by Deon Meyer
'Thanks, Inspector. I will see if I can find anything.'
'But how can Flint be associated? It was a black gang.'
'I don't know. But I have nothing else.'
'OK.'
He signed the faxed confidentiality document in Philander's office. And went to sit with him at Danie Flint's computer.
'I'll show you how to run the DRMP system. But please, I only have fifteen minutes.'
'Thank you very much. Can I ask you: was Century City part of Danie's routes?'
'Absolutely. Why?'
Joubert had to hide his new optimism. 'I just want the complete picture ...'
They got Flint's computer going, opened the DRMP program. Philander explained the basic principles. 'All the videos are on the
server. They are cross-linked with the route, the bus, the driver, and the action taken. You can view it according to the bus, the driver, the route, or according to the date and time. With this menu you can sort, if you only want the videos where there was further action.'
'What "further action"?'
'Disciplinary, accident reports, third party claims, legal action. Take your pick. You can watch the forward view and the backward view at the same time, or you can select here to see only one of the two ...'
'Can we begin at the nineteenth of September?'
'That's easy. Here's your calendar, so you choose the month here, then this window opens up. Now click on the nineteen, and there's your list. Four videos. You can refine your search with this menu, if you just want to check a certain driver or route.'
'Which route is Century City on?'
'I don't know Danie's codes off by heart, let me see ...'
It took him a while to get the information and apply it. 'There are no videos on the nineteenth of September for that route.'
'Can I see the four videos for that date?'
'You just click on the icon every time ... the video will play automatically ...'
They watched the videos together. Fifteen seconds of forward and backward view, the images side by side. Philander turned the sound down, so they wouldn't bother the other route managers in the office.
Not one of the four videos had anything to do with a cash-in-transit robbery.
Philander noticed Joubert's disappointment. 'What did you hope to find?'
'I haven't the faintest idea.' But he would have to do the footwork. Or in this case, the finger work. Until he ran out of options.
102
Alone in front of the computer he struggled so much that he forgot about his sandwiches. The system was complicated, with so many choices to activate. It was some time before he realised he had activated the option for disciplinary hearings, and was only seeing videos relevant to that. He had to go back, to his initial limit of 1 August, and watch them all again.
It was twenty to three when hunger overcame him and he went in search of tea. Santasha showed him where the kitchen was, asked if he was making progress.
'No,' he said.
The sandwiches were bobotie and chutney, and a packet of cashew nuts, with a note from Margaret pinned to it. 'Nuts about you.'
He smiled, ate with gusto, drank his tea while he scanned every video, concentrating on the forward view from the bus. A small percentage were serious accidents, where pedestrians or other vehicles were involved. The majority were insignificant, bus drivers braking sharply and too late for traffic, cyclists, cattle or sheep on the N7 at Du Noon, or dogs in the residential areas.
August produced nothing.
September gave the same result. His eyes grew weary. His concentration lapsed. He began to suspect his search was fruitless.
He nearly missed it.
The twenty-ninth of September. Time stamp of 11.48. Open road, no buildings, just veld. Too narrow a following distance between the front of the bus and a black Mercedes sedan, looked like an E-series. The car braked suddenly and inexplicably, the bus bumped the rear, the boot sprang open. Another ten seconds where the bus and Mercedes pulled off the road, nearly came to a stop.
He clicked to end the video, just another one, useless. Somewhere in the back of his mind there was an exclamation mark.
He started the next video, but his subconscious said, go back to the previous one, there was something. Watch it again.
A moment of indecision. Just another minor accident.
No, there had been something.
So he sighed, shut down the new video, clicked back to the previous one.
What was that in the boot?
His brain recalled the image. He suspected he was imagining it.
He clicked again, it played, he watched intently.
The boot jumped open. There. Inside. A hand. Reefing, in the strip of sunlight that shone in on that single moment when the boot was
fully open, just before it came down again, then it was gone, the gap between the Mercedes and the bus widened, the lid of the boot swung down again. He didn't know how to freeze the image, looked anxiously at the screen, but the video had already stopped.
