by Ian Patrick
The car swung right and disappeared from view before the first blue lights appeared and the police vehicles then skidded to a halt, sirens wound down, and uniforms and plain-clothes alike swarmed into Tenth Avenue and then into the property.
Thabethe roared through two red lights and one green, turned, zigzagged, skidded through a stop street then another green light, cursing all the way. He eventually hit the M4, reaching maximum speed through Durban North, flashing past the old Virginia aerodrome with his engine screaming as if it was a low-flying aircraft, then past Umhlanga, the car almost shaking apart with vibrations as he thundered through Hillhead, when he suddenly took his foot off the pedal, geared down, slammed on the brakes and screeched to a halt. He reversed, back toward the pantechnicon parked on the side of the road, engine idling. He could see the driver down the bank, in the bush, urinating. Thabethe grabbed the cell-phone from his pocket, and within seconds was talking to Mkhize.
‘Spikes! You tell them now. You tell the cops. You tell them Skhura took the phone. Now. You phone the detectives. OK. OK. No, is all good. No problem. Yes, Spikes. You tell them. Tell the cops Skhura has got the phone. They can start the bug.’
He closed the call down and got out. He found the perfect spot on the enormous vehicle. He tucked the phone into the folds of the tarpaulin, ensured that it was safe and secured and not visible to passers-by, and then went back to the Escort. Then he went through the motions of urinating before greeting the driver as he returned to his vehicle. The driver shared some inanity with him about too much beer, which he only half-heard but understood, and carried on with his fake pee while the man got into the driver’s cab and took off.
He watched the pantechnicon travel into the night. Hopefully toward KwaDukuza or further afield. Maybe Richards Bay. Maybe Maputo. Maybe Timbuktu. Idiot cops. There goes Skhura, into Africa.
He drove on, a little slower now, and turned right onto the M27 before slowing down for the ride past the beach. He pulled over at one point as he saw a car ahead.
He switched off the lights and waited for the vehicle to disappear into the darkness ahead of him. Not worth taking a chance. He could feel his heart pounding, His breath rasping in his chest. To be caught now would be to lose everything. He sat, tense, fingers as taut as guitar strings, his left leg throbbing in agony.
The car disappeared.
He waited, then started up and continued down South Beach road to the end.
22.50.
Ryder walked out of the Argyle house followed by Pillay, as Nyawula arrived and clambered out of his car.
‘The Major’s down, Captain, but his side-kick will talk,’ said Ryder.
‘Down?’
‘And out, Captain. He’s done. It’s over. Looks like Thabethe’s work. The Major’s side-kick is already babbling like a baby. I think because he took one look at Navi, who knows him quite well. He’s the Montpelier Road guy she put in hospital. He wants to talk. Will tell us everything, he says. As long as we don’t leave him alone with Detective Pillay.’
‘There’s a laptop,’ added Pillay, ignoring Ryder’s comment, ‘and huge amounts of cash, Captain. Really big piles of it. More than a million, we would say. There are four guys over it, counting and double-counting and triple-counting right now. We’ve called Piet to come in from home, to come in and help, especially with that side of it. He said he was happy to come in. Apparently the family dinner he had tonight was a bit of a disaster, so he said he would be thrilled to come in.’
‘Looks like they were crunching numbers and deals and stuff when Thabethe surprised them,’ said Ryder.
‘And Thabethe?’
‘He’s escaped, Captain,’ said Pillay. ‘Gone. We lost him. Looks like he left us a present. Not just the Major. He also left us the last of the four Vektor Z88s. We’ll check it out. But I can tell you already. It’s one of ours. One of the four we lost with Thabethe. No question.’
‘OK. OK. We’ll pick him up, sooner or later. You’ve done well, both of you. Thank you, and to K and D, too. Thabethe is one of those thorns that stick in the flesh to make sure we don’t ever stop with these guys. We’ll get him. He can’t last.’
‘I’ve sent word to the Harbour team, captain. I’ve told them to bring the whole show forward by an hour. They should be going onto the yacht right now. I’ve told them pig number one won’t be arriving, but that they should take in the whole lot of them for questioning. They might all be clean, of course. Swanepoel and his crony captain might have simply hired them as a professional crew for what they all saw as a straight sailing job. But we’ll only know the details after each one of them has been through interrogation. They’ll be taken by the Harbour team for questioning, and held overnight if necessary.’
‘Thanks, Jeremy. That’s good to know.’
Nyawula seemed exhausted as well as exhilarated, Ryder thought. His unit had cracked a big case. But the Captain had so badly wanted Thabethe. One of the most evil guys out there. If there was ever one thing he would want to do for Nyawula, it would be to get Thabethe’s head on a platter for him.
The uniforms and the plain-clothes were milling about. Car radios were crackling and voices were issuing instructions. The medics were already at it. Cronje arrived, and was briefed by Pillay. K and D teased him about his dinner. He seemed in good humour and went in to help with the counting.
