by Deon Meyer
The question surprised him, because he had only sent the incorrect email address to Emma Graber of MI6. By email. That meant that Joni had intercepted it. And she was a Spook who spoke Afrikaans. That meant SSA. Who didn’t trust Zola Nyathi to reveal all the information. And if he gave her the correct Morris address, the SSA would know about Lillian Alvarez. And that he did not want.
But he also didn’t want to spoil this new information channel. You never knew . . .
He gave her the correct address.
The line went dead.
Griessel ran back to Lithpel Davids.
The stolen wallet in Tyrone’s trouser pocket yielded four hundred British pounds in notes, and just over two thousand five hundred South African rand. The urgency made him use some of the rand for a taxi home – from the stop in Portswood Street.
The driver looked at his injuries and asked: ‘Now who bliksemsed you, my brother?’
‘You charge me two hundred rand for a trip of four kilos and then you want to get personal with me too?’
‘Ek vra ma net. Just asking.’
‘Fokken rip-off.’
‘So why don’t you take the bus?’ And a few seconds later, ‘No wonder you look like you do.’
He almost lost his temper, the anger welling up, a surge of jumbled emotions. He suppressed it with difficulty, knowing with a deep certainty that he had to stay calm. He had to plan his way ahead, the next step, the urgent things.
He made the taxi drop him off at the corner of Longmarket and Ella Street, in case this doos went to the cops when the paw-paw hit the fan, he didn’t want a specific address to be available.
‘No tip?’
Tyrone just shook his head. He waited for the taxi to disappear over the curve of Longmarket. Then he jogged home. He hoped that the rich Muslim’s oldest daughter, who hung around the house during the day, wouldn’t see him come in now, not with all this damage.
In his room he undressed. He saw that the bullet had made a long tear across his sweater. It was caked with dried blood. He tossed it in the corner and turned around so he could see the damage to his back in the mirror.
He gave a moan to the heavens: there was a lot of blood. But no fresh bleeding. The wound was a thick stripe across his shoulder blades. Trouble was he wouldn’t be able to reach it. He would have to rinse off in the shower and hope for the best.
He quickly checked his face. He had to get out of here. He had to call Nadia, the clock was ticking. Thank God for a dark skin. Because once he had washed thoroughly, he would look OK.
He hurried to the tiny bathroom.
At 9.27 the SAPS sergeant at the V&A shopping centre radioed the charge office at the Sea Point Station, breathlessly and somewhat disjointedly, to report ‘a bad shooting’.
The constable on radio duty had the good sense to run down the passage to tell his station commander the news.
The station commander was a captain with twenty-two years’ service. He pushed the pen he had been using into his pocket, stood up quickly, asked precisely what had been reported, and ordered the constable to tell his two most experienced detectives to meet him at his official SAPS car. ‘As in now.’
While he hurried to the car park, he thought of the style of the meetings he had had with the provincial commissioner over the past months. And the bulletins that had been issued in that time with monotonous regularity, all in support of the same basic message: the president, the minister and the national commissioner were deeply concerned about the fact that the SAPS’ reputation stank. In the last year there had been the Marikana massacre, the Oscar Pistorius case, and the video of a police van dragging the Mozambican Emidio Macia to death. Trumpeted out from here to Time magazine and the New York Times. It had to end now. Keep our individual and collective butts out of the media and out of trouble. Maintain discipline in your people. Don’t let raw blougatte, still wet behind the ears, mess up your crime scenes. Don’t let inexperienced people be placed in a position where they need to take important decisions. Take them yourself. With wisdom and balance.
Or bear the consequences.
The Sea Point commander had three children at school, a bond on his house of over a million, and a wife who thought he worked too much and earned too little. He didn’t want her to bear the consequences. He frowned, feeling the tension in his body. And the urge to go to the V&A Waterfront himself. Along with his two best detectives. Because the Waterfront was a key area, an international tourism jewel. It was the sort of place where ‘a bad shooting’ would bring down the media vultures in hordes. Including those of Time magazine and the New York Times. It was the sort of place where you could very quickly land very deep in the soup if you didn’t make the right decisions – with wisdom and balance.