He clicked on it again, quickly studied the icons, experimented with a few of them. Found the one that froze the image, but he was too late. Joubert grunted with annoyance. He began again, the mouse pointer poised, ready, waited for the moment. Stopped the video at exactly the right time.
No doubt about it. A hand. Lifeless. A delicate white hand resting on a torso. In the boot.
There were three figures in the Mercedes, two in the front seat, one at the back. All men. The one in the back seat turning his head after the jolt of the collision. Massive shoulders, a peculiar face, twisted, as though there was no nose. Maybe it was just the resolution of the video.
Joubert looked carefully, he could see the series number of the car. E 350. The registration number was much easier to read.
He looked at the rear-facing video image. The bus driver, the empty seats looking forlorn behind him, his body jerking at the impact. 'Fuck,' the driver said, the word clearly audible. Then a hand gesture of frustration, rage. He turned the steering wheel to pull off the road. 'Fucking cunt.'
Back to the forward view, freezing it again on the moment when the boot was open wide.
A hand. A person, inside. Dead still.
He stared at the image, his brain racing.
Had Danie Flint seen that?
Had it anything to do with his disappearance?
A person in the boot of the car. And something about the way the hand lay, how it responded to the jolt of the collision, told him it was unconscious. Or dead.
Should he search for more, up to about 15 October?
And how would he handle it? It was powerful evidence of a crime. Abduction at the very least. He would have to call the SAPS, after he had phoned Eckhardt.
But he wanted to retain control.
Don't be hasty. Take it step by step. He reached for his writing pad, clicked on the screen. He wrote down the date and time. Looked for a reference to the exact spot it had occurred, found only the bus and route number. He wrote down the bus driver's name. Jerome Apollis. Then the details of the Mercedes. Zipped his notebook closed, so no one could see the notes. His insurance policy.
He took out his cellphone and called the Operational Manager of ABC. 'I think you had better have a look at this.'
Eckhardt was in his forties, fashionable glasses, tall, lean, professional. He wore the sort of tasteful suit, shirt and tie combination that made Joubert sigh over his own non-existent sense of style. The Operational Manager stood with Philander, and they both watched the video before he said: 'Neville, see if you can get hold of Apollis. As quickly as possible. If he's on duty, get a relief driver.' Then he turned to Joubert, 'Let's get the police involved.'
'There's an inspector in Milnerton I'm working with ...'
'Call him.'
'I'm going to give him the registration number of the Mercedes in the meantime.'
'Do what you think is necessary. You have our full cooperation.'
Joubert called Fizile Butshingi. 'I think I've found something ...'
'What?' Sharp and serious.
'Evidence of a serious crime. Could be kidnapping, could be worse ...'
'Ay, ay. Where are you?'
Joubert gave him the address of the ABC depot. 'There's a vehicle involved, and we will need the name and address of the owner. If you could run it in the meantime.'
'Give it to me.'
His euphoria was tempered with disappointment, because he knew what to expect.
This was the other big difference between private investigator and policeman, he thought while he waited. You had to come to terms with the fact that sooner or later you had to hand over control.
There had been a moment, a minute ago, when he had considered another course. The option to keep quiet - make an electronic copy of the video, use Jack's contacts to find out who the Mercedes belonged to, follow it up ...
But that implied that he would have to be dishonest, break the ABC agreement, break the law, because here was clear evidence of a crime. And he couldn't do all that.
Now Butshingi was going to take it and run with it. He seemed like a good detective. As long as it shone light on Danie Flint's fate, it didn't matter. He sighed.
At eight minutes past four his phone rang. Mildred, receptionist at Jack Fischer and Associates: 'Mr Fischer would like to know if you are coming back to the office today?'
'I don't know.'
'Please hold on.'
