Random Violence

by Jassy Mackenzie

  Jade knocked on the door. There was no answer.

  She lifted her elbow—she didn’t want to leave fingerprints— and pushed the door handle down. Hinges squeaking, it swung open.

  She stepped inside and almost tripped over a pair of shoes. They were placed side-by-side, facing the door, as if somebody had decided, on a whim, to leave their footwear behind when they’d left the office.

  The shoes were big and heavy, with battered leather uppers and thick tough soles. She thought they probably had steel toecaps. A gray woolen sock with a hole in the heel lay next to one of the shoes.

  At the back of the office was a large wooden desk. Behind it was a leather-covered office chair. Two other chairs stood opposite, set squarely in place. Jade could see a blotter, a fax machine and printer, and a telephone on top of the desk. A fluorescent strip light on the ceiling flickered occasionally.

  A wooden filing cabinet with three drawers stood in the corner nearest the desk. Its top drawer was open a few inches.

  Jade stepped closer. Something else, in the corner of her vision? She looked down. A black cable and adaptor for a laptop computer lay like a coiled snake on the floor.

  She walked over to Grobbelaar’s desk. When his phone rang, where did he write his notes? Could she find any clues to his current whereabouts?

  Not on the blotter. That seemed to be reserved for detailed and explicit drawings of naked women. Jade frowned down at them. Presumably he met with his female clients in a more savory location.

  She opened the top drawer. Inside were some loose pens, a pink highlighter, a camera battery charger and a USB cable.

  The second drawer contained an empty box for an elec-tronic listening device and three Peppermint Crisps.

  Under a copy of Hustler in the bottom drawer were some lined sheets of paper with “Grobbelaar Investigations— Client Sheet” printed at the top. She moved over to the filing cabinet to see what happened to all these client sheets once he had filled them in.

  A handwritten label pasted onto the top drawer read “Clients A–M.” His filing system looked haphazard. Folders were dog-eared, names scrawled on the cardboard. She couldn’t see a file for Botha. She wondered if there had been one before the drawer was opened.

  Pulling her jacket sleeve over her hand so there could be no confusion over prints, she pulled out the second drawer, labeled “Clients N–Z.” She saw a file labeled “Storr–Yolandi.” It looked old and battered.

  She closed it again. The bottom drawer was labeled simply: “Pending.” Perhaps she would find the folder she was looking for in here.

  As she bent down to check, a sound from the doorway star-tled her. She spun round, an apology on her lips, expecting to see an irate building superintendent standing there, or perhaps even Grobbelaar himself.

  Two black men in bulky duffel jackets shouldered their way into the office. The taller one was hefting two plastic jerry cans filled with pale fluid. His partner was carrying a gun.

  9

  The two men paused when they saw Jade. In a heartbeat, she assessed her predicament. It couldn’t be worse. There was no time to draw her weapon. She was outnumbered. And cornered. She’d walked into a dangerous situation without backup. Investigating a run-down office block in broad day-light might not be a high-risk activity in Britain, but this was South Africa. She should have been more careful.

  Jade’s gut constricted as the Beretta’s barrel swung towards her. She dived to the floor behind the desk, scrabbling under her jacket for her own gun, her heart banging against her ribs. As she fell, she heard a deafening report from the Ber-etta’s muzzle. Plaster scattered to the floor.

  Her finger curled round the trigger of the Glock. She could hear the men speaking in rapid voices. An African language. She couldn’t understand the words.

  Heavy footsteps stomped towards the desk. Jade crouched under her wooden shelter, waiting for the man to come into view. They didn’t know she was armed. If she was fast enough, she could have the advantage.

  One of the men shouted, his voice urgent. The footsteps stopped and then retreated.

  Jade waited, listening. He didn’t speak again. Moments later she heard a trickling sound and the acrid fumes of gaso-line filled the air.

  Dread curdled her stomach. The men were planning to torch Dean’s office and all its contents, including her. They weren’t going to bother to shoot her first. In any case, gunfire was out of the question now. The tiniest spark—or a muzzle flash—would ignite the vapor into a deadly inferno. She was certain of that. But she wondered if the two thugs handling the gas were up to speed on its volatility.

