Gun Dealing (The Ryder Quartet Book 2)

by Ian Patrick

  ‘Sawubona baba, sawubona mama, sawubona....’ Nyawula invited them to take a chair each, while he pulled his own chair out from behind his desk, clumsily, so that they could all sit in a circle. They did so, amidst patches of awkward silence and a few muttered phrases between mother and son, and as Cronje returned again with the coffee, it seemed to be a signal for them all to switch to English.

  ‘Can the Sergeant he be witness, Captain?’ said the grandmother. ‘The Sergeant he can stay? He can speak isiZulu?’

  Nyawula saw Cronje freeze in panic at the prospect of his lexicon of fewer than thirty zulu words coming under imminent threat of examination, and motioned for him to stay. Cronje stood, awkwardly, hands clasped together in front of him.

  ‘Uxolo, ma...’ Nyawula began, before she interrupted him.

  ‘Is all right. We three we speak isiNgisi. My son, he want to say something to you, Captain. You, Sergeant, you listen. You witness.’

  Nyawula and Cronje were struck dumb. The old man started to speak but stopped. He was distraught. His wife squeezed his upper arm with both hands, in support.

  ‘Uxolo, Captain...’ said Mr Ngobeni.

  ‘isiNgisi!’ said his mother.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Ngobeni? I know this is a difficult time....’

  Nyawula wasn’t sure how to complete the sentence, as he saw Sinethemba’s mother start weeping, quietly, still clutching her husband’s arm. Then Ngobeni finally mustered the strength and spoke.

  ‘Sinethemba, Captain.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Ngobeni.’

  ‘My daughter.’

  ‘Yes, sir, Mr Ngobeni.’

  ‘Sinethemba. My only child. She was a good girl.’

  ‘Very good girl,’ said the old woman.

  ‘My daughter, Captain, she was a very good girl, and she wanted to be a good policeman.’

  ‘Police woman,’ said the grandmother.

  ‘She wanted to be a detective, Captain.’

  ‘I understand, Mr Ngobeni.’

  ‘Sinethemba, Captain, she wanted to study. She wanted to do the college courses. The - how you say - academy courses. She wanted to take the exam. She wanted to be the detective.’

  Nyawula saw the old man try to prevent the tears but he failed. His wife cried, silently, head lowered, still clutching her husband’s arm. Cronje had lost it, too, and surreptitiously dragged a handkerchief from his pocket. The old woman clenched her jaws tighter and kept all tears at bay. As Nyawula made to speak, the old man continued.

  ‘You know the name Sinethemba, Captain?’

  ‘I know the name.’

  ‘The name it means we have the hope, Captain.’

  ‘I know it, Mr Ngobeni. I know it.’

  ‘Captain, this family… we have the hope… Captain...’

  His wife clutched his arm, exerting pressure on him to continue.

  ‘You see, Captain Nyawula. You see, now, we want to give you the money for the police.’

  Nyawula tried to understand, but couldn’t quite put it together. The old woman’s intervention helped him.

  ‘My son he wants to give the police the money for the bursary. For the prize. For the best police student who wants to study to be the police man. Or woman. Sergeant, you must make the slip.’

  Nyawula was about to clarify for the startled Cronje, who was trying to understand, but the old woman mimed a scribbled pen on paper and then he understood.

  ‘You want a receipt, Mrs… you want me to sign a receipt for money?’

  ‘Eh-heh! We want the slip. The paper. We want the paper to say that the money she will be used for the prize for the police student and not for the other things...’

  Nyawula was about to protest, motivated by nothing more than a desire to protect this family. He didn’t want them to part with their money. He would ensure that Sinethemba’s name… but he was stopped in his tracks by the old man drawing from his breast pocket a wad of cash, held together by a single rubber band, and which he handed over to Nyawula delicately, as if it were an injured baby chicken. His wife assisted, and the two pairs of old gnarled hands covered Nyawula’s reluctant open hands as the old man continued.

  ‘Is twenty-two thousands rands, Captain. We want the police to make a prize. We want one police student every year to get the prize for the best student policeman...’

  ‘Or police woman,’ said the grandmother.

  ‘For the best student policeman or policewoman.’

