Cobra

by Deon Meyer

  Griessel put a foot between the door and the frame. ‘SAPS,’ he said. ‘And if you do that again, you’re in trouble.’

  Now Oom Stoffel looked at him under heavy raised brows. ‘SAPS?’

  ‘That’s right. I am Benny Griessel . . .’ He took out his wallet and identity card.

  ‘He’s from the Hawks, Oom,’ said the student helpfully.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Directorate of Priority Crimes Investigation,’ said Griessel, and displayed his card. ‘Will you please come and unlock number twenty-one. It’s a crime scene now.’

  Oom Stoffel took his reading glasses from his breast pocket, put them on and studied the identity card.

  ‘He’s mos genuine from the Hawks, Oom,’ said the student.

  ‘Where are your papers?’ the caretaker asked Griessel.

  ‘Here.’ He waved the identity card.

  ‘No, where is your warrant?’

  ‘Are you certain you want to be difficult, meneer?’

  ‘I know the law,’ he said stubbornly.

  ‘Then you should be acquainted with Articles Twenty-Five to Twenty-Seven of the Criminal Procedure Act.’

  ‘All I know is, you can’t just go in there.’

  ‘Now listen to me, meneer . . .’

  ‘He’s got a gun,’ said Johan, the student.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Griessel. He looked at Oom Stoffel again. ‘If you want to sleep in your own bed tonight, you had better listen. Article Twenty-Five, Three B says I may enter the premises if I believe the obtaining of a warrant will subvert the purpose of it. Article Twenty-Seven says I can lawfully search any person or any premises, I can use such force as may be reasonably necessary to overcome any resistance against such search or against entry of the premises, including the breaking of any door or window of such premises, provided that I first audibly demand admission to the premises and notify the purpose for which I seek to enter such premises. I’m telling you now, in the presence of a civilian witness, the legal resident of number twenty-one is the victim of an alleged crime. Unlock it, or I will lock you up, and break down that door.’

  ‘He’s not joking, Oom Stoffel,’ said the student, enjoying every moment.

  Tyrone held Nadia tightly.

  ‘Gangstas?’ asked the guy at the steering wheel.

  ‘Something like that,’ said Tyrone, his eyes on Nadia’s face.

  ‘To Tygerberg?’

  ‘No, uncle. There’s a private hospital just on the other side here, near the police.’

  ‘Louis Leipoldt. It’s a Mediclinic. Those people are expensive.’

  ‘I know, uncle. But she’s my sister.’

  ‘OK.’

  And just before they turned off in Broadway, Tyrone remembered Bobby. He dug his cellphone out of his pocket, and phoned Hassan Ikar.

  38

  Tyrone knew the Mediclinic people would phone the cops. It was the law, if a gunshot wound came in. That’s why he was anxious about how long it was taking.

  They had put Nadia on a stretcher in Emergency. He also told them someone had drugged her, they ought to know.

  An administrative aunty approached and asked, ‘What drugs?’

  He said he didn’t know.

  ‘What drugs does she use, sir?’ In white Afrikaans, adamant and strict.

  It made him angry. ‘She doesn’t use drugs. They forced her to take them. She’s studying to be a doctor, she’s not some hierjy. Get her to the doctors now, please.’

  ‘Calm down, sir. First we need the details of her medical aid,’ said the admin aunty.

  He pulled out his wallet, took out three thousand rand in cash, and gave it to her. ‘There is no medical aid, aunty. This should cover it for today. If you need more, let me know, but please, get her in there to the doctors.’

  Her heart softened a bit and she said to the nurses, ‘Take her in.’ She turned back to Tyrone. ‘It’s a gunshot wound, we have to notify the polieste.’This time speaking naturally, Kaaps.

  ‘Tell them, aunty, she has nothing to hide. She’s pure class.’

  ‘Your girlfriend?’

  ‘No, aunty. She’s my sister. I’m rubbish, but she isn’t.’

  ‘Nee, wat, a man who looks after his sister like that, he’s also pure class.’

  ‘Thanks, aunty.’

  ‘Where did they shoot her?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘I have to ask, because the police will want to know.’

  ‘Down by the station, aunty.’

  ‘Bellville?’

  ‘Yes, aunty.’

