by Martin Steyn
“You don’t know what he’s like.”
“You won’t be in any danger. You’re just going to arrange it and point him out to us.”
“We’ll need to talk to your parents,” said Magson.
Guthrie looked at him, annoyed rather than nervous. “Why?”
“Because you’re not eighteen yet.”
“My dad’s in Germany on business.”
“When is he coming back?”
Guthrie shrugged. “He’s never here.”
“What about your mom?” asked Menck.
“She’s at her charity. So many black tummies to fill.”
“We’ll need the address and her number.”
Guthrie tapped a few times on his phone’s screen and handed it to Menck, who wrote down the information in his notebook. “We don’t need to tell you not to contact CJ before we’ve spoken to you again, hey?”
“And if CJ contacts you, phone me immediately,” added Magson, presenting the boy with a contact card.
Guthrie sighed and nodded.
“In the meantime, I’d advise you to cease all your criminal activities before we come back.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Anytime. It’s like the Second Coming, Wayne. You should always be ready.”
May 6, 2014. Tuesday.
The identikit drawn up from Karlien Pretorius’s description was in the newspapers.
Wayne Guthrie had sent an email to CJ’s gmail account.
The lines had been cast. Now Magson had to sit on the bank, waiting to see if something bit.
In the meantime, the process had been initiated to obtain the identity of the gmail account’s owner, which would be neither quick nor easy. And even with the company’s cooperation, Menck had delivered the happy news that anyone could create a gmail account by typing in any information, since it wasn’t verified. Apparently there were methods by which a user’s computer could be traced, but to Magson Guthrie sounded like the only option holding any real promise.
Back in his office, Magson sat down behind his desk. Among the phone calls yielded by the identikit, three callers had offered the same name. A consultant at the Standard Bank branch in N1 City. An alibi made it impossible for him to be the man who had attempted to abduct Karlien Pretorius on Friday, but the resemblance was uncanny. Had his alibi not been so ironclad, Magson would have been arranging an identity parade.
He answered his cellphone. And went to Menck’s office.
“Guthrie just phoned. CJ is apparently busy at the moment, but he’ll try for Thursday. CJ, that is.”
“Thursday.” Menck pulled a face. “I need to do something about my blood sugar.”
Magson watched his partner retrieving a box of Crackerbread, a jar of peanut butter and a bottle of syrup from his drawer.
“Sooner would have been better. Can I offer you some?”
“No, thanks,” said Magson.
Menck was setting about the task like a bricklayer, applying the peanut butter in a thick layer on two of the wafers, squeezing a gooey blob of syrup on top.
“Guthrie must just keep cooperating.”
With each bite Menck took, the smell of peanut butter grew stronger. Magson tongued his steadily deteriorating tooth. Funny how the tongue just couldn’t leave it alone. Funny how toothache came and went.
“Ag, shame, I don’t think Wayne has it too easy. Dad’s never there. Mom’s a crusader for everyone except her own child ...”
“You’re making a mess,” said Magson.
Menck looked down. “Shit!” He forced the rest of the wafer into his mouth and tried to rub the syrup off his tie.
“You’re just making it worse.”
May 7, 2014. Wednesday.
Magson tried to identify the cause of the traffic jam, but all he could see was a line of cars. What a way to drive home after a long day at work. At least he had been able to cancel his appointment with the psychiatrist, since there was a “possible breakthrough” in the case. He’d said he would make another appointment, but that had been a lie. Sitting in that room and telling a woman how he felt didn’t change anything. Emma was dead.
Movement again and he crawled another car length along.
The identikit had not delivered a breakthrough as yet. But tomorrow was Thursday. If luck would take their side for once, CJ would meet with Guthrie and they could grab him right there. And perhaps this whole thing could come to an end.
He switched on the radio. A few seconds later, he switched it off again. These days the only choices were doof-doof-doof, men talking instead of singing, and women who sounded as if they were practicing scales. Magson’s taste in music had not changed with the times. To him, the stuff the young people listened to nowadays was just noise. When he and Emma had started dating, you could still dance. When he looked at the young people “dancing” in clubs, their writhing bodies reminded him of maggots in the flashes of police cameras.
His cellphone rang and he sighed. “Magson.”
“Warrant Magson. It’s Karlien Pretorius. Something happened.”
Her voice made him think of a wild bird in a cage, and he closed his eyes. “What?”
“When my mom came home from work, there was a parcel at the front door. It’s from him. He was here! Right at the door! And I was inside the house the whole afternoon. While he was here—”
“All right. Slow down, Karlien. Take a breath. Are you at home now?”
“Yes.”
“Is your mom with you?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Make sure all the doors are locked and the windows are closed. Don’t touch the parcel or do anything with it. I’m stuck in traffic, but I’m coming as soon as I can.”
Eleven
He studied the wine box. Graça. The cardboard was shiny, ostensibly a good surface for fingerprints, but also easier to wipe clean of prints. Carefully, using one latex-covered finger, he folded the flap open. School books. And on top: one long-stem rose that appeared to have been crushed underfoot.
Was this what CJ had been busy with?