  If she ran, would the gunman shoot and risk trapping them all inside a giant fireball?

  Jade knew she didn’t have a choice. If she tried to escape, death would be possible. But if she stayed where she was it would be a certainty.

  She tensed, ready to sprint to the door from her precarious shelter, sure that when she left the desk she would see the tall man bent over the jerry cans and his partner facing her, his finger tight on the trigger.

  Then she heard footsteps echoing in the corridor.

  Were the arsonists expecting backup? If they were, her odds had just narrowed to at least three against one. If not, she’d been given her only chance. An unexpected arrival would distract the two men.

  Jade grabbed the desk and boosted herself to her feet. She pushed away from the heavy wood and flung herself across the room. The man pouring gas dropped the jerry can and shouted as he saw her. His friend had his back turned, watching the door.

  She skidded on the oily floor, the liquid soaking her shoes. The gunman swiveled back towards her and she saw deadly intent in his eyes.

  “Don’t shoot!” she screamed.

  She ducked under the outstretched arm of the thug with the jerry can and smacked the butt of her gun into his face. It hit the pressure point under his nose and he reeled back, temporarily out of the fight.

  The gunman had lined up his Beretta. For the second time, Jade found herself staring into its expressionless black eye. But this time she was closer. She had a chance.

  She lashed out with her left hand in a swift chopping motion, knocking his gun arm away. The man’s eyes blazed with hatred, his lips curled back from his ochre teeth. Jade cringed away from the thunderous blast as he pulled the trigger.

  The shot lodged high in the wall, sending another shower of plaster tumbling downwards.

  No fireball.

  The gunman grabbed at her with his left hand. He caught her hair and his fingers ripped strands out of her scalp as she tugged her head free.

  Then she grabbed the doorframe, elbowing him back as he lunged for her again. He stumbled over the shoes inside the doorway and skidded on the pooling gas, his arms wind-milling. Jade dived out of the room, closely followed by his accomplice.

  As the gunman lost his balance and fell backwards onto the office floor, the Beretta discharged again.

  The air seemed to gasp and shimmer as the fumes in the room ignited. Then, with a molten roar, the gas fireballed.

  Flames boiled from the door as Jade sprinted down the passage, hearing glass shatter behind her as the windows exploded. She cannoned into the shopkeeper. He was standing in the corridor, rigid with shock and gripping a cell phone. Her savior. His footsteps had distracted the thugs. She knocked him flying, but tripped over his legs and fell down beside him on the dirty linoleum.

  The jerry can man pushed past them and ran for the stairs, his pursuit forgotten. From inside the burning office, she heard a thudding noise and a high, keening wail. Blinded by smoke and flames, the gunman was trapped in the blaze. He was a murderous bastard, but even so, her stomach clenched in horror at his agonized cries.

  But there was nothing she could do. She scrambled to her feet and helped the shopkeeper up.

  “Downstairs!” she shouted, coughing as the thick smoke billowed towards them.

  As Jade ran down the steps she realized she was following a
trail of blood.

  She burst out of the doorway and into the car park. It was as empty as it had been when she arrived. But now a set of tire tracks curved out of the exit and onto the road. Somebody had made a speedy getaway.

  To her surprise, Jade saw the jerry can man heading down the street at a stumbling run. She saw a dark vehicle under the nearby trees, but as she looked, it pulled away. She ran out onto the road. The limping man had vanished.

  The shopkeeper stood staring at the thick black smoke and leaping flames.

  “Nkosi yami!” he cried before dialing a number on his cell. Moments later she heard him conversing excitedly with the emergency services.

  She walked away on legs suddenly wobbly with shock and called David, hoping she could keep her voice steady while she spoke to him.

  “Bloody hell,” he shouted when she told him the news. “You okay, Jadey?”

  She took a deep, trembling breath. “Fine, thanks.”

  “What do you make of this?”