The two detectives approached, their jackets flapping in the cold wind. ‘Bad shooting at the Waterfront,’ said the station commander. They quickly got into the car. The captain switched on the sirens and the lights, and they drove away.
At the main entrance to the V&A Waterfront in Breakwater Lane, the station commander parked on the pavement. A SAPS sergeant had heard the sirens and came running up. This was the one sent out after the original call from the Waterfront security about the pickpocket. The one who had discovered the scene of the homicides.
‘This way, Captain,’ he said, eyes wild.
‘How many?’ asked the station commander as he and the detectives jumped out and ran after the sergeant.
‘At least five, Captain.’
Christ. He didn’t say it though, just thought it. ‘Where did it happen?’
‘At the security centre. It’s a bloodbath.’
And it was. Standing in the doorway of the Security: Control Room, the station commander saw five people crumpled into the characteristic helpless awkwardness of death. As he stared at the blood and brain spatter, the pools of blood, the spray and the footprints, he knew it was going to be impossible to keep anyone’s collective butt out of the media, thank you. The best he could hope for was to keep everyone’s butts out of trouble.
So he turned around and led the whole team of two detectives and the uniformed sergeant, and the seven black-clad security men who stood in stupefied curiosity in the corridor, to the door that opened into the shopping centre (where he spotted a bullet hole in the door frame). He walked out, closed the door, and said: ‘Nobody goes in here.’
And then he phoned the Hawks.
Brigadier Musad Manie was the commander of the Directorate of Priority Crimes Investigation, the ‘Head Hawk Honcho’, as Cupido sometimes referred to his coloured brother with a measure of pride. Manie’s nickname in the DPCI was ‘the Camel’, because ‘Musad’, one of the Hawks detectives had learned from a Muslim friend, meant ‘camel set free’ in Arabic. And the Hawks, like most SAPS units, liked to give each other – and especially senior officers – nicknames. But Manie didn’t look like a camel. He had the looks of a leader. He was a powerful man, broad of breast and shoulder, with a granite face of strong lines and a determined jaw.
It was this jaw that entered Nyathi’s office first. In his deep but always muted and calm voice he said, ‘Zola, there has been a shooting at the Waterfront. Five security guards dead, as far as we know. Sea Point has requested our assistance.’ Only the final word was coloured with a light shade of irony.
‘What sort of assistance?’
‘Full crime scene and investigative assistance.’
They exchanged a look that said: ‘Can you believe it . . .’
‘I can send Mbali.’
‘That would be perfect.’
‘And I’d better get Cloete out there too.’
22
Griessel hurried back to Cupido and Davids. He had asked Davids to make a copy of Lillian Alvarez’s email to Adair urgently, and then delete it. ‘Quickly, Lithpel. Please,’ he said, with Cupido’s suspicious gaze on him.
When it was done, he asked that the Facebook photo of Lillian Alvarez be sent out as a bulletin to all SAP
S stations. And as he walked out of Lithpel Davids’s kingdom, he said to Cupido, ‘I want to show you something.’
Cupido followed him with a half-spoken ‘What?’ forming.
Griessel held a finger to his mouth and trotted down the stairs, to the basement, with Cupido in pursuit.
Right at the back, beside the ‘clubhouse’ door, he stopped.
‘I don’t see anything,’ said Cupido.
‘I didn’t want to talk in there. I think the SSA is eavesdropping on us.’
‘The SSA?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jissis,’ said Cupido. ‘Benna, are you serious?’
‘I had a call from a Spook. And she didn’t mind me knowing that she had intercepted my email.’
‘Now? That call that you took just now?’
‘Yes. And she said she would know if I told anyone about the call.’
‘How do you know she’s a Spook?’
‘Put two and two together. She knows about Emma Graber, the MI6 agent at the British Consulate. The thing is, I think they tap our cellphones, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there were microphones in some of our offices too.’
