‘General Thulani received a priority call,’ Norman Classon tells De Vries and Don February in Vaughn’s office. ‘I can only think that the docks were already under surveillance . . .’
‘Or I was.’
‘Possibly. You know how keen everyone is to watch one another these days. Thulani is seen leaving in haste. After that, you probably know more than we do.’
‘It was the Hawks; that or some paramilitary unit we don’t know about. I don’t know how they found me.’
‘Networks, Vaughn. Perhaps General Thulani suspected you could be in trouble, kept an eye on you.’
‘An unusually benevolent eye.’
‘Nonetheless . . .’
‘He will claim all the credit for exposing this.’
‘Let him,’ Classon says. ‘Better you’re not involved, officially.’
‘Better for who?’
‘Better for everyone, I think. You wouldn’t want the reputation of going after your own, surely?’
‘Nkosi isn’t one of us.’
‘Not any more, anyway.’
De Vries nods. Whatever Thulani does, he still retains the information to act later if he deems it necessary.
‘You speak to Brigadier du Toit?’
‘I did,’ Classon says. ‘He is concerned about you, but I told him that you still seemed your usual self.’
‘I may need to see him.’
‘He’s in Citrusdal. You ever been to his place?’
He shakes his head, knows that Classon will have; De Vries is not considered one of the chattering classes.
‘He told me to give you the address, if you wanted; if you are taking some time off now.’
‘Soon, perhaps.’
Classon looks at De Vries’s bruised face, his purple cheek, the dark brown marks on his neck.
‘You’re owed plenty, apparently.’
‘I want to see what happens here first.’ He turns to Don. ‘Both your waitress and your strange young witness positively identify Nkosi?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, we have him buying the chicken. We have him at the scene at the right time. We need to know what he did to Lyle, but I want him for both murders.’
‘The question will be,’ Classon says. ‘Is he prepared to give up his bosses in exchange for leniency?’
‘I don’t care. I want him and that little shit-fuck Mngomezulu taken down. All the way.’
Thulani is breathing hard, his right hand fingering his collar.
‘We have confirmation that Sergeant Ben Thwala was not on the flight he checked in for. We have no information on his whereabouts. You authorized this action. Who was his contact?’
‘I don’t know.’ De Vries shakes his head gently for Ben Thwala, for how quickly his new-found allies abandon him.
‘Not one hour ago I was defending your actions, and now we have an officer missing. You spread disinformation around the station, you mislead me and you send this officer into a situation without understanding the danger.’
‘I understood, sir, and I informed Sergeant Thwala. He understood the risk.’
‘That is not acceptable.’
‘No, sir.’
‘We have to accept that Nkosi was not making an idle threat,’ Thulani says. ‘If he and whoever he works for are holding Thwala, then they have a bargaining chip against us. And we only have one thing in exchange: Nkosi. Do you see the position you have put us in?’
‘Perhaps you could put in a word with your friend, Mr Bhekifa.’
‘Don’t fuck with me, De Vries. The allegations contained in your mystery bundle are unbelievable and completely unproven.’
De Vries says nothing, stares ahead, seemingly over Thulani’s shoulder. He catches his superior’s eye movement, knows that already he is doubting what the years of loyalty have engrained in him. Nkosi, Mngomezulu, even Bhekifa: they are Thulani’s own, and they have betrayed him.
‘Listen to me, Colonel. Do nothing further. Nkosi and his associates are under guard, Julius Mngomezulu will be interrogated by Colonel Wertner, and I will make representations to Pretoria to see what is known about the whereabouts of Sergeant Thwala. When this matter is concluded, perhaps Colonel Wertner will, once again, feel he has due reason to examine your decisions.’
De Vries sighs. Everything is predictable in the world of the new SAPS. He will always be a target. He accepts this, is already planning his next move.
‘I’m sure he will.’
* * *
Don February wants to be at work, to be assisting in locating Ben Thwala. De Vries has ordered him to stay away, to wait to be contacted in case De Vries himself needs him or there are to be further unsanctioned operations.
