They were almost caught one night, when the owners of a penthouse they had broken into returned early. Sando stepped coolly onto a fire escape and Sue dived into a cleaning cupboard beside the lift. When the couple walked out of the lift, she rode down to the basement and walked away into the night, clutching a bag of exquisite diamonds.
‘You got to love it, it’s so easy,’ Sando had laughed. ‘It’s like taking candy from a baby.’
Part of their haul was a huge pear-shaped diamond on a thick gold chain. Sue wanted it, but Sando had said no. It was his. She shrugged. There was so much to choose from, why quibble?
Mama Ruby’s was to be the first time she operated alone, her opening night. Sando had promised he would be there to see her in her starring role. He explained everything and Sue agreed. She would hide in the ladies’ cloakroom, dress in a black tracksuit and alien mask and inhale helium from a small canister to disguise her voice. Then she’d burst into the private dining room, fully armed, take as much as she could, then get out, while everyone was still in shock.
The getaway van would be waiting to take her around the block. She’d change in the back, then the van would drop her off and she’d coolly walk in to the basement parking at her Melrose Arch apartment. She could watch the action in the square from her seventh-storey hideout.
But it hadn’t worked out like that.
The first shock was seeing Ollis and his wife. He hadn’t mentioned that she would be there. Sitina Sando was a beauty, much younger and lovelier than Sue had thought. She could have been Sando’s daughter. Sue saw at once that Sitina was wearing the large, pear-shaped diamond on the thick gold chain that she, Sue, had risked her life to steal.
Then the alarm system, which Sando assured her had been disarmed, started wailing like an air-raid siren. It was bedlam. Thinking quickly, she realised she had to get out fast. She needed a hostage to help her escape, so she grabbed the first person at hand, the woman with the red hair. Julia McEwen.
Sando had called her later, demanding that she kill Julia, then go immediately to the isolated beach house near Port Alfred where she would be safe. She had intended to kill Julia on the road, but when it came to it, she couldn’t. She didn’t want to be Sando’s puppet, not after seeing him with his wife. In the restaurant he had been solicitous, even tender, with Sitina. He was so obviously a married man. It made her feel sick. It didn’t match the image she had of him, the way he was with her and the wild sex they’d been sharing. But, of course, he always went home to his beautiful wife.
He called her every week with instructions emphasising his control over her. He never referred to the heists in the Eastern Cape. Sue made sure he didn’t know she was involved, or, more importantly, that Julia was alive and helping her. If he ever learned that she hadn’t killed Julia – that Julia was actually there, with her, sharing everything – he would definitely kill them both. He would be ruthless. So she played along.
A few weeks after Sue had abducted Julia, Sando called and told her it was time to plan the raid to recover the documents which would jeopardise his future. Now he told her where they were; what she must do to deliver them into his hands.
He told her to go to the Grahamstown police safe house and frighten a Violent Crimes detective, Thabisa Tswane, off the case. She had been seconded to Grahamstown to investigate a crime wave.
‘Hurt her,’ he said. ‘Threaten her. She’s too good at her job. Frighten her out of the area. She’ll find something, and if she does, she’ll implicate me.’
He told Sue about the bonus he would transfer to her overseas bank account the day she handed him those papers. Enough to set her up for life.
Part of her wanted to please him, but whenever she remembered his wife’s neck, the diamond necklace hanging around it, a small voice somewhere in the back of her brain told her she didn’t like the idea. Not one bit. Still, she had to risk her life for Sando. What option did she have?
She shuddered as she remembered what had happened with the Russian. The Russian who had committed suicide when he was visiting South Africa. Well, that’s what everyone thought. But Sando knew what had happened to him, and he would use that information without a second thought if she rebelled. Who would believe her story against his? She would go to jail.
There was no way out, no going back. She had to do what Sando told her.
18
30 June 2006
It took me most of a day to get back to Johannesburg after Commissioner Matatu’s call.
‘We want you back in the office as soon as possible,’ he’d said. He gave no reason why.
I drove to East London, waited three hours for a delayed flight, landed at OR Tambo International Airport and drove to the office, arriving after five in the afternoon.
Matatu was waiting. He questioned me about the case. I laid out all the evidence, before voicing my suspicion that we were looking for a white couple, one of them a woman.
‘This is not the normal profile of crime in South Africa, or anywhere else. Women rarely commit this sort of violent crime,’ Matatu said.
‘I’ve never heard of it, either,’ I said.
‘There’s certainly an odd twist to this. What’s happening in Grahamstown?’
‘Forensics are on it. We’ve laid on extra security at all the banks.’
Matatu nodded.
‘Is there any movement in the Julia McEwen case, sir?’ I asked. ‘I’d like to see the photographs again.’
‘Nothing new. Yes, I can show you the photographs.’ Matatu clicked on his laptop and Julia McEwen looked out at them. A fine-boned face, framed with long red hair, dark eyes under highly arched brows. The face of a well- maintained, elegant woman in her late thirties.
‘Why do you want to look at these?’
‘I believe I’ve seen her,’ I said slowly.
‘Where?’ Matatu asked sharply.