He looked at mother and daughter, close together a few steps away, watching him with large eyes. “There was no message or anything?”
“No,” said the mother. “Just this.”
Magson nodded and let go of the flap. It folded back on its own. He didn’t want to handle the box or its contents further before LCRC arrived.
“Are you sure you heard nothing, Karlien?”
“No.” Her head shook from side to side, her face a white mask. “I was listening to music. Why—” Her mouth closed and he saw her throat move. “Why did he bring it back?”
“To scare you.”
“Well, I am scared.”
“Is there no one you can stay with for a while?”
“Our only family is my brother,” said her mother, “but he’s in the Congo. It’s really only Karlien and I.” She pulled her daughter even closer.
“Well, there will be uniforms outside throughout the night.”
“It was my first afternoon on my own,” said Karlien, staring at the floor.
“On Monday and yesterday I took the afternoons off,” said her mother, “picked up Karlien at school and stayed with her. But I can’t take every afternoon off.”
Magson nodded, and also stared at the floor, because he didn’t know what to say.
“I’ll phone Chantal’s mom.”
“He’s got my homework book, Mom! Chantal’s name and her address—all my friends ...”
“Okay.” Her mother wrapped her in her arms, kissed her forehead and her temple and her hair. “It’s okay. We’ll figure something out.”
“They won’t want me to be with them.” Her voice cracked as the tears came. “Especially after today.”
May 8, 2014. Thursday.
/> “You don’t understand what he’s like.” Wayne Guthrie had been fidgeting since he’d gotten in. “This one time, when he brought the stuff, this black guy was walking past. He’d looked at us and CJ just lost it. He grabbed the guy and beat the shit out of him.”
Magson watched him in the rear-view mirror as he scratched at his lip with his thumb.
“Nothing is going to happen to you,” said Menck, not for the first time.
“He broke that guy’s ribs just for looking at us. What do you think he’s going to do to me?”
“He’s going to do nothing to you, because there’s going to be a shitload of detectives to protect you.”
“And next week? When he gets bail, because you give out bail like flyers at the traffic lights. He will know it was me.”
“We’re going to arrest you, as well.”
“What?”
“For the show, Wayne. For the show.”
Guthrie gnawed on his thumbnail.
“Maybe you should go now and wait there,” said Magson.
“Don’t worry,” said Menck.
Guthrie opened the door, muttering, “I’m so screwed,” as he got out. He walked down the street, head down.
The meeting place was a piece of open ground near Stellenberg High. Mowed grass. A fair number of trees, mostly smaller kinds, but there was a clump of tall eucalyptus in one area. The park hugged the street, with houses on the other side of the road.
Guthrie sat down on the bench, his motorbike next to it. It was a convenient spot—CJ could simply park by the side of the road and they could conduct their business without attracting much attention.
Magson and Menck got out to take up their positions.
“It’s a shame these people aren’t here,” said Menck, nodding towards the house opposite Guthrie’s bench. “I’d like to see what they look like.”
Since their arrival, Menck had been fascinated by the lack of a wall or fence at the house. It only saddened Magson. Twenty-five years ago this had been the case for almost every property in South Africa.
The front garden consisted of islands of shrubs in an ocean of lawn. Magson and Menck concealed themselves behind one of the larger shrubs, less than thirty meters from the bench. Kayla Schulenburg sat on one of the swings on the other side of Guthrie, her back to him.
The street next to the park was a very shallow and misshapen U, with both ends forming T-junctions. Patrick Theko and Azhar Najeer waited in their Mazda at the one nearest the meeting place, Captain Kritzinger at the other end. An irritated Gys Burger was in the sole side street next to the house where Magson and Menck were hiding.
Magson scanned the area one last time. The clouds hung light gray and motionless in the sky. Two hadedas sauntered along the grass, stabbing their long beaks into the ground. Guthrie sat on the bench, his right leg bouncing.
Magson moved back into their hiding spot and fiddled with the earpiece and microphone. “We’re in position.”
The time of the meeting crawled closer. And ticked past. Five minutes. Ten. Two cars drove past, a white Kia Sportage and a red Toyota RunX, both from Captain Kritzinger’s direction, both without slowing or stopping.
“The worshond is getting anxious,” remarked Schulenburg. Burger referred to a reluctant informant as a dachshund—sausage dog—and it had seemingly rubbed off on her. “And I have run out of things to tell my imaginary friend for the second time.” She was walking up and down, “talking” on her cellphone.
“Where the hell is he?” asked Menck, again glancing at his watch. “It’s almost twenty minutes.”
“Someone’s coming,” said Theko. “He’s walking, Blue cap on his head. Backpack.”
“What does he look like?” asked Magson.
“I can’t see his face. Brown hair. The length is right. A bit scrawny. He’s crossing the road. He’s coming in your direction. Across the grass.”
“I see him,” said Schulenburg.
Magson could not. They had to rely on the other detectives. “How far is he from Guthrie?”
“Hundred meters.”
“Why is he walking?” asked Menck next to him. “Guthrie said he always comes with a car.”
“Has Guthrie seen him yet?” asked Magson.
