by Kurt Ellis
‘How well do you know her?’
Clifton shifted nervously in his seat. ‘As well as any manager knows his staff, I guess.’
‘Is she dating anybody? Does she have a boyfriend?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. But again, I wouldn’t know all that.’
Creed turned away from the window to face them. ‘So, you two were just fucking then? Not in a committed relationship?’
‘What?’ Hlongwane first appeared mortified, then furious: the response Creed was hoping for. ‘You … That is disgusting. I …’
Creed laughed. ‘Come now, Clifton. Why would you have a key to her house if you were just her boss?’
‘I …’
‘What work do you do here?’
‘Huh?’
‘Work. Industry. What does your company do?’
‘We’re debt collectors.’
‘I see. So you buy lists of people who default on loans and then harass them to pay. Is that right?’
‘Now wait. What we do is—’
‘Even though the debt has been written off, you still bully the defaulter?’
‘We do nothing like that. We—’
Creed fired his questions rapidly, not giving Hlongwane time to think about his answers. ‘Are you married?’
‘Me?’
‘How long?’
‘Eleven years.’
‘Have you taken advantage of any other young women besides Lorraine in the past?’
‘What? No, I—’
‘So Lorraine was the first girl you took advantage of?’
‘I never took advantage of her.’
‘So she was willing?’
‘Yes. She was. I …’
Hlongwane stopped speaking. His eyes widened with horror at his unintended declaration. Sweat had beaded on his upper lip. Creed stared him down.
Hlongwane turned to Grey. ‘Look. I didn’t do … We’d been seeing each other for a while. My marriage, it … I was going through a tough time with my wife. So me and Lorraine started seeing each other. Dating, but secretly. It was consensual.’
‘Can you account for your whereabouts on Sunday night?’ Grey asked
‘I was at home. With my wife. All night.’
‘So she’ll be able to confirm your presence?’
‘Yes … but please. She knows about Lorraine. I told her it’s over between me and Lorraine, but my wife will still get upset. You don’t need …’
‘Is Lorraine seeing anyone else besides you?’ Grey interrupted.
‘No. No. She has an ex-boyfriend. She ended it after we got together. I don’t know his name. All she would tell me was that he was no good.’
‘No good?’
‘Yes, her words. No good.’
‘Why was he no good?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She didn’t tell me specifics, and I never asked.’
‘I see. Thank you. We’ll get back in contact with you should we have any other questions.’
Grey got to his feet.
‘My wife, sir? Are … will you be talking to my wife?’
Grey responded flatly. ‘We’ll be in contact with you should we have any other questions.’
15
Knocking on random people’s doors was something he didn’t enjoy, but something Meyer knew had to be done in cases like this. That suspicious and panicked look as they saw the police identity card: they were probably replaying every bad thing they’d ever done in their lives, trying to determine the reason the police were outside their house. Were the police actually there to arrest them?
Lorraine Sinamane’s apartment block had six floors, with approximately ten apartments on each floor. They had already spent close to an hour knocking on more than thirty doors. Mostly there was no answer, and those who did answer hadn’t seen or heard anything.
It was becoming a cycle. Knock, knock – I heard nothing, Officer – the door closes – they walk on – knock, knock – I heard nothing, Officer – the door closes.
They arrived at another nondescript green door and heard loud music reverberating from inside. It sounded to Meyer like gospel music. He rapped his knuckles on the door and waited for a response. After a minute, he knocked more forcefully. Still no answer. Getting frustrated, he banged on the door with a clenched fist. The music quietened, so he knocked hard once again.
There was a shuffling from inside the apartment, then a curtain was drawn back from a window beside the door. An old pair of eyes peeped out. Meyer flashed his ID card through the glass. The curtain swung back, but it took longer than it should have for the occupant to walk from the window to the door.
‘Should we knock again?’ Zwane asked.
Before Meyer could answer, they heard the grind of metal in the lock and the door opened just a crack. A small black woman peered out. Her face was plump yet aged, her glasses thick and her eyes wide and yellowed.
