The Serpentine Road

by Mendelson, Paul

  ‘Well, they achieved that. Trevor Bhekifa is probably planning his complaint against us as we speak . . .’

  ‘He has no complaint, sir. There is no anonymity for witnesses assisting the police in the normal course of events. I visited him at his apartment in Stellenbosch, and he is angry but accepting of the way things turned out.’

  ‘You visited him?’

  ‘I did, sir. Out of courtesy, and also to fill certain gaps he left in his witness statement regarding where he was at certain times.’

  ‘Is his explanation satisfactory?’

  ‘Up to a point. He remains a suspect in the background. Personally, based on what we currently know, I think it is unlikely that he is involved.’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘However,’ De Vries adds, ‘there are questions to be resolved. It seems that the victim liked sex games which involved the domination of, as far as we know, her male partners. I cannot rule this out as being a possible motive for her death.’

  Thulani raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Trevor Bhekifa indulged in this activity?’

  ‘He did, sir.’

  ‘I can’t imagine that.’

  ‘I prefer not to.’

  ‘I understand,’ Thulani says, ‘that there have been other significant developments?’

  ‘There have, sir. I would also like to thank you for expediting the post-mortem examination of our latest suspect . . .’

  ‘It is in everybody’s interests to see this matter concluded efficiently. At the same time that I read your request, there was an enquiry from Pretoria about the state of the case.’

  ‘From Pretoria?’

  ‘I think the headlines about Bhekifa alarmed them. Tell me about this man, Lyle is it?’

  ‘You know about him already, sir?’

  ‘I was tasked to oversee the situation and, since Mr Classon has not been keeping me updated, I made some calls.’

  De Vries wants to enquire who asked General Thulani to keep an eye on this new suspect but, instead, he delivers his report.

  ‘Angus Lyle. Yes, sir. The evidence is pretty clear. His background, previous behaviour, the physical evidence recovered from his body. We recovered his personal Bible. It contains highlighted passages condemning immoral women. He also had on his person a leaflet for the exhibition at her gallery which, you may know, is a graphic representation of sexually compromised women . . .’

  ‘It is conclusive?’

  ‘His cause of death is not fully explained.’

  ‘But his connection to Taryn Holt?’

  ‘Still to be understood.’

  ‘But the evidence against this man will close the case?’

  ‘The evidence is strong.’

  ‘How long do you anticipate it will take for you to conclude the paperwork?’

  ‘A few days, sir. I must speak to some of the people who knew Angus Lyle, including some of our colleagues at Central and Metro. Many had dealings with him over the months and years.’

  ‘Good work, Colonel. I hope that you can dismiss Trevor Bhekifa from suspicion and wrap this up. The moment the matter is certain, I want you to tell me personally.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  They pull up outside the address in Fawley Terrace. The mushroom and pink apartment buildings are dilapidated, the first floor and above looking out directly over De Waal Drive, the high road on The Mountain which takes drivers to and from the Southern Suburbs to the centre of Cape Town. Residents who can see beyond the freeway look up at the looming form of Table Mountain, this evening topped by a tablecloth of thick, perfectly white cloud, which seeps off the flat surface like dry ice from a stage.

  The wind swirls around a gap between two buildings, and as they open the car doors, they snap back against their hinges. Don indicates the next building along from them and they stumble forward, trudge up the fading painted concrete steps to the second floor of the Exbury building,They ring the bell, are let in straight away by a man of about sixty. He anxiously studies their IDs, ushers them in.

  ‘This is about Angus, isn’t it?’

  They walk into a dark, thickly carpeted lounge and see cruci-fixes on the wall, a heavy Bible on a wooden lectern.

  The man stands in the doorway. They turn to him.

  ‘Would you like to sit down, Mr Thorn?’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  De Vries hopes that the man will sit, but he remains where he is, stooped and expectant.

