Published in 2014 by Modjaji Books
PO Box 385, Athlone, 7760, Cape Town, South Africa
www.modjajibooks.co.za
© Priscilla Holmes
Priscilla Holmes has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or recording, or be stored in any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the publisher.
Edited by Máire Fisher
Cover artwork by Carla Kreuser
Book layout by Andy Thesen
Printed and bound by Megadigital, Cape Town
ISBN 978-1-920590-75-8
Ebook ISBN 978-1-920590-86-4
In memory of my mother, Gertrude Amy Kench and to Jack with all my love
1
11 March 2006
Julia stared into the bronze mirror at the entrance to Mama Ruby’s, at the reflection of someone she barely recognised: herself. Despite what had happened earlier, despite her battered body and despair, she looked so normal. She should look like a ragged refugee from a broken country, hiding in a dark railway station, waiting to escape, waiting to be free of oppression, of violence. Every time Magnus planted her at one of these dinners, charity soirées, or cocktail parties, she asked herself why she kept coming.
Or did she just enjoy facing public humiliation?
Tonight, as usual, she looked elegant, poised, calm. Her long red hair swinging to her shoulders, her face pale, but immaculately made-up. She was actually smiling at Ivan Ivanski, just as if nothing had happened. As if her body wasn’t aching and bruised. Nothing ever showed. Magnus hurt her only in hidden places. He stood behind her, solicitously helping her with her coat, pulling out her chair. She stared at him in the mirror. He smiled back, his eyes cold. She hated him.
They sat at the best table in the restaurant. The wishy-washy lady, with cast-down eyes, offered Julia a welcoming bowl of rosewater to rinse her hands. A large chandelier showered golden light on the crowd; candles blossomed in enormous iron holders imported from Zanzibar; waiters whirled past dressed in bright robes and turbans. People came from all over the world to eat here. The square outside the restaurant bloomed with fairy lights strung around the tall plants. Diners sat beside flaming torches, drinking from enormous goblets as the evening swirled around them.
Julia sat next to Ivanski, opposite two executives and their wives from a major mining group. Magnus had positioned himself beside Ollis Sando, the powerful lawyer, rumoured to be in line for the presidency in the upcoming elections. Sitina Sando, a tall beauty from Ethiopia, sat next to her husband, constantly touching his arm and smiling up at him. They were a couple in the golden lap of the world. Since their recent marriage they had been on the covers of all the glossy magazines and newspapers in South Africa. Julia couldn’t stop a sharp twist of envy as she watched the tender way Sando looked at his wife, the way he touched her face and smiled at her.
Magnus was talking to Sando in his usual bombastic yet obsequious way, pushing up his chin, gesticulating.
‘What about a trip to our game lodge next month? We’ve got a place at Madikwe, you know, right on the Botswana border, awesome game viewing. Do you enjoy the bush?’
Julia watched him through narrowed eyes, feeling the back of the chair pressing into her bruises. Sando answered quietly, not meeting Magnus’s patronising stare.
‘Sounds good, Magnus, we’ll think about it,’ he murmured, his eyes wandering the room.
Magnus turned his heavy gaze on Sitina. ‘Do you like the bush, Sitina?’
She smiled tightly. ‘I do, actually, we’re regulars. Luckily we have our own private lodge near Kruger.’
Magnus sat back, deflated.
Julia smiled to herself at the put-down.
She thought Sando attractive in an unfinished Michelangelo-sculpture kind of way. His strong nose, full lips and large well-moulded hands seemed expertly formed, but the rest of him, heavy shoulders, torso and legs had not been liberated from the original slabs of black marble. He was all raw power.
