Death Dealing

by Ian Patrick

  They began trickling out, Koekemoer once again trying to explain his remark, and Ryder reassuring him. The Captain asked Ryder to remain behind so that they could discuss a point of business that had cropped up.

  Nyawula waited for the others to depart and then closed the inter-leading door.

  ‘I can see you’re still troubled by that remark from Koeks, Jeremy.’

  ‘No, Sibo, not really. I’m grateful to him, in fact.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Well, he hit the nail on the head, didn’t he? Good old Koeks. Not one to finesse things. He just speaks what’s in his head.’

  ‘How do you mean, Jeremy?’

  ‘Well, he’s right, isn’t he? Aren’t we complicit in some way? If we fail to remove Hitler when we have the chance, aren’t we complicit in the deaths of a few million people? If we release a guy on parole after his first murder and he goes straight out and kills someone, are we innocent?’

  ‘That’s very different, Jeremy…’

  ‘Is it? So tell me. As I ran toward those six guys in Albert Park I had only one thought in mind. I was hoping, wishing, virtually praying that the guys would pull weapons on me. That would have justified me serving their heads up on a plate for Mr and Mrs Khuzwayo. I actually had an image in my head of me ripping them apart and putting them in a bag and dragging the bag up to Pietermaritzburg and handing it over to the Khuzwayo family, or what remains of it. Instead, as I ran toward the guys I got waylaid.’

  ‘Waylaid? How do you mean?’

  ‘I got waylaid, Sibo. Ambushed by my own thoughts.’

  ‘What thoughts?’

  ‘I found myself thinking that whatever happened I better ensure that I do enough to keep the guys alive, so that they can face trial for what they did.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Maybe there is. Maybe there is something wrong with that. We know the courts aren’t coping. We know these guys are bribing people in the system. We know that dockets are lost or stolen. We know that every time an out-of-control thug kills a cop we’ll have a nice funeral and say the right words and comfort the cop’s family and then we’ll move on. But when we kill the thug we’ll have journalists looking for a story. The cops are at it again. IPID will do what they have to do, of course. But it will be interviews and reports and more interviews and assessments, hours on end. While the rapists and murderers are busy out there, grateful that we’re too busy with our reports…’

  Ryder paused. He wasn’t sure whether he believed in what he was saying. Nyawula let him work his way through it.

  ‘Sorry, Sibo. I believe only half of what I’m saying…’

  ‘Not at all, Jeremy. Me, too. Every day I’m asking myself the same questions as you.’

  ‘The simple fact, boss, is this. If I had destroyed those bastards the way Koeks wanted me to, Khuzwayo would be alive today. Because of me, Hlengiwe Khuzwayo has now lost her husband, too. Do you know what Khuzwayo’s last words to me were?’

  ‘What? What did he say?’

  ‘He said these men have to be dealt with… I failed him, Sibo. I failed Kwanele Khuzwayo. Like we fail citizens every single day. We might be arresting the bastards but we aren’t dealing with them. We’re not dealing out the right kind of justice.’

  ‘We don’t deal out death, Jeremy. That’s not our job.’

  Nyawula’s words were spoken more in mild protest than in reprimand. He found himself speaking only half-heartedly. He could see that mere words were not going to work on his best detective just yet. Ryder needed time as well as words. He needed to work the pain through his system.

  There was a pause. Then Nyawula tried another tack.

  ‘Maybe it’s simpler than we think, Jeremy. Maybe we need to accept that there are and there always will be people out there willing to do the work you’re thinking about right now. What we need to do is not just throw in our lot with them and become vigilantes ourselves. Guy with the biggest gun wins, as I said to the team just now. Maybe we need to accept that there will always be vigilantes. Sometimes they’ll get it right. Sometimes they’ll get it wrong. But if we can continue to hold true, then there’ll always be an identifiable line that we can defend. We can’t all be vigilantes. There have to be some of us saying, wait just a minute…’

  Ryder stopped him with both hands up, as if in surrender.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sibo. Sorry. Of course. You’re right. I know. You know I know. I know you know I know. What am I doing here? Just letting off steam. That’s all. What better person to put up with my steam than you. I just needed to sound off. Don’t worry. But in addition, don’t have too high expectations of me. Put me in front of the devil next time and I’m not likely to handcuff him. Instead, I’ll just stick his trident through his brain.’

