by Ian Patrick
He took the opportunity to study every possible angle on the place. Back door into the kitchen and out to the back area and to the garage. Windows, garden terrain, types of burglar bars, window catches, door-lock mechanisms. Even the tree in the garden. The strength of the branches in case he ever needed to be up there. The depth of foliage for hiding in the branches. The massive hydrangea bush against the wall, large enough to conceal a couple of guys if necessary. The branch of the tree allowing access to the roof. Could be useful.
But as he was preparing to leave he had another look at the loose window catch. He slid the blade of his knife upward, jiggled a little, and saw the latch flip over. Opened and ready. For another night. When there were goods inside worth looking at.
He left as quietly as he had arrived, and walked back up the road to the Mini. As he got in, he thought it was time to change cars. Time to see Spikes again. Nomivi’s would just about be starting to get hot. A good time to find Spikes.
*
One month full hire. Or, if he liked the car after one month, he could treat it as being a one-third deposit on the full price. Spikes Mkhize clutched ten thousand rands in crisp new two-hundred-rand notes, as he stood next to the red Mini, watching Thabethe roar off in the middle of the night in the silver Ballade. Thabethe was rising in the world, he thought.
Spikes had agreed, as part of the deal, and in preparation for a possible outright purchase after one month, to sort out the papers and licence and everything else, but in another name that Thabethe could use, rather than his own, along with the necessary new ID. Crisp new money could lubricate a lot of middlemen and forgers. He would have it all done within a couple of days. Skhura could collect the papers from Nomivi’s on Saturday, latest. When Thabethe had peeled off the crisp banknotes from what looked like a wad of twice the amount he actually handed over, Mkhize couldn’t resist putting himself out for further sales.
‘Eish! Skhura. Wena! You hit a big luck? Spikes can help you move that money, sharp-sharp. You want police uniforms? I got. Bullets? I got. No guns – hayibo! – too much trouble for Spikes. But bullets I got. Plenty. You know Spikes. I can get for you.’
Thabethe had grunted something that meant no, thanks.
Spikes waited until the Ballade had disappeared into the night. He thought it was time to wrap up business for the night and get back to some serious drinking. Tjaila. Time to go. He got into the Mini and moved it around to the back of the building.
Thabethe felt the roar of the engine and felt vibrations in his hands as he spun the wheel. Things were going his way at last. Money made him powerful. The thought of more money, much more, made him feel invincible.
21.45.
Ryder reached the phone before Fiona did. They each had less than half a glass of Ondine Sauvignon Blanc, 2013, in their hands.
‘Jeremy?’
‘Captain?’
‘Sorry it’s so late. How’s the head?’
Fiona nestled in to him and he tilted the receiver so that she could share the earpiece.
‘It’s fine, thanks. Fiona did her work on it. Re-did the dressing and put on a new plaster. Told me the nurses didn’t know what they were doing, of course.’
She punched him on the arm, took a swig of wine, and went back to eavesdropping.
‘I think I’d trust Fiona rather than Addington nurses, myself. Look, I thought you would like to hear this. Sorry, no, that’s the wrong way of saying it. It’s not at all something you would like to hear. But I hope you can take something positive from it.’
‘What is it, Captain?’
‘I had ballistics pull out all stops on both the bullet they took out of Ed and the Desert Eagle you and Pillay had to deal with today.’
He paused.
‘They match?’
‘As perfect a match as ballistics say they’ve seen. We’re almost positive that the guy that Pillay took down today was the guy who put down Ed Trewhella.’
‘Almost?’
‘I’ve asked forensics to now cross-check with the Montpelier Road evidence to match up any possible traces of this guy at Overport, to place him at the scene of Ed’s murder. I have no doubt we’ll get the cross-check evidence we need, now that we know who we’re looking for.’
Fiona pulled back to look at Jeremy. His eyes were dry. The anger was still burning away in him.
‘Thanks, Captain. It is good to hear.’
‘Take it easy, Jeremy.’
Nyawula paused.