  ‘And the prize she must have the name The Sinethemba Prize,’ said Ngobeni’s wife. Nyawula thought she was employing all the courage she had left in her to make her own contribution to the discussion, before covering her face with both hands and lowering her head in the vain hope that they would not see her tears.

  Nyawula realised that nothing was going to stop them. This was a decision that had been forged in the worst kind of furnace, and this family was investing everything they could in an effort to reclaim their daughter from oblivion.

  There was a long silence, as all of them fought to recover. Eventually, the Captain coaxed them into a gentle discussion, sketching possibilities for them. He watched as they slowly relaxed and sipped their coffee, with Cronje marvelling at the grandmother first putting five teaspoons of sugar in her coffee.

  The discussion about possible options, with Nyawula clutching at straws as he sought the best way to meet their needs, ranged from an annual prize for the best student police constable, to a bursary to assist students who couldn’t afford to study, to special grants for needy students. They finally settled on an annual prize. It would be Cronje’s task to set it up. He would speak with a colleague in Pretoria who knew about awards for students in police college training. He thought that the South African Police Academy would be able to provide advice. Nyawula said that no final decision would be taken without the family’s approval. The old woman asked for everything to be in writing, and she wanted the document stamped with the same SAPS stamp, she said. The same stamp that the Sergeant had just put on the receipt for the money.

  The family eventually left. They walked arm in arm down to the corner of the street to hail a taxi. Cronje and Nyawula watched them go from the top of the stairs leading to the car park. They stood silently for a moment, then Cronje suddenly gasped and turned to the Captain.

  ‘Ag, jirra, Captain. I forgot!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Brigadier!’

  ‘Oh. Yes. The Brigadier. What did I tell you earlier?’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘Stuff the Brigadier.’

  ‘Ja, Captain. OK. I see what you mean. Stuff the Brigadier. Um… if you’ll excuse me saying so, Captain.’

  ‘I can call him anytime.’

  ‘Ja, Captain.’

  ‘Right now, I need more coffee.’

  ‘Me too.’

  As Cronje went indoors Nyawula watched as the three remaining members of the Ngobeni family stood on the pavement, waiting for a taxi. The grandmother stood firm against the strong gust of wind that tugged at all three of them and threw up eddies of brown leaves from the pavement gutter. She clutched the hands, on either side of her, of the frail Mr and Mrs Ngobeni. She spoke quietly, more to herself than to them.

  ‘Sinethemba Ngobeni Prize. We still have the hope, nè, my children?’

  15.35.

  Nadine and Mavis were sitting in the car above Cato Manor, still at the scene of Thursday’s incident.

  ‘Tell me, Mavis, about the discussion in Captain Nyawula’s office this morning. What did you learn from everything that the detectives were saying?’

  Mavis wasn’t sure how to answer, so Nadine helped her along.

  ‘We covered a lot of different facts, and everyone had something to add to the story. What kinds of things were connecting, to allow us to understand the story?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I see, Nadine. I see. Yes. The story was a long story. It went over two years. But then it was the guns. When they talked about the guns then we could see the full stor
y.’

  ‘Exactly, Mavis, and how do we connect the guns?’

  ‘Ballistics.’

  ‘Excellent. Ballistics. Remember, Mavis, how I was talking to them about the Desert Eagles?’

  ‘The Deagles.’

  ‘That’s right. You saw how all the detectives were able to give little pieces of information, so that we could trace the Deagles from Overport to Umlazi to Westville? That’s one of the most important ways we track our criminals, Mavis. We try and map out exactly what gun has been used in what crime and when and where, and who has been carrying the gun, and then we tie it to fingerprints and DNA and, above all, Mavis, to ballistics. Shall I give you a piece of information that I haven’t yet shared with Captain Nyawula?’

  ‘Yes, please, Miss - yes, please, Nadine.’

  ‘I’ll call him, and I’ll call Detective Ryder, probably tonight, so keep it to yourself until tomorrow, Mavis, see? From first thing tomorrow you can talk about it, but not before late tonight, OK?’

  ‘Yes, Nadine.’

  ‘I’m not sure I should be telling you this, Mavis. It might be upsetting for you. Are you sure you can keep this to yourself just for tonight?’