  She shook her head in horror. ‘Gangstas . . .’ She looked at him. ‘Ai, do you know how you look, with all that blood all over you?’

  ‘No, aunty.’

  ‘Here’s her bag, you’ll have to keep it with you, or let us book it in for safekeeping. Come, let’s get you cleaned up, then you will give me all her details for admission.’

  He told her he had to go to the toilet first. He wanted to move the pistol from his trouser pocket to the backpack he had bought from Hassan Ikar. Then he came back and sat with the admin aunty to give her the admission details. And also so he could know when she phoned the cops.

  Oom Stoffel muttered, all the way down the stairs of Block One, across the car park, and up the stairs of Block Two. Under his breath, but Griessel picked up a phrase here and there. ‘Can’t recite the numbers of the laws, but I know my rights . . .’ was more or less the drift.

  He knew people like the caretaker, wielding a little bit of power that they obstinately abused, after a lifetime of being victimised in the same way. There was only one way to deal with them: give them a dose of their own medicine. Then they crumbled.

  Griessel let the man go ahead while he fetched his homicide case from the boot of the BMW. The student trotted enthusiastically after him.

  They rejoined Oom Stoffel at Nadia’s door, where he was searching through a big bunch of keys for the right one. He found it, unlocked, stood back, and waved his arm theatrically.

  ‘There you go,’ he said.

  Griessel took a pair of gloves out of his case. ‘Please wait for me here.’

  ‘I have things to do,’ said the caretaker.

  ‘Like what?’ asked the student.

  ‘You’ve got no business here,’ said Oom Stoffel.

  ‘I’m supporting the Hawks,’ said the student.

  The old man snorted.

  Griessel picked up the case, opened the door, and went in. He closed the door behind him again, with a measure of relief.

  The flat was tidy. A small kitchenette to the right, a sitting room ahead, and the bedroom behind that, to the left.

  He was in a hurry, gave it only a cursory going over. He saw no sign that anyone had searched the place yet. It looked as if she had been the last one here.

  A porridge bowl, spoon, and coffee mug were on the drying rack, washed. A few photos were stuck on the fridge. Group photos of four or five students. In one he recognised Tyrone Kleinbooi, from this morning’s video clips. He was with a girl he assumed to be Nadia; Tyrone’s arm was draped protectively around his sister’s shoulder.

  Griessel opened his case, took out a plastic evidence bag. He took the photo off the fridge and put it in the bag.

  In the sitting room there was a beige couch, covered in corduroy, old and a bit frayed, but clean. And a pine wood coffee table. Two books on it. The uppermost one showed an attractive woman eating pasta from a bowl. Nigellissima: Instant Italian Inspiration.

  He went into the bedroom.

  A single bed, made up. A teddy bear propped against the cushion stared at him with all-knowing glass eyes. An old easy chair covered in faded red material. One of the wooden legs was mended, soundly, but not very skilfully. Against the wall was a long table of Oregon pine. There was a mouse and a power cable, but no laptop. Textbooks in a row against the wall. More books on a small bookshelf below the window.

  Griessel opened the built-in wardrobe.

&
nbsp; The subtle scent of a pleasant perfume. A young girl’s clothing filled half the space. Jeans, blouses, a few dresses, a denim jacket. Below, six pairs of shoes. To the left, on different shelves, neatly piled and arranged, were her underwear, jerseys, T-shirts, and a shelf with perfume, a jewellery case. And a cellphone box for an iPhone 4. He picked up the box and slid it open.

  Inside was a Vodacom information card for a pre-paid account. With the IMEI and phone number on it.

  He held it between his fingers and walked to the front door. He went outside. Oom Stoffel stood there, arms folded, face thunderous. Beside him, the student looked very pleased with himself.

  ‘Can you please phone this number?’ asked Griessel and showed him the Vodacom card.

  ‘And now? Don’t the police have their own phones?’ asked Oom Stoffel.

  ‘His one is broken. So I’m helping him,’ said the student. ‘

  Typical.’ A disparaging snort. ‘God save our country.’

  ‘Please pass it to me as soon as it rings,’ said Griessel.

  The student phoned, listened for a moment, and gave Griessel the phone.

  He stood listening to it ring, without much hope.

  They sat in front of a computer at Admissions, Tyrone opposite the admin aunty.