She put him on hold, elevator music tinkling in the background. Then Jack was on the phone, his voice jovial. 'Mat, looks like you're hot on the trail?' As though nothing had happened last night.
'I am, Jack. There's good progress ...'
'Excellent, excellent, happy to hear that. Mat, Fanie and I have been talking this morning. We discussed the whole thing. From all angles. Financial. Human aspect, that's important to us, Mat. Very important. We would like to meet Mrs Vlok halfway ...'
Joubert choked back the impulse to correct Fischer.
'... so we thought, we'll give her one day free. Under the circumstances. Right thing to do. In this particular instance.'
'Thanks, Jack. If all goes well, it may not be necessary. But thank you.'
'Excellent, excellent. I thought I would let you know ...'
Inspector Fizile Butshingi's face was sombre when he arrived. 'This is a big thing, Sup. A very big thing.'
'Why?'
'Show me what you have.'
Joubert invited him to take a seat, then played the video, froze it, pointed at the hand in the boot.
'Hau,' said the Inspector. 'This is bad.'
'Who does the car belong to?'
'That's the big trouble. First, I went on the Natis system, it told me the Mercedes belongs to a Terrence Richard Baadjies, vehicle registration is a residential address in Rosebank. So I thought, let's see who this man is. And I put him through the database. And I found a bad man, Sup. Terrence Richard Baadjies, aka Terry, aka Terror, aka The Terrorist. Juvenile delinquent when he was fifteen years old, sentenced to a facility for stabbing and killing another child at school. Released after three years, then followed sixteen cases, seven charges of murder, but only five convictions, three for dealing drugs, one assault with intent, one for manslaughter while he was in Pollsmoor. Did fourteen years.'
'Gang member,' said Joubert.
'Not just any gang member. He's number two of the Restless Ravens.'
'Bliksem,' said Mat Joubert, because that changed everything.
'Yes.'
It took him a while to appreciate the possibilities fully. 'We will have to call Superintendent Johnny October .'The Cape Flats were October's turf. But far more important was the fact that Johnny was his good friend. Johnny wouldn't cut him out.
103
Superintendent Johnny October, with his tall, sinewy body, short grey hair, the narrow moustache that he had trimmed the same way for thirty years, one of the few Cape detectives who still wore a suit to work every day, always in a shade of brown. He was the most decent person that Joubert knew, soft of heart, soft of speech. Too modest for his own good at times. His courtesy, even towards criminals, was unshakeable.
'Jinne,' said October, once he had seen the video, since he never swore.
'Umdali,' said Butshingi. 'Very bad.'
'Can you see whether it is Terror?' Joubert asked.
'It could be him, Sup, in front beside the driver. But this is the one we must concentrate on,' said October, and pointed at the broad figure on the back seat of the Mercedes. The one with the deformed nose.
'Why?' Butshingi asked.
'It's KD Snyders ...'
Butshingi made notes and asked: 'How do you spell Kaydee?'
'KD It's an abbreviation. For Knuckle Duster. That's his thing. His real name is Willem, but they call him KD. To his face, and "King Kong" behind his back. Because of his nose, and his size. He's a tragic figure. Comes from the Sabie Street courts, in Manenberg, very bad circumstances. And then a dog attacked him when he was eleven, one of those pit bulls at the Friday night dog fights. KD sneaked in the back past the dog pens, they say, and this mad animal grabbed him by the face, and by the time they pulled the dog off, it was very bad. The doctors' work didn't take so well, the wounds began to fester, most likely because the parents didn't do a good job of the treatment and things. Drink, Sup, the evils of drink. There's not much mercy to be had in Manenberg. The children mocked him. And KD only knew one answer to that. Violence. They say around fourteen he once wound a bicycle chain around his fist, that's when the knuckles began. Of course, when he began to gain a reputation and grow big, the Ravens saw his value. Terror Baadjies was the one who initiated KD. From then on they've been like this,' and Johnny October crossed his index and middle finger. 'He's Terror's bodyguard and hit man.'
