Death Dealing

by Ian Patrick

  ‘What did you say, to that detective’s question?’

  ‘We both answered him at the same time, I remember,’ said Nonhlanhla.

  ‘We don’t know, officer!’ brother and sister spoke in unison and collapsed into giggles as they remembered again their joint response to the detective’s question.

  Mavis now lay in the bed thinking back on the group of neighbours. She wondered how many of her colleagues would advise her to simply forget what she had been told by her friends, and accept that this was the way of the world. She was sure she would most certainly not report any of the discussion she had had with her two good friends. She drifted toward sleep with the image of the sixty-year old matriarch of the street firmly lodged in her consciousness. A strong woman, Mavis thought. An intelligent woman. But, as she had seen in the attitude of deference displayed toward her by neighbours, a decisive woman, and one not to be crossed.

  Mavis would much later do her own research into the two cases of the unsolved murders, merely for her personal interest. There she would learn that the detective who had interviewed her two friends was a man about whom she happened to know quite a lot. He was well known across the province for his tenacious methods in the hunt for criminals, and he was highly regarded as a detective. Just before she had gone to Greytown, nearly three months ago, the same detective had come perilously close to death in his uncompromising hunt for criminals. But he had survived. A close call. The events described to her by Ndileko and Nonhlanhla had preceded that close call by a couple of months, but now that Mavis saw who the detective was, she understood more clearly why he would have simply closed the file. He would have assumed that the two rapists had been murdered for a good reason. They had been murdered by a community that had endured more than enough crime.

  The detective’s notes on the files in each of the two cases would corroborate exactly what Mavis had learned from Nonhlanhla and Ndileko, up to but not including the detective’s visits to the KwaMashu Community Health Centre. When she got around to reading the files it would be clear to Mavis that the detective had considered the matters worthy of closing at that point. The file in each case would show the exhaustive interviews and investigations that had taken place, but no further developments beyond the detective’s closing notes indicating murder by persons unknown.

  On each of the Sikwehle Road murder dockets the investigating officer, Captain Nights Mashego, did not record any reference whatsoever to the rape victims who lived in the same street.

  01.55.

  The three men had decided not to risk going to Wakashe’s mother’s home. They had run, in the pouring rain, on Wakashe’s instructions. He had screamed at them through the drenching sheets of water.

  ‘These people. They are all impimpis. They’ll call the cops. They’ll look for us all over this place, them and the cops. We must go, comrades. We must get away from here.’

  He was wrong in his surmise. This Street Committee would never call the police. They preferred to handle things their way. But he was correct in his strategy. Their best bet was to put distance between them and the neighbourhood protectors. They splashed through the night all the way along Sikwehle Road toward the M21. There were no cars. The rain was too heavy for even the most robust of windscreen-wipers. Any cars out on the road had pulled over to wait for the deluge to pass.

  At the M21 they turned right to travel south toward the old Shell Service Station. It was there that they accosted an unfortunate driver of a battered ancient Volkswagen Beetle, who had pulled over because his wipers were having no effect on the windscreen. He sat in his car, waiting for the deluge to stop. It was a bad mistake. The three men dragged the hapless man from his vehicle, threw him to the ground, and took the car.

  The rain stopped before they reached the turn-off to the M4. As if by magic the clouds started rolling away to the east and stars began appearing. The final drops had ceased by the time they turned south onto the Ruth First Highway. They kept going until they reached Battery Beach Road in Durban. They abandoned the vehicle near the Suncoast Casino. From there Thabethe took his two companions down onto the beach to an area he knew well. There they found a place surrounded by succulent creepers and low bushes, and settled themselves down on the sodden ground.

  They seethed with anger, sucking on joints of nyaope and swearing to one another that they would return to the house on Sikwehle Road to seek their revenge. As the fumes worked their magic on the bloodstreams of the three men, the talk meandered until it reached a hiatus.

  ‘What you thinking, bra Skhura?’ asked Mgwazeni.

  ‘I’m thinking about that woman.’

  ‘The one who kicked Wakashe?’

