by Nicol, Mike;
He takes the Remington, stands looking about, scanning the ridge line with the feeling he’s being watched. He knows he’s alone. Who would be out here? But the feeling persists. Makes the skin crawl at his neck. He breaks the rifle, checks the loads. There’re more in his backpack.
His eyes on the ridge, Tol Visagie walks towards the boulders. At the cutting, pauses, does a one-eighty of the bush, nothing’s moving. The vlei water’s a mirror. He slips between the boulders into the koppie. In the clearing, the bones lie as he found them. Inside the cave, the horns in their neat pile. Everything the way he found it two, almost three weeks back. No one’s been there. It’s quiet, as if this’s a sacred site. Which is the feeling he had from the beginning. Always the silence in the cave. ‘Ag no, Tol,’ he says aloud. ‘It’s rhino horns. It’s a bloody bank.’
But he doesn’t linger. Doesn’t sit in the calm as he did when he found them. This time he gets out sharply. Strides across the clearing to the cut in the rock wall, heads back to his double-cab without checking for animals, humans, new tracks in the dust. Only in the Nissan, with the engine running, he looks over the bush, up at the skyline. Sees a movement there. Thinks he sees a movement there. Something passing into the shadow of the rocks. He unclips his binoculars, focuses slowly left to right along the koppie face. Nothing. A trick of the light. ‘You’re spooked,’ he says. ‘You’re seeing things.’ But his heart’s going, his adrenaline’s up.
‘Take it easy,’ he tells himself all the drive back. But the unease persists.
And there’s Vusi Bopape sitting on his stoep when he gets home. Sitting there with a six-pack of Windhoek cans on the table, one in his hand.
Tol Visagie parks his double-cab, thinking, this’s a bad scene.
Stands on the steps to his stoep, Remington in one hand, backpack in the other, says to Vusi Bopape, ‘What d’you want?’
‘A chat.’ Vusi Bopape holds up the six-pack. ‘I brought some beer.’
‘What’s to talk about?’ Tol Visagie unlocks his front door, pushes it open. He’s holding the rifle in his right hand. ‘We’ve got no business.’
‘No?’
‘No.
‘I think we do.’ Vusi Bopape breaks a can from the package. ‘One drink. Five minutes. Please.’ He eases up the ring-pull, there’s a fizz of foam and gas. ‘Come on.’ Holds up the can to Tol Visagie. ‘Take it.’
‘I’ve got frosties.’
‘Sure. We can drink those too, later.’
Tol Visagie shifts the Remington to his left hand, takes the beer. ‘There isn’t gonna be a later.’
Vusi Bopape shrugs. ‘Cheers.’ Standing to tap cans. ‘Let’s go inside.’
‘We can talk out here.’
‘We can. But inside’s better. More private.’
‘Talk about what?’
‘Mr Jacob Mkezi.’
‘What about him?.’
‘Rhino horns.’
Vusi Bopape grins at Tol Visagie.
‘What? What rhino horns?’
‘Come on, my friend. I know everything.’ Vusi Bopape pushes open the front door, puts a gun in Tol Visagie back, ushers him inside. ‘Let me have the rifle rather’ – working the weapon from Tol Visagie’s grip.
It’s dark and cool in the house, smells faintly of antiseptic. Vusi Bopape sniffs. ‘You treat animals here too?’
‘There’s a room I use.’
‘Dedication. I like it.’
The front door opens straight into the lounge, a couple of chairs grouped around a glass-topped coffee table. No pictures on the walls. A TV set in the corner, piles of DVDs beside it on the floor.
‘Homely,’ says Vusi Bopape, prodding Tol Visagie towards a chair. The vet sits on it straight-backed, clutching his beer. ‘Relax,’ says Vusi Bopape. ‘Enjoy the drink.’ He sits opposite, places the Remington on the table.
‘What d’you want with me?’ Tol Visagie fighting the tremble in his legs.
‘Hey, buti, slowly. Piece by piece. Now listen, okay, hear my words.’ Vusi Bopape takes a long pull of beer, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘This is it, we know what you do, we know you are a good vet. We know you are a good man for the people. You should stay a vet, Dr Visagie, here where the people need you.’
‘So ja. What’re you saying?’
