by Mark Graham
“Christ. White or black?”
“The girl was white, naturally,” Koster replied.
“You’ve notified East Fields?”
“They’re aware of the situation, yes.”
“Stupid Kaffirs.” Leistner’s agitation was short-lived. He smoothed his tie and stood up. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
Jan Koster watched the minister of justice cross the street in haste. Then, pleased with the tenor of their meeting, he ordered another pot of tea and a cheese croissant.
****
The interior of The Camisole reminded Piet Richter of an Oriental music box. “Lingerie and Accessories for the Woman of Distinction” was the tag line below the shop’s name.
Silk hung from the walls like pleated waterfalls. Mannequins dressed in sheer nighties and silk stockings posed beneath soft lighting. Racks filled with undergarments, hosiery, negligees, and brassieres enticed female and male buyers alike. A separate cubicle near the counter displayed porcelain jewelry, funky hatwear, and sheer neck scarves.
“The chiffon comes direct from France. The House of Dior,” the owner explained. The rose scarf from the train station matched those on the rack exactly. “We have an exclusive here in Port Elizabeth.”
The shop was crowded. The owner indulged each potential customer with a sculptured smile. After exhorting her assistant with a matronly glance, she directed Detective Richter to the back room. Together, they searched sales slips and credit-card receipts dating back to January. The results were negative. Richter asked for the previous year’s records. After a weary sigh and lengthy pout, the owner capitulated.
Alone, Richter worked backward from December. Twenty-five minutes later, he found a Visa sales slip dated November 30. A Christmas gift, thought the detective. Brilliant. One chiffon scarf, rose, R49.95. Gift wrapping, N/C. The cardholder’s name was Ian M. Elgin.
****
At 11:40, Lucas Ravele informed Delaney Blackford that her office was to expect a temporary liaison to clear up Ian Elgin’s mining business in Port Elizabeth. Since Elgin had been allowed the use of the AU/UDW’s facilities in the past, Ravele was hoping that the same courtesy might be extended to his replacement. His name was Steven de Villiers. His plane arrived at 12:25, he told her. Could Delaney please have a car waiting for him.
Delaney might have said that Ian Elgin was an employee of the Affiliated Union, and thus office space was provided to him for his FMU activities as well. What she felt like saying was that Mr. de Villiers could damn well take a taxi and work out of a hotel. Instead, she convinced one of her secretaries that a drive to the airport would be a nice change from the office.
The lack of notice was certainly intentional. Delaney knew that. But Mrs. Delaney Blackford’s rise from the legal department of Transworld Express to chief legal counsel for the Affiliated Union of Dockers, Stevedores, and Rail Workers was due in part to her compulsion for knowing more about the people she dealt with than they knew about her.
Delaney placed three calls, and by the time de Villiers arrived at 1:05, she had learned enough to be leery. After twenty-five years of government service, de Villiers, according to one confidant, now held an untitled position on the justice minister’s personal staff in Pretoria. A jack-of-all-trades was her description: handler of sticky personnel problems, contract disputes, interdepartmental squabbles. A second confidant was more forceful in his appraisal, calling de Villiers a hatchet man with a much deserved reputation for ruthlessness. “And if looks,” he had said, “were ever deceiving . . .” Delaney met Steven de Villiers at the door.
He epitomized, in her eyes, the quintessential image of the bookworm. His bearing was stooped, he was thin, and his complexion waxy. A bristle moustache overshadowed thin lips and dominated a hungry face. A dark blue suit was the liveliest dimension of an otherwise lifeless man, except for the eyes. The eyes were like blue fireflies, magnified by Ben Franklin spectacles, and framed by saltand-pepper eyebrows. Eyes that studied her with an incisiveness that left Delaney disconcerted and ill at ease.
They shook hands. Delaney noted a bony firmness in his grip. His voice had a tinnient ring to it, melodic and feminine.
“How does one get blushing brides to bloom this time of year, Mrs. Blackford?” he said from the doorway. “They’re wonderful. And the plants, what a wonderful distraction.”