He smiled, trying to put her at ease. ‘Ma’am, my name is Detective Luke Meyer and this is Detective Dumisani Zwane. May we ask you a few questions?’
‘About?’ She looked suspiciously from Meyer to Zwane, then back to Meyer. ‘Is it my music? Is it too loud? I’ll put it softer. There was no need for those people to complain.’
‘No, ma’am. You didn’t do anything wrong. We’re here about one of your neighbours.’
‘Which one?’ her face seemed to light up. ‘The Nigerians? Drug dealers. You know that, right?’
‘No, Mama,’ Zwane answered politely. ‘We don’t know that.’
‘Yes, you do.’ she opened the door wider and wagged a finger at them. ‘You. You know. They have you in their pocket, don’t they? They sell drugs right next door, but you do nothing. But then they complain about my church music and then you come running. That—’
‘Mama,’ interrupted Zwane. He clasped his hands in a respectful gesture. ‘We want to talk to you about your other neighbour. The one who lives on the floor below. Flat 34.’
Her eyes bulged with horror. ‘No, no, no, no,’ she said. ‘Haai, haai, haai, haai. I know nothing about her.’
She tried to close the door, but Zwane stopped it with his hand. ‘Please, Mama,’ he beseeched, before continuing in Zulu. Although Meyer couldn’t understand what was being said, he was able to identify the point when the language changed from Zulu to Xhosa. Zwane had his hands in prayer position again, imploring.
At first she looked to be refusing his requests, but she finally relented and opened up. Then the words fired from her mouth like machine-gun bullets. She gestured furiously as she spoke, and Meyer spotted a change in Zwane’s expression. Zwane hurriedly said goodbye, even though the woman was still talking.
‘We should go,’ he said to Meyer.
‘What’s she saying?’
The woman followed them out of the flat and continued to talk as they walked away. Zwane backpedalled as he nodded to her. ‘Sure, Mama. Sure, Mama. Thank you, Mama,’ he kept repeating.
When they got to the stairwell, Zwane turned to Meyer. ‘Eish, what a waste of time.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Niks, hey. Nothing.’
‘That was a lot of talking for her to say nothing.’
‘She’s crazy, Father.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Well, besides the Nigerian drug-dealer neighbours, the man who lives above her is a werewolf and there’s another woman on her floor who is a cannibal.’
Meyer nodded. ‘So nothing about our vic?’
‘Oh, there was. She said our vic was an evil woman; that when she moved in, she brought evil spirits with her.’
‘Evil spirits?’
‘UTokoloshe nemfene. She said she saw them a couple of nights ago, out of her window. She said she saw Imfene throwing uTokoloshe up from the street onto the vic’s balcony.’
‘Imfene?’
‘Ja, it’s like a baboon.’
‘I see.’
Zwane laughed, but it sounded forced. Meyer’s cellphone vibrate
d in his pocket, soon followed by a ring. Reading Grey’s name on the screen, he answered, ‘Good day, Major.’
‘Meyer, Cho just called me with confirmation. The victim is Lorraine Sinamane.’
Meyer nodded. ‘I see.’
‘I’ll SMS you the address of her mother. She lives close by, in Orange Farm. Creed and I have another appointment to get to. I’ve sent some uniforms to take over the canvassing. Steenkamp is coming to collect you. I need you to break the news to the family and interview the parents, okay?’
‘I see. Will do, sir.’
Meyer dropped his phone in his suit pocket before turning to Zwane. ‘This is the worst part of the job,’ he said. ‘The worst.’
16
The three men stood outside the house as instructed. Steenkamp’s nose was particularly red and swollen – Meyer suspected he may have had a drink or two before collecting them at Lorraine Sinamane’s flat.
‘You know,’ started Zwane, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘That was rough.’
Meyer could do nothing but nod. They had just concluded the unfortunate task of knocking on the front door of the small, single-storey yellow house and telling the woman who’d answered that her daughter had been murdered. The woman had screamed hysterically and her knees had buckled. Meyer had had to be swift to catch her before she hit the floor.
