‘Get up,’ said the woman. She strode away from Julia, heading back to the car.
Julia tried to stand but her legs wouldn’t support her. She lay for a moment, gasping, tendrils of panic uncurling in her stomach. Then she dragged herself up and staggered towards the car. The woman was talking on her mobile, her back to Julia.
‘Yes, of course she’s dead. You heard me shoot her. In a field off the N1. In a gully. Deep bush; nobody’s going to find her for weeks.’
Julia fell back into the car. The woman returned and sat silently. Julia tried to analyse why she hadn’t tried to escape, run screaming for the highway, but she couldn’t. Her mind wouldn’t work. All she could do was remember the hostages rescued in Iraq, talking on television.
We established a connection with our captors. We knew that if we spoke to them they would see us, as people, not as victims.
‘Why didn’t you kill me?’
‘Perhaps I’ve got a use for you.’
‘Thank you for sparing my life.’
‘There’s plenty of time. I plan to kill you later.’
‘Why?’
Silence. A huge vehicle flashed past, lights blazing. It lit up the woman’s face.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Julia asked. For a moment, she was the interrogator. ‘You’ve kidnapped me, beaten me, and tried to kill me. Why? You don’t even know me.’
‘Collateral damage. You served a purpose. Call it bad timing.’
‘So this is not about me? Then just let me out. Drive off. I’ll never speak about it. I promise. I’m a rich woman; I’ll give you anything you want.’
The woman clutched the steering wheel for a moment before answering.
‘It’s gone too far. You’re coming with me to a place I know, and then I’ll decide what to do. If you make any attempt to escape, I’ll kill you. Get it?’
‘Yes,’ Julia answered. After a long silence she said, ‘Please tell me who you are. What’s your name?’
‘Why?’
‘I just want to know.’
‘It makes no difference. I’m dead already.’ The woman glanced at her in the rear view mirror. ‘And so are you.’
Julia lay back on the seat as they sped into a waking world. They stopped once for fuel. When Julia went to the cloakroom the woman walked behind, the gun at her back. Nobody took any notice of them. The fuel attendants looked away from her stained, bloodied clothes and bruised face.
They drove east after Colesberg, into the Karoo, with its wraparound blue skies, strange little towns with windmills for trees, red earth and horizons full of puffy cumulus clouds. When she saw the signs to Cradock, the historical Karoo town, Julia tried to make another connection.
‘Why would a woman like you do something like this?’
There was silence.
‘The robbery at Mama Ruby’s was life-threatening.’ Julia pressed on. ‘You could have been killed.’
‘Perhaps I don’t give a shit.’
Julia saw a chance to relate. Hostages always say you must try to relate to your captor. ‘I know what you mean,’ Julia said. ‘I feel like that most of the time.’
The woman smiled tightly. ‘Really? I would say your biggest problem is whether to put pink or blue candles on the table at your dinner parties.’
‘Is that how I seem?’
‘The most dangerous thing you’ve ever done is water the roses when your gardener is off-duty on Sunday.’
‘Appearances are deceptive,’ Julia said, carefully feeling her split lip with her tongue. ‘I was arrested yesterday for shoplifting.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true. It feels like it was a thousand years ago, in another life, but it happened.’
For the second time Julia had managed to surprise her.
‘What’s your name?’ the woman asked.
‘Julia McEwen.’
They started calling us by name. That made it harder for them to kill us.
‘Is this for real?’ the woman asked.
‘Yes, I spent yesterday afternoon at a police station, before going to that restaurant last night.’
‘Are you married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does your husband know you’re a shoplifter?’
‘He suspected, now he knows for sure.’
‘So he finally realised the prissy lady he married, the one who talks with a plum in her mouth, is a criminal. Not even a clever one. Just a common little shoplifter?’
‘Yes.’ Julia sat back in the seat.
We never argued with them; we submitted to everything.
They drove in silence, until at sunset they arrived at a tiny coastal village. A jumble of shuttered beach cottages scrambled down enormous dunes and scrubby bush, protecting them from prying eyes.
