The Man in the Wind

by Vernon W. Baumann

  ‘Good morning, may I please speak to Magistrate Jordaan?’ Hertzog said into the telephone handset.

  Miranda Kirsten exclaimed loudly. She threw a hand to her mouth. Both detectives stared at her. ‘Oh dear God. There is something.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jools asked.

  Miranda Kirsten stared at Jools. Then at Hertzog. ‘I remember something.’

  ‘What is it, Mrs Kirsten?’

  ‘A few years after the whole matter ... I ran into the couple at a supermarket.’

  ‘The couple who adopted the boy?’

  ‘Yes, yes. The couple who adopted him.’

  ‘Hello,’ Magistrate Jordaan said over the phone. But Hertzog’s attention was focused on the retired social worker. ‘Hello?’ he said in confusion when not receiving an answer. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yes?’ Jools said.

  ‘They remembered me from our meeting.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello? Who is this?’ The magistrate became irritable.

  ‘I asked them how their son was doing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello. Hello.’

  ‘You see, I can tell you this because I was already retired. And that day I ... I wasn’t meeting them as a social worker.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello. Listen is this some sort of a joke?’

  ‘So I asked them ... how their son was doing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They told me he had gone to live in a small Free State town.’

  ‘Uh ...’ Hertzog tried to answer the irate magistrate, but found his attention completely focused on Miranda Kirsten’s words.

  ‘Who is this? Speak up man ...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They told me he was happy. He was living in some small town. And he was very happy.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Listen here, I’m going to hang up. I don’t have time for childish pranks.’

  ‘And they told me he had gotten married some time before.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Uh ... magistrate Jordaan ...’

  ‘Yes? Who are you, dammit?

  ‘And then they told me he had finally chosen a profession ... and settled down.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They said they weren’t too happy but they accepted his choice.’

  ‘Listen who the hell are you?’

  Silence.

  ‘They told me he became a butcher.’

  The phone fell from Hertzog’s hand.

  ***

  Terence Sprinkaan walked towards the little dilapidated shack constructed from corrugated iron. He whistled a tune as he stepped over the plastic milk crates. Here in the township the ubiquitous crates were used by residents as “lawn chairs”. Discarded bottles of suurwyn and the ashes in a sawn-off iron barrel told Terence Sprinkaan that his old friend, Jan Olifant had been partying the night before. ‘Eish my bru, weer lekke dik gesuip,’ Terence said to himself as he walked towards the front door, leaning precariously on broken hinges.

  You’re hammered again, my brother.

  Terence Sprinkaan knocked on the old aluminium door. ‘Hey, Olifant. Dis Terence.’

  He waited. There was no answer. ‘Hey, bla, skud af daai babalas. Ons gaan festival toe.’

  Hey dude, shake off that hangover. Let’s go to the festival.

  Silence. ‘Dônner,’ he said, cursing. He knocked again, much louder this time. ‘Olifant. Word wakker, word wakker ... die dag raak al hoe kakker.’

  Wake up, wake up. The day’s getting worse (shittier).

  Terence knocked again, this time banging on the door with his fist.

  The door swung open. Terence Sprinkaan looked at the door, shrugged. Then entered. He spent a moment in the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness within. ‘Olifant.’

  He saw a shape on the floor, barely discernible in the darkness. ‘Olifant. Jou dronkgat.’

  Olifant, you drunkard.

  He kicked the person in the ribs. The figure rolled over.

  Terence Sprinkaan stared in shock. He cursed in a high-pitched falsetto.

  Jan Olifant was lying on the floor. Dead. His sightless eyes bulged from his sockets. Thick vomit caked his face, his shirt and the floor underneath his head.

  Terence Sprinkaan back-peddled in shock. He looked up. Maria Olifant, Jan’s wife, was lying curled up in their bed, clutching her stomach. She was also dead, lying in a sea of vomit. In another corner of the shack, Jan Olifant’s two children were curled up in foetal positions. Their eyes bulged obscenely, their little mouths choked with vomit.

  Terence Sprinkaan ran from the shack, screaming.

  ***

  Hertzog and Jools stared at Miranda Kirsten in shock.