Delaney introduced de Villiers to the staff, and he announced, “I’m not here to interfere with a thing, Mrs. Blackford. I’ll be as invisible as possible. Lucas Ravele asked me to baby-sit Mr. Elgin’s chair until they hire a new negotiator. Clean up a few papers, make a few calls. Nothing more.”
Then why, Delaney wondered, are you here?
****
A sky could hardly have been bluer, a breeze more stimulating, a sun more penetrating.
Chief Inspector Nigel Mansell paused at the corner of Fleming and Court. He gazed beyond the pillars of the overpass to Charl Malan Quay, but a flat, ugly warehouse obscured his view of Delaney Blackford’s office. He settled for an obstructed peek at Algoa Bay. A fleet of sailboats skimmed across turquoise water, a rainbow of spinnakers and mainsails.
He met his car at the entrance to the police garage on Fleming. Merriman Gosani sat behind the wheel, munching an apple. The police radio barked staccato directives and static.
“It’s a gas station in Lorraine,” Merry explained. “They have a licensed franchise with Budget Master. There’s a secondary passenger stop there for the narrow-gauge and a freight depot.”
“Take M7. Maybe the scenery will be enlightening.” Mansell switched off the radio. He shed his jacket, loosened a narrow knit tie, and slumped into the seat.
“Too many late nights, pal,” said Merry.
“Too many early mornings.”
“Yeah. Chalk up another one for our vaunted boys in gray and blue.”
Two kilometers west of downtown, Russell Street connected with M7. This four-lane parkway meandered lazily through the communities of Mill Park and Walmer. Here, the wealthy of Port Elizabeth resided, Afrikaners and English-speakers living side by side, tolerant if not friendly, money bridging the gap. Here, Asian gardeners tended the grounds, and servants served tea and toast beside the pool. Here, Old English, Tudor, and colonial homes from the first half of the century were nestled among towering eucalyptus and statuesque junipers.
At the area’s heart lay St. George’s Park, home of the country’s oldest cricket club. Westbourne Oval, just minutes away, featured cycling, soccer, and the richest side-betting in the Cape. The neighborhood exuded age, prestige, and calm.
“My kind of place,” Merry deadpanned.
The chief inspector chuckled. “Two problems, pal. One, you’re a cop. They like their protection close at hand hereabouts, but they’re not too keen on the protection moving in next door.”
“All right, so I’ll upgrade my wardrobe.”
“Problem two, you put on too much lampblack this morning.” “That’s a tough one. It’s an image thing, you know.”
“Making you about as popular as a cat burglar.”
“Sounds like the challenge of a lifetime. I’ll talk to my estate agent first thing in the morning.” The car filled with laughter. A moment later, Merry said, “Speaking of challenges, Richter called in just as I was leaving.”
Mansell perked up. “And?”
“The scarf was purchased at a lingerie shop in Newington in November by none other than Mr. Ian Elgin. Piet checked with Jo’burg just to be sure. Elgin’s wife didn’t recognize it.”
“Obviously the man liked to spread his Christmas cheer around.” “A philanthropist. I’m touched.”
“But the object of his benevolence hasn’t come around. I wonder why.
“Why should she? I mean, who needs it?
“All right. We know Elgin’s been meeting his lady of the latrine since November. Maybe longer. We know she’s black. And we know she dresses in style, if the scarf’s any indication.”
�
��So someone in the terminal has got to remember a woman like that.”
“Exactly. But maybe that someone was Sylvia Mabasu. Maybe she knew too much.” They crossed Circular Drive into Lorraine, an increasingly rural township. Mansell reached for the car radio. The patch was made to the station house, and he spoke briefly with Piet Richter. Then he asked Merry about Eli Leavell, from the Parks Service in the Transkei.
“He was surprised. He said the biggest cave he’d ever seen in the Transkei was about the size of a double-car garage. He also said there were no more than five hundred real spelunking enthusiasts in the entire country, as far as he knew. He said the sport lends itself to three common personality traits: a meticulousness that borders on compulsion, a desire for power, and a lack of conscience. And they generally have one weakness. They tend to lack intuition, and they tend to mistrust it in others. Mean anything?”