‘She could be CI also,’ said Cupido, now muted and wary, as if they were being listened to here as well.
Griessel considered the possibility. It wasn’t far-fetched. ‘CI’, as the SAPS Criminal Intelligence unit was known, had become a sinister place in recent years. First there was the fiasco with Lieutenant-General Richard Mdluli, the former station commander for Vosloorus, who had been appointed as head of Criminal Intelligence – and who was subsequently sacked due to alleged involvement in fraud, corruption, attempted murder, and conspiracy. Now rumours were flying about his successor, the new acting chief of Criminal Intelligence, especially about his close ties with the highest authority of the state. In the halls it was whispered that this unit concerned itself more with the dirty laundry of the president’s enemies, than with collecting evidence to fight crime.
‘I don’t think so. CI wouldn’t bug the Consulate. It’s SSA . . .’
‘Crazy country, Benna,’ said Cupido. ‘Crazy world . . . OK. So what did the bitch say?’
Griessel told him everything.
‘Why now, Benna?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘No, I mean, why trust me now?’
‘Vaughn, it was a mistake. I didn’t have a choice.’
‘Apology accepted. And you believe me now about Adair and the great digital bank robbery?’
‘Hell,Vaughn, anything is possible, but that would mean that Adair or an accomplice knew enough about the Cobra to use the same pistol and engravings. So that it looked like the Cobra had done the shooting . . .’
‘No, Benna, I’ve been thinking . . . Adair might have hired the Cobra. Remember, he’s for sale to anybody. And if Adair had been skimming off dough, then money is no problem.’
Sometimes he battled to keep up with Cupido’s wild mental leaps. The problem was, his colleague was right at least sixty per cent of the time.
Tyrone put an old T-shirt on first. In case his shoulder started bleeding again. Another T-shirt, then the grey Nike sweatshirt. His raincoat was in the rucksack. He would have to buy a new one. And a new rucksack. Because he would have to run now. To Johannesburg? Durban? He didn’t know any of those places. He only knew the Cape.
Where would he go?
He put his black beanie on. You never wear a beanie,Tyrone. Makes you look like a criminal. Baseball caps too. Hats are better if you want to change your profile, but in the Cape wind daai’s difficult.
It’s a crisis, Uncle Solly. Camouflage.
In the bathroom he climbed onto the toilet, pushed up the trapdoor in the ceiling, reached for the hot-water cylinder, and loosened the pack of notes that he kept there. Two thousand rand. His emergency stash. He put the trapdoor back neatly.
He jumped in fright when the intercom at the door sudden growled.
The cops were here.
So soon?
He was shaking now, but he grabbed the stolen wallet and the iPod on his bed. The intercom made that irritating sound again. He stuffed the wallet, the stash, and the iPod in his trouser pockets, and pressed the button.
‘What?’
‘There’s a guy at the gate asking for you,’ said the rich Muslim’s daughter. She always spoke English.
‘A guy? What kind of a guy?’The cops were here. His heart jumped.
‘I don’t know.’ Irritation. ‘Just a guy.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Coloured guy, grey baseball cap.’
And then Tyrone had a horrible suspicion, as dread descended on him. ‘Black windcheater?’
‘Yes. I’ll buzz him in.’
‘No! Tell him I’m not here.’
He knew his voice would convey his panic, and he waited in suspense for her to answer. Jirre, please, don’t let her gooi that fat rich girl mentality, he thought.
‘What have you done?’ she asked. She was mos always suspicious.
‘Please. Just tell him I’m not here. Please!’ Then he grabbed the doorknob, opened it quietly, and slipped out, grateful that the gunman could not see him here in the backyard. He jumped up against the back wall.
That man was going to shoot her.
He jumped down again, ran back to his room, pressed the intercom. ‘Be careful, lock your door, the guy is dangerous. He’ll kill you. Call the cops. Now!’
He ran out, jumped up against the wall and clambered over.
On the other side a moerse big dog came for him.
Nyathi found Griessel and Cupido in the passage. ‘I was looking for you. Can I see you in my office?’
