by Ian Patrick
‘Navi’s with her in the car-park, Captain. Mavis is in a bad way. Navi’s helping her.’
‘Call everyone in, please Piet. Whoever you can get. Wherever they are. Call them back from whatever they’re doing.’
‘Will do, Captain.’
As Cronje left the office, Nyawula leaned forward and put his forehead on the desk.
11.50.
Thabethe sat in the back seat of a crowded taxi on the M4 passing Umhlanga Rocks on the way to Durban. He had not slept. He was clammy with perspiration. The passengers were morose and silent. Everyone felt the searing heat as the sun baked down on the vehicle. The air-conditioning inside was hopeless. It had been circulating warm air and nothing more. The driver had eventually given up and told everyone to open the windows. The incoming air was warm, but not as warm as the air in the vehicle. Thabethe felt that a wrong word from any one of the passengers might lead to a brawl. He sat slumped in the corner with his thoughts.
It was risky returning to Durban. The police were after him. Yesterday the bush in Blythedale had seemed safe. He had also spent the previous night in the bush, but at a different place fifty kilometres further south, also within sight of the surf. He had not slept on Saturday night, either. Even though he had sent the police who were hunting him on a wild goose chase by concealing his bugged cell-phone on a truck going north. Then yesterday, early on Sunday morning, he had made his way up the coast, on foot and by taxi. Painfully, because he was still stiff and sore from the action he had been involved in last week. He had abandoned the vehicle he used previously, knowing that the police would be searching for it.
He thought again through what he had witnessed last night.
After they had passed by him in the bush, he had followed the three men, picking his way carefully through the thick foliage, until they had decided upon a place to settle. He had then observed them at a distance before eventually creeping up closer to them. Then he had watched them and listened for upward of four hours.
They were high on whoonga, and they passed around a bottle of Bain's Cape Mountain Whisky, pouring it into their mouths straight from the bottle. It was difficult for Thabethe to put together the disparate strands of their conversation, but eventually he started to make sense of it. They had just come out of some action near KwaDukuza, where guns had been used. They were variously laughing and arguing and cursing and cajoling one another. They boasted about having killed someone. Two of them had raped someone. All three of them had pumped bullets into someone. More than one person. More than two people. Maybe three. Or even four. There had been a car crash. Maybe another death. There had been no witnesses. He learned that they were out of bullets.
Their three weapons were lying together on a rock to one side of where they sat. They looked like identical weapons. All three.
It had crossed his mind to intrude on the men, share some whoonga, perhaps. Or, because they were very high on booze and drugs, perhaps he could just run in, snatch their weapons, and run for the beach before they had time to react. But Thabethe was not yet back to full strength. He was still limping. He decided to remain hidden, and he listened. Carefully. Long into the night.
From their comments addressed to one another he gradually ascertained their names. Themba. Macks. Mavuso. Themba, the fat one with fancy shoes, seemed more drunk than the other two put together. He was barely able to string together a full sentence. When he stood to urinate against a tree he almost fell down, producing cackling laughter from the other two. They spoke in a mixture of Zulu, Xhosa, English, Northern Sotho and Afrikaans, sprinkled with slang derived from all five of those languages. After spending some time struggling to understand them Thabethe assumed that because of the deficiencies of Macks in Sepedi, which was the term they all used in joking about his inadequacy with Northern Sotho, and of Mavuso in Xhosa and of Themba in both Afrikaans and Sepedi, most of the dialogue ended up being in English.
The snippet of their drunken bravura babble that most captured his attention was when they referred to two places he knew well. Intimately, in fact. He had spent some time in both places that came up in their chatter. Folweni and Umlazi, two townships separated by the Mbokodweni river and connected by the M35 motorway. He had supplied various customers there a couple of years back.
And sitting in the taxi on the way to Durban, perspiring in the oppressive heat, Thabethe could now replay in his head the gist of their conversation last night.
‘Hayi, comrade. She is living at Nkabise Place in Folweni, I’m telling you.’
‘Haikona!’
‘I’m telling you!’
‘And I’m telling you, my bra, haikona!’
‘Moegoe! What you talking now?’
