by Ian Patrick
As Ryder’s car careened over the rail tracks all four of them had broken into a sprint. They were still a couple of hundred paces from the restaurants and shops ahead, and would have to cross a car park to make it to the darkened buildings. No time. Best to duck in at the sea wall, they decided, and take cover in the rocks before the headlights swept over them.
Bad decision. There was not enough light on the bay for them to be more than dimly discernible shapes, but Ryder gunned the car past them without slowing, as if he had missed seeing them altogether, then suddenly spun the car one hundred and twenty degrees just inside the entrance to the car-park, with the headlights aimed out over the edge of the bay behind them, now turning all four of them into perfect silhouettes for Trewhella.
Turkey shoot, thought Trewhella. Jeremy's lined them up perfectly for me. He kept low on his approach as he heard Ryder’s warning shout piercing through the dawn:
‘Police! Stand up and put your hands on your head! Do not, I repeat, do not…’
A shot rang out. Ryder heard the slug sink into the Camry, somewhere front and left. Ed had been right about the weapons. Probably 9 mm. Sounded like the old standard-issue Vektors in the unit.
Three of them, including the shooter, broke cover and ran back, away from Ryder and the car, just as Trewhella had hoped, back the way they had come in. Meanwhile the second weapon came into play as the fourth man, holding back, raised his right arm toward Ryder and put another bullet harmlessly into the Camry’s front fender. Definitely sounds like the Z88 thought Ryder, cool as ice. He calibrated the moment as he moved swiftly to his left, away from the car, and raised his own weapon calmly at the silhouetted shooter. The Vektor Z88 double action was patterned after the M92 Beretta. Denel had started delivery of these to the South African police years ago. Ryder reckoned that judging from their aim these guys were strangers to the weapons. They had probably recently stolen them. They certainly couldn’t have had much practice with them, judging from the poor aim behind the first shot. And this guy had probably never experienced a real contest between a Z88 and the SP1. That was about to change.
The other three ran straight into his partner. Trewhella was not the talking type in these situations. They were running away from a cop, and now toward him. They had fired a shot at a detective. Arguably the best detective in the province. His buddy had warned them, and they had replied with a second bullet. That was enough. Trewhella pumped two into the shooter’s head with his first effort, two-handed, rock steady, as calm as if he was back on the range putting holes in a paper target. Then he switched aim very slightly to put three into the chest of the second guy who was already raising his hands in surrender even before his crony’s body had hit the ground.
‘Too late, arsehole,’ the detective muttered.
It was as if the second target had run into an oncoming bus. He flew back with bits of his ribs and breastbone floating outward in a pink cloud from the effect of three bullets entering within a radius of no more than four inches before following the rest of the corpse to the ground.
The third man stopped in his tracks, frozen in terror, hands raised high above his head and screaming something incomprehensible, which sounded like a plea not to shoot him. Trewhella considered blowing his head apart anyway, to save on the paper work, but then decided they might need at least one of them to interrogate about the carnage upstairs. So he put a single bullet into the right shoulder instead. If the guy bled out and didn’t survive for questions, tough. Not Trewhella’s problem.
He walked over to Ryder, leaving the third man screaming on the ground. Trewhella had heard the single shot from the SP1, and he knew that Ryder had a simple rule in action like this. Don’t pull that trigger unless you’re going to waste someone. And in this case the bullet had gone into the fourth guy’s throat, severed the spinal column, and continued on its way taking lumps of gristle with it. Very messy.
Ryder was already on his iPhone, calling Piet Cronje to check with the War Room and find out about sending in the cleaners. He turned to Trewhella as he hung up on the call.
‘Two vics down upstairs, you said?’
‘At least two. I couldn’t check it out properly. Once I saw the scene I thought we had a chance if we acted quickly, so I called you. Couldn’t get hold of you till I was up there in the middle of it. No signal in the lifts.’
‘Check this out. Vektor Z88. Check the stamp. Ours.’
They both bent over the grounded Vektor, lying next to Ryder’s victim. Without touching it Trewhella could see the identifying numbers.
