40
The road that skirted the lower slopes of the little mountain range had even less traffic than on Abigail’s other visits. A few cars and pickup trucks from the small farms that surrounded the city, and the village at Hartebeespoort dam, were on their way into town seeking the evening’s entertainment. Almost all the traffic was from the opposite direction, headlights flashing past in the gloomy twilight.
She had told Yudel, so she knew he would be coming, probably with Freek, but waiting for them was out of the question. That this was the last day was the thought that drove all others from her mind. It was the only thought possible.
The brush came right down to the fence line on most properties. Vyefontein was on the right-hand side on the steep slope of the Magaliesberg mountains. Here and there a farm gate punctuated the fence line, usually guarding a rocky farm track that was almost immediately lost in the scrub.
Today, Vyefontein seemed farther from town. Perhaps I’ve passed it, she thought. I know I’ve passed it. I’ve been traveling too fast. It’s behind me. Oh, Lord, it’s behind me and I’ve wasted this precious time.
She had lifted her foot from the accelerator and was about to press it down hard on the brake, when her mobile phone rang. The car was slowing without her braking as she used her left hand to get the phone out of her bag. Freek was on the other end. “Abigail?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t go in. Wait for me at the gate.” He was asking the impossible. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, you said I shouldn’t go in.”
“Wait for me at the gate. We’re on our way.”
“Where are you now?”
“In the last suburbs. We’ll be out of town in a minute or two.” Over the connection she could hear the sirens of the police cars. That meant that they were not waiting for traffic lights.
“Yudel will show you the place. He’s been there twice.”
“He’s not with me.”
“Where is he? I thought he was on his way to fetch you.”
“He said he couldn’t come.”
“Couldn’t come?” Abigail found the idea as disturbing as any other part of the Leon Lourens matter. “He must have gone crazy. What could possibly be more important?”
“I don’t know, but I’m coming and I’ve got men with me. Just don’t enter the property till I get there.”
“I hear you.”
“It could be a trap. Bishop is free. He may have a trap waiting for you.”
“Free? How.”
“Never mind how. He’s very dangerous.”
I know him better than you ever will, she thought, as she switched off the phone. With the call finished, her foot came down hard on the brake. The car slid to a stop directly opposite the gate of Vyefontein.
The old, rusted padlock still held the chain in place. Abigail left the car in front of the steel and wire farm gate. With one foot on a cross-member, she swung the other leg over. In a moment she was inside the property and stumbling up the track. Apart from the remains of some attempt at a driveway, paving stones that broke through the surface of the ground at odd intervals, the earth was deeply rutted as if a truck had traversed it after it had been softened by heavy rain.
It was too dark to see the ground’s uneven surface clearly. Abigail stumbled on a paving stone that had settled at an angle and went down on her hands and knees. As she got up, she could see the house against what little light was left in the sky. It was the same house she had already searched twice.
Her hands were stinging and she was aware of small stones clinging to them. Without thinking, she wiped them on her trousers. It took a second and third wipe to get rid of them. Now she did look down. She could just make out the smears where she had wiped her hands.
She reached what had once been the garden of the house and stumbled again, this time in loose sand. The track from the road so far had been uneven, but she could see that beyond this point the slope became steeper. There was still no sign of a second house. Could it be that there was no house? All she had to go on was a couple of old and faded drawings in a file that had probably not been opened for thirty years. Perhaps there was nothing. Perhaps Bishop did want her to come, but that he knew there was nothing, that this was just his idea of a joke. No, that was impossible. Humor was not something he was capable of. That was not it.
On the far side of the house she found an opening in the brush that could have been an extension of the driveway. It was still longer since this one had been in use. It was densely overgrown in places by hard veld grass. She moved forward, looking down. Even in this light, she was again seeing the occasional paving stone in the grass.
It was another driveway and it was going in the direction the plan had indicated. If the second block on the plan was the gabled house, this would take her there.
But, as Freek had told her, there was the possibility of a trap. She knew that. And how could they have let him go? Bishop was what he was, but what was he? Whatever he was, she believed he was capable of causing death and destruction for its own sake. Even Yudel had not used a scientific term to describe him.
She stopped for a moment to listen. Perhaps Freek and his men had arrived. Faintly, filtered by the scrub, she heard the sound of an internal combustion engine. But it was too deep and too rough—either a farm truck or a tractor, something with a large diesel engine.
With her breath roaring through her open mouth and her legs shaking with the effort, she brushed past an overhanging branch. Ahead she caught the briefest glimpse of a wall that had once been white and was now gray with age. As she drew closer, she saw that it was streaked by the many summer rains since it had last been painted.
She pressed forward, looking up now. She stumbled on another uneven place and went down on her hands and knees again. This time, as she rose, she saw the Cape Dutch gables through the branches. Now she did stop. She stood completely still and listened. There was still no sound from the road.
