Devil Dealing (The Ryder Quartet Book 1)

by Ian Patrick

  He remembered having seen the older versions – those with arms and levers rather than buttons – at cafes and tea-rooms up and down the coast in the old days. He remembered having read about laws and regulations preventing gambling, about arrests and seizures, and he remembered hearing people in prison talking about the money to be made.

  He brooded, in the lengthening shadows under the palms. It was time for him to start making serious money.

  18.15.

  Pillay and Ryder had been watching the yacht for almost an hour. They had scouted every vessel in the enclave and had finally focused on only one of them. They had seen unusual activity there, compared to the other boats. The one they were interested in was a forty-one foot Hunter 410.

  Under pretext of undertaking a casual survey of moored vessels in the area, they had then obtained the very willing permission of a crew member – who didn’t seem to have any understanding at all of his rights – to have a look around. He gladly gave them a guided tour, explaining that the rest of the crew were at dinner somewhere in Mahatma Gandhi Road before coming back at about 10.00 pm, and that the Captain was having a quick dinner just up the road before going out to meet someone in Westville tonight. He would be back only at midnight. The guy babbled without hesitation, Ryder thought, and wondered whether the yacht’s captain would approve of how much information his crew member so willingly gave.

  Ryder and Pillay were treated to a quick tour and proud descriptions – almost as if the man was intent on selling the boat to prospective buyers – of the additional teak storage, the enormous centreline king berth, and the freshly waxed hull and decks. He particularly boasted about the in-mast furling main and one-hundred-and-ten percent roller furling jib. He pointed out the interior design that boasted almost seven feet of headroom, eight opening ports and ten overhead hatches along with ten fixed windows maintaining a bright and airy feel to the U-shape saloon, which seemed to be his pride and joy.

  Pillay commented with particular interest on the sumptuous fabrics in the vast master stateroom aft hosting the centreline berth. The two detectives, neither of whom had ever stepped onto a vessel like this, took in almost casually the separate shower stall and Corian vanity top.

  The real interest was not just the description of the lavish suite. What was of much more interest was their guide’s mention of a special VIP guest expected to join them after midnight.

  ‘I don’t know much about it, except that the boss says he’s a very large man, like, you know, fatter than he has seen, you know, and that partly because of that the king berth was the key thing that attracted him. He was looking for a yacht to take him out to sea, you know.’

  Having ascertained that the departure time was as soon as possible after 4.00 am the next morning, and that the large visitor was expected to come on board an hour or two after midnight, the two detectives gave their profuse thanks and made to depart.

  ‘Ah. Just as a matter of interest,’ said Ryder, ‘you said the captain was having dinner up the road. We’re looking for a place to get a bite to eat, too. Any place in particular your guy is eating?’

  ‘Sure. He told me that when he moors here he always grabs a bite to eat at John Dory’s just along the wharf, there. You’ll see him there. You can’t miss him. Muscles, you know? They call him Big Red. Don’t tell him, OK, but some of us also call him Red Rooster.’

  They thanked him and drove down the wharf to the restaurant.

  19.25.

  The last panel van had left. Vic and Dirk sat in the kitchen, catching their breath. Dirk stretched out his bad leg and popped another tablet.

  ‘Yissus, Vic. Big job.’

  ‘Well done, Dirk. I won’t forget this. I know you’re in pain. I appreciate what you’ve done today.’

  ‘No problem, Vic.’

  ‘I can’t understand what’s happened to Tony. His last chance to get back in touch with me is at midnight. If he doesn’t, Dirk, let me tell you something. There’s more money coming your way. You did a lot of Tony’s work today, and yesterday. I appreciate that.’

  ‘Maybe they got Tony, Vic. It’s not like him to just drop out.’

  ‘I know, Dirk. That’s what worries me. He would have called. He would have got hold of me somehow.’

  ‘Do you think the cops got him, Vic?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dirk. Let me just think a moment, OK?’

  ‘Sure thing, Vic.’