'Yoh-Yoh,' said Inspector Butshingi.
'But the main reason we must concentrate on him is that right now KD is in Pollsmoor. Awaiting trial. For assault with intent, and attempted murder. And this time we have a witness. It's not going well with KD, he's in solitary. Barely a day in chookie and they tried to stab him. There's a war on between the two factions of the Ravens, now that Tweetybird has left the country. It's a power struggle ...'
'Wait, wait,' said Butshingi, and looked up from his notes, worried. 'Tweetybird is the gang boss?'
'Was. He's gone.'
'Where did he go to?'
'The grapevine says he's in South America. And now there's a power vacuum, and it's Terror Baadjies against Moegamat Perkins for
the crown. War. Four months now, and there's still no winner, and we can't keep up ...'
'And KD Snyders is inside because of this war?'
'Yes. We have him for attempted murder. And if he stays in Pollsmoor, Moegamat Perkins's men will kill him. So we have a bit of room to negotiate.'
Mat Joubert thought. About Danie Flint and Cape Flats gangs. A very strange combination.
How did it all fit together?
Johnny October asked, 'Sup, how did you get this far?'
Joubert gave him the whole story. In detail.
Jerome Apollis, the bus driver, was forty-three years old. He had fat cheeks and a beer belly, and he was frightened. The proximity of the detectives, the looming presence of Mat Joubert, and the serious circumstances made him look with great anxiety from Bessie Heese to Butshingi, October and eventually at Joubert, where his gaze stayed fixed.
They sat in Neville Philander's office, the room too small for comfort. 'Don't worry,' said Bessie Heese. She looked just as professional as the previous day. And fresh, though it was nearly six o'clock. 'The police just want to ask you what you can remember about the twenty-ninth of September,' and she pointed at Philander's computer, where they had shown him the video. Without freezing the image.
'I remember well.'
'Can you tell us about it?' Johnny October asked, his voice respectful and caring. 'It would be a big help to us.'
Apolli
s licked his lips repeatedly, lifted his hands in innocence. 'Mr Flint said it was not an issue. When he saw the video. He said it wasn't my fault.'
'I understand,' said October. 'We're not saying it was your fault. But we really want to know what happened that day.'
'And where,' said Joubert.
Apollis just stared at him.
'Mr Apollis ...' October urged.
Apollis dragged his eyes from Joubert, focused on Bessie Heese, a safe haven. 'It was between Atiantis and the R27. Just after the turn- off.' He wiped perspiration from his brow.
'Which turn-off?'
'The road to the shooting range. There was a sign, but it's gone now a long time.'
'In which direction were you driving?' Joubert asked.
'Towards the sea. To the R27.' And then he stopped.
'Go on, Jerome.'
'The Mercedes. They were driving slowly. I wanted to pass. I had my flicker on already. That's why I was so close. I had to wait for the oncoming traffic. Then they stopped suddenly. For nothing. So I bumped him. At the back. On the boot. Behind. We both stopped. I got out, and they ...'
'Did you see anything strange?' asked October.
'No, sir,' he answered, a little bewildered.
'Then you got out.'
'We all got out. Then the one who had been sitting in front... No, the one with the nose, who had been sitting in the back, he came towards me. Then the other one said no, wait, wait, wait. Then they first looked at the damage. I told them, right then. I said, you just stopped, for no reason. The one man said, don't worry, it wasn't my fault, everything was fine. So I said no, I have to make a report. Then he looked at the bus and said no, there's no damage to the bus, and they wouldn't make a fuss, don't worry ...'
'Where were they standing? Where did each of you stand while this conversation was going on?' asked Butshingi, head down, writing frantically.
'We stood between the car and the bus.'
'Did any one of them touch the boot?'
'It was four months ago,' said Apollis.
'Jerome, if you can't remember, we won't blame you,' said Bessie Heese, soothingly.