  De Vries sighs.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  The man grips the doorframe, shuffles forward into his lounge, sits heavily on a blue velour sofa. He shakes his head sadly, wipes his eyes, looks up at them.

  ‘There is only so much I could do . . .’ He is pleading, head bobbing rhythmically. ‘He never knew his father; his mother – my sister – she took a path he could not understand, and then she left us. He came here; there was nowhere else for him, but he needed help. Medical help, mental help. I kept asking, but without insurance, they don’t even look at you.’

  ‘We need to ask you some questions about Angus. Would that be all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Thorn, what was Angus’s mental state in recent months?’

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Angus . . . was a troubled man. Depressed and anxious. I thought that faith might see him through, but I don’t think he was comforted as I have been. I am afraid it played on his fears. He was a man of great convictions. Problem was, they changed all the time. One minute he would argue almost to the death for one thing, the next, the exact opposite.’

  ‘Did he get angry about these convictions?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. He stuttered, and that frustrated him. I never knew whether it was the stutter or the subject that got him so worked up.’

  ‘Did he get physically angry? Would he lash out?’

  ‘When he couldn’t express himself, yes, sometimes.’

  ‘Did Angus have an education?’

  ‘Of sorts, yes. He wasn’t a fool . . . When he was clean of those cursed drugs. Only God knows what those drugs did to him, or made him think.’

  ‘He was found with a gun on his person. Did he own a gun?’

  ‘A gun? I never saw him with a gun. He might have wanted protection out there, but where would he get a gun?’

  ‘We don’t know, sir. We just have to tie up the loose ends.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  De Vries turns to Don.

  ‘His body is with us at the mortuary, sir. As soon as we can, we will release him to you.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He had a heart attack, sir. Did any of the professionals who dealt with Angus ever mention serious medical problems?’

  ‘When you take drugs as Angus did, it affects your whole body. But, when I last saw him, he seemed well enough. He told me he had not taken drugs for many months.’

  ‘There is no evidence that he had.’

  ‘So, what killed him?’

  ‘We don’t know, sir.’

  Thorn looks down, sighs deeply.

  De Vries says: ‘Did he stay here with you often?’

  ‘He was supposed to stay with me all the time, but what can I offer him? He was angry at the television, he could not concentrate to read. He hated to be confined. I think he was happier outside. I would look for him, bring him home, but I was not his jailer . . . And I am not well myself.’ He begins to sob, hiding his face behind a church roof of interlocked fingers. ‘I worried what he would do without me. Now . . . It doesn’t matter . . .’

  Don looks over to De Vries, back to Thorn, asks: ‘Is there anyone who could stay with you, sir? A friend who might visit you?’

  Thorn looks up.

  ‘No, officer . . . I will see my friends another day. Tonight, I will ask forgiveness for my weakness.’

  He stands up shakily.

  ‘You are finished?’

  They nod
at him, rise and leave the room, cross the corridor of a hallway and leave the apartment. When they open his front door, the roar of the freeway hits them. The wind lashes their faces. They walk to the car in silence, struggle to control the car doors in the unending blasts of wind. Don sits behind the wheel, De Vries next to him. For a few moments, they just wait, staring ahead at the out-sweeps of concrete supporting the raised freeway and the cars which pass above them, one after another, after another.

  De Vries dreams about being old, wonders whether he will be alone. He dreams that his daughters visit him with their children, his grandchildren, but the children are afraid of him, his daughters bored and patronizing. He wakes, tries to dismiss these thoughts, rubs his eyes, turns the pillow, willing himself to dream of sex with Pamela or what he has read about Oktoberfest in Munich. Instead, half-asleep, he sees himself in a tiny apartment by the roar of the freeway, wearing a dressing gown and staring at the nails on his hands and feet. They are yellow and curling and he cannot grip the clippers, nor reach his feet. A rotund black women arrives in a gust of wind that sucks the breath from him; she washes him and cuts his nails. He hears the snipping, feels the tingle down his spine, begs her to stop. She places a tray on his lap. He sits with his hands gripping unsteadily either side of it, stares at the grey food, cannot understand how, with both his hands occupied, he can eat it.