‘I’m saying, we know you found the cave with the rhino horns.’ Vusi Bopape taking another swig, his eyes on Tol Visagie.
Tol Visagie feels damp fear between his buttocks.
‘What rhino horns?’
‘Stop,’ says Vusi Bopape, waves his gun hand, ‘no, no, no, no more, please, accept this fact. We have been in the cave, the cave in the koppie near the waterhole. We have seen the horns. Accept this, Dr Visagie.’ Vusi Bopape finishes his beer, tears another one from the pack. ‘These horns are not your horns, Dr Visagie, they are not forgotten treasure for you to be Indiana Jones.’ Vusi Bopape laughs. ‘You look like Indiana Jones, my friend Ford Harrison, hey. You remember those films?’
Tol Visagie hearing Vusi Bopape saying something about not coming to a gun fight with a knife.
Then hearing him say, ‘You understand they are state property, Dr Visagie. Those horns. State property. South African Defence Force property from the border war. They are not for Mr Jacob Mkezi to sell. They are not his private business.’
‘They’re in Angola. They’re Angolan property.’
‘A technicality, Tol. Nothing to concern you.’
Tol Visagie watching Vusi Bopape lift the ring, pull it off the can. ‘They are not for you to sell. You understand?’
Tol Visagie staring at this man, Vusi Bopape, sitting in his lounge, drinking beer, holding a gun. Hears himself saying, ‘Get out of my house.’ Sees Vusi Bopape shake his head. Hears himself say, ‘Who are you? A government man?’ Sees Vusi Bopape raise the gun. Hears him saying something but there is too much noise in his head, too much rushing blood.
76
Fish, in the Perana, drives at his own pace down the Blue Route, going home. Ignores the guys in Polos zipping past, giving him the challenge glance: wanna see if you can cut it? Has Laurie Levine singing but ignores her too. Is not looking at the mountains, the patchy sky. Is looking inward. Thinking thoughts about the meaning of life.
Like why are rich guys so often such pricks? Take Lord. What a wanker. But then having a daddy like his hardly helps.
Like why do ordinary people have to suffer? They don’t do anything. Don’t hurt others. Take the Appollis folks. Whammo, all the joy gone out of their lives.
Then the big one: can we know other people? Take Daro.
Causes Fish to sigh.
His cellphone rings: his mother. Fish keys her on, presses loudspeaker.
‘What’s that noise?’ Estelle says. ‘You’re driving, Bartolomeu, aren’t you? You’re on a handsfree, I take it.’
‘Loudspeaker,’ he says.
‘You should get a handsfree, they’re cheap enough.’
‘This works fine.’
A pause. Then:
‘Bartolomeu,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to do this but I can’t wait for you any longer. I’ve given you plenty of time. I’m engaging another researcher.’
‘Maybe you’d like to see what I’ve got anyhow?’ says Fish.
Silence. Fish grins. Pleased his broker contact came through with the goods. Imagines his mother walking round her office, feeling the leaves of pot plants for dust, straightening piles of papers, a Bluetooth receiver tucked round her ear. Not expecting him to come up with the info. A bit taken aback. At least that’s what he hopes.
She responds: ‘You’ve got something for me? I’m impressed. What’s it?’
‘Some stuff you need to know.’
‘Of course I need to know. That’s why I asked you to go digging.’
‘I’ll email it.’
‘Thank you, Barto. Thank you.’
‘You don’t know what it is?’
‘I do. It’s background. Any backgrou
nd’s more than I’ve got. It’ll be excellent. Excellent. Exciting, Barto. Really exciting. I’m meeting them tomorrow. They’re very keen. This will be a major investment. This’ll make news.’
‘Mom,’ says Fish. ‘What I’ve heard is not good. You should reconsider.’
A hesitation. ‘What could be bad news about it, Barto?’
‘The people involved.’
‘The people involved? Who?’
‘There’s a front company doing a BEE deal. Empowerment deals are dicey. You know that. They’re high-risk. High failure rates.’
‘I know this. Doesn’t mean this one’s like that.’
‘There’s not a good track record with these people.’
‘Which people?’
‘The families involved.’
‘And who’re they?’
‘The president’s nephew, for one.’
‘But that’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. A connection like that is brilliant.’
‘It’s not.’
‘It is, Barto. This is just wonderful news.’