The woman knew how to get into a shabby, clapboard cottage. It smelled of mould and salt, and was furnished with dilapidated chairs and scrubbed wooden surfaces. The woman flung open the windows. Sea tides hissed and crashed at the doorstep.
‘Take that room,’ said the woman, pointing to a door on the left. ‘Remember what I said. Don’t try anything stupid.’ Her voice was flat, machine-like.
Julia nodded wordlessly. The woman’s eyes scared her. She walked into a small, musty bedroom. The window was barred. The key turned as the woman locked her in. She tried to take off her filthy clothes but somehow her hands wouldn’t work properly; she fumbled with buttons, but then just gave up. She slumped onto a stained mattress that smelled of dust and salt. She gazed at the cracked wooden ceiling, listening to the wind skimming sand off the dunes.
Although she was desperate for sleep, her brain fizzed with a kaleidoscope of events. What was she doing there with a woman who pretended to be a man, who wanted to kill her, but hadn’t, who had been ‘told’ to kill her, but hadn’t?
A brilliant light turned on in Julia’s head – the light she had first glimpsed in the veld. She visualised herself free again. She would make changes, leave Magnus, live differently.
She sat up and stared out of the barred window. A wave, like thousands of metres of navy blue silk, unfurled on the beach. The sea hissed and slid.
She wanted to survive this. The trick was to stay alive, whatever it took.
6
20 June 2006
I woke with a start and sat bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding. Sun streamed through a crack in the bedroom curtains. A loud crashing downstairs had woken me from a deep sleep. My mind cleared and I realised somebody was banging on a door, yelling my name.
Immediately I was on my feet, weapon in my hand. I looked at the bedside clock. Nine. I’d overslept. I had spent the whole night tossing and turning, twisted up in the sheets, the events of last night galloping through my brain. I hadn’t closed my eyes until daybreak.
Half slipping on my black leather boots, I shuffled down the stairs into the narrow hall. I stood still, watching the doorknob turning, and for a gut- churning moment my heart almost stopped. Then, gripping the gun with one hand, I flung open the door.
Zak Khumalo leaned against the door frame, smiling at me.
‘Good morning, Detective Inspector Tswane.’ His tone was silky.
He was wearing the usual: sleeveless black T-shirt and black fatigue pants. A black leather jacket was draped across one shoulder, hiding the gun at his hip.
‘Do you always sleep in those boots?’ He raised his eyes, giving me a long, slow look.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Not the warm welcome I’d hoped for after driving all night to offer you my protection,’ he said.
‘Protection? Excuse me? That’s ridiculous. I don’t need your protection. Who said anything about protection?’
‘Looking at your hand, I think you do,’ he smiled. ‘Commissioner Matatu has assigned me the job of being your bodyguard.’
I shot him a nasty look and turned away. I put my weapon down on the hall table and almost gasped as I saw my reflection in the
hall mirror: no make-up, bags under my eyes and hair all over the place.
‘Do you ever think of knocking like a normal person?’ I asked.
‘I did knock, but you didn’t answer. Your cell phone is off. I was just getting ready to kick the door down.’
‘Thank God you didn’t.’ I turned my back on him and marched down the hall into the kitchen. It’s not easy to march in a dignified fashion with boots half-on, half-off.
Zak followed behind, holstering the gun.
‘Coffee?’ I asked in the most unfriendly way I could muster.
‘What exactly happened?’ he asked. ‘Matatu was concerned after a phone call from the Grahamstown station director last night. He tried to contact you, but your phone was switched off, DI Tswane.’ He looked at me reproachfully. ‘Not proper police procedure at all. Remember Matatu’s golden rules?’
‘Oh, please! Don’t go there...’ I could just imagine the conversation.
‘Just tell me what happened,’ he insisted.
I described the events of the previous evening, leaving out the smell that had clung to me all night. I wanted to mull over that by myself.
‘Why didn’t you use your gun?’ he asked.
I felt my cheeks grow warm. ‘I didn’t get to it in time.’