‘Stolen from our own guys?
‘Maybe bought.’
‘Why don’t you check the other weapon, Jeremy? I’ll go and ask the wounded arsehole where they got it.’
‘OK. Careful with him: we need him to sing.’
‘I’m never careful with guys like this. You know that.’
‘I can but hope.’
‘You hope on, buddy.’
As Ryder moved to the other grounded weapon, Trewhella walked back to the whimpering wounded. Turned him from a whimperer to a screaming banshee by putting his foot on the shattered shoulder, using considerable force.
‘Where’d you get the gun? Hey?’
The man screamed in agony as the detective started rolling his shoulder back and forth under his boot.
‘You want more of this? Hey? The gun! Where did you steal the gun?’
The man passed out. Silence.
‘Stuff him. I’ll get it out of him later.’
He walked over to Ryder who was squatting over the second weapon.
‘Also one of ours? What does the stamp say?’
‘Yep. Vektor Z88. Same thing. Check this stamp. Also one of ours. Captain is going to be very interested. Two Z88s, both from his own unit.’
As Trewhella squatted, peering from different angles at the weapon while being careful not to touch it, Ryder walked back over to the man he had put down.
‘Check this out. Panga with blood. Still carrying it. You say the two upstairs were cut, Ed?’
‘Bad. Really bad, Jeremy. Old guy’s skull hacked deep. Ancient guy. Must be eighty or more. One blow. He didn’t have a chance, man. Old woman, too. Her abdomen just sick-making, man. Hacked repeatedly. You’re looking at the murder weapon right there. Why they then also had to pump bullets into them beats the hell out of me. Judging from the bloods they were hacked first, dead very quickly, then shot afterward just for good measure. They took three or four slugs each, so these guys were out of control, man. Why they let the security guard survive I don’t know.’
‘Let’s go talk to him.’
‘OK. Then breakfast.’
‘You sick-head.’
08.15.
The entrance to The Grove was all flashing blue and red lights as they finally left the building. The photographers had done their bit, at both scenes: upstairs and on the wharf. The first responder was in a panic, being scolded by everyone about the inadequacy of his two cordons. Someone from Forensic Services was shouting that this was her second incident this morning and the second time someone had screwed up the cordons. The bodies on the wharf were still getting the full treatment, but forensics were satisfied with their first scan upstairs, had done a thorough Bluestar spray, lifted what they needed, and were moving out from there to join their colleagues on the wharf. Tenants were gathered on the pavement, others still peering out of windows from the floors above. Some journo was asking the locals various questions about crime in the area. Traffic was grinding to a halt as the rubber-neckers were at it, with those behind leaning on their hooters until they, too, got their chance to rubber-neck. Then they got the same hooter treatment from those further behind.
Trewhella and Ryder had interrogated the security guard in the entrance area while a paramedic was repairing him. He had been brilliant, thought Ryder. Impressive detail. And he had loved the old lady upstairs, he said, crying as if he had lost his own mother.
‘Ninety-five years old,
boss. Good lady. Very kind. Every day she is walking, she is going to the shops. Very strong lady. My gogo, boss. My gogo. She gives me Christmas presents every year. And money for my family.’
They learned from him that the old guy upstairs with her hadn't lived there. Just visiting. Overnight stay.
‘Old man was her friend, boss. He comes sometimes. Sometimes staying one night only. He lives on other side, Aliwal Street. He eighty. Madam she ninety-five. She strong. Him not so strong.’
Ed smirked as they left the building.
‘Hope I can still get it on like the old guy did when I'm his age. But not with ninety-five-year-olds.’
‘You are a very sick man.’
The guard had been able to give them more than they had hoped. No, he had never seen the four men before. Tsotsis, they were. Nyaope, all of them, they take it. He knew what nyaope did to the young men. No, nothing different had happened around the building for weeks. It appeared that the old girl's routine had been as predictable as sunrise.
‘Every day she is walking eight o'clock. Morning. Every day she gets the newspaper. For the crossword, boss. She is not reading the other stuff. All politics, she say. Bad thing, she say.’
