by Ian Patrick
Mkhize had to work this out. The news would leak. The locals in KwaDukuza would soon be talking about the two Mkhize girls.
Police witnesses.
Imagine what Spikes is going to say.
His own daughters, talking to cops.
He could just see it. Word would travel quickly. That Spikes guy. Not to be trusted. Him and his family. Hot line to the cops.
It was tough being a parent.
18.30.
The three murderers were extremely agitated.
It was only while they had been eating the KFC lunch bucket special that they discovered Themba’s cell-phone was also missing. Macks and Mavuso could barely conceal their deep frustrated anger. Having earlier abandoned the idea of going back for the gun, the additional factor of the phone made them revisit the debate. They then argued furiously over Themba’s new demand that they go back to the bush and retrieve both the cell-phone and the lost weapon.
‘I’m telling you, comrades, again, we must go back to the beach,’ Themba said. ‘Is gun and phone now, both. Is bad if the boere find them.’
‘Haikona! No way! I’m telling you one more time, Themba, the boere will be looking for us right there. Better they find the gun and the phone than they find us.’
‘Macks, man, you keep telling me rubbish. I say we look. We’ll be careful. But we’ll look.’
Would the added risk of the phone being found by the wrong person put them in more danger? As he pondered this, Mavuso eventually began to side with Themba, though reluctantly, and they had eventually decided to chance it and go back.
They spent the afternoon combing through the pathways and the foliage near the beach where they had spent half the previous night. They debated the merits of calling the phone with either Macks’s or Mavuso’s phone. They decided against it. No good if the cops have found it and we then call. They could trace back and find us. Play safe.
They eventually found the precise spot in the thick bush where they had drunk and smoked themselves into a stupor. The place was evident from the detritus of their previous night’s debauchery. They searched the area and its surroundings, and the paths leading into the clearing where they had sat.
It was fruitless. After more than three hours they had given up any chance of finding either the phone or the weapon. On the way back to Themba’s place they eventually accepted that the items were lost and they needed to put that fact behind them. They needed to concentrate on plans for Lucky Dlamini.
They were listening to the thudding rhythms of kwaito on the car radio and occasionally shouting snippets of conversation at one another, rather than actually conversing. The mood started becoming a little more upbeat, and by the time they were nearing Themba’s shack there were jokes and guffaws and bravura and attempts to emulate the singers as they writhed to the beat in the confines of the car.
Then, halfway through the classic Nkalakatha which all of them knew by heart and consequently tried to outdo each other with loud toneless versions of Mandoza’s energising rhythms and vocals, the song quickly faded out as a news item was introduced.
It was an update on the murder of four constables on the R74 on Sunday evening. It provided the new information that police now had a lead in their investigation. They were questioning two young women, teenagers, twin sisters, who had been witnesses to the entire event.
Mavuso, who had been driving, brought the vehicle to a juddering halt at the roadside. All three of them were cursing, swearing, and shouting at one another as the news item faded away and the Mandoza music began building its way back into prominence. Themba hit the switch and killed the radio then screamed at the other two to calm down.
‘Shut up! Shut up, comrades! Wait, man! Wait! We must handle this. We must find these girls!’
The other two paused only slightly then the three of them launched off again in a cacophony of interjections and disagreements about what to do about this disaster.
They eventually started working out the plan. They would fan out separately, find out among the connections that each of them had in KwaDukuza who in the local area might have any idea of the identity of the witnesses. If they couldn’t get anyone to talk, or if the police were keeping the witnesses under wraps, then at least they could start a process of finding out who in the local community had twin daughters. Teenagers. Probably older teenagers, if they were out on the hills at dusk. Older teenagers. Twin sisters. Not too difficult. A process of elimination. And then, once they found them, another process of elimination.
They set off again in the red Mazda. No radio. The three of them were silent and contemplative as they drove through the dusk back to Themba’s place. By the time they got to the shack they had agreed on one thing. The hunt for the twins would start tonight.
