by Ian Patrick
‘That must have hit home quite sharply, given what we now know about him,’ said Ryder.
‘I wish I had had the conversation on video, because I think you’re right. It was that single moment, in hindsight, that exposes him for what he really is, and I missed the significance of it. In retrospect, I should have left that meeting and gone straight out to do some research on our friend the Major. But all I did was wind down the discussion with some excuse and get the hell out of his obnoxious presence.’
Nyawula paused.
‘OK colleagues. Now I have to be ultra-careful. Before we move on Swanepoel I need to get to the Cluster Commander. Who I happen to know can’t stand our fat friend. He’ll probably want to take me to a discussion with the Provincial Commissioner. There’s no way something like this can be bust by us without someone up there knowing what’s happening before we go in with all guns blazing. So let’s just sketch through a couple of lines of action here. If it all comes together then we can move tomorrow. I can’t see it happening today.
He took them through what he had in mind. The two detectives added a few tentative observations of their own, drawing on some of the stuff they had discussed with Cronje in the car-park. Within minutes they had agreed some lines of action and enquiry. Ryder sketched out a quick plan of action for himself and Pillay for the next two hours. They would be going their separate ways and then coming back together to join things up. Nyawula agreed, but added another task.
‘I hate to throw this at the two of you, but there’s an additional chore that’s needed from each of you.’
‘What’s that, Captain?’ asked Pillay.
‘Both of you were involved in actions resulting in death this week. There are IPID forms we have to complete. They’re on their way over, and if you can complete them sometime this afternoon that would be good. Jeremy, you just need to report on your guy at Wilson’s Wharf. I’ll do Ed’s two guys, and a separate report on the guy he wounded. Navi, you need to do the guy in Overport. Sorry, both. Has to be done.’
‘No problem, Captain. Navi and I can get back here in an hour or two and do them then.’
They then took their leave of Nyawula. As they passed through the outer room and made for the door to the cars, Cronje whispered to them.
‘Sounds like the Major is going to kak off now that the Captain...’ He was interrupted by Nyawula’s voice booming from the interior.
‘Sergeant Cronje! A word, please.’
‘Yes, sir. Coming, sir!’
The two detectives chuckled as Cronje brushed past them.
‘Good luck, Piet,’ whispered Pillay. ‘The Captain’s on a mission. I’ve never seen him so determined.’
‘You can say that again, Pillay!’ boomed the Captain’s voice.
Pillay was startled, much to Ryder’s enjoyment. As they descended the stairs into the car park she blurted out in astonishment:
‘How the hell did he hear that? He’s got ears like your dog, Jeremy. Unless the place has been miked up.’
‘Don’t whisper near the guy, Navi. He’s very sharp. Fiona’s learned that, too. Let’s go.’
They made for the Camry.
11.10.
Dirk was in agony. The painkillers were supposed to be taken every four hours but he was in unbearable pain again every two hours. He sat on the low wall in the back garden area of the Argyle house, as Tony called it, catching his breath and watching as the workmen delivered the equipment.
There had been no problem getting the hinges on the knee brace adjusted. Exactly the same process as the previous time. And enduring the questions from the guy who talked the hind leg off of a donkey. Stupid. Yes, I agree. No more rugby from now on. Forced merriment. It was unbearable having to make conversation with the guy, but he did know his stuff, that’s for sure, and Dirk finally left, having had clear though extremely lengthy instructions on how to manage the hinges in the brace for the purpose of driving, which he would definitely keep to an absolute minimum, he promised. Why doesn’t the guy just stop talking and let me get away? Yes, he agreed that he should have gone back to the hospital for them to do it, and he would, but for now he just wanted some adjustment to ease the pressure. Yes, he would see a doctor again as soon as he could. Yes, it would be an orthopod, not just a GP. Definitely, he would not play rugby again any time soon.
He had arrived at the entrance to the Argyle house in Tenth Avenue in time but had been in far too much pain to heed Vic’s words about parking far away from the house. There was no way he was going to hobble a block or two with this knee. It was bad enough parking thirty metres down the road.
