by Deon Meyer
‘I don’t understand it,’ said Kaleni. ‘Then how did they kill him?’
‘We’re trying to figure that out, Colonel,’ said Cupido. ‘The drug screening may give us a few hints.’
‘I hope you are right,’ she said. Then she sighed despondently. ‘Those people, they are so very clever. So very sly. They left no evidence.’
She looked at them, realised they had something else on their mind. ‘What else? Anything on the X5 yet?’
‘Willem is still with the Metro Police,’ said Griessel. ‘It’s going to take time.’ Then: ‘It is our last real hope.’
‘And the neighbours?’
‘Nothing, Colonel,’ said Cupido. ‘The problem is, it was a weekday afternoon. Only the lady across the street was home. Everybody else was at work.’
‘There’s another issue, Colonel,’ said Griessel, apologetically.
‘Yes?’ Quietly, resigned.
‘Professor Pagel says he looked at all the options. There is no way he can get the blood screened and tested without a docket. The system just does not allow it. And even if we gave him a docket number and he called in every possible favour it would take at least three weeks.’
She nodded thoughtfully. Blood tests were in general one of the Hawks’ biggest frustrations. Unlike molecular diagnostics, which were handled by the SAPS forensic laboratory, toxicological analysis fell under the Department of Health, which had only three laboratories in the whole country equipped to handle them. Unwieldy bureaucracy, painfully slow and time-consuming at the best of times.
‘However, he says under the circumstances we should consider using one of the private laboratories. He has a contact. He spoke to them this morning and they’re willing to rush it through, and give a big discount. But we’ll have to process the payment through unofficial channels.’
‘How much will it cost?’
‘Two or three thousand.’
‘Ask him to do it right away. I’ll pay for it myself.’
‘Colonel,’ said Griessel, ‘the professor is also a little uncomfortable with the . . . uh . . . general situation. He says he can keep the body for another day or so, as a John Doe, but he is a little worried about the ethics . . .’
‘We’re all worried about the ethics, Captain, none more so than I. Tell the professor . . . Never mind, I’ll call him myself.’
They drove to Khayelitsha. Vusi Ndabeni went along, because he knew this part of the Cape Flats, and to help prevent any linguistic misunderstandings when they talked to Menzi Dikela’s char.
Her name was Cebisa Jali and she lived in an outside room in Mofale Crescent. She was not yet thirty. Her English was good. She apologised for not being able to invite them in, as the space inside was simply too small for all of them. They stood in a circle, on either side of the wire fence and gate. The rain had stopped; the sky was grey and sombre. Outside in the street three children pushed a scooter without an engine around between the puddles. A dog trotted along with them excitedly.
Cebisa said she worked exclusively for the umadala. Wednesdays and Saturdays. For no one else. Her lip trembled while she spoke.
‘How did you manage,’ Ndabeni asked, ‘with only two days’ work a week?’
She began to weep quietly. He tried to console her in Xhosa. She just nodded in gratitude and apologised. Then, with her voice still verging on tears: ‘He took care of me . . .’
‘What do you mean, sisi, he took care of you?’ Ndabeni asked.
She looked at him reproachfully. ‘It’s not what you think. I’ve got my matric. I went looking for a job, but it’s hard, there’re so many that . . . I got so desperate I went from door to door in Observatory, trying to get a cleaning job even, just so I could eat. He was the only one who said, “Come in, sit down, tell me your story.” Then he asked me, “What do you really want to do? What’s your dream?” And I said, “My dream is to become a teacher.” He said, “Then that is what you must do, and I will help you.” And he did. He paid for my studies, my Unisa fees. He gave me pocket money. I asked him a hundred times, “Umadala, what do you want, why are you doing this?” Then he said because he can. His child was grown-up, he didn’t have a wife any more, he had the money. And he wanted me to have a future. He didn’t want me to do housework for him. He said he could do all his own chores. He enjoyed it, it kept him busy. But I said, “No, I will do it.” I wanted to give him something in return.’
