by Jon Zackon
“Marty’s got to be on his list, surely? He’s so damn close to those cop pals of his.”
Conrad pulled a face. This was clearly an issue he hated having to talk about. But I wasn’t going to give up on him.
“You can’t see wrong in anyone, can you, Conrad?”
“Look, Danny, you’re probably right. But we still have to work with him, so just keep your distance. You know, I’m friendly with him on the surface, and that’s it. I never let the conversation turn serious.”
“How long have you known he spies on us?”
No reply.
“How long, Conrad?”
“Oh, shit … about eighteen months ago a young reporter was sacked. Office gossip claimed Marty had something to do with it.”
“What was he sacked for?”
“Allegedly for general incompetence. But the story was that Marty had passed on some damaging information. The whole thing was fishy. The young guy, I can’t even remember his name, apparently told several people in the office that he’d heard about the suspicious death of a young Indian. But listen, Danny, I have absolutely no evidence about any of this or even that Marty was really involved. Let’s just leave it at that, OK?”
The girls emerged, Moira tall and athletic, Ruth tiny and bouncy. A white cardigan with blue braid hung from her shoulders. Her hair was in a ponytail and she was wearing a short Fred Perry dress with her socks rolled down to reveal shapely legs. From my early teens I’ve been an absolute sucker for girls in tennis gear, especially if they have nice legs to show off. Ruth did not disappoint.
What’s more, she was in a bubbly mood, something I hadn’t encountered before.
“Hello, you,” she said. “Move over.”
I moved over. She sat close, her bare knee touching my bare knee.
She smiled. “Don’t expect too much from me,” she said. “I was up until 2am dealing with knife wounds, broken ribs, a burst spleen, two broken legs … oh, and the usual cracked vertebrae or two.”
“In that order?”
“No. Don’t be silly.”
“Well, you look pretty good on it.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir. I feel surprisingly good. I’m a tiger on the court, you know.”
As it turned out, she was sort of telling the truth. The two of us took on the nearly-marrieds and Ruth played in overdrive, determination written all over her face. She chased after every ball, retrieving some and occasionally hitting back aggressively. Sadly, though, her game did not match her enthusiasm and a lot of her shots ended up hitting the wire or landing at the bottom of the net. Not that she was alone in this. It was at least a year since I’d played and Moira also complained that she was rusty.
Conrad kept the game going as best he could, but it didn’t really matter. It was a fine, cloudless day and we were all enjoying ourselves.
In between sets we sat on wooden benches drinking orange juice. The club was high up on the Berea and we could see the Indian Ocean, calm and inviting, in the distance.
“Wow, partner,” I said. “You get round the court at a hundred miles an hour. I’m impressed.”
“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”
“Yes, but not everyone can do it.”
“But what’s the use if I get to the ball and then hit it out?”
“Well, that’s a common problem. For a start, you make a lot of mistakes because you hit the ball on the run, you know, when you’re going forward. You’re supposed to stop and get your balance before you hit it.”
“So you’re an expert, Danny?” said Moira.
“If I could translate what I know about the game into my actual playing, Moira, I’d be a star.”
“So what else can you tell us that we desperately need to know?”
“OK, let’s see. As a group, we South Africans are obsessed with style, especially in sport. It doesn’t matter if you hit the ball a mile out, so long as you do it elegantly – you know, head still, eye on the ball, weight going forward on to the front foot, full follow-through. You’re forgiven if you miss.”
“It’s hard to tell when you’re being serious, Danny,” said Ruth.
Conrad laughed. “Ouch, this girl’s got your number, pal. He’s never bloody serious, Ruth.”
“Is that true?”
“I’m not certain. I think it’s probably nonsense. Conrad’s got it into his head that I’m some kind of a maverick. Out of control.”
“Danny! You’re saying you only think it’s nonsense? You’re impossible.”
Impossible or not, I had succeeded in making her laugh. Maybe I was finally getting somewhere.
***
The nurses’ home was no more than a twenty-minute walk back to my flat so I got out of the car with Ruth and Moira.
“Are you coming in?” asked Moira.
“Ruth?”
“Er, maybe not, Danny, I have to change and get something to eat before I go on duty.”
Well, what did I expect? One minute I was making her laugh, the next there still seemed to be a gulf between us. Unspoken, but there all right. I worried that it would prove unbridgeable.
Conrad had sped off and I was left to trudge home. The farther I walked the gloomier my thoughts became. How could I go on working in Durban as a reporter if the police were against me? And how long would it be before the paper turned against me? After all, the editors had to protect themselves.
I thought of giving in my notice and going back to Jo’burg. Or trying Cape Town perhaps. I had connections through my mother’s side of the family with that most beautiful of cities and knew it reasonably well.
Whatever course I took, it simply couldn’t be healthy to be on the same paper as Marty or in the same city as Koos.
But one person altered the equation. Ruth. I hadn’t heard her playing the piano yet, had I? Which meant I wasn’t going anywhere for the time being.
