Death in Durban

by Jon Zackon

  “Come on, doc. This guy is incredibly sinister. I’ve never met anyone like him before.”

  “Oh, dear. I’d hoped you wouldn’t push me to draw that kind of conclusion. But …”

  Leitener spent the next twenty minutes explaining various types of deviant behaviour, giving me a few case histories of the most ghoulish and bloodthirsty killers. Some of what he said was complex, some of it boring. I had trouble with most of it.

  Only one example stuck in my mind.

  “Some of the worst killers are narcissists,” he said.

  “Really? Van Blatter’s obsessed with his own image,” I said brightly.

  “No, Danny, that’s not what I mean at all. Psychiatry is only just getting to grips with this particular kind of personality and a lot of what I have to say is theoretical. It’s about a type of person who has no regard for the feelings of others, who lacks empathy – and yet has a need to be admired. When narcissists are challenged they become consumed with enormous rage. Their answer is to obliterate the challenge, if necessary by killing the challenger.”

  “So by running away those boys could have been challenging Van Blatter’s authority?”

  “Hang on, Danny. Please. You’re getting confused. You are talking about Van Blatter and I’m not. Try not to forget, I’m drawing a purely theoretical picture here.”

  He gave me a censorious look before continuing. “There’s a fascinating question to be considered here – what makes narcissists the way they are? In most cases they appear to have been sexually abused as children, more often than not by their father. So on the one hand, the child would desperately want to please his father. A child wants to be wanted. He seeks praise. But he will also have been disgusted with himself for what he has done to please his father, to earn the praise. The result is an adult who is incorrectly wired, as we say. He loves himself but is simultaneously filled with self-disgust. When he kills, it’s as if he is killing himself. It’s a difficult concept and one we have trouble explaining to people. But it does explain the actions of such killers.”

  “Wow! That’s dark, doc.”

  “Yes, it is. But I haven’t finished. The act of killing fills the individual with renewed self-loathing. This would be difficult to handle. So after the first killing, the chances of him ever killing again would be no more than reasonable. But then, if he does kill again? Now we have a very different story. The chances of him killing yet again will have soared. Our narcissist may well be deriving some sort of perverse gratification out of killing. And you can see a new danger emerging here, a truly dreadful one. If the self-disgust is being overridden by the thrill involved ...” Leitener’s voice tailed off.

  Reporters are trained to distrust their intuition, or anyone else’s, for that matter. Stick to the facts, cry news editors universally. But I couldn’t help myself. Leitener’s lecture had touched on a kaleidoscope of criminal activity, but only the bit about narcissists had captivated me. Regardless of whether it was right or wrong, I knew this was how I would see Koos from now on.

  Leitener went on speaking for another few minutes. When he’d finished, I said, “Can I get back to Van Blatter for a minute, doc? Something that puzzles me. Both his victims were shot up the bum. Does that mean he has homosexual tendencies?”

  “Can’t say. He could be a repressed homosexual, but it’s by no means certain. To come to a definite conclusion I’d need to know where he goes from this point on.”

  A pause. “Well, there it is, Danny. I admit I’ve laid it on thick. I’ve spared you nothing and there’s a reason. I want you to be scared of this man. Scared witless.”

  He straightened up, as if his back was getting stiff, pushed his glasses on to the bridge of his nose, and said, “To get back to reality, regardless of what Van Blatter’s mental state actually is, what makes his case so bad is his position in society. Some country we live in! Van Blatter is actually protected by the law. It’s ludicrous that such a man should have such power. But you have to accept it. It isn’t going to change soon.”

  “Well, doc, I think it’s worked. You’ve managed to frighten the shit out of me.”

  “Good,” he said, standing up. The interview was over.

  To myself I said, I just hope I can keep out of Koos’s way. I hope it’s not too late.

  ***

  I’d made notes throughout the conversation. When I got back to the office I tore the pages into tiny scraps and threw them away in various baskets. I had no intention of leaving them around for Marty to find.

