Memo From Turner

by Tim Willocks

  Margot had never approved of her relationship with Dirk. It wasn’t just Iminathi’s colour and lowly origins – she doubted Margot would approve of the Duchess of Cambridge; but her status had marked her as ultimately unacceptable from the start. As long as Margot had been able to frame the affair as no more than Dirk’s wild oats, she had put up with it. At moments, at certain dinner parties, she had even been pleased to display her son’s girlfriend as proof of the family’s liberal values. Imi’s appearance had done no harm. She did not consider herself vain – there wasn’t much point in a dump like Langkopf and she had always wanted to make her way with her mind – but she knew she was the best-looking woman within a radius of two hundred kilometres. That didn’t give her much competition, though Dirk had plenty of more appropriate choices in Pretoria. When Dirk had proposed to her, and told Margot, Imi had changed from a tolerable temporary consort to Margot’s worst enemy.

  Winston slowed as they approached the main road. Instead of turning right as she expected, towards the compound, he turned left towards town. Why? He was either picking up something from the office or the station, or another passenger. Or passengers. Her stomach cramped with anxiety. She reminded herself: the worst he’ll do is send you home. A few moments later the car swung left and stopped. Neither the office nor the station. The hotel? Winston got out and left the engine running and the music playing. She flattened her body against the front seats as best she could.

  Winston got back in the car. The front passenger door opened and someone else got in. She couldn’t see who but assumed it must be Turner’s captain, Eric Venter, whose name had come up over curry and who Margot had been expecting. The door closed and they drove off again.

  ‘Nice car,’ said Venter. ‘You should see mine.’

  He sounded like a man under great stress trying to appear relaxed. Winston’s performance was more accomplished.

  He laughed softly. ‘The cost of living is cheap here, even if the cost of dying has risen in the last couple of days.’

  ‘I’m surprised a town this size can afford any ranks above sergeant.’

  ‘The town can’t. The details of that arrangement need not concern you, and it would be impolite of me to pry into the details of yours. That said, I would like to make the nature of our association, and the task we face together, quite clear.’

  ‘By all means, do.’

  ‘Our primary role in this affair, Captain Venter, is to resolve two major crimes to the satisfaction of our respective public prosecutors. The culpable homicide of a young woman, and the murder of a police officer.’

  ‘Then Warrant Turner has been murdered?’

  ‘He is being murdered as we speak. His body will be found in the desert tomorrow morning. Cause of death: dehydration.’

  ‘He’s dying of thirst?’ said Venter.

  ‘Does that disturb you?’

  There was a momentary silence, filled by a passage of Beethoven.

  ‘No,’ said Venter. ‘I just expected him to die by gunshot.’

  ‘You will discover that this scheme is rather more subtle. Ingenious even.’

  ‘I’m intrigued.’

  ‘Hennie claims the credit. That’s the only element I find hard to believe. Not only does the theory fit together like a watch, but all the potentially troublesome parties have removed each other. The tale the dead men will tell is the one we want to hear. All that’s required of us is to follow normal investigative procedure and draw the obvious conclusions. We will not find it necessary to fabricate, erase, conceal or lie, other than by one or two discreet omissions. No one will be able to fault us in either reasoning or technique.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear that.’

  Iminathi found her body being pushed this way and that by the momentum caused by the curves as the car leaned into them. They were on the private road to the compound.

  ‘Witness statements, timelines, phone records, photos and much other evidence will prove, emphatically, that, in the first case, Jason Britz killed the girl in Cape Town while drunk in charge of a vehicle. And, in the second case, that Rudy Britz abducted Warrant Turner, with the intent to murder him and bury him in the desert. Turner killed him in self-defence, but perished of thirst. All we have to do is perform our jobs diligently and make sure that others, particularly in Cape Town, do not perform theirs with excessive zeal.’

  ‘Diligence is why I’m here,’ said Venter.

  ‘Our own statements will be vital to the Turner case. He called me immediately after the death of the suspect Jason Britz and told me that in the course of questioning him Jason tried to shoot him with a shotgun. Turner was forced to kill Jason in self-defence, confirmed by gun residue on Jason’s right hand.’