  Mavis was intrigued, but nodded fiercely. She was hooked. No matter where it might lead.

  ‘OK, Mavis. Hold on to your hat. You saw my assistant come into the office with the envelope?’

  ‘Yes, I saw.’

  ‘I showed you most of the stuff in the car on the way here. But I didn’t give you one page. That’s the crucial page.’

  Mavis was beside herself with anxiety about where this was going.

  ‘You might not know, Mavis, that among all the cases I’ve been dealing with, and that Captain Nyawula referred to this morning, the biggest case for me - as it is for you, I’m sure - is what happened at KwaDukuza a week ago last Sunday.’

  ‘Sinethemba.’

  ‘Sinethemba, Mavis.’

  Nadine paused while Mavis took it in.

  ‘I’ve been looking at the three weapons that were used in that shooting, Mavis. They were all the same. They’re called SIGs.’

  ‘SIG Sauer SP2022. Nine millimetres.’

  It was Nadine’s turn to be at a loss for words. She stared, open-mouthed, for a moment.

  ‘Mavis, you are really something else. How did you know that?’

  ‘I saw the report on Sergeant Cronje’s desk. Sinethemba and her friends...’

  ‘That’s right, Mavis. But let me tell you, now, the latest bit of information. This is very exciting, Mavis so, again, please keep it to yourself until tomorrow. Until late tonight, anyway, when I tell the Captain and Jeremy Ryder.’

  ‘Yes, Nadine.’

  ‘You know that we found two of the SIG Sauers from KwaDukuza? At Detective Ryder’s home, when those guys gatecrashed?’

  In response to the nodding from Mavis, Nadine continued.

  ‘And you know that we’ve been looking for the third one?’

  ‘You found it, Nadine? You find the third SIG?’

  ‘Not quite, Mavis. But we’re getting there. You know you pointed out the bullet-hole in the ground there, in front of us? And I said that the CSI team had taken the bullets away?’

  Mavis’s eyes almost doubled in size as she realised where this was going.

  ‘The ballistics report my assistant handed to me shows that the bullets that went into the hijacker - if you’re right, Mavis, and it was the hijacker himself who got shot - the six bullets that went into him, a couple of which went straight through his cheeks into the ground - came from the third SIG used at KwaDukuza. The third weapon used in the killing of the four constables was the same weapon that was used right here in the hijacking. Or the attempted hijacking.’

  Mavis started weeping. Nadine put her arms around her and hugged her as hard as she could.

  ‘I know, Mavis. I know. I know Sinethemba was your very good friend. We caught the bastard that killed her. Now we’ll get the guy who took over his weapon. We’ve got the ballistics. Now we’ll get the gun. Then we’ll get the man.’

  20.30.

  Ryder and Fiona were on the sofa with the TV muted, as it so often was. They glanced fairly aimlessly at the screen while they chatted, the conversation being infinitely more interesting to each of them than what was being broadcast. Which looked like yet another early James Bond.

  Tea, rather than Sauvignon Blanc tonight. The children, with their heads still in their mid-term holiday, were preparing in their rooms for the tough term that had started with a vengeance.

  Sugar-Bear was back in his favourite spot on the carpet, watching the two of them, happy to be back to guard the house, but remembering fondly the sheep that he had been looking at so intently last week, and the wide open spaces, and the braaivleis bones that had been thrown at him in such abundance every evening from last Wednesday through to Sunday morning. And probably hoping that there would be no more shouting at the television set.

  Ryder had lost the toss of the coin to determine which of them should replenish the tea. He left his iPhone behind on the sofa as he did so, and it waited till he was in the kitchen before it chose to ring.

  ‘Shall I get it for you?’ Fiona called to him.

  ‘Sure. If it’s Pop-eye Thabethe tell him I’m on his tail. Tell him to watch his back.’

  ‘Hullo?’

  There was a slight pause before Nadine spoke.

  ‘Oh. Sorry, Fiona. Is that you?’

  ‘Nadine! How are you?’

  She spoke louder than she would have, normally, because she wanted Jeremy to hear as much of this as possible. She needn’t have bothered. He came back rapidly into the room, placing the two mugs of tea and reaching for the phone.

