by Ian Patrick
‘Fok.’ said Dippenaar.
‘How very interesting.’ said Ryder.
Koekemoer told them he had got assurance that the car would be put on a police alert and unless it had been burned or sent to a chop-shop or dumped somewhere they would track it down.
‘OK, guys,’ said Ryder, ‘we need to get out there and follow up a few things. Koeks, are you able to follow up on CCTV footage further down the track and see which way the car was heading when it left the hospital?’
‘Sure, Jeremy, leave it to me, I’ll get on to that right away.’
‘Dipps, could you de-brief Piet so that the Captain knows what we’re up to, and then get on to that idiot constable who Thabethe clearly bamboozled, and see what else you can get out of him?’
‘Sure, Jeremy, no problem.’
‘Thanks, guys. Navi, what about if you and I get out to Nomivi’s to follow up on this Mkhize guy and then take it from there?’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Let’s go in separate cars in case we need to split after that. Koeks, if your guys call in with a location for the car...’
‘You’ll be the first to hear, Jeremy.’
‘Thanks, Koeks. Let’s hit it, Navi.’
The office was vacated amidst fist punches and high-fives, and Ryder and Pillay strode across the car-park to their cars.
15.05.
Dirk repeated the process with the second delivery. Slightly more crates, slightly longer to off-load. They moved them into the second room down the passage. But when they had finished the work he was in a better frame of mind than after the morning’s delivery. The papers were signed and handed over as in the previous session, and the delivery guys left, having arranged that the third and fourth – and final – deliveries of the day would be at around 6.00 pm. Maybe earlier, if the traffic was OK. Two trucks this time, said the lead guy.
The painkillers were having the desired effect. Dirk could treat himself to something to eat and drink. Debonairs Pizza delivery, just around the corner in Florida Road. Perfect. While he waited he hobbled through the house to have a look at the equipment, now packed into two of the rooms.
15.20.
Pillay and Ryder spoke to Mkhize outside the tavern. Ryder leaned back against the Camry while she stood directly in front of Mkhize, who was animatedly denying just about everything that had been suggested to him by the two detectives.
‘Hayibo detective, not me. Aikona! Not Spikes. Spikes is one-time clean. Me, I’m not a mampara. Not me, no shibobo. That Thabethe is a skabenga! I’m telling you. Spikes does no business with skollies. No more. My business is clean.’
‘So if we find the car,’ said Ryder, ‘you say it has nothing to do with you because it was sold by you to a Mr Buthelezi for cash and you have no idea where Mr Buthelezi lives, and you had never met him before he bought the car off you?’
‘Is right, detective. Is right! I’m not moegoe! I know there is big trouble with cars. This Buthelezi, he must be a skelm. He is supposed to make the changes for the registration, not me. He promised me. Eish, is bad.’
‘So if we trace the owner and we bring him back to stand here and talk to you, face to face, you’re happy with that, Mr Mkhize?’ said Pillay.
‘Is good, detective, is good. Ek is skrik vir niks. Spikes is good. Struesbob!’
‘And you can’t tell us any more about Thabethe?’ Ryder interjected, as he could see Mkhize preparing to extend his assurances.
‘That one? Eish. Skhura. He is spookgerook! People here, we are scared of that one. Spikes has nothing to do with that one. Tsotsi! Hayi!’
It was fruitless. There was no way they were going to get anything more from him. They let him go and he retreated with as many obsequious assurances and gestures and genuflections and touches of an imaginary forelock as they had ever seen. They had never seen such oleaginous grovelling.
‘What an unctuous creep,’ said Ryder.
‘Greasy slime-ball. Maybe we need to stake out this place and see what he gets up to.’
‘I think you’re right, Navi. Let’s get K or D to help out. This guy reeks of it and I reckon he could lead us to Thabethe.’
Ryder’s iPhone sounded.
‘Yep. Dipps? Yeah. Fine. OK. Yes. No, not at all. No problem. OK. Look, Dipps, Navi and I had just been wondering, when you called, whether you or K could help us out with something. You called, so you get first go at the lucky dip. This is the thing...’