‘You, too, Fiona.’
She gasped, and pulled back from the receiver making all sorts of unintelligible motions with her hands, which Jeremy read perfectly as saying Tell him he’s mistaken! I’m taking a shower!
‘Thanks, Captain. Fiona is saying thanks, too.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Bye.’
Fiona was aghast.
‘You bastard. Why didn’t you tell him I was…’
He kissed her passionately, spilling wine from both their glasses. When they came up for air, she said:
‘He’s a clever bugger, that captain of yours. Now I’m all embarrassed. How can I look him in the face at the function tomorrow night?’
‘He sure is a clever bugger. No pulling the wool over his eyes.’
‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine. Ed would be pleased.’
‘He would. More wine, or bed?’
‘Bed.’
She pecked him on the lips, took his empty glass, and working together in a pattern they knew so well, they started switching off the lights.
THURSDAY
05.10.
Ryder let the water burn into the wound on his scalp. He didn’t feel like singing, for once. He stood, watching the water spool into the plug-hole. As it cascaded onto him he thought through the events of the last couple of days. Losing a partner was the very worst thing that had happened to him in his career. Three times, now. He wasn’t sure he could cope with another experience like those three. Yet he had come close to the fourth, yesterday. Pillay had been his partner for no more than an hour – unofficially – before he had nearly lost her too.
No-one could replace Ed. But he had to admit that Navi was good. Damn good. It would be a special pleasure telling her what the Captain had told him, last thing last night, about the ballistics report. Much as he would have preferred to be the one to take out Ed’s murderer, there was some kind of poetic justice in the fact that it was his new partner who had done it, and in a Trewhella manner, too. Crushed the bastard’s windpipe and watched him die slowly. Ed would have approved.
The news of the ballistics report provided some comfort. He had been obsessed with chasing down Frikkie’s assailant, all those years ago. He had lived that case night and day until he had run down the murderer. Same as when he had lost his good friend Ntshaveni to those other thugs. In this case it appeared already wrapped up, thanks to Pillay. Ed’s side of things, anyway. There was still the stuff linked to the Overport address that would have to be investigated. But at least it wouldn’t be complicated by having to find Ed’s killer. If the forensics report backed up the ballistics information.
He felt comfortable working with Navi. Had always liked her. Spunky. Humorous. As foul-mouthed as Ed, and tough. Bet her arm was hurting right now. She’ll have to take it easy for a couple of days. Partners. Both bruised, but both ready to go on.
There was something else in the back of his mind. But he couldn’t put his finger on what it was that was eluding him. Maybe a cup of Fiona’s coffee would get his brain-cells going.
He turned off the water and the day started.
08.00.
Vic eased the car from the left hand lane of the angry traffic in Margaret Mncadi Avenue and turned across the railway tracks into the entrance to Wilson’s Wharf. He pulled into the parking in front of the Royal Natal Yacht Club. He was greeted by a red-headed, sun-tanned, burly man in his mid-thirties.
He was way more than a foot taller than Vic, and his biceps were as
large as Vic’s own. Except that this guy’s biceps were hard muscle, not fat, Vic thought. He wore a plain white t-shirt primarily because he liked the ostentatious display of his body-builder’s impressive six-pack and the muscular arms that sported two intertwined snakes on each of the right forearm and the left upper arm. His faded powder blue jeans stretched across thigh muscles suggested that his body-building was by no means restricted to the upper body.
They shook hands. His was a knuckle-cruncher.
‘Good to see you again, Vic.’
‘Thanks, Red. Thought I’d see whether we’re still on schedule, and have another look around.’
‘My pleasure. You’re paying big bucks. You can hassle me any time.’
Red spoke knowledgeably as they walked along the pier, pausing a few times at some of the moored yachts as he pointed to the vessels and explained something of their features. In one case he paused and described the vessel at some length, and with great affection, almost as if he was a child describing the features of a personal favourite toy. Vic could see he was an experienced sailor. They moved on down the quay.
