The Fallen by Jassy Mackenzie Page B

she’d looked yesterday when he’d dropped the bombshell of Naisha’s pregnancy. David realised that he must have looked pretty much the same after Naisha had sat him down in the lounge of the Turffontein house last Tuesday, and calmly and quietly told him the news that was going to change his future.
    The minute she’d said the words he’d known it was his child—that this was the result of the one regrettable night he’dspent with her since they’d been separated. There was nobody else in Naisha’s life. Up till now he’d been glad about that, in a way, because a new partner for Naisha would have meant disruption in Kevin’s life, with the promise of even more disruption if the relationship didn’t work out. Children complicated things in that regard.
    On the other hand, David had wished that Naisha would settle down with somebody else, because it would have meant that she would no longer be pressurising him to give their relationship another chance.
    He remembered her look of quiet satisfaction as she’d broken the news. She’d been watching him carefully too, which meant David had had to struggle to control his own expression, and not make a difficult situation worse by gaping at her in dismay, his face reflecting the utter, dismal shock he’d felt.
    Of course, there had been some discussion about timing, days of the month. But he’d known with a sinking feeling that this was simply observing the formalities.
    He’d screwed up, and now he was paying for it.
    David groaned, slamming down the folder of papers he’d been examining.
    These papers were from one of the boxes containing Amanda Bolton’s personal items. There weren’t many of them. The dive instructor had lived alone. It seemed she hadn’t socialised with many people during her months in Richards Bay, or had a boyfriend. There was no evidence of one, at any rate. Not according to the resort owner or the cleaner, and not according to the belongings the detectives had gone through that morning.
    These days, computers and phones provided a wealth of information. People shared everything via email or their mobile. David learned from the cleaner that Amanda Bolton had possessed a BlackBerry, but to his frustration it was nowhere to be found. It must have been stolen, presumably by her killer, although in South Africa that was never a certainty. Equipment and valuables frequently disappeared from crime scenes.
    With the cellphone missing, there was a delay in contacting Amanda’s next of kin. Neil had a phone number on record forher mother in the UK, but no address and David didn’t want to break such bad news over the phone. After obtaining the address from international directory enquiries, David had phoned the local police in Tooting Bec, where she lived, and requested that they go and give Mrs Bolton the news in person.
    Amanda’s passport revealed she’d done some travelling on it in the last few years and all of it in warm climates. Six-to-twelve-month stays in the United Arab Emirates, Egypt, and a few other countries in the Middle East and north Africa. From the stamps, he noticed that she had permission to work in those countries, too. He wondered if she’d worked as a scuba-diving instructor, or as an air-traffic controller, which, he’d learned from Neil, was her former occupation.
    When he’d removed it from the top drawer of her desk, he’d discovered an old-fashioned postcard. It had caught David’s eye, because it was just about the only personal item he’d seen, apart from the collection of shells and an airplane pendant.
    The postcard was of the new Calabash soccer stadium in Johannesburg. The message on the reverse was short:
    ‘Hi Amanda! When are you coming to Jozi? Let me know—we must meet up for a drink. I’m staying at 10 Harwood Court in Dunbar Street, in Yeoville. It’s a dump, but there are some cool bars nearby on Rocky Street! Hope things are good down there with you and that you’re OK after 813. We need