‘I’m sorry,’ I said, spraying the carpet with snow and rain drops. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. There’s this new case and my boss wants me to...’
‘I know, Thabisa,’ he said. ‘That’s just it. It’s always the job, never me.’ He looked down and I saw the bags at his feet. All packed. Ready to go.
He turned away from me. I stepped towards him, so close I could touch him. But I didn’t. I knew it was over.
‘Come on, Paul,’ I said quietly. ‘I know it’s difficult. But we can work it out. Let’s go to Melrose Arch, find the others, get dinner. We can talk...’
He stood stiff, unresponsive, not looking at me. Then he picked up his bags.
‘There’s really no point, Thabisa. It won’t work.’
His words bobbed around the room, floating on the silence between us.
‘There’s someone else, isn’t there.’ It wasn’t a question.
A man seldom leaves a woman unless there’s another one waiting in the wings. I knew the answer before his eyes shifted.
‘Thabisa, get a life, okay? You’re a woman doing a man’s job. Police work isn’t for women. It makes them too tough.’
A twist of rage formed in my chest.
‘You’re too independent,’ he continued. ‘A real woman looks after her man, washes his shirts and, God forbid, even makes a meal occasionally.’
I took a deep breath.
‘Get out.’ I opened the door of my apartment. Paul had lived here in comfort, rent-free, for the past seven months. I held the door open, turned my face away, didn’t look at him. I felt his shrug as he walked past me.
‘I could have loved you,’ he said.
‘For a free-loading scumball you’ve got a hell of a cheek,’ I yelled. ‘And besides, how could you possibly, ever, have loved me? You’re too much in love with yourself.’ I kicked the door shut behind him. As it slammed, all the lights came back on again. An omen. It had to be. I just hoped it was a good one.
A police officer in the SVCU doesn’t work regular hours, but my job was what I wanted, more than a love life, more than family and more than anything. When I’d met Paul Ngomo a year ago I thought it might possibly work. We met at a friend’s place and got along well, to start with. Really well. We were both rural kids from the Eastern Cape, both making it in the big city – Jozi, the place to be. Paul, a banker, was smart, good-looking; he read the women’s pages in The Star newspaper without making sarcastic comments. He frequently assured me that my career was as important as his and yet, under the modern veneer, the twenty-first-century, modern-man look, he was just another typical macho male. At first it was okay, but then he started leaving dirty dishes all over the kitchen, dropping his stuff on the floor, just leaving it there, until I got the hell in and picked it up... What kind of idiot did that make me? He never cooked a meal, just sat there with his knife and fork in his hands, waiting for me to feed him. I suspected another woman when I saw him flipping his cell phone shut when I walked into the room, the sudden sliding away of his eyes when I looked at him. Then there were phone calls in the night, nobody there, just heavy breathing... of the feminine sort. He had every excuse under the sun when I confronted him. Like an idiot, I believed most of it. Some woman at work was stalking him... yeah, right! I glanced around the flat, scanning to see what he’d taken. A few DVDs were gone, some books, and most irritating of all, my favourite Miriam Makeba CD. Bastard.
What was wrong with me? Why did I pick these losers all the time? They were attracted to me like heat-seeking missiles. This had happened at least twice before. Where were all the good guys? The real men who wanted an equal relationship, who wanted to share my life instead of wanting to take it over?
I seemed to be doomed to become a sad single. Nothing seemed to go right with men. But then I thought, he’s the loser here. Not me.
With Paul gone, I felt the apartment’s space reasserting itself like water flowing gently over smooth pebbles.
I changed into a tracksuit, kicked off my shoes, cleared the image of Paul’s angry face from my mind and sank into the squashy, cream sofa. Wriggling my toes comfortably into the cushions, I realised, with surprise, that I was actually relishing the solitude.
If I had to be totally honest, the last few months had been a strain. I’d been painting over the cracks, pretending things would improve. Now, as my anger slowly retreated, I felt a flood of relief that it was over.
I’d had enough of relationships. From now on my life was going to be a male-free zone.
