Gun Dealing (The Ryder Quartet Book 2)

by Ian Patrick

  He devoured a meal for two and followed that with three or four beers. Then he ordered dessert. Then coffee.

  He thought about the deal he would make, tomorrow, with this Thabethe guy. In the meantime, he would set about asking some questions. Find out more about this Ryder bastard that had taken him down.

  As he thought of Ryder, he instinctively touched the fractured orbital socket. The result of Ryder’s lucky punch. He learned from the doctor who had treated him in Addington Hospital, and who had been more concerned about the effects of concussion than the actual fractures themselves, that there were three main types of orbital fracture. His was a combination of two of them. He had an orbital rim fracture coupled with a blowout fracture. He barely remembered what the doctor had said. No serious fracture of the floor of the orbit, or something. But sinuses badly affected, and something called the medial wall fractured. Rather than a serious orbital floor fracture, which was normally the case in injuries like this. And all of that was apart from the damage caused by the head-butt he had sustained in the same fight with the cop. Rounded, depressed fractures of the anterior sinuses, fracture of the nasal bone and cartilage, or something like that…

  Whatever the doctor had said, Big Red only half-recalled. What he knew for certain was that he had everything that went with the diagnosis. All the symptoms the doctor warned him about. Blurry vision. Difficulty looking left or right. Black and blue eyes. People looked at him as if his face was one big birthmark. Bloated skin. Intense pain.

  His week had been one hell of a week centred on antibiotics, ice packs, pain-killers, and decongestants.

  Detective Jeremy Ryder would pay for this.

  15.40.

  Ryder clicked off after the call with Pillay, but immediately pulled out his notes again. She had given him an idea. Phone number one had provided the information to phone number three and phone number three had then immediately phoned to check the information with Durban North. Clear enough.

  But what was it that Nadine Salm was so fond of saying about facts and theories? Step back. Take a longer view. Widen the frame. What else comes into focus?

  He sketched a new diagramme for himself.

  Maybe, as Pillay had worked out, phone number one had indeed possessed all the information and had relayed it to phone number three who then immediately checked it with Durban North. But what might have happened before that? How did phone number one get hold of the information that he passed forward? Especially if, according to the perp lying in hospital, phone number one had been lost and found by persons unknown. How would such a person get hold of the private information?

  His diagramme had phone number one at the centre. From there he had arrows pointing out to or from or between each of the three other cell-phones, along with an additional phone which he labelled ‘Durban North.’ He forced his gaze to move away from phone number one. What else could have been in play here?

  Gradually he began to focus on phone number two. What was it Van Rensburg had said? Not in his previous call, but in his first call to Ryder? He had said something else about phone number two. Phone number two, he’d said, was the first number called by number one’s presumed new owner on Monday. Then number two had returned the favour on Wednesday. When? At 10.15 in the morning. Number two had called number one and, according to Van Rensburg’s timings, had spent a bit of time in the conversation.

  And all of this just two hours before number one decided to relay information to the instrument’s previous favourite numbers.

  Maybe it was number two who had originally passed on the information about Detective Jeremy Ryder.

  And when Ryder had Skyped phone number one anonymously, late last night, the man who answered must have been taken off guard. He didn’t check the caller’s ID, and before he could think he had asked whether the caller happened to be someone called Spikes.

  Come on, Koos. Call me. I need to know more about phone number two.

  15.45.

  Big Red finally left John Dory’s, having psyched himself up into vengeful anger the more he thought of the cop he hated so much.

  The Lamborghini roared as he revved before taking off. He hit Margaret Mncadi at speed, ducking into the traffic and roaring away from the drivers who were hitting their horns in fury at his impertinence, before immediately dropping back as he raised his hand to give them the finger and they saw the size of his biceps.

  Within a minute he was shooting up toward the old Toll Gate, and from there he roared his way into Westville.

  All the way thinking about Detective Jeremy Ryder.

  15.50.

  ‘Jeremy?’

  ‘Koos. I thought it might be you. I’m waiting with bated breath.’