Merry eased off the gas. Here, M7 paralleled the Baakens River, a slash of cobalt blue meandering its way to the Indian Ocean. He turned left onto M15. Mansell watched rolling hills, woven of wild grass and red-roofed houses, pass before them.
“A nylon-rayon rope,” he said, “is used in two murders within thirteen hours. A week before, a man in a three-piece suit buys fifty meters of the same rope. He makes a point of telling the clerk he intends spelunking in an area where no suitable caves exist. An intelligent killer would hardly be so descript, especially a killer with the character traits you just mentioned. It turns out that our victim is one of but five hundred cave explorers in South Africa. It all proves absolutely nothing, but I still can’t let it go.”
The tiny town of Theescombe lay at the crossroads of M15 and the narrow-gauge railway, situated among farmhouses and plowed fields. They discovered the gas station at the edge of town a kilometer north of the highway.
A paved lot, enclosed by a chain link fence and surrounded by acacias, was set away from the station. Inside the fence were ten compact cars—Hondas, Toyotas, and Nissans. A lemon-colored Honda Civic was parked outside the fence with Joshua Brungle perched on its hood.
Merry parked near the station, and Joshua hurried forward.
“This is the car,” he said. “I did a preliminary overlay of the front left tire, full circumference. It’s a match.”
The gas-station attendant, a spry man of fifty, approached them with a grease-stained hand extended. His name was Bobby Verwaal.
“I don’t need any trouble, Inspector,” he said in clipped Afrikaans. “Business could hardly get any worse.”
“I’m sure,” answered Mansell, taking the hand. “What were the transaction dates and mileage?”
Joshua produced the rental papers. He said, “Rented four-fifteen P.M. the afternoon of the second. Returned Friday morning, July fourth at eight-eighteen A.M. Mileage accumulated, three hundred and fifty-six kilometers. It’s three hundred and five kilometers from Port Elizabeth to Peddie in Ciskei and back again. As it turns out, the renter was a foreigner. He used a passport and driver’s license for identification. His name is John Martyn. From London, England.”
Joshua turned the folder over to Mansell, but Bobby Verwaal shook his head. “You can forget that one, gents. If Mr. Martyn’s a Brit, then I’m a Kaffir. And that I’d swear to.”
Mansell cocked his head like a snow owl watching a wolverine on the riverbank. He fished a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and held it out. After a moment’s study, the attendant selected one. Mansell struck a match for them both, asking, “He was South African, then?”
“If I was the gambling sort, I’d wager not.”
“Meaning what?” Joshua asked impatiently. “Speak up, man.” “Definitely European. No question. Austrian, on a guess. Austrian or German.”
“That’s fine,” said Mansell. “And I suppose the car’s been completely cleaned?”
The attendant massaged a day-old beard, a grimace tugging at the lines around his eyes. “I’m afraid the answer’s no, Inspector. I’ve got to admit to that. What with help being what it is, I’ve only managed the outside so far. Sure, I know it’s required and all, but the inside just wasn’t that bad. . . .”
Unable to control his laughter, Joshua slapped Bobby Verwaal fondly on the shoulder. “Let me see if I can convince the inspector here not to report you on that one. Eh?”
Mansell glanced in Merry’s direction and said, “We’ll want aforensic team flown up here within the hour. And a sketch artist.”Merry scrambled for the car radio, and Mansell focused in on Bobby Verwaal again. The way to an Afrikaner’s heart, Mansell knew, was through history. For them, the arrival of Jan van Riebeeck in 1652, with three ships and orders to make a permanent station on the tip of what is now Cape Town, was the greatest moment in their history. It was a tool well used by one in search of a willing accomplice. “Your instincts are very good, Mr. Verwaal. You must be of Dutch blood.”
“No other.”
“A long line of Afrikaners in the Port Elizabeth area, then?”
Bobby Verwaal beamed. “An observant lad, you are, Inspector. My forebearers were among the first five hundred. It’s true.”
Van Riebeeck was employed by the Dutch East India Company. For the Dutch fleet in search of new lands in the Far East, Cape Town became a necessary port for supplies and a necessary reprieve from the sea. In 1662, when van Riebeeck was ordered further east, he left behind a contingent of five hundred whites. The infant town of De Kaap was aborning. The whites spread inland. Owning Bantu slaves became an acceptable custom, interbreeding with Hottentot aborigines an uneasy practice.
