by Mark Graham
“A long way to go.” Mansell turned pale eyes in Lea Goduka’s direction. “You knew Mr. Elgin well, I take it?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“We sat together on the flight back last night,” Delaney explained. “Lea thought it would be wise to speak with you.”
“I see. How did you and Mr. Elgin meet?”
Lea’s eyes wandered nervously, eventually coming to rest on Delaney. “I think this was a mistake,” she said. She pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’d better get back to work.”
“Let’s say leaving your scarf at the train station was a mistake,” said Mansell, wondering at his own feeling of disappointment. “But coming to me wasn’t. Please sit down.”
Embarrassed, she asked, “You have my scarf?”
“A rose chiffon, nicely embroidered. Very pretty. I’ll see to it that you get it back,” answered Mansell. “Now about Mr. Elgin. How did you meet?”
“It was about a year ago. Ian—Mr. Elgin, I mean—had come down to the docks. He was meeting a ship. Somebody he knew, I guess. I remember because he kept kidding me about the name. The ship was called the ARVA, you know, and Ian kept saying he thought the LEA would have been a more exotic name.”
“I certainly agree,” said the inspector. Laughter failed to cover Lea Goduka’s anxiety.
“Well, Ian bought me a drink later that day, and we . . .” Her eyes met Mansell’s briefly. She slipped back in her chair. “I don’t want that girl to die with everyone thinking she was the one.”
“Her name was Sylvia. Sylvia Mabasu.”
“Yes, I know.”
“So, then, you and Mr. Elgin became involved.”
“Yes. Whenever he was in town. It was crazy, I know, the sleep room at the train station and all. But Ian had a crazy imagination. Something about places like that. I don’t know. They turned him on, I guess. It’s embarrassing, but we did have a good time. Once we started using the station, Ian would usually bring brandy or wine, and he’d always leave the cleaning lady, I mean Sylvia, five rand.”
“Very generous. But you didn’t keep your appointment with Mr. Elgin the night he was killed, did you? Or did you?”
“Yes. Well, no. I mean I was on my way, but some guy plowed through a red light and smashed into the front fender of my car. I couldn’t believe it. And it wouldn’t drive after that.”
“What time was that?”
“Around two. We were supposed to meet at two-thirty, and—” “Where did the accident happen?”
“On Commercial Street. Not far from home. I live in Kwaford near the stadium.”
“And the man. Do you remember him?”
“He was nice enough. He said he was sorry, that it was his fault. He asked me not to call the police. He said he’d pay for the damage and gave me five hundred rand.”
Mansell ran a hand through his hair. “He gave you five hundred rand for a dented fender? In cash?”
“I was afraid not to take it.”
“That’s fine. You made a good deal.” From the breast pocket of his coat, Mansell produced a copy of the sketch of Fredrik Steiner, a.k.a. John Martyn. “Is this the man?”
As Lea Goduka studied the face, hopefulness dissolved into disappointment. “I really don’t think so. I’m sorry. He wore glasses and a hat, a golfer’s hat. He just left me standing there in the middle of the night. Finally, the police came, and—”
“What else do you remember about the man?”
Lea Goduka squirmed in her chair. “He was big. Not as tall as you, but bigger. And he wore gloves. I remember that. They were leather gloves. Kid leather, you know? They were a light tan color with a gold buckle across the back.”
“Yes. I know the type.” Mansell nodded briefly. Gloves and glasses. Hymie Wolffe? The bulldog face crept inside Mansell’s brain. Annoyed, he pushed the image aside; wishful thinking. He said, “One more question, Lea. Your scarf. You say you never made it to the station the night Mr. Elgin was killed. Then how is it your scarf ended up in the sitting room?”
Lea hesitated. Avoiding Mansell’s eyes, she glanced in Delaney’s direction again. “The night before. We were supposed to meet. I waited three hours. Ian never showed up. I guess I was upset when I left.”
Mansell nodded slowly. At last, he instructed Lea Goduka to come to the police station later that day to meet with a sketch artist, and the young black woman returned to work.