‘There’s another big family in it. Major strugglistas.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Far from excellent, Mom. You don’t want to mix with these people.’
‘Of course I do. Of course I do. My clients will be thrilled. Honoured. This is the best news.’
‘They’ll eat you alive.’
He hears his mother laugh. Knows she’s impressed. Flattered that this could involve the high and mighty. Hears her say, ‘Don’t exaggerate. You can be such a drama queen, Barto. Relax. Go have a surf.’
She’s gone.
Fish sighs. The way he did before her call. Maybe he is being over-anxious. What’s his mother do anyway? Introduce people. Pour their drinks. Take a commission off the deal. But the big families are bad news. Especially the presidential connection. You got into that mix, you got into serious shit.
But what can he do? He’s thousands of kilometres away with another kind of serious shit.
77
In two days Fish has got nowhere. Not a trace of Daro Attilane to be found. So much for his rep for finding people.
Nix about Daro’s car.
Nix about his cellphone. It’s been switched off since the time he disappeared. Getting the records will take a while.
Nix from Vicki. ‘Give me a break. I’m working on it. I’ve got a job too, you know.’
Fish goes back to working it over and over, coming up stumped. Thinking, I haven’t got anything to work with. Each hour thinking Daro’s had it.
He’s not the only one with this line of thought: Georgina is on tranks. Steffie too.
Fish keeps at what he knows. Dials the numbers he has. The one he’s got for Mart Velaze going to voicemail.
Adler Solutions is no solution.
The woman on the desk at the courier company says, ‘No, man, we do hundreds of parcels a day. How’m I supposed to remember everyone? Huh? How’m I?’
The photostat shop guy says, ‘Ja, there was a man statting a lot of pictures, newspaper clippings, stuff like that. I asked him if he wanted help, he said no worries. But it like took him a long time, for sure.’
Fish’s gone over everything in Daro’s office. Twice. Gone over everything Daro owns. Gone over Daro’s life according to Georgina. Which wasn’t much.
Born on the peninsula. Family moved around because his dad was a vacuum cleaner salesman. Went to half a dozen schools. Moved back to Cape Town after matric. Sold motor cars all his life. Lived in communal pads in Gardens, bachelor flats in Wynberg. A beach bum when he wasn’t working. Daro’s life until they met under the milkwoods at Scarborough.
Fish going over and over old ground. ‘What about his folks?’
‘I don’t know, for Chrissakes. I don’t know. He told me they died upcountry, in Kimberley I think. Somewhere in some old-age home, years and years ago. Daro didn’t like talking about them. He’d go all vague when I asked, and say he couldn’t really remember stuff from that time. No happy family moments. I guess they’d gone out of his life long before we met. Or he’d pushed them out of his life, more like. I always felt maybe he hadn’t had a happy childhood. You know, that he wanted to forget it, about them, his parents. I think they had him late. The only thing he said was that they were old. To him they were always old.’ She stares at Fish. ‘What more can I tell you? I don’t know any more. Why do you keep asking about them?’
Fish doesn’t answer this. Says, ‘Did he talk to Steffie about them?’
Georgina sighs. ‘Not that I ever heard.’
‘Steffie ever want to know about them?’
‘Of course, she’s asked me. I told her I never met them. That they died ages ago. I told her to ask her dad. So it’s best you talk to her.’ Georgina’s riding close to breakdown, drawn, skull-eyed, her skin the colour of old newspaper. ‘Why’re you asking me these things? Why aren’t you out there looking for him?’
Some of the time Fish is out there looking for him. Staking out the car lot, sitting at Knead, flashing a photograph of Daro at surfers everywhere: Crayfish Factory, Outer Kom, Boneyards, Dangers, Cemetery. No one has seen the guy.
He asks Flip Nel to jolly the local detectives. Flip comes back that there’s zilch. No sightings of Daro’s car, no activity on his phone, no credit card withdrawals.
Fish wants to say tell me something new, but holds his tongue.
Flip Nel says, ‘There’s yellowtail running. This weekend, hey? Put us back on a equal footing.’
Fish thinks, Hey, bru, I’ve got this missing friend. Says, ‘Always a possibility.’