As usual, the Giraffe displayed no emotion.
Nyathi closed the door behind them. ‘Sit, please.’
They did so.
‘The brigadier had a call from our commissioner. We have to hand over all case material to officers of the Department of State Security.’ He put ‘officers’ in quotation marks with his fingers. ‘And stop the investigation.’
Griessel saw Cupido trying to make meaningful eye contact. He was too afraid that Nyathi would ask what was going on. He was afraid of microphones.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said quickly.
Tyrone screamed, the sound slipping involuntarily over his lips. The dog, huge and growling, teeth bared, rushed at him.
One hot summer night, hanging out with some mates on a Mitchell’s Plain street corner, one of them said if a dog attacked you, you should do two things. You rush at him with your arm like this, hanging out. Because they train dogs to go for the arm. And then, just before he grabs your arm, you hit him on the nose.
That’s the first thing that came into Tyrone’s head.
He didn’t think, just rushed at the dog holding out his skinny arm. Jirre, wasn’t his body hurting enough already?
The dog skidded to a halt in cloud of dust and Tyrone could swear he had a look of ‘what the fuck?’ in his eyes. The beast stood still as Tyrone ran past, alongside the house. He didn’t know if there was anyone home.
And then the dog came for him again.
For all his failings Vaughn Cupido was always quick on the uptake.
When Griessel took out his notebook and pen and put them on the desk to make a note, his colleague realised the Giraffe was going to say something about it.
‘State Security? That’s bullshit,’ said Cupido indignantly.
Griessel hoped Cupido would not overdo it, it sounded melodramatic, and he had never talked to Nyathi like that before. He scribbled hastily: Office bugged? Talk outside, and slid it over to the colonel, while Cupido said, ‘With all due respect, of course, sir. But what does State Security know about investigating a criminal case?’
Nyathi read and nodded.
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but that’s the way it is. If you could bring me all relevant documentation, please.’
And he wrote in Benny’s little book: 5 mins.
; Griessel replied with: Clubhouse.
He was almost at the high railing fence at the front of the neighbour’s house. But the dog was too close, Tyrone had to spin around to confront the creature.
This time the animal didn’t stop. He came at him, jumping at Tyrone’s midriff, his crotch, which in that moment seemed so unfair to Tyrone, so totally unacceptable – what sort of person taught his dog to bite a guy’s dick? – that rage drove away fear, and he hit out blindly, connecting with the dog’s muzzle. A sudden sharp pain in his fist. The dog yelped.
‘Hey!’ A voice came from one of the windows. A man.
It made the dog turn away, and Tyrone ran and leaped. Adrenaline made him agile, and suddenly he was over and on the pavement, he wasn’t sure how.
He just ran.
23
Captain Mbali Kaleni was the only woman in the DPCI’s Violent Crimes team. For six long months now. She was short and very fat. She was never to be seen without her SAPS identity card on a ribbon around her neck, and her service pistol on her plump hip. When she left her office, there was always a huge handbag of shiny black leather over her shoulder. Her expression was usually grim, as though she was constantly angry at someone. It was a defence mechanism, but only two of her colleagues understood that.
She had an honours degree in Police Science, and an IQ of 138. Her name meant ‘fl ower’ in Zulu. Behind her back she was called ‘the Heavy Hawk’, ‘the Flower’, ‘Cactus Flower’, and sometimes, when she had once again antagonised certain male colleagues with her unbending rigidity, ‘That fokken Mbali’.
Nyathi knew Mbali Kaleni and Vaughn Cupido did not necessarily see eye to eye.
The Flower could recite every article in the Criminal Procedure Act, and every ordinance of the Hawks. She always acted strictly according to these regulations. While Cupido saw everything as a vague, voluntary guideline. Nyathi knew that these divergent philosophies were frequently a recipe for conflict. Which he had to manage.
That was why he had not included his female detective in Griessel’s Franschhoek team, so she was now free to be sent to the bloodbath at the shopping centre.