Ivanski leaned towards Julia. ‘You are looking very beautiful tonight,’ he said. ‘I believe red-haired women are –’
Whatever the Russian believed about redheads, Julia never discovered. Cutting across the chatter and laughter of the restaurant came a violent crash and a volley of gunfire. The ceiling exploded, great shards of glass tumbling down onto the traumatised diners. Shrill screams erupted, people leapt up, tables overturned, plates and glasses shattered. A thin man dressed in a black tracksuit was standing on one of the tables dominating the room. He wore a black mask tight over his head, with tiny slits for his eyes, nostrils and mouth. His movements were jerky; he held a semi-automatic weapon in one hand. He shouted in a high, tinny voice, demanding that people empty their pockets, and throw their bags, cell phones, wallets, jewellery, and put them on to the table.
He fired again, just missing a man attempting to get to the door. People shrank back whimpering. Julia watched women crying as they tried to take off necklaces with shaking hands. One woman sobbed as she struggled to ease her emeralds and diamonds over swollen fingers. A man yanked shimmering South Sea pearls from his wife’s neck. His wife turned away from him in disgust. Another man fumbled a heavy gold watch off his wrist. Probably a Rolex, Julia thought. This was a well-heeled crowd. The man jumped down from the table, shocked diners shrank back. Waving his gun he ran from table to table, sweeping the jewels and watches into a black refuse bag.
‘Nyet! Stop this!’ Ivanski was on his feet, shouting.
The gunman strode to their table; hit Ivanski in the face with the butt of the gun. Blood spurted over white linen and crystal. The Russian fell back and hit his head. He slumped and twisted on the floor. Julia heard him moaning.
The gunman raised his weapon and sprayed more bullets across the room, shattering the mirrors, creating maximum noise and panic. Terrified diners dived for cover. Men yelling, women screaming. It was chaos.
Security alarms blasted the air so loudly that Julia’s ears hurt. The man hesitated and then darted forward, dropping the bulky black bag. He stood right in front of her. She could almost see his mind clicking and shifting. Before he even moved, she knew. He was coming for her. The world shifted on its axis.
He grabbed Julia around the neck, pulled her off the chair and pushed the gun under her chin. He was immensely strong, his arms like iron bands as he pushed Julia’s head back at a painful angle. ‘Don’t struggle, bitch,’ he said, ‘you’re coming with me.’ He sounded like Bugs Bunny, or Donald Duck. A friendly character from Julia’s childhood.
He turned to the cowering diners: ‘Try anything and I’ll blow her brains out.’ He took the gun from under her chin and released another round into the ceiling. The noise was shattering.
He grabbed Julia’s hair, pulling her so close that she could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck, smell the sharp scent of his excitement.
Nobody moved.
He thrust the refuse bag into Julia’s shaking hands ‘Hold this,’ he squeaked. She clutched the heavy bag like a life line.
The man jammed the gun into her throat and dragged her back across the entrance and out into the square. Shocked bystanders fell back to let them pass.
He frog-marched Julia, using her as a human shield. As he dragged her across the tiles of the square, security guards raced towards them, their breath steaming in the cold night air.
‘Get back! Any closer and I’ll kill her,’ the cartoon voice squealed.
At first the guards fell back, uncertain. Then they edged forward, step by step, m
atching their quarry’s pace. Julia blocked their line of fire and they could do nothing but watch, helpless, as the man retreated across the square, pulling his hostage with him.
‘Don’t shoot!’ Julia cried to the guards.
People stood frozen, watching, their faces blank with shock.
The man thrust her towards a shabby white van parked on the edge of the square. He opened the back, forced her in and jumped in after her. She fell heavily on the floor. It smelt of old vegetables. The van sped around the corner with shrieking tyres. Julia bounced around in the back, hitting her head, twisting her wrist as she tried to steady herself. Suddenly the van screeched to a stop. The man pushed the door open, prodded the gun into her kidneys, thrusting her out of the van. She fell heavily, toppling towards a dark ramp, the man right behind her.
‘Go, go, go!’ he shouted. The van revved. Julia caught a glimpse of another masked man in the driver’s seat, before the van drove off, tyres shrieking.