20.45.
Ryder and Fiona were recovering quietly at home on the sofa after dinner, sharing a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. The children were doing their homework in their rooms. The dog lay on the carpet, jaw resting comfortably on his two front paws, watching them, content that the four people in the world for whose safety he alone felt entirely responsible were all safe at home where they belonged.
Sugar-Bear was a six-year old Border Collie. His left eye was surrounded by white hair and the other eye was half in white and half in black. This was occasioned by the line of black hair that ran diagonally across his face, intersecting with the white precisely at the right eye, thus fostering some sense of intrigue about his appearance. This elicited two diametrically opposed reactions from people observing him, in the view of both their teenage sons. If someone reacted timorously to Sugar-Bear, the boys would then say that such a person was lank suspicious. If they thought Sugar-Bear was cute, then they were lank cool. Neither of the parents had ever had any reason to doubt the efficacy of this judgement as a rule of thumb.
Sugar-Bear observed them, one ear comfortably relaxed and down, the other one alert and pointing upward in case it was necessary to identify some unexpected sound. His eyes started to relax, flickering between wake and sleep, as he began to accept that all was probably well in the world.
Fiona had felt genuinely good about her own presentation to the clients that morning. This was a rare phenomenon. Normally she was extremely self-critical and pessimistic about any presentation of her own. But she had felt the electricity in the arena during her performance and the round of applause she had received at the end had said it all. The financiers knew that they could give off no signals prior to their own debriefing back in Johannesburg with the holders of the purses, but there was enough going on over the brief sandwich lunch after her presentation for her to know that everyone was feeling pretty up-beat. Now it was a matter of waiting to see whether or not her firm would win the contracts involved.
Ryder had finally accepted her positive assurances about his own speech at the cemetery, too. It had been right on the nail, she had assured him. All in all, the two of them had had a tough day but had come through it.
But she was as distraught as he was over the death of Sinethemba Ngobeni, coming so soon after the devastating death of Ed Trewhella. Fiona had met the young constable a couple of times when popping in to the unit to drop off something for Jeremy. She had been enormously impressed with her, and the circumstances of her death were as devastating to Fiona as they had been to her husband.
They both lapsed into silence after discussing the tragic loss of the young constable. They stared blankly at the muted television screen, where The Hunt for Red October was being screened for the millionth time, Ryder thought. Then, as she could see him gazing into the distance, miles past Sean Connery’s impersonation of a Russian submarine commander and into something far beyond, Fiona picked up a different thread.
‘You haven’t spoken much about all the action from last week.’
‘Nope. Some pretty bad stuff.’
‘I know you don’t like to talk about it at home. Some bad guys all around, I heard today when I was speaking to Navi.’
‘
No, it’s not that. Just a few threads to wind up from last week, and new stuff coming in all the time.’
‘What’s still hanging over you from last week? Apart from Ed, of course...’
‘I’m thinking about one guy. One Skhura Thabethe.’
‘The creep who used to work as a constable?’
‘The same.’
‘I saw his eyes once. When I delivered something to the station for you. I can’t remember who I discussed it with at the time, but whoever it was told me that the guy’s eyes were the talking point in the unit.’
‘Sure were.’
‘You mentioned once that he ended up in jail.’
‘Assault. Got a year. Out after just a few months. We’re convinced that he’s got far worse things stacking up against him but he’s never been nailed for them. He needs to go away for thirty to thirty-five, that guy.’
Ryder thought back. Thabethe was indeed a creepy guy. Intriguing that his wife should pick up on the eyes. Everyone spoke about his eyes.
‘Was he done for the assault while still with the unit?’
