The woman paused and pain shot through her eyes. “I do not have a granddaughter.”
Zoe watched her walk away, feeling sympathy and mistrust. Given her age and occupation, she was likely a widow and the Nyambos’ employment her sole source of income. In a country without a social safety net, a job was often a widow’s only alternative to destitution. Yet Kuyeya was a child. What woman turned her back on a child?
“Wait,” she said, catching up to the woman. She pulled out a ten-thousand-kwacha note along with a pen and wrote her mobile number on the money. “You can reach me at that number.” Then, almost as an afterthought she added, “The girl’s name is Kuyeya.”
The housekeeper stared at Zoe as if stricken. Her fingers went limp, and she dropped the money on the floor. She bent over to retrieve it and fumbled with the zipper of her handbag. Her mouth opened as though she was about to speak. Then she looked away and pushed her cart toward the checkout line.
Zoe returned to the Land Rover, her thoughts a blur. She had seen something in the woman’s eyes when she spoke Kuyeya’s name, something mercurial and arresting—a glimpse of recognition. She called Joseph and he picked up immediately.
“I talked to the housekeeper,” she said. “I got nowhere when I confronted her about Darious. But when I mentioned Kuyeya, she looked shocked. I don’t understand. Is Kuyeya a common name?”
“Not at all. I’ve heard it once or twice, but only in Southern Province.”
“Do you think Darious took Bella home with him?”
“Not to his parents’ house. He might have treated her like a girlfriend at the bars, but he never would have introduced her to his family.”
Something nagged at the edge of Zoe’s consciousness. “What if the housekeeper knew Bella some other way?”
“Outside of her employment?”
Zoe shook her head. “Not necessarily. What if Bella had some sort of connection to the Nyambo family, not just to Darious? We still don’t know what she did when she got to Lusaka. She came in 1996. The journal Doris gave me starts in 2004. That’s a gap of eight years.”
“It’s possible, I suppose. But where does that get us?”
Zoe let out a sigh. “I have no idea.”
“Look, you did a great job. I’m impressed. Are you coming into the office?”
“Yeah,” she responded, starting the engine. “I’ll see you later.”
She left Manda Hill and drove toward the government quarter. She tried to put the housekeeper out of her mind, but she couldn’t shake the sense that she was missing something. In the early stages of the investigation, her curiosity about Bella’s history had been prompted by instinct. But the more she had dredged, the more links she had discovered between Bella and Darious. It was no longer reasonable to consider the past irrelevant. But what did any of it prove?
She ran into traffic south of the Addis Ababa roundabout and took out her phone. She placed a call to the Nkana Mine and asked for the manager of personnel.
A man picked up. “How can I be of assistance?” he asked, sounding bored.
Zoe introduced herself and explained her business. “I’m trying to reach Mwela Chansa. He works at one of your mines. It’s a family matter.”
The man typed on his keyboard. “I can give you his mobile number.”
She memorized the digits and dialed them. After three rings the line connected and a recorded voice said: “You’ve reached Mwela Chansa. Leave a message.”
“Mr. Chansa,” she said, suppressing her frustration, “this is Zoe Fleming. I met Cynthia’s brother, Godfrey, in Livingstone. I’d like to talk to Cynthia about her cousin, Charity Mizinga. Charity’s daughter is in need of help. I’d be very grateful if Cynthia would give me a call.”
She left her number and hung up. It was another barrier, another waiting game. Why was it that almost everyone who touched the case seemed to have secrets? Bella. Doris. Godfrey. Cynthia. Jan Kruger. Magistrate Kaunda. The housekeeper. The Nyambos. Even Joseph. In a moment of reflection, she realized she had left a name off the list.
Her own.
PART THREE
The love of power is the demon of men.
—Friedrich Nietzsche
Bella
Lusaka, Zambia
January, 2006