  7 THURSDAY

  06.10.

  After the shock of the early morning call from Pauline the day before, the Ryders reverted to a normal wake-up time. They showered and dressed and did the preliminary chores necessary for the working day. They sat in the kitchen over the remnants of breakfast. As early as it was, they could tell the day was going to be another blistering hot one.

  She could see that he was still deeply disturbed about the news of Kwanele Khuzwayo. He had crawled out of bed, and had been completely silent in the shower. No singing. As a result, instead of getting downstairs to do the coffee she had remained in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking through the shocking news from the hospital. How was Hlengiwe Khuzwayo going to cope? Would she also simply want to give up and end it all? Surely not? She had her daughter to help through rehabilitation. After the deeply traumatic events of Monday, which Jeremy had described to her, she wondered how any parents could possibly cope after seeing their family butchered by a bunch of drug-infused wild savages. She understood what must have motivated Kwanele. She was sure that if her own family had been senselessly slaughtered, she, too, would find some weapon and try and wreak some vengeance upon the perpetrators. Would she then end it all? She didn’t know.

  Where was all of this leading to, she wondered? Was crime completely out of control? Would they start seeing vigilante groups in places like Westville? Would the country become controlled ultimately by warlords, each protecting their own territories? Survival of the most brutal?

  They sat at the table, both having showered and changed, and she tried to lift him out of his depression. It was hard for her to find anything amusing in the morning newspaper, so she talked briefly about office politics in her firm. That led to some gossip about clients. With her husband largely unresponsive, and still moody, that in turn also drifted away into silence.

  He knew what she was trying to do, and he felt bad about being so depressed. He realised he should make some effort to drag his thoughts away from the Khuzwayo family and try to lighten up.

  ‘Everyone confirmed for tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘Yep. I’ve taken the afternoon off. We’ll have slow-roasted lamb. Can you do your famous potatoes?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll get some whisky, too. With Mongezi here we’ll need another bottle.’

  ‘Oh rubbish. With you here, you mean.’

  ‘Can you have your heavy skillet ready in case of any burglars?’

  ‘Don’t joke. You never know what might happen.’

  They both recalled for a brief moment the traumatic events of a previous dinner party where they had worked together to take down three armed and dangerous criminal intruders.

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Sugar-Bear was away, then, remember? Lounging in luxury on a sheep-farm munching braaivleis bones while we had to defend the guests. This time he’ll be here to stand guard.’

  The dog, hearing its name mentioned, stood up on its hind legs, whining and pawing at her.

  ‘Yes, you,’ she said to the animal, as if speaking to a three-year old child. ‘If you had been here we could have just carried on with our conversation and you would have rounded up the three bad men, hey?’

  She tweake
d his ears and gave him a piece of bacon rind, which he took in gratitude back to his box.

  ‘Actually, I’m glad he wasn’t here,’ she said. ‘Those guys might have shot him. Don’t know how I would have coped if someone killed Sugar-Bear.’

  ‘You mean you could lose me easily enough, as long as you don’t lose the dog?’

  ‘Yep,’ she said. ‘Sugar-Bear is easier to manage than you. More coffee?’

  ‘Do I need to answer that question?’

  ‘Course not,’ she said. ‘How would I possibly ask you such a thing?’

  She poured them each another mug while she spoke.

  ‘I hope Marcus behaves himself tonight. Theresa told me on the phone he’s in the middle of writing a radio drama and he’s always at his pontificating worst when he’s busy writing a radio drama.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Ryder, mimicking the voice of their good friend Marcus.

  ‘Don’t be naughty,’ she said, bringing the mugs back to the table and sitting down. ‘I hope you’re going to behave tonight.’

  ‘What on earth could you possibly mean?’ he said, all innocent.

  ‘Please don’t goad the guests,’ she said. ‘Otherwise I’ll put you in the box and have Sugar-Bear at the head of the table. At least he won’t snarl at the guests the way you do sometimes.’

  ‘I’ll behave, promise.’

