Gun Dealing (The Ryder Quartet Book 2)

by Ian Patrick

  There was no need. The call kicked through to voice-mail. Macks either couldn’t or wouldn’t take the call.

  Thabethe left the grocer and paused on the pavement, undecided. Then he began to think back on the day he had seen Mrs Ryder at the station. Way back in the days when he was still in the uniform of a police constable. When, after making her delivery, she had said that she was going back home to Westville.

  He strode over to the Ford.

  Time to visit the Ryder home, he thought.

  11.05.

  Ryder and Pillay were in her car, on their way to see Nadine Salm. Following Ryder’s revelation, the detectives had worked through various possibilities together. The main thread that had emerged from the discussion in Nyawula’s office, and which was the theory they were now working on, was that the three perps had somehow linked Ryder to the investigation of the KwaDukuza homicides and that they had had the intention to take him out of the picture without it looking like a straightforward hit on a cop.

  And while making it look like a robbery gone wrong, to pick up some spoils in the process. A typical Westville dinner-party. Likely to have some rich pickings. Why just take out a cop when you can also pick up some fat wallets and purses?

  They had chosen the wrong modus operandi, thought Pillay. They would have been better advised to resort to the sniper’s role. Hit and then scarper. But they didn’t. Big mistake. Anyone thinking they could take Ryder out face to face would need to shoot first and talk later. Give Jeremy half a second, she thought, and he’ll gobble it up, say thank you, and break your neck.

  ‘It makes sense, Jeremy. These guys knew that the KwaDukuza case would remain a cop priority and that they would be hunted down. They wanted you taken out before you got close to them.’

  ‘I think you’re right, Navi. The thing to find out, then, is how they knew that I was leading on the KwaDukuza homicides. A Durban detective on a KwaDukuza case. Outside the Cluster. Unusual. Who’s been talking? Anyway, let’s see what the sharp Nadine and her assistant have to say about the three weapons.’

  12.35.

  The 1974 Ford XLE was inconspicuously parked twenty paces down from the driveway. There was a fair bit of activity at the Ryder home.

  A police car had pulled away from the house just as Thabethe came down the road from the intersection. He had watched in the rear-view mirror as the cops went up the hill. Then he had gone down almost to the next intersection, turned around, and come back up the hill, stopping well before the Ryders’ driveway.

  He waited, and watched. Ten minutes later a taxi arrived and moved up the driveway to park in front of the house. He saw three people with three large suitcases and four or five smaller bags - more luggage, surely, than was needed for only three people - emerge from the house. They were helped by another woman who then appeared. He recognised her as Ryder’s wife. He had previously seen her only once, he thought. That time at the station, when she had made the delivery for her husband. Maybe again some other time, somewhere else, but he couldn’t remember.

  The taxi driver assisted. Then there were hugs and kisses and embraces and chatter and soon the three people with the luggage were on their way.

  Thabethe watched intently. Mrs Ryder stood and watched the departing taxi. She didn’t look like a woman whose husband had just been murdered.

  But suddenly the taxi stopped, halfway down the driveway. It then reversed back up. There was a commotion inside. Then the older woman clambered out and ran a few paces back to Ryder’s wife. She was crying. She hugged the Ryder woman. Maybe it was true. Maybe there had been a hit on Ryder. Maybe he was in hospital. Maybe he was dead. This woman seemed unbelievably upset.

  But as he watched the Ryder woman comforting the older woman, he soon abandoned that theory. The tears turned to laughter. More hugs. The younger man got out of the taxi and came back to fetch back the older woman. He took her by the elbow. More tears and hugs.

  These people, thought Thabethe. They don’t know how to leave.

  The taxi eventually took off again. The Ryder woman watched them go down the driveway and then turn up the road. Then she went back into the house.

  Thabethe waited for another fifteen minutes. Nothing. No-one came. No-one went. He started the Ford and moved slowly up toward the intersection. He paused at the top of the hill, as if undecided whether to go back.

  He decided it was too risky. Best to have a closer look under cover of darkness. Come back later and sit, and watch.

  He drove off, slowly, in the direction of the old main road.