He realizes that this is what De Vries has warned him about: if he works on cases such as these, there will be political pressures, his decisions will affect the rest of his career; there will be threats to him and, possibly, to his family. He has agonized over whether to leave, to return to normal duties and a predictable routine, to lessen the sense of apprehension with which he greets each new case. Yet, he knows already that De Vries is fearless – heedless too – but determined to bring justice. He did not join the SAPS to earn a living; he joined because he believes in justice. It has taken him almost two years to see that, whatever De Vries is, he will do what is necessary to bring justice to the victims of his cases. Anything else, maybe almost everything else, is not enough.
‘I had hoped, Colonel, that what I told you was clear. It seems not.’
‘You’re talking to me . . .’
‘That is because,’ Eric Basson tells him, ‘the damage has been done. You are here, you have asked to see me, your presence has been noted. You are lucky that I am so pragmatic.’
‘You helped me before. Now I need help for a colleague. A policeman.’
‘I know about Sergeant Thwala.’
‘What do you know?’
‘No more than you, I imagine. He is held by Nkosi’s supporters.’
‘Where?’
Basson shakes his head.
‘I don’t know. I don’t intend to find out. To do so would compromise my position.’
‘Any suggestions?’
‘Only what you already know. They will wish for the return of Nkosi and their men, you wish for the return of your colleague. Eventually, an agreement will be reached.’
‘Nkosi isn’t going anywhere.’
‘An admirable determination, but unrealistic. If Mr Bhekifa instructs that he is to be returned, I am sure that this will subsequently occur.’
‘You believe Bhekifa makes day-to-day decisions for these people?’
‘I am sure not. But this is hardly “day-to-day”. There is an impasse; they will eventually seek guidance from above. That above, ultimately, is Bhekifa.’
‘I need more from you.’
‘I possess only information. In this regard, I don’t have what you want.’
De Vries grimaces, rises.
‘However, I do have something else for you.’
He sits.
‘I misunderstood you,’ Basson says, ‘when you told me you had been under threat the previous day in Greyton.’
‘In what way?’
‘I had thought you were nearly the victim of an attack by the man who has killed four of your colleagues already.’
‘It was Nkosi’s men.’
‘Of course, but, at that moment, I was not aware of that.’
‘I knew you knew about the Victoria Drinking Hall bombing,’ De Vries says, ‘when you casually mentioned my time as a Captain in Observatory.’
‘It is rarely necessary to be overt.’
‘Depends if you are giving orders or not.’
Basson chuckles.
‘No one else has made the connection to these deaths. Unless we help them, I doubt they will. It is hard enough to pass information from one station to another; inter-provincial cooperation is still a rare commodity.’
‘You don’t think we should?’
‘Of course not. Secret history is best left hidden.’
‘You know who this is? Who is doing this?’
Basson frowns.
‘No.’
‘Then you have nothing to help me.’
Basson sits back in his chair, stares casually at his wedding ring, twists it. De Vries finds his fastidiousness annoying, feels that he is playing to his audience.
‘I have two gifts for you.’
‘Why?’
‘I like you.’ He studies De Vries carefully. ‘I anticipated that you might wish to interview Mr Kobus Nel.’
‘I can do that anytime.’
‘Can you? I doubt that you would find it so easy. Mr Nel travels extensively. It is often difficult to ascertain exactly where he is at any given time.’
‘So?’
‘He has agreed to meet you.’
‘You persuaded him?’
‘Kobus Nel’s heroic action during his time with the SAPS is noteworthy, especially during the mid to late 1980s. Do you know about that?’
‘His legend, yes. The details, no.’
‘You knew about Vlakplaas?’
‘Of course. He was there.’
‘For a time.’
‘No wonder they leave him alone.’