  Jade blinked, trying to erase the image of the gunman’s eyes, cold and furious in his snarling face. Had his hatred been directed at her personally? She didn’t think so. More likely at what she represented.

  “It was brutal. Revenge or a cover-up, perhaps. They didn’t expect to see me there.” As she uttered the words, she won-dered if they were true. Had the men known she was in the office? Why was one of them carrying an unholstered gun? She didn’t know, so she continued. “They didn’t hesitate to shoot. And they weren’t working alone. I think there was a car waiting for them. When the office went up, the driver cleared out fast. I’ll ask the shopkeeper if he saw anything. There’s no sign of Grobbelaar. Just a pair of abandoned shoes inside his door.”

  She heard David tapping away on a keyboard. “You said the guy who ran away was injured. Burned, do you think?”

  “No. Too much blood. My guess is he has a bullet in his leg, courtesy of his friend’s second stray gunshot. Can you notify the hospitals if I give you a description? I’m sure those guys will have a record. Racially motivated violent crime would be my guess.”

  David sighed heavily. “Will do. But he won’t risk going to a hospital, not with firearm injuries. He’ll go to a sangoma, a witch-doctor. God knows what treatment he’ll receive. Herbs, muti, purging. Maybe he’ll survive, maybe he’ll get an infec-tion and die.” His voice sounded flat, as if he didn’t care either way. “That’s the risk they run.” He added something else but Jade couldn’t hear him because his voice was drowned out by the blare of approaching sirens.

  10

  While they watched black smoke belching from the building, the shopkeeper told Jade that yes, he had seen another vehicle arrive shortly before he heard the gunshots. The car had driven past the shop and parked in the corner.

  “A black Mercedes, with dark windows,” he said. He couldn’t tell her what model it was and he hadn’t seen any number plates. He thought perhaps the car had no plates. When she told him the police were on their way, the shop-keeper closed his business for the day and left.

  “I am from Zimbabwe,” he told her, slightly shamefaced. “My identity document, it is not original. If the police find me here, they will arrest me and send me back home.”

  Jade couldn’t argue with his logic. She wasn’t about to hand the man over to the cops after his intervention had saved her life. She wished him well and watched him walk down the road, glancing back at the smoldering office as if he couldn’t believe what had happened.

  In its tranquil country setting, Annette’s house seemed a world away from the fiery crime scene she had left behind. She’d had to stop on the way to buy some new shoes. The old ones stank of gas and gave her the uncomfortable feeling that a carelessly dropped cigarette butt would turn her into a human torch.

  She was greeted by silence when she arrived at the gate. A brand-new white Lexus was parked next to the little Golf she remembered seeing there previously. Another car, towing a trailer, was turning to leave. The trailer had a logo painted on the side: Animal Anti-Cruelty League.

  Piet was talking to the driver. When he saw her, he fumbled in his pockets for the gate key. Jade watched him pat each pocket with increasing alarm until he turned and saw he’d left the keys on the hood of the Golf. He hurried over and retrieved them. This time all he had to do was press a remote control and the motor whirred into action.

  “I had it fixed today. The gate man came here earlier on,” Piet said after she’d got out of her car. He looked calmer than when she had last seen him. “The lady from the Star news-paper was here yesterday. I feel I’m making real progress.” He squeezed her arm. “Oh, and she passed my number on to a restaurant. I’ve just had a commission to do a wall painting for them.”

  Jade sighed. Piet’s newly discovered celebrity status was an unwelcome development.

  “And the dogs?”

  “They’re in the trailer. They’re going to a woman who lives on a smallholding north of here. I couldn’t keep them, Jade. They didn’t respect me. I’ve been bitten twice. I was worried they would turn on me as a pack.”

  “Who else is here?” Jade glanced at the Lexus.

  “Oh. A guy called Graham Hope just arrived. He’s the person who originally sold this land to Annette’s brother. He told me he read about her death in the papers.” He nodded proudly. Jade could see how delighted he was by the power of the press coverage he had received.

