“I was a child.”
“You were a young woman. You could have resisted. It would not have helped you, but you could have resisted. You did not though, not at all. You came willingly.”
As he spoke, Bishop shifted on his chair, seemingly trying to ease the pressure of the cuffs on his hands. For a moment she saw one of his hands. They were big for a man of less-than-average size, hard and yellowed with calluses across the fingers. They were unlike the hands of any other man she had ever seen. She had forgotten those hands, but now she had a glimpse, less than a second in which she had seen just one of them. To Abigail that brief view was an obscenity, a view of some nakedness that was not for her eyes.
She tried to break free of the direction she felt him driving her. “Just give me Leon Lourens. He saved my life…”
The distorted smile was still present on Bishop’s face. “I will walk out of here a free man, perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow. But Leon Lourens will die tomorrow. And there is nothing you can do to stop it. And nothing you can do to keep me here.”
“I still have a day,” Abigail said.
“And you believe you can find him?”
“We found you.” Abigail thought she saw the slightest flicker of alarm in Bishop’s face. She was aware that it may just have been a reflection of the light or just a muscular twitch that had nothing to do with what she was saying. “I found your old commanding officer and I’ve been to your old hideout in Magaliesberg.” And there it was again, a spasm so small that under any other conditions she would not have noticed it. But perhaps it was nothing. “I’ll find him,” she told Bishop. “And I’ll find him today.”
Again he moved awkwardly in his seat and again she could see the hands, the same hard, callused hands that were too big for the rest of the man. “You will not find him. You are not as clever as you think.”
Did the voice shake? Or was that also her imagination? And was it possible that this man could ever be unsure of anything? This was not a mind that could see possibilities that existed beyond his own desires. What element of uncertainty could there be in his thoughts? Or am I seeing and hearing something that I want? Abigail asked herself. “I’ll find him today,” she said, still watching Bishop closely. But this time there was only the emotionless stare of those unblinking eyes.
32
Friday, October 21
In the hours before sunrise most of Pretoria was still asleep. Only a few cars were moving. They belonged to those who would be unlocking the doors of retail outlets, police going to their posts and assorted insomniacs who had contrived to avoid the tyranny of their beds.
There was no traffic at all on the road to the smallholdings that were spread along the Magaliesberg’s south-facing slopes. Yudel was driving and Abigail was in the passenger seat. They had left Freek at the suburban police station where Bishop was being held and had dropped Robert at his paper’s local office. Before they left the police station a call had come for him: the deputy president matter had flared up again and it could be today that the head of the National Prosecuting Authority would call in editors for the briefing that was going to change the country. Yudel stopped the car at the place where Abigail had parked two days before.
“I found the old farmhouse that he once used for a hideout,” Abigail was saying, “but there was nothing, and yet when I mentioned it I was sure that there was a reaction from him. I want you to help me search the place.”
“If you were here earlier and there was nothing, there is not likely to be anything now.”
Abigail got out and started for the farm gate that blocked the driveway. Yudel heard her voice faintly through the closed windows of the car. “If you won’t come, I’ll go alone.”
There’s no arguing with her, Yudel thought. Poor Robert.
The eastern sky was already brightening. In perhaps an hour the sun would be rising over Pretoria. For now, the hillside where the ruin of the house was located and faced south was still in complete darkness. Stumbling on the uneven surface, Yudel caught up to Abigail halfway to the ruin and grabbed onto an arm, bringing her to a stop. “If your friend is here, he could be under guard,” he whispered.
“You keep saying that Michael Bishop must work alone. And we know where he is.”
“No. I said the compulsion is his. He could have recruited helpers. Or at least one helper. Homicidal pairs who work together are not that rare.”
“He came alone for Leon.” There was no arguing with that. “Are you coming, Yudel?”
“Yes,” Yudel said. “Yes, I’m coming.”
Yudel had brought a torch from his car. Nevertheless, in the deep twilight of the early morning, the ruin that had been forbidding in daylight was a tangle of loose floorboards, shattered glass and occasional underbrush. Yudel followed Abigail from room to room, stepping carefully to avoid falling through an ancient, rotting floorboard, then along the broad verandas, into the crawl space under the house and finally through one outbuilding after another.
They had not gone far when she took the torch from him, shining it into every crack and corner. Not only was there no sign of any person, but he could also see no sign that anyone had been living there in years. The only footmarks on the loose sand around the house were those that Abigail herself had left two days before.
Eventually they found themselves in front of the house in an early morning that was still dark enough for the city lights in the middle distance to be bright points in the gloom. “He’s not here,” Abigail heard Yudel say. “I don’t believe that he has been here at all.”
“I know, but I had to come back. I had to make sure.”
“That’s all right.”
But for Abigail it was not all right. During the last week, the days had passed for her as if she had an inner alarm, and the knowledge that time was running out was so much a part of her that no timepiece was necessary. Things were not all right. She was afraid that they might never be all right again. She knew that the bold front she had put on for Bishop, telling him that she would find Leon today, was no more than that.