  ‘Yes, Turner called me with the same information.’ Venter now sounded noticeably more at ease.

  ‘Then our accounts will tally. Jason had injected steroids just before their interview. I logged a supply of the drugs and blood-stained syringe at his farmhouse, and identified and photographed a fresh needle puncture in his arm.’

  ‘Roid rage,’ said Venter. ‘A perfect explanation for his homicidal impulse when confronted with his guilt for killing the girl.’

  Winston laughed again. ‘Nicely put, Captain. I see we have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘We’ll need statements to back up the Cape Town death, the girl,’ said Venter.

  ‘I have two, Hendricks and Dube, already typed, printed, witnessed and signed. You will check them in case you feel they need revisions or addenda before you take them home. I’m curious, and with all due respect to her soul, but this street girl – why didn’t you refer it to me in the first place? Why send a warrant officer a thousand kilometres to pursue a drunk driver?’

  ‘I told Turner to pass it on to you,’ said Venter, ‘but he knew that Dirk was guilty. And he knew that he was the son of Margot Le Roux.’

  ‘Any fool could guess that someone like Margot might hold sway over a tiny rural police force. My question is, why did you let him come here?’

  This time Venter laughed. There was no warmth in it, but a certain cynical satisfaction. ‘It would have been hard to stop him and I had no reason to try. It’s taken you and Margot a good deal of trouble to stop him. And you tell me he’s not stopped yet.’

  ‘I take your point,’ said Winston. ‘I found much to admire in the man.’

  ‘Turner is the best detective I ever commanded,’ said Venter. ‘The colonel would tease him, he’d call him “the Lion of Nyanga”. Once he sights his prey they’re meat. He won’t bend the rules of evidence, won’t twist the truth in court. His case-work is meticulous. Yet Turner is a paradox. He despises the police – our brutality and corruption, our history – yet he is a police. He has a passion for justice. I don’t suppose he could satisfy it any other way.’

  ‘A revolutionary,’ said Winston. ‘A kind of entrist, as Trotsky had it.’

  ‘The only thing I know about Trotsky is that he was murdered with an ice pick.’

  ‘But you’re a detective and Turner’s case fascinates you. You must have a theory.’

  ‘I did do some research,’ said Venter. ‘It was remarkably difficult. Turner reveals nothing of himself and the official records are incomplete. You wouldn’t believe how many people just disappeared.’

  ‘Oh yes I would,’ said Winston.

  ‘As far as I can tell, Turner’s older sister was beaten to death with sjamboks by two policemen. Black policemen. During some demonstration. You remember what it was like.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Turner would have been about nine years old,’ said Venter. ‘I’ve often wondered if he saw it.’

  ‘So that’s why you’ve betrayed him. Because he is everything that you are not.’

  ‘You know,’ said Venter, ‘that’s exactly the way I’ve explained it to myself. Why have you betrayed him?’

  ‘Because I’m old, I fear for my comfort, and I lack the courage to be a better man. Once again Margot
has managed to assemble the perfect team to serve her will.’

  Neither man spoke again for some time. Iminathi blinked tears from her eyes.

  The car slowed down. Winston said, ‘Here we are.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘You’re meant to be. Unless they bring it up there is no need to discuss our duties over dinner. Indeed, it would discourteous. We have nothing to tell them that they don’t already know. They haven’t invited us out of kindness but to seal the Devil’s bargain with an illusion of charm and a benign display of power.’

  ‘I understand.’

  They stopped briefly at the gatehouse and drove on towards the house.

  ‘If Dirk Le Roux should join us,’ said Winston, ‘it’s imperative that he learn nothing from us, about either case.’

  ‘I understand that, too.’

  ‘He is completely ignorant of the accident and the girl’s death. He has no idea it occurred. It must remain that way. He is aware that Jason is dead, but not why. Margot told him it was a farm attack, but I can handle that subject, should it arise. You, obviously, have no reason to know anything about it.’

  ‘And if Dirk asks why I’m here?’ said Venter.