***
I walked into The Messenger’s cool wood panelled lobby and took the lift to the second floor. Gordon Clare saw me arrive. He strolled up to my desk, threw a piece of South African Press Association copy down, rather as if he were dealing a card, and asked me to look into it.
I waved hello to Fazal, whose desk was next to mine. He was usually pretty relaxed but for once he didn’t wave back. He was on the phone and looked both anxious and engrossed.
After a phone call or two I turned the SAPA copy into a story and handed it in. Fazal was still at work. I went and got a coffee in the canteen. Mooched around. Went back to my desk. Undid my shirt and took my shoes and socks off. Fazal had gone home at last. What the hell had he been doing here so late? This was surely the steamiest night I’d ever experienced in my entire life. At least eighty degrees Fahrenheit, with at least ninety-eight per cent humidity.
The evening dragged on piteously. Sweat trickled down my back. I fantasised about jumping into a pool or, better still, diving into the sea.
Conrad was due to return from his rounds at ten. He came in half an hour late, walked up to me and said, “You’re not going to believe this, but he’s bloody done it again.”
“Who’s bloody done what?” I said irritably.
“Koos van Blatter. He’s gone and shot another black kid.”
Chapter 14
CONRAD HAD abandoned his usual easy-going drawl in favour of an excited babble. I told him to slow down and start again.
So as our night time boss, Neal Smythe, joined us in the reporters’ room, Conrad took a deep breath, lowered his voice and slowly told us how he had left Durban Central police station until last on his rounds. When he got there the duty sergeant told him there was nothing much going on. Conrad was about to go when the sergeant asked what he thought about Detective Van Blatter’s latest shenanigans. What shenanigans, asked Conrad – and it all came out.
Three nights earlier, said the sergeant, Van Blatter and another detective were investigating an assault when an African boy they
wanted to question started running away from them. They called to him to stop but he wouldn’t. He sprinted towards a fence and began to climb over.
Van Blatter, who was at least forty feet away, took aim and shot him. In the backside. Or, as the sergeant said, up the backside. The boy bled to death within minutes.
“Jesus,” said Neal. “Was this boy actually involved in the assault?”
“Possibly not. They’ve arrested someone else.”
“And what are they saying at Durban Central? What’s their reaction?”
“This is the bit that’s hard to believe,” said Conrad with a laugh. “Some of the uniform boys heard us talking about it and thought it was nothing but a big joke. One or two claimed Koos was a fucking hero. They think more runners should be shot, although they didn’t specify in which part of the anatomy.”
No one spoke for a minute or two. Then Neal said, “From what the sergeant said to you, it sounds like he thought we would already know about Van Blatter’s ‘shenanigans,’ as he put it.”
“Yes, that’s what it sounded like.”
“Why the hell would he think that?”
“No idea,” said Conrad.
I got up, went to Marty’s desk and began rifling through the copy in his in-tray. Half a dozen bits of paper from the top I found what I was looking for.
“It’s here, on SAPA copy,” I said. “Listen … ‘A black youth has died after being shot at the scene of a crime, a Durban City Police spokesman said last night. No other details have been released as the incident is the subject of a routine investigation, he added.’ That’s it. End of story. It’s dated two days ago.”
“The bastards,” said Neal. “This announcement is calculated to stifle us, stop us investigating. In two or three months they’ll release another anodyne statement saying a detective involved in the incident has been cleared of any wrongdoing. No one will regard it as news and I doubt we’ll even publish it, seeing as we haven’t published the first bit.”
“Hang on, Neal,” I said, “So you are saying that if we publish the announcement of an inquiry we’re duty bound to publish the result later?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, it’s news until we publish it, so let’s get it in the paper tonight, huh? That way we’ll not only publish the findings but might even be spurred into asking the police a few awkward questions. And another thing … what the hell was this piece of copy doing in Marty’s in-tray in the first place? Growing roots? It’s been in there for two whole fucking days. Has he even told anyone about it? Or has he been hiding it?”
“It would probably have been given to him by Gordon Clare during a day shift,” said Neal. “Gordon would have asked him to check it out and when Marty didn’t get back to him he’d probably have forgotten about it. Or maybe assumed it wasn’t worth following up.”
“But we know it is – simply because it is the second such incident inside of a year. That’s got to be extremely unusual here in Durban, surely? That’s regardless of the fact that Van Blatter is involved again. But that little fact doesn’t half make it dynamite. The same detective. Shit!”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll ask Marty about it tomorrow.”
“And tonight?”
“OK. I’ll ask the subs to get it in.”
“There’s something else, Neal. Gordon would not have realised how close Marty is to Van Blatter. Shouldn’t he be told?”
Conrad had a black look on his face.
I turned to him. “What?”
“It’s Marty, Danny. He’s going to do his nut.”
“Good. Why the fuck is he protecting this fucking maniac?”
Conrad had no answer to give.
***
The next day I went into work several hours early. I wanted to have the newsroom to myself. In particular, I didn’t want Marty around.
As it turned out, only Fazal was at his desk, telephone in hand and so intense he again failed to acknowledge my wave.
I looked up the number I wanted, made myself comfortable, and dialled Ivan Leitener’s office. His secretary put me through.