She turned to Yudel, looking for some word of hope, but he looked as desolate as she felt. At that moment her mobile phone rang. She recognized the voice on the other end as that of Susanna Lourens.
“Abigail?”
“Yes. It’s Susanna, I think.”
“Yes, it’s Susanna.” Her voice was shaking. To Abigail it sounded like that of a much older woman. “I want you to know … I needed to speak to you…”
“Yes?” To Abigail’s ears, her own voice was surprisingly soft and uncertain.
“My brother, you spoke to my brother on the phone.”
“I didn’t know who he was.”
“He was angry.”
“I understand.”
“He was angry. I don’t think like him. I…” Her voice trailed away.
“It’s all right.”
“It’s just. I don’t want you…” Again her voice seemed to lose momentum.
“It’s all right. I understand. It wasn’t you on the phone.”
“It’s just, please…”
“I’m not offended, truly.”
“Just don’t stop looking for him. Please don’t stop looking for him.” The words were gushing from her like water from a dam where the wall had just collapsed. “Please keep searching for him. Whatever my brother said, it wasn’t me. Please don’t stop looking for Leon. Please.”
“I won’t stop. I’m not stopping.”
“Please keep searching. Let the police search, let everyone search.”
“Susanna, listen,” Abigail tried to interrupt. “I won’t stop. I won’t ever stop. I’m doing everything I can.”
“Please, please, please. There’s this thing about tomorrow, the twenty-second. Do you know about that?”
“Yes, I know about it.”
“Will you find him?”
“I think so.”
“Will you find him today?”
“I believe so. I pr
ay so.”
“I’m praying too. I’m praying every day. I’m praying all day.”
“Pray for all of us,” Abigail heard herself saying. “Pray harder than you’ve ever prayed.”
“I am, every moment. Find him, please find him.”
After she had ended the conversation, Abigail looked at the ruin they had been searching. The light was a little better now, but the ruin was still a gloomy, forbidding presence. Then she turned to look down at the city where the streetlights were still shining and the buildings were slowly becoming visible. The Union Buildings, away to the left, were a silhouette against the slowly lightening sky. She could now see some of the deep purple avenues of jacarandas that lined almost every street.
Suddenly there was a voice, a full-throated cry that seemed to come from a distance, but grew quickly louder. “Leon, Leon,” the voice cried. “Leon, Leon.” She heard it again and again, each time more loudly than the time before. She looked toward the car to see where it was coming from, then back at the house. “Leon, Leon.” There was deep desperation in the sound.
Yudel had her by an arm and was drawing her toward him. She wondered why he was doing that. “Leon, Leon.” She wondered too why the hinges of her jaw were aching. She raised a hand to one side of her face, searching for the pain. “Leon, Leon.”
“Abigail,” Yudel was saying. “This is not going to help.”
The crying for Leon stopped and she was gasping for air in Yudel’s arms. “Be calm,” he was saying. “Please be calm.” He had stopped himself from telling her that everything was going to be all right. He too was doubting it now.
* * *
In the place where he was being kept prisoner, Leon Lourens had heard what he was sure was a car, and that it was closer than the other sounds he had heard. But the car sound had stopped suddenly, as if the engine had been switched off. And it had not started again.
Now everything was quiet. It had been a long time since he had last heard the breathing. His captor had either left or moved to a distant part of this place. If there was ever complete silence anywhere, this was it.
Ever since he stopped hoping for rescue, he had been at a sort of peace. It was not a peace that held any sort of contentment. It was rather the peace that came with fatalism. Now the sound of the car threatened to disrupt that. He tried to dampen any thought of rescue. If it did happen, it would happen without his participation. He knew that he could do nothing to free himself.
Then he heard the sound. It was a female voice calling his name. She called again and again, the sound coming from a distance, or perhaps just muffled by the walls of his prison. “Leon, Leon.” It was Abigail. He knew it. That he recognized it had to do with more than the sound of her voice. Something deep within the core of him told him that it was Abigail. And she was close by. “Leon, Leon.”
In an instant the peace and the fatalism left him. He tried to cry out, but the gag was bound tightly in place and he could produce no more than a muffled protest. Instantly, and without his planning it, his limbs were straining against the rope. “Leon, Leon,” he heard it again. The chair bucked and rocked with the power of his efforts. It swiveled for a moment, then fell to the left. Leon landed heavily on his side. He heaved his shoulders upward. Perhaps there was a rope that might slip loose.
There was always the possibility of his captor being there and again attacking him, but he could not think about that now. And it had not happened so far. He must be alone. “Leon, Leon.” Where could she be? Lying on its side, the chair bucked and slid on the cement surface of the floor. He reached a wall and kicked against it, trying to achieve some leverage. His arms, shoulders and legs were aching more than before, but for now he could not feel the pain.
Eventually Abigail’s voice fell silent, then exhaustion came and Leon lay still on his side on the cold cement floor. He heard the distant sound of the car engine starting and the sound fading as it moved away. The darkness around him again returned to silence.