‘I appreciate you doing this, Red. It’s a longer voyage than I’ve done before, so you can understand that I’m a bit concerned.’
‘No problem at all, amigo. It’s a big trip, and it’s perfectly natural for you to be apprehensive about it. As I said when we first met, feel free to come in as many times as you like. We could even take you through the old Maritime Museum stuff, if you want. Or we can sit you down for another detailed talk about boats and yachts, regulations and the law, coastal versus deep-sea sailing, and all that stuff.’
‘Nah. I’ve had my fill of all of that. I’m ready. In fact, I can’t wait.’
‘As I thought. You don’t really need to know any of that shit, anyway. The important thing, Vic, is that any client hiring any of the boats you see moored along here can have a crew of experienced yachtsmen who will do everything required. The crew I’ve got for you comprises some of the best people I know. They all love sailing. You’re paying top bucks, amigo, so I’ve ensured the best for you. You just have to sit back and enjoy.’
‘Any of them asking any questions?’
‘None at all. Rest assured none of them knows anything about our deal. As far as they’re concerned you’re just a client who wants a break from business and wants to get away for a long holiday. None of these guys knows my business, let alone yours. Here we go, Vic. After you.’
Vic’s voice sounded laryngeal as he replied while panting his way up the new aluminium Marine Wharf Gangway Ladder, arriving breathless at the top.
‘I appreciate it, Red, believe me. I’ve invested a lot of time and money in this and I’m now needing the big change I’ve been planning on for a helluva long time.’
‘OK, Vic. Sure thing. No problemo. Right. We’ll take you around now to show you the extra fittings we did yesterday. There’s still some stuff being fitted in the main berth, so we can’t really go in there at the moment. But you can come along on Saturday morning if you like and have a final check on that and on the food and booze supplies. We’re stocking up later today. Feel free to pop in anytime Saturday morning. We want to make sure we have everything you need.’
*
After inspecting the vessel Vic puffed his way down the ladder and walked back over to where the cars were parked. Red stood on the deck, watching him go. He wondered exactly how much the fat man was worth. Maybe he should have driven an even harder bargain. Maybe some future deals will be in the offing. He contemplated the possibilities as Vic walked away from him and back toward his car.
Vic would normally have wanted to go straight into the Clubhouse for breakfast, but he had to pick up his new cell-phone. He was entirely satisfied with the boat, and starting to feel upbeat about that side of things. Red had proved to be solid and reliable. Maybe even more reliable than Tony. Maybe he would be up for a discussion about his future, once they were safely out at sea.
But he was deeply disturbed by the realisation that someone else had used Tony’s phone last night. He had to get his new instrument. He’d feel safer with a new number. He had to make a lot of calls. Most of them were urgent final confirmations of deliveries and dispatches, none of which he could afford to postpone.
Where the hell was Tony? And how do we get to Dirk?
08.35.
Thabethe sat in the Ballade in Prince Street outside the Addington Hospital, waiting for Spikes Mkhize. He played Vic’s message to Tony yet again: Tony. Vic. I found Dirk. He’s in Addington. Call me. Now.
It was about the tenth time he had played it this morning. The first time had been at about 5.00 am, when his sleepless night had finally led to the realisation of the piece of the puzzle that had been eluding him. The fat guy. The friend of the Afrikaner boy. In the photo. The link to Overport, the other guy called Tony, and the big money. The idea had prompted him to get up, walk around in the pre-dawn cold, and force himself awake. By 6.30 am he was down at the Addington. He knew the hospital procedures well. It had taken him a couple of minutes to steal the clothes, find a trolley and look like a worker. After all, he had done exactly this for months way back when, and he knew the ropes. Few paid any attention to him in the bustle of morning preparations and breakfasts and bedpans and complaints and beepers and buzzers, and enquiries. It didn’t take him long to track down the patient.