  12.45.

  Ryder and Pillay drove down Joe Slovo Street away from the session with Nadine Salm. They felt energised, with enhanced admiration for the forensics expert. She had taken them painstakingly through the interesting connections she had made.

  Before the Ryder dinner party Nadine had already ensured that her colleagues had done exhaustive tests on the ballistics evidence from the Sunday KwaDukuza homicides. By late Wednesday afternoon there was no doubt in their minds that the four constables had all been shot with 9mm rounds from three SIG Sauers. She herself had worked on the twenty-four bullets that had been removed from the bodies of the four constables. A twenty-fifth slug was found in the skull of the passing motorist who had flipped his vehicle. The bullet had struck the sphenoid bone but was still recognisable as a match against the bullets taken from the other four bodies. In all, therefore, twenty-five bullets from three SIG Sauers were recovered from the five bodies.

  Nadine told the two detectives that a thorough search of the area on both Monday and Tuesday, along with her assistant, had identified a further eleven slugs embedded in trees, in logs, and - in one case, only because of an entirely fortuitous discovery - in the earth. All of these were on the north-facing slope of the hill on the southern side of the R74, in a range some ten or fifteen feet below where the two witnesses had sat. In total, therefore, there was evidence to suggest that at least thirty-six rounds had been fired. Given that the weapons had a capacity of fifteen rounds each, there was a high probability that further rounds had been fired, that the bullets had gone astray, and that they were buried somewhere on the hill opposite the scene of the action. These bullets, if they existed, were unlikely to be found.

  In regard to the bullets retrieved from the bodies, she painted a picture of deliberate and systematic massacre by the three perps. This picture, in her opinion, would probably soon be matched by the pathologist reports that would include details of the further violation of Cst. Xana. And DNA, of course. Which would be tested not by her but by others.

  The part of the discussion with Nadine that had most intrigued both Pillay and Ryder was her foray into the information on SIG Sauers. It was clear that she had done considerable research on the weapon, which she acknowledged to be without doubt her favourite pistol.

  ‘The Schweizerische Industrie Gesellschaft company dates from the mid-nineteenth century. They started with a focus on railway rolling stock, and joined with the Sauer gun-making company after the second world war.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Pillay. ‘I thought it was a fairly recent development on the small arms scene. A nineties weapon at the earliest, I thought.’

  ‘No, Navi, they actually hit the jackpot with the market in pistols shortly after the amalgamation of the two companies. They picked up really big clients very quickly. Firstly the Swiss. Then the Japanese, Middle East and African countries became really big clients of theirs. Then Europe got into the act.’

  ‘I thought the Americans...’ Ryder interjected.

  ‘The American market opened up big time only when their police forces started swapping revolvers for semi-automatic pistols. That was a really big market so they created an American base for the company in New Hampshire. As soon as that happened they took off into the stratosphere, and SIGARMS America then took the lead in creating massive sales for them.’

  Nadine said she and her assistant had done more work on this brand of pistols than probably
all other small arms put together. They both knew their SIGs quite well, she said.

  ‘The key question we’ve been pondering, though, is how two of the three SIGs used on Sunday ended up in the attack in your home, Jeremy, along with a third and completely different weapon. The three guys that you took down...’

  ‘That Fiona and I took down. Don’t forget my wife’s frying pan.’

  ‘The three guys that you two took down - the two SIG guys and the Desert Eagle guy - should give us some interesting DNA, don’t you think? A little DNA sampling, not to mention fingerprints and more, could very soon show us a connection to the attack on Constable Xana on Sunday. Or not, as the case might be, depending on what the tests prove. The interesting thing for me will be to see whether SIG one and SIG two were the two rapists. Or SIG one and Deagle. Or SIG two and Deagle. If you get my meaning.’

  Pillay and Ryder exchanged glances as they considered the permutations, before Pillay spoke.

  ‘And if Desert Eagle was one of the two rapists, we then need to know what happened to his SIG between Sunday’s hit and Jeremy’s dinner party.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Nadine.