  Fazal was still at his desk. A thought troubled me and I went across to him. “Fazal, before I went out you told me you trusted me, right? So tell me honestly, have you mentioned your story to anyone else in the office?”

  I could see him wavering. Was he about to lie?

  “I … er … I did mention it, yes. But he is our crime reporter, Danny. I couldn’t encroach on his territory without telling him, could I? It seemed such an obvious thing to do.”

  I’d have been happier if he’d lied. “Oh, shit,” I said. “Marty.”

  “Yes, Marty Blaine. Why, Danny? What of it?”

  “Fazal, please do yourself a favour. Drop this story. I really mean it. Drop it now. Please.”

  “I can’t Danny. I have to find out what happened to the boy. I’ve promised his parents.”

  Chapter 15

  IT WAS FRIDAY and the first edition deadline had past, which meant most of the night staff were out having a drink. Ahead of me lay a seriously busy weekend. Conrad had given me a ticket to see the Natal cricket team playing at Kingsmead. That would take care of Saturday morning and afternoon, to be followed in the evening by the date with Ruth that was arranged such a long time ago. We were going to the Eden Roc Hotel with Conrad and Moira to see the American comedian who called himself by the ridiculous name of Ray Nard-Fox. And who knows, if that date went well I might even meet up with Ruth on Sunday as well.

  I was beginning to realise how hard it was just getting to see her. It was over two weeks since the tennis game and after that she’d been unrelentingly busy. Medical students worked monstrous hours.

  I mulled this disconcerting thought over as I gazed at my schooner of ale in the company of half a dozen reporters and subs in a bar near The Messenger’s offices.

  Conrad was in a good mood as he told me that he and Moira had finally decided on a wedding date. He didn’t seem to care that he’d hardly see her, married or not, until she’d graduated and served her internship. On the other hand, I’d probably feel ecstatic if I could have Ruth on even those meagre terms.

  A shadow fell across our table. I looked up, straight into the frowning face of Marty Blaine.

  “What a prick you are, Danny.”

  His mouth was working overtime. I’d been expecting a confrontation, but thought it would happen in the office rather than in such a public place.

  “Hang on, Marty. No call for that,” said Conrad. “We’re trying to enjoy a drink here.”

  “It’s this prick,” said Marty, gesturing in my direction. “He’s been taking stuff from my in-tray. He deserves a smack.”

  I stood up. I didn’t want a fight, but I definitely wasn’t scared of Marty. He was about my height and enjoyed no particular physical advantage.

  “What was it doing in your tray in the first place, Marty? Come on, tell us all,” I said.

  “You don’t know what you’re up against, you fucking idiot. You put us all in danger – you put the fucking paper in danger.”

  “Just because you’re shit scared of Koos it doesn’t mean the rest of us are.”

  “That’s just where you are wrong, pal. And if he comes after you, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Which made me angry. “Are you delivering some kind of a personal threat on his behalf, Marty? What’s he said to you?”

  “Take it any way you like,” he said slowly, with a sneer. Then he moved off around the bar.

  “W
hat the hell have you done to him, Danny?” said the sub Jason McCurren. “Fucked his wife?”

  Conrad and I pieced together for the assembled staffers exactly what had happened in the office some nights before. Predictably, the sub-editors present were on our side. But it was easy for them, for the most part stuck in their air-conditioned office, always at arm’s length from the real world.

  “Perhaps I should become a sub,” I said. “Is there room for me on the table?”

  “Can you write?” said Geordie West. And that made everyone laugh.

  Except that Marty’s thinly veiled threat had got to me and I didn’t really feel like laughing. What I did feel like was a character in a cartoon – a roadrunner, for instance, in the process of being hunted down by Ray Nard-Fox’s wily cousin, the coyote.

  ***

  Which Ruth would turn up? A good question, especially if you happened to be on a Saturday night date with her. She and Moira made a captivating sight as they walked to Conrad’s car. Both were in cocktail dresses, Ruth’s cream, Moira’s blue. Ruth’s dress was strapless. Moira’s had short off-the-shoulder sleeves. They’d have looked at home in a Doris Day movie.

