by Ian Patrick
15.10.
Tony walked silently and purposefully down the corridor in Addington Hospital, past the newly re-furbished A&E holding area. He knew exactly which ward he was aiming for. He carried a shoe-box size package, with the kind of gift wrapping that only a department-store gift wrapper can produce. Perfectly cut and folded, pastel colours, bland, but with a pretty gaudy ribbon. Only Tony knew that inside the box lay no more than a common wire-cut clay brick, standard size 225mm, wrapped in ample newspaper to prevent slipping and sliding in the box while creating a good sense of weight. The gift wrapper in the Musgrave Centre hadn't needed to know what was inside the box. She provided the free service for all customers wanting the wrapping, because that was what she was employed to do, and to be pleasant about doing it.
The box itself would soon be deposited by Tony on the top of the little cupboard next to the patient in the recovery ward. It would by then have fulfilled its small part in the larger masquerade of the kindly gift-bearing visitor. It would be opened only later that evening by investigating officers. Until then, the brick would rest on the cupboard, a silent witness to the approaching act of violence.
Tony wouldn't ever read the report that would describe in careful detail the results of the action that he was about to undertake. For him, the action itself would be simple, direct, and in harmony with his world view. It had worked six or seven times for him in the past. But that action would be broken down into much more detail in the autopsy report that would in time come to be written by an appointed forensic pathologist
The report, when written, would describe death as ‘asphyxia due to ligature strangulation.’ It would note that the deceased’s eyes had irises that were brown and corneas that were cloudy, and that petechial haemorrhaging was present in the conjunctival surfaces of the eyes. It would be noted that body temperature, rigor and livor mortis, and stomach contents would combine to place the time of death at between 15.00 and 16.00. The local distributions of bruising in head and neck would be recorded as ‘presumptive of violent strangulation,’ and further confirmation would be adduced from the ligature marks on the neck, left, behind, and front, along with evidence of bruising or ecchymosis, haemorrhaging in the strap muscles, and in the tissues around the trachea and larynx. The ligature marks alone would not be recorded as diagnostic, but would be taken into account along with other signs of mechanical violence having been applied to the neck, resulting in fracture of the hyoid bone, the thyroid and the cricoid cartilages, along with extensive bruising of the muscles and the visible skin impressions.
All of these would help with the conclusion that the man who had been admitted to hospital early that morning with a shoulder shattered by a policeman's bullet had later in the day been garrotted in his hospital bed by a person or persons unknown.
Tony entered the ward. He walked silently over to the patient, lying asleep, drugged with pain-killers, to all appearances peaceful. He placed the gift on top of the cupboard and silently drew the curtains, enclosing the bed on three sides. He turned the dial on the radio to increase the volume on the thudding Hard Trance techno-rave that some nurse had probably turned down, earlier, for the sanity of both herself and other patients in her area.
Then he pulled the rope and leather contraption from the pocket on the inside of his jacket.
16.25.
Captain Sibongiseni Nyawula had achieved his rank through years of meticulous service, following formal studies in which he had been the star student. Starting at the very bottom in the post-apartheid era South African Police Service, he had gained a reputation for impeccable commitment to the service of law and order. He was highly regarded by his superiors and among those over whom he presided in his particular team. Within the broader unit, he elicited respect from new-era detectives and grudging approval from old-era detectives. With the exception of Major Swanepoel, for some unfathomable reason. He was the one perpetual thorn in Nyawula’s side. Maybe because Swanepoel was such a short-arse, thought the Captain. Short man syndrome. Coupled with a bit of good old-era racism.
Six feet tall, slightly stooped, and carrying no excess weight, Nyawula gave the appearance, before speaking, of someone who might have a thin, reedy voice and tentative demeanour, probably accompanied by the limpest of handshakes if ever he were to offer a hand in greeting. The truth was somewhat different. Those who proffered the hand in greeting would experience a bone-crunching grip that would be prelude to an unnervingly warm gaze, as Nyawula's dark brown eyes would fix boldly and comfortably in search of a truthful exchange, the focus of his eyes momentarily excluding any and every thing that existed outside the field of such a greeting. This physical exchange was accompanied by the most surprising of deep, resonant, and assured voices, occasionally accompanied by an extraordinarily infectious smile which betrayed arctic-white teeth perfectly straight but never touched by orthodontists. When Nyawula spoke, others listened. As a consequence, he was always brief, focused, and unwaveringly clear.