  ‘We’re old friends, aren’t we? Between us we share seventy years of law enforcement, through historic and turbulent times. This little reunion of ours was planned two weeks ago, when you knew you would be passing through Langkopf. You can spin that, can’t you?’

  ‘It will be a pleasure.’

  ‘Dirk will be gone in a couple of days, then we can all get on with our lives.’

  ‘You give a good briefing,’ said Venter. ‘I appreciate it. I flew up here without knowing what to expect.’

  ‘Our work will be a walk in the park. The biggest challenge will be enjoying this dinner. Avoid politics, praise the food, admire the decor, and invite Hennie to pontificate about sports. He is a marvellous pontificator.’

  Winston stopped and switched the engine off. He and Venter got out and closed their doors. Iminathi waited for the dome light to go out and scrambled up and sat on the seat. She knew there were cameras around the house. She didn’t know how closely they were monitored. She had decided against trying to evade them; if she was seen sneaking around, they’d flag her. Through the tinted glass she saw Hennie greet the guests at the front door. All three went inside. Iminathi opened the car door and stepped out.

  A red Range Rover was parked parallel with the Cherokee. She walked across the gravel towards it and stooped in front of the wing mirror and did a pantomime of checking her make-up and hair. An intruder wouldn’t do such a thing. If a guard was watching her, she hoped he would assume she was one of the invited party, that he’d be reluctant to disturb the house with a false alarm. She certainly didn’t look dangerous. She straightened and continued to the front door, then turned and walked over to the decking that led to the terrace and the kitchen at the side.

  If she could just find Dirk, she could shout out enough of what she knew before anyone could stop her. Dirk and Winston wouldn’t let any harm come to her. If Dirk wanted to join their plan to leave Turner to die, then at least she’d done the right thing. She’d tried. She could leave all this behind with a clear conscience.

  On the terrace a candlelit table was set for five diners. Iminathi walked through the open glass door into the kitchen just as Lisebo entered from the corridor with a vase of flowers. The cook was bent over the oven. Lisebo looked at Imi, her surprise almost imperceptible. Like all veteran domestic servants, Lisebo was expert at concealing her emotions while on the job. Iminathi gave her a bright, warm smile.

  ‘Good evening, Lisebo. How are you?’

  ‘Miss Imi, I’m well, thank you.’

  ‘Where’s Dirk?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Probably in his room.’

  ‘Is he coming down for dinner?’

  ‘No, I’ll take a plate upstairs to him. Should I bring two?’

  ‘No thanks, Lisebo. We don’t want Mrs Le Roux to know I’m here. Is that OK with you?’

  Iminathi was counting on her to want to avoid embroilment in family politics.

  Lisebo considered her. ‘Mr Dirk’s business is his own. If you’d passed through two minutes since, I wouldn’t have seen you.’

  ‘Then that’s when I passed through.’

  Iminathi smiled her gratitude. She slipped out of the kitchen into the short corridor that led to the back stairs. She ran up the teak steps lightly, silently. She walked along the landing. She heard Hennie’s laugh float up the main staircase at the far end. She reached Dirk’s door and opened it and walked right in.

  The room was as she remembered it. Full-height glass doors formed the corner angle of the house and opened onto a broad double balcony. The walls were lined with white silk, the ceiling with gilded paper. Oak floors, some rugs, a huge teak bed with Frette linens and a Schnabel framed above it, his twenty-first birth-day present. A vintage sofa in green leather. Dirk was sitting at a table on the balcony with a bottle of whiskey. He hadn’t heard her come in. Imi waded forward through a flood of mixed emotions and stopped short of the door.

  ‘Dirk?’

  He turned and stared at her. For an instant she saw the sadness that had preoccupied him. Then his eyes shone and he stood up and smiled with an amazed joy.

  ‘Imi. My God.’

  She opened her arms and he embraced her and with her head against his chest she felt she was back in the safest place she had ever known. She turned her face up to his and they kissed. The raw lust that had never waned between them overwhelmed her and she stood back and pulled her blouse over her head.