  ‘That one.’

  ‘That bitch. I am going to get that bitch,’ said Wakashe.

  ‘I’m thinking something else,’ said Thabethe.

  ‘What, bra? What you think?’ said Mgwazeni.

  ‘I think I’m remembering something.’

  ‘What? What, Skhura?’ said Wakashe.

  ‘I was looking at the police newsletter one day, there in the tronk in Westville. You remember that day, Mgwazeni? That day we two, we were reading that news piece that the one guy left on the bench there, at lunch? We were swearing at that young fat cop woman who was in the news. She was talking about her work. She got some prize there because she was doing some research for amaphoyisa. She was being the goody-goody cop.’

  ‘Yes… yes, Skhura… yes, I remember,’ said Mgwazeni. ‘You’re right. There was some interview with that woman. They put it there in the news. That photo you showed me. Fat woman. She was doing research in Kranskop or somewhere.’

  ‘Greytown.’

  ‘Is right, Skhura. Greytown. Is right. That was the same one. I remember her face, now. That was the same one last night.’

  ‘What are you two talking?’ asked Wakashe, impatiently.

  ‘That woman, Wakashe,’ said Thabethe, ‘that woman from last night is a cop. She was doing work for amaphoyisa in Greytown and they wrote some story about her. There was a photo of her in that newspaper. She was fat. I remember. We were laughing, me and Mgwazeni. He was saying he would like to stick his knife into all that flesh.’

  Mgwazeni laughed as he remembered.

  ‘That’s the one. You’re right, Skhura. There was this photo, Wakashe. She was smiling at the camera, and we were talking about her being the fat one…’

  ‘She was not looking fat last night, Mgwazeni. She was different. She kicked Wakashe. Remember how high? She can lift her leg, that one.’

  Thabethe and Mgwazeni laughed. Wakashe did not. He swore, and slapped his right hand down on the ground, forgetting that it was bandaged with a partial cast and two fingers in splints. That led to a scream of pain and further cursing, and more laughter from his two friends. Then they commiserated with him, as they realised he had hurt himself.

  ‘Sorry, bra. Sorry, Wakashe,’ said Mgwazeni.

  The two of them waited for Wakashe to recover. Eventually the pain receded. Thabethe pulled out another three joints, and soon they were drawing more of the foul mixture into their lungs. They talked, long into the night. As they talked, their wet clothes became clammy and uncomfortable. There were mosquitoes around, in abundance. The three men cursed and slapped. Gradually they could feel the oppressive humidity of Durban returning. The drenching rain had washed away the dirt of the day, and had then passed on, out over the Indian Ocean, heading toward Australia. Now there was not a cloud in the sky. All they could see above the canopy of bushes were bright stars. Out at sea they could see the lights of ships at anchor, and some others far out on the horizon.

  The conversation ranged over a number of different subjects, but they kept coming back to one. They wanted to find out more about this woman cop, who just a few months ago looked like a chubby schoolgirl, and last night had looked not only much thinner but a whole lot fitter and stronger.

  Thabethe thought he knew how he could find some information on her. That police newsle
tter. He knew it quite well. He had seen it a number of times before. He also knew that many of its news items were drawn from the SAPS Facebook site. Tomorrow, he told his companions, they would head for town. He knew where they could find a connection to the internet.

  He thought he could find an electronic version of that news item, along with the photo of the woman and her name. He knew that the moment he read her name somewhere it would come back to him. She was definitely the one who had appeared in the newsletter.

  10.30.

  Nyawula and Ryder were being congratulated by the team. News had just come in that the Captain had been officially promoted to the rank of Major and that Ryder had been promoted to the rank of Lieutenant. It had been a long time in the making. There was consensus not only in the team but beyond, in the rest of Durban Central, that both Ryder and Nyawula were performing at levels way above their current official positions, and it was a scandal that they didn’t hold higher rank. The promotions had in fact been initiated some time ago, but given a dispute between SAPS management and the unions some matters of policy had had to be interrogated back and forth in the Labour Court and the Labour Appeal Court. Then followed further haggling and finally the way ahead had been cleared. The individual applications for promotion had had to be shelved pending resolution.