‘No. Some time after he left. We nailed him on disciplinary charges while he was still with us. I say ‘we,’ but not me. I don’t remember ever having spoken to the guy other than maybe a passageway greeting once. Never had to. Never worked with him. Never in a meeting with him. Just noticed that he was around. Unbelievable slacker, apparently. According to Piet and others, and up to all sorts of stuff. Then he disappeared, at the same time as weapons went missing from the station. Then before we could bring him in on suspicion of that theft he was nailed for the assault and was sent down for a year. Released after eight months. Then disappeared. Until he resurfaced last week. Then he became the prime suspect as the stolen weapons started turning up. In addition, we put out different alerts for him on grounds ranging from theft, kidnapping, homicide, you name it. The guy is as slippery as anyone we’ve ever dealt with.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘We don’t know. He keeps popping up in different places because no-one knows where he actually lives, and we just can’t trace him. Remember that newspaper report about the police constantly finding people living in the bushes up and down the coast? Maybe that’s where he hangs out. We don’t know. We tried tracking a cell-phone number we had for him last week but we lost the trail somewhere in Swaziland.’
‘What’s he doing up there?’
‘I don’t think he’s there. Latest thinking is that he planted the phone on someone else and he’s nowhere near Swaziland.’
‘Clever bugger.’
‘Not to be underestimated.’
‘But Detective Ryder will get him.’
‘You think?’
She un-muted the television.
‘Sean Connery looks good. Nice beard. But I think they should have cast you. At least you know how to pronounce the word ‘adversary’. More wine?’
‘Is the Pope Catholic? Is the Kennedy family gun-shy?’
She grabbed the bottle and refilled the glass they were sharing.
‘So how are you going to find your friend Thabethe?’
‘I have a funny feeling he’s hovering around somewhere. Maybe I’ll look up some of his old friends.’
21.30.
Thabethe was on the phone calling Spikes Mkhize.
‘Aweh? Mkhize. Talk, wena.’
‘Heita, Spikes.’
‘Who’s talking?’
‘Bra Spikes. Is me, Skhura.’
‘Skhura? Heita, Skhura! You where, man? Is this same phone?’
‘Nooit, bra. That phone is now north. Maybe Swaziland. Maybe Zimbabwe. Maybe Egypt.’
They both cackled somewhat hysterically and enjoyed the thought. Cops on a wild goose chase, running after the bugged phone Thabethe had concealed on a pantechnicon headed northward to destinations unknown.
‘Is good, Skhura, is good, man. I told you, bra, I told you. Best way to get rid of the boere. Send them after their own signals, moegoes!’
‘Spikes?’
‘Yes, Skhura, yes my bra.’
‘You sell me some bullets. I want some nines. You got?’
‘Nines I got, bra. Nines I got. You still got the Vektor?’
‘Nxa, bra. Is gone. Now I got a SIG Sauer, that German one. You know? Pistol. 15 rounds. I need nine millimetre.’
‘I got, Skhura. I got for you, bra. I know that SIG one. You got the SP2022?’
‘Same one, Spikes, same one.’
‘Hey! Good one, that, Skhura. That one, I definitely got nines for that one. Special for that one.’
‘Is safe at Nomivi’s, Spikes?’
‘Is safe, Skhura. Come now, round the back.’
‘No, Spikes. I can’t come tonight. Tomorrow night is good?’
‘Hmmm. Wait. Let me think. Ja, OK, Skhura. Tomorrow is good too. Only after eight o’clock pm. Come round the back. You give me a number for your phone and I call if it’s not safe any more, you hear?’
‘The number there on the screen, you not got?’
‘Ag, man. Struesbob! Spikes is mampara, man. Yes, I see, I see, is here, the number is here. I got. I save this for you. What phone is this, bra Skhura?’
‘Same drunk fok who lost the SIG. He leaves the SIG and the phone, both, for me, bra.’
‘Moegoe, that one, hey Skhura? Is good. He give you his gun and his phone. What you do to him, my friend? You give him a spoke? No, don’t tell me. Anyway, you gotta phone now. I see you after eight o’clock tomorrow night, Skhura.’
