The Serpentine Road

by Mendelson, Paul

  ‘Other cars. New cars?’

  ‘No one comes down here. No reason.’

  ‘A lot of crime?’

  ‘Less than your neighbourhood. Nothing to take here. Anything worth having’s been taken years back.’

  ‘I need you to do something for me,’ De Vries says.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I need you to call the local cops.’

  Selwyn stops, turns to De Vries.

  ‘You said you were a cop.’

  ‘I am, but this isn’t my patch. I’m here because a friend of Mike’s from the old days asked me to look for him, ’cos he wasn’t around in his old haunts any more. If I’m here, it’s hours of paperwork, questions. I can’t do that. I need a favour.’

  He finds his wallet, pulls out a blue hundred rand note, a red fifty, and watches Selwyn’s eyes follow the coloured paper.

  ‘Can you go up to a shop, buy you and your friend some dinner, ask one of the guys there to make the call? Just tell them you looked in on him ’cos you hadn’t seen him and that’s what you saw.’

  Selwyn nods. Vaughn hands him the notes.

  ‘If you mention me, it’ll fuck me up. Can you keep me out of it?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘And Danie?’

  ‘Danie doesn’t say anything.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Selwyn crosses his arms, says slowly: ‘Danie and I will have tinned chicken stew and beer for dinner. If we talk, we’ll talk about that a while.’

  Vaughn watches Selwyn gesture to Danie and begin to walk towards the main road. De Vries waves as he drives away, but neither of them see him. He wonders whether they will keep their word and keep him out of it. He doesn’t know what to tell Mitchell Smith, or what to do himself. His mind is racing, but he cannot imagine who would be killing these men twenty-one years after the event. Four of them stabbed. No doubt now: no coincidence. He wonders whether Smith and he will be next, whether Kobus Nel is tidying up history for some reason. No one knows that there is a connection between these deaths. He does not know whether he must reveal it, or whether he must play the scene out, discover the meaning behind it; keep history’s secret. He feels hungry and tired but knows that he will not eat, will not sleep.

  It is not raining. Still the clouds are high, forming quickly over the mountain range, disappearing again over the City Bowl. De Vries has spent the night wondering what to do about Mike de Groot and Mitchell Smith. In the early hours, it hits him that he has a major investigation with an SAPS officer as prime suspect. He feels weak and helpless.

  Don February arrives in the office later than usual.

  ‘My wife has what she calls man flu,’ he tells De Vries. ‘It is a cold, but she has upgraded it to stay home from work. And, as it was so serious, to keep up appearances I had to go shopping for her. I am sorry.’

  ‘Keep ’em happy, Don. That’s my advice.’

  Don nods.

  ‘What did Holt’s neighbour tell you?’

  ‘Nkosi – she identified him from the pictures immediately – has been watching the road. He arrived there at ten fifty-two on the night Taryn Holt was murdered. She says that he did not get out of his car while she was watching, but that she is sure it was the man she had seen, six times in all, she stated.’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell you this before?’

  Don stutters: ‘She is . . . She is a girl who only answers precisely the question she has been asked. It is an affliction, I think. I had not asked her the correct question.’

  ‘She is certain of his identity?’

  ‘She says she saw the same man, in the grey suit, talking with the police officers, coming out of the Holt house on the morning we arrived.’

  De Vries nods, contemplates.

  ‘So, maybe we have a witness who can place him at the scene. But, he still has room to manoeuvre.’

  ‘I would not want the entire case to depend on her testimony . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She is not . . .’ He searches for the words. ‘. . . A sympathetic witness. And I am not certain that she would be allowed, or even herself prepared, to testify.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  De Vries shakes his head.

  ‘She had noted the license plate. I had it checked before coming up. The registration belonged to a car which was wrecked in an accident two years ago. There is no link to a silver BMW.’

  ‘So, he drives an anonymous car . . .’

  ‘There is one more thing, sir . . .’ Don says forlornly. ‘I was working here at the side of your desk yesterday. I saw Lieutenant Mngomezulu come into the squad room, which was empty. He did not see me. He was looking around. He went to my desk and I had left papers there. He took one. I am not sure, but I think it was a note about the chicken takeaway and whether Nkosi had been to the restaurant.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Just that. Hand-written by me.’

