Hyena Dawn

by Christopher Sherlock

  Dr Odendal made his way to the lift, thinking hard. Even though it might not be necessary, he would conduct an immediate autopsy. That way, he could destroy any incriminating evidence and no one would be able to figure out what had happened. If what Piet had said was right, he had nothing to lose.

  The lift arrived at ground-floor level and he crossed the foyer to the lift that would take him down to the cells. As usual he was confronted by an armed police guard and he flashed his district surgeon’s pass at him peremptorily.

  The moment he got into the lift he started to breathe deeply in order to relax himself for the coming ordeal. The lift arrived at the corridor leading onto the cells, and he found the stillness faintly disturbing. It was as if everyone had vanished. He wanted to be away from, this place and back in the warm comfort of his bed, snuggling up close to his wife. As he walked towards the cell he felt like a man moving towards his own execution. He was about to walk into basement three when an enormous man stepped out, towering over him.

  ‘Are you the doctor?’

  ‘Yes. You are Major-General de Wet?’

  The man appeared to miss his question. ‘About bloody time too. It’s been half an hour since I called for you. Have you seen anyone here?’

  ‘No. I came straight to the cells.’

  ‘How did you know which cell to go to?’

  ‘I asked the officer on guard.’

  ‘Fine. Let’s get on with it, then.’

  De Wet smiled grimly to himself. So, the bastard was lying. The officer on guard duty had no idea who was in which cell, the doctor must have spoken to General Muller. Perhaps he was one of Muller’s cronies - he would see soon enough. De Wet had carefully studied the techniques of medical examination many times - he never felt he could take anyone for granted, there were always slip-ups that cost lives and convictions. This evening, his diligence was to be rewarded.

  ‘I’ll have to conduct an autopsy.’

  De Wet did not reply. He watched the doctor studying the dead man’s skull. He could see that the doctor knew exactly what had happened to this prisoner.

  The dead man was black, about five foot ten tall, well-built, with close-cropped black hair and a pencil-line moustache. Dr Odendal winced as he saw the line of cigarette burns down the man’s left arm; both wrists were bloody from where the manacles had been tightened. But the worst thing was the side of the man’s head which had been smashed in. Dr Odendal guessed that they had beaten the man up with a pickaxe handle, a favourite method of interrogation. Reluctantly he turned up to face the Major- General.

  ‘Major-General de Wet, we’ll have to get a stretcher and take him to the state mortuary. Could you arrange that for me, please?’

  Deon stood looking at the doctor, who clearly had no idea that his story hadn’t worked. Deon had already decided he was going to see this thing through to the end. One of his junior officers had told him he’d heard screams coming from the cells - Muller had been careless, leaving the door open while he and his cronies worked the prisoner over. When Deon arrived, the cell door had been locked and he’d had to get the key. Inside he’d found the dead body. And Muller had told him there had been an accident.

  Deon listened sceptically as Dr Odendal pressed his point. ‘I’m sorry, Major-General de Wet, but he must be taken there very quickly. A body decomposes rapidly after death.’

  De Wet sat down on the floor in the corner of the cell, his knees almost obscuring his face. He saw the puzzled reaction on the doctor’s face and waited.

  ‘Are you all right, Major-General?’

  ‘I’m perfectly well, doctor. Would you mind sitting down, I think we should talk.’

  ‘This is no time for flippancy. I insist that the body is moved to the mortuary. I will talk with you later.’

  ‘Doctor, which university did you study at for your doctor’s degree?’

  ‘I cannot see that this is an appropriate time to question my ability. Pretoria, if you must know.’

  ‘Yes. That is a fine university. I’m not questioning your ability, doctor, rather your judgement.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘You must have taken the Hippocratic Oath. It is a very solemn oath, I wish we had something of similar standing in the police force. I ask you, is it the correct procedure to conduct an autopsy on this body?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you say there’s no evidence that this man has been physically assaulted?’