  ‘OK, Jeremy. I’ll tell you the latest news.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘It’s going very badly.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a total disaster, Jeremy.’

  ‘What’s happened, Koos?’

  ‘I don’t know how to tell you, Jeremy.’

  ‘Tell me, dammit, Koos!’

  ‘Ag, Jeremy, the Sharks are being hammered, man...’

  ‘What the blazes…?’

  Van Rensburg’s peals of laughter were echoed by the laughter of what Ryder assumed were the three geeks in the room with him.

  ‘Sorry, Jeremy. Bad joke, man. The kick-off is still a few minutes away.’

  ‘Jeez, Koos. You’re a cruel man. Do you beat your wife?’

  ‘No way, Jeremy. You should see my wife. Bigger than you. Bigger than any of the guys in the front row of the Sharks, too. Anyway, Jeremy, we got phone number two.’

  Ryder knew the answer before he heard it.

  ‘The phone is registered to a guy by the name of Mkhize.’

  16.05.

  Squeezed in among many other close friends and relatives, Mavis Tshabalala sat on the floor. She leaned back against a wall in the modest kitchen of the Ngobeni family. Captain Nyawula sat alone in a corner opposite, on one of the hard straight-backed chairs. Pillay had just arrived, and found a seat in the passage just beyond on a hard plastic crate normally used for carrying bottles.The three of them were the only people in police uniform.

  Most of the mourners were in the kitchen because that was the largest room, spreading L-shaped into another room that had been cleared of furniture for the occasion. A few chairs and cushions had been brought in by neighbours. They lined every available cupboard and wall-space. Other cushions, scattered on the floor, were also occupied. Chairs and boxes had been placed against one wall of the passage leading from the kitchen so that the overflow could be accommodated. Younger people from the neighbourhood looked through the windows or sat on the ground outside in groups, whispering.

  Inside, a mournful hymn was being hummed, quietly, by those who could manage. The rest wept quietly in silence. No-one conversed.

  Sinethemba Ngobeni’s grandmother was clutching the hands, on either side of her, of the broken mother and father. The grandmother looked stronger than either of the parents. Her jaw was clenched and her mouth set firmly, as if resolutely prepared against the evil that had been perpetrated upon this family.

  The uniform cap of a policewoman lay perched on a cushion placed upon a box in the centre of the room. A simple sign on a white postcard rested against the cap. It displayed the words written in block capitals: ‘Sinethemba - We Have Hope.’

  Around the box were layers of cards, flowers, mementoes, and scribbled notes.

  My dearest friend.

  The best of the best.

  Ngiyakuthanda!

  The thin blue line.

  Hamba kahle, Sine.

  We all have hope.

  A young priest entered the room and gently brought things to order, then led with a simple prayer. When he concluded, another young man spoke from the doorway telling them that the procession would be leaving in a few moments for the church, where the service would commence in one hour and thirty minutes. Other people were already gat
hering, he said, but the front rows on both sides of the church had been reserved for family and close friends, so there was no need to hurry.

  The people inside the house began to stir, slowly. Quiet keening or silent contemplation gave way to brief whispered exchanges, and they all gradually moved outside into the street to form up.

  As the grandmother, supported on one side by Sinethemba’s mother and on the other by her father, moved from the front gate into the street, the crowd parted for them as if for Moses commanding the waters.

  Nyawula put his arm around Mavis and gave her a supporting hug as they lined up behind the family. Pillay stood on the other side of her, holding her hand. The three of them exchanged no words.

  The procession formed. At a signal from the young man who had called them to order, it started off slowly, moving down the street toward the distant church. As they did so the crowd began to sing. The words and haunting melody of Thinantsha sounded mournfully at first, but gathered buoyancy as the procession moved down the dusty road, gathering neighbours and friends from every street corner on its long journey. They arrived in their hundreds and joined in behind.

  A distant police siren sounded as it passed by on the nearby freeway, as if heralding the next phase in an ongoing struggle.

  8 SUNDAY

  13.30.

