Page 42 of The Secret
“The university library?”
“I can give you a temporary card,” she winks, and my mouth goes slack.
“That’s incredibly kind of you.”
“As I say, girl, I’m worried about him too. You have to come back and tell me what happens though. I have to hear the end of this story.”
I laugh. Way to go, Liss, you’re a badass for making things happen with people. I’ve been doing this in Africa for years, persuading people to help. No matter where you go here, it’s like this. The people are easygoing and not too concerned about abiding by the rules. They appreciate that security leaks and fraud are not caused by a random person who turns up in your reception looking distraught.
“I will. I promise. Give me your number.”
She chuckles at this and wanders off to find her phone. We swap numbers by texting each other. I lean over the desk and envelop her in a tight hug.
“Thank you so much,” I whisper, and she pats my back before stepping back and wiping under her eyes with a long nail.
She points at me as I leave the accommodation office. “Don’t let me down,” she says.
18
LISS
Wednesday, June 19 and Thursday, June 20, 2019
Iarrive at the red brick and concrete of the university library by late morning. How much more of the city will I need to cover before I find Dan? Funny how it never occurred to me that he wouldn’t be in his house or he’d be difficult to locate. I’m kicking myself for all the things I didn’t think about before I got here.
The woman behind the desk is efficient and helpful and logs me into a computer to trawl through the registered company database. But she bustles off, skirt swishing, as another student approaches her, and I have no chance to tell her my story and gain her sympathy. I scroll through a number of databases, finding thirty different companies with the name Horizon Holdings, spread all over Africa, and I spend ages going back and forth, checking each one. I start a spreadsheet on my laptop and put all the details in, but four hours later I begin to wonder what I’m doing. What does this tell me? I don’t have anything to link Dan to any of them. I concentrate on the ones in Zimbabwe, of which there are four. There’s only one in Harare, and its address is out in the suburbs. The other businesses in Zim would take days to visit, but I could ring them. I glance at the clock on the wall and gawk at the time: 6 p.m.
Too late to call, but the library is open in the evening, so I crawl through the newspapers for the time Dan disappeared, from his last message to date, as the sun sinks slowly outside. I read about elections, flooding, someone being attacked by a lion, ongoing corruption investigations, and some high-up politician who’s been shot in South Africa—no surprises there—and yet more politics, politics, politics. I even go through the obituary columns, but no one seems to match Dan’s age or description. I sit back and examine the wooden desks and the now-dark sky outside the window. Would the police or a private investigator be able to help? Or is that insane?
My eyes start to prick as I search for PIs. The online reviews make for interesting reading: Someone has left a glowing review about for one of them where they tracked down a long-lost sister, and on impulse I phone them. To my amazement, a lady answers. The PI is out, but I make an appointment for tomorrow. I’ll go to the police in the morning too.
I rub my eyes and look at the clock again: 9 p.m. now, and a huge yawn stretches my face. The library will be closing soon. I close my eyes before dragging myself to my feet and heading out into the warm night air, walking the ten blocks to the backpacker place where I’ve managed to book a bunk, last minute. I’m asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
* * *
The private investigator’s offices are in one of those old concrete blocks in downtown Harare that are full of small businesses and sit over a ground floor of shops. I make my way up a well-kept set of stairs, passing several glass doors with names engraved on them before I reach one that says, “Masters & Co.” When I press the intercom by the door, it buzzes open. An older woman in red is sitting behind a wooden desk on a stained gray carpet, a white wall with a number of framed certificates above her head. She gives me a bored once-over over the top of her screen.
The private investigator is just what you’d expect: a Black guy with thinning hair and a direct gaze like an ex-cop. A smile creeps over my mouth.
“Boni Masters,” he says, returning my smile as I shake hands with him and sink into the seat opposite and spill the whole story, including my visit to the police this morning. He scribbles away on his pad. He’s keeping notes, that’s good, right?
“Dan Andrews, you say?” He studies me over his glasses. “A white guy, yes? Is that his real name?”
I pause, swallowing. It’s almost reassuring to have someone else voice this question.
“He was registered at the university with that name,” I say. “I know that at least. He also used it when I met him in Congo.”
I relate to him the day I had yesterday and what I’ve done so far, and he raises his eyebrows.
“That’s an impressive trail you’ve followed,” he says. “Have you tried to find anyone from his department, someone he might have worked alongside?”
My eyes widen, shaking my head. “That’s a great idea,” I say, and he gives me a wry smile. Okay, heisa private investigator.
“You did well to obtain information from the university. They’ve been quite cagey with me in the past.”
“Thanks.” Perhaps I didn’t waste my time yesterday.
“Yes. You’ve ruled out some lines of enquiry, certainly. Okay.” He pauses, scratching the stubble on his jaw. “Date of birth? Any nicknames?”
