The Serpentine Road

by Mendelson, Paul

  ‘Good. What did she tell you?’

  ‘Mainly that she and Miss Holt had grown apart in the last year, that she had not seen her for the previous four months, but that Miss Holt had spoken with her on the phone – maybe just the one time – and told her she was seeing someone she was excited about, and that she had some plan which was what she had been looking for.’

  ‘That ties in with what I heard from the artist I interviewed . . . Cele. Is that her name?’

  ‘Dazuluka Cele.’

  ‘Yes, her. She said that Holt was distracted by something, that she was in love.’

  ‘With the black African man my witness says she saw?’

  ‘Perhaps. What news on cell-phone numbers?’

  ‘We are waiting for the activity reports from the service provider. Then we can get a better idea of who she was calling and who was calling her.’

  ‘When will you get those?’

  ‘Sergeant Frazer says this afternoon.’

  ‘Good. I must speak to our reluctant Lieutenant . . . What’s his name?’

  ‘Lieutenant Nkosi.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I ask you, sir? Why is it that you can remember an English name, but not so much an African name?’

  ‘Is this a test of my political correctness?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  De Vries shrugs.

  ‘I don’t know, Don. I can’t say them, I can’t spell them. I can’t remember them. Don’t ask me questions like that.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It is why,’ De Vries says. ‘I have you.’

  He snatches at the desk phone.

  ‘De Vries.’

  ‘This is Mitchell Smith . . .’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Mitchell Smith. You probably don’t remember me?’

  A dim light glows in the back of De Vries’s mind; he recognizes the name but cannot place it.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Smith?’

  There is a pause.

  ‘You were a Captain at Observatory in ’93/’94?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Mitchell Smith. I was a Constable at Rondebosch. I worked with you on the Victoria Drinking Hall bombing.’

  The glow becomes blinding; his breath catches. In an instant, his mind is flooded with images from that night. The one night he met Mitchell Smith, twenty-one years ago.

  He concentrates on trying to speak.

  ‘Are you still with the SAPS?’

  ‘No. I left in 2000 . . . I’ve been trying to find you. I got your home number from an old directory, but there was no answer.’

  ‘I don’t answer that phone.’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘I have a few minutes just now.’

  ‘No . . . I need to see you. I can’t talk to you about this on the phone.’

  De Vries sighs.

  ‘I’m happy to talk with you, but I’m at work. A very sensitive murder enquiry. That’s why I’m here on my weekend. I can’t spare the time right now. Call me in a couple of weeks’ time.’

  ‘This can’t wait. You need to know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘It’s about what happened.’

  ‘Well, I can’t deal with that now. I’ll help you if I can. Just not now. Give me your number. I’ll contact you when this case is completed.’

  He notes the number on a random piece of paper.

  ‘Please. It’s urgent.’

  ‘If you are concerned for your safety, speak to your local station. That’s a Bellville number, ja?’ He hears stuttering. ‘I’ll call you soon, Mr Smith.’

  He puts the receiver down.

  January 1994

  De Vries walks stiffly towards the low building which is acting as an overflow to the main Observatory SAPS buildings, mind racing between each step, ears still reverberating from his crashing against the lockers, his brain still saturated with images from the house in Khayelitsha, nose still infested with the stench of sweat and damp, of blood newly spilt.

  It was to have been so different. Mandela’s release, back-channel negotiations between the ANC and the governing Nationalist party, the date set for the first free elections; all of this should have calmed and given assurance that the transfer would be orderly, scrutinized by the media, recognized by the world. Instead, extremists on both sides have threatened civil order: Afrikaners clamouring for a home state, black activists embarking on this trail of terror through the Cape, unrest in townships around Jo’burg and Pretoria. Those who predicted a bloodbath are more strident; the joy and relief after so many years of struggle now muted as the reality sets in of forming a new constitution which will avoid the disintegration of the country. The calls for reconciliation are passionate but, right now, amidst the ongoing fire-fight, hollow.

  He finds Smith sitting alone on a low bench, head in hands, still in his drenched uniform; his boots heavy with thick orange mud. The lights are switched off and only the sickly yellow glow from the compound lamps outside oozes through the dirty windows above them. When he looks up at De Vries’s approach, his eyes are red and swollen, his jaw locked.

  He stands; De Vries puts his arm around his shoulder, leads him away from the doorway towards the back of the changing room.

  ‘What happens now, sir? Do I go?’

  De Vries sits next to him.

  ‘We have reports to write.’ He looks at Smith, sees his hands shaking. ‘You need to change.’

  Smith says: ‘I don’t have anything. Four of us came from Rondebosch. My shift ends in an hour.’

  De Vries gets up, walks to the opposite corner and opens a walk-in cupboard lined with basic wooden shelves. He returns with a pair of denim jeans and a cotton sweater, two pairs of socks.

  ‘Have a shower – if they’re working. Dry off and put these on. It’s lost property. They probably won’t fit, but it’ll do for now. I’ll find us some coffee. Meet in the squad room . . .’ He points his chin in the direction of the far doors. ‘Ten minutes. Then we have to get this done before we go home.’