With Zwane’s help, he’d managed to get the distraught mother into the house and sit her down on the couch. Her howls of agony were savage, fierce with a raw and brutal anguish that most people will never fully comprehend. Meyer could only describe it as the purest of pains made audible. Just as they had released her onto the overstuffed cushions, a second woman with long, plastic braids had come rushing in from the small kitchen, a heavy pan held over her head, ready to strike.
Zwane had managed to flash his identity card to her just before she could bring the weapon down on his head. When she had lowered the skittle, she’d informed them that she was the victim’s aunt, the sobbing woman’s younger sister. She had been the one who had instructed them to wait outside so she could comfort her sister in private.
That had been ten minutes ago by Meyer’s watch.
‘It never gets any easier, Zwane,’ he said to the younger man. ‘Never. But remember, it’s for people like this,’ he flicked his head towards the house, ‘that we do what we do. We are here to bring them some sort of closure. To bring them justice.’
Zwane nodded solemnly.
It had taken them close to an hour to find the home of Dipasela Mokoko, mother of Lorraine Sinamane. Grey had texted the address to Meyer as promised. The narrow streets of the southern Johannesburg suburb of Orange Farm didn’t have names on the kerbs or on poles at intersections. The roads, lined with powdery red sand, were a tapered labyrinth.
The township itself was like a living organism. Streets grew from existing streets like twigs on a branch and houses appeared like fruits on a tree. Development had taken place many times without city planning or authority, as is the case with most townships in South Africa.
After a few minutes of being lost, they had stopped at a spaza shop and asked the shop clerk for directions. They had religiously followed those instructions, yet somehow still couldn’t find the desired address. They stopped at another spaza shop, where the shopkeeper gave them directions in complete opposition to those they had first received. Steenkamp was cursing loudly by then. Eventually, they had managed to find the house.
The yellow matchbox house was surrounded by pillars of red brick that stood like a local version of Stonehenge, erected from the red sand – the beginnings of a fence that had been abandoned before completion, it seemed.
‘How long should we give them?’ Zwane asked.
Meyer checked his watch. ‘I don’t know. Another minute? Maybe five more min—’
The aunt opened the door and stepped outside. No longer armed with the frying pan, she ushered them in and invited them to sit on a couch. Meyer accepted the offer, but Steenkamp and Zwane chose to remain standing.
‘I’m sorry for asking you to wait outside,’ the woman started as she sat on the other couch. ‘I needed space to calm my sister.’
‘That’s okay, ma’am,’ Meyer responded. ‘We understand. Where is your sister now?’
The aunt shook her head. ‘She’s lying down. She’s with my nephew, Tami.’
‘I see. I know this is a tough time, and I apologise if it appears insensitive, but we need to ask her a few questions about her daughter. The quicker we can get through this, the quicker we can find the person responsible.’
‘What kind of questions?’
‘Questions about Lorraine. About her friends. About her activities.’
The woman rested her elbows on her knees and pushed back an absconding braid from her face. ‘I know more about her friends than my sister does. You ask me. If you still want to talk to my sister, then you must come back another day.’
Meyer nodded. ‘I understand.’ He pulled his notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘May I ask, what is your name?’
‘Patricia. Patricia Mokoko.’
‘And do you live here?’
She nodded.
‘Tell me about Lorraine, Patricia. What kind of person was she?’
It was then that a single tear ran down her cheek. She didn’t bother to wipe it away. ‘Lorraine. She was a stubborn one, Lorraine. She was always fighting with her mother. But she wasn’t a bad child. No. She did good in school. She studied hard. She worked hard, but she was also stubborn. Hard head, that one.’
Her voice became softer. ‘My sister is very old-fashion. Very, very strict. Lorraine, Lorraine didn’t like rules. She liked her freedom, to come and go when she wanted. But she wasn’t a bad girl. She just liked her freedom.’ She swallowed hard. ‘How did she die?’
‘It was manual strangulation.’ Meyer responded.
