The Serpentine Road

by Mendelson, Paul

  Although he has never been a businessman in the traditional sense, he has been an unofficial ambassador separate from, yet also innately connected to, the South African government. As a result, his word is said to carry some weight on the international stage. It was his influence, commentators claim, which brought about the slashing of wholesale prices to South Africa of retro anti-viral medication for HIV sufferers; it was his name attached to NGO projects throughout the country, in education, health, opportunity for black African children, the promotion of indigenous African cultural identity. With Mandela gone, those who were part of the Struggle see him as a link to those times, when victory had come, and the future lay before them.

  ‘As soon as Attorney Classon informed me that you were acquainted with Mr Bheka Bhekifa, sir, I came here to inform you of developments in the case.’

  De Vries is standing before General Sempiwe Thulani in his relentlessly air-conditioned office, said to be the coldest place in the Southern Hemisphere save for Antarctica itself.

  ‘We go back a long way,’ Thulani says, musing. ‘He is a great man who has served our country all his life . . .’

  ‘His son left home years ago, though. It is not as if this matter will reflect on him personally.’

  ‘There is no doubt that the maker of these calls is Trevor Bhekifa? He could not have lent his cell-phone to another party, or had it stolen?’

  ‘We contacted him on that phone,’ De Vries tells him, ‘explained why we wished to speak with him, and he has agreed to return to Cape Town to be questioned. He had not, apparently, heard the news of Miss Holt’s death.’

  ‘Trevor and his father disagree on many things. I do not believe that they are even in regular communication with one another but, Colonel, we are different from you here. For us, family is everything, and anything which affects one member, affects us all.’

  Thulani slips off his high chair, his girth appearing from behind his over-sized desk.

  ‘I will visit him and inform him personally of what is happening. When you speak to Trevor, I want you to show him every respect. When you have completed your interview, take no further action until you have spoken with me. I wish to be kept informed of every development. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The media, the newspapers: can you imagine what a story like this would mean to them? Less than a year after the elections? Instruct your team that no information is to be leaked under any circumstances. If what you tell me is accurate, then Trevor Bhekifa was an acquaintance of the victim and is doing his duty by submitting to interview with you.’ He stares at De Vries. ‘You agree?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Thulani dismisses him with a flick of his thick wrist.

  ‘Colonel?’

  De Vries turns back to face him.

  ‘You are being uncommonly co-operative. I hope that this is not merely lip-service.’

  De Vries mouths: ‘No, sir.’

  Thulani misses the jibe, and Vaughn exits the office, finds Julius Mngomezulu standing in the ante-room with Thulani’s secretary. De Vries walks past him, through the outer door, into the grey but temperate corridor. Only then can he feel his jaw begin to relax.

  Norman Classon says: ‘The Democratic Reform Group was a think-tank set up in 2010 by political refugees from the ANC, intellectuals and public figures in South Africa, to examine the possibility of genuine multi-party politics in the country.’ He looks from De Vries to Don February to Ben Thwala; all are attentive. ‘Trevor Bhekifa was amongst them, a rebel to the cause. A few months back, they announced the formation of a new political party, the Democratic Reform Party – DRP. Can you imagine what a coup it was for them to have Bhekifa? Even though it is his son, that name buys hundreds of thousands of black votes. It could transform them from a fringe party to one with a real chance of upsetting the status quo. Considering the results of the 2014 election, this could blow open the entire political system. They posted an invitation to the people to join them, seeking those with expertise to become spokesmen and women on their behalf: white, coloured, black. Trevor Bhekifa is an entrepreneur; he speaks for them on business opportunity.’

  ‘Maybe this is what he was discussing with Taryn Holt?’ Don says.

  De Vries turns to him.

  ‘We’ll find out.’

  ‘Considering Miss Holt’s financial weight,’ Classon says, ‘I would think he was discussing funding. Any political party must have considerable backing to stand any chance of making an impact.’

  ‘Was she political?’

  ‘Her father was no friend of the ANC. They called him and his company . . .’ He consults his notes: ‘“Co-conspirators with the oppressive regime”.’

  ‘So,’ De Vries says, ‘she has been around questions of politics all her life.’

  ‘Yes,’ Classon says, ‘but Bhekifa and she come from the opposite ends of the spectrum. It is a truly strange match – politically, anyway.’

  ‘Both rebels, perhaps?’

  ‘You don’t really consider him a suspect, surely?’

  ‘Why not?’ De Vries says immediately. ‘He was at Holt’s house around the time she died. He obviously visited it regularly. He knew about the alarm system, had knowledge of the set-up there.’

  ‘But if Bhekifa was lining her up as a benefactor for the party, why would he kill her?’

  ‘We don’t know anything right now, Norman. We speak to him; we see what he says. Then we can start trying to put everything together.’ De Vries stands. ‘Must be a treat for a lawyer like you. All the taboos in one go: money, politics, sex and violence.’