Once a month the old man had visited. At the end of the month. Gogo always baked scones or sausage rolls for his visit, and gave the guards some when he had gone, the next day. She went to the casino twice every week.
‘Suncoast Casino, boss. Tuesday and Thursday, always. One time, long time back, she was going to the Wild Coast Casino with the bus. But she was saying never again, too far, bad machines and no luck.’
Twice every week. Tuesdays and Thursdays. But never with the old man. No, there had been no other visitors. Sometimes her son would pick her up in the car. Maybe once a month. Sometimes twice. The son never went upstairs to fetch her. She met him downstairs each time.
Useful detail. Clear enough picture, thought Ryder. Only one gap. Motive. Why butcher an old couple? No cash on the three bodies on the wharf, or on the wounded guy. No sign of wealth in the apartment upstairs. The perps had searched the flat. Made a mess of it. Definitely looking for something. But no safe. No money, other than three or four coins, still in the old woman’s purse. What were they looking for? No alcohol. Healthy living. Lots of vegetables and fruit. No red meat. Lots of paperback thrillers. The TV armchair well used. Spent her time watching soaps, doubtless.
Why her? Ninety-five years, man. What for?
The old guy was probably just there on the wrong night. They hacked him down with one blow, then they pumped bullets into him. It was her they had wanted. Her key they had demanded from the guard. They took longer with her. Maybe making demands first. She didn't give them what they demanded. So they cut her to pieces. Then the bullets. Maybe in frustration, because she was already dead when they shot her.
Why kill her?
09.25.
Captain Nyawula had agreed that they should handle the case together. They had decided to go to the son’s place in two cars so that they could split for follow-up stuff afterwards. Trewhella to go to Addington Hospital to question the guy with the shoulder - Cronje had called to tell them that the wounded man had been taken there with serious loss of blood - and Ryder to get to forensics and then probably back to The Grove to question tenants further.
They had agreed that Trewhella would do most of the talking when they met the son. The opening of this session passed more easily than Ryder had anticipated. After the initial trauma of the news and the questions and the reassurances - Ed surprising Jeremy with unusual sensitivity, including an offer of personal contact at any time if there were further questions - Ed got some breakfast out of it from the maid. Lillian always hovered, according to the son, in the hope that guests would ask for proof of her employer’s proud boast about her cooking. Trewhella accepted - after the obligatory no thanks, much as I would like to, but we’re on duty - which the son saw through immediately, instructing Lillian accordingly. Ryder declined. Except for the coffee. Jeremy Ryder never declined coffee.
The son had gradually calmed down after the initial shock, and eventually they were able to go through some fairly detailed family history for ten to fifteen minutes. Nothing there of particular interest. During the course of delving into this history they had moved out onto the deck, overlooking not only the other high-security palaces in the neighbourhood but also with a view all the way to the Indian Ocean some ten kilometres away. Lillian had laid one place for brunch at the table on the patio. The son stood with Ryder, looking out into the distance as they talked. Ryder sipped the rich coffee – better coffee than he could remember ever having had – as he listened to the brief history laced with anecdotes, taking it all in, mostly in silence. Trewhella sat next to them, shovelling down the scrambled eggs, bacon, pork sausage, grilled tomato, baked beans, fried banana and mushrooms.
There was another son abroad, and the brother would handle that side of things. Some tough days ahead for the family, thought Ryder.
He reinforced everything the guard had said about the old woman. His mother was amazing. Everyone talked admiringly about the ninety-five-year-old who looked like a seventy-year-old. She was well known in the area around The Grove. She was completely independent, very strong, with all her marbles in place. The son derived some comfort in illustrating with a couple of examples.