Alone, Mansell and Delaney lingered over the last of their coffee. He offered details about Fredrik Steiner while she examined the sketch. She mentioned Ian Elgin’s new replacement. As they were leaving the restaurant, impulse seized Mansell, and he suggested, “A drink sometime soon? Maybe some music?” Delaney responded with equal impulse, saying, “Why not?”
When Mansell returned to his office, he canceled the search for the owner of the scarf. Instead, he assigned Merry Gosani the task of following up on Lea Goduka’s story. He gave the detective details over the phone and then typed out a brief report.
Then he turned to the stack of papers on his desk.
A report from the National Intelligence Service detailed three recorded incidents of ricin and/or atropine poisonings, all within the past six years: a Bulgarian writer whose inflammatory exposé detailed the extremism and domination of the Bulgarian KGB; a former member of the Red Autumn terrorist group who turned state’s witness but never got the chance to tell his story; a West German attorney general whose declaration of war against syndicated crime in that country proved extremely unpopular.
A thirty-page report on the Federation of Mineworkers Union mentioned Ian Elgin only once, and then only by name and title.
Piet Richter’s personal profile on Deputy Minister Jan Koster indicated a typical Afrikaner official who worked too many hours and spent too many days away from home.
Mansell set the lot aside and went in search of the district prosecutor.
Peter Hurst, with a briefcase in either hand, was hastening from his office when he saw the chief inspector approaching. He hesitated long enough to realize there was no escape, and then continued on.
“What is it, Inspector?” asked Hurst, as they walked toward the elevators on the third floor. “I have twenty-three arrests from last night, a near riot and two deaths at the auto plant in Uitenhage, a hearing on Anthony Mabasu in ten minutes, and an injunction pending against the Wool Exchange this afternoon.”
The elevator doors closed around them. They started down.
“You also have a bungled murder investigation on your hands, Prosecutor,” said Mansell bluntly. “The results of which, were they to become public, would no doubt see you out of a job come the next election.”
The doors parted. Neither man moved. Peter Hurst stared, thin-lipped, at the chief inspector of Homicide. At last, he said, “That case has been closed, Mansell.”
Mansell pressed the hold button. He corrected the district prosecutor, saying, “The Elgin case is closed. The Sylvia Mabasu case, on your orders, is still very much open. Peter, our two victims weren’t strangled, despite Security’s assertions. They were poisoned by a highly sophisticated amalgam of ricin and atropine.”
They exited from City Hall by way of the courtyard. The sun stood high in the sky, fluorescent and penetrating. Hurst paused to put on sunglasses.
“Confirmed?” he asked. “Forensic, Pathology, the works?” “The reports will be on your desk in one hour.”
They crossed the Mayor’s Garden and stepped into the shadows of the Provincial Courthouse. “This is sticky, Inspector. You realize that.”
“Then let’s unstick it, shall we?” They stopped at the entrance. The building was a modern heap of smoked glass and chrome. “We’ve identified the vehicle that Sylvia Mabasu was riding in at the time of her death. It’s the same Honda Civic that was parked beneath the lounge windows at King George Station the night Ian Elgin died. And we’ve identified the driver.”
An old Ford cruised down Station Street with the radio blaring. A street s
weeper lumbered slowly past, dodging cars along the curb and leaving a thin streak of muddy water in its wake. Mansell held the door open.
Finally, Hurst removed his sunglasses. An exaggerated sigh escaped his lungs. “Mansell, you amaze me. You really do. Meet me in my office at two sharp. I’m on a tight schedule.”
Congratulations, thought Mansell, wondering who the district prosecutor would have to consult with between now and two, but resisting speculation.
****
Fifteen hours out of Freetown, Sierra Leone, ARVA II steamed across the equator into the placid waters of the South Atlantic.
From the freighter’s musty hold, a rear derrick crane hoisted eight crates onto the main deck. Then, under the watchful eye of Andrew Van der Merve, the object of ARVA’s rendezvous at sea three days before, the trademarks, superscriptions, and shipping imprints on each crate were methodically obliterated by two crew members armed with power-belt sanders.
When the dust of their labors lay floating upon the blue waters of the sea, other hands set about uncovering the recently acquired pallets of precut lumber, packing supplies, and the baling materials. An assembly line of six men, each equipped with basic carpenter’s tools, was formed. Working from a design perfected during five previous voyages, the crew constructed eight new, slightly larger crates.