‘When did you start working there, sisi?’
‘It’s a year and a half. You can check. All the money he paid for me and my studies is in that book of his, where he writes everything down. Every cent is listed.’
‘And was it always so tidy at his place?’ Cupido asked.
‘Ewe,’ she said. ‘Always. Very tidy. The whole house. He was like that.’
‘What did you do, then, when you went in?’
‘Washing,’ she said. ‘Later he started leaving the washing and ironing for me because he could see I wasn’t going to stop coming in. I’m not looking for an ushukela daddy.’
They asked her if she knew about a secret room.
They saw her puzzled response, the total ignorance of it. ‘No. What secret room?’
They left it at that. They asked about his friends, his activities. She said there were friends sometimes, and sometimes he went to visit them, on the days that she worked. Then he would leave a key for her, under the lemon tree. His friends were all older men. Menzi always introduced her politely, told his friends she was studying, and how proud he was of her.
Had she ever noticed anything strange? Out of the ordinary?
‘No. Only on Saturday . . .’
‘What, sisi?’ Ndabeni asked.
Her eyes welled with tears again. She said that when Menzi’s daughter Thandi phoned her this morning to tell her the umadala was dead, she’d thought maybe he’d felt it coming.
‘How so?’ Ndabeni asked.
‘He was sad, on Saturday,’ she said. ‘And then he said . . .’
‘How could you tell he was sad?’
‘He was always full of the joys of living. And about me. If there were no other people he would sit with me while I did the washing, or where I was ironing. On Saturday, I could tell he was working very hard at showing happiness. Trying to talk to me like he always did. So I asked him, “Umadala, what is wrong?” And he said I mustn’t worry. When you get old, there’re some days when you feel the world is not such a nice place.’
‘Is that all he said?’
‘No. He also said, “Everything will work out for you, sisi, no matter what happens, you’ll see, everything will work out. You won’t have to worry about money.” Then I said, “Umadala, what are you talking about?” And he said, no, he was just saying. And then he didn’t want to talk about it any more.’
Chapter 64
Vusi Ndabeni drove the car back to Bellville. He said: ‘Guys, this really is a strange case.’
‘Amen, brother,’ said Cupido.
‘Why, Vusi?’ Griessel asked. ‘What’s your view on this?’
‘Well, the colonel really wants it to be a murder. But from everything I’ve heard, it looks exactly like suicide. I mean, what his char just said. The guy was depressed . . .’
‘I’ve never seen Mbali like this,’ said Cupido. ‘Bending the rules. Her. That’s just crazy.’
‘Exactly. And why now?’ asked Ndabeni. ‘Why with this case? Did she know Menzi Dikela that well?’
‘I think,’ said Griessel, ‘for her, the last straw was the Johnson Johnson case. That one broke the camel’s back. She’s just had enough of all the corruption. It’s – it’s in the way she sees herself. Those photos on her wall . . . She’s worked so hard, for so long, to build a career and a unit on honesty and integrity, and now . . . That must be tough.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Ndabeni.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ve been scheming. Maybe there’s—’ Cupido’s phone rang, cutting him off. He could see on the screen it
was Arnold.
‘Jis?’ answered Cupido.
‘I’ve got good news for you, and I’ve got bad news.’
‘Shoot.’
‘You know the way most guys always start with the bad news?’
‘Ja . . .’
‘I’m not going to do that. I have to give you the good news first.’
‘Go, Arnold. Go.’
‘Patience, my friend, is bitter. But her fruit is sweet.’
‘Jissis, Arnold . . .’
‘Okay, okay. The good news is, your suicide note is a forgery. Definitely. Our handwriting expert says without doubt it’s not the old man’s handwriting. And it’s not a very good forgery. He says it looks like they did it in a big hurry. They seem to have had an example of his handwriting, but it wasn’t an expert who did it.’
‘Okay. Cool. Great.’ Because he knew Mbali Kaleni was longing for some good news. ‘What’s the bad news?’
‘I’m not finished with the good news yet.’
‘Genuine?’