  Within seconds they were naked on the bed. The universe seemed to shrink until it contained only their flesh, their desperation to connect. The dead were forgotten, the dying too, and the murderers plotting down below. The world beyond the room seemed a sick and toxic dream to be abandoned forever. Inside the room was the only world that existed, the world of skin, muscle, lips, tongue, and sensation so deep it was painful. Where the love that had never died could be reaffirmed. She had read that love and lust were somehow separate, that one could be trusted and one not. She didn’t believe it. The core of her feeling for Dirk was physical, innate, even savage, and if this wasn’t love and it wasn’t to be trusted then what could she trust in herself ?

  Food was left outside their door and Dirk brought it in and turned the key. They ate as they had made love, like young animals. They laughed. They spoke little and when they did it was not of life outside these walls, or of the past or the future, but of the now that had no end. They swarmed on each other, their eyes locked together, and fucked again. When Margot knocked at the door, Imi felt no fear and she saw no fear in Dirk either. He simply said, ‘Go away.’ And Margot went. They turned out the lights and made love in the dark, stretching out the pleasure until their bodies were spent. They lay beneath the sheets and they were happy.

  Midnight came and Dirk slept. Iminathi spooned against him, her arm around his waist. She heard a car drive away and a door close. Silence fell. She and Dirk had achieved something of beauty; yet for all her contentment she didn’t sleep. Slowly, that other world crept back towards her from the night. Somewhere in all that night, a good man was alone and fighting for his life. She had to wake Dirk and tell him. She had to help Turner. She would. That was why she was here. Just a few more minutes of skin. Just a little more love.

  34

  Turner sprinkled a pinch of salt on his tongue. He reasoned that if it was harmful, it wouldn’t be enough to bring him down. If he was going to go down, that was already written. But if it did him some good, it might just keep him alive. He swallowed. The taste was sharp and tangy and his mouth filled with saliva. He swallowed again. Some animal knowledge in his nerves, his body, seemed to approve.

  He raised his plastic bottle to the light of the half-moon. There were four fingers of water left in the bottle. He unscrewed the cap and put the neck to his mouth. The water was cool now.
He drained it all. A brief, exquisite pleasure; then it was gone. He studied the bottle. To fill it he had stripped himself of every last vestige of his humanity. Now it was empty.

  He was sitting cross-legged on the sand by a patch of scrub. He looked at his watch. It was 11.58. He had been walking for almost six hours. He had rested for five minutes in every hour. He was tired and hungry, and still thirsty. His feet were fine, no blisters. His ankles and knees ached. He didn’t know how far he had come. He had reckoned on five kilometres an hour but doubted he had made that. He hadn’t pushed himself too hard. He had tried to harmonise his movements with the qi energy of the desert. Earth and fire.

  The salt pan had resisted long, fast strides. His heels sank too deep beneath the crust and dragged as he lifted them out. It was a tiny drain, imperceptible over a few paces but after a thousand it took its toll. He learned to take shorter, lighter steps, his feet parallel as if on rails, the way his Chinese sifu walked. His pace had slowed but he felt the energy saved was worth the time. Time, distance, speed, energy, hydration. Too fast would cost him in sweat and fatigue; too slow would cost him in distance and time. There had to be an optimal balance but there were too many variables to calculate. He had to go with instinct.

  For the last three hours he’d been on rock, sand and scrub desert. The ground was much firmer but brought different problems. Even small stones constantly turned his feet this way and that, micro stumbles, each tiny correction wasting energy, straining ligaments, wearing him down. He came to feel the power of the desert lay in its slowness. It was a terrain that in its essence consumed vast quantities of time. It had been forged out of countless millennia and it still contained them. Nothing marked the passage of time, nothing came and went. No trees grew taller and no trees fell, nor flower nor blade of grass; no glaciers moved, no streams flowed, no species flourished and died. Everything that could go had long ago gone and nothing would be coming back. Motion had been exiled to the outer fringes of measurement. A scrawny grey shrub that struggled its way to ankle height and then died was speed’s greatest triumph here. If he battled against the slowness it would crush him.