“He’s looking in the other direction,” said Schulenburg.
Was it CJ? Or just a man with a blue cap?
“Fifty meters.”
“It’s your call, Mags,” said Captain Kritzinger. “But either we grab him before he gets to Guthrie, or we wait until he leaves. I don’t want a hostage situation.”
“Guthrie’s too jumpy,” said Menck. “I don’t think he’ll be able to keep it together.”
“Thirty meters,” said Schulenburg. “Guthrie sees him. He keeps on looking. He’s gripping the bench.”
“Go,” said Magson and ran out behind the shrub, Menck alongside him, across the street, pistols raised. The man with the blue cap froze as they started shouting, “Police! Hands in the air!”
Schulenburg was running from the other side. “Hands in the air! Do it!” The man’s head whipped from side to side and he raised his hands.
Menck stood in front of the man, pistol aimed at him. “On your knees! Down! Down! On the ground!”
The man fell to his knees, arms straight above his head. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Shut up!”
Magson removed the backpack, cuffed his hands behind his back and searched him. Meanwhile Guthrie had run in the opposite direction, Schulenburg giving chase. Najeer and Theko screeched to a halt in the street. Magson discovered a set of keys, a cellphone and a wallet on the handcuffed man. The driver’s licence belonged to M. Ellwood, born in 1991.
“What’s your name?” asked Menck, ripping off the cap.
“Mark,” said the kneeling man. “Mark Ellwood.”
Magson walked around to his front and compared his face to the photo on the licence. It was the same. He bore no real resemblance to the identikit, though.
“What are you doing here?” asked Magson.
“Nothing. I just went to the Spar.”
“What did you buy?”
“Chips and lemonade. They’re in my bag.”
Magson opened the backpack. A bottle of Sparletta, a bag of Lay’s and a Bar-One. No video games.
Captain Kritzinger arrived with Schulenburg and a handcuffed Wayne Guthrie. Magson went to meet them, gripped Guthrie’s upper arm. “Is that CJ?” he asked softly.
Guthrie shook his head. “No. I don’t know who this guy is.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Magson sighed, glanced at Kritzinger, and returned to Mark Ellwood. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” said Ellwood.
“Where is your home?”
Ellwood nodded in the direction he had come from. “In Haarlem Drive.”
“Well, if your house is that way,” said Menck, “what are you doing here?”
He lowered his head. “A guy at the Spar said he’d give me two hundred bucks if I’d come get a key.”
“What key?”
“A key for his car. He said his brother Wayne is waiting for him here, but he hurt his foot and it’s too far for him to walk.”
“What did this man look like?” asked Magson.
Ellwood shrugged. “He had a black Ecko Unltd. cap on.”
“Where are you supposed to meet him again?”
“Next to the Spar. I think he stays in one of the townhouses there.”
“Come. Come and show us.”
They spent two hours scouring the area around the Spar, asking people whether they had seen a man wearing a black Ecko Unltd. cap, knocking on every door in Eike Close, and finally met in the parking area in front of the supermarket.
“Okay,” said
Captain Kritzinger, “I’ll get us some Cokes.”
Menck lit a cigarette. “How did he know?”
Mark Ellwood was employed at a place printing signs, labels and designs on T-shirts. Captain Kritzinger had gone there and two people were prepared to make affidavits that Ellwood had been there the entire Friday. And consequently could not have tried to abduct Karlien Pretorius. So far there was nothing contradicting Ellwood’s story. And if Ellwood was not CJ, it meant that CJ had become suspicious.
Magson shook his head.
“It’s because you’re not on top of this case,” said Burger.
“What?”
“Gys,” said Menck.
“Ag, man, don’t ‘Gys’ me,” said Burger. “You can cover for your partner as much as you like—good for you—but we both know he’s never grabbed this thing by the balls.”
Menck turned towards him. “And of course you’ve been part of the investigation this whole time to see what’s going on. But it’s nice to stand on the sideline and judge, hey? And don’t decide for me what I do or don’t know.”
“Well, then you can continue to play blind man and stumble from one dead end to another. I’ve wasted enough of my time here. Come, Kayla. If we hurry, we might just still drag Jafta from his hole.” Burger walked off.
“Cheers.” Menck waved his hand as if he were chasing away an annoying fly.
“Gys,” said Schulenburg.
“Come or stay, Kayla.”
She glanced at Magson, raised her eyebrows and her hands. “I can’t let him go in there alone.”
Car doors slammed and an engine roared.
“Forget about Gys,” said Menck, “he’s just—”
“Right,” said Magson, and turned around.
Magson scanned the latest entry in the C section of the docket, basically a diary of the investigation. He glanced at his watch. During the day, time slipped away but the evenings crawled by. Burger’s words kept gnawing at him, like that dull kind of toothache that wouldn’t go away. He closed the docket and went to the kitchen to throw the empty KFC packet, which had contained his chicken burger supper, in the rubbish bin. They used to call it Kentucky’s, when Kentucky Fried Chicken had still been the brand name. Nowadays the children probably didn’t even know what KFC was short for.