‘I’m saying, my bra, she was living in Nkabise Place. No more.’
‘Strue, comrade. She was living there. Until tonight, nè? Just close there to Umbumbulu Road, the M35, there by Folweni.’
‘Yes, yes, my bra. She was. Not is. No more, that one. That one, she is dead. Finish and klaar.’
‘Eish! That one, she had no respect for me, I’m telling you,’ the man known as Themba slurred in a drunken stupor. ‘She was shouting at me that once, big time, in front of those people. There. Up there by Folweni Police Station. Where she was working. I am asking her, you know, I am just asking her for a date, you know, and she looks at me like I, me, I am dirt. I don’t forget that. Not me. Hayi! Then her boyfriend, that sergeant. That Lucky Dlamini. He tells me to fokoff and leave his girlfriend alone. I promised them then that I’m going to shoot her, that one, and then I’m going to shoot him.’
‘Is good, bra, we helped you to kill that woman. Is good.’
‘No, no,’ replied Themba to this interjection from the tall and skinny Mavuso, ‘is not you killed her. Is me. Is me. Is because of me, I’m telling you. Three bullets from me, only two from you two. You two, times two, makes four only. But between two of you. Two only. Each one, one time, two only. So me, I was the one.’
He was almost passing out, but still endeavoured with some passion to get across to his two companions the meaning of the slurred arithmetic that was spewing from his whisky-fumed mouth as directed by his whoonga-infected brain. He punctuated the numbers with fingers raised in the air as if to command the attention of a vast audience. Mavuso protested.
‘No, no. Hayibo! You maybe did three bullets but we two, both of us, we did two bullets each, nè, Macks?’
‘Is true, Mavuso, and then we two also hit her with our other guns, nè? We two we shot her two times. Then we drilled her two times. Laduma! Two times and then two times more, me and Mavuso, I’m telling you. With big guns.’
Thabethe watched them make the accompanying lewd rape moves and gestures as they laughed drunkenly and stumbled all over the place. He thought they were all so far gone he could easily run forward, snatch all three weapons and make his escape. But again he decided against it, as the fat man continued.
‘OK. OK. But for her man, her boyfriend, that one, he is for me only. You two can be there with me but me, it is me who will pull the trigger on that skelm. That one will be Lucky no more.’
‘That sergeant guy, Themba? He works there at Folweni Police Station?’
‘Yes, Mavuso, my bra. Her boyfriend, that one, that Lucky, that skabenga Lucky Dlamini, he works with the boere, that sergeant, he is living there down the road, down Umbumbulu, there next to the M35, there between Umlazi Y and Umlazi Z, on Isithupha Street. Isithupha Close. Tomorrow we get him. He got a Desert Hawk. No, a Desert Eagle. Eagle Mark XIX, I’m telling you. Private. Not his police gun. His own gun. No licence for that one gun. He takes it from that Afrikaner boy two years ago. The Freckles one. The Afrikaner boy was running, that time, with his whoonga, and Lucky he shot him and missed and ibhunu he shits himself and he drops his own gun and he is running, struesbob.’
They all laughed hysterically.
‘Dubula ibhunu,’ said Macks.
‘Hamba kahle, Afrikaner boy!’ Mavuso threw in.
Thabeth
e was surprised. He too remembered the incident. It was often spoken about in Umlazi, with some mirth. Not only that. He himself used to supply nyaope to the very same young Afrikaner they called Freckles. And that was by no means his only connection to the Afrikaner.
‘One big Desert Eagle Mark XIX, I’m telling you,’ continued Themba, rupturing Thabethe’s train of thought. ‘The Afrikaner boy he drops the gun and runs for his life, and that Lucky, that Dlamini, he picks it up and he keeps it there by his house. Me, I want that one. I want that Desert Eagle. Mark XIX. Like in the movie. I want that one. Is mine.’
‘To go from her place, comrade, from Nkabise, to his place, to this sergeant Dlamini, we must take the Umbumbulu road, nè?’
‘Is right, comrade Macks, and we must cross the Mbokodweni River, you know, and you know there where you turn right for the Philani Mall, you don’t turn right, you turn left instead and you go down Amehlo. Then we make a right and we go into Isithupha Close and then go right down, straight down, there to the end, and then I shoot him dead, and I take his Desert Eagle. Mark XIX. I’m telling you. Is mine!’