The house was large and single-storied. A broad flight of stairs in the center led up to the dark hole that the front door had once filled. Like the door, the window frames along the front had long since been removed. They were sought-after items by the region’s endless homeless. The two high gables that dominated the façade stood on either end of the house with perhaps forty meters of decaying roofing in between. Some roof beams had collapsed, taking patches of slate tiles with them and leaving ragged holes in the tiled surface. The signs of what must once have been a wonderful garden were still visible. A wooden pergola was still standing, its paint peeling and discolored. The remaining plants in an ancient rose garden had not been pruned for many years and now formed an untidy tangle down one side of the house. On either side of the drive, broad lawns had been overtaken by rough thatching grass that was more than waist high. Despite the decay, something grand remained, a lingering memory of the property’s glory days. A hundred years before, the house must have been as fine a dwelling as any in the country.
The last ten or fifteen meters to the house were open, except for the long grass that had overtaken the lawns. She briefly considered the possibility of crawling through the grass, but that would take too long. She wondered about Freek. Considering where he and his men were when he phoned, he should have arrived by now. They would have torches and would surely make better time up the hill than she had. But what if he missed the gate? There were few landmarks in this bush country. She had almost turned back too soon, and she had been there twice before. No, the car was there. They would see the car.
The driveway was in better shape over the last few meters than it was lower down the slope. It was the only way to approach the building, and Abigail had come too far and too single-mindedly to pause now. She walked up the middle of the drive. Had it not been for the weariness in her legs, she would have run up the front steps. The steps were made of heavy wooden beams, something like the railway sleepers of bygone years. They were still as sturdy as ever as she climbed them slowly and e
ntered what remained of the hallway.
Half of the roof had collapsed and she could see the sky in places. There was enough light for her to make out three doorways leading off the hall, one on either side and another at the back. She went right first, down a broad passage, stumbling over material from collapsed roof sections. In places the floor had rotted and she had to be careful to avoid holes. The passage led to a row of rooms that had probably been bedrooms. Even in the gathering darkness it was clear that none of them had been used recently for human habitation.
Back in the hall, she looked out over the scrub but could discern no movement other than a gentle rustling of leaves in the slight evening breeze. The passage on the left of the hall led to what had probably been living and dining rooms, one of them large enough to have seated fifty or more people. But here too there was no sign of recent habitation.
For the first time since she had left the town planning office, Abigail felt some doubt. From the moment Lou-Anne Hamid had shown her Vyefontein’s plans she had been certain that this was where she would find Leon. But there was no sign of human presence. If he was not here, she had made no progress at all. And Bishop was free. And she would not find Leon, at least not today and not alive.
She had been so sure. Could she possibly have been wrong? Yudel too believed that Leon was here.
The door at the back of the hall led into another passage and a kitchen that had a floor area bigger than most suburban houses. The equipment and shelving were gone, but the sinks and a single marble work-surface remained. Here too there was no sign of recent occupation.
She stepped out of the kitchen’s back door. In front of her was a cutting into the steep bank that had been necessary to make a level site for the house. It was covered in grass and scrub with just a few bare patches that had eroded into shallow dongas. Without thinking, Abigail turned and walked along the back of the house, stepping carefully through the long grass. For the first time she considered the possibility of snakes. She tried to see where she was stepping, but there was too little light to see through the grass.
She reached the corner of the house and turned back, walking more quickly. Halfway back to the kitchen door she stopped again. Level with the ground, and hidden by vegetation if you were coming from the other direction, she could just make out a trapdoor and, next to it, what looked like footprints in the sand.
The trapdoor opened easily and a steep flight of stairs led into the basement. Abigail realized that she was looking into what had been the wine cellar. She stumbled down the stairs too hurriedly and had to reach for the side wall to steady herself. It took a while before her eyes became accustomed to the deeper darkness in a small room where only the faintest light came from the trapdoor. A scrambling sound and a sudden movement to her right caused her to turn and crouch in readiness. Something small dashed to a corner and disappeared into a crack, probably a rat. The room was empty, except for a small pile in a corner. She took something that felt like cardboard from the top of the pile and brought it close to her face. It looked like fast-food packaging. And this time it was not a hundred years old.
Another door led deeper under the house. Abigail entered a vault that disappeared into almost total darkness, seeming to run the length of the house. She touched wooden shelving, empty wine racks that had somehow survived. She almost called Leon’s name, but stopped herself. There was no knowing who else might be listening. Another scrambling movement reached her.
The impulse to call for Leon rose within her again and now there was no stopping it. “Leon,” she called, keeping her voice low. “Leon, Leon.”
The muffled, scuffling response was, to Abigail, unmistakeably the sound of someone who was tied and gagged. Holding back was impossible. “Leon!”
Abigail found herself stumbling in the direction of the sound, down a narrow corridor between the wine racks. She bumped into a rack and was thrown across the corridor and into a second rack. The darkness had become impenetrable and she knew she was going too fast, but slowing was impossible. She cannoned off a rack and fell, landing on the relative softness of a human form. The force of her landing threw Abigail off Leon and onto the concrete floor beyond. Her fingers found the tape that was gagging him. She worked her nails under the end and tore it free.