When he had finished with the call he briefed Pillay on what Dippenaar had told him. Nothing had come from the interview with the Constable at Addington who had been bamboozled by Thabethe. He had confirmed the physical description of Thabethe that Dipps had provided – no problem, because the eyes were the first thing the guy had mentioned – but there had been nothing else of value. Dipps would be on his way right now to take over from them at Nomivi’s. He’d watch the place and tail one Spikes Mkhize for as long as was necessary.
They agreed that Pillay would stay to brief him.
Just as Ryder set off in the Camry, with Pillay remaining behind for Dippenaar, another call came in on the iPhone. He stopped, spoke briefly, then dropped the window of the Camry to tell her.
‘That was Koeks. They’ve found the Honda Ballade. Quite close to the Montpelier house. Couple of blocks down. I’ll get out there and see what I can find. The uniforms will wait till I get there. See ya.’
‘OK, Jeremy. I’ll let you know when Dipps takes over here.’
‘OK, Navi. See you later.’
*
He was there very quickly. The two uniforms were waiting for him. After glancing at Ryder’s ID, It took only seconds for one of the constables to slide his adapted slim jim into the rubber seal of the driver’s window and free the Ballade’s mechanism. As he opened the door for the detective, he proudly explained how his thirteen-year old son was the one who had made the simple modification to the slim jim in order to foil the manufacturer’s deterrent mechanism.
‘Eish! My son, he’s a skelm that one. He can get into any car.’
‘Useful talent to have in the family,’ Ryder replied.
A couple of minutes later he had checked the vehicle throughout, while the uniforms watched. Then he sat in his own car having found nothing useful other than the torn-off piece of cardboard from the pharmaceutical box that had housed Dirk’s anti-inflammatories. He looked at the cell-phone number scribbled in pencil over the chemist’s label, and called in to Cronje to arrange for him to track the number without actually calling it.
Ryder checked the area quickly, doing no more than walking briskly past and glancing at the four or five properties in the vicinity of the vehicle. He arranged for the constables to remain with the Ballade until the tow-truck arrived, and then he drove off. He didn’t notice the man standing in the shadow of the palms on the far side of Sandile Thusi, who had been watching since the first arrival of the two constables.
Thabethe now moved his position from under the foliage to sit on the low wall next to the palms, and stayed there throughout the next hour, watching them as they joked and smoked then helped to hitch up the Ballade to the tow-truck when it arrived. He watched the exchange of papers and signatures, and finally watched the two constables leave.
He remained where he was, eyes staring across and up Tenth Avenue as the first hint of dusk began to descend, erasing the lengthening shadows.
He did not have long to wait. He saw a large truck arrive, laden with wooden crates. It hooted outside the wide double-garage door, and after a couple of minutes the door was opened by remote control and a man hobbled out onto the brick-paved concrete apron.
The fat Afrikaner.
Thabethe watched as the truck was ushered in and the garage door closed. He was about to leave his perch across the street when suddenly the door opened again and the fat man limped out, much more energetic than he had just been. He appeared frantic. He walked a few paces up the street, into the middle of the road, peering in both directions
. He had suddenly realised what was missing in the street. The Honda was gone.
Thabethe, sitting back in the shadows, was not visible to Dirk. He watched the fat man smack his forehead with the palm of his right hand. If he had been a little more proficient in languages, he might have been able to lip-read the anguished man’s self-inflicted curses.
‘Fok! Doos! Jou bliksem!’
Dirk was utterly devastated, and retreated back into the garage, the door coming down again almost instantly.
Thabethe changed his mind. He would wait a little longer.
Fifteen minutes later another truck arrived, and hooted. The garage door opened, and both the first driver and the Afrikaner came out onto the apron. It soon became clear to Thabethe what was happening. The first truck had been almost cleared, and they’d bring it out of the garage and into the road. The new truck would then not enter the garage but move onto the apron so that the cargo could be moved into the garage and not into the house.