He’d locked the Ballade and pocketed the keys, then limped down to the house, retrieved the bunch of keys from the wheel position on the white Escort van, clicked the remote for the garage door, and entered the property. The van needed to remain in the street, because he knew there would be lots of activity in the garage for the rest of the day.
He had waited no longer than ten minutes, apologised to the man in charge of delivering the hardware for making him wait outside for a few minutes while he opened the garage, opened the kitchen door and the security gate, and then sat on a low garden wall inside while the delivery truck moved in. Once in, he had clicked the remote to lower the garage door so that the offloading wasn’t visible from the street.
He sat on the wall, checking off the items as the heavy crates were moved in one by one by four burly workers. He told the main guy to move them down the passage and stack them into the front room. He sat on the wall checking off the crates on a list, trying desperately to find a position to ease the pain in his leg, and wishing that they would move faster. He desperately needed to tell Tony that he couldn’t manage with his leg. He would need a few weeks off. The cops would be looking for him. He needed to get away. Maybe Vic could use him for work in the Cape or Gauteng. Whatever Vic decided, he needed some time off. He couldn’t go on like this, on painkillers.
After what seemed an eternity the truck was emptied, Dirk signed the papers, handed over an envelope, got the guy to sign a receipt, confirmed the arrangement for the second consignment which would be there at 15.00 promptly, opened the garage door with the remote, and watched them depart before lowering the door again. He moved in agony to the house, and lay down flat on his back in the passageway, trying to find a position that would allow at least some release from the throbbing pain.
12.20.
Big Red sat on the turquoise chaise lounge, an expensive but tastelessly upholstered semi-couch that had once been advertised in a luxury furniture store in The Pavilion in Westville as a classic authentic French style piece of home furniture. It had been produced in Hangzhou and sold, finally, at almost ten times its first price after it had worked its way through all the retail stages. All around him in the sumptuously furnished room were the accoutrements of ostentation and indulgence, exhibiting enormous cost but little taste.
‘I suppose while I’m at sea you won’t be moving away much from my Lazyboy, hey, Ben?’ he said, as he shaped and stacked on his knee the pile of more than thirty A-5 pages, upon each of which he had been scribbling various notes and prices.
Opposite him sat a thin and dirty man aged about thirty years who looked like a refugee from the sixties, with greasy shoulder-length hair caught by a rubber band in a ponytail, and facial hair that belonged at the first Woodstock Festival. His rheumy eyes were those of a much older man, and reflected a brain that an observer might conclude had been burned dry by years of inhaling a range of different corrosive substances. He was reclining in a Legendary La-z-Boy Gizmo Recliner. The recliner had originally attracted Big Red partly because it came fitted as standard with a cool box under the left arm pad and a full ten-point built-in massage system. Ben reached down for a bottle of Castle Lager as he replied.
‘Yissus, man, my favourite chair in the whole universe, Red. It was a bakgat purchase, my china.’
He added an unnecessary guffaw after his reply, showing grossly discolour
ed teeth. Before slurping from the bottle he removed from his left ear the earphone of the MP3 player that was plugged into the audio connections on the side of the recliner. He snuggled deeper into the Full Grade A Brown Mocca Leather as he brought the bottle to his lips and slurped loudly.
‘OK, Ben. I’ve done all the pages. When I come back tomorrow night I want all of the stuff ready in one box, with one of these pages attached to each bundle.’
‘Sure thing, Red, my old tjommie.’
‘I’ll be here after dinner, between eight and nine. We can talk through final arrangements and then I’ll take the stuff to the yacht just before midnight.’
‘I’ll be ready, bru. You think the stuff will sell?’
‘I reckon the guys in Maputo have their own version of nyaope, but from what I’ve heard this stuff is much stronger than anything else that goes down there.’
‘No question. I thought I knew all the Durban gif before I found this stuff. This batch is amazing, Red. Really kif. But you gotta be careful, hey? After one minute you can be in a real dwaal, you know?’
