Gun Dealing (The Ryder Quartet Book 2)

by Ian Patrick

  ‘Remember, Dipps, Dlamini talked especially about that Freckles oke and the other two white guys. But he said that Freckles was the one always there in Umlazi and also just across the river, always selling nyaope and always gambling ...’

  ‘Always showing his gun to everyone, according to Dlamini,’ said Dippenaar.

  ‘Dlamini told us he ran old Freckles out of Umlazi and they never saw him again down there,’ said Koekemoer.

  ‘So, Nadine,’ said Ryder, ‘according to my friend Themba in hospital, when Dlamini ran Freckles out of town, Freckles lost his weapon and Dlamini kept it for himself. Are we saying that the third Deagle is the one that Vietri had given to Freckles, that Dlamini then got from Freckles, and that Themba then took off Dlamini?’

  ‘And that Jeremy, at his own dinner party, then took off Themba,’ added Nyawula.

  ‘Just so,’ said Nadine.

  There was some fist-punching and exclamations of approval and high-fives between the two parts of KoeksnDips, while Ryder and Pillay paused, staring at each other as they both recognised at the same moment a further piece of the puzzle.

  ‘But here’s another thing,’ Pillay intruded into the levity, speaking for both her and Ryder.

  They all turned to look at her for the next piece of information.

  ‘Jeremy and I are now thinking about the guy who got the bicycle spoke shoved up into his lungs, down the road from Nomivi’s Tavern two weeks ago.’

  ‘They called him Freckle-face,’ added Ryder.

  Pillay explained to the others. The young Afrikaner known as Freckles by some and as Jannie by others had been well known for supplying nyaope not only in Umlazi, but also in the area of Nomivi’s Tavern. Until he was skewered with a bicycle spoke. By someone who was known to be his nyaope supplier.

  By none other than a man called Skhura Thabethe.

  11.55.

  Thabethe and Mkhize were ecstatic. They had much more than trebled their money on the sales. Mkhize’s network of kids and teenagers had worked their magic and within a very short time they had shifted almost the entire load.

  Mkhize had asked Thabethe if he could sit in the Ford with him so that they could watch at a distance, have a beer or two, and observe his boys in action.

  Because their routine was so slick, it was almost as if the young boys - for they were no more than that - didn’t care if they might be seen by anyone. A car passes down the road, slowing right down as a ten-year old saunters across. A few words pass, the driver passes over a small packet or envelope and moves down to a specific spot where, on a whistle from the first kid, a second kid appears out of nowhere. This kid whistles a different kind of sound. The driver then moves on down the road some thirty metres. Another much older kid emerges, walks over to the driver, greets him as if they were old friends, the driver shakes hands or high-fives him, and the teenager leaves a small packet in the driver’s hands as he walks on. Laughter and salutations. The driver moves on down the road. The team gets ready for the next customer.

  Thabethe was pleased with Mkhize’s operation. They just sat there drinking beer while the first kid walked back and forth handing them cash. Fifty thousand rands rapidly turned into one hundred and fifty.

  They started planning how they might grow their business with umlungu. The Big Red Rooster. After a few minutes Thabethe paused and looked at Mkhize.

  ‘What, bra Skhura? What you looking at?’

  ‘Spikes, bra. I’m now thinking.’

  ‘What you thinking, bra?’

  ‘Spikes, we partners now, huh?’

  ‘Eh-heh, mfowethu. We are big partners.’

  ‘Partners, they need a good bank.’

  ‘What you saying?’

  ‘Come. I show you.’

  Mkhize was intrigued. Thabethe turned on the ignition, and they started drifting slowly down the road, at little more than idling speed. Thabethe was in no hurry. His destination was less than a hundred paces down the road from Nomivi’s and around the corner.

  12.05.

  The excitement in Nyawula’s office settled into a more controlled discussion. Pillay initially led the conversation, aimed at providing Nadine with some of the information all of the detectives were already party to.

  ‘The same day Freckles was skewered I found out quite a bit from the old women in the neighbourhood around Nomivi’s Tavern, Nadine. The single most important topic of conversation for them was how the youngsters in the community were getting hooked on whoonga. They had very strong opinions about it, and it became clear to us that Thabethe had been a key supplier around there for a couple of years.’