  ‘So Mngomezulu knows we have a link there . . .’ De Vries sighs. ‘I’m going to make a suggestion: I’m closing the case. It’s over. We have what we need to tie in Angus Lyle. I am going to report to General Thulani that we have almost tied up all the loose ends and that we will conclude our report in the next two or three days. You go home to your wife. I have an appointment. If I can, I’ll make sure Mngomezulu hears we’re closing it down. Then, on Saturday, we can regroup and see what we have learned.’

  ‘What will we learn at home?’

  ‘You won’t learn anything, and that’s fine.’ He sits at his desk, gestures Don towards him. ‘Ben Thwala: he worked up in Pretoria, didn’t he?’

  ‘I think for three months.’

  ‘That’s fine. He’ll know the basics of how it works up there. Call him now, Don. I want him here.’

  ‘Now now?’

  ‘Ja.’

  Don turns away from the desk, faces the window and calls Thwala. De Vries sits back in his chair; he counts off names on his fingers, mouthing the words.

  ‘He’s coming just now.’

  ‘Good. We need to brief Classon, Ulton and, God help us, Doctor Jafari. We need everything seemingly concluded.’

  ‘The rest of the team?’

  ‘Tell them to take leave. If we’re writing it all up, that’ll make sense. Nkosi didn’t kill Taryn Holt on a whim. He planned it and carried it out and, since there is so much interest from above, we can assume he was acting under orders.’ He pauses. They catch each other’s eye, realize what the statement actually means.

  ‘I’ve got an old SAPS contact too. He may be able to help us with what might be happening.’

  There is a rapid knock at the office door. Ben Thwala ducks to enter the office, sits where De Vries points, sits in the low wonky chair, sits straight.

  ‘I’ll call Steve Ulton at home. He knows what’s happening. He’ll do whatever is needed.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Of course you don’t, Norman,’ De Vries tells him. ‘But we’re not doing anything illegal. We are just conducting a private enquiry to gain information on a suspect. That must be acceptable?’

  Norman Classon stretches his neck and shoulders.

  ‘We’re informing General Thulani that a case is closed and the perpetrator found when we know full well that it is not.’

  ‘We know, yes. But until we can prove it, you think that means anything? We’ve discussed this before. I need you to tell no one. Not Thulani, not anyone. No one. That way, no one else is implicated and we don’t have to worry about trust – on any level.’

  ‘Does that include Brigadier du Toit?’

  ‘With him, it is not a question of trust. It is just better not to tell him, or he will worry. Don’t you think?’

  ‘And that, I suppose, is your defence when this all comes into the open?’

  ‘Ever the attorney . . .’

  ‘Did you order Sergeant Thwala to Pretoria?’

  ‘I told Thwala exactly where we were,’ D
e Vries says. He’s a good officer. He understands the position. The fact is, he was seconded to Pretoria two years ago, spent three months there, including time in Liaison with the Police Ministry. He’ll stay with a relative and make some discreet enquiries. He ought to have a good idea of someone he can trust there. If he’s found out, he knows what’s at stake.’

  ‘I hope he does.’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘And you? What will you do?’

  ‘Nothing. I want to be seen to be doing nothing. If they’re watching, they’re watching me. I’m going to a beer festival, in Greyton.’

  ‘I saw the posters.’

  ‘You need to be in the process of drawing all the paper-work into the form it would have to be in to close the case around Lyle.’

  ‘And Doctor Jafari?’

  ‘I’ll talk to her. I think the doctor will react positively if the right language is used. After all, she contacted me when she found the syringe mark. I’m taking that to mean she understands.’

  ‘You trust her?’

  De Vries smirks.

  ‘You know what? Strangely, I do.’

  De Vries travels to Greyton in the passenger seat, driven by the son of his neighbour for the agreed fee of the price of the fuel. The boy’s girlfriend is working at one of the stalls at the beer festival and they plan to camp out for the last night in the back of the bakkie. Next day, the arrangement is for the girl, who is to remain moderately sober since she is at work, to drive all three of them home.

  De Vries has called Anna Jafari, explained what he is doing and why, and she has accepted what he has told her. Off rotation for two days, there is no reason for her to comment on her report.

  The teenager drives carefully, both hands on the wheel at all times, diligently checking his mirrors, sticking rigidly to the speed limit. He asks if he can play music; De Vries, who plans to doze for the ninety-minute journey, agrees.