  ‘And if he wasn’t one of the two rapists on Sunday, we need to know in any case whether he was one of the three hit-men, and using the third SIG. And if so, we still need to know what happened to that SIG between Sunday and my dinner party.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Nadine.

  ‘And where he got his Deagle from,’ said Ryder.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Nadine again.

  ‘And isn’t it nice to have three suspects safely tucked up in bed in Addington Hospital?’ said Pillay.

  ‘With clear fingermarks on the three weapons,’ added Ryder.

  ‘And all nicely trussed up waiting for their DNA to be tested,’ said Pillay.

  ‘It just gets better and better, doesn’t it? Welcome to Forensic Services, detectives. See why I love my job?’

  13.00

  ‘Aweh?’

  ‘Skhura?’

  ‘Yebo, Spikes.’

  ‘Skhura, bra, I can talk now? You OK? You can talk?

  ‘Eh-heh, wait one minute, Spikes. You wait, nè? I’m driving. I pull over. Just wait.’

  Thabethe turned right then left, found a quiet spot and pulled off the road. He had been aiming for a place half a mile further on to stop and have his lunch, but this would be as good a place as any, he thought. He pulled right up onto the verge, clear of any passing traffic, switched off, and pulled on the handbrake. He wound down the window and rested his elbow on it as he talked.

  ‘OK, Spikes. OK. I’m OK for talking.’

  ‘OK, Skhura. The car is still good?’

  ‘The car is still good, Spikes. Is good.’

  ‘I find that Red Rooster for you, bra.’

  ‘You find him? Good one, Spikes. Good one, bra.’

  ‘That one is being in jail, Skhura. He was being in hospital, too, for nearly one week. Messed up bad by the cops. But he got a clever lawyer that one and now he has the bail. Now he is out. No passport, because the cops they want the passport. They keep his passport. But he gives big money for bail. They scared he going to run, that one. But his lawyer he gets him out of jail and now he is out. Trial in six months. Maybe ten months. You know. Maybe that Big Red is going to buy the docket, and then there’s no trial.’

  Mkhize guffawed as he said it.

  ‘What they get him for, Spikes?’

  ‘Wait, bra. You guess. One big cop beat up one big Red Rooster. One cop you know.’

  ‘What cop, Spikes?’

  ‘That big detective cop you know, Skhura.’

  ‘That Detective Ryder one?’

  ‘Is the same one, bra. Detective fok-face Ryder spelled funny.’

  Thabethe frowned. This Ryder cop was always in his face.

  ‘You there, Skhura?’

  ‘I’m here, Spikes.’

  ‘That Ryder and that Indian charra woman. They put Red Rooster in hospital. Then he was supposed to go to prison. But he is out of the tronk, bra, and he is looking for the business. You want to buy whoonga from him, Skhura? I got the connection. My connection he tells me the Rooster he is looking to sell. He needs the money sharp-sharp so he is selling nyaope cheap-cheap.’

  ‘I want to buy the stuff, Spikes. You want to work with me? I cut you in. I want to buy and sell fast. I’m needing the money, bra.’

  During the next three or four minutes they set the first stage of the plan. Mkhize would initiate the direct contact with Big Red. Thabethe would bring in the money. They would set up a meeting. It would happen as soon as possible.

  They ended the conversation having established the next steps. Thabethe closed it down as quickly as he could. Instinctively, he wanted to keep all conversations on this phone as short as possible. He didn’t understand the process of tracking and tracing phones, but he had some intuition about it. Safer to be sparse with the calls, and brief when they were unavoidable.

  He pocketed his phone and reached over for the box of KFC. This was as good a place as any to eat.

  13.05.

  As they drove away from Nadine Salm Ryder and Pillay enthused about her work.

  ‘I don’t know any forensics people as good as her, Navi.’

  ‘And her assistant, too. They both seem to work incredibly long hours.’

  ‘Yep. They’ve been working together for some time, and you can frequently get both of them in their lab late at night. They live and breathe this stuff.’

  ‘I wonder if we’ll ever pick up that third SIG.’

  ‘It’d help, Navi, if we could. So many of these perps blow it by sticking to the same weapon. If anyone can trace them, it’ll be Nadine and her assistant.’