  Piet gestured to the door. “Go on inside. I’ll be with you just now. I just have to sign some documents for the dogs.”

  Graham struggled to his feet when she entered, propping himself up on a pair of crutches. He was a little taller than her, brown-haired, with twinkling blue eyes. His handshake was warm, like his smile. He lowered himself back onto the couch and Jade sat down opposite him, in the same hard chair as last time.

  Graham’s right leg was in some kind of a medical cast, with metal struts and Velcro straps holding it in position.

  “Good to meet you, Jade,” he said. “Excuse my leg. I had an operation on my knee a while ago. I’ve only recently started driving again.” He winked. “Automatic transmission only.” He laid the crutches down on the floor. “Piet was telling me you’re the investigator on the case. Are you a policewoman?”

  She shook her head. “Private investigation.”

  He nodded. “I’m glad you’re helping out. Poor Piet doesn’t seem to be functioning well at all. Can’t say I would be either, if my wife was murdered outside our home.” He shifted posi-tion. The cast made it impossible for him to sit back on the cushions. He perched on the edge with his leg stretched out in front of him.

  “Have you met Piet before?” Jade asked.

  Graham shook his head. “This is the first time. I sold this property to Annette’s brother Adrian. That was a good few years ago. One of my first sales. When he bought this place, it was nothing but empty veldt. Not so much as an outbuilding on it.”

  “He certainly improved it.”

  Graham nodded. “That’s true. It’s a beautiful piece of land. Have you seen what he did out back? There’s a horse barn, acres of pole fencing, a dam. All well maintained. And this is an up-and-coming area. The new north, some people say. That’s partly why I’m here now, but I’ll explain more about that later.”

  He looked up as Piet walked back inside. “Hey there, Mr. Botha. Sorry about the obstacle in the middle of the floor.”

  Piet stepped over Graham’s outstretched leg, sat down, and patted his pockets again. This time, his search was suc-cessful. He found his cigarettes and Graham stretched over and passed him a lighter.

  Piet inhaled deeply. He held his breath for a long time before the smoke began to seep out of his nostrils. “So what can we do for you, Mr. Hope?” he asked.

  Graham shifted his weight. Jade thought he looked uneasy.

  “I wanted to pay my respects. Say how sorry I am this hap-pened. I don’t want to intrude on your grief. If I can help in any way, let me know.” He paused. Jade
was sure he was going to say more and, after a while, he did.

  “I’ve been working in this area for a long time now,” he said. “When something like this happens, a crime that makes newspaper headlines, people start to worry.” He glanced at the folded paper on the table. “I’m out and about every day. I share the news and I hear people talking. At the moment, they’re talking about what happened here, at Plot 4.”

  He sighed, and continued. “This sounds terrible. I’m not a gossipmonger. I’m not one of those people who stop and stare at an accident scene. But I’d like to know if there’s any further information available on what happened. My clients are anxious, and that makes me anxious too. Crime affects property prices. It causes panic sales. That affects me and the residents in the area.” Graham stopped talking and produced a pack of cigarettes from his own pocket. “I’ll light up too, if you don’t mind.”

  Piet’s cigarette already had a long section of ash on its end. He looked down at the table. No ashtray.

  He tilted it upright, so the ash wouldn’t fall off the end, and held it between thumb and finger. Then he hurried off in search of an ashtray, with his other hand cupped underneath for safety.

  “He seems disturbed,” Graham murmured, turning to Jade.

  “Yes. Although I think he’s always like this,” she whispered. “Artistic.”

  “Ah.” Graham nodded slowly. “That would explain it.”

  Piet returned carrying an ashtray and looking relieved. He put the ashtray on the pile of business cards. It tilted and his cigarette fell out. He grabbed it while Jade straightened the ashtray.

  “The police are still looking into it,” Piet said. “They haven’t made any arrests yet. I’m still under investigation myself.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “But they think it’s a hijacking. Like the newspapers said.” He sighed. “The criminals could be anywhere by now. That’s why I’m angry the investigation is taking so long. The more time that passes, the more chance they have to disappear.”