‘Yip, my friend, your PCSI, your elite Provincial Crime Scene Investigative Unit, is a constant source of uplifting news, of glad tidings, guaranteed to put a laugh in your day, lead in your pencil, marrow in your b—’
‘Jissis, Arnold!’
‘The letter, the suicide note on the table. And the pen. That’s where things get interesting.’
‘Yes?’
‘The late uncle’s fingerprints are not on them. And, as you know, he wasn’t wearing gloves. Now, that’s all strange enough. But the thing is, it looks like the pen and paper were wiped clean. Like somebody went to the trouble to remove prints.’
‘So there’s nothing?’ asked Cupido, in disappointment.
‘Wait, I’m not nearly done. There is one area of the letter, on the back, that was overlooked when it was wiped. A small corner, near the edge. In this corner we found a partial print. Not enough to make an identification, but that may not be a problem. Because we tested the notepad too, the one that was in the drawer of the desk. Now here comes the big news, Vaughn. First, we’re reasonably sure the suicide letter was torn off this pad. The two rip edges match. Second, there are good fingerprints on the notepad. Third, one of the prints matches the partial one on the letter. And fourth, Vaughn, ta-da-da-da, they are not the fingerprints of the deceased.’
‘Bliksem.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Whose fingerprints are they?’
‘Okay, now we come to the bad news.’
Cupido’s heart sank. ‘What?’
‘We don’t know whose fingerprints they are. The database gives no positive results. The guy who tore off the pad and probably forged the letter doesn’t have a criminal record.’
‘What about the population register, Arnold?’
‘That’s the Catch-22. If we don’t have a docket, we can’t get into Home Affairs database. You know they want a number.’
‘Okay,’ said Cupido.
‘Okay, what?’ Arnold asked. ‘Okay, you’ll get us a docket number, or . . .’
‘Okay, we have to think about it. I’ll get back to you. Anything else?’
‘Those soil samples . . .’
‘Jis.’
‘We vacuumed the carpet in the sitting room and we found more. Now, the daughter’s shoes test clean, and the old man’s shoes test clean. Must have been a third party. Looks like it was part of a series of footprints, someone coming in from outside to the kitchen. He must also have sat down at the kitchen table.’
‘Great,’ said Cupido.
‘We did a preliminary microscopic comparison with the soil on the yard, especially the vegetable garden, and it’s definitely not the same.’
‘Okay.’
‘We will test it more anyway, the garden soil. Density and spectrometer. So far we haven’t found any of the unknown soil in the Wendy house. But if they went into the house first, and then went to the Wendy house, it may simply be that it all fell off their shoes. I’ll call you if we find something.’
‘Thanks, Arnold. Great job. Great job.’
‘I know,’ he said, and rang off.
Cupido shared the information bit by bit with his colleagues in the car.
‘Those SSA spooks won’t have their fingerprints in any database,’ said Vusi Ndabeni. ‘Not even at Home Affairs.’
‘I agree,’ said Griessel. ‘We’ll be wasting our time if we put the query through, and we’ll be showing our hand.’
The trouble with Cape Town’s CCTV cameras was that the SAPS detective couldn’t just sit at one central point and tell the Metro Police, ‘Come on, guys and gals, show us the image material from Tuesday morning.’
The city had an impressive total of 1544 cameras watching the comings and goings of her inhabitants. But they consisted of three separate systems and were monitored at three different places by three different teams.
Number one: the freeway management system, maintained by the traffic authorities, with a hefty 239 cameras, was erected beside the Peninsula’s main routes.
Number two: the so-called Integrated Rapid Transport system (IRT) had an astonishing 711 cameras, all part of the near-bankrupt MyCiti bus service. A team of municipal officers kept an eye on them.
Number three: the Cape Metropolitan Police’s pride and joy – their surprisingly effective Strategic Surveillance Unit watched 594 cameras day and night. This network was installed across the city and had made a positive difference to crime statistics since its implementation.