  Vic played through the options. If the cops had got Tony then maybe they had turned him. Maybe there was a big bust planned for midnight. Only Tony knew what his plans were. Dirk knew he was going away for a bit, but as far as he was concerned, it was probably somewhere like Gauteng or the Cape. He had no idea that Vic was planning a much longer voyage. Maybe Tony would arrive at the last moment, having taken cover for a good reason. Dirk had seen the piles of cash. He knew how big this thing was. He didn’t know about the other cash from the other deals that had been wrapped up. This was the big one, but there was at least this amount again from the other smaller deals that he and Tony had been sewing up over the last couple of weeks.

  ‘OK, Dirk. We’ve got about four hours before I have to leave. We need to get counting. Get the laptop and the file, and let’s get going.’

  19.30.

  There was a problem right at the outset. Ryder and Pillay almost collided with Big Red on their way into the restaurant. There was no mistaking him, after the brief description from the crew member. Ryder’s eyes met Red’s full on, because they were at almost the same level, Red being probably two inches taller. Pillay’s eyes were at the level of his Adam’s apple. No eye contact there.

  The embarrassment was that just as their quarry passed them to walk away from the restaurant along the jetty, the two detectives were greeted warmly by the waitress who ushered them effusively toward a table. They were in the embarrassing position of immediately having to change their minds about sitting down for a meal.

  ‘Welcome! Welcome to John Dory… I’m sorry, too drafty? Would you like a table further indoors?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Pillay as Ryder turned to go, keeping his eyes on the departing Red. ‘We suddenly realised… we hope to come back later...’

  ‘Suit yourself, we’re open late,’ was the frosty reply.

  They walked out swiftly, following their prey into the car park, and watched him get into a red Lamborghini LP700-4 Aventador. Ryder groaned as he realised that his Camry was going to have its work cut out against the V12 engine and carbon-fibre technology.

  ‘Ever wonder how a bodybuilder captain of a boat can afford a Lamborghini, Jeremy?’

  ‘Frequently, Navi. I admire these guys. They’re always so ostentatious about their money.’

  ‘I heard somewhere that those things get up to a hundred kilometres an hour in about three seconds.’

  ‘About as fast as you can run, I heard somewhere.’

  ‘Not quite.’

  They had hastened their walk from a quick stroll to almost a canter, got into the Camry, and then watched in dismay as the Lamborghini sped away as if it was masquerading a small jet.

  ‘Shit,’ said Ryder. ‘I think he saw us. Probably wondering why we turned back from the restaurant so quickly.’

  They were favoured to some extent by traffic lights and stop signs, or maybe it was just that their quarry was watching them and keeping them in view. There was no way of telling. Even after the Toll Gate hill and the fairly open King Cetshwayo Highway leading up to Westville, where the Lamborghini could easily have roared away, the two cars remained within sight of each other.

  They fell back, deliberately, as the Lamborghini swung off the exit and around onto the Rockdale Avenue bridge then onto Jan Hofmeyer road. They caught up again as the vehicle cruised past the Westville Police Station and then down past Westville Boys High School before turning suddenly left into Wandsbeck Road. The driver pulled up opposite the entrance to the school, outside a plush place with brick-paved driveway, manicured lawns, white walls an
d metal security gate overhung by a decorative plinth, all dressed with bougainvillea, jacaranda, and roses. The detectives drove past, around the corner into Nordene Road, up twenty metres, and switched off. They waited, craning their necks to enable them to look back through the foliage on the verge. The Lamborghini appeared to be idling outside the security gate of the house.

  Eventually the gate opened and a man came out. He leaned in at the driver’s window and then stepped back, opened the gate wider, and the Lamborghini went in to the property. The detectives moved the car some twenty paces, then waited. The minutes ticked past.

  ‘Looks like the tracks are being painted for the athletics season,’ Pillay said, looking over at the school fields where the floodlights were on.

  ‘Fancy a run, do you, Navi?’

  ‘Nah. Look.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some kid has cracked 11.4 seconds for the hundred metres. Check it out. That sign there. Barrington. School record. 11.4. Or maybe it’s just kids fooling around. Maybe it’s not official.’

  ‘Maybe it’s Barrington himself that put that up, Navi. Looks more like graffiti than for real, otherwise the school would have put it up in proper printing or engraving, surely?’