‘There is no need to sully ourselves with details. Suffice to say, Nel served his senior government masters loyally. He not only ensured the status quo, but he was publicly seen to be effective. That reputation served him well. There were never any revelations at the Truth and Reconciliation hearings. He – and the SAPS top brass – chose not to re-open those wounds. And, of course, I know about that January night in 1994. That knowledge provides me with a certain influence over Mr Nel.’
‘And now, me.’
‘Conceivably.’
‘You think Nel is responsible?’
Basson wets his thin lips.
‘It’s possible. He is bidding for respectability: an international business deal which will lift him from the underworld to some kind of legitimacy. His history would certainly be examined. He might fear that one of you would seek to hurt him. Your knowledge would buy leverage.’
‘Or your knowledge?’
‘Mine is kept very safely. I made it a point that Kobus Nel should know that.’
‘The victims were violently stabbed in their sleep,’ De Vries says. ‘That doesn’t sound like the work of a professional killer.’
‘From what I hear, the preparation is certainly of a professional nature; the execution itself – if you’ll excuse the phrase – less recognizably so. But perhaps that is intended. Misdirection is everywhere.’
‘When do I get to see him?’
‘I would advise soon.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re not concerned that you might not see the morning?’
De Vries says nothing; the truth he has suppressed sounds frightening spoken aloud.
‘Tomorrow,’ he says quietly.
‘I anticipated that. Your meeting is set for 1 p.m. I have the address for you.’
Basson reaches under the table, produces a tightly wrapped package.
‘My second gift.’
De Vries gauges its weight. It is light, yet it feels substantial.
‘As we won’t meet again, I wish you good luck.’
Vaughn nods, turns around, walks across the room, lets himself out.
When he sees it on the passenger seat of his car, just as he is about to exit the vehicle, it is as if he has not noticed it before. He opens the cardboard box in which it sits, takes it out and turns it over, so that the picture faces him. The wooden woman’s eyes watch him as he scrutinizes her. It is almost photorealistic yet, close up, there are clear marks from Dazuluka Cele’s brushes. The carving in the painting seems old, heavy with profound meaning. The crack is a line of longitude, bisecting her face and her body, making her seem ancient and, to him at least, calm. De Vries has no interest in art beyond that which brings him pleasure in the moment; he finds the prospect of seeing the same picture on the same wall every day strangely static and unoriginal. He opens the door, cradles the picture, walks to his house. He finds a hammer and nails, climbs the staircase to his bedroom and hangs the painting on the pillar between the two tall bow windows which overlook the garden and, further way, the edge of Devil’s Peak. He stands between his bed and the picture, looks back and becomes aware that she will look at him, watch over him, as he sleeps.
* * *
He does not sleep, can’t find a comfortable position. At first he hears the rain, the low rumble of thunder in the distance, so rare in Cape Town. When it seems to stop, he hears dripping and, later, silence. In the early hours he is alert to the tiniest sound, scrutinizes his interpretation until he is reassured. He turns repeatedly, sits on the edge of his bed, seeking some relief. He wonders whether he should have accepted Marantz’s offer of his dog, Flynn, for the night, but knows that if he had barked, it would have scared him rigid.
He has been plagued by the four murders; he forces his eyes open when the image of Mike de Groot’s contorted face will not leave the inside of his eyelids. Within a second of waking from a fitful doze, the image of de Groot floods his synapses, steals the breath from him. At 5.30 a.m., he pads downstairs to the kitchen, checks the alarm is active, substitutes his planned mug of Rooibos tea for a large whisky; he pours, drains the glass, pours again. He wonders whether to tell Mitchell Smith about de Groot, or whether to spare him. He can’t see any way to help the man; he prays that whoever it is will stop with the men who entered that cursed township dwelling all those years ago. He and Smith were spectators only, unable to prevent what occurred. Yet, somehow, when he thinks of that night, he always feels guilty anew.
He looks around the darkened kitchen, feels afraid of the exposed windows, turns back up the stairs to his bedroom, walking uneasily, and slumps on the bed.
At 7 a.m., he rolls off his mattress: aching, drained, depressed – relieved.
