badly decomposed body was found weeks later in the Goromonzi area of Mashonaland East.
It was rumoured that the Central Intelligence Organisation, Zimbabwe’s secret police, had a torture camp on one of the farms in the area. The people had given the place the name Kusina Mai which is short for: kusina mai hakuendwi (A place to which you must never go). There were many stories about the methods of torture used there. Nobody had ever been to this farm and returned to tell. However, the legend of Kusina Mai lived on. It was helped on by the fact that the government had never made an effort to refute the allegations.
After the funeral and other traditional rites his mother took the thirteen year old George and left Zimbabwe. Leaving was a hard decision to but she was convinced that her husband had been murdered by CIO agents. She didn’t have any evidence but she just could not accept that he had been killed by common criminals. The police said investigations were continuing.
The family had a five year multiple entry visitors’ visa to the UK so she decided to come to the UK. They were given Refugee status six months later and they settled in Wolverhampton. Ten years on Enoch’s killers had still not been caught. Another unsolved murder.
George wiped away tears from his eyes as he forced himself to focus on driving in the rain. The sleety rain was coming down more strongly and the traffic had settled to a steady pace as drivers took more care to avoid accidents. It was an hour and half before he turned into the driveway of the home he shared with his mother. It was a four bedroom Victorian house in the quiet, leafy neighbourhood of Tettenhall. They had recently moved to this area after years of living in a council flat in Heath Town. His mother had sold one of their properties in Mabelreign for USD150 000. She had then used the money as a deposit on the £400 000 home. The quiet sometimes unnerved him as he had become so used to the noise of Heath Town. There was always something kicking off in Heath Town. His mother always said that Heath Town reminded her of Matapi hostels in Mbare.
His mum was still up. She opened the door as he was trying to inset the key into the lock. There was relief in her eyes as she enveloped him in a bear hug. The pain had never quite left her eyes even after all these years. They walked in the kitchen where she busied herself serving his food before bidding him good night.
For the first time that day George had time to reflect on the events of that day. He had not made much headway in the search for Jenny but he didn’t feel like he had wasted a day. Jaye was still on his mind. He didn’t know what it was about her that he liked but he was sure he liked something about her. As he tucked into the rice served with mixed vegetables and barbecue pork ribs he smiled at the thought of her. He hoped that she would call. Maybe he will call her. He ate his food slowly putting the bones in a neat pile on a side plate. After clearing the table and washing up he went to bed.
The horrible weather from the night before still persisted. George looked out of the window. It was a grey and wet morning. He forced himself to walk to the bathroom where he had a quick shower. He chose a pin striped navy blue suit, a plain white shirt and a tie to go with it. After a quick breakfast of cereal he left the house.
The work at Murray and Ferguson could be dull and mundane especially on those days when he had to work in the office. On such days George spent hours reading case files, making notes and filing documents in the dingy storage room in the basement. The place smelled of dampness and dust. On these days he felt like he was just a secretary/ typist and it made him angry. He could not see what use his first class degree was if he had to do stuff that people with half a brain could do. It was at such times that he longed for home; the land of his birth. He knew that had he been home he would have been working as a solicitor in his father’s firm. One of the boys on his university course had secured a training contract with a firm of solicitors in London because his dad who was a QC managed the firm. James Maddock had graduated with a lower second class degree but he was now well on his way to becoming a solicitor while George and his first class degree were stuck in a basement.
Mr Ferguson had once asked for his legal opinion on a case that he was working on. Because he was relatively new in his job he had seen this as an opportunity to impress his boss. He spent the whole afternoon researching and making notes. He was already familiar with the case. Just before the end of day he walked into Mr Ferguson’s office to present his findings. He outlined his arguments, supporting these with case law examples where possible. He did not have court room experience but felt that he had done a good job. He could never be sure. Mr Ferguson was never one to show emotion or to waste words on such trivia as pleasantries. After the presentation he stretched out his hand for the notes, nodded his thanks and went back to his work. That was the last he heard on the matter. However, from then on Mr Ferguson started giving him tasks such as these when there was not much filing and typing to be done. George never asked what happened to the notes and Mr Ferguson never offered to talk about it.
“Good morning, George”
George turned and saw Lindsay standing there.
“Good morning Ms Murray.”
George could never call Lindsay by her first name. He was always very formal with both Lindsay and Kenny.
“Did you make much progress in the Jenny Isaacs case?”
“Not much. I hope to get some information in the next few days”
“We need to find her soon. The care home’s owners are pushing to be declared the only beneficiary of Gwen English’s will”
Gwen had fallen out with her daughter, Mathilde, when she became pregnant with Jenny. This was in the 1970s. She had not been happy that her daughter had insisted on keeping the baby. It was bad enough that she had become pregnant of a West Indian boy but keeping the baby! How would she introduce it to her friends? What would her decent Christian friends think of her? Therefore, when Gwen was forced to choose between her daughter, the unborn child and her friends she chose her friends. Mathilde moved in with her boyfriend, a hardworking painter and decorator who had his own small business...