  Smith stands up straight, nods at him. De Vries says: ‘What a fucking horrible night.’

  Whether Mitchell Smith is almost illiterate or whether he is still in shock, De Vries finds himself dictating his report, watching the Constable’s stiff fingers work the pen awkwardly over the forms.

  ‘Major Nel has instructed me that we report only what we heard from outside the dwelling. We weren’t inside; we didn’t see what happened . . .’ He pauses, makes sure he has the younger man’s attention. ‘You understand? Neither of us entered the building.’

  Smith frowns.

  ‘You didn’t see me enter the building. Ja?’

  Smith nods.

  ‘Ja . . . I don’t know what happened in there.’

  ‘No, you don’t. Just keep saying that. We waited there. When there was no further communication we returned to the station.’

  De Vries sees misgivings in the man’s eyes.

  ‘Listen. We weren’t inside. We don’t know what happened . . .’

  ‘It was the wrong building, the wrong address . . .’

  ‘We followed orders, we waited, then we left.’

  ‘They were all dead, weren’t they? They killed them all?’

  De Vries smacks the desk, sees Smith start. He stares him down.

  ‘Listen to me, Constable: you don’t fuck with Major Nel. Maybe neither of us are happy with what happened, but it is what it is. We won’t achieve anything by crossing this man. He’s a fucking hero to these guys. I don’t like it, and maybe you don’t either, but that’s the way it is right now. We write this up, we go home. It’s the end of a war. We get out alive, go home to our families and we keep our jobs.’

  Smith is watching De Vries now, focused on his words, as if they are to be held onto.

  ‘I’ll do what you say, sir.’

  ‘Let’s just do it,’ De Vries says. ‘That’s what happened, and it stays that way. Ja?’

 
; Smith snorts, shivers, nods.

  ‘Ja.’

  4 April 2015

  Twenty-five minutes later he still sits in the same position, becomes aware that his breathing is very shallow. He swallows, shakes his head, stretches his arms behind the chair. He gets up, pulls open the stiff window and lights a cigarette, holds it outside. He sits on the ledge, staring out to the buildings across the street, up town towards the Mountain. His mind is racing; he sees nothing.

  As the elevator doors open, De Vries registers Lieutenant Sam Nkosi stepping forward, but also, in the background, Julius Mngomezulu, General Thulani’s bagman and attaché. De Vries already knows that he acts as a spy on his department; that, in the past, he has attempted to sabotage his investigations. Mngomezulu does not know that he knows this; it is De Vries’s one advantage.

  Nkosi salutes, but De Vries is still scrutinizing Mngomezulu, wondering what he is doing at work on Saturday when he is usually strictly a Monday to Friday administrator. The doors close on him; their eyes have not met.

  ‘Follow me, Lieutenant.’

  He leads him through the squad room to his office, sits him in front of his desk.

  ‘This is the first time I have been inside this building,’ Nkosi says, sitting up straight, continuing to scrutinize his surroundings. ‘It is a lot more modern than our Central SAPS building, or where I was back in Pretoria.’

  De Vries switches on a small voice recorder, moves a blank pad of paper in front of him.

  ‘I don’t do small talk, Lieutenant. I need to know what happened on Wednesday evening at the New Worlds Gallery, when you met Taryn Holt and what you discussed. Where do you want to begin?’

  Nkosi sits up, produces some notes of his own.

  ‘We received a call from Mr Dominic van der Merwe, the manager of the New Worlds Gallery, concerning both written and spoken threats against Miss Taryn Holt and Mr van der Merwe himself. I was allocated the follow-up. I visited the gallery on Thursday, 27 February and spoke to Miss Holt. She said she had received threats that the gallery would be targeted, and that she had also had strange letters posted to her at her private home.’

  ‘What kind of threats?’

  ‘To be honest, I did not think that they were serious. They looked like the work of children. Words cut out from newspapers. They said that if she did not cancel the exhibition, people would find a way to close it down.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘At that meeting, nothing. However, on Monday, 30 March, when the exhibition was being prepared, she was visited by members of a women’s group and church representatives. They told her that they would picket the gallery. She requested that officers were made available to ensure that her guests were not threatened. She also asked me to accompany her to her home to check her security as she was afraid that people might protest there or try to visit her.’

  ‘Isn’t that something her security provider should have done?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but under the circumstances, being who she was, I thought that we should be protecting her.’

  ‘Did you check her security?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you check the windows and doors onto the terrace?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you find anything wrong?’

  ‘No, sir. Miss Holt had an effective and modern alarm system. I told her that she should keep the alarm switched on even when she was at home, and that she could call us if there was any threat to her.’

  ‘Did you see her again?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I visited her at the gallery on the afternoon of Wednesday, 1 April to tell her that a small unit of Metro officers would be present and I would run a unit past the road of her gallery, but that our involvement could only occur in the event of an illegal action by the demonstrators.’

  ‘And what did happen?’

  ‘When I was informed that there were approximately thirty demonstrators and that they were causing an obstruction, I joined the unit with three other officers. When the gallery’s security men tried to move the demonstrators on, there was some threat of violence and a brick was thrown at the window of the gallery. At that point, I and my officers moved in, dispersed the crowd and secured the building.’