‘At the Grahamstown Arts Festival a few days ago.’
‘My God. Are you sure?’
‘The woman I saw had short, dark hair, but I’m certain it was her. She’s got a distinctive face.’
‘This is the first sighting since the kidnapping. The general opinion is, of course, that she’s dead.’
‘I believe she’s alive. That’s the woman I saw.’
Matatu rocked back on his heels and drew in his breath. He clicked the mouse again, opening more images of Julia McEwen: Julia at an orchid show receiving a cup; Julia with her husband, dressed in a ball gown, her hair swept up in a chignon; Julia receiving a cheque for her favourite charity from one of the big banks.
‘Did you get the impression she was still a hostage?’ Matatu asked.
‘She didn’t look like a hostage,’ I said. ‘She was with another woman. They looked like companions.’
‘It’s uncommon for a woman to be a hostage taker,’ said Matatu. ‘It’s rarely happened as far as I know.’
‘What about the husband?’ I asked.
‘Magnus McEwen offered a substantial reward when his wife was kidnapped. Nobody’s come forward, but the reward still stands.’
‘Has he kept in contact?’
‘Not regularly.’
‘Strange. Your wife disappears, she’s missing for months and you don’t hassle the police daily?’
‘He’s a strange man. He probably believes she’s dead and there’s no hope.’
‘Could he have had anything to do with it?’
‘We’ve interviewed him on several occasions, but never picked up on anything. They were married for over thirteen years, seemed settled enough on the surface. There was some talk of a girlfriend, but nothing conclusive. What we have discovered is that Mrs McEwen was a compulsive kleptomaniac. Classic impulse control disorder. Usually an indication of mental problems, particularly with affluent women. There have been seven reported incidents, but it was only after the last one that she was arrested and formally charged.’
‘What’s the husband like?’
‘Self-opinionated, b
ombastic, wouldn’t be easy to live with.’
‘Anything else, sir?’
‘We interviewed their domestic staff. They all liked Mrs McEwen, but they’re not keen on him. They told us that the McEwens lived separate lives, slept in separate rooms, never spent much time together. She was a trophy wife, dusted off when she was needed. For the rest of the time, one of those society hostesses, always out raising money for charity.’
‘Hmm, all rather sad isn’t it? To be missing, presumed dead, but your rich husband isn’t making any great effort to find you.’
‘We don’t know that that’s strictly true, Thabisa, but he does seem rather detached about her disappearance. What else are the police in Grahamstown doing about the current crime wave? Have they found out anything more about these criminals with the cartoon voices?’
‘They’re knocking on doors, stopping people in the street and visiting all the hotels and guest houses in the area. We’ve put up posters and advertised the reward money more aggressively.’
There was a pause before Matatu continued: ‘Let me tell you why we’ve asked you to come back at such short notice, Thabisa. Some people from the Truth and Reconciliation Commission Support Unit want to talk to you.’
‘Really? Why?’ I asked. ‘I thought the TRC finished its work over a decade ago.’
‘Did you follow the events?’
‘Of course. It was compulsive viewing, sir.’
Matatu was silent.
‘What has this got to do with me?’ I asked.
‘I think you’d better let them explain to you, Thabisa,’ Matatu said.
A few minutes later, I was ushered into a large L-shaped room with broad windows overlooking the city. My heart sank when I saw who was there. Zak Khumalo. What the hell did he have to do with the TRC? What was all this about? Zak and a white man with silver hair sat at a large desk covered in files.
The two men stood when I entered. The older man stepped forward.
‘Detective Inspector Tswane,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘I’m Richard Bowles of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission Task Force. Of course, you know Zak Khumalo. Please take a seat.’
He motioned toward a leather chair. I shot Zak a cold look as I sat down next to him. I was furious with myself for letting him know so much about my private self. I should never have confided in him. He smiled. I ignored him.
‘Detective Inspector, are you aware of the work that the Task Force does?’ Bowles asked.
‘No, I’m not,’ I said.
‘We’re part of the Crime Combating and Investigation Branch,’ Bowles said. ‘After the Truth and Reconciliation Commission hearings ended in the late nineties, there were loose ends to follow up. The Task Force was formed for that function.’
I had been fascinated by the TRC hearings, set up as a platform to hear confessions about offences committed in the name of either apartheid or liberation. Anyone who truthfully acknowledged their involvement and then apologised to the country, was exonerated. The proceedings, carried out live on national television and chaired by my hero, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, had proved extremely successful in defusing tensions and setting the country on the road to real peace.
‘I thought the TRC had closed its books?’ I said. I realised now that Zak Khumalo must be involved in this work. This was his secret life. Or part of it.
‘There are lines of enquiry that still need to be investigated. One of them concerns a certain Lucas Makanda. Are you familiar with the name?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘He was one of a gang who blew up the Blue Moon Cafe in East London in 1976, where two people were killed.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bowles, I’m not familiar with the case.’
Bowles learnt back in his chair and steepled his fingers. His brusque, hard manner intimidated me. I supposed he was used to hearing terrible stories and it had hardened him. His thin face didn’t have an inch of kindness in it.