He leaned back against the front of the standard-issue desk in his office, addressing those who had gathered, each of them seated in the charcoal-coloured plastic chairs that had been brought in from the outer office for the meeting and, in two cases, had been dragged back from their normal position facing the front of his own desk. Nyawula spoke, quietly.
‘We lost four of the old Vektor Z88s last year. You’ll remember we said goodbye to one Constable Skhura Thabethe at around the same time, but that we couldn’t pin anything on him. Later on he went to jail for an assault on a businessman, so he clammed up and the trail on those four weapons went cold. It looks like Mr Thabethe is back in business. He was released from prison a week ago. Strange coincidence: three of the weapons turned up today. Two of them from Ryder and Trewhella’s case at The Grove. The third from last night’s homicide in the bush near Suncoast Casino. Sergeant Pillay?’
‘Thanks, Captain. Detectives Dippenaar and Koekemoer and myself have checked with ballistics. Dipps has pulled some strings there, and they ran the stuff very quickly for us, and they also ran the info on the guns involved in the other action with Detectives Ryder and Trewhella. Full report only tomorrow, but we know enough to say that these are three of the four guns that disappeared with Thabethe last year.’
‘I don’t have to tell you, colleagues, that if we trace this back to anyone else in this station apart from Thabethe, more than heads will roll. In the meantime, I want Thabethe found and I want him in front of me. That bastard slipped through my fingers last year. It’s not going to happen again. Now I know that everyone here is thinking that the major task for the week is Thursday night’s party at the stadium. End-of-year function, they call it. I call it a waste of police time. A chance for lower ranks to impress higher ranks. A chance for higher ranks to pretend to lower ranks that they’re interested in their career progression. Well let me tell you that you won’t impress me with what you wear or how you behave on Thursday night. What will impress me is getting Thabethe by the end of the week. Navi, I want you to get into the township and trace him. I want to stand in front of the little shit. Dipps, I want you sitting on ballistics. Koeks, can you dig up all the stuff we had on Thabethe for that disciplinary hearing? Let me have it as soon as you can tomorrow.’
Pillay, Dippenaar and Koekemoer all nodded and grunted their assent, as Nyawula turned his attention to Trewhella.
‘I understand that you got some information from the survivor of this morning’s shoot-out at Wilson’s Wharf?’
‘Sure did, Captain. Saw him in hospital just before lunch-time. He confirmed that they had bought two guns from someone who had contact with Thabethe.’
‘Very helpful of him to tell you that. I suppose you applied no pressure?’
‘Me? No, Captain. I was a bit persistent in my questioning, I admit, but...’
‘No chance of some clever lawyer arguing that you applied force on the guy to get him to tell you stuff that wasn’t true?’
‘No, Captain. No chance. The
guy told me willingly.’
‘Willingly? Willingly. I’ve had a report from the hospital that the guy’s nurse doesn’t think the guy was so willing. Are you sure you didn’t engage in some rough stuff with him? Are you aware that in his condition enough stress could see a blood clot break free and do some damage? And if that happens then you might be held liable? In fact, if he were to die as a result of such a blood clot scenario, you could even be up for a murder charge?’
Trewhella was spared immediate further embarrassment by the ringing of the phone on Nyawula’s desk. The Captain nodded at Cronje.
‘Get that, please, Sergeant Cronje.’
Cronje got up and took the call, speaking sotto voce into the receiver.
‘Captain Nyawula's office. Yes. Sorry, he can't. Yes…’
Meanwhile Ryder decided it was time to bail out his partner.