  He perused the newspaper as she continued.

  ‘I’ll call the hospital later and find out how Nadine is doing. I’ll let you know. I’ll also call Pauline.’

  ‘Thanks, love. Should we invite Pauline to join us for dinner?’

  ‘I thought of that,’ she said. ‘But I think the last thing Pauline wants is a crowd of people around her while Nadine is all alone in a hospital ward. Especially during visiting hours. Maybe she’d prefer to come along and have breakfast on Saturday or Sunday. I’ll ask her. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she knows we’re here for her if she needs anything. Anyway, I’m glad you aren’t caught up in that other thing planned for tonight.’

  ‘You can say that again. It’s a good night for me to be let off the hook,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be a big operation across the whole city.’

  ‘You mentioned that. Operation something-or-other.’

  ‘Operation Swingback.’

  ‘Swingback. That’s it. Is your team involved?’

  ‘Only KoeksnDips. They drew the short straws.’

  ‘What do they all hope to achieve?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s going to be a planned joint effort across the city. But only four clusters involved this time. Brighton Beach, Central, Chatsworth and Pinetown. They’re doing a co-ordinated raid on about thirty shebeens across the city tonight. Then they hope tomorrow the taverns will think that that was it and there’ll be no more for a while. But they’re going in again to the same places for a second night tomorrow.’

  ‘How far will they reach? Isn’t the real money down in Umlazi or up in KwaMashu?’

  ‘Good question. My first reaction to the plan was that they should have cast the net wider. Inanda and Umlazi should have been in on the plan. That’s where the real action is, for sure. But no. Just the four clusters. Anyway, good luck to them. Should send out a good signal. The main goal is to try and kill the whoonga trade in a few key places, just for a while. Quite an optimistic goal, don’t you think?’

  They could hear the boys stirring. She called out to them.

  ‘Jonathan! Jason! Half an hour! Dad and I are having a hot breakfast for a change. Want some?’

  The replies were in unison, shouted with the kind of croaky voice that only teenage boys can produce at six-thirty in the morning. The answer was in the affirmative, so she began a new round of bacon, much to the delight of Sugar-Bear.

  The day began. Ryder wondered whether Kwanele Khuzwayo would soon fade from his consciousness, and be replaced by new victims, new traumatic incidents, and new criminals on the block.

  13.10.

  Koekemoer, Dippenaar, Pillay and Cronje were sitting in Nyawula’s office while he was out at a meeting. They were cursing about the latest electricity outage. The office was sweltering. It had one more window than Cronje’s office, so they had opted for that. The windows were open. No fans could operate. Computers were down. The back-up generator had failed. They sat, melting in their chairs, sleeves rolled up, sipping on the ice-cold cans of Fanta and Coke that Cronje had managed to buy from the vendor in the street.

  ‘Jirra, Koeks,’ said Dippenaar. ‘I hope the weather changes before tonight, jong. I don’t fancy going into those shebeens in this heat. Imagine.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Pillay. ‘I feel for you guys. Imagine. Going into a tavern in this heat with a couple of hundred sweaty bodies already pushing up the temperature.’

  ‘Not to mention all the gif everyone will be smoking,’ added Cronje.

  ‘Want to swap with me, Navi?’ asked Dippenaar, with no optimism regarding her reply.

  ‘Ag, Dipps, I wish I could help, hey? But I’ve got such a lekker dinner lined up for myself. Nice ice-cold wine. Lovely salad and pasta. Great movie on TV. I wish I had drawn the short straw, man, really. I’d love it if you were drinking icy cold wine and watching movies and eating pasta with your feet up, and thinking of me out there in the shebeens.’

  ‘Fokoff, Navi. Yissus, you know how to rub it in, hey? And you, Koeks? Why are you so damn quiet for a change?’

  Koekemoer just stared at Dippenaar in reply. He was too hot and too tired to even offer a riposte. They could hear Ryder and Tshabalala arriving in Cronje’s office.

  ‘In here, kêrels!’ Cronje called out to them. ‘It’s cooler in here.’

  ‘Cooler? You call this cool?’ said Ryder as he entered and perched on the corner of the Captain’s desk. Mavis came in and stood in the doorway.