‘When will we be able to see her body? Maybe it’s not her, you know? Maybe you made a mistake.’
‘Unfortunately, there’s no mistake,’ Meyer said. ‘We’ve confirmed using DNA that it’s her. You can come identify the body as well. We’ll release her into your care as soon as we can.’ Then he remembered: she had no lips. ‘Perhaps her father would be able to come and identify her?’
‘She has no father. He left years ago. We don’t know where.’
Meyer sighed. ‘Look, Patricia, I need to tell you: Lorraine’s face was … badly injured. Very badly injured.’
She nodded. A tear rushed down the other cheek. ‘Did she have a boyfriend?’ Her eyes hardened with anger. ‘Did that tsotsi do this?’
‘Which gangster are you referring to, ma’am?’ Meyer’s pen was poised.
‘Reggie. Reggie … Mthembu. Her ex-boyfriend.’
He scribbled the name down. ‘Why do you think he could be responsible?’
‘’Cause he is. I know he is. You see, my sister, Dippie, told her he’s no good for her. But that girl is too stubborn. Dippie was …’
‘Hold on a second, Miss Mokoko,’ Meyer interrupted. ‘Who is Reggie Mthembu?’
She wiped the tears from her cheeks, leaving streaks under her glaring eyes. ‘He’s her ex-boyfriend. He’s a thief. A gangster. He hijacks those money vans. You know, the security vans you see taking money from bank to bank?’
Meyer made a note of this. ‘And why do you think he did this?’
‘Because he was angry when Lorraine dumped him. When she got that office job, he said she thinks she’s too good for him now. That she thinks she’s too good for anyone now. Then, when he found out she was dating her boss, he came over here, very angry.’
‘He came here?’ Meyer confirmed.
‘Yes! Here!’ She stabbed the air with her finger, pointing at the door. ‘With a gun and threatened to kill us all if we didn’t tell him where she was living now.’
‘He didn’t know where she was living?’ Zwane asked
‘No. Lorraine was scared of him. I think she only dated him to
upset her mother in the first place. But she was scared of him, so when they broke up, she didn’t tell him where she went.’
‘When did he come here with the gun?’ Steenkamp asked.
‘About three weeks ago. Maybe a month. I can’t remember.’
‘Miss Mokoko, to confirm: you said he was upset that Lorraine was dating her boss and he was jealous?’
She nodded. Meyer scribbled this down on his notepad.
It fitted in with Creed’s profile perfectly. A lover or ex-lover punishing her for real or perceived infidelity – the reason why the lips, vagina, hands and feet were taken.
‘Do you know where he lives?’
She shook her head. ‘Nobody knows where he stays. He’s just always around and about. He likes Mama Soul’s shebeen, though.’
Meyer wrote down the address she offered. He handed her his card and asked her to call him if she had anything further to add. He also informed her that the police offered a free grief-counselling service, and encouraged her and her sister to make use of it.
‘We don’t need counselling,’ she said. ‘We just need him to pay for what he did.’
17
He scratched at his chest over his shirt. At the letters that had been tattooed on his skin: GF.
‘The Godfathers.’ Dr Tlau tilted her head. ‘That’s an interesting name to give your gang.’
‘I didn’t choose our name.’ Nick Creed smiled. ‘You know, it still feels weird calling ourselves a gang.’
‘Why? What would you call yourselves?’
‘We were just a bunch of friends. We spent most of our time hanging out, talking shit, drinking and having a good time. Talking about girls. Talking about sport.’ He laughed. ‘We even used to talk about shows like Dawson’s Creek and Ally McBeal. Does that sound like a gang to you?’
‘But you were a gang?’
He sighed. ‘We were what we needed to be. Fact is, we were just a bunch of scared, lonely, angry boys who decided to turn ourselves into a family. To look out for each other. To protect and to provide for each other. We didn’t sell drugs because it was fun. We did it because most of our families, our real families, had no money or food at home. We didn’t fight for fun. We fought to protect what little we had. Shit, we didn’t even call ourselves gangsters. We were just bruhs.’