  The doorbell rings, two policemen stand in front of him. The room is suddenly silent but for the deep, heart-thumping tick of a clock. They wait for the ticking to cease. It does.

  ‘Everyone you have ever loved,’ they tell him, ‘is gone.’

  He wakes, feeling wretched, showers and dresses, catches himself in the mirror, wonders how soon it will be until it is not a dream.

  30 December 1993

  ‘Heidelberg Tavern . . . Under attack . . .’

  De Vries reaches forward, twists the volume button on the radio-set.

  ‘Repeat: Heidelberg Tavern, Station Road, Observatory, is under attack. Suspect gunmen in blue Volkswagen. One fatality in Station Road. All units to report to Station Road, Observatory. Reports . . . Four gunmen . . .’

  He turns to the driver, Mark Edwards, frowning at the radio, checking his mirror, making a U-turn on Main Road, heading back towards Observatory.

  ‘What the fuck do they mean “under attack”?’

  ‘You heard,’ De Vries tells him. ‘Four men. What the fuck is happening?’

  Edwards guns the patrol van through red traffic lights, cutting in front of cars.

  ‘Eddy. Go easy. We want to get there.’

  Edwards nods at De Vries, takes his foot off the accelerator, but still seeks space between the backed-up traffic. He lurches onto Lower Main Road, guns the accelerator once more, pulls up sharply close to Obs Café. They jump out, check their weapons, begin to jog up the street. Just short of the junction, they are stopped; orders are barked.

  ‘Lieutenant. Stay there. Take that Constable and form a block at the intersection behind you. No cars into Lower Main Road. Seal it.’

  De Vries looks past the man, sees smoke and angles to see around the corner.

  ‘I need to see the scene.’

  ‘Do as you’re told. This is procedure. Take up position there and close the road.’

  De Vries salutes briskly, turns and takes Edwards with him. By the end of January, he has been promised his Captaincy. No one will order him around on the street. Then, maybe, his work can begin.

  Edwards looks at him as they stand at the intersection, waving cars in the opposite direction from the scene.

  De Vries knows that he should be there; that the scene is his place.

  Edwards, adrenalin rising, asks: ‘Why aren’t we after them? Why are we here?’

  2015

  Rarely has De Vries seen two better turned-out Metro officers than Officers David Hendricks and Eshi Uzoma, as Don leads them through the squad-room towards his office. Both are looking around expectantly, as if overawed to be amongst officers from an elite division. De Vries concludes that they are not long on the job.

  They sit to attention in their chairs: Hendricks, Cape Coloured, narrow shouldered and thin; Uzoma, very black, bulging in her tight uniform, her hair tied tight back against her head like a helmet. Both are in their early thirties. Vaughn finds himself smiling at their eagerness to impress, almost disorientated by their enthusiasm.

  ‘Tell me when you first encountered Angus Lyle?’

  They look at one another. Hendricks speaks for them, his voice clipped.

  ‘We saw him first about one year ago, sir. He was in the street, shouting. Not at the people in the cars, but generally. We checked his ID, spoke to him, moved him on.’

  ‘How often did you find him under the influence of drugs or alcohol?’

  Hendricks frowns.

  ‘I don’t know about drugs. Ganja sometimes, but often he would be drinking. He was intoxicated maybe half the time. We saw him often on the street or in the parks. Usually he would be reading or writing; sometimes he would stand on a bench and start preaching . . .’

  ‘Preaching?’

  ‘On whatever subject he was worked up about that day.’

  ‘Was he ever violent?’

  ‘When he was drunk, yes; otherwise, no, not really.’

  ‘Did he strike you as coherent? Could he make a plan and carry it out?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Hendricks says. ‘I think so. Sometimes he would be completely with it, complaining about something in the newspapers, other times, he was drunk, physically and mentally incapable.’