When the crates were completed, a gas-generated feed pump was brought on deck, and on the bottom of each new crate, the crew sprayed a thin layer of polyurethane foam. When the liquid foam was exposed to the air, it expanded and hardened. A deck boom laid the original crates inside. More foam was added.
Finally, as the last layer of foam solidified, mining implements were carefully arranged upon its surface: a single pneumatic hammer and two pickaxes. The foam swelled, locking the tools in place.
When the foam hardened completely, the crew nailed the lids shut. Baling wire secured the packages further still.
A stencil was carefully placed on two sides, and a thin spray of red paint christened the crates with new markings:
EAST FIELDS MINING CORPORATION
EAST RAND-BRAKPAN COUNTY
TRANSVAAL PROVINCE
SOUTH AFRICA, AFRICA
A rubber stamp added the words Bonded and Secured on each end.
By noon, all eight crates were safe and snug in ARVA’s hold. By 10:15 that night, nails were set on the fiftieth crate. Again, baling wire was secured, and labels were stamped and painted. Finally, as the waxing moon rose ever higher in the sky, the deck was cleared, and the crew was relieved.
Tomorrow they would begin anew.
****
District Prosecutor Hurst had not been flattered by Cecil Leistner’s personal interest in the Ian Elgin murder. Interest, Hurst realized, breeds attention; attention leads to scrutiny.
Equally, Hurst had not welcomed the new evidence presented to him this morning by Inspector Mansell. It meant reopening a case best left closed. It meant exposing himself.
Therefore, Hurst placed a direct-dial call to a certain Mr. Martin Montana in Johannesburg. Montana listened carefully to the new developments. He advised the prosecutor to make a second call, advising him also on what to expect from the call. He also told Hurst it was vital that CIB maintain its investigation into the Elgin-Mabasu murders. Hurst understood what this intimated.
The second connection took ten minutes and three secretaries to complete. Finally, the minister of justice came on the line.
“Prosecutor Hurst, what a pleasant surprise.” A voice filled with warmth and acquiescence. Hurst would have preferred cold and suspicious. “How’s the weather on the coast?”
“Marvelous, sir. Just beautiful. You should spend a weekend with us sometime, Minister. The sailing is excellent this time of year.”
“An invitation I should consider, but, perhaps, not the reason for your call, yes?”
Hurst reviewed the new evidence for the justice minister. If Leistner was irritated or disturbed, he didn’t show it.
“Intriguing,” he said. “My compliments to the inspector. And your opinion on how we might proceed, Prosecutor Hurst?”
The prosecutor loosened his tie against the stuffiness gathering in the room. “The evidence against Anthony Mabasu is hardly concrete at this point, Minister.”
“This raises some questions, certainly.”
“Yes.” There was a knock at the office door. Nigel Mansell entered the room. Hurst waved him to a chair at the rear of the office. He swung his own chair away, facing the windows, and said, “Minister, CIB has already issued a nationwide alert for Fredrik Steiner. It appears he may still be in the country. I think this means questioning the results of the Elgin investigation, perhaps reopening the case, sir.”
“Nonsense,” Leistner retorted. “It merely means we’re following up on new evidence in the death of Sylvia Mabasu. A news conference to that effect might quiet things down in your neck of the woods, Peter. Think about it. Also, remind our ambitious Inspector Mansell that the Elgin affair is still a Police Act matter. And, until something concrete comes of your alert for Fredrik Steiner, it may be that you can find another matter into which the inspector might put his energies. Good day, Prosecutor.”
Peter Hurst cut the tip off a Don Diego. He spent a moment savoring the aroma, composing himself. Then he lit the end with a long fireplace match. Eventually, he waved Mansell forward.
“Care for a cigar, Inspector?” Mansell shook his head, and the prosecutor reclined further in his chair. He drew heavily on the cigar, exhaled, and followed the path of ascending smoke as it huddled against the ceiling. At last, he spoke again. “Two blacks, a man and a woman, were knifed yesterday in Uitenhage. You know that, of course, but there does seem to be some confusion in the matter. I’d be grateful if you’d handle it personally. Nip it in the bud. The blacks are accusing the riot police. The police are saying it was an execution of informers by the blacks themselves. Not a unique exposé, true, but nonetheless touchy.”