The man crouched low and ran hard, dragging Julia behind him. She slipped and smashed her ankle against something steely. Pain shot up her leg. Now she was dragged, half hobbling, while her abductor shrieked in his Bugs Bunny voice, over and over again, ‘Hurry, hurry up, bitch.’ It was a cartoon nightmare.
At the bottom of the ramp was a gated parking basement. Her abductor clicked on a button on the wall. The gate opened. He dragged her inside. It was dark, but he seemed to know where he was. With the gun pressed into her back, Julia stumbled between rows of cars, until they reached a doorway. The man pressed a switch. Doors opened. Julia lurched forward into yawning darkness.
They were in a lift. It smelt of food. The doors clanged shut and they dropped at least four floors. Would she still be alive when the doors opened again? The man pressed a button. The lift jerked to a halt, and hung shaking in mid-air. They were suspended in darkness.
For a while the figure next to her did nothing. Julia stood very still. The only sound, her panting breath. The man was blacker than night. Then he moved his hands all over Julia’s face, his gloved hands rough on her chin and neck. Her heart banged at her ribs like a trapped animal. She closed her eyes and kept very still. He ran his hands over her head. ‘If you want to keep this pretty face, just do exactly what I say,’ the man squeaked.
She shuddered at his touch. She flattened herself against the wall of the lift. She could hear him breathing near to her. Too near... She opened her eyes and tried to focus, looking and listening with all her senses.
After a few minutes the dark figure pulled off his ski mask. Julia saw the gleam of skin, bright narrow eyes. Her attacker spoke in a perfectly normal voice. Bugs Bunny was gone.
2
Three months later
15 June 2006
The snow softened the harsh concrete skyline, decorating the buildings opposite my office with birthday cake icing.
Snow in Johannesburg. It didn’t happen often, even at the high altitude. Big thick flakes. Like the snow in the valley. Only when it snowed there, round huts turned into iced cupcakes; kids threw snowballs and slid down mountain paths on tin trays.
I shook my head. Jozi was my home now. The land of mountains and isolation was far behind me. And that’s where it could stay.
Zak Khumalo walked in, blowing away all thoughts of the lonely valley of my childhood. A big personality, some of the girls in the unit said. An overinflated ego was more like it. As always he walked past me, managing to touch my shoulder without dropping anything out of a bulging folder tucked under one arm. As always he was brimming with the awareness of his own charm. ‘Morning, Detective Inspector Tswane,’ he said. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘It’s snowing,’ I said quietly. ‘Do you remember the last time? When we were called to the Inanda Club to investigate the assassination? All that blood, it looked so red on the snow.’
‘I remember,’ Zak said, his face sober. ‘He was a real loss. Our next president – if he’d lived. But hey,’ he smiled at me, ‘did you see the headlines in The Star? “Snow turns city of gold into city of ice” – focus on that image, DI Tswane, forget the blood. You’ll feel better, trust me.’
Take it from me, the last thing I would ever do was trust Zak Khumalo. Most of the female officers thought he was so hot. They were all jealous that I was working so closely with him. I looked up at him and he smiled, that quick flash of white that had all the girls swooning. He smoothed his hands over his shaved head.
Something you need to know about me, I don’t give compliments easily. Zak Khumalo was strikingly handsome; there was no getting away from it. His body wasn’t too bad either... and he didn’t hide it, flat muscled chest under a thin black T-shirt, tight trousers moulding long, well-defined legs. Yes, Zak Khumalo was attractive alright, if you like the brash arrogant type. Not that there was any point in looking at any man in the Eagles – the Serious and Violent Crime Unit, to give it its official title. When you were on Divisional Commissioner Matatu’s team, you didn’t form close relationships with your colleagues. Not if you had any sense.
‘The boss wants to see you in his office, immediately,’ Zak said.
‘Thanks for telling me immediately,’ I said, pushing past him. ‘I could have done without the weather forecast, trust me.’
Khumalo laughed and shook his head as I left the room.
***
I stared at the boss in disbelief.
‘I can’t go there,’ I blurted. ‘Couldn’t somebody else take this case, sir? I can’t.’
