Vengeful: A Conspiracy Crime Thriller (The Gabriel Series Book 3)

by David Hickson

  “What kind of complaint?”

  “It was suggested that young girls were sentenced by the lower-level judge and then groomed when serving their sentence.”

  “Groomed?” said Andile. “Are you talking about trafficking?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  A nasty silence descended on us for a moment.

  “Justice Rousseau was allocated the responsibility for the complaint against another judge?” repeated Andile, as if he was trying to fit the pieces of a puzzle together in his head.

  “I believe so.”

  I didn’t elaborate because there were many holes in my quickly fabricated story. It is always best to stick to the truth when facing tough questions, and some of what I had said was true. It was the bits that I hadn’t said that were gaping at us now as Andile tried to fit it together.

  “I don’t understand why it was necessary to visit the judge at his home on a Sunday morning,” said Andile, unerringly spotting the biggest hole.

  “I had information that I thought might be pertinent to the case.”

  Andile gazed at me and said nothing. He wanted to hear the pertinent information, but was too weary to explain that.

  “The girl has been found,” I added.

  “The prostitute?” asked Khanyi. “The one that went missing?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did she have to say?” asked Andile.

  “Nothing – she was found dead.”

  “I see,” said Andile, although he didn’t. But his sharp mind picked out the next hole. “What did all this have to do with you?”

  “The complaint against the judge was brought by someone I know.”

  “Ah,” said Andile.

  “The girl’s sister.”

  “And who is she?”

  In my rushed preparation for this meeting, I had decided there was no reason not to mention Sandy, but I still had reservations. What would happen if they looked too closely into Sandy’s disappearance? What would they discover about her and the things she had been doing? But I had little option, so I drew a breath and said, “A friend of mine. A journalist.”

  “Your journalist?” said Khanyi, who was familiar with the Sandy situation, and had after all been the one to provide me with Sandy’s phone records.

  “Yes,” I said, “my journalist.”

  Although I wasn’t sure that Sandy had ever been mine, or that our relationship had involved possession of one another.

  “You found her then,” said Khanyi, connecting the dots.

  “Found her?” said Andile. “Had you lost her?”

  “She disappeared,” explained Khanyi.

  “Like her sister?”

  Fehrson made a noise like a disgruntled donkey, which turned out to be a clearing of his throat so that he could say, “Awful lot of people disappearing. Is it a family condition? Something they all suffer from?”

  “It seems to be,” I said, and gave my biggest smile yet to show how amusing I thought that was.

  “But you found her?” insisted Khanyi. “Those phone records were useful?”

  I turned to look at her. “Yes,” I said.

  “Phone records?” said Andile. “For the journalist who also disappeared?”

  “She was trying to find her sister,” I explained. “She believed her sister had been trafficked, and my journalist didn’t disappear so much as go undercover, as it were, in an attempt to find her.”

  “Ah – and so she is the person who discovered that her sister was dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” said Andile again, although he still didn’t. His exhausted eyes gazed at me as if he had too many questions and wasn’t sure which one to ask next.

  “Your journalist would confirm your story, would she?” he asked, skipping past all the troublesome questions.

  “I am sure she would.”

  “Could you arrange for us to meet with her?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. There was a moment of awkwardness, like when the percussionist bangs the cymbals together at the wrong part of the song, but I think I was the only one who noticed that.

  “Well then,” said Andile, and he bared his teeth again, this time in a distinctly friendly way. “We’ll take a break for a cigarette, shall we?”

  “It would be foolish not to,” I said. I had noticed him eyeing the pack of Gauloises in my jacket pocket.

  “Then we’ll go over it again so that I get it right for the report.”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  “It all seems above board,” announced Fehrson cheerfully as we got to our feet. He always liked to have the last word at these meetings.

  “We’ll go through it again,” insisted Andile, who would not say which side of the board we were on. “There’s a lot of pressure on this – we’ve got politicians breathing down our necks.”

  “Why politicians?” asked Khanyi. “It’s not a political crime, surely?”

  Andile shrugged. “He was an important judge, so it’s a big case. And I suppose Ndoro is looking for a cause to boost his popularity.”

  “Ndoro?”

  “Jessop Ndoro – Minister of Education. You know what these politicians are like, scrambling around for something to put them in a good light.”

  “Well, I am sure we can sort it all out for them,” said Fehrson confidently. “The disappearing journalist will be the key.” He gave the relieved smile of a man who had avoided being asked to come to the defence of an ex-employee of dubious moral standing.

  I smiled back at him to show I agreed and did my best to look confident about the disappearing journalist being the key to it all.

  “Just a quick word, if you do not mind, young man,” said Fehrson, as Andile took his leave with his notes tucked into a folder under his arm and his breath reeking of burnt tobacco.

  “Of course, sir,” I said. I would have smiled, but my cheek muscles were tired, and Fehrson certainly wasn’t smiling. Neither was Khanyi.

  We sat in silence for a full two minutes until the sounds of Andile’s footsteps were only a distant memory. There had been a time when Khanyi would have escorted Andile off the property and returned flushed and out of breath from the heavy burden of their mutual attraction. But there had clearly been a shift in the balance of power – Andile probably had his own access card now.