Mansell bent his head forward. “An illegal demonstration at the gates of one of Port Elizabeth’s most important taxpayers, the sole purpose of which is to point out wage discrepancies between whites and blacks? An illegal gathering designed solely to create friction between races? By legal definition, flagrant acts against internal security. By law, flagrant acts in violation of . . . of what? The Terrorist Act? The Suppression of Communism Act? The Gatherings and Demonstration Act? Certainly matters for the Security Branch, Prosecutor, not the lowly CIB.”
Hurst sat up, cigar clenched between his teeth. Mansell exuded a quiet indifference. The prosecutor attempted to match it.
“This office and that of the district commander will authorize your investigation, Inspector. Please begin this afternoon. I’ll look for a preliminary first thing in the morning.”
“And my present investigation? Ancient history, I suppose?”
“No, no. No need to let that die on the vine, is there? Detective Brungle seems competent. Have him coordinate things for a time. Keep an eye on him, of course.”
If only humans were blessed with the ability to read minds, Mansell thought. He asked, “You’re not closing the Sylvia Mabasu case, then?”
“Absolutely not. Also, if it hasn’t been done yet, have the detective expand the alert for Steiner to include NIS,” replied Hurst. “Oh, and by the way, the minister of justice commended your diligence on the entire affair.”
“I’m flattered. And was it the minister who suggested I be reassigned?”
Hurst glanced in Mansell’s direction, eyebrows arched, lips pursed. He reached for the telephone.
“Susan, connect me with Captain Terreblanche’s office, please.” He covered the mouth of the receiver with his palm. “Will you excuse me now, Inspector?”
Chapter 7
Samuel Crawley had been the ideal inmate at Jansenville Provincial Prison. Nothing in his history had suggested that he would be otherwise. Sam possessed the demeanor of a lazy river and the imagination of a child.
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br /> But some six years ago, on a cool Saturday in August, the forty-six-year-old African, a quart-and-a-half drunk on grain alcohol and fruit juice, hopped aboard a number seven bulldozer owned by a wheat farmer named Johann and lost control. The cows in Mr. Johann’s pasture, Sam told the magistrate at his trial, “looked more like giant robots spittin’ fire than they did cows chewin’ grass.” And the robots, he swore, were marching straight for town. The number seven bulldozer had been Samuel Crawley’s idea of civil defense.
As it turned out, it proved an effective weapon. The two-and-a-half-meter blade mutilated and killed nine cows before Johann’s son, Isaac, managed to subdue the drunken man. Unfortunately, Isaac Johann was the second person to arrive on the scene. The first was a fellow farmhand named Si Bramble. Si was also drunk; not so drunk that he was unaware of Sam’s odd behavior, but enough so as to get himself caught beneath the dozer’s steel tread, where he was instantly crushed to death.
Samuel Crawley was contrite and repentant. The magistrate was lenient. He received an eight-year sentence, served four, and was released on the condition that he find full-time employment.
The boiler-room job beneath H. F. Verwoerd Airport suited Sam just fine. Mostly he read comic books, “The Dragons of Doom” being his favorite, and worked crossword puzzles, generally without success. And though he hadn’t the skills to operate anything so complicated as a pressure valve, Samuel Crawley knew how to stoke a coal fire. So when the airport janitors emptied rest-room trash into a dozen different trash chutes, it all ended up at Sam’s basement station. It was his job to dispense of it.
On down days, when Sam remembered how his friend Si Bramble had looked under that bulldozer, he would take his sack lunch to the floor below the boiler room, where sewage and water pipes kept company with concrete and condensation. It was cool and quiet; no one ever disturbed him.
Friday was one of those days.
Sam had carved out a nice spot for himself near the service elevator. There was an old luggage rack for his comic books and his lunch and a folding chair. But today the chair was occupied. Some guy was sitting in his chair resting his head and arms against his luggage rack. Sam was fit to be tied.
