by Kurt Ellis
Creed had really done a number on the vehicle. Bullet holes, like tiny craters, dimpled the metal. The Major eased from his driver’s seat as the other three cars came to a stop behind him. Meyer watched as the two-man rear-entry team, crouched very low, hurried around the side of the single-storey house to get into their position. A long moment passed before a crackled voice over the walkie-talkies stated, ‘Bravo team in place. Waiting on order. Over.’
Grey spoke quietly into the device. ‘Confirmed.’ With that, the other two Takies and Meyer followed Grey to the front door. The Major put the two-way radio to his lips with his left hand; his right clutched his pistol. ‘Alpha team in place. We go on one,’ he instructed softly. ‘Three, two, one.’
They didn’t knock. Grey lifted his knee to his chest and rammed his foot through the door. It splintered under the impact as if it was made of tooth picks.
‘Police!’ Grey screamed as he led the Alpha team into the house. ‘Police! Police! Police!’
Meyer came in behind the Major. Immediately, he slipped on blood. His feet slid away from under him but he managed to keep his balance.
A pile of flesh was set in the centre of the floor – a continent of flesh amid an ocean of blood.
Without pausing, Grey pushed on deeper into the house, Meyer on his heels. It didn’t take them long to confirm that there was no one else in the small, sparsely furnished property.
‘What the fuck happened in here?’ Steenkamp asked, walking in.
Mayhem, thought Meyer. Mayhem and evil.
‘Outside,’ Grey ordered. ‘Everyone. Now. We need crime scene and forensics in here ASAP.’
Just then, Zwane put his head around the doorway and looked into the house. ‘Jesu wam,’ he said. ‘Umthakathi.’
86
Cho had arrived at the scene within the hour. The slight forensic pathologist was dressed far more formally than the situation required. His thinning black hair was oiled and combed back from his face, and he was wearing a tuxedo, complete with cummerbund and black bow tie.
‘You’ll get me divorced, Major,’ he said to Grey, pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. ‘My wife and I were going dancing.’
He had joined the IPU team standing on the road. Neighbours had come out from the warmth of their homes to see what all the police fuss was about. Grey had to set up the police perimeter as quickly as possible to keep the curious from contaminating the scene.
‘They’re in there.’ Grey flicked his chin at the door.
Cho nodded. Ducking under the yellow police tape, he joined the crime-scene technicians, who were already within the cordoned-off area getting dressed in their white coveralls. Once fully in protective gear, they disappeared into the entrails of the house of horrors.
‘Have you ever seen anything like that?’ Meyer asked Grey.
The Major shrugged. ‘I’ve seen a lot of things. Not specifically like that.’
‘Jislaaik,’ said Steenkamp. ‘That was hectic, boet.’ He nodded towards Zwane. ‘That boy’s probably regretting ever joining this team.’
The smile on the veteran cop’s face annoyed Meyer, but he chose not to respond. ‘You think these guys were involved with what happened to Creed last night?’ Meyer asked.
The Major took his time to respond. So long in fact, that Meyer thought he might not have heard the question. Eventually, he said. ‘I don’t know.’
That was the last bit of talking Meyer did for the next hour or so. Standing there in silence, he observed the comings and goings of the crime-scene teams in the freezing night. The stars began to twinkle above him, and for some reason Meyer wondered about the last time he had actually looked into the heavens. Are you there, God, or have you forgotten us?
As if to respond, an icy breeze blew over them all. Meyer shivered. He was about to get his jacket out of the Major’s car when he saw the forensic pathologist re-emerge. Cho unzipped his coveralls as he walked up to them.
‘Okay,’ he started. ‘There are three bodies: one female, black; the other two are black males, and one of them is Reginald Mthembu. Not a good death. A painful one. They look like they were beaten to death. Mthembu’s arm’s been removed. The female’s jaw has also been removed.’
Grey nodded. ‘So it’s the same signature as the Sinamane murder?’
Professor Cho grimaced. ‘Not quite. Lorraine was dismembered by cutting. They,’ he stuck his thumb over his shoulder, ‘were not cut.’