  ‘I must say it’s been a long journey from the days of the original SSSBC agreement back in 2011,’ Nyawula was saying, in response to a comment from Piet Cronje.

  ‘What’s SSSBC?’ whispered Dippenaar to Koekemoer.

  ‘Dunno, Dipps. You’re the dictionary man. Why don’t you check it out? It’s probably something like Some Silly Stupid Binding Contract.’

  ‘It means Safety and Security Sectoral Bargaining Council, Dipps,’ said Cronje, who had overhead the exchange. ‘They all came to an agreement back then about the qualifications and experience expected for promotion to different ranks and grades. So there’s a check-list of things they agreed must be in place before someone can get promoted.’

  ‘See, Dipps? Exactly like I said,’ replied Koekemoer. Some Silly Stupid Binding Contract.’

  ‘Fokoff, Koeks,’ responded Dippenaar. ‘So, Captain… I mean Major… do we have to salute you from now on?’

  ‘No, Dipps, not at all. Only when I’m with my wife. Just to impress her, you know?’

  ‘It’s crazy that its taken so long, Captain…’ Pillay began.

  ‘Major!’ interrupted Koekemoer.

  ‘…I mean Major. It’s been a couple of years now, hasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, Navi. But the big hold-up was with promotions to the ranks of Lieutenant and Major. As you know, in your own case it was easier, although there was some arm-twisting behind the scenes.’

  ‘Ja, Navi. I remember when you made Detective we were all wondering if you had threatened the boss with some kick-boxing…’ added Koekemoer.

  ‘No, man, Koeks. It was an arm-wrestling bet with Navi that the boss lost,’ said Cronje.

  Amidst the levity, Pillay noticed that Ryder was sombre. He appeared lost, deep in thought. She thought he looked as if he had Kwanele Khuzwayo in mind. She was correct in her surmise. Just as she was about to speak, he intervened.

  ‘Don’t think I’m pulling rank, anyone,’ said Ryder, ‘but I think we all need to get back on the job, so if you’ll just salute me, or bow down to me if you prefer, I’ll get going. I need a word with the Major.’

  They started to move out amidst the false genuflections and wise-cracks, and Mavis took the opportunity to take Pillay aside.

  ‘Navi, I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind…’

  ‘No problem, Mavis. What is it?’

  ‘Can we talk… I don’t want to…’

  ‘Come on, Mavis, let’s go outside.’

  She took Mavis by the arm and they moved outside. Pillay could see she was troubled. She had noticed it from the moment Mavis arrived in the office, but they hadn’t had an opportunity to engage with each other until now. They moved into the centre of the car park, avoiding a few other groups who were taking a tea break outdoors in an attempt to escape the oppressive heat indoors. Load-shedding had produced another electricity outage and no air conditioners or fans were working.

  ‘OK, Mavis. What’s happening?’

  ‘Navi, the most amazing thing happened last night. It’s such a coincidence…’

  The story Mavis had decided to tell was that she had gone to a club with a friend and in an extraordinary coincidence she had seen a man at a distance who had looked like Thabethe. She had to be careful. If she told Pillay she had definitely seen Thabethe, the obvious question would be about why she had not called it in immediately. She also wanted to share with Pillay the news that Thabethe had been with both Mgwazeni and Wakashe, but for the same reason she had to suppress that information. The best she could hope for, she had decided in the early hours of the morning, was that the mere glimpse of a man who might be Thabethe would be sufficient to prompt Nyawula to put a surveillance team on duty at Mabaleng’s.

  Within minutes Pillay took her back inside to speak to Nyawula. Ryder was still with him. Having rehearsed the speech on Pillay, Mavis felt a little more confident about telling a white lie to Nyawula and Ryder, and she imparted the information easily. Nyawula got on the case immediately and in liaison with his opposite numbers in KwaMashu and Newlands East it was agreed that two men would be posted at Mabaleng’s that night. A photo of Thabethe was emailed within minutes.