  Trevor Bhekifa arrives from Stellenbosch within an hour and a half, and is sitting in the Interview Room opposite De Vries and Don February a few minutes later. De Vries likes this place, knows that cases are often made in here, feels that the surroundings alone exert a pressure on a suspect which begins to break their resolve.

  Bhekifa is offered coffee or water, both of which he declines.

  De Vries begins.

  ‘We are here, sir, merely to establish some facts about the murder of Miss Taryn Holt, and the relationship which you may or may not have had with her. Do you understand?’

  Bhekifa nods, says: ‘Yes, I do. But, I am in shock, sir, because I did not know what happened to Taryn until I was informed by your Sergeant only two hours ago.’

  De Vries pauses a moment, then says: ‘We can take it in your own time.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Bhekifa is dressed in a dark suit, white shirt with gold cufflinks, and a patterned silk tie; his shoes are high quality and smartly polished.

  ‘I need to establish first whether the calls indicated on Miss Holt’s activity record in the last seven weeks, to and from your cell-phone number, were made and received by you.’

  ‘Yes. Taryn and I were involved. We spoke often.’

  ‘How long had you known Miss Holt?’

  He leans his head back, closes his eyes.

  ‘I suppose . . . . Maybe six or seven months ago, at the end of spring. It was at the launch of a book about the political writer and film-maker Ousmane Sembene, in a bookshop in town – and then a party at the Rust en Vreugd Museum in Buitenkant Street. We started talking, and then I suggested that we meet up again. She accepted.’

  ‘You went out together?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ He shifts position in the small chair. ‘That is . . . We met at our homes. Mainly, I would visit her at her house.’

  ‘You didn’t go out to bars or restaurants?’

  ‘We preferred to stay private.’

  ‘This developed into an intimate relationship?’

  ‘Yes. We would see each other once or twice a week. We are both busy people. We have businesses to run, employees to mentor, but we became close.’

  ‘Did you discuss politics?’

  ‘Yes. Taryn was interested in the political alternatives that the group, the party I belong to, was discussing.’

  ‘The .
. .’ De Vries looks down, reads: ‘“Democratic Reform Party”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was Miss Holt interested in joining your party?’

  ‘We were talking about it, yes. Taryn was very passionate in her support of the arts, of women’s rights. She was a passionate woman who had much to offer.’ He bows his head. ‘I cannot believe it . . .’

  ‘Was she considering donating money to the party?’

  ‘Why do you ask this?’

  ‘Because,’ De Vries says, ‘I need to know some background before we come on to the specifics of when you last saw Miss Holt, whether you had cause for concern for her safety. Matters like that.’

  ‘Taryn and I did discuss whether she would be able to donate to the party.’

  ‘And was she going to?’

  Again, Bhekifa re-adjusts his position, frowns. De Vries smiles to himself; it is impossible to be comfortable in that chair. The legs on one side have been shortened so that the seat is at a slight angle and within minutes the back of the suspect begins to ache; the chair is too low for an adult.

  ‘Yes. A few weeks ago, we decided that the DRP could benefit from a strong funding base. She was prepared to be our first major financial supporter, to play a role in policy formation, concentrate on areas she was an expert in.’

  ‘Did she make a payment?’

  ‘No. She told me that funds would have to be released, that she would investigate how soon this could be done. There were also other matters she wished to consider but, in principle, she wanted to support us.’

  De Vries nods.

  ‘At any point in the last weeks, did Miss Holt express any concern about her safety?’

  ‘Not really . . . She told me that her exhibition was causing some problems, that some small-minded locals had objected and were calling her, meeting with her, sending her threatening letters, but she said that it was because they did not understand the art.’

  ‘What did you think of it?’

  ‘I did not see the letters.’

  ‘I meant the art.’

  ‘Oh, that . . . I only saw two or three paintings when they were in her house. They were powerful. They represented what Taryn was about. They were great art, and they conveyed a message.’

  ‘You didn’t visit her gallery?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I am sure that I would have, but I am busy too. I have my businesses as well as the work I do for the DRP.’

  ‘Last week, when did you see Miss Holt?’

  ‘We spoke a lot.’ He looks De Vries in the face. ‘You will know that if you have seen records of our calls to each other. I did not think that I would see her, but on Wednesday I wanted to be with her. She was upset by the demonstration and the attack on the gallery, so I drove into town, told her I would be at her home and, when she came back, I kept her company that night.’

  ‘What time did you arrive?’

  Bhekifa shrugs.

  ‘I don’t know. Ten thirty perhaps?’

  ‘And you left the next day, when?’

  ‘Maybe 7.30 a.m. Taryn wanted to return to the gallery, to sort out the damage. She starts every day early.’

  ‘And that was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘No.’ He leans forward. ‘I saw her just for an hour on Thursday night.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Again, I don’t know exactly. I was in Cape Town meeting a client. We had a late meeting, a drink together and then, on my way back, I called in on Taryn. Maybe 9.30 p.m. I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you call her before going to her house?’

  ‘No. I wanted to surprise her. To show her that I was concerned about her.’

  ‘How long did you stay?’