  Pillay and Ryder pulled up in the street outside Nomivi’s Tavern. They could see an immediate scurrying from inside the tavern as they pulled up, and someone rushed out and around to the back even before they had locked the car. Within less than a minute Spikes Mkhize was walking toward them, doubtless having given strict instructions to the woman who had rushed to the back to warn him, and he had probably tasked her with cleaning up whatever illegal stuff might be on display.

  ‘Heita! detectives. Welcome to Nomivi’s again. Long time no see. Only last week, nè?’

  ‘Maybe we can make it a regular arrangement, Mr Mkhize. We could call in here once or twice a week for lunch and to check on you. No problem.’

  ‘Hau, Inspector Ryder, is not fair. Is not fair. Spikes Mkhize is friends with lots of policemen. No need to check up on Spikes. Hullo, Inspector Pillay. Is good the police they work on Sunday. Sunday is bad time for the skelms. Other people they in church. Is better for the police to be here.’

  ‘Mr Mkhize.’

  ‘Yebo, Inspector.’

  ‘Detective. I’m Detective Ryder.’

  ‘Is it? Hau! I was thinking you a big chief, Mr Jeremy. Detective Ryder. Is good. Not Inspector. I remember now.’

  ‘Mr Mkhize.’

  ‘Yebo, Detective.’

  ‘How is your friend, Mr Thabethe?’

  ‘Thabethe? That one? Eish! That one, Skhura Thabethe, he is maybe there in Gauteng, maybe Richards Bay, maybe Umlazi. He’s staying lots of places, that one. That telephone, you find him?’

  ‘No. The cell-phone we gave you, and that you agreed to hand over to Mr Thabethe last week so that we could track him, is somewhere in Swaziland.’

  ‘Hau! That Thabethe, yes, I remember one time he was telling me he’s got the family in Swaziland. So he is visiting there by them now?’

  ‘We don’t think so,’ said Pillay

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ she continued, ‘we think it’s just the cell-phone that is visiting Swaziland. All alone.’

  Mkhize paused. No wisecrack this time.

  ‘We think you might have put the cell-phone on a truck or a lorry heading for Swaziland, Mr Mkhize,’ Pillay persisted.

  ‘Hayibo! Not me, detectives, not Spikes. You remember you ask me...’

  ‘I remember you made a suggestion, Mr Mkhize,’ said Ryder. ‘It was your suggestion. It would be a good idea, you said, to bug Thabethe’s cell-phone so that we could trace him. You wanted him off your back. You didn’t like him. He was a skelm. A bad guy. You didn’t want him bothering you anymore so you suggested to us that we give you a cell-phone to give to him so that we could trace him.’

  ‘Is true, Mr Jeremy. Is true. That idea was not working, then? The phone it is gone?’

  ‘So tell me, Mr Mkhize.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Jeremy.’

  ‘Thabethe is a skelm, you say?’

  ‘Hau! Skelm! Skabenga! Thabethe. That one? Hayi! Definitely, he is a big bad one, that one!’ He laughed loudly. Cackled. Thoroughly enjoyed himself. The detectives stood, poker-faced, until his laughter could not continue without it being obviously forced, and he stopped.

  ‘And there we were, thinking that he was your friend. But you tell us he’s not your friend.’

  ‘Is true, what you say, Detective Ryder. Is true. That Skhura...’

  The detectives paused and let him stew. They had originally decided that at this point they would pull the carpet out from under his feet and ask him why, if Thabethe was not his friend, he was speaking to him on his new cell-phone. On Monday night at 9.30, then on Wednesday at 10.20, and again on Thursday at 13.00. But they had then thought a little further through such a strategy and they had decided that Mkhize could wriggle out, arguing ‘wrong number’ or ‘pest caller’ or something else. Instead they had decided merely to plant some seeds and then retreat, allowing Mkhize time to react and then allowing Van Rensburg and his hobbits to monitor phone numbers one and two a little further in order to see what that might lead to.

  ‘So anyway, Mr Mkhize,’ said Pillay, ‘we wanted you to know that we’ve lost track of that old cell-phone from last week, but we are still looking for Mr Thabethe. You’ll call us, won’t you, when you hear anything about where he is?’