“Mr. Verwaal, the man who rented this car may well be a suspect in a double murder. We’re bringing up a sketch artist from the city, and I need you to re-create that man’s face for us.”
“That I can do, Inspector.”
“Good. We’ll let you know when she arrives.”
Bobby Verwaal thanked the inspector for the cigarette and walked back to the station. The woodwind timbre of a train whistle echoed in the distance. The 3:36 on the Theescombe schedule was five minutes late. Merry returned from his call, and Mansell waved them in the direction of a Coke machine near the gas-station rest rooms.
“Logic dictates,” Joshua said, “that if John Martyn rented the car here, he must have come by train from Bloemfontein or Cape Town, right? But if he is our killer, then exposing himself to a twelve- or fifteen-hour return train ride doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.”
“By plane, he’s out of the country in four hours,” Merry replied.
“Right. So why does someone come all the way from England or Germany or wherever in the hell he came from to kill a union official and a black cleaning woman?”
Merry shrugged. “Revenge or money. Why else?”
“Meaning he was hired.”
“Meaning, revenge or money, Ian Elgin would have to have been the primary target.”
“Which means driving all the way to Ciskei to off Sylvia Mabasu would have to have been a smokescreen. A damn risky smokescreen,” Joshua said.
“Not if he wants to frame the black cleaning woman’s husband with both murders.”
Joshua ran his hands roughly through his hair. “I don’t know, Merry. That’s a lot of trouble.”
“But if Anthony Mabasu is pinned with the murders, our killer’s home free and clear.”
“True. And so is the bastard that hired him.” Joshua was pacing now, woodenly and slowly, as if in a confined space. “Okay, this guy kills Sylvia Mabasu first, on Thursday afternoon, right? So he must know that Anthony Mabasu will be the one to find Ian Elgin’s body. How?”
Mansell bought three Cokes from the pop machine and passed them around. He’d been listening to the conversation with one ear, while adding his own private puzzle pieces: a nylon-rayon rope, climbing in caves, victims who should have fought for their lives and didn’t.
For a time, they drank in silence. A breeze sent birch leaves quaking. Overhead, a hawk circled.
“Someone or something convinced Mabasu
that his wife would be in that locker room that night,” Mansell replied, at last. Absently, he squashed the empty pop can between his palms and tossed it toward the trash container. The can caromed noisily off the side and fell undaunted onto the sidewalk. “We have two victims. Both are found with rope around their necks. Everything points to death by strangulation. Lividity of the mucous membranes, pale blue lips, froth around the mouth. Respiration failure is indicated by a lack of oxygen in the tissue and in the red blood cells. Classic symptoms. But the victims don’t resist this terrible path toward death in the conventional way. I keep asking myself, Why? Maybe they were unconscious. Or maybe they were already dead.”
In the ensuing silence, a quizzical mask painted Mansell’s face. He gazed at both detectives, took two steps toward the car, and paused again. “So what else produces the exact same postmortem appearances as asphyxia due to strangulation?”
He strode toward the police car. Merry and Joshua set out in pursuit. Picking up the radio mike, Mansell looked back at Merry. “What time is Elgin’s funeral?”
“Eight o’clock tonight at St. Magdalene’s Church in Jo’burg. They’re flying the casket up there at five twenty-five.”
The station dispatcher acknowledged.
“This is Inspector Mansell. Get hold of Dr. Steenkamp. He’s to meet me in Pathology in thirty minutes. I want an immediate organ review performed on the remains of Ian Elgin and Sylvia Mabasu. I’m on my way in from Lorraine right now. Do you have that?”
The dispatcher repeated the message, and Mansell signed off.
“Joshua,” he said, walking around to the passenger side. “I’d like you to stay here, if you would. Follow up with Forensic and the sketch artist. Check in with me as soon as you’re back. Merry, you’ll drop me at the station house. Then I want you to see if you can find out how Mr. John Martyn of London, England, came to be in Port Elizabeth.”