‘She was a complete whizz-kid on the machines at Suncoast Casino. Well, according to her, that is. I never heard her say that she'd had a losing day on the machines. Always a winner, it seemed. I would always take her claims with a pinch of salt, of course. Having said that, though, a buddy of mine once called me from the casino and told me how he had recognized her - he always went on a Thursday and she was always there, he said - and how she was cleaning up at the slot machines even as we spoke. The management were handing her an envelope, and he said that people were applauding her and saying they always saw her there and that she always got terribly excited when she won anything, which was frequently the case. So she certainly wasn't a loser. She probably broke better than even over the years she's been going to the place.’
He invited Trewhella to go and help himself to more bacon and eggs in the kitchen. The detective needed no prompting and within seconds came the sound of him laughing and teasing Lillian, as the son continued with Ryder.
‘Trouble is, my friend also told me that she was attracting attention to herself and she needed to be careful of mugging as she left the place. So I gave her a serious talking-to next time I called her. The other thing is – oh – did you find the money under the carpet?’
‘What?’
‘She always put her winnings under the carpet.’
‘Carpet? Where?’
‘In the corner of her lounge. Under the easel. Where she paints. Under the carpet. She put her gambling money, as she called it, under the carpet. Didn't want to draw from the bank in order to gamble. A principle of hers.’
‘How much are we talking?’
‘Don't know. She told me it was five or six thousand. Just emergency money, she said. I left her to it. Didn’t you check? Under the carpet, man!’
11.45.
Ryder pushed up the volume to the max for his favourite Fleetwood. He thudded huge dangerous slaps onto the steering wheel with both hands matching the escalating percussive rhythm, while he bellowed atonally, pleading for the imagined recipient of his singing not to say that she loved him, but just to tell him, instead, that she wanted him…
He pushed the needle up to one hundred and forty kilometres as the song climaxed, then settled back into his seat, resting both hands as the beat faded away and he held steady at cruising speed as he drove under the old Toll Gate bridge for the second time that morning, back to The Grove.
Enjoying the feel of the Camry, he raised an imaginary glass in a toast to his Captain. Nyawula had pulled some strings to get Ryder onto the private car scheme, normally open only to much more senior ranks than himself. But Nyawula knew who his top dete
ctive was, and he intended to treat him accordingly.
11.50.
There were four men in the room, one seated behind the small desk in the only chair in the place capable of bearing his weight, and the others standing together, more or less in line, in front of him. The man in the black leather and stainless-steel chair was ominously still, staring at two of the others. Even seated he loomed large in the room, his three hundred and fifty pound body compressed into five feet and one inch of height. His hairdo, a slicked-down, carefully side-parted black bob, suggested ice-cold control and precision but also something atavistic waiting to burst out in uncontrolled fury. His fleshy pink neck bubbled out of the triple-X collar, held tightly closed by a double-knotted red and violet silk tie.
There was a long silence. The air-conditioning unit was barely audible as it cooled and refreshed the room. Other sounds - the whirring CPU fan of the HP desktop, the muffled hum of the Xerox Phaser 7100V Printer, the ticking of the cheap desk clock mounted on a slab of inch-thick glass - all seemed to be deadened by the lush thick carpet.
Two of the three, standing shoulder to shoulder, were wary, unsure of their next moves, ready to appease at any opportunity. The third, as if to distinguish himself from them, stood a pace apart but, like them, with his hands clasped lightly behind his back. He was about six feet in height, carrying two hundred and twenty pounds, and the white linen jacket pulled tightly across the chest, shoulders and biceps suggested that he was no stranger to heavy gym equipment. His pale blue eyes gave nothing away, as he stood, waiting. The seated man addressed him first, three simple words growling up from his diaphragm through the enormous torso and emanating as a rasp from the back of his throat.
‘Tell me, Tony.’
The man he addressed couldn’t help thinking yet again that the voice was so harsh and falsely phonated that it had to signify strained vocal chords, the consequence of a voice incorrectly pitched from early childhood. If cancer had a sound, thought Tony, then this voice was that sound. It was the worst case of ventricular dysphonia he had ever encountered. The vocal chords, doubtless oppressed by nodules, were producing sound through torturous misuse of the larynx and insufficient air from a diaphragm too oppressed by weight to muster the necessary energy for a properly supported voice.
