Prey

by L. A. Larkin

‘Five rand now,’ he says giving him a coin. ‘Five rand later. If you keep my car safe. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Share it with your brother,’ says Thusago, nodding in the direction of the smaller boy guarding the corn cobs.

  Wolfe follows Thusago along a sandy path that zigs and zags between a jumble of houses, some corrugated iron shacks, some brick. Above the dishevelled roof lines Wolfe sees a faded Coca Cola sign nailed to a pole announcing the location of the Justice Tuck Shop.

  ‘That’s Mama Gcina’s shop.’

  ‘She cleans the school and runs a shop?’

  ‘Yes, she needs the money to look after her son. I should warn you. He’s very ill. AIDS.’

  Four young men pass them talking loudly, but they stop their chatter when they notice Wolfe.

  ‘Outsiders are not welcome here,’ says Thusago.

  The Justice Tuck Shop is no bigger than a garden shed, leaning almost as though in exhaustion against the side of a small brick home. Its red colour, selected perhaps to match the Vodacom sign hung on the wall, leaps out from the shaded jumble of structures. Rusted security grilles are bolted to the front of the shop, making it seem like a prison cell, with a rectangular gap in the middle to allow for the exchange of money and goods. A bowed sheet of corrugated iron sticks out from the shopfront, creating an awning held up by wooden posts at each corner, which, like the rest of the shop, look close to collapse.

  Under this porch an elderly woman with a pink and blue headscarf, in a loose-fitting dress two sizes too big for her, sits on a plastic milk crate, talking to a little girl no more than five years old.

  ‘Is that Bra Mike I see?’ the old woman asks the five-year-old, pointing at them.

  ‘Yes,’ says the little girl, nodding definitively.

  The old lady rises slowly, as though her joints had rusted in places.

  ‘Sawubona!’ They hug. ‘Who is this?’ she asks, peering short-sightedly at Wolfe.

  ‘This is the journalist I told you about.’

  ‘I don’t like strangers. I told you this.’

  ‘Olivia is a friend. I can vouch for her.’

  ‘I don’t want trouble.’ The old woman tells the little girl to go home.

  ‘I just want to hear your story,’ Wolfe says, stepping forward. ‘You will be anonymous.’

  ‘Izit?’ the woman asks Thusago, seeking his confirmation.

  He nods.

  ‘It is quiet today,’ Mama Gcina says. ‘Time for a cup of tea.’

  She hangs a hand-painted Closed sign to the outside of the shop door, locks and bolts it. They follow her into an immaculately clean lounge-cum-kitchen. The lino floor is pitted with holes and a small fridge rattles. Next to it is a two-ringed electric hob and a kettle. A faux-leather black two-seater sofa faces a hefty CRT TV. Underneath a sheet, on a single mattress on the floor, somebody is curled up sleeping.

  On hearing them enter, the sheet is pushed away, and a man peeks up at them like a shy child. The skin across his cheekbones is so fragile and sunken it resembles parchment, and his arm is little more than bones draped in skin.

  ‘Dumisani,’ says the old woman to the invalid. ‘You remember Bra Mike? His papa used to live in Phatshwane Street.’ Dumisani blinks, his eyes appearing disproportionately large in his gaunt face. ‘Mike became a mighty fine police officer. You remember Mike, don’t you?’

  Dumisani extends his bony arm. ‘Hey bru.’

  Thusago gently takes his hand. ‘How are you, my friend?’

  ‘Not good, brother.’

  Thusago gestures for Wolfe to come closer. ‘This is my friend, Olivia. She’s a journalist. From London.’

  ‘Izit?’ says Dumisani.

  ‘Hello Dumisani,’ Wolfe takes his skeletal hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Mama Gcina nods with approval. ‘I will make us tea. Please, take a seat.’ She gestures to the sofa, then opens a glass kitchen cupboard, takes out two china cups and saucers, and uses a towel to dust them off. They’re clearly kept aside for guests.

  ‘Can you tell Olivia what you heard last week at the school?’ says Thusago.

  ‘That evil man!’ Mama Gcina says with surprising venom. ‘Look what he did to my poor son!’

  ‘Calm down, Mama,’ says Dumisani.

  ‘Do you mean Ximba or Msiza?’ Wolfe asks.

  ‘That evil policeman. He framed Dumisani, that’s what he did! May he burn in Hell.’

