by Jon Zackon
“I don’t know what to say, Fazal. If you push them, the police will just deny they are being uncooperative – although it may make them admit they don’t know anything.”
“Yes, but Danny, people don’t just vanish.”
“I’m not sure about that either, Fazal.”
We both fell silent. That’s when I said something that could only be described as a chance remark. Who knows why I said it? I had a hunch. A ridiculous, crazy thought. A long shot, but it rose in my brain in unstoppable fashion. A compulsion to help, I suppose. And before I realised it, I’d let it out.
“Fazal,” I said, “Did this boy Arji carry a knife?”
I immediately regretted saying it.
“A knife? What sort of knife?”
I tried to fudge it. “You know, Sikhs carry knives, don’t they?”
“Not here in SA. Well, some, I suppose, but they’re discouraged from doing so. But why do you ask?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Why did you ask, Danny? Do you know something?”
“No, of course not. Just forget it, Fazal.”
But I knew he wouldn’t. By all accounts he was a good reporter and good reporters develop antennae. No scrap of information, however insignificant, escapes their attention.
A pang of anxiety shot through my gut. I wondered if I was getting an ulcer.
***
I sat on the carpet listening to Cannonball Adderley and fretting. Was I leading Fazal into danger? But what if my hunch was right? With the help of The Messenger Fazal might well smoke Koos out. I doubted harm would come to him should the hunch turn out to be a load of baloney. It was a pretty wild shot, after all.
Then again, why hadn’t Koos turned the knife in immediately? It was surely against regulations to keep it. And wasn’t there a degree of arrogance in the way he’d shown it to us? As I remembered it, he was deliberately toying with it, inviting us to look at it. Almost as if it were a – what was the word – a trophy?
Come to think of it, I probably owed it to Fazal to tell him the whole story. If he was going to get himself killed by a lunatic cop at least he should know why.
I rang him at the office and asked him to meet me in a coffee shop in West Street.
***
I asked Fazal how his enquiries were going. “I’ve spoken to the boy’s parents about the knife you mentioned, Danny” – I allowed myself a smile; I’d been right about him taking it on board. “They don’t know anything about it. They doubt he would have carried such a thing. Where did you get the idea from?”
I told him how Koos had produced the ornamental Indian knife during a poker game.
“That’s all? That’s very tenuous. Why do you suspect this Van Blatter? I know he’s shot two black boys, but how could this be connected?”
“He’s dangerous, Fazal. Very dangerous. What’s more, nothing much happens in this burg that he doesn’t know about, I promise you. He’s out on the streets all the time.”
“Well, it’s not much of a lead, but I’ll ask Arji’s friends. If anybody knows, they will.”
***
A couple of nights later the gang – minus Fazal, whom I hadn’t seen since our discussion about the knife – came round to my flat. This time I remembered to introduce them to James, the night watchman.
He was a lovable old Zulu who sat in an alcove guarding the entrance of the flats. He was a large man and carried a knobkerrie for protection. On cool nights he wore an old military greatcoat. Since he’d been hired fifteen years ago no one had ever had the guts to take him on. He told me this with a huge grin on his face. He wasn’t allowed to go into individual flats unless there was trouble, of course, so on some nights I took him out a mug of sweet tea and a sandwich.
Harland spoke to James in fluent Zulu and soon had him laughing loudly.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“He’s just told me he has three wives back in Zululand. He has twelve kids dispersed round the country. Four of the boys work in the mines. I congratulated him on his prowess.”
Harland gave James a couple of rand and I left it at that. I didn’t want to go into the sadness that James truly represented, of South Africa’s transient workers who saw their families no more than once a year for a week or less.
Once in the flat, with bottles of beer in hand, the subs quizzed me about my apparent feud with Marty. I didn’t feel like talking about that either.
I’d heard an amusing story about Geordie West. Apparently, the day after the Cato Manor beerhall riot he’d been called into the editor’s office. He’d expected to be greeted as a hero following his exertions of the night before, when his copy went round the world.
Instead, he was told to drive the editor’s Buick to the airport and collect a Daily Express reporter who was arriving from London to cover the disturbances. The editor told him to treat the man, whose name was Kevin McDougal, as an honoured guest, drive him anywhere he wanted to go and fill him in on anything he wanted to know.
“Yes, it’s true,” said Geordie. “The editor turned me into a chauffeur. He wouldn’t have done this for the New York Times or The Times of London, or any other newspaper on earth. Shows you how powerful the Beaverbrook empire is.”
“Yeah, but tell him about McDougal,” said Conrad.
Geordie laughed. “What a tit! He was dressed in midwinter English clothes so I took him to an outfitters and he bought a sports shirt. As I drove him round I started telling him what was going on but he wasn’t even remotely interested. I offered to drive him to Cato Manor – he still wasn’t interested. Eventually, he came into the reporters’ room and Gordon Clare gave him the use of a desk and a typewriter. He started reading all the takes of copy that we’d produced. Then he started tapping out an intro. Didn’t like it, crumpled it up and threw it into the wastepaper basket. He did that fourteen times. He must have liked the fifteenth intro because he pulled it out of the typewriter, pinned it to all our copy and had an African copy boy run the whole damn lot to the post office to be Telexed to London. Then, he rounded up a few reporters and they all went on a pub crawl around the city, ending in the private bar at the Mayfair Hotel. This guy had flown six thousand five hundred miles to write one paragraph and get pissed with the boys.”