  I had trouble containing my excitement and kissed Ruth exuberantly. She gave me a perfunctory peck in return. Oh, shit. She may have looked stunning but this was not a good start.

  The Eden Roc, way up The Golden Mile, was one of Durban’s swankiest hotels. Its nightclub drew the smart crowd. Conrad had booked us a table right up against the dance floor, which was perfect for the cabaret.

  I was famished and could hardly wait to eat. Everyone had prawn cocktail for starters. It was a South African obsession in the early Sixties. Ruth trifled with hers. Boeuf Wellington was next. Man’s food. Ruth nibbled at the beef and seemed disdainful of the pastry.

  The Eden Roc had a Chinese pastry chef who was an artist. For dessert he made us “bowtie”, loops of slender pastry cooked to a crisp in boiling syrup. It melted in the mouth. Ruth toyed with a glass of water and said she didn’t feel like anything so sweet. She was ruining my night.

  Nor did the comedian help. The audience seemed desperate to be amused and laughed at almost everything he said. The truth was, Ray was more of an entertainer than a comedian.

  “See these grey hairs?” he said. “Genetic. I get them from my children.”

  The gags got worse. “My pal Harry’s a phrenic-schizo. Boy, is that guy crazy!” Pause for effect. “And he’s a little backward.”

  Eventually he gave up the corny jokes and sang like Dean Martin. Then like Vic Damone, then like Perry Como. The songs got more sentimental as he went along and I could see Ruth cringing.

  He began to sing More Than You Know. I looked at her and shrugged helplessly, as if to empathise with her in the face of such gross philistinism. To my astonishment she held a tissue to her eyes and seemed to be crying.

  As Ray managed a big gushy ending, Ruth said, “I’m sorry,” and hurried away to the ladies. Moira followed her.

  This did not go unnoticed by the old stager. “You can see the impact I have on the womenfolk,” cracked Ray, which got a medium-sized laugh.

  “What the fuck is going on with Ruthie?” I whispered to Conrad. “Do you know?”

  “Today’s a bad day for her, that’s all,” said Conrad, failing, as usual, to begin at the beginning.

  “Sorry, Conrad, you’re going to have to explain.”

  He looked uncomfortable.

  “I’m a big boy, you can tell me,” I said.

  “It’s an anniversary,” he said at last. “It’s exactly a year since she was forced to break up with the Indian boy.”

  “Then why did she agree to come out?”

  “It was Moira. She talked her into it.”

  The girls returned and we decided to leave. “The floorshow was lousy, anyway,” said Conrad as we walked to his car.

  “But the food was good,” I said. “The bowtie was out of this world.”

  Ruth took my arm. “Sorry, Danny. I’m such a bore.”

  She seemed to spend her life apologising to me.

  “Where to?” said Conrad.

  “Jazz club,” we chorused.

  That cheered Ruth up instantly.

  ***

  Steven Fall was already in the club. He came over and gave Ruth a kiss. “I’ve just spoken to Frankie …”

  “Steven, what are you up to?”

  “He says, as soon as the band takes a break you’re on, doll.”

  “You haven’t asked me or anything.”

  “We all want to hear you, Ruthie, so relax. Frankie says you can have fifteen minutes. Unpaid, of course.”

  “Yeah, thanks, Steven. You’d make a great manager.”

  Half an hour later Ruth sat at the piano – a beaten-up old upright, which was all Frankie could afford, I supposed. She began rather grandly in concert style with Stan Kenton’s Interlude, perfectly catching the nostalgia of the closing bars before running straight into April In Paris. The block chords were redolent of Oscar Peterson – how did she do that with such small hands? Then Gone With The Wind and finally a wispy Moonlight In Vermont, which changed suddenly into thirty-two rousing, witty bars of stride before ending in it’s original languorous tempo.

  I loved bebop. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy other forms of the genre. Yes, it was mainstream, and one hundred per cent eclectic, but it was beautifully done with a strong feel for the music and a sure, light touch.