  ‘Will you tell me about it?’ Wolfe asks.

  ‘Fifteen years ago, Msiza was a beat officer,’ says Dumisani. ‘They were on patrol. He left his partner in the car to get coffee. His partner was white. The car was attacked, the cop dragged to the ground. Msiza panicked. Fired. Killed his own partner. The mob ran. I tried to help the officer. Tried to stop the bleeding. Msiza handcuffs me, says I fired the shot, even wrapped my fingers around his gun which he later said I had taken…’ Dumisani’s voice trails away, exhausted.

  Mama Gcina adds, ‘It was my son’s word against a police officer. He didn’t stand a chance.’

  Dumisani tries to wipe away some drool from his mouth with a trembling hand. ‘That pig, he is now Major-General of police. Me? I was raped in prison. I have AIDS. Where is the justice?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Dumisani.’ Wolfe sits next to him on the mattress. She takes his hand. ‘Are you getting treatment?’

  Mama Gcina answers. ‘There is a very good clinic. They have the drug he needs. It is expensive for us, but my grandson, Owethu, he’s a clever boy. He works nights and pays for his father’s treatment.’

  Gcina hands Wolfe her tea, then Thusago his. ‘Rooibos,’ she says to Wolfe. ‘Hope you like it.’

  ‘Tell them what you saw at the school, Mama,’ says Dumisani.

  The old woman has her tea in a mug. She sits slowly and grimaces. ‘My hips don’t work as well as they used to.’ She sips the rooibos, seems to study Wolfe, takes her time. ‘I think you are a good woman, Olivia. I have made up my mind. I will tell you.’

  Mama Gcina’s version of events is almost identical to Thusago’s, except for one detail.

  ‘I was so afraid that monster recognised me. I had to know. He was parked at the front. Through a classroom window I watched him go to his car. His phone rang. He answered. Then he said…’ Mama Gcina clenches her eyes shut, trying to remember. ‘I want to get this right,’ she says. ‘Msiza said, “Yes, she’s reported it, but nothing will be done.”’

  Mama Gcina opens her eyes. ‘My memory is poor these days. Wait!’ Using the table to help push herself up to standing, she shuffles to the kitchen and picks up a mobile phone that’s recharging. ‘I recorded it,’ she says. ‘Just like my grandson showed me.’

  16

  Mama Gcina’s arthritic fingers tap the screen of a new model smartphone with increasing irritation. Wolfe places her cup and saucer carefully on the floor and gets up from the mattress she’s been sitting on. If this informant has indeed filmed Major-General Msiza incriminating himself, this could be the leverage she needs to persuade Mazwi Ximba to talk to her.

  ‘Can I help, Mama Gcina?’ Wolfe asks.

  ‘Why won’t it play?’ Gcina mutters. ‘Stupid machine.’

  ‘Can I take a look?’

  ‘My lovely grandson gave it to me. He’ll know what to do.’ She calls out, ‘Owethu! Help your poor grandma, will you?’

  A boy who looks about fifteen emerges from an adjoining bedroom, an earbud in one ear, the other bud hanging loose over his shoulder. He’s in a white T-shirt with an image of the popular South African rapper N’veigh on it, distressed designer jeans, and Nike sneakers. In contrast to his grandmother, his clothes are new and expensive. Owethu looks at Wolfe, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Gcina answers for her. ‘A journalist. All the way from London.’

  ‘What does she want?’

  ‘To know about the pig, Msiza.’ She waves her smartphone at him.

  ‘What are you trying
to do, Mama?’

  ‘I want to play my video.’

  Owethu frowns. ‘Don’t show them this.’

  The old lady slaps his hand playfully. ‘It’s okay, Owethu. Bra Mike is a friend, and this English lady wants to know the truth. She can help us.’

  ‘We don’t want help from umlungu.’

  ‘Where are your manners?’ admonishes his grandmother. ‘Go shake her hand. She is a famous journalist.’

  Owethu doesn’t budge.

  ‘Do it!’

  The teenager begrudgingly does as he’s told.

  ‘Play it for them, will you?’

  They huddle around the boy so they can all see the small screen. The footage is jumpy, but it clearly shows a SAPS uniformed officer in his late forties leaving the school, heading for a black Mercedes Benz. His mobile rings. He answers.