Over the next half hour there was a lot of shouting from the workmen, complaints about the weight of the crates, some calling into the interior of the garage, and finally papers were signed and the two trucks drove off, with shouts and laughter indicating that the day’s work was done and it was time for beers all around.
Thabethe crossed the street to get a different angle on the open garage and could see even before he had fully crossed, and before the garage door came down, that the garage was crammed with crates that had been offloaded from the last truck.
It grew darker.
Then the side door to the left of the garage opened and he watched as Dirk came out, limped over to the White Escort Panel Van, and drove away.
Thabethe watched and waited a little longer. Then he chose the right moment and repeated his actions from two nights ago. The barbed wire presented no problem. This time a heavy blanket provided the service previously provided by the rubberised mat from the Mini. Within seconds he was in the garden, then at the window with the loosened catch. He clambered in, and stood in the room, listening.
His eyes grew quickly accustomed to the dark, and he found himself in front of a room crammed with slot machines, of every conceivable make and size and shape, interspersed among various wooden crates containing other hidden equipment. He used the penlight to scan quickly over the room. It was impossible to estimate how many of the machines there were. He guessed at least fifty in this room alone, assuming the unopened crates contained the same machines.
He moved into the passage and into the next room. The same. Crammed full of the stuff. Then the kitchen, at the end of the passage. Also almost full. Boxes, plastic-covered slot machines, huge crates. Impossible to even access the minimal household stuff there – the dishwasher and washing-machine, and even the wash-basin were all partially obstructed by the crates.
He moved out of the kitchen back door and across the short open area to the back of the garage, and could see at a glance the same picture in the garage. He then retreated the way he had come in, finally making his way back over the wall and across the street just as the White Escort van pulled up again a few paces away from the garage door.
He drew back into the palms and watched as the fat Afrikaner clambered out of the vehicle with some difficulty, looked around to see if he was being observed and then, seeing nothing to concern him, placed something on the top of the rear wheel before limping toward the side door next to the garage, carrying a brown paper bag and what looked like a litre bottle of coke. He fiddled with keys at the door, and entered the property.
Thabethe crossed the street to check the rear wheel of the vehicle. He felt and retrieved the single key, which he could see immediately was the ignition key for the Escort. He thought for a moment, placed it back on its perch, then walked slowly back to the cover of the palms across the street.
Not tonight, he thought. This fat boy is not the man with the money. Tomorrow. All this equipment. It’s not going to stay here, in this house. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe then. The big money.
He stepped into the road and flagged down a taxi.
*
Dirk’s quick trip to Masinga Road for a couple of burgers and chips and a litre of coke and extras on the side were to be his only comforts during another night of pain. The one bed in the house was as uncomfortable a bed as he had ever slept in. Solace would come through food, and painkillers. Vic had promised him a big reward. Tomorrow and Sunday the stuff would be moved out, and Vic would get his money. Dirk would receive a bonus like he had never imagined possible. It was worth it.
Where was Tony? Neither he nor Vic knew where the bugger was. What was he up to?
Dirk munched and drank and mused.
19.15.
Dippenaar was finally rewarded. The Friday traffic had been against him getting there, and it was long past 5.30 pm by the time Pillay had filled him in and then left him. He had settled comfortably and watched the dusk descend over the neighbourhood around Nomivi’s.
He watched the first whoonga trades of the weekend go down, and marvelled at the experience of the traders. It was almost as if they didn’t really care if they were being watched by anyone, because they had the moves down perfectly. Passing car slows down. Young ten-year-old kid goes across. After a quick exchange he tells the driver to move down to a designated spot. Packet passed from driver to second kid. Second kid whistles. Car drives on another thirty paces. Older guy emerges from nowhere, walks over to the driver, greets him, high-fives him, and leaves a small packet in the driver’s hands as he walks on. Laughter and greetings. Driver moves on. The team ready for the next one.