Further unrestrained laughter. Thabethe continued listening further to what they had to say, for what seemed like an interminable time as they talked, and laughed, and drank and had more nyaope. Until finally they left, just before midnight. They got up, unsteadily, and two of them picked up their weapons and tucked them into their belts in the small of their backs. And the third one, Themba, the one who so badly wanted the Desert Eagle, far more drunk than the other two, had to be half-carried by his companions.
He was the one who left his weapon behind.
Thabethe waited for them to stumble their way through the bush. They disappeared into the distance. There was complete silence for a while. Then the normal nocturnal sounds returned. The insects started up. The night came back. Thabethe’s eyes reflected the watching moon. The frogs croaked.
Thabethe walked over to the rock and picked up the remaining gun. It was a SIG Sauer 9mm SP2022. Fairly new. Worth at least ten thousand rands, he estimated. Fifteen round magazine. No bullets. Empty. But that would be no problem. He remembered his good friend Spikes telling him just last week that he could provide bullets. Bullets? I got. Plenty. You know Spikes. I can get for you.
Time to visit Spikes Mkhize, he thought. Tomorrow, maybe. Or the next day. But for now, in case the three men came back looking for their weapon, time to go. Thabethe turned to work his way through the bush in the opposite direction to that which the men had taken. Then he paused as he stood on something.
Another bonus. The drunk man’s cell-phone. In the sand where the man had spent most of the last few hours, a simple but functional early-generation Nokia. He tucked the gun into his belt in the small of his back, and quickly checked the instrument. Battery healthy. No password. He was in. He smiled as he saw that he had open access to recent calls and messages.
The dim blue light of the Nokia reflected off his face. The frogs stopped. Silence returned. Thabethe looked back at the path the men had taken, and set off the other way. The frogs started up again.
He moved quickly down to the shoreline and walked southward, limping slightly.
He walked through the night until day broke, moving off the beach whenever it was impassable, and then back again. He eventually came back to the main road. There he sat, in the morning sun, down in the gully where he could not be seen from the road, resting his injured leg. He contemplated and closed his eyes, but did not sleep.
Then he eventually decided to risk it and hailed a taxi.
Now he was heading south again, back to Durban. Coming up to midday on a Monday morning. With the heat clawing at his throat. Street-vendors and hawkers from across porous borders all in full-throated bargaining mode. Local competitors bristling. Xenophobia in the air. With the police all around.
12.10.
They were all crammed into Cronje’s office. Mavis Tshabalala was inconsolable. Pillay was trying to comfort her. Her left arm was around the intern’s shoulders as comfortingly as she could manage, given the fact that the nurses had allowed her to remove the sling and had changed the dressing on her wound, but it was still sensitive. Koekemoer and Dippenaar were devastated at the news about Sinethemba. They had teased the deceased student constable mercilessly, but they had had deep affection for her. Ryder was whispering to Cronje, questioning him about the report he had received, picking up as many details as he could.
The Captain entered from the inner office and there was an instant hush.
‘Thanks for coming together so quickly, guys. I’m assuming you’ve heard bits and pieces about what happened last night on the R74. I won’t get into the details right now. Suffice to say that Sinethemba and three constable friends of hers from Folweni and Isipingo were ambushed and murdered at 6.00 pm yesterday. A passing motorist also took a bullet and died at the scene. Three male suspects. Two teenage sisters as witnesses to the whole event, but at a distance, across the road.’
He paused. Everyone was shattered. Four cops dead. Ryder was computing the information. Four vics, all cops. Fifth vic, a passing motorist. Two witnesses. Three perps. Nyawula continued.
‘This is a bad day, colleagues. Very bad. Saying goodbye to Ed Trewhella this afternoon is tough enough. On top of that I know that each of you - every one of you - has an incredible workload right now. But the Commissioner has asked us to take this case over from KwaDukuza because they just can’t themselves take it on at present, and you’re also aware of the trouble that still besets the unit that would have taken this on previously. So it’s down to us, and it’s also not just about Sinethemba. We’ll find our own private way of remembering her, and celebrating what she stood for. A fantastic woman. The finest kind of person.’