  “He is a good man, that police captain of Khanyisile’s,” said Fehrson, as if he had been reading my mind. “Coffee?”

  “I would rather not, thank you,” I said. The Department’s chief of catering mixed a ruinous blend of brown powder with tepid water and sour milk, which I did my best to avoid.

  “If you are sure,” said Fehrson, but he didn’t push it.

  “I am,” I said, and waited expectantly for the ‘quick word’ he had mentioned.

  “Nasty business,” he said, “this thing with the judge.”

  “Very nasty,” I agreed.

  “And worrying,” added Khanyi.

  “Very.”

  There was another pause. I thought I could hear the ticking of Fehrson’s antique clocks that filled his office two floors below us.

  “There was something you wanted to discuss?” I asked.

  “We like to do things the right way,” said Fehrson.

  “Of course,” I said, although I had seen no evidence of that when I had worked for him.

  “The paperwork all in order,” explained Khanyi, who would know, because she liked the paperwork. “Permission received for everything we do.”

  “Official sanction,” said Fehrson.

  “Yes,” I said. “Official, of course.”

  “There have been times, I will not deny,” confessed Fehrson, “when we have employed methods and people who operate a little beyond the law.” He splayed a handful of gnarled fingers before him, as if admiring his manicure. “When exigencies demanded of course, and only within the parameters laid down by our leaders.”

  “I’m not interested,” I said.


  Fehrson looked up from his fingernails, and his blue eyes were sharp with surprise.

  “Not interested in what?”

  “You’re about to offer me a job. But I’m not interested. I’m not looking for a job.”

  “Because of your recent windfall,” said Fehrson, and he gave a tight smile.

  “Windfall?”

  “That man Breytenbach has suggested the value of the gold stolen from him is in the tens of millions.”

  “Goodness,” I said.

  “United States dollars.”

  I almost said “Goodness,” again, but chose instead to look impressed.

  “Even split four ways,” said Fehrson, “that is not an amount to be sneezed at.”

  And there it was, finally: Fehrson’s threat. Chandler had been right about their interest in the people around me. I said nothing, so we sat in a murky silence for another minute.

  “It’s not a job,” said Khanyi eventually. “More a relationship, than a specific job.”

  “I’m honoured you would think of me,” I said, “but honestly I have enough difficult relationships as it is.”

  Fehrson splayed his hand again and spoke to his fingers.

  “Recent government changes have tightened the leash they hold us on. There comes a time when the dog is held so tight, he begins to question the integrity of the person holding the leash.”

  “You’re speaking of treason,” I said. “Are you suggesting I undertake operations that are not sanctioned by your masters? Or perhaps mutiny would be a better word – is that what you’re planning?”

  “We wanted to bounce some ideas off you,” said Khanyi. “That was all.”

  Fehrson kept his eyes on his fingers, but Khanyi kept hers on me.

  “There would be rewards,” she said.

  “A relationship with perks?”

  “We could overlook a few of those millions, perhaps.”

  “That sounds generous,” I said, and gave an amused smile. “If only I knew where those millions were.”

  Fehrson looked up at me now and they both waited as if expecting me to broaden my smile, and provide them with an enthusiastic yes.

  “As touching as your desire to have a relationship with me is,” I said, “I must decline the opportunity you are offering.”

  Khanyi looked down in disappointment, and this time it was Fehrson’s eyes that stayed on me like icy needles of disdain.

  “Let’s hope your disappearing journalist can clear up this business with the judge,” he said.

  “Let’s hope so,” I agreed.

  “And soon,” said Fehrson.

  “The sooner the better,” I said, and did my best to keep the smile going.

  I didn’t need him to draw me a diagram. They had started the fire and were closing the exits. I was running out of options.

  Fourteen

  “Where on earth have you been?” asked Chandler, when I joined them on the terrace of the Twelve Apostles.

  “There were two dead bodies in our warehouse,” I said. “The ones you asked me to have removed?”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic about it,” said Chandler. “You’ve been gone all morning, and we have a right to know where you’ve been – we’re all in this together. So you can get off your high horse and tell us what you’ve been up to.”

  “The police officer I called about the bodies wanted to see me,” I said, taking my seat at the table Chandler had claimed for us on the edge of the hotel terrace. The crumbling stone wall alongside didn’t look like it would do much to prevent us from plunging down the cliff and into the ocean if anyone gave us a push.

  “About the bodies?”

  “No, about another matter. I did say there would be repercussions.”

  “Another matter?” said Chandler, and his eyes narrowed. I smiled at his narrowed eyes, and we sat in silence for a moment.

  “To do with your journalist,” said Robyn, as if she knew all about my meeting at the Department, although I hadn’t mentioned it to her. Her dark eyes were steady and her face was made of stone.

  “That’s right,” I said. “My disappearing journalist. They have been helping me find her, and the policeman wanted to discuss it, in return for the favour of recovering those bodies without dragging us into it.”