Dippenaar was wondering how it would ever be possible to stop this stuff from happening.
He had been prepared to do this watch for a few hours before calling in for relief, but it turned out that his initial watch was less than two hours long, because he saw his suspect emerge from the tavern. Unmistakable, from Pillay’s description. Within minutes, while briefing Ryder on his iPhone, he was tailing Spikes Mkhize, who was less than a hundred metres ahead of him, driving a little red Mini.
19.45.
Fiona had been happy enough for him to go out again. She also had a lot to catch up on, anyway, and at least they had had a nice quick tuna salad together. He thought he’d be back before eleven, but as always they knew that it depended. She said she might be up. She might not. Hugs and kisses.
She watched him ease the Camry out into the road, heard the throbbing beat of Fleetwood’s Tusk, probably louder than she had ever heard it, and shook her head in despair. She couldn’t see any point in tackling him about it when he got home. She could already envisage him arguing Oh, OK. I thought you said only in the morning. No-one hassles with the volume early evening. But if you insist…
Dippenaar had tracked Mkhize to an interesting spot, he said to Ryder in his second call.
‘Any guesses?’
‘None at all,’ Ryder had replied.
‘A nice little place we all know well. Called Suncoast Casino.’
Ryder replied that he was five to six minutes away.
‘Come to the bar in the main playing hall.’
Ryder had called Pillay once he hit the freeway, and she had already left home. He now followed up with a second call and she replied that she was seven or eight minutes away.
Spikes Mkhize nursed a tall lager at the bar.
*
Thabethe arrived and immediately saw Mkhize at the bar. He moved a few paces toward him and then paused as he thought for a moment. His eyes swept the area and he picked up the cop within seconds. Dippenaar hadn’t registered the new arrival. He was too concerned with appearing inconspicuous to Mkhize, so his eyes were fixed on his drink as he faked a telephone conversation into his iPhone.
Thabethe silently cursed the moment he had responded positively to Spike’s suggestion. Idiot! He should have told him they’d meet in the bush, not the casino. Why the casino?
At that precise moment Spikes saw him, and was about to hail hi
m when he realised that something was wrong. Skhura turned, deliberately, and was walking away from him, his right hand stretched out toward his right, the index finger and the little finger extended, and the other fingers and thumb folded in. Spikes followed the line of the gesture, and saw Dippenaar. He sat back into his bar-stool, clutched his beer, turned his back and fixed eyes on the television screen, paying more attention than he had ever done before to a replay performance of Orlando Pirates, who were leading Mamelodi Sundowns by one goal at half-time.
Spikes maintained the same position until Ryder slipped into the seat next to him on his right, and Pillay on his left. Dippenaar stood directly behind. Thabethe had vanished.
‘Better beer here than at Nomivi’s, wouldn’t you say, Detective Pillay?’
‘I don’t know about that, Detective Ryder,’ Pillay replied.
‘Eish! Two detectives. Not one detective. Two detectives. Hayi! There is no more crime in KwaZulu. The police they have no work. They look only at poor Spikes.’
‘Correction,’ said Dippenaar from behind him, ‘not two detectives, three detectives.’
‘Allow me to introduce Detective Dippenaar, Mr Mkhize. He, like me and Detective Pillay here, are very keen to have another discussion with you.’
‘Hayibo! Detective, my friends, if they see me talking to you, Spikes she is finished. Mina, impimpi? Aikona! Not Spikes.’
‘So you have friends here in the casino, do you, Mr Mkhize?’
‘Hayi! Mr Ryder. No friends here. Sometimes I see some people I know, but no friends here. I come here to try my luck, and sometimes for beer, you know?’
‘So if we hang around here with you for a while – we can even buy you a beer, if you like – you won’t have any friends joining you for a chat?’
‘Aikona! Mr Jeremy. I come here for one-time one beer only. Quick one. Me, I want to do the machines, you know. Quick one, then I go home to my wife. No, not my wife. She is gone long time. To my woman.’