  ‘Except for the time he spent in jail for the assault on the banker,’ added Ryder.

  ‘That’s right, and we think it was just over a week after he was released that he was back in the game, and Freckles immediately got hold of him. Something then went wrong between the two of them and the Afrikaner ended up getting the spoke.’

  ‘So,’ interjected Nyawula, ‘from what we’ve heard via KoeksnDips, it sounds as if the nyaope trade that Thabethe and Freckles were involved in wasn’t just centred on Nomivi’s, but also had a bit of a history down in Umlazi.’

  ‘And Thabethe’s reputation as a supplier,’ Pillay responded, ‘was probably growing rapidly until he was taken out of circulation for the assault on the banker.’

  Nyawula interrupted the ensuing hubbub.

  ‘OK, everyone. That brings us full circle. It feels like only yesterday that I was saying this, but let me say it again. I want Thabethe, and I want him badly. I want him in front of me. Like I’ve wanted him for the last year and more. We have to take down this little bastard. If Trewhella was with us I might even add dead or alive to what I’ve just said, not just to please Ed but to ratchet up the chances of success. But I need some ideas, and I need some action. Jeremy?’

  ‘I think Navi and I can get to him, Captain. We know a good friend of his. We tried him before, but we hadn’t realised how slimy he was. We’ll have another go at him.’

  ‘That oke Spikes Mkhize, Jeremy?’

  ‘The same, Dipps.’

  ‘Slimy’s the word. Let me know if I can help. I’d like to take him down.’

  ‘Thanks, Dipps. I’ll definitely call on you and Koeks for some help. But without going into all the details, Captain, let me just say that Navi and I think we can centre our activities on Mkhize and use him as bait to nail Thabethe. This is how we think it might be played out...’

  12.25.

  Thabethe and Mkhize crouched down together behind the tree, six or seven paces from the Ford now parked against the verge. Mkhize was even more intrigued. Thabethe was digging a small hole at the base of the tree, using a small digging trowel he retrieved from the adjacent bush. Thabethe spoke as he moved the soil.

  ‘You remember this place, what happened here, Spikes?’

  ‘I remember, Skhura. That Freckles boy he got the spoke right here, under this tree.’

  ‘S’right, bra. That skelm he was crossing me. He tried to trick me. You know what I do to someone who tries to trick me? He gets the spoke right here. You know what I keep here?’

  ‘Hau, Skhura. You keep your money right here? Right near Nomivi? And I’m not knowing all this time. How many years, now?’

  ‘Long time. Long time, Spikes. This here is the Bank of Skhura.’

  Thabethe had removed enough soil to reveal the tin and he reached in and pulled it out. They both laughed as he did so. Thabethe opened the tin and they both sat opposite it. Mkhize might have been expecting Captain Morgan’s treasure, but when Thabethe opened the tin he was disappointed.

  It was empty.

  ‘This bank is empty now, Spikes. Two weeks ago I was having twenty-four thousand rands here in this tin. Then twelve thousand. Now I’m needing to make a new deposit. But you and me, we are partners, now. We can fill this bank, now, and only you and me, nè? We start our business, you and me, and we keep the money here. You remember when I’m giving you the mone
y for that first car I’m renting from you? And then the money for the Honda? And then the Ford? All from here. From Skhura Bank. Skhura - how you say - incorporated bank.’

  They both giggled. Mkhize shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘I’m thinking all those times, Skhura. I’m thinking where you keep your money? Hey, is good, and when you selling the whoonga every time, I’m thinking where is Skhura taking the money? Hau. Now I know.’

  ‘You OK, Spikes, if we put the money from today in this tin?’

  Mkhize was entirely happy. He thought it infinitely safer than his various dubious hiding places in the room behind Nomivi’s.

  After ten minutes they left the scene, having buried one hundred thousand rands in the tin. The remaining fifty thousand would be for Thabethe to purchase the next package from umlungu Red Rooster, tomorrow.

  They went back to Nomivi’s, to celebrate their new partnership.

  15.10.