4
19 June 2006
I arrived in Grahamstown at lunchtime. The streets were full of farm workers and labourers who had come into town for supplies. I glanced around. Hawkers squatted on the pavement, peddling fruit and vegetables; there was hooting and chaotic shouting at the taxi rank as taxis, cars, mini-buses, vans and motorcycles butted and pushed against one another, jostling and blaring their impatience. Smoke drifted from mobile kitchens and the enticing aromas of open-air cooking mixed with petrol fumes. I noted a darkened sports café, with a bare concrete floor and pool table, full of unemployed young men with disturbingly bloodshot eyes. They called out loudly to any young woman who passed.
There’s trouble wherever you look.
I entered the Grahamstown Police Station through a barred security door. It was a grim double-storey, red-brick building, enclosed by eight-foot palisades. There were rolls of barbed wire everywhere I looked. People don’t like the police – and buildings like this help to explain why.
It had been a bumpy plane journey from Johannesburg to East London and the drive from East London to Grahamstown had been the last straw. Why hadn’t somebody met me? I’d travelled on the same plane as well-known politician Ollis Sando. He had been surrounded by bodyguards when they boarded, but I’d caught a glimpse of his tall, immaculately dressed body, the shaved head and wide, strongly carved lips. I recognised one of his bodyguards: Don Jacobs, a red-faced Afrikaans guy, bulging with muscles under his navy jacket. He’d worked with me back in the days at the Pretoria Police Station. He greeted me and we found ourselves sitting together at the back of the plane while Ollis Sando and his henchmen sat up front.
Don had changed for the worst since the days I knew him. He’d been a quiet, reserved sort of guy then. Now he seemed brash and arrogant. He was big, the muscles going to fat. He ordered a steady supply of red wine and I watched his eyes get more bloodshot throughout the journey. ‘Off duty,’ he said, when he saw my raised eyebrows as the cabin crew delivered his fourth drink. ‘My detail starts tomorrow at six sharp. Plenty of time to sleep it off.’
‘Why aren’t you up there with the others?’ I teased him.
‘Not enough room. We’re a small army these days,’ he grinned at me. ‘You look great, Thabisa. The SVCU obviously suits you. I heard through the grapevine that you’re working there now. Hand-picked by Matatu.’
‘Thank you, Don.’ I smiled. ‘Great outlet for my personality, eh? But how did you get to know that?’
He grinned. ‘I still get all the skinner. What are you doing in the Eastern Cape?’
‘I’m in Grahamstown for a couple of weeks,’ I said. ‘Working on a case.’
‘Something to do with that missing woman, Julia McEwen?’
I turned away and stared out of the window. I was surprised by his question. He knew better than to ask me, surely? ‘Why would you ask about her?’
‘She’s still in the news. Didn’t you see the documentary on Carte Blanche last Sunday night? All about the little rich white lady being abducted from one of the larniest restaurants in Jo’burg.’ Don moved his arm against mine and nudged me in an unpleasant, conspiratorial way.
I turned to face him again. ‘I can’t talk about my work – you know that – but no, for your information, it’s not Julia McEwen. It’s something else.’
He looked at me intently. ‘Everyone in South Africa is wondering what’s happened to that poor bitch. Her husband’s a rich man. You’d think he’d
be offering huge rewards for her return. But there’s been nothing that I’ve heard of. Probably glad to get rid of her. Bet he’s got a newer model lined up – what do you think, hey?’ He nudged me again and winked. Horrible. I wanted him out of my space. Not easy on a crowded plane.
‘He did offer a reward, just after it happened, but it’s been three months now and still no trace of her. Nothing to do with me though.’ I shifted away from him slightly. I wanted to shut him out, take some time to get my thoughts in order. ‘You need to remember you’re out of the force now, Don. You shouldn’t be questioning a police officer.’
Don grinned. He loomed over me, twice my size, breathing his hot wine-breath against the side of my face. I shrugged further away, opened my newspaper and started to read.
He leaned closer. ‘I’m not prying. Just interested. Where do you stay in Grahamstown? A bed and breakfast or what? There used to be a safe house in Hill Street, I remember from the old days.’