‘I see you after then, Spikes. Tomorrow night. You see me right, I fix you up good.’
‘Shweet, mfowethu! I see you. We talk.’
3 TUESDAY
07.45.
Nyawula was in his office, making a few calls before he would address them all on the day’s business. Koekemoer, Dippenaar, Ryder, Pillay and Cronje were outside in the car park in the bright morning sun. The day was mercifully cooler, with a gentle south-easter coming in off the bay. Cronje was smoking. The others had mugs of coffee.
They had started in a sombre mood, discussing the tragic loss of Sinethemba. Mavis was off for the day, distraught at the loss of her friend and spending the day consoling the Ngobeni family and helping them through their ordeal. Nyawula had been with the family for an hour during the night, and he had suggested this to Mavis in a phone-call on his way home before informing Cronje of the arrangement.
The conversation among the detectives moved from Sinethemba and Mavis to a brief discussion about the different intended actions for the day. After the Captain’s briefing, Ryder and Pillay would each have separate robbery and assault cases to work on and then at about 10.30 they would meet in separate cars at the scene of Sunday evening’s massacre. Koekemoer and Dippenaar also had different tasks to handle on two burglary cases involving firearms, each arising from separate events over the weekend, and at about midday they would meet then drive down together to Folweni to see what they could learn about Lindiwe Xana. Cronje would be ensuring that the Comms people would continue scouring the country for any news that might be available on the elusive Skhura Thabethe, assumed to be somewhere in Swaziland or maybe in Gauteng.
It was noted that there would be separate family services for each of the four slain constables, with a formal SAPS memorial service following about two weeks later. Sinethemba’s family service would be on Saturday. Mavis and the Captain would represent the team at the private affair, but the entire team would attend the main memorial service.
The conversation drifted from there into observations arising from yesterday’s funeral. Despite the bitterness that still permeated the station as a result of Trewhella’s death, now enhanced by the death of the student constable, there was eventually space for a little therapeutic lightness of touch as they teased Ryder about his speech. But all complimented him on having kept it together on the day.
‘I liked that bit about you and Ed in Paris, Jeremy. Yissus, I remember the scoreline in that match so well. Poor
old Ed, hey? Did you go to France a lot when you were over there?’
‘Not a lot, Piet. Just now and then on holiday. I was trying to learn French, you know?’
‘Really, Jeremy? Yissus. You Engelse kêrels. When you get the chance to learn a language you choose German or French or Spanish or Italian. Why don’t you learn Afrikaans or Xhosa or Zulu, man? I heard one oke from Wentworth station talking about you after you cracked those diamond-dealers that time. He said that if that ou Jeremy Ryder was Afrikaans-speaking or Xhosa-speaking or a Zulu he would be a Brigadier already. But he’s a soutie so they won’t put him in charge. Especially not in charge of Afrikaners.’
‘Thanks, Koeks. Kind of you to say so. I think. But I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘Get away, man, Jeremy. Koeks is right. Of course it’s true. These okes in Pretoria look at stuff like that more than they look at what a cop actually does on the ground.’
‘Maybe, Dipps. Maybe. But I have no desire to sit at a desk all day. So Afrikaans and Xhosa will have to wait. Besides, I was hopeless at French. I’m not cut out for languages.’
‘So why choose French, Jeremy?’
‘Well, Piet, to tell you the truth, there was no particular reason for me to choose French. I decided at the time to learn a language, any language, and I just happened to find an adult-education night class once a week near where we lived in England, offering French. No other reason.’
‘Is it quite hard, Jeremy? French?’
‘Tell you what, Navi. I’d been trying to learn the stuff for a couple of years when one memorable night I just threw in the towel. I remember it well. I reckon something happens to the human brain sometime in your thirties. Maybe it's psychological. Maybe it's physical. But I simply forgot the most basic lesson. You know, the difference between être and avoir is the very first lesson anyone, anywhere, ever learns in French.’