  Nadine and Mavis were at the Cato Manor hijacking scene. As they walked carefully around the area, comparing it with photos and drawings, and noting the remnants of the tapes and markers that had been put down by Thursday’s first responders - tapes and markers that by now had been torn by wind and wear and were serving little purpose - Nadine seemed to Mavis to be much more excited than she had been in the morning meeting in the Captain’s office.

  They had had an enjoyable lunch together: a sandwich and orange juice in Nadine’s office, while discussing various photographs and drawings pinned on every wall. Nadine had pointed randomly at different photos and drawings, describing in broad outline various cases she had worked on, how the bullets matched to both ballistics and blood spatter, describing facts and fictions about firearm marks, footprints, tool-marks, and the difference between fingerprints and finger-marks. Mavis was both transfixed and excited.

  Then Nadine’s assistant had come in, breathlessly, carrying a large manila envelope in one hand and a multi-page report in the other, and asked Nadine to step outside for a moment. They whispered animatedly together, and Nadine snatched the document from her assistant. She then scanned the front page of what looked to Mavis, peering through the gap in the door, to be a lengthy report. Then Nadine put her hand softly against the cheek of her assistant, and whispered something urgent to her. The assistant nodded excitedly, then left. Nadine then returned to Mavis.

  ‘Sorry about that, Mavis. Just got some really interesting information. I’ll tell you about some of it a little later. Can we go?’

  Mavis saw a complete change of demeanour in Nadine as they walked rapidly out to the latter’s car. The animated conversation over lunch was replaced by a significantly more thoughtful Nadine as they drove out to Cato Manor. Nadine handed Mavis a few pages from the report. They included a photo of the dead man, and a report on where the bullets had entered the body. Nadine let her read in silence as she drove. It was only when they parked the car and stepped out to view the hijacking scene that Nadine again appeared animated and excited.

  Within seconds she was bending low over the soil, looking back and forth from what she saw there to what was depicted in the photographs.

  ‘See here, Mavis?’

  She pointed to three or four French fries, covered in soil, and drew Mavis in for a closer look.

  ‘What do you see, Mavis?’

  ‘Chips, Miss Nadine. Chips.’

  ‘And here?’

  ‘Bullet-hole, Miss Nadine, and blood?’

  ‘That’s right, Mavis.’

  ‘The bullet is there in the ground?’

  ‘No, Mavis. The first people who looked at the scene dug around a bit and took the bullets away, and most of the chips. It’s been four days since the - since the event. So that’s quite a long time. We aren’t here to do a detailed crime scene investigation. That’s been done already. I’m just looking at it to see what I can put together. Shall I tell you something, Mavis?’

  ‘Please, yes, Miss Nadine.’

  ‘Nadine, please, Mavis.’

  ‘Yes, Miss - yes, I mean, Nadine.’

  ‘What do you think happened here?’

  ‘Hijack?’

  ‘That’s what they think at Cato Manor. And tell me the signs you see of the hijacking.’

  Nadine was then hugely impressed with what she heard. Mavis described it as she saw it. She painted a detailed picture of a likely hijacking. Someone pulled over on the side of the road, eating their lunch. Either McDonalds or Wimpy or KFC. But most likely KFC because of the photo that someone had taken and that Nadine had showed her. The wrappings seemed to be KFC. The remnants of the chips were similar to those she recognised from her own experience of KFC. She then described a likely scenario, looking at both the photos and the marks on the ground, and referring back to the document she had read in the car. Hijacker sneaks up from the bush. Catches the driver while he is eating. Forces him out of the car. Makes him kneel down in front of him. Shoots him in the shoulders, one bullet each. When he falls back, he stands over him and shoots him four times in the face. Gets in the car and drives away.

  ‘Excellent, Mavis. But what else do you see in the report?’

  ‘Something funny, Miss - I mean, Nadine.’

  ‘What’s funny. Mavis?’

  ‘The dead man has a wallet with money. The hijacker takes the car but not the money.’

  ‘Brilliant, Mavis. I think I need you on my team.’

  ‘Thank you Miss Nadine.’

  ‘Nadine.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But you made one mistake, Mavis. A big mistake.’