  ‘I said, about an hour.’

  ‘And where did you go from there?’

  ‘Home. I was tired. I had been working all day and then had this meeting in Cape Town in the evening.’

  ‘Can anybody vouch for when you arrived home?’

  ‘Maybe. I live in my own development of six apartments. I don’t know if the security guard was at the desk, but there are cameras. I might be on them . . . Taryn was killed that night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When? What happened?’

  ‘We think someone broke in and shot Miss Holt.’

  ‘A robbery?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  De Vries sees pain etched on his face, is uncertain whether the expression matches what he reads in the man’s eyes. There is not grief, but concern.

  ‘I need to ask you some more questions.’

  ‘Yes, okay . . .’

  ‘Miss Holt had an alarm system at her home. Were you familiar with it?’

  ‘I suppose so. She had a remote for it in her bedroom. I had not seen one of those before.’

  ‘Did she activate the alarm after you had left?’

  Trevor Bhekifa pauses.

  ‘I don’t know. Probably.’

  ‘You didn’t hear anything as you left? The sound of the alarm arming?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where was Miss Holt when you left?’

  ‘In the house. She came to the door with me. She said good-bye; said that she was going to have a bath.’

  ‘And you drove straight home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Something in Bhekifa’s tone makes De Vries say: ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes . . . I sat in my car for a while after I had left her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I was not sure about how I felt. I think she wanted me to stay with her, but I had meetings early the next day . . . I was deciding if I should go back to her. I needed to be home. If I had stayed with her, she would not be dead now.’

  De Vries stares at him, says: ‘You might both be dead.’

  ‘Trevor Bhekifa is the last person we know who saw Taryn Holt alive. He claims he left her house at approximately 10.30 p.m. That puts him within thirty minutes of the earliest estimate of the time of death. There may be corroborative evidence at his place of residence if the video cameras recorded his return. I have already dispatched officers to investigate that.’

  ‘So, he remains a suspect?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  De Vries is aware that most of the squad-room are stealing glances at General Thulani in his office. He is rarely seen on any of the operations floors; many of the elite unit team have never met him.

  ‘What can I tell his father?’

  ‘Whatever you choose, sir. His son has admitted to having a relationship with the victim, that he was interested in involving her in his political party, the . . . Democratic Reform Party. He wanted her to become a donor to the party.’

  Thulani shakes his head slowly. De Vries wonders whether he rues Trevor Bhekifa’s political actions – in direct opposition to his illustrious father – or whether it is the mingling of races in the bedroom which disturbs him. He knows little about the Assistant Deputy Provincial Commissioner beyond the fact that he has vied with De Vries’s own boss, Henrik du Toit, for most of their careers, and has been overt in his desire to see Du Toit, De Vries and any other white officers he considers tainted by their service during the Apartheid era shunted into the background.

  ‘If she was to donate to his party, what motive, then, would he have to murder her?’

  ‘Nothing obvious,’ De Vries says. ‘If it was him, there could have been relationship problems. She was not monogamous and certainly had at least one other boyfriend at this time. Men and women become jealous; a disagreement can easily turn violent. It is still early in the investigation.’

  Thulani feels under his shirt collar.

  ‘Tread very carefully, Colonel. You are dealing with important, influential people here. Men who have connections to the highest levels of government, to the very top.’

  ‘I am aware of that, sir.’

  ‘Your performance will reflect on all of us.’

  ‘I must go where the evidence takes m
e. But, I hear what you say.’

  He sees Thulani glance at him; his is not an expression of confidence.

  ‘You impressed on everyone the importance of keeping all elements of the investigation private, away from the press?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You do not have a reputation, Colonel, for discretion or diplomacy. This is your opportunity to impress me.’

  De Vries resists a parting comment, watches Thulani strut heavily across the squad-room to the elevators.

  On his return from Stellenbosch, Don February travels straight to Sergeant Joey Morten, the department’s technology consultant. Attached to the Crime Scene Unit based in the building, he sits in a small office surrounded by computer screens. Don hands him the memory stick and, within moments, on screen he can see the foyer to Bhekifa’s luxurious apartment building.

  Above the security desk, which is located opposite the elevators, are four analogue clocks indicating the time in Cape Town, New York, London and Tokyo. In the bottom right hand corner of the screen, displayed digitally, is the date and time. Don looks around as the door to Morten’s office opens and De Vries’s head appears.

  ‘I have it here,’ Don tells him.

  ‘What time did you say he got back?’

  ‘About 12.30 a.m., but there are timing issues.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Don indicates towards the screen.

  ‘We are just looking at it now.’

  ‘Where does this start and end, Don?’ Morten asks.

  ‘The security guard called the company who installed the equipment. I talked to the owner. He said that this system records digitally for a period of twenty-eight days before the records are deleted. The recording is sent electronically immediately to the company offices in central Stellenbosch. That is where I went. There was no problem in obtaining a copy. I requested the period from 9 p.m. on Thursday, second April to 6 a.m. on Friday, third.’