‘You can’t go there? You can’t do it? What does that mean?’ Matatu’s eyebrows rose. He was a huge man with a great slab of a face and enormous hands. He rocked back in his chair and looked at me with annoyance. ‘You are assigned this case, DI Tswane. It’s not a choice.’
Matatu wasn’t about to listen to arguments. He had changed in the last year, become harder, less quick to smile. He’d been suspended, under suspicion in a recent investigation. Whispers of corruption had circulated, rumours were rife. I had never doubted his innocence. In the murky world of police corruption, Matatu was an honourable man. But he had come under heavy fire as the sins of his bosses were investigated. Much as some people wanted to pin the blame on him, he had emerged unscathed to head up a new unit of the Serious and Violent Crimes section of the South African Police Services.
It was good to have him back at his desk, but the experience had taken something from him. He’d become a tough taskmaster, unwilling to accept any dereliction of duty. There would be no whisper of fraudulence in his crack unit. Discipline had never been tighter. And I was feeling just how tight it was.
‘Detective Inspectors don’t have choices. They obey orders. Do you understand?’ Matatu asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
Matatu stared at me, as if he was trying to look through me and beyond the walls of his small shabby office. I kept my eyes fixed on his silver pen as it fluttered through his fingers like a magician’s wand. ‘You know the area, you speak the language. You are a senior officer in this unit. You’re going. Tell me, where is your home exactly?’
If I had been a valley girl I would have said ‘North-west of the Great Fish River’ and Matatu would have known what I meant. But then again, if I’d been a valley girl I would never be having this conversation, let alone looking my boss in the eye. It wasn’t respectful for a village woman to look into a man’s face.
‘Nguni Intile – an ancient valley, to the west of Umtata. Very rural,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been back for a long time.’
I closed my eyes for a moment and there it was – as clear as the day I left. The remote valley where the top activity for women was walking up from the river with a twenty-litre bucket of water on your head.
Matatu searched my face. He didn’t have to say anything. I knew what he was thinking. Most people who came from places like the valley returned to their homes whenever they could. They might have to spend days on overcrowded buses, walk miles through the bush, climb mountain peaks and for
d dangerous rivers, but they went back. So what the hell was wrong with me?
But the boss didn’t comment. Just shook his head. ‘I’m briefing you now; you’ll be chief investigator, so listen carefully.’
As Matatu turned to the map of the Eastern Cape pinned to the wall opposite his desk, I glanced around. The room was a smokescreen for what lay behind the simple office. The special unit’s headquarters didn’t look like a sophisticated power centre. That was the whole point. It was what the boss wanted visitors to think. The Eagles Unit was designed so you saw nothing but hallways and doors, unless you walked through one of them. Matatu’s inner office opened into a beehive of activity. Behind him doors of plate glass and steel stretched out, the central sections frosted so it was difficult to see any detail of what was going on behind them. I could just make out men and women, some in uniform, hurrying through the workspaces.
‘The case is centred in your home area,’ Matatu indicated on the map. ‘You’ll be interviewing people you might know. The local police have requested our help.’
‘What’s happened?’ I asked.
‘Serious robberies. Two men working the whole area. It’s been going on for two months now. Armed hold-ups, bank heists, millions of rands stolen from different locations right across the Eastern Cape, mostly in small towns. Yesterday it went seriously wrong; they killed a man in a small seaside town, Kenton-on-Sea. That’s why we’re involved.’
‘Only two of them?’
‘So it seems. But they’re clever. Not the usual hit-and-run-like-hell tactics. These guys are smart. They’ve got a different plan for every heist. Then they just vanish into thin air, or so the locals tell us.’
‘Any CCTV footage?’
‘Plenty. Camera footage shows they’re heavily armed – Uzis, Smith & Wessons or Glocks. They’re always masked. Alien masks pulled tightly over their heads. And – this is strange – they always talk in the same high voices, like cartoon characters, in Disney films.’
Now I See You Page 1