‘On the other hand, once the guys are hooked they’ll pay anything, right?’
‘Struesbob Red. I reckon you’re gonna sell at double the price the dronkgats pay here.’
‘Well, if it works, I’m going to open a whole new shipping lane between here and Mozambique.’
‘Does your secret pallie know you won’t be just playing sailor to him tomorrow? You think he’ll sug if he finds out you’re running your own business on the same trip? Does he know you’ll be doing stuff of your own?’
‘He doesn’t know yet. But as soon as we’re out of SA waters I’ll tell him. From what I’ve heard he’s loaded, and I think I can talk him into coming in with me. Buy a share, you know? Maybe with his bucks we can grow the business? The guy’s well connected with the cops, and I hear he’s got his own funny business on the side, so he’s not so clean, hey, Ben? Funny, I got a feeling when I was talking to him yesterday that he might even be talking to me soon about a business proposal of his own. Maybe we can do both: me help him with whatever stuff he’s selling, and him come in with me selling nyaope.
‘You scheme? Really? And what about me, Red?’
‘Hey, china. You were the one who first told me about nyaope, remember? I’m not going to cut you loose.’
‘Ja, struesbob, hey? I just wish you would try a hit with the stuff yourself, Red.’
‘Not for me, Ben. I’m happy to let the guys smoke the stuff. I’ll just trade it. It’ll rot the brains, man. You should slow down, yourself. You’re too deep into it, Ben.’
‘Ja, I know, hey? You sound just like my boet, man. But it’s so lekker, man, Red. Anyway, don’t worry, china. While you’re away I won’t be getting into the stuff too much. I’ll stick to the beer.’
‘Don’t get up to any stuff while I’m away, Ben. Don’t pull that stuff you did on Sunday night, OK? Selling nyaope from my boat to those four tsotsis. From my bloody boat!’
‘Yissus, sorry, hey, Red. I didn’t know they would go and cause that gemors across the road. I crapped myself the next morning with all the cops around, hey?’
‘That’s why I say, Ben. That stuff is dangerous, man. You shouldn’t have sold to those guys. There are okes out there who take the stuff just so they can go out and kill and rape. I heard some guy being interviewed, and he told the guy on the radio just that. I take nyaope because it makes me feel strong so I can fight anyone. Jeez, stay away from guys like that, man. What the hell are you selling to creeps like that for? And right under the nose of the guys in the yacht club!’
‘I dunno, Red. Someone must have told them where they could get some nyaope. They woke me up and got me going before I even knew what I was doing. The ous actually told me, hey, that they had been looking all night for some and then someone told them we had some kif stuff on the boat. I didn’t go looking for them. They just arrived, man. Woke me up and said they needed some of the stuff and they heard I had the best stuff and all. They were scary okes but they had the geld, hey, so I thought I’d just sell them some, quickly, and let them go. They even came back a short while later – I think to get some more – but I pretended there was no-one on board and they went away again. When I heard the next day what they did to those people in The Grove I poeped myself. I wouldn’t have sold to those guys if I knew they were going to go and rob someone and kill them, promise, Red.’
‘Well I hope it’s a bloody lesson to you, Ben. That’s the last time I let you alone to look after my boat. Next time I need you to do that, I’ll make sure you have someone with you. Yissus, man! Selling to people you don’t know! How damn stupid!’
‘I’m sorry, hey. Promise I won’t do something like that again, Red.’
‘I’m taking no chances, Ben. This whole week, since that stuff on Monday morning, there’ve been cops snooping around Wilson’s Wharf. That’s why I moved the stuff here until tomorrow. These cops are taking nyaope more seriously than anything, and I’m watching my back all the time in case they bring their sniffer dogs. If those four guys heard about us selling the stuff from a boat, then there’s a good chance that whoever told them will tell the cops too. From now on we load the stuff onto the yacht only a couple of hours before we sail. No more stocking it at the yacht club.’