  He wakes as the bakkie struggles up Sir Lowry’s Pass to drive across the Overberg, the area atop the plateau known for its forestry and fruit growing. At MacNeil’s Farmstall, they pull in to pick up their renowned pies and some cool drinks. De Vries remains in the car and does not tell the boy that this is where one of his most testing cases began: the dump-site for two teenage bodies in a skip around the back. He has not stopped here since.

  After another forty minutes, they turn onto the road which takes them through Genadendal, then on towards the country town of Greyton. The cloud is lower and darker now, the humidity rising. Even with both windows open the cab of the bakkie is warm and sticky.

  Because he booked his stay late, the guesthouses in Greyton itself are full, so De Vries has opted for a country motel a couple of kilometres out of town. The deal includes a minivan to shuttle guests to and from the beer festival; an old colleague of De Vries’s is staying there also.

  The boy waits, engine running, as De Vries stands on the road and presses the intercom button. The outside of the Travellers’ Haven is unprepossessing: a high wall painted caramel; an archway guarded by two heavy metal gates. After a moment, the gates open slowly, De Vries waves at his driver, and the boy speeds away.

  The motel is set up in a rectangle, a closed courtyard of peach-coloured terraced chalets around a tarmacked central car park. The only break from the construction are three unhappy-looking pine trees growing in a line down the middle of the car park. Although there are plenty of cars, there seems to be nobody around. At almost 5.45 p.m., De Vries assumes that they are all up at the town, already drinking their way through the bars, hotels and street stalls. He hears the heavy gates clank as they shut behind him.

  To his left, a small red-neon arrow flashes intermittently, advertising the reception. He trots over to the door, finds himself in a small office with a desk, some brochures on the counter, a television audible from the space behind. There is no sign of a bell. He clears his throat, hears shuffling from within, and watches as a short, stocky man with bow legs appears. He studies De Vries momentarily, smiles.

  ‘You’re Richard’s friend, from Cape Town, ja?’

  De Vries nods.

  ‘He booked for you. I put you in adjoining rooms.’ He pushes a clipboard across the counter, reaches behind him to fetch a key from the board of hooks on the wall.

  De Vries signs the form, looks up to see a hand on the end of a thick arm held up at a diagonal. He shakes it.

  ‘I’m Benny Louw.’ He pushes the key across the counter at De Vries. ‘You want to settle up now? Save time tomorrow when we’re busy checking everyone out?’

  De Vries pays cash.

  ‘Richard say where he’d meet me?’

  ‘Ja, man. Told me to tell you he’ll be around the Devil’s Peak stall between 6 and 7 p.m. I have a guy dropping off and collecting. You want to go up straightaway?’

  De Vries looks at his watch. It is now 5.57 p.m. Why not?

  ‘Maybe give me ten minutes?’

  ‘Sure. No hurry, man. Almost everyone’s there already. Few business people coming later. Look out for the white minibus by the front gate.’

  De Vries thanks him, opens the door onto the car park and steps down.

  Tracing his room from the other numbers, he walks to the furthest side of the rectangle, opens the door to his chalet. As he turns, he sees Benny Louw at the door to reception, watching the car park. De Vries ducks inside, walks through thick, stale air to examine the bathroom, peers through the small window at the rear and observes, close up, the caramel-coloured concrete wall. He sighs, runs his hand hard over his forehead, up through sweaty hair. He takes a shower in cool, brown, brackish water, puts on jeans and a polo shirt, checks that he has his wallet with him. On the back of the door, there is a big plastic sign in red letters: ‘No Smoking’. He curses, re-packs his rucksack with the clothes he has taken off, scoops up his key and trots across the tarmac towards the reception. In the office, Benny Louw has been replaced by a short Cape Coloured woman. As he enters, he sees her duck around the doorway, emerge again, eyes guilty.

  ‘Good evening.’

  De Vries studies her, smells smoke on her breath, sees tar stains on her yellow-brown fingers.

  ‘I want to do that,’ he says, winking through the door behind her. ‘In my room.’

  He flashes the room number on the key fob.

  She opens a large format binder, deliberately thumbs the pages, runs her tarred finger down the page, turns and snaps a new key on the desk.

  ‘If you can’t smoke in bed, it isn’t a holiday . . .’

  ‘No.’ She winks at him. He recoils from the overt sexuality with which she instils this gesture.