  ‘Good work, Mavis. Don’t worry if nothing comes of it. I accept what you say that it might not have been Thabethe, but it’s worth getting someone out there tonight just in case it’s become his favourite haunt.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain. I mean Major.’

  Pillay could see that Nyawula needed to get on to other things so she touched Mavis on the shoulder and they took their leave, Ryder following them out.

  ‘Good work, Mavis,’ he said. ‘I can’t help thinking that the more people like Thabethe we can take down, the safer it’ll be for people like the Khuzwayo family.’

  ‘Thank you, Jeremy. I hope they get him and his friends.’

  ‘We’ll see. We’ll see. On a completely different subject, can I ask the two of you for some advice?’

  ‘Of course,’ the two women chorused together, sensing a complete change in mood from Ryder. A change that they both instinctively felt they wanted to nurture and support, because he had seemed so depressed in the office.

  ‘It’s Fiona’s birthday on Sunday and I was speaking to a couple of people. As a result, I’ve decided I want to get her a collection of things from a branch of The Body Shop, somewhere. I only have this afternoon to do it, because I have a workshop that will last most of tomorrow, and…’

  ‘I live right next to The Musgrave Centre, and there’s a Body Shop there. I’m going to do some shopping in Musgrave tomorrow morning, so I can get it for you.’

  ‘Oh. Well, Mavis. No, I can’t expect you to…’

  ‘I’m going to be there anyway. Really. It’s easy for me.’

  ‘Besides, Jeremy,’ interjected Pillay, ‘you’re not going to tell us you know better than Mavis what kinds of Body Shop products Fiona would prefer?’

  They both laughed at Ryder’s uncharacteristic loss of words, and Mavis continued.

  ‘I’m also going out to Westville to have lunch with a friend tomorrow, so I can buy a nice little package for Fiona and drop it off for you at your house on my way to lunch. How much do you want to spend?’

  ‘Oh. Well, Mavis. Thank you. I don’t know, really. Whatever it costs…’

  ‘Well let me just choose some things to put together for Fiona, and then I’ll let you know what it cost, and you can pay me back next week. Shall I get a card, too?’

  ‘Uh… no, thanks, Mavis. I’ve already got a card. Bought it some weeks ago. When I saw it I thought immediately… well, great. Thanks very much. Are you sure you can…?’

  ‘I’ll drop it off around noon, if that’s OK
. You said you’d be out. I’ll make sure it’s wrapped nicely, and then I’ll also wrap it in another big bag so Fiona doesn’t know what it is. When I drop it off shall I tell her that it’s some books and documents or something for you?’

  They worked out the details of the subterfuge and eventually parted to go their separate ways.

  Ryder was relieved. He had thought he might get things wrong in selecting the products. Fiona had a way of being inscrutable when declaring how much she liked his birthday gifts to her. What did he know about these matters? He had far more faith in Mavis Tshabalala’s judgement than in his own. There was a cop who was growing in leaps and bounds, he mused to himself as he drove off in the Camry.

  16.20.

  Thabethe, Mgwazeni and Wakashe were crowded around the terminal in the internet café in Marriott Road. Thabethe found the site he was looking for. Now it was a matter of scrolling through various issues of the Newsletter in question until he identified what he knew must be there.

  The internet café was full. Every terminal was occupied. The proprietor was busy boasting loudly to one customer, who was trying her best to shrug him off and concentrate on her email. The proprietor was oblivious to her irritation and rambled on.

  ‘Ja, I’m telling you. My brother-in-law was telling me everyone else was closing their internet café businesses because people were saying they’re a thing of the past. Coffee bars with wifi are all the rage, he said, and the oke was chuning me I should change my focus and go the same way. Sell coffee and wifi connections to the okes with smartphones, he said. No way. Not me. Now, guess what? I attract all the other okes who don’t have smartphones, but who just want to send a quick email or check out something on the internet, you know?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, bending her head close in to the screen so that he couldn’t see what she was writing in her email, and to convey to him that she was extremely focused and busy, in the vain hope that he would back off and leave her to work.’