‘Let me tell you what happened. In 1975 and 1976, Lucas Makanda was known to be recruiting freedom fighters in the rural villages of the Transkei. On the evening of May 28, 1975, a bomb was thrown into the restaurant. It was a popular, family place, whites only, of course. The bomb exploded, killed two people and injured fifteen others, mostly children.’
‘How terrible,’ I said, imagining the carnage.
‘Three young black men were seen running away from the scene. A reward of three million rand was offered for their arrest. A month later three men were taken into custody. They all confessed and were executed six weeks later.’
‘Was Lucas Makanda one of them?’ I asked. I glanced at Zak. He turned and looked at me. There was something like pity in his expression.
‘No, but during the TRC, Lucas Makanda testified that he had planned the attack. He said the three young men had been betrayed by an unknown person who claimed the reward. We suspect that Makanda may have claimed it himself.’
‘Is it possible to talk to him?’
‘He died last year. Now his family has requested that the case be re-opened. This was refused originally when they asked, in 1998. There was no military presence in or near the Blue Moon Cafe. It was an attack on civilians, hardly a fight against the armed force of the regime. Now one of his grandsons, a lawyer, is pressing for another hearing. He has connections in high places and it has been decided to re-open this case. We want to learn more about whoever claimed that three million-rand reward and make sure it wasn’t Makanda himself,’ said Richard Bowles.
‘Please tell me what this has got to do with me?’
Zak and Bowles glanced at each other. There was a chilly silence in the room.
Finally Zak spoke: ‘Thabisa, your father and uncles bombed that restaurant. They confessed to it.’
My mouth was suddenly dry. I couldn’t swallow. ‘I didn’t know that,’ I whispered softly. ‘Oh my God.’
‘I’m surprised you never asked,’ said Bowles curtly.
‘Why would I have asked?’ I said. ‘I’ve never heard this information before. Who would have given it to me? Anyway, I come from a rural, superstitious village and I’m a woman. Even if you have questions... nobody answers.’
I could feel a storm of anger building up inside me. I was angry and disappointed with Khumalo, Bowles was a pedantic, unsympathetic man. I was listening to some deeply shocking information about my own family. I had every right to feel furious and disturbed.
‘No doubt your relatives were influenced by Makanda. He was a much older and very persuasive man,’ said Bowles. ‘Our concern is, having recruited and set them up, did he then go on to betray them and claim the reward money?’
‘Where is the documentation? There’s got to be a record somewhere?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps there was,’ said Zak. ‘But there’s nothing now. It must have been lost or destroyed. All we know is that the reward was paid to a man from the Thembu area, near the valley where you were born.’
‘I see,’ I said.
‘Khumalo tells me that he recently visited your valley. Apparently there are unique records which exist there that could help our investigation?’
I couldn’t look at Zak. This was a real betrayal. Zak had discussed me with this man. Talked to him about the valley and the sacred bead room. I had told him about it in confidence, not as part of the investigation we were there for. All the more reason to mistrust Khumalo even more. I folded my hands on my lap to stop them trembling.
‘My people keep records in beadwork.’
‘Can you interpret the beads?’
‘Yes.’
‘We need photographs of the beadwork and a corroborative witness to authenticate your statement. Who can confirm what the beads say?’
‘Only my grandfather, and he won’t cooperate.’ I leaned forward, looking at Richard Bowles.
‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘Why can’t you make him cooperate?’
‘Mr Bowles, my grandfather is a representative in the House of Traditional Leaders. He has the r
ight to be consulted at national and provincial levels of government about issues or legislation affecting him and the people in his area, under his authority. The beads are only seen by him and the sangoma in the valley. He would never agree to anybody else looking at them, let alone photographing them. In this matter in particular he will have the final say.’
‘But you have seen them?’ Bowles pressed. He reminded me of a persistent little dog, worrying at my answers. I wanted to get up and walk out.
‘Only recently and just for a few minutes. I did see a reference to three sons of the valley who were betrayed in 1976. That’s all.’
‘What sort of sign led you to believe that?’ asked Bowles.
‘A symbol of treachery.’ I resisted shooting a look at Zak. He knew the meaning of the word alright. ‘My grandfather believes that to disturb the beads in any way will provoke the anger of the ancestors.’
‘That’s why we are approaching you. You are in a unique position to influence your grandfather. Working with traditional leaders can be, well... a delicate matter.’
‘I am not able to influence my grandfather, Mr Bowles. He’s an exceedingly stubborn man. He is the custodian of the valley. The beads are part of our heritage. They are highly significant.’
‘This is an important piece of police information,’ said Bowles.
‘I repeat, my grandfather will not cooperate.’
‘You could try, DI Tswane. Surely you could make an effort?’
I ignored him. There was a long silence. Nobody said anything. They just stared at me.
‘Did all three men confess?’ I asked, finally.
‘Yes,’ said Bowles. ‘They maintained that they were liberation fighters. They knew they were defying the law. They were fighting for their rights.’
‘Did they mention Lucas Makanda?’
‘No. He was never implicated. Not until he applied for amnesty.’
‘The reward seems very large, especially for those days.’
Now I See You Page 15