‘What do you mean, “not cut”?’ Steenkamp asked, taking a step closer.
‘I mean, if you look at the wounds, at where the limb was removed from torso, you’ll see it’s jagged. Very jagged. Not only the skin, but the tissue, muscle and bone. No cutting tool was used there. The limbs were ripped off. Like butterfly wings.’ Silence. ‘To me, it looks like they were beaten to death by hand, then the arm was ripped off, the jaw ripped off. Both have been left inside on the floor.’
87
Wednesday, 26 June
Creed walked out of his back door and locked it behind him.
‘How’s Tripod?’
He turned to see Carly standing by the fence. ‘He’s fine,’ Creed replied, slipping the key into his pocket. ‘Going to pick him up now from the vet. Why aren’t you in school?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m on my way.’ She looked out at the street. ‘My mother decided to drop the charges against my father.’
Creed gritted his teeth but said nothing.
‘But he’s still not coming back,’ she continued. ‘At least, not now.’ Those four words were said with more biting venom than the teeth of the winter wind. ‘What were you shooting at two nights ago?’
He walked down the steps to his bakkie. ‘I saw a trespasser on my property.’ He paused. ‘Did you see anything in my yard?’
She shook her head. ‘Anything? Don’t you mean “anyone”?’
‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged as he unlocked his car. ‘Forget about it. You should get to school.’
‘Nick,’ she called out just as his foot hit the car mat. ‘Look …’ She seemed exceptionally nervous. ‘There’s … there’s a parent … you see, my mother is working that night … but … there’s a parents’ evening next week, and … well … my parents haven’t gone to any this year, and if no one comes to this one, I won’t get my report this term … so …’
‘Are you asking me to go to a parents’ evening?’
‘Well, yeah … if you aren’t busy … You can say you’re my uncle or something. They won’t … I know it’s not your problem, and … I …’
Creeds’ brow furrowed as he tried to understand how he had got himself into this mess.
‘You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,’ she added. ‘I … understand …’
‘It’s fine,’ he heard himself saying. ‘I’ll be there.’
She didn’t smile. She stared at him for a second, nodded and turned to leave. His phone vibrated in his pocket. Reaching in, he withdrew the device and saw Grey’s name on the screen.
88
Chris Hani Baragwanath Hospital is the third-largest hospital in the world. It occupies 173 acres of land and has approximately 3 200 beds. It is colossal. Nick Creed was finding the place almost overwhelming. After parking his car in the poorly lit basement, he made his way to the first floor and into the patient waiting area.
A warehouse of the ill. Row after row of sick and injured people were sitting or standing in a serpentine pattern, waiting for help. A small child, buried somewhere in the pile of infection and pain, bawled loudly, perhaps more from frustration than illness. Creed walked over to Reception. A line of patients snaked away from the service window, a few of them coughing. An old man doubled over in violent bursts. No one seemed to care.
Creed was thankful to see Luke Meyer walking towards him through the crowd. The look on his face was one of annoyance. His mouth was tight and thin.
‘Well, good day, Father. You look like a ray of sunshine this morning.’
&nb
sp; ‘This way,’ Meyer responded curtly.
He followed the policeman in silence as they got into the lift. Meyer jabbed his finger at the relevant button.
Creed hated hospitals. The last one he had been in was what nightmares were made of. A mental facility filled with cursed, slurred and fearful cries.
When the lift opened, they walked out into the vomit-green halls of a ward. Grey was standing outside a door, leaning against the wall and checking messages on his phone.
‘Excuse me,’ Meyer said flatly, and walked off.
When he had taken the corner, Creed turned to Grey. ‘What’s eating him?’
‘You are,’ Grey said.
Creed scratched an itch in his beard. ‘Maybe I should apologise to him too?
He had said it sincerely. Grey responded by saying, ‘The suspect isn’t talking. We’ve all had a crack at him.’ Grey flicked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Zwane’s in there now with Steenkamp. Getting nothing out of him, except that he doesn’t understand English, that he’s tired and in pain.’