  Chandler nodded slowly like a toy Buddha, and it looked as if he was wondering whether he should pursue the matter, but Fat-Boy blurted: “You’ve missed all the shit.”

  “The shit?” I said.

  “With the Dark Bizness guy.”

  “Vusi Madikwe,” said Chandler. “The man they shot in our warehouse, was not merely an executive at Dark Bizness. He was the brother of Lebogang Madikwe, the man who started the company.”

  “It’s in all the papers,” said Robyn, and she pushed a folded newspaper over the table to me. The headline announced the tragic death of one of the Dark Bizness brothers, with a cheerful photograph of two equally obese men with huge grins and big cheeks in circular faces.

  “Didn’t I tell you Breytenbach was going to make trouble for himself searching the docks like that?” said Chandler.

  “They don’t know his death had anything to do with Breytenbach,” I said. “Or the gold. There’s no mention of the man from Breytenbach’s army.”

  “Not yet, but we need to change that.”

  “We do? Isn’t it better to keep Breytenbach out of it?”

  “What do you think that man Vusi was doing there?”

  “Looking for our gold,” said Fat-Boy, who never saw the point of allowing Chandler to run repeat performances of scenes he’d already watched.

  “Indeed,” said Chandler, then paused as a waiter delivered my coffee to the table. “Bring us all another round,” said Chandler, “but this time put some goddamn coffee beans in the machine. We’ve had enough of the dishwater.”

  The waiter said he would do his best, and Chandler sighed heavily.

  “At least he didn’t ask whether you wanted cream or foam,” said Robyn.

  “It’s a travesty,” said Chandler.

  “He asked whether the colonel wanted cream or foam in his cappuccino,” Robyn explained.

  “Five stars,” exclaimed Chandler incredulously. Then he realised Robyn was just riling him, and he drew a deep breath and let his anger out in another heavy sigh, then turned to look out over the calm ocean.

  The luxurious Twelve Apostles Hotel was perched above the Atlantic Ocean on the road that squeezed between the sea and the range of twelve mountain peaks that formed the spine of the Cape Peninsula, providing breathtaking views of both the mountains and the sea. Chandler had arranged fake identities, so we were now posing as foreigners on a business trip. He argued that a five-star hotel would be the last place that law enforcement officials, or angry mining magnates, would look for people on the run, but I was not entirely convinced. I suspected his refined taste and penchant for fine dining were more persuasive reasons.

  “We need to move it,” he said, after a long regretful pause while he gazed out to sea.

  “The gold,” clarified Fat-Boy.

  “Which is now going to be impossible,” I said. “Breytenbach’s men are going to step up their search, and the police are crawling all over our warehouse. You don’t think someone is going to notice us sneaking past them with three tons of gold bricks under our arms?”

  “The Dark Bizness affair has provided us with an opportunity,” said Chandler. “From what Robyn has told us about what happened in the warehouse, it is clear the Dark Bizness man had an arrangement with BB’s goons.”

  “He seemed to be pretending he was one of us,” I agreed. “He bore some similarity to the picture of Fat-Boy that BB has been putting out, so he was probably getting BB’s men to do the dirty work of dealing with us. Goodness knows what he was planning to do when they had dealt with us.”

  “Dark Bizness have a warehouse in the docks,” said Robyn. “They were probably going to make a deal with Breytenbach and move some of th
e gold there. But the death of the brother will have ruined that plan.”

  “So now we have Breytenbach and the biggest cosmetics company on the continent to contend with. How is that an opportunity?”

  “The Dark Bizness brothers were like two peas in a pod,” said Chandler. “How do you think the surviving brother will feel when he learns that one of BB’s goons killed his brother?”

  “He’ll want revenge,” said Fat-Boy.

  “Damn right he will. It will escalate, and before long the local authorities will have gang warfare on their hands.”

  “Warfare?” I said. “Dark Bizness is a listed company – they’re not a gang.”

  “But they do have their own army,” said Chandler. “Officially it is called their private security, but it’s an army.”

  “They’re not a normal company,” said Fat-Boy.

  “They are not,” agreed Chandler. “And neither are they your usual peace-loving Xhosa family. Look at that picture of him with his cousin.”

  Beneath the article, another photograph showed the surviving brother embracing a man in green military fatigues. A caption branded this man as a cousin of the two brothers.

  “They’re not what you might call the peaceful type,” said Chandler. “That cousin of theirs has never fought in an army, but when the brothers waved a portion of their profits in front of his nose, he decided to create an army of his own.”

  “An army to do what?” I asked.

  “To keep all those little bottles of ointment safe,” suggested Chandler, and his grey eyes shone with amusement.

  “They’ve made enemies over the years,” said Robyn. “Their early success came from skin whitening products, helping their black brethren be less black. It was very popular until that kind of thing lost its appeal.”

  “And it started making people angry,” said Chandler. “They probably needed that army to help them overcome their history. Nothing like a bit of military action to help people forget sins of the past.”

  “But even if Breytenbach and the Dark Bizness crowd start fighting,” I said, “how would that help us?”

  “It’s the perfect cover for moving our little bars. They’ll be so busy fighting each other they won’t notice.”