‘OK, Red. I got you. I’m with you, hey?’
‘OK, Ben. I’m off. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Tomorrow we start ratcheting up the business.’
14.20.
Ryder and Pillay were in Cronje’s office struggling to complete their part of the forms required by the Independent Police Investigative Directorate after their actions resulting in death during the week.
‘More forms. I can’t stand it Jeremy. Cause of death: I stood on his throat, your honour, because I was sick of the crap he was talking.’
‘Don’t think it will fly, Navi.’
‘Which one, then? I got these options: suicide, or during apprehension, or in transit with SAPS vehicles, or self-defence, or during escape, or due to motor vehicle accident, or unknown or other.’
‘Why don’t you tick suicide? The guy took you on in hand-to-hand combat. I suppose that could count as suicide.’
‘Very funny. I’ll just tick off self-defence. What are you going to put for your guy at Wilson’s Wharf? You shot him in the throat, didn’t you? Think they’re going to start asking why we go for the throat, the two of us? Because we don’t like what people say to us, your honour. So what is it that you are trying to say to me right now, your honour?’
‘Here we go, Navi. Here’s one for you. Classify deceased: was your deceased suspect, or sentenced, or witness protection, or awaiting trial, or mental patient?’
‘Definitely mental. Anyone who takes me on must be mental.’
‘Agreed. I can hear Piet coming. Smoker’s cough, if ever I heard one. Let’s get done with this, Navi. I want to take a look at the stuff that K and D are bringing in from the parking opposite Addington Hospital.’
‘Oh? What have they got?’
‘Sorry. Meant to tell you. Piet called me at lunch-time and said that Koeks told him they have CCTV showing our one-legged hospital patient being pushed in a wheelchair over to a Silver Honda Ballade in Prince Street. By a kindly SAPS constable in a nice uniform. Friendly constable apparently is a bit absent-minded, too, and left the wheelchair in the middle of the parking bay.’
Cronje arrived at the door, having finished his smoke and tea in the car park.
‘Here, Piet. We’ve done as much as we can on the IPID forms. Can you let the Captain have them?’
‘Sure, Jeremy. K and D have just arrived. They’re parking. You can use the Captain’s office. It’s free for at least another hour or two.’
‘Thanks, Piet.’
Koekemoer and Dippenaar arrived as Ryder and Pillay were moving into the inner office. There was a hubbub of greetings and exchanges and they settled down around Nyawula’s desk to look at the photos the two new arrival
s had brought with them.
‘Good images,’ said Pillay.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ said Dippenaar, ‘when you really want them to be good they’re usually so grainy you can’t see anything, but in this case, look – have you ever seen such a clear number plate?’
They pored through the photos, exchanged views, enjoyed some merriment at Pillay’s expense about the injured man in the wheelchair, and all agreed without hesitation that the so-called Constable Dlamini was in fact one Skhura Thabethe.
‘Have you got anyone looking at that number plate, Koeks?’
‘Done, Jeremy. They’re doing a trace. I already had a call saying there’s something funny about the papers and the licensing, but they’re onto it and I should get another call soon.’
‘Yissus! Just look at that bastard. I could never stand the oke. Me and the Captain, we were in competition about who hated the guy most.’
‘If you can bring him in, Dipps, you’ll be Nyawula’s buddy for life,’ said Pillay. ‘Jeez, I’ve never seen the Captain so the moer in as when he talks about Thabethe.’
Koekemoer’s iPhone rang, and he answered.
‘Ja! That’s right. No, no problem. OK. OK. OK. Ja, OK. No. I see. Can you check out further and see what you can get? Ja. OK. Thanks, I appreciate it.’
As he closed off the call, the others waited expectantly.
‘Guys, a really lekker piece of information. They still haven’t got the full picture, but maybe you’d like to know that the Honda Ballade we see in the photo there was registered until a few hours ago at an address you all know. The new address is fictitious, but the old owner is a guy called Mkhize, and his address is Nomivi’s Tavern.’
‘Shit.’ said Pillay.