Creed clenched his jaw, ‘Good.’
‘Look, I know I said …’
‘Eli,’ Creed interrupted, ‘I’m still out. I know that. But I’m happy you called me because if I can help here, then I want to. After all you’ve done, and all you’ve tried to do for me, it’s the least I can do. Consider this my going-away gift.’ With that, he pushed the door open.
‘Damn, this isn’t right.’ Creed looked around the room, then fixed his eyes on the man in the bed. His right arm was in a sling, the other handcuffed to the railing of the cot. ‘A piece of shit like you getting his own room.’ He noticed how the eyes of the suspect narrowed with recognition, ever so slightly. ‘Oh,’ Creed continued. ‘You certainly understand English, don’t you?’
The suspect turned to Zwane and said something in Zulu.
Zwane translated. ‘He says that you’re the man who attacked him. That he was just walking there on the road and you shot him. He says you tried to kill him.’
Creed laughed. ‘Really?’ He walked up to Zwane, who was seated at the bedside. ‘Do you mind if I sit for a bit?’
Zwane got to his feet.
Creed eased back in the seat. His eyes slid down to the bandaged left thigh of the man. ‘That looks painful.’
The suspect’s eyes flicked back to Zwane and he spoke again in Zulu.
‘He says he doesn’t want you next to him,’ Zwane translated. ‘He said that you smell.’
Creed chuckled. ‘That hurts my feelings.’ His hand struck out sharply, slapping the bullet wound. And he squeezed.
The suspect screamed in pain. With tears running down his face, he said something to Zwane, whose own eyes were dinner-plate wide. ‘He … he … he’s begging you to stop.’
‘I know. And I will stop, but only if he asks me directly.’ Creed squeezed harder, and the suspect screamed louder. ‘I can’t hear you,’ he said calmly.
‘Please, stop,’ he howled in English.
Creed let go of the bandaged appendage. The white of the covering was slowly being swallowed by blood.
‘Damn,’ Creed said, ‘Looks like you opened your stitches. What’s your name?’ The man continued to scream. ‘Stop that screaming,’ Creed ordered, ‘or I’ll do it again.’
The screaming stopped, but the suspect was now whimpering like a wounded animal. He said something to Zwane; as the young man was about to translate, Creed lifted his hand.
‘No,’ he said. ‘He must talk to me directly. What’s your name?’
He didn’t reply. He just glared at Creed with bloodshot eyes dripping tears of pain. Creed raised his hand over the thigh once more.
‘Clement,’ he said strongly.
‘Clement who?’
‘Tusi.’
Creed recognised the name. The female victim and tenant of the house where Mthembu was found was named Precious Tusi. Perhaps a relation.
‘Do you remember me?’
‘No.’
‘You’re lying to me, Clement. That will be the last time, or I’ll hurt you. Do you understand?’
The man didn’t answer.
‘Do you remember me?’
Silence. Then, ‘Yes.’
‘How do you remember me?’
‘We … try to … we try to kill you.’
Creed smiled. ‘Ah, the truth. Now doesn’t that feel better?’ He leaned back in the seat. ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why did you want to kill me?’
Tusi shifted in the bed. ‘I don’t know. That’s Reggie. You ask him.’
‘We can’t ask him.’ Creed responded. ‘Somebody tore his arm off and then beat him to death with it.’
The man in the hospital bed went ashen. He whispered, ‘Nomtakhati.’
‘That’s our thinking. So, who is she?’
‘No!’ His eyes snapped at Creed. ‘No, you must protect me. She’s evil, that one.’
‘Answer my question, and we will protect you.’
A single tear ran from the outer corner of Clement’s right eye down to his ear. ‘She … she say you are the devil. And … she say… Reggie must bring you to her so she can make strong muti from you.’
‘Nkosi,’ Zwane whispered, calling the name of God.
‘Well, that’s flattering,’ Creed smiled, but only to hide his unease as he remembered the thing in his yard. ‘She’s a fan of mine. Tell me, Clement, how does she know about me?’