  ‘You ever see him with a weapon?’

  Hendricks nods. ‘Yes, sir. He sometimes carried a knife. A large penknife, then another time a table knife, a serrated knife. He said it was for protection.’

  ‘Never a gun?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You ever see him up at the top of the Oranjezicht area? Serpentine Road, Park Terrace, those areas?’

  Hendricks glances at Uzoma.

  ‘In the park there, I think sometimes, but not in the streets. Eshi?’

  Officer Uzoma speaks loudly and clearly, as if behind a megaphone.

  ‘No, sir. I cannot remember seeing him up there. Usually in De Waal Park and the streets around.’

  ‘And last Friday night. What happened then?’

  Hendriks speaks quickly.

  ‘We often drive around De Waal Park in the evenings; sometimes there are kids smoking ganja, sometimes homeless drunks. We were hailed by a resident walking his dog. He told us there was a guy who didn’t look good. We parked up, went to investigate and found Mr Lyle. We called for an ambulance, but I could see that he was dead.’

  ‘You get the name and address of the resident?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You search Lyle then?’

  ‘No, sir. After checking for a pulse, I did not touch him.’

  ‘You checked around where you found him?’

  ‘Yes, sir . . . There didn’t seem to be anything there.’

  De Vries looks at Constable Uzoma.

  ‘What about you, Constable?’

  ‘I did not touch him, sir. We surveyed the scene, but we did not see anything.’

  ‘Remains of a fast-food meal, a wrapper, box?’

  They shake their heads.

  ‘Bullet casings, a silencer for a pistol?’

  They frown.

  ‘We assumed, sir, that he had taken an overdose. We looked for equipment: a syringe, wrappers, that kind of evidence.’

  ‘Did you go to the houses overlooking where you found him?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We visited them. Three were empty, two others answered their doors but had not seen or heard anything.’

  ‘You pass this on to the SAPS officers?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘All right . . . How fit was Angus Lyle? Could he run? Climb?’

  ‘Fit enough, sir,’ Hendricks says. ‘He was on his feet most of the day.’

  De Vries breathes out slow
ly. Routine is only broken by the unusual, and these people have only the mundane to recount. It depresses him.

  ‘The chapel in St Jerome Street: you know it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You ever have any dealings there, either with Angus Lyle or with the priest, Father Jacobus?’

  ‘He asked to be taken there once. We drove him up the hill.’

  ‘No other times?’

  Again, Hendricks looks across at Uzoma. She shakes her head slightly.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Before you discovered his body, when did you see him last?’

  ‘We think it was Tuesday, 30 March,’ Hendricks says, ‘at the beginning of our shift, about 9 p.m.’

  ‘What state was he in then?’

  ‘He was quoting from his Bible. He was shouting about the immorality of women.’

  ‘Did he know any? Immoral women?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘You ever see him with a woman?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did he ever meet a woman called Taryn Holt?’

  ‘The murdered woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He ever mention her name? Talk about her?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  De Vries looks at Uzoma.

  ‘No, sir.’

  De Vries looks at each of them; already they seem a little more jaded.

  ‘Write down the dog walker’s details for me, then go home. You have one less wretched citizen to worry about . . .’

  Don leads them out towards the elevators. De Vries stays at his desk, thinks about what he has heard, realizes it explains nothing.

  De Vries speaks with the consultant psychologist at St Anne’s Hospital where, briefly, Angus Lyle was admitted.

  ‘It is hard to specify an exact diagnosis,’ the doctor tells him. ‘Mr Lyle was a mild schizophrenic, but he veered from one personality and its associated character traits to another, often with little understanding of the previous one. He was deeply scarred by his childhood and the acts visited upon his mother by the men who arrived at their house. He has repressed much about that time, and I thought that he had been attacked, abused, by her clients also.’