‘Captain, I wondered whether… I was just thinking …. Maybe Ed and I could go back to the hospital - both of us together, I mean - and see the guy again and put together some more information on their movements last night, how they chose the old woman, and stuff like that…we’d invite him to have his State-appointed guy present, of course, while we questioned him…’
‘I think that would be a good idea, Jeremy. I want to suggest that you do that sooner rather than later. This evening, if you can, before knocking off, so that if Navi brings in Thabethe tomorrow morning we have something more from this other guy.’
Cronje interrupted, putting down the phone.
‘Captain, sorry, I – ‘
‘What is it, Piet?’
‘That was a call from… some information from… Addington Hospital are telling us that…’
‘What, man? What is it?’
‘The guy from Wilson’s Wharf. With the shoulder. The guy Ed saw today in the hospital.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s dead, sir.’
Trewhella choked on his coffee. The others were in varying states of jaw-droppingness. Nyawula froze, staring at Cronje for more information. It came immediately.
‘The guy died a few hours after Ed saw him. I mean, they’re saying – well they just told me that the guy was murdered in his bed in the hospital. Sometime this afternoon after 3.00 pm. He was strangled. Some white guy in a suit. Brought a present, wrapped up, and left it on the table. Saw the nurse as he left and told her that the guy was asleep so he was just leaving the gift for him to get when he woke up. The nurse apparently just looked in at the door but didn’t bother to check the patient until later…’
Trewhella relaxed, visibly. The others tensed, visibly.
Nyawula looked at Trewhella. Then at Ryder.
‘Better get down to Addington. Let me know what you get.’
17.30.
Tony stood alone in front of Vic, who sat in the chair behind the desk.
‘So tell me.’
‘The guy in Addington is safe, Vic.’
‘Safe?’
‘He won’t be talking. To anyone. Ever.’
‘OK, Tony. Thanks. Do I need to know any more?’
‘No, Vic. I think that’s it.’
Vic paused, looking at Tony, drumming his fingers on the desk.
‘I have one thing for you, Tony.’
‘What’s that, Vic?’
‘The cops have traced the two weapons from this morning at The Grove.’
Tony stared at him. Vic continued.
‘You said this morning, Tony, that there was no trail back to Jannie because three of his guys had been put down and out by the cops at The Grove. Now you’ve sorted out the fourth guy in Addington, but he might already have said enough to lead the cops back to Jannie's other contacts. My own information is that there’s still a connection via the weapons. You told me Jannie had got two guns for the hit last year on the guy who reneged on our deal. Bought them from a cop, you said?’
‘Yes, Vic. Some guy who was pissed off with his unit and was sacked and took some police weapons with him then sold a couple of them to Jannie.’
Vic drummed his fingers on the table, looking at Tony.
‘Get me Jannie.’
‘OK, Vic.’
18.20.
Ryder and Trewhella sat in the latter’s car outside the hospital. Trewhella was still shaken. Ryder spoke first.
‘Drop me off at my car, will you, Ed. Let's think through this tonight, but I reckon we need to join up with Pillay tomorrow morning and get after Thabethe. Looks like he's the link to a lot of this stuff.’
‘OK. Did you see Nyawula, every time Thabethe's name was mentioned? He really wants the guy badly.’
‘As you said this morning, Nyawula's got a nose for shitheads. I wonder what other stuff he's got on the guy?’
‘It helps to have the captain wanting something so badly. Maybe he'll turn a blind eye to the Trewhella method, for once. Looks like all roads lead to Thabethe.’
‘Sure looks like it. I think there’s some bigger stuff behind it, though. Nyawula is under pressure from the guys above him.’
‘Like that Major Swanepoel prick.’
‘So I hear. But remember, Ed, that report a couple of years ago about the no-nonsense policy on lost firearms? Thirteen thousand SAPS firearms lost or stolen in five years, or something like that?’
‘Yeah, and this province was one of the worst. I remember Nyawula exploded when we heard that ninety-eight weapons were stolen from Inanda and they removed the station commander and put the exhibit clerk in jail for twenty years. I s’pose he just doesn’t want to see that stuff happen closer to home, and for his own unit to get that kind of publicity.’