None of this helped Mavis. She buried her head into Pillay’s bosom and sobbed quietly, while Nyawula continued.
‘We all have to get over to the cemetery, soon, for Ed’s funeral. But after that we need to get going on this case. Four cops dead. This is now our priority case.’
Nods all around, in agreement.
‘I’ll get across to the Ngobeni family this evening. I want to do that personally. I want them to know how much Sinethemba meant to us. I might call a couple of you tonight. I know you’ve got some heavy-duty cases on your plates at the moment, but I’m hoping that you, Jeremy, and Navi, can get out to the KwaDukuza scene tomorrow morning. I’ve been on the line to a couple of people and we can have forensics meet you at the scene around 10.30, if that’s good for the two of you. They couldn’t do much last night so they were back this morning, and they tell me they’ll also need to go back again tomorrow.’
Both Ryder and Pillay nodded. Nyawula then turned his attention to Koekemoer and Dippenaar.
‘KoeksnDips, I know you both have separate investigations on your plates tomorrow morning, but I’m hoping the two of you can find time and get out to Folweni to follow up on Constable Xana. She seemed to be the main focus of attention for these thugs. See what you can find at Folweni, will you?’
‘Sure thing, Captain.’ Dippenaar spoke for both of them, Koekemoer nodding in agreement.
‘There’s something else I need to add, people. You’ll recall the events when detectives from KwaDukuza assisted by Hawks, ORS Durban Harbour and Kranskop all worked together on the big bust at Kranskop?’
There were nods all around.
‘The key to what happened up there was one single unlicensed 9mm pistol taken off a suspect, that led to them busting more than twenty people linked to a single house. The team took hold of a cache of AK47s, LM4s and the rest of it including bullet-proof vests, and there were links from there to lots of loose threads. Threads connected to taxi violence all over the region. The week before that, the Ulundi PO team, working with K9 and Crime Intelligence, bust another illegal arms group at Dongothule and Matsheketshe. Around the same time Pietermaritzburg Public Order working with Msinga Crime Prevention grabbed fifteen unlicensed firearms and arrested
nine suspects for illegal firearms. They then followed up with raids in the area and pulled in a whole load of other illegal weapons, and I’m talking about just a couple of weeks. It’s a war out there, team, and every illegal firearm is a clue to bigger stuff.’
Ryder couldn’t help connecting what Nyawula was saying back to a report he’d read just a fortnight before the Kranskop bust. More than nine thousand firearms destroyed on the day in question by the SAPS, with the same report noting that in the last four years more than a hundred thousand firearms and more than a million rounds of ammunition were destroyed. How were they to stop this endless stream of illegal weapons? As if reading Ryder’s thoughts, Nyawula continued.
‘The point being that ballistics and fingerprints related to just one weapon can lead us to much bigger things. So forensics and ballistics are crucial here. No single firearm in this game is unconnected. There will always be links to other firearms. Let’s find the links, guys.’
There were sombre grunts and nods from all of them as Nyawula wrapped up by returning to the business in hand.
‘Thanks, everyone. Here’s the preliminary report for you to look over. Autopsy and ballistics will come in due course, but have a look at the outline here. It’s not pleasant stuff.’
He dropped the file on Cronje’s desk.
‘See you all at the cemetery at 2.30. Then, tomorrow, let’s gather at 7.45 before you all go your separate ways, for a brief catch-up on what else comes into the office today.’
They all made affirmative noises as Nyawula returned to the inner office. Then they all crowded around the desk to have a look at the report.
12.25.
The three men had spent most of the morning in a state of only partial consciousness. The effort of half-carrying, half-dragging their partner through the bushes, throwing him into the car, and then repeating the exercise in reverse order in KwaMashu Section M, which is where Themba lived alone, prompted his two friends to make themselves at home by the time they got him there, and fall asleep together on the single bed in the filthy one-room shack. They had laid him out on the floor next to the bed, reckoning that he was in no state to choose between the thin mattress and the floor anyway.