Mooiwillem Liebenberg had started with the latter early that morning, in the hopes of identifying the dark BMW sports utility vehicle that had entered and left the relevant area of the Observatory neighbourhood between 8.30 and 14.00 the previous day. It took him more than three hours to identify sixty-one potential candidates, and almost another ninety minutes to run the registration numbers of all these vehicles through the various databases to obtain the particulars of the owners. And to determine whether the vehicles were legally registered.
The logical next step was to focus initially only on the suspect vehicles, especially those whose registration numbers turned out to be false. His starting point was that the SSA would be conscious of the camera systems and use false number plates to evade identification.
Four of the sixty-one dark-coloured BMWs that were in the right place at the right time in Observatory had false number plates, either because the vehicle registry claimed they did not exist, or the numbers involved were allocated to other vehicles. This relatively low total wasn’t hard to understand. BMWs were the eleventh most targeted brand for Cape SUV thieves and hijackers. After Toyota, Land Rover, Nissan, Mahindra, Volkswagen, Jeep, Porsche, Renault, Ford and Daihatsu. BMW would have ranked far higher, the SAPS vehicle-theft unit liked to say, if cheaper generic parts were available and the newer models didn’t boast outstanding tracking technology.
Consequently, most of the BMW X3s and X5s that were stolen in the Peninsula and fitted with false number plates were older models.
Like three of the four that Liebenberg had pinpointed with much patience and thoroughness. He studied images of all three, and saw the signs of only a single occupant, the driver behind the wheel. Not what he was looking for.
The fourth vehicle on his list was less than a year old. An X5. Pitch black, with dusk-tinted windows. When he studied the best camera angles and shots, at the very best resolution, the three occupants seemed to be men. The previous day at 09.19 they had turned off the N2 onto the M75, the Liesbeek Parkway, on the route to Menzi Dikela’s house. And again at 13.48 they had beaten a retreat in the opposite direction. The right kind of vehicle, with the right number of male passengers, with the most suspicious combination of year model and false number plate, in the appropriate time slot. Liebenberg decided this was his prime candidate for further investigation.
The trouble was that, when he moved on to the control room of the freeway management system to track the X5 out of the city, he lost it on the N7. He could clearly
see the suspects following the N2 east to the Black River interchange, then north on the M5 to the Ysterplaat interchange. From there they took the N1 in the direction of Paarl, and then the N7 north. The last camera to capture them was the one at Dunoon.
They were travelling at 110 k.p.h., demurely within the law, in the direction of Malmesbury.
Chapter 65
Wednesday, 30 August, Daniel Darret, Amsterdam
His head was buzzing and his focus overloaded by the possibility – the impossibility – that the Russian could be there. He had to determine whether Ditmir’s men were following him, and he had to concentrate on following the shortest, fastest route to the Geldersekade. The streets were packed and busy.
He stopped in Bloed Street.
One thing at a time.
Let Ditmir’s team see he was watchful, because it really didn’t matter. They would expect it of him.
He looked back. Men, practically only men, in the red-light district. Nobody who was obviously on his trail.
He lingered. Looking.
Nothing.
He turned away towards the Waag, jogged to the corner. He came back again, carefully noting the rhythm of the pedestrians, or any interest.
Nothing.
He walked back to the Waag, turned left, ran along the Geldersekade canal to the houseboat that lay halfway to Bantammer Bridge. He spotted the small vessel with its powerful engine waiting behind the houseboat, the young man in it. He called: ‘Pelle Baas!’
The young man waved at him, switched on the engine, and pulled up against the small quay behind the houseboat, just as they had arranged. Daniel jumped onto the houseboat gangway, ran around the structure, and then into the boat. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, and looked back in the direction he had come.
Nothing.
Pelle Baas’s boat was a classic open-deck wooden craft, only four metres long, the wood and copper brightly polished. Powering it behind was a Mariner F40 engine, all three cylinders running at full throttle, so that they raced to the right of the Schreierstoren underneath the Prins Hendrikkade freeway, along the Ooster access, into the breadth of the IJ River.