  ‘Must be unofficial. Maybe it’s Mr Barrington’s wishful thinking.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘11.4 seconds. Hmmmm.’

  ‘Pretty good, Navi. Better than you?’

  ‘Never. I’m way better.’

  ‘I hear you still hold the record at your school.’

  ‘Unofficial. Bastard timekeeper said there was too much wind. Talked shit.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘Who told you? Didn’t know it was the subject of discussion.’

  ‘K and D were talking about it one day. Said you were bloody fast.’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘Dunno. Haven’t had to run a hundred metres for a while.’

  ‘Not with that arm, anyway.’

  ‘Who says? I don’t run with my arms.’

  ‘Well, they have to play some part in balance.’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘OK, Navi. Long enough. Let’s take a closer look.’

  They stepped out of the Camry and made their way to the security gate. They peered through into the property, trying to ascertain whether there was some way of entering other than through the main entrance. Pillay checked around the side and came back. Ryder moved toward the intercom on the left of the driveway entrance.

  ‘Might as well do this properly, Navi.’

  ‘What are we going to say?’

  ‘Just checking, sir, we noticed you being followed by a suspicious looking character, and we decided to tail him, but he appears to have given us the slip. Everything OK with you?’

  ‘Sounds OK. Not good. Just OK.’

  Ryder pressed the button and waited. He waited ten seconds, then the gate suddenly flew open and there was the big man. Along with his companion. Each of them with a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. Each one pointed at a detective.

  ‘Come in, please. Slowly. No funny stuff.’

  ‘You’re speaking to detectives...’

  ‘Shut up and move. We’ll do the talking.’

  Ben giggled and thrust his weapon sharply into Pillay’s back.

  ‘This way, girlie. You first.’

  Ryder and Pillay decided to play it their way for now, though Ryder had the momentary thought that the creep’s comment to Pillay ran the risk of producing the first example he would ever see of spontaneous combustion.

  Within a couple of minutes the four of them were inside the house. Ryder took in at a glance the Kandinsky original on the wall, the sumptuous carpets everywhere, the excessively ornate mock-gold-framed mirrors and numerous large solid brass objects, and the pile of plastic bags stacked in a cardboard box in one corner of the sitting room. The bags were without doubt stuffed with nyaope, and each contained an A-5 page sticky-taped to it.

  ‘Saw you two at John Dory’s a short while ago. Food not to your liking? As I understood it, you were just arriving as I was leaving. Don’t like fish? I ask myself, why go to a fish restaurant if you don’t like fish?’

  Ben grinned at what he saw as his big companion’s sharp wit, revealing only three or four teeth in his head. Then he responded with a high-pitched donkey hee-haw laugh as Red suddenly up-ended Pillay with a swift movement of his right foot, sweeping sideways and knocking her feet forward from underneath her. Ryder reacted instinctively and made a move toward him but found the big man’s revolver pointed right at his forehead.

  ‘Uh-uh! Hold it right there, mister. Ben, watch her. Sit on her if you have to. I want to talk to this guy.’

  Pillay, struggling with only one arm, pulled herself into a seated position as Ben stood above her, his revolver pointed at her heart. He grinned.

  ‘Got you, girlie. Don’t try anything. No-one messes with me. Check it out.’

  Pillay turned icy cold with fury as he giggled inanely and aimed the revolver at her, moving it from her heart to her head and back again.

  ‘So tell, me, mister,’ said Red. ‘Why so interested in me? What makes you two want to tail me all the way out here?’

  ‘It’s like this, you see,’ Ryder replied. ‘I’m interested in how you, the captain of a little yacht moored at the Yacht Club, can come to own such a great car. I’m not a tax collector or anything, but a glance at this house adds to my interest. Princess Grace would like this place. Not the Monaco lady. I mean Grace Mugabe. She has just your kind of taste. Is that a genuine Kandinsky on the wall? Oh, wait, you probably wouldn’t know your Kandinsky from your Stravinsky...’

  ‘Oh, so we have a clever man amongst us, do we?’

  ‘A real lanie, this oke, hey Red?’ added Ben.