I sighed, folded up my newspaper and leaned back. The only way to deflect this guy was to get him talking about himself. One of the qualities Matatu appreciated about me was my ability to listen, wait patiently until the answers started coming. I never threatened or cajoled; I just waited and soon enough the information started flowing. Might as well practise my skills on this oaf, if only to stop him poking around in matters that no longer concerned him.
‘Come on, Don,’ I said, ‘let me question you. What’s it like to be on the Ollis Sando protection team? Do you go everywhere with him?’
‘Yes, mostly. He’s a powerful guy. Nobody crosses him, but he needs protection.’
‘Is he good to work for?’
Don looked away for a moment. When he glanced back there was an odd glint in his bloodshot eyes that warned me he wasn’t comfortable with this conversation. I waited quietly for him to answer and soon enough he filled the silence. ‘Well, “good” isn’t the right word to describe Sando. He’s difficult, demanding, determined, but you’ve got to admire the guy. Either way, this is a pretty good job. I’m well paid. It beats police work.’
‘You think he’ll make it as the next president?’
‘Yes, or he’ll die in the attempt. That’s what I’m doing, making sure he lives to get what he wants.’
Don ordered another glass of red wine from the drinks trolley, leaned back and drank it one swig. Then he closed his eyes. I looked out the window as the plane flew over the Drakensberg Mountains. The valley was down there, somewhere, waiting for me. I could feel it.
Just before we began our descent, I went to wash my hands. When I got back to my seat Don was fiddling about in the overhead locker.
‘Just checking my luggage,’ he said. ‘I’ll lift yours down for you when we land.’
‘I don’t need you to do that,’ I was annoyed. ‘I’m perfectly capable of lifting my own stuff.’
‘Always the gentleman, that’s me,’ he said, then turned away and looked out of the window.
I felt uncomfortable near him. Funny how people can change.
***
In the police station, the Director’s secretary sat behind a brown metal desk, head bent over a stack of files. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Thabisa Tswane, from the Eagles – the Violent Crimes Unit. I’m here to see Director Mandile.’
‘Thabisa? Thabisa, it’s you! A blonde head came up. ‘It’s me, Bea Malan. We met at Mossel Bay when you were a cadet, remember?’
I recognised her immediately. Beatrix Jacoba Malan, known to everyone as Busy Bea. She was older than me, a little heavier in the waist than the last time we met, but still the same old Bea.
Most stations required their administrative staff to wear conservative clothes. Not Bea. She had always been outrageous, but so efficient it didn’t matter. She had a Rubenesque body and her wardrobe looked three sizes too small. Today she wore a fire-engine red sweater, not a good choice for somebody who carried most of her body weight on her chest. Bea wasn’t a fitness fanatic.
Some things never change, and thank God they don’t.
‘Bea, how amazing,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Same thing as Mossel Bay. Thabisa, you’ve done so well. I knew you would. Congratulations.’
As Bea swivelled her chair towards the Director’s half-open door, I smiled. The clinging red top was only part of it. A red mini-skirt and white, knee-high boots edged with fake fur completed the look.
‘Detective Inspector Thabisa Tswane is here,’ she announced loudly.
The door opened and Director Mandile appeared. A thin ferret of a man, with tight lips and narrow eyes. He didn’t smile or look directly at me.
‘Good day, Detective Inspector,’ he said. ‘We’ve been waiting for you. We were all too busy to come and meet you in East London. I believe you’re going to help your poor rural cousins catch these two criminals? I must admit we didn’t expect a woman to come and save us.’
I narrowed my eyes and did some mental deep breathing to remain impassive, refusing to rise to the bait. Before offering a handshake Mandile asked to see my identification documents, then spent an insulting length of time examining them, as though certain they were fraudulent. Only then did he grudgingly shake my hand and escort me past Bea’s desk.
‘This is a high-profile case,’ he said. ‘No doubt you’ll find it good for your career.’
I had encountered a few Mandiles along the way. In a male-dominated society, it was inevitable. The only way to cope was keep calm, and just imagine stamping on his foot, or – even better – his head.