The contours of his face hardened. ‘You shouldn’t carry a gun unless you’re willing to use it. What the hell did you think you were doing, walking unarmed into a strange house?’
His attitude was really beginning to irritate me. ‘Thanks, Zak. I’m fully aware that I was off-guard. Stupid, really to think that a safe house would be – you guessed it – safe.’ I slammed a mug down onto the table and coffee splashed onto my hand. I yelped. ‘Only the police use this house. Right? No one else knows about it. That’s what I was told.’
‘Well, congratulations, Thabisa, now you know not to believe everything you’re told.’
I stepped up close to him. I had to stand on tip-toe to meet his eyes. They were dark and secretive eyes and they were staring at me with... could it be amusement, lurking in their depths? Were the corners of his mouth twitching?
‘You want me to admit I’ve screwed up? What is this anyway, Zak? An interrogation?’
My hand and arm burnt like a furnace. My head throbbed. I wanted to go upstairs and stand in a boiling hot shower for eight hours non-stop, until I felt clean and strong again. Instead, I had to put up with Zak Khumalo.
Zak rocked back on his heels and laughed out loud. His laugh was deep and infectious. If I hadn’t been so distraught I might even have laughed with him.
‘Lucky for you I’m a good interrogator. You want to give it a try, right now?’ he asked, a cool note of warning in his voice. Now his eyes were the colour of iced cola. Thank God I only liked mineral water.
I was suddenly aware how big he was, not heavy, but broad. Strong and tall. He had to duck his head to go through the kitchen doorway.
‘Come on, we both know you’ve been careless, Detective Inspector Tswane. Big title for a little woman.’
Little? Hardly the first word that comes to mind when I think of adjectives to describe myself. I’m five foot eight, a strong girl from rural stock. I run and work out to keep fit and to keep the fat at bay, but there’s an on-going battle between my curves and me.
‘You patronising jerk,’ I said. ‘You know I’m a good police officer. There’s no need for this. You’re being a pain, as usual.’
Zak clutched at his chest. ‘I can’t believe you said that, DI Tswane.’
I grinned reluctantly. ‘You’d better believe it, Khumalo.’
‘Joking, Thabisa. Just joking. It’s got nothing to do with you being a good cop. Calm down.’ And then, his tone became serious. ‘Look, it’s worrying. You’ve been attacked, yet you stayed in the house, alone, overnight. The guy might have come back. Did you think about that? You’ve switched your phone off, which is crazy. Have you looked at your messages?’
I glanced down at my phone. There were several missed calls and two messages from the boss. I needed to focus. I couldn’t let personal issues from my past compromise my professional life. I had worked too long and too hard to get where I was. The valley wasn’t going to jeopardise that. I’d been foolish, and I deserved Matatu’s censure. No point in being defensive about it. I turned away from Zak, clutching the phone, feeling at a distinct disadvantage.
‘Better hurry, Thabisa.’ Zak’s voice was amused. ‘Fetching as your outfit is, I don’t think it’s suited to long-distance travel.’ As well as my leather boots, I was wearing short, cotton pyjama bottoms and a tight white T-shirt. Zak was clearly enjoying the whole outfit, especially the T-shirt. I swallowed my annoyance, marched out of the kitchen and went upstairs, trying to subdue my desire to have the last word. I just couldn’t think of a bad enough one.
I took a shower, scrubbed my teeth, dried my hair and dressed in my heavy black jeans, and a thick black sweater. A stun gun clipped to my belt, just in case of trouble... from Khumalo, and my toughest walking boots.
When I returned to the kitchen, Zak was washing up the coffee cups. I almost laughed out loud at the sight.
‘You look good, washing the dishes’, I said. ‘Never thought I’d see the day.’
‘I’m a secure guy, DI Tswane, I can cook too. Let me cook for you one day. You might be surprised.’
‘Cool it, Khumalo,’ I said.
He turned, his eyes grazing all my curves. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Very professional.’
‘I didn’t want to look like a cop,’ I said.
He gave me a cool, appraising look.