De Vries drives across Kloof Nek, the highest pass over the Mountain, and looks over on Camps Bay. On his side of the Mountain, the sky is all dark clouds and dank, heavy air, but here, it is sunny and hot. Out at sea, however many kilometre away it is, the horizon is black. The respite may be short. He waits at the junction to turn, smiles at layer after layer of houses covering the mountainside. Thirty years ago, you could have bought land here for nothing. It was considered a windblown, sun-blasted suburb with a pretty white beach abutting sea so cold your ankles burned with pain just paddling. Now, every square metre has been built on. The main palm-lined drag on the beach consists of boutique hotels, over-priced bars, slick restaurants; at night, neon lights, thumping music, beautiful people driving their supercars at a snail’s pace, acknowledging imaginary friends like desperate politicians.
He turns right atop the Nek, weaves downhill through Umbrella Pines towards the Glen, then turns again, to climb above Clifton Beaches – four perfect little beaches of white sand and blue water, watched over by apartments and mansions, just as, he imagines, in Monaco. He continues to climb, up to the highest level above the ocean, to the biggest, most vulgar architecture in Cape Town, to the grandest residences of plastic surgeons, celebrity advocates and their mutual criminal clients.
He pulls up in front of ornate iron gates. A security guard appears through a small door, asks for identity. He shows it, watches the gates open inwards.
He drives slowly into a courtyard, roofs of terracotta tiles cover parking spaces on three sides. He is guided under cover next to the latest model Bentley GT. He gets out, turns to find an escort of two guards. They walk in silence to an archway through a wall, leading to a comfortable sitting room. At the far end, he sees what appears to be a funicular railway station. He has left his weapon at home, but they pass a detector wand over and around him, check his shoes, gesture for him to sit in the smartly upholstered closed carriage. It jolts slight
ly as it begins to rise steeply over the roof of the covered courtyard, up the side of the rocky mountain. Twisting himself around, he catches a glimpse of the dramatic vista of the Twelve Apostles – twelve peaks down the Table Mountain range – Camps Bay, the coast road, the ocean unending. He is taken aback by the security Nel employs, but he is not surprised by the funicular railway. Several mansions here boast them, rising from the High Road up and into the mountain where, sometimes, it seems as if the owners have blasted their way through sheer rock to find their own safe havens.
At the top, he is led up some broad stone steps to a plateau, sees a wide, perfectly flat lush green lawn, bounded by mature trees, ahead of an enormous Tuscan villa, all terracotta tiles, verdigris copper and white columns. He is taken to the side of the house where, in a kidney shaped swimming pool, amidst loungers and parasols, backed by an ornate pool house, he sees Kobus Nel reclining in the shallows. The guard backs off. As De Vries approaches, he notices that the girl entwined with Nel is naked.
‘You were thinking,’ Nel’s deep, coarse voice booms. ‘Did I do the right thing staying in the SAPS for twenty years, or should I have followed Kobus Nel?’
‘No.’
Nel laughs quietly. ‘I think you were.’
De Vries approaches the water, sees Nel is also naked, notes that his physique is just as he remembers: squat and muscular, thick neck, broad head. It is accentuated by the effect of the water: Nel is big above the waterline, shrunken beneath. De Vries sees bright, distorted tattoos on the man’s arms, thick gold jewelry on his wrist, around his neck.
Nel dismisses the woman; she totters towards the pool house and disappears.
‘You want to talk to me?’
De Vries nods.
‘Join me.’
Vaughn steps from one foot to the other.
‘I’m fine here.’
Nel stares at him.
‘It’s Sunday. Maybe the last day of summer. I’m not having a conversation with me here and you there. Get in the pool.’
De Vries expects power games; he knows that he is here to extract information and that it will cost. He looks around to see a suited white man behind him.
‘My man will take your clothes.’
He undresses slowly.
‘What is it?’ Nel’s voice is sharper now. ‘You unsure about your sexuality . . . Or maybe you don’t want to get your equipment wet?’
The Serpentine Road Page 26