  ‘No, he has not. I would imagine that there may be a tumour on his brain which may well have contributed to his death. That is the reason why I must conduct the autopsy. Now, if you please, Major-General de Wet. . .’

  Deon noted that the doctor was still steady though there were beads of perspiration running down his forehead. He started when he heard the footsteps coming down the corridor, then Deon could see his shoulders relaxing; it was as if he were trying not to appear scared. The footsteps approached the door of the cell.

  ‘Good evening, Dr Travis. It seems I called you out unnecess­arily, Dr Odendal has beaten you to it.’

  Dr Odendal was now crouched over the prisoner’s body and visibly shaking.

  ‘Good evening, Dr Odendal. I’ll be on my way, then.’

  Deon could see Dr Odendal was looking relieved as Dr Travis said this. ‘Well, Dr Travis,’ he said casually, ‘you might as well give us a second opinion, just for the record.’

  ‘No, Major-General de Wet, professionally it’s not necessary for a case like this. Dr Odendal is far better qualified than I am.’ De Wet admired the young doctor’s tact, he wished he could have instilled a little more of it into his own junior officers. He said, ‘So you would agree with having an autopsy?’

  ‘But it’s obvious what’s happened! Er, I mean, I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘Well, Dr Travis, I suggest you drop your professional ethics and have a look for yourself.’

  De Wet pulled Dr Odendal away from the body and saw the horrified look on Dr Travis’s face. He watched his face harden; Travis had only been doing this job for six months, out of interest, before taking up a lecturing post at the university medical school. Bending down over the body, in a few seconds his professionalism took over.

  ‘So, Major-General, you want me to examine your handiwork?’

  ‘Not mine, Dr Travis. Dr Odendal is of the opinion that this man fell off his chair and died.’

  ‘That is ridiculous. You must know that. This man has been beaten to death. I’ve never seen someone so savagely beaten!’

  ‘Thank you, doctor. You will now make your report, and you will deliver it to me and no one else. You will most probably have to contest Dr Odendal’s opinion in court. I have no doubt that you will tell the truth as I can see you are a man of conviction. Should anything happen to me within the next few weeks, I hope you will have the courage to pursue the matter on your own. This man died under interrogation, and I’m going to make sure that the men who killed him are brought to justice. Dr Travis, I want you to take this body to the morgue and make bloody sure no one tampers with it.’

  Dr Travis looked at Major-General de Wet. He knew what courage it must take to do what this man was doing, and he would stand by him whatever the consequences. He turned to Dr Odendal who was crying, shaking with emotion. ‘He forced me to do it! Muller said he’d destroy me!’

  ‘Dr Odendal. I will make sure you are struck off the roll.’

  A few hours later the body was placed in a refrigerated box in the Johannesburg mortuary. It was to stay there for a long time, and the name of the dead man would appear in newspaper headlines across the world, above wildly conflicting reports of what had happened to him. His death would affect the lives of three people immeasurably.

  Deon did not go home that evening. After phoning Teresa he wrote his report on the incident, working and reworking his account of how he had found the prisoner and what had hap­pened afterwards. He knew what would happen when he submit­ted the report: the spotlight would fall upon him
and everything would be done to try to discredit his statement. Driving home late the next day, he realized his career was in serious jeopardy.

  The moment Deon got home he realised that something was wrong. Everything looked too tidy - the kids usually left things lying all over the place and Teresa only ever cleared up in the morning.

  He noticed these things because of a lifetime’s career of searching for tiny clues that would lead to larger conclusions. He walked into the lounge and almost stepped backwards when he saw Teresa sitting on the rocking-chair, rocking backwards and forwards, staring at him.

  ‘You lousy, cheating bastard! Is this what I get for being loyal, for having loved you, for caring for you? I’d like you to tell me it’s not true, except that there’s just too much evidence for you to argue against.’