‘You never look like a cop,’ he said. ‘Now, tell me, how long will it take us to get to this valley of yours?’
‘It’s not necessary for you to come with me. I can do it on my own,’ I said.
It was bad enough having to go back there, let alone having Zak Khumalo witness it.
‘I’ve been instructed by the boss, he insists I go with you. Not negotiable, DI Tswane.’
I was never going to tell Khumalo what had happened to me the last time I was in the valley. I hated the thought of him knowing about my humiliation. His being there when I met up with my grandfather and his wives again was just going to make everything worse. But, once again, matters seemed to be out of my control.
‘It’s four hours by four-wheel drive, then six kilometres over a mountain on foot. There’s only one way in. Are you up to it?’
He turned and grinned at me. ‘I should ask you that,’ he said. ‘Do you think you can make it with that injured hand?’
I ignored him.
‘There’s a four-wheel drive at the station. We’re using it, whether Director Mandile wants us to or not.’ Zak opened his mouth and I put up a hand to stop him. ‘Don’t even discuss the director, he’s a desk-bound wimp. With attitude.’
Zak raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s going to take around seven hours to get there, right?’ he asked. ‘We won’t make it there and back in one day. Can we spend the night in the valley?’
‘We’ll have to,’ I said. ‘Though I doubt you’ll be able to cope with rural life.’ He laughed out loud. ‘I’m a rural boy myself,’ he said. ‘My mother was Matabele from Zimbabwe. My dad was Zulu. I know all about villages, believe me.’ He looked straight into my eyes until I flushed and looked away.
Zak Khumalo was smooth alright. Smooth and confident. Good thing he wasn’t my type.
***
In the car, driving north, Zak glanced at me expectantly. ‘You all right with this?’
‘With what?’
‘Having me on the case with you?’
I didn’t answer for a minute. ‘We’ve worked together, we make a good team. I suppose it’s okay you’re here.’
After a short silence he asked: ‘Thabisa, who knew you were at the Hill Street house last night?’
‘Director Mandile, Bea – his assistant. I’ve known her for years, we worked together at Mossel Bay. No one else.’
‘Ar
e you sure?’
‘Nobody knew about it. Hang on.’ An image of Don Jacobs, leaning too close for comfort flashed into my mind. ‘I did talk to an ex-cop who was on the plane coming down from Johannesburg. He mentioned the safe house. Remembered it from when he was stationed in Grahamstown. But I didn’t say anything specific to him.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Don Jacobs, one of Ollis Sando’s bodyguards. He left the force a couple of years ago.’
‘Hmm... what did he ask you?’
‘What I was doing in Grahamstown, that sort of thing.’
‘How long have you known him?’
‘I knew him at Pretoria, a few years ago... Afrikaans guy. No threat.’
‘Ja... right,’ he said slowly. ‘But things can change.’
I watched his profile. Dangerous and attractive. Mostly dangerous.
‘There’s something odd about this case,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t add up. These guys use helium to change their voices and they are... well, they’re polite to their victims.’
‘They weren’t so polite to the old man they shot at Kenton.’
‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘Something went wrong that time. And what’s with the way they escape? Nobody sees them after they attack and leave the crime scene. Ever. They melt away, disappear, or so all the witnesses say.’
I paused for a moment, running through everything I had learned so far. Ending with the memory of flames flickering, the smell of skin scorching.
‘Zak, why would somebody warn me off this case and attack me? The guy knew my name. That’s creepy.’
He shook his head but made no comment.
We drove through hills and valleys, ruled lines of pineapple plants, rocky cliffs and the occasional blaze of aloes. The sky was chrome, the winter air crisp; the trees the colour of rust and blood. The mountains ahead were so clear they could have been on a film set.
‘Still got your bank-teller boyfriend?’
‘I don’t wish to discuss my private life,’ I said.
‘That means it’s over then.’ He laughed. ‘This is what happens to us, Thabisa. Police officers make lousy partners. I’ve been there, believe me, I know. If you want a relationship it has to be with a fellow cop.’
Now I See You Page 6