33
In his cell in block D of C-Max, Marinus van Jaarsveld waited for what he knew was coming. He sat on his bunk, his head turned toward the cell door. Someone was moving in the corridor between the cells. He heard the clank of buckets and stiffened expectantly.
Bringing buckets to the cells this early was not according to the schedule. The prisoners did the cleaning of both cells and corridors, but not until at least an hour later. Today the buckets were being delivered early to avoid the possibility of inspection by a senior officer.
Van Jaarsveld could hear cell doors opening and buckets being dropped off. He had heard this many times before and, by now, was able to judge the warder’s progress perfectly. He heard the door of the cell next to his open, heard the bucket make contact with the concrete floor and heard the warder speak. “Fifteen minutes,” he said. Then the cell door closed and a moment later the door of his own cell was opening. The warder who appeared in the doorway was the same one who had met Annette in Magnolia Glen. “Fifteen minutes,” he told van Jaarsveld.
After the warder had left, van Jaarsveld fetched the bucket and brought it to his bunk. It took heavy pressure on one side of the bucket’s false bottom before it gave and the opposite side sprang open. Seizing the false bottom in a strong right hand, he jerked it upward and it came away. In the bottom was the 9 mm Makarov and twenty rounds, just as he had been promised. Under the gun, providing enough padding to stop it rattling, were a white T-shirt and jeans. He filled the clip and slipped the gun, the remaining rounds and the clothing under his mattress. The possibility of a cell inspection today was slight. That had also been arranged.
Van Jaarsveld was not in a hurry. He had been in prison for ten years and he was not going to act rashly now. He knew when the best time would be. Just after the early morning shift change, the gates would be lightly guarded and the minimum number of warders would be present. Most of them would still be in the shift room. It was also then that the gate of Block D would be left open for him. He would wait until the appointed time.
* * *
In his office near the only gate of the prison, psychologist Patrick Lesela was doing his paperwork. In the short time he had been at the prison, Lesela had impressed everyone with his attention to detail. He had made himself aware of every aspect of the way the prison operated. He was often seen walking the prison’s corridors, filling one notebook after another with his observations. His activities were so thorough that on one occasion a senior warder had laid a complaint about him. “I am simply immersing myself in the working of the prison so that I can be more useful,” he had told the prison’s head warder.
While, according to the plan devised by Commissioner Joshua Setlaba of Correctional Services, Yudel would be driving the program nationally, Lesela would be in charge of the local prisons. It had been a surprise to Yudel when, the day after he met Lesela, he had tried to discuss the program with him, only to find that he had not yet read through it. “I have been too busy with routine tasks,” Lesela had said.
“Routine tasks are not more important than this,” Yudel had told him.
“I will start it immediately,” Lesela had said. But he had still not opened the file. It lay unread in the top drawer of his desk. He did not anticipate the need ever to read it.
* * *
Sergeant William Tshabalala had, at thirty-two, moved up quickly after starting as an ordinary constable eight years earlier. He was happy with his progress in the force, but living off his salary was not easy. Fortunately, his wife was also an earner. She, like her husband, was a conscientious worker and she too had moved up from being a supermarket shelf-packer to her present position as credit controller for an engineering company. Between them they had been able to afford a modest suburban home and so get their two sons and a daughter away from the violence of the township in which they had both grown up. With careful budgeting, they had also been able to afford a decent suburban school for their children, and the car he was now driving on his way to work.
In recent years, an exodus of skilled policemen to private security companies had meant long shifts for those who had remained. Tshabalala did not expect relief much before midnight.
On the other hand, most days were quiet in the Tshwane West police station. At most, the cells would hold a few drunks from the night before and they could now be released. He would be the senior man on duty. If luck was on his side, he would have time to read the papers and to work on the plan he was trying to develop for the extra bedroom he would build himself, buying used materials from a demolisher as he needed them. As a child, he and six siblings had slept in the living room of the tiny low-cost house that had been home to five adults and seven children. The extra bedroom he was planning would give each of his children a separate bedroom. He was determined that they were not going to grow up with the deprivations that had been part of his early years.
Planning had always been important to William Tshabalala. Since he was a child he had been thinking about ways to advance in life. The addition to his home of an extra bedroom was only a small part of his planning. The day would come, he was sure, when he would be ready to start his own security company. That was a long-term plan though. But, he told himself, if he continued to work hard and plan, it was achievable.
34
Abigail had spent most of the morning listening first to Freek, and then to other officers interrogating Bishop. Every time Freek was relieved in the interrogation room, he had stayed in the office, listening to the efforts of the other officers. His eyes were red, his hair was uncombed and his skin was covered with a film of sweat.
He continued to follow the interrogation with complete concentration, watching for any response that could betray a weakness. By early afternoon, when Abigail left, he had still found none.
She made her way to the house in Muckleneuk, where Rosa let her in. The dark eyes of the older woman were even darker now, a reflection of the anger within. “I told Yudel to go back there to tell Freek what to do,” she said to Abigail. “How can they let that monster get away with this?”
The October Killings Page 21