  ‘What’s your guess, Jeremy? You think the guy with the Deagle was at the KwaDukuza killings with his cronies and then simply lost his SIG before they hit your home? And that his SIG is just floating free out there? Or do you think he keeps his SIG in one drawer and his Deagle in another, and just randomly chooses which weapon he’s going to use on his next hit?’

  ‘Hard to guess, Navi. Whatever the case, as you told Nadine, we have to know what happened to the third SIG between Sunday’s hit and my dinner party.’

  ‘Maybe some other guy just picked up the lost SIG and has no connection to the three perps. Maybe it’s a matter of just waiting to see if it turns up in a homicide in the next couple of years.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Fancy a bite to eat?’

  ‘Sure. What about KFC or McDonalds? Don’t tell Fiona.’

  ‘Course not. What are partners for, but to help one cheat on one’s spouse?’

  13.10.

  Thabethe sat in the Ford, looking out over the hills of Cato Manor as he munched his chicken burger and chips with the three extra chicken pieces. The car was parked right off the verge. No impediment to passing traffic.

  He had the SIG on his lap. He had checked and re-checked the weapon in between stuffing chicken and chips into his mouth. The gun was fully loaded and ready to use.

  He wasn’t sure of his next moves. He had to assume, from what he had seen at the Ryder home, that the cop was still in action.

  What were the chances that Ryder might connect him to the three idiots? He was carrying one of their weapons, and he had one of their cell-phones. Could the detective put that information together with other stuff and trace it back to him?

  He laid the paper napkin over the weapon, covering his lap, and poured the remaining chips onto the napkin. He tore open the tiny packets of salt and sprinkled the contents over the chips. He tilted his head back as he threw them into his mouth six or seven at a time.

  Suddenly he felt something sharp pricking him on the neck, as a voice whispered roughly into his right ear.

  ‘Smart car, nè?’

  Thabethe froze. The adversary chuckled.

  ‘Kahle, wena! Kahle, zulu-boy. Move slow. Leave it the keys. Leave it there, the keys. Keep your chips, if you want
, zulu-boy. Keep your life if you want, nè? But only if you careful and you listen to me. OK, you get out, now, slow, wena.’

  His mind raced. The blade of the dagger was drawing blood. He could feel it trickling down his neck. How many of them were there? Thabethe reckoned he had a chance if there was only one of them. The guy couldn’t have seen the SIG. It was completely covered by the napkin and the chips.

  Although his window was open because of the heat, the door was locked. The voice rasped again with some urgency.

  ‘You put your left hand on the steering, nè? Now!’

  Thabethe obeyed as he felt the blade prick again with a small thrust.

  ‘Is good. Now you open the door with your right hand. Slow. Kahle, zulu-boy. You open and you come out slow, or I cut your throat.’

  As he sensed the assailant stepping back from the door, Thabethe saw his chance. He felt under the napkin for the SIG. He clasped it in his right hand, the left hand still visible on the wheel, and he was able to keep the gun in his grasp as he then unlocked the door with the little finger of his right hand. He pushed carefully to initiate the opening of the door. The would-be hijacker completed the job for him, stepping further back out of the arc of the opening door, and pulling the dagger back as he pulled open the door from the outside to allow his victim to step out.

  It gave Thabethe the chance he needed. He brought the SIG up from behind the door and before he could even aim the assailant saw the weapon and panicked. He took another step back, his eyes widening in terror as he raised his hands and dropped the dagger.

  ‘Hayi! Hayibo! Please...’

  He was no more than twenty years old. Thabethe glanced around and could see immediately that he was working alone. He thrust the SIG into the man’s left eye socket, forcing him down onto his knees.

  ‘You see what you do now to my lunch?’

  The man was weeping in terror, not understanding Thabethe’s reference to the chips covered in sand at his feet.

  ‘You see my lunch? My KFC? You see what you do to my lunch? Zulu-boy? Wena ukhuluma lami!’

  ‘Sorry, nkosi! Sorry. I’m sorry, nkosi!