“Dr Leitener? You may remember me, Danny Waterman, the reporter from …”
“Of course, Danny, at the Falls’ house. From The Messenger. What can I do for you?”
“Do you remember how we discussed the killing of a black boy by a Detective Jacobus van Blatter?”
“Koos van Blatter. How could I forget?”
“And you were asked by Mr Fall to give an opinion on Van Blatter’s mental state but declined.”
“Correct. I said I would only venture an opinion if it happened again.”
“Well, doctor, it has.”
“Really? In the same circumstances?”
“Similar, sir.”
I repeated what Conrad had said, dwelling on the fact that the dead boy may even have been innocent. When I’d finished Leitener remained silent.
“Is this for publication?” he said eventually.
“Not at all, sir. Well, certainly not at the moment. If it ever ended in a court case in which the officer was found guilty then I might think of coming back to you. But that’s a very remote possibility, I’m sorry to say.”
“OK, OK. Can you come and see me – say in half an hour?”
His consulting rooms were above a bank no more than a five-minute walk from The Messenger office, so I readily agreed.
I replaced the receiver and looked around. Fazal was also just off the phone.
“What the hell are you working on, Fazal? It seems to be dominating your life.”
He came over and spoke softly, confidentially. “It is, Danny. It could be big.”
“What’s it about?”
“Can I trust you? I really want to keep it secret.”
Poor guy. While wanting to keep it secret, whatever “it” was, he was also clearly desperate to confide in someone. Which made him pretty naïve in my book.
“You know as well as I do, Fazal, that I’m probably the only person in this room you can trust. Make that on this entire paper. Certainly up to deputy editor level.”
“Yes, Gordon Clare knows about it. I know I can trust him. It’s about a missing Indian boy, Danny. He’s the second one, you know. He’s been gone six weeks now. Not the sort to run away. But the worrying thing is, the police seem to know more about it than they’re letting on. They began an investigation but I’ve uncovered some contradictory statements made by them.”
“The police? Shit, Fazal, for fuck sake go carefully. You realise you’re playing with fire here?”
“I don’t care, Danny. I’m not scared of the buggers.”
“Well I am, pal. I’m becoming more scared of them by the day.”
***
I’d expected Dr Leitener to be dressed in a suit and wearing a tie. Instead he sat at his desk looking cool in an open-necked blue shirt. Clearly a non-conformist. It amused me that his head continued to lean slightly to the left. It probably hadn’t changed since childhood.
“You actually know Van Blatter, don’t you, Danny?” he said. “Please tell me about him. What’s he like?”
“Well doc, when you first meet him, he’s absolutely charming. Civil, courteous to a degree. And he’s clever. Impeccable English. He’s one of those people who give the impression that their brain is ticking over all the time.”
“Anything else?”
“I know for a fact that he has a cruel streak.”
“How do you know this?”
“I’ve played poker with him a couple of times. He’s really good at it, but likes to rub it in. Subtly. Loves to play cat and mouse. He’s also got a terrible temper. I saw him having a go at one of his friends. Frankly, it was a bit frightening.”
I hoped the good doctor didn’t think this was too shallow. He offered me a cigarette and lit one himself. He noisily drew in a breath and said, “Any other outstanding characteristics?”
I thought for a while. “Yes. He’s meticulous. I mean in his dress. Pin neat. Hair always brushed. Fingernails manicured. Wear’s a tie to poker. Expensive shoes.”
“What about his background?”
“Born on a farm in the Western Transvaal. Went to an English-speaking boarding school. Married with two small kids. I’ve been told he prefers to be a detective in Durban than run the family farm – or even join the security police.”
Leitener sat looking out of the window. I wondered whether he could see the sea in the distance.
“Danny, this is very difficult, as you can imagine. I haven’t spoken to this man or even met him. So I can only guess. I’m glad you are not going to print any of this.”
“OK, doc, let me ask you this, do you think he’s dangerous – I mean to the rest of us, not just runaway black kids?”
“I have to say yes, Danny. The fact that he has killed a second time could indicate one of several things, all of them bad. You have to look at the way he carried out these killings. The first one was particularly cruel. The boy, I believe, was trapped. At Van Blatter’s mercy. But he didn’t display a jot of that particular virtue. He took aim up the ladder, right? That is so calculating. And the second one? It turns out it’s not even certain the victim was the suspect the police wanted. So why shoot him? I’d have to say Van Blatter behaved like a psychopath would. He could even be developing a taste of killing.”
“Christ!”
“According to what we know of these killings, I think it is reasonable to assume that Van Blatter has an anti-social personality. I suppose you know the definition of a psychopath, Danny? Quite simply, psychopaths do not suffer from remorse. They can also demonstrate what psychiatrists call a callous disregard for others. In Van Blatter’s case, he has shown a callous disregard for the lives of young people. He did not have to shoot those boys. I’ll be so bold as to say his actions were anti-social to the nth degree.”
“What do you think makes him like that, doc?”
“Now we are on really dangerous ground. There could be many factors involved.”