  He walked straight up to her and tried to take her in his arms. She slapped his face viciously and he felt the blood running down his nose.

  ‘Where are the children, Teresa?’

  ‘At my mother’s, where they’ll be staying while we arrange a divorce. You don’t deserve them, you’ve betrayed them. Thank God, at least I’ve got a few friends who’ll stand by me. Now it all makes sense. When you rang last night and told me what you were doing, I was so proud of you - then General Muller came round and had the decency to explain what you were really up to.’

  ‘Muller?’

  ‘He showed me those disgusting pictures you keep in your office, you pervert. You disgust me. General Muller told me the whole story; how he found out about your taste for whores, and he told you to behave yourself; how he threatened to tell me if you didn’t stop beating up black women - and then you tried to blackmail him with that trumped up story of police brutality. God, Deon, how low can you get?’

  ‘That’s all a pack of lies, Teresa. How the hell can you believe him?’

  ‘I can believe photographs, Deon. Photographs don’t lie. Muller says you’re just like your father, he told me all about him. He says he was corrupt too.’

  Deon went white. How could she believe him capable of these things? How could she speak like that of his father, a man she had never known?

  Teresa picked up a vase from the fireplace and threw it at him. He ducked, and it sailed past his head through the window. Her face was ugly with anger, he knew he could not reach her. Muller had played his ace, and how cleverly he had used it.

  ‘Get out of this house, Deon. Your clothes are all packed - go and sleep with one of your sluts. And don’t come back. I don’t want to hear any more of your disgusting lies!’

  ‘Teresa, it’s not true. I can’t believe this is happening to us.’ ‘Get out, you pig.’

  Deon walked out of the room, picked up the two suitcases from their bedroom and took them out to the battered old Mercedes. As he was packing them into the boot Teresa came out of the front door. He turned; she must have seen sense at last, have realised that Muller had been lying. He began to smile.

  ‘And if I’ve got some foul disease from you, I’ll make sure you pay dearly for it. Don’t think I’m going to keep quiet about this, either. I’m speaking to the papers tomorrow, you bastard.’

  Deon got into the car and drove. He had no idea how long he went on driving but at last he pulled into a small park and got out in the darkness. Then he walked over to some trees and was violently sick. He lay against one of them, crying like a child. Never in his life had he felt closer to suicide. He reached for his pistol, but before his hand even touched it he thought of his father and he left the pistol in its holster. That was just what Muller would have wanted, too. Then he would become the lying cop who took his own life - the perfect scapegoat on whom to hang a string of further lies and falsehoods. Well, Muller was going to learn that he might have won this round but he hadn’t won the fight. Deon still couldn’t quite believe that the General had done this to him, it was so cold-blooded.

  A moment later Deon strode out from the trees and onto the grassy area beyond. Once he had found a comfortable place, he lay down and stared up at the night sky.

  He had been unforgivably naive. The story of the dead prisoner was explosive, and naturally Muller would have received full authority from the highest level not to pull his punches. He had moved with the speed of a striking snake. Deon knew that if he hoped to stand any chance of defeating such a powerful adver­sary, he too would have to move very fast indeed.

  He went to see Sonja Seyton-Waugh the very next day. He had spent the night in a hotel, trying to persuade himself that Teresa would come to her senses. He couldn’t quite credit the fact that she had believed Muller. Of course, he had been a fool, he should have come home the previous evening, but then she had always trusted him.

  He knocked on the door of Sonja’s house with some trepida­tion. He was scared that she might not be in, and even if she was, perhaps she wouldn’t want to see him.

  She opened the door and greeted him with a warm smile. ‘Deon . . . ! Please, come in.’

  To his surprise, she touched his hand as he came through the door, and he felt electricity surge through his body. He turned and found himself staring into her eyes, transfixed.

  ‘I read the paper. I know what you must be going through.’ She embraced him, feeling the pain that was in his body. She understood.