The problem was the police constable sitting in a chair outside Dirk’s room. Thabethe had retreated, cursing. But within seconds he had worked out the way to solve this little problem. It would take a bit of time, but perhaps it would be better, anyway, to make his move only in an hour or two. In the down time, after the morning rush in the passageways of the hospital. To try now would be to run into people bringing breakfast and fetching dishes and delivering medications and checking patients. Better in an hour or two. He retreated to plot the next move.
Uniformed constable. He remembered Spikes’ words of the previous night: You want police uniforms? I got.
It had been a problem getting Spikes first to answer his phone and then to speak coherently at 7.00 in the morning, but once the fog of the previous night’s booze had cleared and he remembered the huge wad of cash that Skhura had been flashing around, he sobered up very quickly. One constable uniform to fit Skhura Thabethe. And rope? Eish! Now? What’s time? Now? Is 7.00 o’clock. Eish! I got a hectic babelas, Skhura, 7.00 is not so easy. I can come 12.00 o’clock.
Thabethe told him that the price would go up from five hundred rands to one thousand rands if he could get there in an hour.
‘Eish, old Skhura. For you, I can make the plan. I can be there 8.30 sharp-sharp.’
Thabethe now saw Spikes arrive, in the familiar red Mini, just a few minutes later than promised. He parked four bays away from the Ballade, and walked over with the package, something wrapped in brown paper, protruding from a very large black plastic bin-liner. Thabethe leaned over and opened the passenger door for him. Spikes sat with the parcel on his lap, tearing open the brown paper, and speaking animatedly about this line of his flourishing business.
‘You hear, Skhura, about that case in Gauteng that time? Those guys in Tembisa Magistrate’s Court. You see that guy in the newspaper, that Tembisa Cluster Commander, Major-General fok-face Leshabane. His guys caught my friends, that one. They were doing good business there for me, man. My guys had the constable uniforms like this one, with handcuffs, boots, and fake guns. Fake but look good, you know? They go up to people and say Wena! We police! Give us your money...’
Spikes roared with laughter, removing the items from the brown paper and passing them one by one over to Thabethe, who then looked closely at them, examined them, and was satisfied that the items were all completely authentic. He was well positioned to know. After all, he had done time in these exact uniforms. Spikes continued.
‘That General Phiyega got that bastard Lieutenant-General guy and they messed up my business there, man. We had police uniforms, and police ca
rs and blue lights, and all that stuff. When my guys stopped the people they thought yissus! the cops! Man, we laughed when we heard each time. My guys told them they were from the police K9 unit. Hell, Skhura, we laughed. But when they grabbed those guys, that station commander at Tembisa, Brigadier Jacobs, he started looking for more of my guys, so I closed down in Gauteng. Now I do only KwaZulu-Natal.’
Thabethe was satisfied with the goods, paid Spikes the thousand in cash, and Spikes left a happy man. As always, he gave Thabethe the assurance that no-one would ever know. Spikes knew better than most that to cross Skhura Thabethe in any way was to write one’s own ticket to a very painful final result. They said that when Skhura Thabethe wanted to make you cry, he made you cry like a vuvuzela. Don’t cross that one! Hayi!
Thabethe watched the red Mini drive away and then, with the bin-liner stuffed full, he went to find a toilet in the hospital.
Within minutes he had emerged from the toilet, feeling entirely comfortable in the uniform of a constable, exactly like the one that he had worn, two years previously, every day of his working week. Today he would be Constable Dlamini. He walked casually back over to the Ballade and emptied the bin-liner, now containing his own clothes, behind the driver’s seat. Then he stuffed the bin-liner into his trouser pocket and crossed back over to the entrance that would take him back to Dirk’s ward.
A quick friendly exchange and he had informed the constable on duty that his unit had decided to release him early from guard duty, at 9.00 am. He could now make his way back to the station if he wanted, or grab some breakfast before doing so, because his relief, Constable Dlamini, was happy to take over immediately instead of waiting for 9.00 am. The man needed no further prompting, and after telling Constable Dlamini in answer to a question that the nurses had already been and done their morning stuff with the patient, he was gone. Thabethe entered the ward.