“Yes, but in his defence by then the riot was well and truly over,” said Harland.
“Hang on, Geordie,” said Chris Cleburn-Smith. “Tell Danny what that single paragraph said.”
“Well, I can’t remember it verbatim,” said Geordie, “But it was on the lines of … ‘Searchlights criss-crossed the night sky over Durban last night while shacks on the outskirts of the city burned brightly in the darkness.’ That’s it. Could have been out of Scoop.”
I was confused. “Searchlights? Why?” I asked.
“Well, nearly two years after the event I have yet to establish what searchlights he was talking about. No one seems to remember any searchlights. But it was a hell of an intro.”
***
No sign of Fazal. It was five days since I had last spoken to him. I didn’t really want to ask Gordon Clare about him. He was a busy man and might take it amiss. In the end I felt I had no choice.
“Fazal?” said Gordon, looking up at me from behind his desk. “Funny you should ask. I’ve just been speaking to his mother. He’s been ill in bed for days and she says he is still not better.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“No idea. She’s had their doctor in but he’s also mystified. It sounds like some kind of a breakdown. What’s your interest, Danny?”
“Oh, we often pass the time of day, sir, and I just noticed he’s been missing for a while.”
“Well, it’s very strange. If I hear anything I’ll let you know.”
A breakdown. This wasn’t what I’d expected. I felt my pulse racing.
I went and got a coffee and thought about what to do next. I decided there was only one course of actio
n open to me. I’d have to go and see the bedridden Fazal.
Chapter 17
THE MALIKS lived a mile north of the city centre in a ghetto designated as Indian under the Group Areas Act. As I drove there I found myself amid a multitude of ramshackle properties, a few solidly built Victorian and Edwardian houses and rows of shops in seedy French Colonial style buildings. There was an air of decay about the place, in sharp contrast to Durban’s affluent white suburbs. The Maliks’ small terraced house was in a busy street filled with the smell of ground spices. Office talk was that the Maliks were well off and could certainly afford a better place. A late model Cadillac stood outside the front gate.
Fazal’s mother came to the door. I’d phoned in advance so she was expecting me. She wore a sari and her fingers and wrists were adorned with an array of rings and bangles.
“I’ve got him out of bed,” she said. “He’s waiting for you in the sitting room. But I’ve got to tell you, Mr Waterman, he didn’t want to see you. I had to fight with him. He doesn’t want to see anybody. It’s very troubling.”
“What’s actually wrong with him, Mrs Malik?”
“The doctor says it’s as if he is in shock. But Fazal doesn’t even want to talk to him. See if you can get him to say something … to open up. What can have put him in this state?”
Fazal sat slumped in an easy chair. He was in his dressing gown. His face was drained and he stared into space, not acknowledging my presence.
Mrs Malik closed the door behind me.
“She’s a lovely lady, Fazal,” I said.
No reply.
“Look, Fazal, you can’t imagine how sorry I am. It’s all my fault. If I’d kept my bloody big mouth shut, then …”
“No, Danny!” Fazal’s shout startled me. “It wasn’t just what you said. It would have happened anyway.”
“But what was it … what did happen?”
His gaze dropped and he slumped a little further into his chair.
“Fazal?”
No response. Silence enveloped us.
Eventually I said, “What about the investigation?”
“It’s over.”
That was all he would say.
“So Koos wins?”
No reply.
“People at the office miss you, Fazal. Gordon is worried. Please come back to work soon.”
Mrs Malik brought us a pot of tea and a plate of gulab jamun. Fazal ignored the confection so I ate his share.
As I left the house I pondered the significance of Fazal’s silence when I’d mentioned Koos. I was sure he’d have spoken out if Koos had not been involved. But he hadn’t said a word. There was no doubt in my mind – Koos had got to Fazal. I dreaded what he might have done to the poor guy.
And was I right to feel relieved that Fazal laid no blame on me? Or was he simply being kind?
***
The sea was cutting up rough, which made for a wonderful sight as I sat on a bench near Marine Parade. But I couldn’t enjoy the view for long. My thoughts kept returning to the worst of all possibilities - that my hunch about the knife had been right; that Fazal had been too successful in his investigation; and that this had led him straight into the hands of Koos. What then? Why was he still alive? He was certainly a challenge to Koos. So, according to Dr Leitener’s theory, which appealed to me on various levels, Fazal should have been rubbed out by now in a fit of narcissistic rage.
I put myself in Koos’s position and concluded that Fazal was alive partly because he worked for The Messenger. Koos might be a maniac, but he was not stupid. He would have put himself in great danger if Fazal, a well-known Durban journalist, were to disappear.
But that wasn’t enough, I decided. Koos would not be deterred quite so easily. He’d be ready to organise alibis and lie his way out. I guessed that what had happened was that he had assaulted Fazal, perhaps even raped him. And then, having thoroughly brutalised the young man, he’d have delivered a highly specific threat. Something like, “Do you want to see your mother alive again?”