He wiped his cheek of moisture with his shoulder. ‘The newspaper. She saw you in the newspaper. You must protect me. She …’ Clement attempted to sit up, but the wounds in his torso and legs made him hiss with pain. ‘That one, she have uTokoloshe nemfene. She …’
‘Did Reggie kill Lorraine Sinamane?’ Creed interrupted.
Clement eased back into the bed. He stared blankly at the bare wall as if he alone could see an invisible window and a vista beyond it. Eventually, he nodded.
‘Why?’
‘He was angry. She left him for a cheeseboy. For a spoilt, rich boy. So he was angry. Then him and Senzo were planning on a cash-in-transit robbery, and he wanted protection. So he went to … Nomtakhati.’ He whispered her name, as if just saying it could mean his death.
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And what happened?’
‘I don’t know.’ Creed reached out to his wound again, but before he touched it, Clement screamed. ‘UTokoloshe! It went in her window and unlocked the door so Reggie could get in. And he took her. Please. You must protect me. She’ll send them for me. I know she will. I know she will.’ A fresh tear appeared.
‘We will, but first tell me: where can I find Nomtakhati?’
89
Meyer sat alone in the car that night, holding his rosary as he recited prayers. Prayers for his protection and for the protection of Grey, Steenkamp and for all the other officers. He even prayed for Creed.
They had met in the car park of the Marlboro Gautrain train station to plan their raid. All of them, apart from Zwane who had called in sick. Meyer suspected his upset stomach was a symptom of fear. Grey was rather annoyed, but more because he couldn’t get the Special Task Force to assist in this raid as they were responding to a hostage situation in Pretoria. It was only the IPU team with two uniformed police officers as back-up.
With a final amen, Meyer stepped out of his car and stood with the team as they made their final preparations.
Creed smirked at him. ‘Did God take your call or did you get voicemail?’
Meyer ignored the jibe and turned to Grey. ‘Are we ready to go, Major?’
‘Yes we are. Constable Dladla and Constable Khumalo are both from Alex and know the directions the suspect gave us.’
The two officers gave Meyer a nod in greeting. Both looked even younger than Zwane.
‘We’ll go in two cars. I’ll ride with Dladla and Khumalo in the first car. You three in the follow car. Let’s move.’
Meyer got into t
he passenger seat while Steenkamp took the wheel of the Volkswagen Polo. Creed slammed the back door behind them. Their headlights shone onto the licence plate of the car in front as they crept forward, weaving through the thin veins of Alexandra. The dirty streets were empty. Residents had fled the winter evening and were no doubt locked away in their homes, huddled around heaters and fires. After ten minutes, the lead car stopped and its occupants spilled out. Grey rushed over to their car.
‘We go on foot from here,’ he said, pointing right. ‘It’s two streets over.’
With two constables leading the way, they moved in single file between the houses, Steenkamp bringing up the rear, with Creed and Meyer sandwiched in the middle.
Sudden claustrophobia swallowed Meyer. With each step forward, the shacks were getting closer and closer, tighter and tighter, trying to consume him – until they burst through into an open space. The shack stood alone in the centre, with a yard on each side at least three times larger than any other property nearby. It was as if the other homes had cringed back, away from this shack in fear.
The police fanned out and surrounded the shack. The door was just a curtain that flapped gently like a sail in a breeze.
‘Police!’ Grey screamed from just outside the door. ‘Come out now with your hands in the air!’
There was no response. Grey repeated, ‘I said come out now, or we are coming in.’ Again, no movement. ‘Dladla, Meyer, with me.’
Meyer followed the Major forward, the constable at his side. When they paused at the entrance, his heartbeat sounded like a continuous knocking on a door. The Major mouthed the countdown – three, two, one.
They burst through the curtain and into the heart of darkness. The interior of the shack was ink black, darker than any room Meyer had ever been in. It was a place where all light had been swallowed, leaving nothing but a void. And the smell was horrific: a sour, rotting stench that felt like tentacles wrapping around his throat and forcing their way down his gullet. He fought hard not to gag.