  ‘How did you recognise my voice, Fiona?’

  Nadine felt foolish as she said it. What was the point of saying something like that? Fiona, for her part, didn’t have the heart to explain to Nadine how distinctive her diphthongs were. Especially seeing she had on occasion scolded her husband for the same observation about Nadine’s speech patterns.

  ‘How did I recognise your voice? Oh, I don’t know. Policeman’s wife, I suppose. Maybe I’ve got used to observing things that other people might not.’

  Fiona resisted as Ryder reached for the phone with an expression on his face clearly intended to indicate OK, now, that’s enough!

  ‘Anyway, Nadine, how are you? Jeremy tells me he doesn’t know anyone who works quite as hard as you do. He’s a great admirer of yours, you know, always talking about you.’

  Ryder sighed loudly then grabbed at the phone. Fiona expertly avoided the grasp and rolled off the sofa, moving behind it as Ryder moved around to intercept her. Fiona maintained a demeanour so apparently calm that Nadine couldn’t possibly tell what was happening as the Ryders chased each other this way and that around the sofa. Sugar-Bear started barking.

  ‘Oh. So sorry, Nadine, the dog’s getting excited. Hold on, let me pass you over to Jeremy.’

  ‘Thanks, Fiona. I won’t detain him for more than a minute.’

  ‘No problem, Nadine. He’s not busy. Just watching another boring CSI re-run on TV.’

  Which wasn’t at all true. But Ryder snatched the phone as if it was true and he had now to explain to the best CSI person he knew just why he was watching such crap. Fiona giggled and curled up with Sugar-Bear on the floor to watch her husband wriggle out of this.

  ‘Hi Nadine.’

  ‘Detective Ryder. Your wife tells me you’re watching CSI. What good training for a detective!’

  Now he was faced with the dilemma of denying it and having Nadine wonder why Fiona had lied about it, or admitting it, which was probably worse. He chose the latter. But tried to ameliorate it.

  ‘Not really. Sure, there’s an old CSI running, but the sound’s off, and we were just talking.’

  ‘Really?’

  Ryder was at a loss.

  ‘Anyway, Jeremy, I won’t keep you long. You can get back to your CSI in just a minute.’
/>
  ‘So kind, Nadine. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, Jeremy. I think you might like this. You probably thought after this morning’s meeting that my real interest in life is Desert Eagles. That I’m a little obsessed by them, perhaps?’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, now that you mention it, Nadine, I did think you were kind of planning to write a PhD thesis on the history of the Deagle.’

  ‘Well, you’d be wrong. You might remember that when you and Navi Pillay came to see me I had even more of a passion for another little weapon.’

  ‘The SIG Sauer SP2022.’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘You’ve found the third one?’

  ‘Not exactly. I don’t have it in my possession. But I know where it was used recently.’

  ‘Since KwaDukuza?’

  ‘Since KwaDukuza.’

  ‘Great stuff, Nadine. Hit me with it.’

  ‘Always violent, Detective Ryder. I don’t hit.’

  ‘Tell me, Nadine.’

  ‘Remember this morning I invited Mavis Tshabalala with me to the scene of a reported hijacking?’

  ‘Cato Manor.’

  ‘The same. Only it wasn’t a hijacking. It was a failed hijacking. Or at least your Mavis and I both think it was a failed hijacking.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Looks like the guy who got wasted at the scene was the hijacker and not the driver.’

  ‘And he was carrying the SIG when he got wasted?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  ‘No? You mean he got shot by the SIG?’

  ‘Just so. Six bullets. And the ballistics report tells us that the rounds were fired by the third SIG that was used at KwaDukuza. You still there, Jeremy?’

  ‘Nadine.’

  ‘Yes, Jeremy?’

  ‘I’m looking at my wife as I say this to you, Nadine.’

  ‘What, Jeremy?’

  ‘I love you.’

  Fiona threw a cushion at him. Sugar-Bear started barking again.

  ‘Sounds like your dog doesn’t like you saying that in front of your wife, Detective.’

  ‘Tell me more, Nadine. You’re saying that you don’t have the SIG but it was used in the Cato Manor homicide? By the driver of a car that was supposed to be hijacked?’

  ‘Exactly.’