  ‘Definitely, Detective. Definitely, Mrs Pillay. Me, I got the friends. They talk to me. If they tell me they see Skhura Thabethe, I will call you and tell you what they tell me. Is good.’

  It crossed Ryder’s mind to throw into the pot something about Mkhize’s daughters and his mother, but he thought that that might be powder worth keeping dry for the moment. Instead, he gave the signal to Pillay and they withdrew, with much obsequious bowing and scraping from Mkhize.

  They drove away, and Mkhize’s false smile faded instantly. He was very unsettled. These two cops seemed to know a lot more than they were telling. He would have to get hold of Thabethe.

  13.50

  Big Red drove the Lamborghini away from his Westville home, heading for the city. He drove slowly. He was distracted. His breathing was constricted, as if some great pressure was building inside his massive chest. He could feel the pulse in his temple, and it brought a painful reminder of the damage done to his eye socket. The bruising on his face was massive. He glanced at himself in the mirror and his anger increased.

  He had been doing research all morning. He now began to think that he knew Jeremy Ryder better than most people in the trade. Knew where he lived, now. Just down the road from him, in fact. Maybe he should case the joint. He was prepared to do damage not only to Ryder but to his family, too. Perhaps, soon, a night visit to the Ryder home?

  As he came off the glide onto the highway, leaving Westville, he glanced over to his right. Somewhere down there, the Ryder home. Maybe he would come back that way one night just to have a look.

  But he was too careful to get into that kind of thing himself. He needed to hire the right kind of guy. Someone who wouldn’t blink if push came to shove. Someone who had the right kind of experience. Someone who would kill without hesitation. Someone who hated cops as much as he did.

  As he came up the highway toward the Toll Gate he reached for his iPhone. Time to call the intermediary who would then put a call through to Mkhize. Who would then contact Thabethe, so that the deal could go down.

  14.00.

  Thabethe took the call on the first ring.

  ‘Yebo.’

  ‘Skhura, is me.’

  ‘Talk, Spikes.’

  ‘That Big Red. He says you must go to Wilson’s Wharf.’

  ‘I’m there, Spikes.’

  ‘What you say?’

  ‘I’m there. I’m there at Wilson’s. I’m there right no
w. Where is he?’

  ‘Hau, old Skhura. Wena! Hau! OK. He is saying you must come there but only at 3.00 o’clock.’

  ‘Where, Spikes? Where must I meet him?’

  ‘He is saying he will look for you at 3.00 o’clock. One hour from now. He is saying you must walk in front of the Yacht Club there.’

  ‘3.00 in front of the Yacht Club?’

  ‘Eh-heh, bra.’

  ‘Sharp, Spikes. We talk later.’

  ‘OK, Skhura. We talk later. You call me.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Wait, Skhura.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That Ryder and that charra woman. They were visiting me today lunchtime. At Nomivi’s. Nomivi’s is becoming too hot for me.’

  ‘What they asking you, Spikes?’

  ‘They looking for you, bra. That cell-phone from last week? You throwing the phone on the lorry to get rid of amaphoyisa? They tell me, those cops, they tell me your phone is there in Swaziland.’

  Mkhize chuckled at the thought of the cops on a wild goose chase after a decoy phone.

  ‘They ask me if I know where you are and I’m saying I don’t know where you are. I’m saying maybe you visit friends or family there in Swaziland.’

  He guffawed at the thought. Thabethe paused.

  ‘You there, Skhura?’

  ‘I’m here, Spikes. I’m here. We talk later. We must get this Ryder.’

  ‘Yebo, Skhura. We get that one, and that charra woman.’

  ‘’We talk later.’

  Thabethe hung up. He had an hour to kill before Big Red would look out for him. Maybe he could explore around among the small boats moored in front of the Yacht Club. It was from one of those boats that Big Red used to deal, and where Thabethe had on occasion bought the stuff from him. But he knew it wouldn’t be the same boat this time. When the cops took down Big Red they took down his boat. He must be working from another one. Or he might not be working from a boat this time.