‘Yep. But the big statistic that always bugged Nyawula was that soon after he started here some politico pointed out in parliament that KwaZulu-Natal had lost an average of five weapons per station. I remember that five lost weapons per station became this crazy benchmark that stations were being measured against and Nyawula felt we were doing incredibly well against that. But when Thabethe walked off with four, our own average was blown out of the water.’
‘Which then gave the Major something to go on about. I remember the word from above being that the focus now had to be on firearms, that Nyawula should take people off other so-called petty cases. Drove Nyawula up the wall, the guy interfering like that.’
‘Which is why he wants to put the Thabethe thing behind him.’
‘OK, Jeremy, buddy. Let me get you back to your car.’
‘OK. Thanks, and let’s join Pillay in the hunt for Thabethe tomorrow.’
18.40.
Vic sat in the chair behind the desk. Tony and Jannie stood before him, Tony to one side and Jannie directly in front. Vic paused, staring at Jannie.
‘Tony tells me you never provided a weapon for the guy in Addington.’
‘No, Vic. He was brought in by the other two ouens…’
‘I know all that. All I want to know is the nature of the contact you had with the two guys that your two idiots brought into the game without your knowledge.’
Jannie was too terrified to follow the possible implications of Vic's words, so Tony prodded.
‘Tell Vic how you got the weapons, last year.’
Jannie responded to the lifeline, words bubbling out more rapidly than his brain could structure them.
‘There was this bantoe, Vic. Called Thabethe. A kêrel. Or, should I say, ex-kêrel. He was really the moer in with his unit. His Captain. Said his Captain was causing grief for him and he was wanting to trek so they couldn’t find him. Had stolen some guns and was offering them dirt cheap, like. It was when we were planning to bliksem that guy in the bush at the beach last year. He had let you down moerse on some business, Tony told us, and Tony wanted us to donner him. I mean you wanted him out, Vic. Tony told us. So we got two guns from this Thabethe ou, and…’
‘Where's Thabethe now?’
‘Ah - I dunno, Vic, I - ah - I could find him for you. He hangs around a shebeen that I know. He was always there by the she
been in the old days. Before he was bust, I mean. If he’s not in jail he’ll be there. I’ll trace him.’
‘You do just that. Tonight. Tomorrow. As soon as. Report back to Tony. I want Thabethe wasted, and I want no trail back here, got it? This is a big week for us.’
‘Wasted? Thabethe? Yes, OK. Sure. Definitely, Vic. For sure. Don't worry, Vic…’
‘I'm not worrying. Are you?’
‘No, Vic.’
‘Good. Tony, brief him downstairs. A word with you, first.’
Tony nodded at Jannie who retreated quickly, assuring Vic on the way:
‘Don't worry, Vic. Thabethe will disappear. I promise… the oke…OK, thanks, Vic. I’ll get on it tonight. Like I say, I know where he hangs out. I’ll wait for you down there by the bar, Tony, is that OK?’
Tony nodded and Jannie left. Vic waited for the door to close, then looked at Tony.
‘After he's done Thabethe, I need you to do something. I need you to look after Jannie.’
‘Sure, Vic. I think it's time. He's not coping, is he?’
‘No, he's not. How will Dirk take it?’
‘I'll make sure there's no problem with Dirk. I think he sees it coming anyway. Dirk's OK. Doesn't like foul-ups. He’s reliable.’
‘So you said.’
‘I'll wait for Jannie to sort out Thabethe, first, shall I?’
‘Yes. Thabethe's the problem. For now. Let me know as soon as he's down. Then we can take care of Jannie. I don’t think we want Jannie around when we hit the big stuff on Saturday.’
‘OK.’
‘We don’t need him, Tony. We need to wind up the muggings, right now. They’re becoming a distraction. They’re a side-line. We’ve done well enough out of them, but they pale into insignificance next to the warehouses. That stuff has been growing. Big time. And Saturday brings it all home. We need to walk away from the small stuff now, before it bites us and we lose out on the big stuff.’