One thing comes through for Fish. He’s had Georgina give him printouts of Daro’s bank statements, there’s payment for a car a week back: an EFT from the personal account of Jacob Mkezi. Takes him no more than a few calls to get Jacob Mkezi’s address. A couple of Googles to find a biog of the one-time police commissioner: widower, one child, a son called Lord.
But he already knew that.
Problem is Jacob Mkezi’s not at home when Fish rocks around. The place’s closed up like a bottle store on Sunday. CCTV cameras aimed at the gates, outdoor alarm passives on the walls. No matter how many times he ding-dongs the buzz box, there’s not even a flutter at the curtains. Doesn’t the guy have servants? Buti like Mkezi is going to have them in every cupboard. But no dice. Only other place he can go is say hi to Cake Mullins.
At the intercom outside the imposing gates of the Mullins residence, Fish gets to speak to a domestic. ‘Mr Mullins has gone away,’ he is told.
‘When’d he leave?’ says Fish.
‘Earlier,’ he’s told. ‘Mr Mullins will return in three months’ time.’
Fish frowns at the gate. ‘Shoo. A long holiday. Where’s he gone?’
‘Over the seas. To his other home, sir.’
‘That was sudden.’
‘Mr Mullins is on the business. Goodbye, sir.’
Which is all Fish gets.
He tries the Appollis household on his cell, Samson answers, his voice a whisper. Fish goes straight to it: ‘Your son was hit by a man called Lord Mkezi,’ he says. ‘Son of the former commissioner of police. He’s coming to see you, Lord that is. If he doesn’t, I think you should sue. I’ve got the paperwork, I can take this further.’
He hears Samson Appollis drawing in short gasps. Saying, ‘No, Mr Fish, no, we are ordinary people.’
‘It’s not going to cost you anything,’ says Fish. ‘I told you, contingency. You don’t have to sell your house.’ He hears Daphne Appollis calling, ‘Pa, what’s it, Pa? Who’s on the phone?’
Samson shouting back, ‘I’m coming, Ma, I’m coming.’ Says to Fish, ‘We can’t do that, Mr Fish. Not to important people.’
Fish closes his eyes, imagines Samson Appollis standing in the tiny lounge cluttered with furniture, a winter sun on the lace curtains, a silence in the house. ‘You can. You must,’ he says. ‘I thought that’s want you wanted to do? That’s what you told me?’
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‘Not anymore.’
‘Pa,’ he hears. ‘Pa, who’s on the phone?’
‘It’s Mart Velaze, isn’t it?’ says Fish. ‘What’s he said to you?’
‘No nothing, Mr Fish, please. Okay. We mustn’t speak to you. Goodbye, Mr Fish,’ says Samson Appollis. ‘Sorry for the trouble.’
The line goes dead, Fish disconnects. Bloody Mart Velaze.
Next he connects to Professor Summers.
‘What can I do you for, Mr Fish Pescado?’ says the professor. ‘This is out of the ordinary.’
‘Your expertise,’ says Fish.
‘Oh, my, my. The private investigator’s in need of academic assistance. What is the world coming to? How can I help?’
‘You’re into politics, aren’t you?’
‘Political science.’
‘You’d recognise some of the old guys from apartheid times? On a photograph.’
‘I most certainly would.’
‘Can I come over? Are you at home?’ says Fish.
‘Well, now, let me see. Yes, this looks like my lounge, my furniture. So I’d say as it happens, yes, I’m at home. Only joking, Mr Fish Pescado.’
‘I’ll be there in ten.’
‘Such speed, Mr Pescado. A man of urgency.’
Fifteen minutes later Fish’s showing the professor the photostats. Standing on the doorstep, not wanting to go any further into the foul den. Not that the professor’s asked him in. The professor running a magnifying glass over the faces of the white man and the black man in the hospital ward.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I know who that is.’ Pointing at the man in the bed. ‘He was the minister of finance. Then ambassador to Switzerland. Dr Gold he was known as in the newspapers. Shall I tell you why?’
He does. Fish thinking, So the little guy’s clued up.
‘What’s going on here, Mr Pescado?’ says Summers at the end of his mini-lesson. ‘Something juicy? Who’s the black man?’ He takes a closer look. ‘Well, well. I recognise him too. A lot younger but you can still tell he’s our former commissioner of police. Interesting picture. Very interesting. You wouldn’t let me have a copy?’