  They drew apart after a few minutes and went through to the lounge. Sonja gestured for Deon to sit down next to her on one of the large leather couches. He looked into her eyes. Her lips were slightly parted and he sensed the need within her, matching his own. It was his loyalty, his love for Teresa, that had never let him fully admit what he was feeling now. But now he felt himself drawn to her by an irresistible force. His lips touched hers, and they kissed.

  Her body felt strange and inviting. He’d never known a woman like this. Suddenly the pangs of guilt swept over him. He thought of the vow he’d made, never to let Teresa down. Then he thought of how she’d believed Muller’s lies.

  The kiss became more and more passionate. He could feel Sonja’s heart beating. The smell of her excited his senses, made his body shudder with excitement. His hands were exploring her body, out of control. He tried to fight the surge of passion that took hold of him but was powerless against it.

  She led him upstairs and slowly undressed him. He came to her softly, removing her clothes carefully, conscious of the hurt she had suffered so many years before. She was like a young girl; and though her naked skin was like a flame to his passion, he forced himself to be sensitive to her every need, wanting this experience to be as good for her as it was for him. Only when she began to cry out for him did he penetrate her and feel the waves of excitement consume his body.

  Inside her he felt a fulfilment that he had never experienced with Teresa. The guilt was gone. This thing between him and Sonja was beyond his control. He held her tightly in his arms and sank into a deep sleep.

  He awoke later, immediately conscious of the darkness out­side. She was sleeping, curled up under his arm - this woman who controlled giant corporations and made men such as himself tremble.

  Sonja’s eyes opened and he could see she was watching him carefully, trying to sense his mood. She pulled herself from beneath his arm and knelt on the bed covers.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘My life, Sonja.’

  ‘I don’t feel guilty. I love you, Deon.’

  He turned over and kissed her again, then drew away. ‘I was in love with you from the very first time I saw you, but I wouldn’t admit it to myself. It was only when Teresa refused to accept that what I had done was correct, that I realised you were the only person in the world who would understand.’

  She pulled him close to her. ‘Deon, I’m never going to let you

  go.’

  Much later, over breakfast, Sonja told him about the trouble she was having in getting information out of Helen. The good news was that she was making an excellent recovery; because Helen had not been a conscious addict, the job of the Warwick­shire clinic had bee
n that much easier, but the mental problems that accompanied the withdrawal were hard to deal with. Sonja wanted to keep Helen in England, beyond the reach of Goldcorp’s tentacles. In the long term, her only hope of evading them would be to assume a new identity. Meanwhile, locked in Helen’s mind somewhere, was the information Sonja needed on Bernard and Jay.

  ‘I’m going over in a week’s time. I’m going to try again. I’m the only person who can do it because I’ve been through the same experience myself.’

  ‘You could never take her into the courtroom, Sonja, they’d tear her to pieces. I’ve seen it enough times to know it can be almost as bad as the experience itself.’

  ‘This business will never be sorted out in a court of law - they wouldn’t be so stupid as to let it get to that stage. They’ll start to close in on us as we begin to find out more, and then we’ll have to strike them where it really hurts. I want them to suffer the way they made me suffer.

  ‘They must be worried already about what’s happened to Helen. I just have to keep on working at establishing a bond with Helen. She still doesn’t trust me, or anyone else for that matter. By the way, do you think you could provide me with a complete file on her - friends, education, the whole thing?’

  ‘Sonja, if I start checking up on Helen, General Muller will get to know about it and he’ll put two and two together with Bernard Aschaar.’

  ‘But there has to be a way.’

  ‘There is. There’s the man who led me to you, Abe Solomon. He could investigate her background.’

  Everything about it attracted his journalist’s instincts. All the ingredients were there for a perfect story, the story of a lifetime.

  He’d never thought Deon would fight back against evil within the police force itself. He realised that as the members of the force closed ranks to protect themselves, Deon’s career would be on the rocks.