  She looked at each detective in turn, flustered. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘I should have seen it,’ Hertzog said. ‘How could I possibly have missed it?’

  Jools jumped up, his eyes huge. ‘Shaun, the festival. It was his idea all along. You were right. He’s going to use the festival to make a final statement.’ He stepped towards Hertzog. ‘We have to stop it.’

  Hertzog stared at Jools, his chin set in steely determination. He grabbed the phone cord and yanked the receiver into the air. He neatly grabbed it. And began dialling feverishly.

  ***

  In the Coffee police station the phone on the public reception counter rang loudly. In the silence of the empty station it sounded like a klaxon, its shrill ringing bouncing off the cold walls.

  The police station was completely deserted. Nothing stirred.

  The phone rang. Insistent. Demanding.

  In the back of the building a door slammed. A uniformed officer came running. With clumsy fingers he fumbled at the open fly of his police slacks, still busy zipping up. He shuffled towards the phone. Reached for it. And grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello.’

  The line was dead.

  ***

  ‘Dammit.’

  ‘No luck,’ Jools said, running into the house. Hertzog had instructed him to try and contact Chaz and Dog on the two-way radio. ‘They’re not answering. Probably out tracking down Tony Bredekamp.’

  ‘And the others?’ Hertzog asked, referring to the Coffee police officers.

  ‘I tried them all. Nothing.’ He shrugged. ‘They’re probably on foot, watching over the festival – just like we asked them to.’

  ‘Dammit.’ He dialled again. ‘We have to get through.’

  Silence.

  Herzog’s face lit up. ‘Hello. Yes, who’s this?’ Hertzog listened. It was their old friend, the rookie cop, Constable van der Merwe. ‘Where the hell is everybody?’

  ‘We’ve only got a skeleton crew on duty, Captain. The other two officers are out on a call. A whole family was murdered in the township. Looks like death by poison. Gruesome stuff.’

  ‘Constable, you need to listen to me very, very carefully. I need you to do two things for me. It’s extremely important.’

  ‘You can depend on me, Captain.’ The Constable’s voice was a tinny buzz in the silence of Miranda Kirsten’s lounge.

  ‘You need to track down Jack Strydom and arrest him. Get backup, do you understand? He’s an extremely dangerous man.’

  ‘What do I arrest him for, Captain?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Just read him his rights and detain him. You got that?’ Van der Merwe answered in the affirmative. ‘Then I need you to get hold of the acting station commander. Get him to cancel the festival.’

  ‘Cancel the festival? Sjoe, really?’

  ‘Yes, dammit. Cancel the festival.’

  But if we arrest Jack Strydom then surely –’

  ‘There’s a good chance he’s not acting alone. Until we detain Tony Bredekamp as well no-one is safe. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, Captain. Erm ... which should I do first?’

  ‘First arrest Strydom. I don’t want him to catch wind of what we’re doing. You
understand?’

  ***

  ‘Don’t worry, Captain. You can rely on me.’ Constable van der Merwe ended the call. He rushed outside to the police parking lot and jumped into the nearest van. Minutes later he was rushing toward the town commons, where all the festivities were taking place. Racing at full speed he sped around a corner. And braked hard, tyres screeching. He came to a standstill, inches away from the back of a stall.

  Dammit! He had forgotten the area had been closed off to traffic.

  He jumped from the van and charged into the crowd, scanning the crowd for the familiar features of Jack Strydom. Instead he came across one of the town council members. ‘Pietie.’ He grabbed the man by the arm. ‘Where’s Jack Strydom?’

  ‘What?’ The startled council member stared at the policeman.

  ‘Jack Strydom,’ van der Merwe said, shouting to make himself heard above the loud music.

  ‘Ah ... last time I saw him he was heading back to his house. He said he had some last minute things to take care of.’ The council member stared at van der Merwe quizzically. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

  Without providing an answer van der Merwe sprinted back to his van. A short distance away he saw two of his fellow Coffee policemen. In a split second he made a decision to go to Strydom’s house on his own. Without backup. An arrest of this magnitude was going to look helluva good on his record. Van der Merwe raced towards Strydom’s house, feeling exhilarated. He was going to single-handedly arrest the region’s most famous criminal.