  ‘Did you make any arrests?’

  ‘No, sir. We warned the demonstrators that we considered that they were causing an obstruction and, although they argued with us at first, they then moved away.’

  ‘You could not identify who threw the brick?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did you speak with Taryn Holt then?’

  ‘Only to tell her that it was safe for her guests and clients to continue with their party or to leave the premises if they wished . . . And, also, to give her the telephone number of an emergency company to secure the premises because of the broken window.’

  ‘And did you see her after that?’

  Nkosi looks up from his notes, hesitates.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I visited her home on Thursday, 2 April.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I wished to apologize for failing to prevent the incident at her gallery.’

  ‘What made you think that was something you should do?’

  ‘I . . .’ Nkosi looks embarrassed. ‘Knowing who she was, I wanted to make sure that there would be no complaint against me. I thought if I apologized, she would not think so poorly of me. If I had posted an officer at the entrance to the gallery, perhaps this would not have happened. Perhaps she might not even have been killed.’

  ‘What time did you visit her house?’

  ‘It was before my shift. I visited her house at approximately 8 p.m.’

  ‘How long were you there?’

  ‘Not long. Maybe five minutes.’

  ‘What was her reaction?’

  ‘She seemed pleased that I had visited her personally. There would be no complaint.’

  ‘Did you notice anything about her that made you think she might be concerned about her own safety?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Nothing which made you at all suspicious?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘She was alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  De Vries sits back, wonders what else he should ask.

  ‘How did you come to answer the call to Miss Holt’s house yesterday morning?’

  ‘It was the end of my night shift. I was the senior detective officer. When I heard the address, I took control, immediately assumed command of the scene and was reminded by my Sergeant to notify your desk, which I did. By 7.30 a.m., you had taken control of the scene and the case. That was the end of my involvement with Miss Holt.’

  De Vries studies Nkosi; he is a different man to the one from whom he had taken over the murder scene not thirty-six hours previously.

  Whenever he looks at black Africans, he is always filled with a mixture of innate suspicion and prejudice; he strives to counter such feelings. It leaves him doubting his interpretation, a state which he finds saps his self-confidence. Yet, there is something about Nkosi today, the efficiency and respect with which he is delivering his account, that makes De Vries suspicious. He does not know of what, but he cannot help thinking about Julius Mngomezulu in the lift with Nkosi and whether they know one another. He dismisses the notion: Mngomezulu prowls the corridors only of this building.

  ‘The threats against Miss Holt: you have kept them on record?’

  Nkosi stutters.

  ‘The earlier ones, I told her to throw away. We have a letter from the church congregation and the later written threats.’

  ‘Send them here straight after this meeting.’

  Nkosi nods.

  ‘With hindsight, Lieutenant. Is there any one person, or individual threat, which you think you should have taken more seriously?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have asked myself that question.’

  ‘So, who killed Tar
yn Holt?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  De Vries travels down to the building’s exit with Nkosi as an excuse to walk across two side streets and towards a café which serves strong, thick coffee, the antithesis of what is available in the squad-room. He stands outside, under the canopy, with a double, double espresso and smokes three cigarettes, lighting each from the previous one. A movement catches his eye, and he realizes that it is Don February, hurrying towards him.

  ‘I have been trying to call you.’

  De Vries takes his cell-phone out of his pocket and presses a button. He tries again.

  ‘It’s dead. What is it?’

  ‘We have identified one caller who Taryn Holt has spoken with more than any other in the last four weeks. He was the caller at 10.23 p.m. on the Wednesday night, twelve minutes before my witness said that she saw a man who could have been him entering the Holt property.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘You are not going to like it, sir. It changes everything. We must call Mr Classon.’

  ‘Don, who the fuck is it?’

  ‘It is Trevor Bhekifa.’

  De Vries takes a moment to process the information.

  ‘The son of Bheka Bhekifa?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The colour drains from De Vries’s face.

  ‘Jesus, Don. I thought we had ourselves a clean murder . . .’ Don February recalls Taryn Holt’s bedroom: the volume of blood; the walls, carpets, windows, mattress. He looks back up at De Vries, hears him say: ‘But if we’ve got fucking politicians involved, it’s going to get dirty.’

  PART TWO

  Bheka Bhekifa is a hero of the Struggle, a scholar from a poor family who made it all the way to Manchester University in England. He is rumoured to have been a key backroom figure in the Mandela administration of 1994, a political advisor who sought to keep that first ANC government on a more socialist footing, who argued against the free-market solutions to which Mandela soon turned. Nonetheless, he is credited with helping to mould a freedom-fighting organization into a functioning political party. Now, ostensibly away from politics, it is said that he still wields considerable influence at the highest level; that political leaders call on him for advice.

  Some might question how a man devoted to the socialist cause could have graduated to living in a mansion at the very top of Bishopscourt, the smartest inland real estate in Cape Town, safe from the relentless South-Easter, surveying the Southern slopes of Table Mountain as far as Devil’s Peak. A plan of his property would reveal that his house is angled towards the mountains, away from the townships and squatter-camps which were, and he might insist, remain, his constituency.