  ‘Yes, she’s reported it, but nothing will be done,’ Msiza says, clearly annoyed. ‘They have better things to do than look for missing persons.’

  Msiza is silent as his caller speaks. He kicks a tyre.

  ‘You said there’s no body. So, what’s the fucking problem?’ he demands.

  Msiza waits for the answer, then says, ‘Yes.’

  The clip ends with the officer driving away.

  Wolfe glances at Thusago for confirmation. ‘That’s Msiza, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ he replies. ‘But we must be careful not to jump to conclusions.’

  This must be difficult for Thusago, a SAPS officer, to process. However, in Wolfe’s mind, it’s clear Msiza is part of a cover-up, possibly of a missing or dead female. But now is not the time to debate this.

  ‘I told you, Mama,’ says Owethu, giving Thusago an angry glare. ‘He’s a cop. They stick together.’

  ‘Owethu,’ says Wolfe, ‘I want to get at the truth as much as you do, and Mike is helping me do it. He’s right. Msiza could find a way to explain this.’

  ‘I’m telling you, they’re evil,’ says Owethu. He points at Dumisani lying on the mattress, emaciated and weak. ‘Msiza did this. Sent an innocent man to jail. And my headmaster is a filthy pervert.’

  ‘Wait a sec,’ says Wolfe. ‘Why a pervert?’

  ‘I’ve seen the website he visits. It’s sick.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He brings his own laptop to school sometimes. It’s easy to hack.’

  Wolfe’s heartbeat has etched up a notch.

  Mama Gcina steps between them. ‘Owethu! Enough!’

  ‘Let him speak,’ Wolfe pleads.

  But the old lady is too busy admonishing her grandson. ‘We agreed. No more hacking. You want to go to prison like your father?’

  ‘Owethu,’ says Wolfe, raising her voice to be heard. ‘What website?’

  ‘Women being raped. Then killed. Maybe they were acting, but it didn’t look like it.’

  Gcina gasps and stumbles. Wolfe grabs her arm to steady her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mama Gcina, I must see the site.’

  The grandmother nods, sits, dazed.

  ‘It’s on the dark web,’ Owethu says, going to his room and reappearing with a tablet computer. It doesn’t take him long to locate the site. Wolfe takes one look and tells him she’s seen enough. It’s a snuff video site where viewers can share their violent fantasies in a secure chat room. Wolfe swallows down the bile in her throat.

  ‘Are you certain Ximba visits this site?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m going to ask a hacker mate in London to monitor his online activity. I’m guessing you have his email and password?’

  ‘I can monitor him for you. I’ve done it before,’ says Owethu.

  ‘Thanks, Owethu, you’ve already done enough.’

  Owethu nods, but the edges of his eyes and mouth droop with disappointment.

  Wolfe turns to Thusago. ‘It’s time we paid Mazwi Ximba a visit.’

  17

  There is a little wooden sign sticking out of the blue flowers of a plumbago shrub bordering the Moeta High School car park. On it is painted the word Headmaster in large black letters. His car is not there.

  ‘He drives a white Toyota Corolla,’ Owethu says from the back seat. ‘He’s usually in early.’

  Thusago pulls up across the street. Kids carrying heavy bags on their backs stream through the school gates towards a series of single-level brick buildings with sloping, red corrugated iron roofs. Others loiter outside in groups, talking, laughing.

  ‘What’s with the dark glasses and baseball cap?’ Owethu asks, leaning through the gap in the front seats. ‘Is that because you’re undercover?’

  ‘Something like that,’ she replies.

  ‘Maybe I should stay. Help you. You know.’

  ‘Your grandma would be furious. And it’s best for you if you’re not seen with me, okay?’

  Wolfe’s phone beeps. A message from Ponnappa:

  The subject must be jumpy. He’s changed password. No problem getting in, will take more time though.

  ‘Who’s Jwala Ponnappa?’ Owethu asks, reading the message over her shoulder.

  Wolfe hastily puts her phone away. ‘Time you went in, isn’t it?’

  ‘She your London hacker?’

  Wolfe doesn’t answer.

  ‘How old is she? Got a picture?’

  Wolfe can’t help smiling. ‘Maybe I should put you two in touch. Then you can ask her yourself.’