Nyawula barked instructions and people ran. Doors banged in the building. Pillay and Ryder walked over to Koekemoer and Dippenaar. The journos were arriving. Nyawula went into the house. Cameras were flashing. Backs were slapped. High fives were given. But there was a touch of gloom amid the festivity. Thabethe had escaped.
Nyawula eventually came back out and walked over to the four detectives.
‘OK, guys. That’s about it. You can take off, this is all under control. Piet tells me that the money is just short of one and a half million.’
Whistles of surprise all around, with a couple of wise-cracks, before Nyawula continued.
‘It will be bagged and recorded and witnessed. And, hopefully, tracked back to the purchasers. Looks like we’ll have a few days follow-up on this, and who knows where they might find Thabethe. Meanwhile, forensics are on their way. They’ve had a rough night and are very short-staffed. But they’re on the way. You guys can all pack it in. Sunday tomorrow. Tough day on Monday. Have a break. And thanks to all of you.’
They all murmured acknowledgements in their own way, and thanks back to him.
‘Welcome to the team, Pillay.’
‘Thanks, Captain.’
‘I’m sure I speak for the others when I say that Monday’s funeral is going to be a fraction easier for us. There’ll be a gap without Ed, but I’m sure the men will agree with me when I say...’
‘Thanks, Captain. I’ll do my best.’
‘I know you will. Thanks, Navi.’
As he walked away, the three detectives high-fived Pillay.
‘Let’s get a beer,’ said Ryder.
23.05.
Thabethe came to a juddering halt in almost exactly the same spot where he had dragged the injured and handcuffed Dirk from the Honda Ballade two days ago. Then he remembered: got to move the car to a less conspicuous parking, otherwise someone will wonder and come prowling through the bush. He moved it a short stone’s throw away and switched off. He locked the vehicle and limped his way stealthily and painfully into the bush.
He pushed his way into the dark and came to the same tree to which he had tied the Afrikaner, then collapsed, exhausted, leaning back in the same position as had his prisoner on Thursday.
He sat, recovering his breath, feeling his pulse returning to normal, letting the night settle back to its normal intricate tapestry of sound. A low buzz of crickets, beetles, mosquitoes and other insects, counter-pointed by the throaty syncopation of frogs and the distant crash of waves, smoothed his passage back to what he liked best. Darkness and solitude.
He pulled out a small piece of plastic wrapping and unfold
ed it. Within a minute he had drawn the toxic smoke and chemicals deep into his lungs. He felt them work their magic as he settled back into cold contemplation.
A glimmer of moonlight found its way through the topmost branches of the trees, and any observer from the thick foliage would have noted the tiny reflection of cold silver light in the two deep, dark wells of Thabethe’s eyes, as they stared straight ahead into the darkness. Eyes that reflected deep and evil thoughts as he pondered over the action of the last few days, and pondered over what might have been. Pondered over how next time he would be more careful. Next time he would not make the same mistakes. Next time would be different.
His eyes stared, fixed on nothing except the dark foliage ahead of him. Eyes, some said, that sometimes made one feel that one was in the presence of the devil himself.
So they said.
GLOSSARY
ag - ah, oh, well
aikona - no, no way, not there at all (see also haikona)
amaphoyisa - the police
amigo - friend (Spanish)
babelas - hangover
bakgat - great, excellent, fine, good
bantoe - corruption of bantu, associated with racist usage
blerrie - bloody
bliksem - hit, punch, strike
boere - (referring variously to) farmers, Afrikaners, policemen
boet - brother, male friend, dude
bok, bokke - buck, bucks (bokke as in Springboks)
boykie - boy: diminutive, little boy
bra, my bra - brother, my brother
braai, braaivleis - barbecue
breek - break
broer, bru - brother
bulala - kill
charra, charro - slang term for person of Indian ethnicity, often racist
china - friend, chum
chune - to tell someone
daarsy - there it is, there you are, that’s it, dead right
deagle - Desert Eagle
dis reg - that’s right
donner - hammer, hit, beat up
doos - box (lewd, meaning vagina), fool, idiot
dop - alcoholic drink
dronkgat - drunkard
dwaal - in a daze, lost
eekhoring - squirrel
eh-heh - yes, affirmative
eina - exclamation expressing pain
eish - interjection expressing disappointment, regret
ek sê - I say, I’m telling you
Engelsman - Englishman
fok - fuck
fokall - fuck-all, nothing
fokken - fucken, fucking
fokoff - fuck off
gatvol - fed up
geld - money
gemors - mess, disarray
gif - poison, marijuana
gogo - old woman, grandmother
hayi - no, no way (see also tchai)
hayibo - no, no way
haikona - no, no way, not there at all
hau - expression of surprise (what? hey? oh?)
heita - hello, howzit, how is it?