“Abigail,” he whispered. “I knew it would be you.”
* * *
Abigail led Leon out of the house and onto the front steps. They moved slowly, picking their way in the darkness. At almost the same moment Freek and the six men from the flying squad broke cover, the beams of their torches shining through the stiff thatching grass. Seven torch beams found Abigail and Leon. Freek could see Leon turning repeatedly to look at her. “That woman,” he muttered. “Giving her instructions is a waste of breath.” He came slowly up the steps of the house to meet them. “Mr. Lourens, I presume,” he said. The members of the flying squad were all applauding. “I think that’s for you,” he told Abigail. “Take a bow.” He shook Leon’s hand. “Glad to see you, friend.”
Leon shook his hand, then turned again to look at Abigail.
“Thank you for coming,” Abigail said to Freek.
41
Yudel Gordon had started the drive back to C-Max as soon as Freek and his men left for Vyefontein. In a few moments at the Tshwane West police station the many uncertainties of the last week had disappeared.
For the first time, he understood it all. He did not believe that the core of the matter was going to be decided on a smallholding on the side of the Magaliesberg hills. But that was where Abigail had to go and she had Freek and his men to back her up.
He had the C-Max number in the memory of his mobile and called it up as he drove. The dull-sounding voice of the warder, who had been given charge of the switchboard, answered. “Yes, corrections.”
“Give me Head Warder Bogopa,” Yudel said.
“He’s not here,” the bored voice told him. “He works day duty.”
“Who’s in charge now?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Yudel Gordon.”
“Who?”
“Yudel Gordon. I’m the prison psychologist.”
“Oh.” It seemed that a moment of recognition had dawned. “But you were retrenched. I’m not allowed to give that information to…”
“For God’s sake, man, I’m under contract now. I just want to speak to whoever’s in charge.” Yudel was entering a main artery and the Saturday evening traffic required his attention. Speaking on the mobile was becoming a bad idea.
“Hold on.” Before Yudel could respond, the man was gone. His voice came on again some thirty seconds later. “You’re not on the list.”
“What list?”
“You’re not on the list for access. Sorry, Gordon.”
“Listen, I just want to speak to the man in charge tonight.”
“I don’t know where he is. Phone back later.”
“But…”
The connection went dead and Yudel dropped the phone onto the seat next to him. Since when do they have a list? he asked himself.
Almost immediately the phone rang again. It was Rosa. “I’m sorry it took me so long, but it was hard to find anyone to ask. They did have a Patrick Lesela, but he left in August without giving proper notice.”
* * *
Prison psychologist Patrick Lesela was seated primly at the desk in his office, his knees touching each other and his hands flat on the desk’s surface. His head was tilted slightly to one side, as if he were listening for something. His face seemed to be at rest and devoid of expression.
A few doors down the passage, he heard the sound of voices as the members of the changing shifts compared notes or discussed the weekend’s football or the possibility of a pay rise. He looked at his watch. It was almost seven forty. He waited until the hands showed exactly that time, then he rose and moved unhurriedly toward the door.
He paused for only a moment in the doorway, saw that the passage was empty and then turned in the d
irection of D Block.
* * *
From where he was sitting on his bunk, Marinus van Jaarsveld heard the key turn in the cell door. He knew that it would be unlocked for some sixty seconds. That was the time it took the duty warder to walk to the end of the row and back. After that it would be locked again, and if the cell was found empty it would be the night shift man, who was now going off duty, who would have to explain.
He knew also that the changing of shifts in C-Max took some fifteen minutes. The night shift had all arrived by seven forty-five and were waiting in the outer staff office. The senior warder of the new shift would be studying the log book and would be pleased to find that the night had passed without incident.
This was the time when there were the fewest warders on the cell blocks, most of them congregating around the duty room. With the arrangements that had been made, he would have a clear run out of D block and into the passage that led down to the inner gate and then through it. The only possible problem would be at the outer gate itself. If he had to, he would use the Makarov then. The bribe, split between three warders … the Makarov and a little care would get him right out of the prison. And Annette, who looked so innocent that no one would suspect her of anything, would be waiting in the parking area in a vehicle that carried the Department of Correctional Services logo.
Van Jaarsveld had already changed into the white T-shirt and jeans that had been smuggled in with the Makarov. He left the cell and walked unhurriedly as far as the first gate. Behind him a murmuring had started as some of the prisoners saw him go and took note of what he was wearing and the Makarov in his right hand. He was carrying the gun loosely behind his right thigh, his arm extended, just out of sight of anyone coming from the front.
* * *
In the main control room, warder Ephraim Nkosi was studying the lights on the control panel. He had been on all day. His eyes were tired and he knew that his attention was wavering. But he was sure that the light that indicated that the main gate to D Block was open had flashed on for a moment. Perhaps it was his weariness playing tricks on him, but he doubted it. Tired or not, he had seen the light come on for just a moment.
The October Killings Page 26