  ‘But don’t let me stop there, because the other thing I wonder about is how much you’re being paid by the mystery passenger you’re transporting early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘What passenger?’

  ‘You tell me. A very big man. Big in more ways than one, we hear. He must be paying you top dollar. Big muscle-headed guy like you...’

  Ryder was ready for the impulsive move forward from Red, who was sufficiently riled by Ryder’s comments that he misjudged for a moment and his anger produced a concentration lapse that gave Ryder a nano-second in which to act.

  Ryder slapped the revolver upward at the same time as he brought his forehead smashing forward into the base of the big man’s nose. Ryder had practiced the head butt as a teenager at school, and as a university student on one occasion he had brought it to near perfection in destroying four muggers who had set upon him in a cobbled back alley in Paris. On that occasion the young mugger in question spent four months in hospital with a fractured skull while his three companions suffered nothing worse than broken arms, wrists and, in one case, a multiple-fracture shin. Ryder had walked away from the police station with a tiny strip of Elastoplast on his forehead and some high-fives from the French cops. The attitude of the French cops on that occasion might even have been one of the reasons he first started thinking about a career in policing.

  On this occasion there would be no need for the plaster strip. There was careful science in Ryder’s split-second move. Tilt the head slightly downward, clench teeth, stiffen neck muscles, lean slightly backward, plan to use one inch above your own eyebrows, clench teeth, close mouth, use whole body weight. Good night.

  The blow was as perfectly timed and aimed as Ryder had ever managed it, and the lights went out in Big Red’s head even before Ryder followed through. Firstly with a massive powerhouse right that fractured the man’s left eye socket. Secondly with a shattering left that smashed him just below the sternum. Game over, and Big Red melted to the floor with a pool of blood widening as it gushed from his nose, mouth, and left eye into the expensive long-hair Pakistan shag rug, ivory brown, that had once been advertised as one hundred percent natural wool at a bargain price and now covered
more than half the surface area of the room. A rug that would now need some expensive cleaning.

  Ben was stunned for a moment by the speed and power of Ryder’s action and that gave Pillay the second she needed to kick out at his gun hand. The weapon went flying and Ben realised the game was up. He ran, even as Big Red was melting into the floor. He still held in his other hand the remote control that worked the security gate, so he was ahead of Pillay, who had to struggle to her feet without the aid of her left arm, hampered by the giant mass of inert muscle that Ryder had dropped almost into her lap. By the time Pillay was out of the door Ben was out of the gate and already running straight over the road into the school fields opposite.

  Knowing that Big Red was down and out and safe for the moment, Ryder followed after Pillay. Ben hit the entrance to the floodlit field through the wide-open security gates where the workmen were still busy painting whitewash lines on the grass tracks. Pillay sprinted after him. By the time Ryder got to the top of the bank leading down to the field he realised that he was about to have a grandstand view of what could become a very entertaining event. One that he would be relating to friends time and again in the future.

  Ben saw that his best chance of escape lay in trying to reach the opposite end of the field from where he had entered. There was a grassy bank there that led to some foliage that might give him a chance. He had no way of realising that he had just run onto the exact starting point of the hundred-metre track and was running in a straight line for the opposite bank, which took him all the way there perfectly in-lane. He was at the fifty metre mark by the time Pillay hit the ten metre mark. Ryder and the shocked workmen were then treated to the sight of Pillay gaining an extra metre for every metre that the terrified Ben took, pursued by the tiniest beep-beep the roadrunner you ever saw, as one of the workmen would describe it to his family over breakfast the next morning.

  When he hit the sixty metre mark she was at thirty. When he got to seventy she was at fifty. He hit eighty and she was already at seventy. The workmen were cheering. Ben looked around in terror as he realised what was happening, and as a consequence hit a wobble. Which meant that she drew level with him even before he hit the ninety metre mark. She thrust out a leg, tapped his left foot behind his right, and he ploughed a long furrow with his nose, ending up five centimetres from the finishing line as she leaped over his body, her momentum taking her across the line. She stopped and turned to face him. To thunderous applause, whistles, and cheers from the spectators, Ryder cheering more loudly than any of them.