helluva - ‘hell of a’ (as in helluva long time)
hunnert - hundred
impimpi - sell-out, informer
ja - yes
ja’k stem saam - yes, I agree (ja, ek stem saam)
jeez - Jesus (exclamation of surprise or frustration)
jirra - exclamation of surprise derived from ‘Here,’ Afrikaans for ‘God’
jislaaik - expression of astonishment (see also yissus)
jong - young man, friend
jou - your, you
jy - you
Kaatjie Kekkelbek - stereotypical cape ‘coloured’ stage character
kak - crap, shit
kêrels - guys, chaps, police
kif - great, cool, nice
klaar - finish
koeksister - (lit. cake sister) braided dough sweet delicacy
laaitie - lightie, young one
laduma! - score!, celebrating a goal scored in football
lanie - fancy, posh
lank - long, a lot, very
lekker - great, nice, tasty
madala - old man
mal - crazy, mad
mampara - fool, dolt, idiot
manne - men
mense - men, people
mina - me
mfowethu - brother
moer - murder, kill, beat up, also ‘the moer in’ (‘fed up with’)
moerse - large, big time, huge
moegoe - idiot
my bra - my brother
nè? - not so?
nee - no
nek - neck
nooit - never
nyaope - street drug (see also whoonga)
oke, ou, ouens - bloke, blokes
ouma - grandmother
ou toppie - old man, father, old person
pallie - diminutive for ‘pal,’ friend
poep - fart
praat - talk
reg - right
Seffrika - South Africa
shaddup, shuddup - shut up
sharp, sharp-sharp - ok, yes, quick-quick
shibobo - fancy footwork (sweet moves, like nutmeg) from football
shweet - sweet, cool
sies - sis, expression of disgust
skabenga - crook, criminal, no-good
skelm - thief, crook
skollie, skollies - crook, gangster (from the Greek skolios: crooked)
skrik vir niks - scared of nothing
slim jim – device for breaking into motor vehicles
snoeks - little fish, term of endearment
sommer - simply
soutie, soutpiel - derogatory term for English South African (salty penis)
spookgerook - (lit.) ghost-smoked, stoned to the point of paranoia
struesbob - as true as Bob
sug - care (‘you think I sug/care?’)
suss - to have suss - to be sharp or streetwise
swak - weak, broke
tchai - no, no way (see also hayi)
tjaila - time to go home
tjommie - chum, good friend
toppie - see ou toppie: old man, father, old person
trap - stairs, staircase
trek - pull, leave, exit
tronk - jail, prison
tsotsi - gangster
uclever - the clever one
uitlander - outlander, alien
umlungu - white one, white man (vocative: mlungu)
val - fall
vrek - die, dead
vrekked - died
vroeg - early
vuvuzela - plastic horn noisemaker, prominent at football matches
wat? - what?
weet - know (jy weet? - you know?)
wena - you
whatchamacallit - what you may call it, thing, object, what it might be
whoonga - slang for nyaope
yebo - yes
yissus - jesus (exclamation of surprise or frustration)
yislaaik - variation of yissus
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
After working as an actor, director and teacher in theatre, film and television, Ian Patrick turned to an academic career, publishing scholarly essays in a range of international academic journals. He believes that his years as an actor, director and researcher play a modest part in his writing.
‘My fiction is based to the best of my ability on research and field work. I have to believe every word my fictive characters say, every action they undertake,’ he says. Which explains why he has accompanied detectives to the front line, interviewed forensics investigators, and spent many hours scouring actual locations for his crime scenes: many of them based on actual events.
‘I endeavour to make my fiction plausible and authentic. This requires exhaustive work and detailed research. It takes me up to a year of full-time work to write an eighty thousand word crime thriller. In my view although it is clearly desirable to arrive at one's destination by bringing a work to publication, it is the journey that is the really exciting and enjoyabl
e part of writing. I can only hope that readers will also enjoy the journey of discovering my characters and their foibles, their actions and their experiences. I hope, too, that they will inform me about and forgive me for any lapses in my work or any errors of detail.’
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Read on for an exclusive extract from the thrilling action-packed sequel to Devil Dealing:
SUNDAY
17.50.
There is a rough and functional road that runs from KwaDukuza to the N2, from where one can turn north to Richards Bay or south toward Durban. The hills on either side of the R74 are grass-covered, hardly rolling, more brown than green, and covered in bracken, and they are unlikely to prompt in the observer any spontaneous lyrical singing. The grassland is thin and eroded. Once flourishing streams are now dry and rocky pathways. Too many cows and goats have fed unsupervised, and too many random fires have been started here. There is little care in these hills, and over many years people and land have been neglected.
The Zulu name Dunguza, originally used to describe the area, meant, roughly, the lost person. In 1873 European settlers thrust that name aside and called their settlement Stanger, after William Stanger. The surveyor-general of colonial Natal. But in 2006 the town reverted to a version of its original name.
KwaDukuza. Place of the lost person.
On any given day along this particular stretch of the R74, halfway between the R102 and the N2, one might find a teenager or a twenty-something, sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend, sitting on the side of the road or up on one of the slopes. Apparently lost, watching passing vehicles. Watching life pass by. Not infrequently, such a person or persons might draw deep into their lungs the pungent fumes of nyaope or some other mix of herbs and chemicals, as they watch the sun set, and the world go by.