  ‘Here, Mavis, you want a Fanta?’

  ‘Thank you, Oom Piet, yes, please.’

  ‘Me too, please Piet,’ said Ryder, and Cronje handed both him and Mavis a cold drink from the icebox on the floor.

  ‘You want to swap with me tonight, Jeremy?’ said Koekemoer. ‘I’ll pay you a million rands.’

  ‘No thanks, Koeks. Too small a price. In any case, Fiona and I are hosting a dinner party tonight.’

  ‘What about you, Mavis?’ said Koekemoer. ‘I’ll pay you a million rands and the Captain a million for substituting a constable for me tonight.’

  ‘No thank you, Detective Koeks. I’m going out tonight.’

  ‘Jirra. Dipps, all of these guys are going out to dinner tonight while we have to go and do some sweaty dancing with the drug addicts.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Koeks,’ said Ryder. ‘I hear there’s going to be a wild thunderstorm tonight. That should cool things down for you.’

  ‘Yissus, Jeremy. I’m still feeling bad about yesterday. I didn’t mean that old Khuzwayo…’

  ‘Forget about it, Koeks. Don’t give it another thought. I know what you meant.’

  There was a moment of silence. They all felt a little awkward. Koekemoer’s comment of the day before had clearly disturbed Ryder. Ryder felt that it was incumbent on him to ease the tension over the matter.

  ‘Listen, Koeks. What you said yesterday is very important. It’s something I think about every day. Every murdering bastard we take down and put in jail is someone who might break out or make bail or slip through the clutches of the law and kill again. Like you, I want to take these guys into a dark room and employ some medieval form of justice. But we don’t. Do we?’

  ‘We don’t, ou boet. We don’t. Because we have families. If I didn’t have a family to worry about, well, Jeremy, I have to tell you, I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t tell you. I think about it every time I pull my weapon. But if some bastard did to my family what those guys did to old Khuzwayo’s family…’

  None of them had a riposte to that. Ryder let Koekemoer’s words linger in the stultifying heat and then broke the silence for a second time.

  ‘Anywa
y, Koeks. I just want to assure you. What you said yesterday poses no problem. You were right. It’s worth thinking through these things. Anyway. We’ll doubtless talk some more about it.’

  Ryder drained his Fanta and threw the can expertly into the wastepaper bin in the far corner of the room before continuing.

  ‘OK. I need to do a couple of things. Piet, tell the boss, will you, that I’ll be down at IPID for my third meeting with them this week, but I’ll come back around four o’clock if he needs to catch up. OK, guys. Thanks, all. Good luck for tonight, Koeks, Dipps. As I say, take your umbrellas. Big storm brewing. I’ll think of you both in the shebeens as we work our way through Fiona’s slow-roasted lamb.’

  ‘Thanks, hey, Jeremy,’ said Dippenaar. ‘If you want to bring in the bone for me, tomorrow…’

  ‘Sorry, Dipps. Nobody gets the bone in our house except Sugar-Bear. Fiona would never forgive me if I snuck off and gave it to you. The dog will be replacing me in my bed soon. She says she understands him better than she understands me.’

  They filed out of the office, each on their way to their next chores, amidst various comments about Ryder’s Border Collie. Ryder realised that each one of them had enjoyed some experience of the talents of Sugar-Bear. It seemed that the dog’s reputation at Durban Central was much the same as Ryder’s.

  He walked into the car park and experienced a blistering heat. The tarmac seemed to shimmer from the quickly evaporating moisture. Someone had tried to cool the place with a hosepipe, but the surface turned bone-dry minutes after the spray hit the surface. He glanced up at the sky. Not a cloud. Where was all that moisture going? Surely, he thought, it’ll be collecting somewhere up there, and then come cascading down in an attempt to cleanse the earth of the filth that lurked in every dark corner.

  He paused for a few minutes in the car, waiting for the air-conditioning to take effect. His mind wandered. He thought about Nadine Salm and Hlengiwe Khuzwayo. He wondered to what extent he was helping to cleanse the world of the filth that lurked in dark corners. Had he succeeded in achieving even half of what Kwanele Khuzwayo had achieved in his lone action?