  I should have been happy, amazed, but her little performance actually left me feeling uncomfortably small in the face of such talent. I think that by then I’d fallen in love with her, the only trouble being that Ruth, brainy, talented and beautiful, was far too good for the likes of me.

  She sat down flushed and happy. “I suppose you’d have wanted Ornithology or In Walked Bud,” she said.

  “No, no, it was superb. And I really love Gone With The Wind. I read somewhere it’s got the most difficult key changes imaginable.”

  “Not on the piano, silly. It’s mechanical. It’s only difficult for the wailers.”

  The wailers. I liked that. Mechanical. Ha, ha. What a cool chick.

  Later, as we stood outside the door of her room she kissed me properly for the first time. Relatively deep and quite lingering. Then she was gone, with a promise, though, that she’d meet me at the beach around noon.

  ***

  In all the time I spent in Durban I never got used to the way the sand scorched my bare feet. And so, with Ruth beside me on Sunday morning, I ran on tiptoe before hitting the surf and diving into a breaking wave. Indian Ocean surf has a clean, distinctive smell - something between freshly cut cucumber and ice cream. It’s exhilarating. We frolicked about and it was wonderful. Ruth was the happiest I’d seen her. Was I wrong in thinking her attitude towards me had softened? Was it possible that her little weep at the Eden Roc had been, well, cathartic?

  The girls had to go to work later so we had to make the most of our limited time. We’d hired a couple of umbrellas and sat under them eating a picnic lunch Moira had prepared. Then I rubbed suntan oil on Ruth’s back and covered myself with the stuff. I lay on my towel just outside the circles of shade. Ruth sat beside me, but out of the sun.

  After a while she lay back with her head on my stomach. She slid her hand into mine. I sat staring through sunglasses into an untrammelled African sky. It took my breath away. She took my breath away. So I sighed.

  Of such moments is heaven made. In my opinion.

  Chapter 16

  CURRY IN the canteen didn’t compare with Jake’s on the beach. Still, it was better than greasy egg and chips. I sat down in a corner and began to read the paper while I ate. I hardly noticed Fazal as he settled in a chair across the table.

  “Danny, I need to speak to you.” He sounded in earnest.

  I put the paper down reluctantly. “Fazal, what’s the point? You don’t listen to me.”

  �
�No, no, Danny. It’s not as easy as that. There’s a boy’s life at stake here. I can’t just dismiss it.”

  I gave him an if-you-must shrug, against my better judgment.

  “The police are being really weird, Danny. Obstructive. You know, if someone goes missing you’d expect them to be helpful. That’s their business. But every time I go to them with a set of questions they sit on them, or prevaricate. It’s driving me mad. Who do I appeal to? How can I make them do their job?”

  “Don’t ask me. I’m a new boy in town.”

  Fazal sipped a cup of tea. He looked crestfallen. I felt sorry for him. “OK, look, tell me the whole story. From the start.”

  The boy’s name, said Fazal, was Arji. He came from a middle class Sikh family and was studious and well behaved. He was fifteen and had never been in any kind of trouble.

  Four months ago he’d gone with three friends to an afternoon concert. On the way home they had a disagreement about the cost of the tickets. They admitted this. Arji got fed up and went off alone. He hadn’t been seen since. The only other thing Fazal knew for certain was that the boys were near Durban railway station when Arji left them.

  “So what the family most want to know is, did he get on a train? If so, where to?”

  “Shit, that’s not much to go on, Fazal. Why the hell would he catch a train? Had he run away from home before?”

  “Never. If anything, he was a home loving boy.”

  “OK. Let’s assume he was the victim of a crime, are any of the other boys suspects?”

  “Definitely not. The boys chatted on a street corner for a while, then went home. There are witnesses.”

  “What time was it when Arji walked off?”

  “Around five thirty.”

  “Broad bloody daylight. So is it possible that the police really don’t know anything? They could be play-acting with you, just to hide their own failings.”

  “That’s possible, Danny. But when I first went to them the duty sergeant seemed more open. Said he might have something for me and suggested I call back in a few days. When I did, his attitude had changed. Said they’d investigated but had got nowhere.”