  It was the biggest mistake of his life.

  ***

  ‘I’m sorry, Captain Hertzog. I don’t have the proper authority to unseal a file like that.’

  Hertzog exhaled in exasperation. He was once again standing with the phone to his ear. ‘Well who does have the proper authority, magistrate? You understand this is a matter of the utmost urgency. Lives are at stake.’

  ‘Your best option would be to contact a Supreme Court judge. I have the contact details of –’

  ‘No, you don’t understand, sir. We simply don’t have time. Can I please ask you to make the necessary arrangements? Please. Your help would be most invaluable.’ It was not a big favour to ask. Bloemfontein was the seat of the South African Supreme Court. It was an inadvertent stroke of luck that Hertzog had selected a magistrate from this same city to be on standby.

  Magistrate Jordaan paused for a moment; then sighed laboriously. ‘I suppose it’s fine. Contact me in about half an hour.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Your help has been of paramount importance.’ Hertzog ended the call. ‘Mrs Kirsten, the actual file, it’s here at the Kimberley offices, right?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ She stood up. ‘I can ask one of my former colleagues to help you. Should I phone her?’

  ‘Yes, please. We appreciate your help.’ Miranda Kirsten walked over to her phone and dialled a number. While she spoke, Jools and Hertzog waited, too impatient to sit down.

  ‘Why are we even bothering with the file?’ Jools asked. ‘Now that we’ve got Strydom, why don’t we just head back? I’m sure they’re going to need our help in apprehending Bredekamp.’

  ‘We’ve come all this way. Besides, I don’t want any loose ends. We’re doing this thing properly. Who knows, maybe that file contains just enough to nail a conviction.’ Hertzog consulted his watch. ‘Constable van der Merwe and his back-up team should be making the arrest right about now.’

  Jools held open the door. ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ***

  The police van ground to a halt in the Strydom driveway, kicking up gravel. Constable van der Merwe jumped out and headed for the front door, drawing his service pistol as he ran across the mangy lawn. To his relief he saw that Jack Strydom’s Ford Cortina was parked in the street alongside the house. In a matter of minutes Constable Joost van der Merwe was going to be the SAP’s most famous rookie.

  He raced up the porch stairs. Taking up position alongside the door he knocked. ‘Jack Strydom. This is the South African Police. Come out with your hands in the air.’

  Silence.

  ‘Jack Strydom, you are under arrest. Come out right now or we’re coming in.’ Constable van der Merwe banged the door with his fist. It swung open.

  Van der Merwe looked around then slowly stepped through the doorway. The old wooden floor of the Strydom living room creaked under his weight. He took another step. ‘Jack Strydom. We have the house surrounded. There is no escape.’ He took another step, scanning the interior of the house. ‘Hand yourself over or face the consequences.’

  Silence.

  Constable van der Merwe jumped through the archway that led to the kitchen, sweeping the room with his gun. Nothing. He exited the kitchen and carefully tip-toed down the hall. The floor creaked ominously with each step; the only sounds to stir the eerie silence. He took another step. Then another. He was standing in front of a room. Its door was closed though slightly ajar. Carefully. As quietly as possible. He peered inside. Then kicked the door open.

  It was a study. And Jack Strydom was inside. Seated at his desk in a swivel chair. His back to van der Merwe. The Constable gripped his pistol with both hands and pointed it at Jack Strydom’s back. ‘Get your hands in the air. Right now.’

  ***

  Hertzog and Jools were standing in a small office of a downtown government building. Dour and bland, the building reflected the soulless austerity that characterised so much of Apartheid architecture. ‘I’m going to need this back some time,’ the short stout woman said as she handed Hertzog a thick file. It was worn and dusty. ‘The only reason I’m letting you have it at all is because Miranda is a good friend.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs ...’

  ‘Van Rensburg. Lettie van Rensburg.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs van Rensburg.’ Hertzog glanced over at the phone. ‘Can I ask one more favour of you?’

  She followed the direction of his gaze. ‘You want to use my phone.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘I hope it’s a local call.’