The Maliks were pretty vulnerable, as I’d seen for myself. Koos would have had no trouble getting to them. And this would have made it easy to buy Fazal’s silence.
Fazal had been investigating the story with Gordon Clare’s approval – so in my book the editor’s deputy had to share responsibility for what had happened. I drove to the office and went to see him.
“You’re in early, Daniel. Bound to be something serious, eh?”
I ignored his little jest and spent the next few minutes bringing him up to date with the facts as I saw them. I told him about the knife Koos had gloated over, how I’d asked Fazal if the missing boy had owned such a thing, and finally I described Fazal’s present state.
“He refuses to tell me what happened, Gordon. But I deeply suspect Koos van Blatter is involved. Fazal won’t confirm it but doesn’t actually deny it either.”
The acting deputy editor gasped.
“What you’re saying here is, you suspect that a senior law enforcement officer of this city has murdered a young Indian and then assaulted a Messenger journalist. All in one bloody go!”
Exactly, Gordon, I thought, but said nothing.
He put his hand to his forehead. “Whew … Daniel … you’ve taken my breath away. Let me think about this.”
That was fine by me. I wanted him to dwell on the full impact of what I’d told him.
“These are serious allegations, Daniel. I’m duty bound to bring them to the notice of the editor.”
He looked at me sternly. “But what evidence do you have? Nothing you’ve said would stand a ghost of a chance in court.”
“Yes, it’s all circumstantial, Gordon. But there’s little doubt in my mind that Van Blatter is behind the disappearance of the Indian boy and also some kind of an assault on Fazal.”
“But that’s not evidence, dear boy. What’s more, you’re never going to get any, unless Fazal has dug something up. And he’s not saying, is he? For God’s sake, Daniel, you’re dealing with a detective. No one in this world will know more about covering up his tracks. Sorry, my friend, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but this is not one for The Messenger. We have enough problems as it is.”
“So you’d drop it just like that? What about the effort Fazal’s put in? And don’t we owe it to the boy who’s disappeared?”
“To be frank, I never knew what we were dealing with before. You know, Fazal’s actually written two pieces on the boy that we’ve printed, how brilliant he was at school, and so on. And he never mentioned the likelihood that he was murdered. The family’s worry then was that he’d run away.”
Gordon puffed away on an old pipe, which smelled awful but gave him a sagacious, authoritative air.
“I might not have sanctioned Fazal’s new investigation if I’d thought the police were somehow involved,” he said. “Look, the reality is that the editor will never wear what you’re saying and I wouldn’t blame him. But I will bring it to his attention, all right?”
I left his office feeling crushed. A big deal journalist? Me? On the contrary, I felt like a junior who was beginning to realise how powerless he was. I also wondered whether Gordon would have shelved the story if it was political, rather than straight crime. Perhaps not.
***
We sat in a café near the beach sipping milkshakes like a pair of teenagers. Ruth had just come off duty but looked bright and happy as she sat close to me.
“Pooh. My hands stink of antiseptic,” she said, giving them a good sniff.
“That’s what’s in this milkshake,” I said.
“Rubbish. It’s really good. I told you to have the chocolate.”
I was beginning to love the easy patter between us. Familiarity, I decided, breeds love. But despite myself I must have fallen silent for minute or two, lost in thought.
“Danny? What’s the matter?”
“Sorry?”
“You look miserable. What’s h
appened?”
“It’s nothing to worry about, Ruthie.”
“Come on, Danny, I hate to see you like this.”
“No. Why should I burden you with my problems?”
She put her hand on mine and said, “Because I care. I really do.”
My heart beat a little faster.
“It’s very sweet of you,” I said. “I will tell you, but not now. I have to collect my thoughts first.”
“Very dramatic,” she teased.
We made a date to see Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless later in the week and I promised that by then I’d be able to tell all.
Later, we stood at the door of her room and I brushed her hair away from her face and kissed her.
“You look so sad,” she said, touching my cheek.
“Can I come in with you?”
“No. Please don’t. I’ve had a tiring day. But soon, perhaps.”
I’d had a chance to tell her about Fazal and Koos, but hadn’t been able to. Difficult to say why not. Perhaps I felt that she might not like the world I was sometimes forced to inhabit. But that couldn’t be right. The world she inhabited, down in the depths of casualty, was one of unrelenting human misery.
She, on the other hand, had had the opportunity to invite me into her bedroom. But hadn’t.
***
Marty looked at me disdainfully. “Apparently you’ve been saying some strange things about Koos,” he said. “I think he wants to meet with you. Straighten things out, if you know what I mean.”
Only one person would have told Koos what I’d been saying and that was Marty himself. But how the hell had Marty found out in the first place? Gordon would never have been so indiscreet. I couldn’t vouch for the editor, though.
As for straightening things out – huh! Marty’s remark came with an I-told-you-so look in his eyes. I’d ignored all the warnings and now I’d been given what sounded suspiciously like a death warrant. I felt the ulcer pain coming back in the pit of my stomach. Someone speaking out of turn had dropped me deep in the shit.