  ‘I know what she’s gonna do to get Ximba’s password. Spear-phishing, right? Send him a fake email with a link. It will look like it’s from his bank or somewhere he trusts. When he clicks on it, he’ll see his bank’s login, only it’s fake. At the same time, the link is downloading malware that lets her control his machine from anywhere – open his files, read his emails, see his web history, as long as his computer is on. Am I right?’ he says, confidently.

  ‘You know your stuff. Have you thought about a job in cyber security? It pays well. And it’s legal.’

  ‘I’m doing just fine as I am.’

  ‘Your night job, what is it?’

  ‘Night porter, why?’

  ‘I’m guessing it’s not your baggage-carrying skills that’s earning the money to buy your nice clothes, or your grandma’s phone, or your dad’s medication. Be careful. You’ll get caught and end up doing time.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ His voice has a hard edge.

  ‘Don’t waste your talent. I nearly messed up at fourteen. I was lucky I had somebody to help me find my way.’ She’s thinking of Jerry Butcher. Instead of arresting her when he had the chance, Butcher helped her get her life together. Her boyfriend went down for statutory rape of a minor and dealing in class A drugs. Butcher gave her a chance to make something of her life. ‘Take this.’ She hands the boy her business card. ‘I’ll connect you to Jwala.’

  Owethu takes her card and pockets it. ‘Nail Msiza and Ximba for me, okay?’ he says, opening the rear door and getting out. They watch him cross the street and join the throng of kids.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ says Thusago.

  A white Corolla turns into the school car park and comes to a halt in the headmaster’s spot.

  Wolfe opens her door.

  ‘You want me to come with you?’ Thusago asks.

  ‘He’ll recognise you. Stay here.’

  Wolfe jogs across the road and through the gates.

  The stocky, silver-haired headmaster is in a grey suit that might have fitted well once, but no longer. As Ximba leans forward to take his briefcase from the back seat, the jacket fabric pinches at the waist and shoulders.

  ‘Mr Ximba?’ Olivia asks.

  He twists around, a beaming smile on his face, which quickly fades when he sees Wolfe, a white woman in a cap, leather jacket and biker boots. She’s clearly neither a parent nor a student.

  ‘Yes?’ More of a challenge than an affirmation.

  ‘My name is–’

  His phone rings. He checks the caller ID.

  ‘I must take this.’

  He f
aces away from her and listens. Looks out into the street, eyes darting one way, then the other. Wolfe thinks he’s searching for Thusago’s car. But Ximba stares in the other direction, at a black Toyota Prado. He locks eyes with a white man at the wheel who has a phone to his ear. His sunglasses and the distance make it impossible for Wolfe to see the driver clearly. The four-wheel drive’s engine roars to life. Ximba scuttles away from Wolfe, panicking.

  ‘I cannot speak to you,’ he barks over his shoulder. ‘This school is private property. Please leave.’

  ‘I just want to ask–’

  He rounds on her, eyes wide, nostrils flared. ‘No! Leave now, or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘Okay,’ Wolfe says, backing away. ‘I’m leaving.’

  Given his connection to the Major-General, Wolfe doesn’t want to risk spending her three days in South Africa stuck in a police cell.

  She heads for the street. The black Prado accelerates away, but she clocks the number plate.

  Somebody has warned Ximba not to talk to her. Who?

  18

  Casburn wanted to meet at Johannesburg’s central train station, patrolled by armed police and awash with security cameras. But Yushkov had insisted on Joubert Park after dark – easier to avoid CCTV, lots of tree cover, poorly lit, and closed at night. So no witnesses. Casburn waits for him next to the fountain at the park’s centre. The splashing drowns out much of the traffic noise, as it will their conversation should anyone try to eavesdrop. He resists the urge to check his Glock 26 in a holster under his loose-fitting jacket.

  He’s sitting in the open, dark shadows all around, and no backup. He can’t believe he’s doing this.

  To his right, there’s movement. He peers into the semi-darkness. A couple, arm in arm, laughing, their steps wobbly. They shouldn’t be here. They head into the trees, fumbling with each other’s clothes, so engrossed in each other they don’t even notice him. Don’t get distracted. He turns back to find Vitaly Yushkov standing in front of him. He has forgotten what a big fucker Yushkov is. It takes all of Casburn’s training and self-control not to flinch.

  ‘Come with me,’ the Russian says, starting to walk away.