  Hertzog nodded, smiling. It was hardly a stretch of the imagination to consider a two-hundred kilometre call local. He dialled and waited.

  ‘Ah, Captain Hertzog. It looks like today is your lucky day. I managed to contact an old friend of mine, Judge Hawthorne. For once the old geezer was in a good mood. I’ve got your warrant here in front of me. Can I fax a copy to you?’ Hertzog thanked him profusely and gave him the fax number of the Coffee police station.

  ‘Mrs van Rensburg, thank you so much.’ He turned to Jools. ‘Let’s get going. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.’ As they exited the building Hertzog handed Jools the file. ‘Scan this while I drive. I have an idea it contains some revealing information.’

  Hertzog had no idea how right he was.

  ***

  Town council treasurer, Andries Croukamp, stood with his arms akimbo, a huge grin on his face. ‘I told you, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.’ He waved at the multitude of people that crowded Coffee’s town square, an endless throng of festival goers, weaving through the various stalls, stands and booths. ‘There must be at least five thousand people.’

  Next to him a diminutive man, Diesel De Beer, the Coffee town council business liaison, nodded while sipping on his fourth Castle Lager. ‘Five thousand people, at least.’

  ‘At this rate we’re going to turn a huge profit, old man. No complaints here.’

  ‘A huge profit, for sure.’

  ‘Good day folks,’ Croukamp said, greeting a family strolling by. ‘Why don’t you join us at the DJ stand, over there by the marquee tent, to see who will be crowned the very first Coffee Braai Master? I believe they’re about to begin.’ The wife and husband nodded to each other in agreement while Croukamp ruffled the hair of their chubby son, chomping away at a huge wad of candy floss. Many others were now also starting to make their way to the main event of the day. A large festive crowd was already gathered at the marquee tent while the rented disc jockey was spinning some old favourites like Sia
s Reinecke’s Sproetjies and David Kramer’s Manne van die Royal Hotel. About a dozen portable barbecue kits had been arranged in a row underneath the long marquee tent. A huge banner featured the words BRAAI MASTER while colourful bunting fluttered in the wind. Some of the region’s most accomplished barbecue experts had gathered to compete for a five thousand rand prize. And the honour of being a true Free State Braai Master. The twelve competing barbecue hopefuls were standing behind their sets, waiting for the countdown. Huge mounds of meat were arranged in large enamel containers on stands in front of them. Once the judges had tasted the barbecued meat and made their decision the meat would be sold to the public at discounted rates. It was going to be a hit.

  ‘Ahh.’ Croukamp sighed with contentment. He gazed at the festive crowd. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’

  The music stopped abruptly. Moments later the DJ’s voice came over the loudspeakers. ‘Five ... four ... three ... two ... BRAAI!’

  ‘Where’s Jack Strydom?’ Croukamp asked, looking around. ‘This is his baby after all.’

  ‘Jack Strydom,’ Diesel De Beer said, cracking another Castle Lager.

  ***

  Hertzog sped along the N8, racing towards the Coffee turn-off. He took the last drag from the Camel Filter and flicked it through the open window. Although it was imperative that they reached the little Free State town as quickly as possible, he nonetheless maintained a speed that was just above the limit.

  ‘Still nothing,’ Jools said, replacing the car’s radio handset. He had been trying unsuccessfully to reach Constable van der Merwe as well as the other unit members.

  ‘We’ll try again in a while.’ Hertzog kept an unwavering eye on the road as he increased his speed. ‘We have to reach someone ... sooner or later.’

  Next to him Jools opened the file. He began paging slowly through the thick folder.

  The sun was already reaching its halfway point and a torpid heat was beginning to settle over the dusty landscape. Hertzog wiped the sweat from his brow. In the distance he spotted a convoy of eighteen-wheeler trucks. ‘Damn,’ he said under his breath. He squinted at the mirage created by the rising heat. ‘How far away is Petrusburg?’ He asked. Moments later when he still hadn’t received an answer he glanced over at Jools. His friend was engrossed in the file, his eyes large; his mouth hanging open. ‘What’s wrong? He asked, concerned.