  He turns, steps back down into the courtyard, crosses it to his new room, throws down his rucksack, steps back out and into the door of the waiting minibus, its engine running, just outside the main gates.

  Don February takes supper on a tray into the bedroom. His wife, propped up on all their pillows, gestures for it to be placed on her lap. He lays it there, checks that she has all she wants, then retreats to the kitchen to eat on his own. He is only halfway through his meal when he hears her call him. He gets up, walks down the hall and into their room. Her plate is empty.

  ‘Is there any ice cream in the freezer? The chocolate ice cream from Pick n Pay?’

  He takes her plate, serves up two large scoops of ice cream in a bowl and carries it back to her together with a spoon.

  She touches his arm.

  ‘I have had such a nice day,’ she tells him. ‘Having you at home. This boss of yours, maybe he is not so bad?’

  Don thinks: he is an angry man; impatient, intolerant, inherently racist, with no respect for rank, or women, or the Lord.

  He says, ‘No, he is not so bad.’

  De Vries is dropped by the Post House in town. As he exits, the air seems warmer, heavy with moisture. Over the sound of a German-style band, he hears a low rumble of thunder. He looks up at the mountains above Greyton, expecting them to be silhouettes now, but they are light g
rey against a background of an almost black sky, fit to burst.

  Main Road runs up the centre of the nineteenth-century country town, bordered by lei-water channels from which the dwellings take a turn each week, diverting water onto their properties for irrigation, refilling swimming pools and replenishing duck ponds. The homes and businesses which line the main drag are a mixture of colloquial Cape Dutch architecture with gabled ends, simple thatched properties and modern white-painted country buildings with corrugated iron roofs and covered verandas. Well used to weekly markets and the attentions of visitors, restaurants, bars, hotels and guest houses are all offering beer-related tastings and meals. Between them, there are stalls set up under awnings from perhaps twenty-five different artisanal brewing companies: some newly formed, some a decade old – stalwarts of the craft-brewing scene in the Cape. Sun-faded bunting hangs above the street, a man dressed as a black bear dances to a three-piece brass band at the corner of Main Road and Grey Street. De Vries just makes out the smell of frankfurters and sauerkraut above the ambient aroma of freshly drawn beer.

  He finds Richard Wessels, his arm around a well-built, jolly woman, a few metres down the street from the Devil’s Peak Brewing Company stall. Wessels is already merry. De Vries is immediately wary; his former colleague is a notoriously boring drunk, and it is barely six thirty in the evening.

  ‘Come with us, old friend, ‘Wessels says. ‘Marion is going to let me taste her Flamkuchen.’

  De Vries demurs, watches them walk away down the road towards the tree-lined DS Botha Street, running diagonally from the main drag, and to the stand selling the Flamkuchen. As he turns back to the Devil’s Peak stall, there is a clap of thunder so strident that it halts the brass band mid-song. Then there is laughter, people toast one another, music starts again. De Vries squeezes through the line of people at the bar, waits to be served.

  ‘I want,’ he tells the barman, ‘a large Silvertree but, before that, I want to taste your ‘First Light’ Amber Ale.’

  He is handed a tot of the ale and a large plastic glass of Silvertree, and hands over his cash. He turns to push his way out into the open, catches the eye of a man standing across the street, watches him look away. He tastes the ale, immediately feels thirsty. Silvertree has been his favourite for a while and he lays into the cold beer, malty and fruity. Halfway through, he slowly turns to where the man had been standing. He is no longer there. Something from his years of experience troubles him; the man’s reaction bothered him. He tries to picture what he looked like, then thinks that he could easily have been looking for a friend, seen his face and realized that De Vries was not him. He drains the glass, walks further up the street to where the buildings become private homes: cottages in perfect gardens, artists’ residences and country hideaways for rich townsfolk. The old trees which line the street are shedding leaf. He has always loved this walk up towards the edge of the mountain that stands over the little town, and he walks away from the crowds into the shady peace of the upper reaches of Main Road. He turns, looks back down, drinks in the view of the strings of coloured lights bright in the night, the smoke from braais and grills, music, laughter. In the dappled shadows from the flickering street light on this balmy evening, he stands on the spot, wonders whether he would be happier if he was with someone. He does not miss his wife at home – he revels in his independence, does not lack sexual activity – but, he admits to himself, he sometimes misses companionship, at times such as now, at this precise moment: a warm shoulder to pull against him, a shared glance of contentment.