‘Director Mandile, we just want to catch these guys as soon as possible,’ I said. ‘This assignment has been given to me because I come from the area and the chief witness is my grandfather.’
‘Yes, yes, we are aware of your grandfather. We do, however, have a further witness, the security guard who was outside the bank at Kenton-on-Sea. They hit him on the head. He’s in hospital here with concussion.’
‘Before I see him, let’s go through the information we have.’ I smiled coldly and flipped open my file.
Mandile moved aside slowly, so slowly that I had to squeeze past him through the doorway. My fingers itched to push him out of the way. He was just the sort of man modern women can do without. He pointed to an uncomfortable chair and slid behind his desk, staring at me, running his beady little eyes over my face and body with a sneer.
What a little shit.
‘Right, let’s look at what’s happened until now,’ I said. ‘I’ve been through all the documentation, but refresh my memory. I’d like to go through things a step at a time. Where did this start?’
‘The heists began in Umtata and progressed across the Eastern Cape, petrol stations, stores, a bank in Port Alfred and another here in Grahamstown. What makes the Violent Crimes team think just one woman can sort out these crimes anyway?’ His eyebrows rose in his ratty little face.
Just what the world needs, one more male chauvinist policeman.
‘Let’s focus on the case, shall we?’ I said. ‘Otherwise Divisional Commissioner Matatu might have to be informed that cooperation is lacking at this station.’
He swallowed his annoyance with bad grace. ‘Up to now these criminals – black males we think – have been very polite to their victims. They speak in strange, high voices and say things like “have a good day” and “sorry we have spoiled your weekend”, stuff like that.’
There was a silence before I leaned forward and said, ‘How can you be sure that these guys are black when they’re disguised?’
‘My dear DI Tswane. It’s quite obvious that you are new to this area. To the demographics of the crimes here. In the last two years, of the roughly 3,000 criminals that have been arrested, 90% have been black, 10% white, Indian or coloured. Therefore, we feel quite confident in our assumption that these crimes were committed by young black males. Of course, they could be white males,’ he smiled thinly, ‘but the chances of this are slim. Very slim. It is most likely that they are,
as I said, black males. We shall proceed with the investigation presuming this to be the case until we have evidence to the contrary.’
‘In the Violent Crimes Unit we are told not to assume anything... ever,’ I said.
Mandile’s narrow eyes grew narrower and he looked away, twitching with annoyance.
‘How do they get away without anyone seeing them?’ I asked.
‘Nobody knows.’
‘But how can two masked people, running away, carrying bags, not be noticed?’
‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’ His eyebrows rose above a fake smile. He waved his hand dismissively. ‘To find these things out?’
I mentally clenched my fists and forced an answering grin. ‘What happened to all this polite conversation at Kenton-on-Sea?’ I asked. ‘Something must have gone wrong?’
‘Apparently a customer in the bank tried to apprehend them. He pulled out his firearm to defend himself and they shot him.’
‘So, Director Mandile, despite the gunshot, the alarm sounding, and all the panic, they shot a man, walked out of the bank, calmly stole a car, drove away and nobody saw anything?’
‘Things move slowly in the Eastern Cape. People leave their keys in their cars in these small places.’
‘Wouldn’t happen in Johannesburg.’ I closed my file.
‘Miss Malan will accompany you to the hospital to speak to the security guard. She has organised accommodation for you, just ask her for what you need. Unfortunately, I will be unable to go with you. I have several pressing matters to attend to.’
‘Ja, right,’ I said. I turned away, imagining Mandile’s glare of deep dislike burning holes through my uniform.
Bea was at her desk, grinning, as I walked out. She was obviously the station’s information wizard, with several powerful computer monitors on her side table. The neat files stacked on the top of cabinets, pens and pencils in military lines on her desk all emphasised her competence.
‘So,’ I asked, ‘you’re coming to the hospital with me, right?’
‘Looks like it.’
I remembered Mossel Bay, back when black police officers were made to use separate toilets. In her role as station administrator Bea had taken no notice of these rules and regulations and made sure I used the same facilities as the others. I hadn’t forgotten her kindness.
Now I See You Page 3