  In response to Mavis’s crestfallen look, Nadine quickly reassured her.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mavis. Most of the people looking at this incident made the same mistake. Perfectly understandable.’

  ‘What mistake, Nadine?’

  ‘Have a look at the photos again, Mavis, and the ground, too. But the ground is not so reliable now, after four days. People have been walking all over it. CSI people, police, maybe since then a few spectators and dogs, too. But, still, have a look at the ground in relation to the photos. What do you see?’

  ‘There’s lots of movement on the ground. Maybe fighting.’

  ‘Excellent, Mavis. Maybe a struggle. Maybe. The key word. Maybe. Always ask yourself maybe. Don’t ever say for sure. Until you know for sure. Tell me more.’

  ‘Maybe the man from the bush is fighting the man from the car.’

  ‘Or maybe? If there’s movement on the ground, what else apart from fighting?’

  ‘Or maybe it is not fighting. Maybe the one man is suddenly moving backwards. He is scared of something. Maybe.’

  ‘And if you’re right, Mavis, what does that mean?’

  ‘The dead man is the hijacker and not the driver.’

  ‘Superb! Mavis, you are a gem!’

  Mavis beamed. Nadine hugged her.

  ‘Let’s sit in the car, Mavis. I’ve got more to show you.’

  15.25.

  Cronje knocked and then entered on Nyawula’s immediate affirmative response.

  ‘Sorry, Captain, I...’

  ‘What is it, Piet?’

  ‘You have a visitor, Captain. Sorry, I mean visitors. Sorry, I wanted to… but I couldn’t really...’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Mr and Mrs Ngobeni. Sinethemba’s parents.’

  ‘What?’

  Nyawula rose from his chair, startled.

  ‘They want to speak to you. I tried to...’

  ‘No. Yes. Of course. Of course. Yes. Show them in. Get some tea. Coffee. I...’

  ‘I’ll ask them again what they want, unless you think...’

  ‘Yes, please. I… No! Well, did they say…?’

  ‘They wouldn’t say what it was about.’

  ‘Show them in.’

  ‘Um… Captain, there’s also...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s another old lady with them.’

  ‘Sinethemba’s grandmother?’

  �
�I don’t know, sir. I didn’t want to ask...’

  ‘Show them all in. Right away.’

  ‘What about the Brigadier, Captain? He expects your call at 3.30, about the HR projections and profiles.’

  ‘Stuff the Brigadier, Piet.’

  Cronje froze, startled.

  ‘Oh. OK. Yes. OK, Captain. I’ll show them in, then, shall I?’

  Nyawula didn’t answer. He walked over to the window and stared out at the car park. Cronje left the room. The Captain’s characteristic decisiveness had deserted him and he was at a complete loss. All he could do was wait.

  Cronje knocked on the open door and entered first.

  ‘Ah... Captain. Mr and Mrs Ngobeni, and also Mrs, er... I’ll be bringing in three coffees, Captain, and one for you, too, sir?’

  Nyawula nodded. Cronje gestured for the three guests to enter, and they shuffled past him into the office. Cronje left.

  The man came first. Nyawula thought he looked older, even more frail, than he had at the funeral. His skin looked grey. He wore a threadbare suit, and a tie that had seen many years, if not decades. He clasped a hat in his hands, twisting it nervously in front of him. His wife was immaculately dressed. Over-dressed, if anything. That hat…

  She had hooked her arm through the long strap-handles of her handbag, and she held her husband’s right arm tightly with both her hands, as if concerned that he might topple over at any moment.

  The grandmother walked in behind the two of them, using a cane, and placed herself to the left of her son, as if they were on parade. She, too, was dressed in what appeared to be best evening wear. With a hat to go with it. Embroidered. Ornately. Hauled out on occasion for special weddings, perhaps. But Nyawula didn’t really know. He wasn’t much good at identifying such things.

  There was an agonising moment of silence as Nyawula tried to decipher the possibilities behind what was actually going on here. Then the greetings, all in Zulu, quietly, politely, with Nyawula using both hands for each of the three handshakes, and tilting forward from the waist in each instance. During which time Cronje came back with an extra chair before leaving quickly again to get the four mugs of coffee.