  ‘Is that your phone?’ she asked when the ringtone sounded.

  He was very tired. The terrible day weighed down on him, a veil over his thoughts. And he was worried about his sister – his thoughts were inside with her. ‘No,’ he said.

  Then he realised the sound came from Nadia’s bag. Hoodie must have pushed it in there. He leaned over, took it out, looked at the screen. A number on the display. If it was one of Nadia’s contacts there would have been a name.

  ‘You’d better answer,’ said the aunty.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s this?’The voice of a white man.

  ‘Who do you want to talk to?’

  ‘To Nadia Kleinbooi.’There was authority in the voice.

  ‘She isn’t available.’ Adrenaline flowed again and the fatigue was gone.

  ‘Who am I talking to now?’

  Tyrone smelled police. He knew the aunty was listening, but he had to get off this line. They could do a lot to trace the call; they would know where he was.

  ‘Hello?’ said the voice. ‘Who am I talking to?’

  ‘OK,’ said Tyrone for the benefit of the aunty. ‘OK, I’ll give her the

  message. OK, bye.’

  He ended the call and put the phone back in Nadia’s book bag.

  ‘One of her classmates,’ he said. ‘Where were we?’

  Griessel stood with the phone in his hand and he thought: that was Tyrone. It had to be. He didn’t know how it worked, he didn’t know how it all fitted together, but his instinct told him that was the pickpocket. The man had a shade of Cape Flats in that accent, and something else: a caution, a suspicion, a wariness.

  And he was somewhere with people that he could not speak in front of.

  The Cobras had Tyrone too.

  That was the only explanation.

  He took out his wallet again, fished out thirty rand in notes and pushed them into the pocket of the student’s leather jacket.

  ‘No, Captain, really it’s not . . .’

  Griessel was tired of struggling with other people’s phones, with the whole bloody situation. ‘Take it,’ he said. Then he realised how it sounded. ‘Please. I have to make one more call.’

  ‘Any time. It’s our duty to help the police,’ said Johan, looking pointedly at Oom Stoffel.

  The old man snorted again.

  Griessel phoned Mbali.

  When she answered, he said: ‘We need to track a number, Mbali. Very urgently.’

  ‘Ingels,’ said Oom Stoffel. ‘There’s your problem, right there, when our police have to start talking English . . .’

  39

  He had to get away from here,Tyrone thought.

  He must phone PC Carolus and ask how long it would take someone to check where a phone was, but he thought it would be quick, the cops just checked on their computers. He might have ten minutes or so, then they would be here.

  ‘Aunty, please, I have to get back to work, they gonna fire me, but first I must know if my sister is OK.’

  ‘I’ve mos got your number here on the system. I’ll let you know.’

  He thought. The cops would swarm all over this place. And they would find out everything. That Nadia was here in the hospital, and that she had been shot. They would interview her when she recovered. And they would tell her her brother was a pickpocket, and that he had shot people at the Waterfront, and she was going to get a shock, in her state. And there was sweet blow-all he could do about it, ’cause she needed serious medical attention, he couldn’t get her out of here now.

  But at least she’d be safe. And he would phone her, and he would tell her nothing was like it seemed, first she must recuperate, then he would tell her everything.

  Now he had to get out of here. Get rid of this new phone, ’cause the number was on Nadia’s phone, from when he talked to Hoodie. He was traceable.

  He must become invisible again. So he could do what had to be done.

  It was payback time.

  ‘Are you OK?’ asked the aunty.

  ‘Can I have your number, aunty, please; I’m not allowed to take calls at work.’

  ‘Now what kind of work is that? Surely they will understand if your sister is in the hospital.’

  ‘Paint contractors, those people are kwaai, aunty.’

  She shook her head over the unfairness of it. Then she grew serious. ‘The police will want to talk to you. About what happened.’

  He thought about that. ‘OK, give them my number. But I have to go. If aunty could just quickly go and see if she is orraait. Please.’

  ‘Sign here so long,’ she said, and pointed at a document she had printed out. ‘Then I’ll see what I can do.’

  Griessel had told Mbali to keep Vaughn Cupido at the DPCI head office when he returned with the cellphones. He stretched yellow crime-scene tape across the door of number twenty-one and threatened dire consequences if the caretaker allowed anyone access.

  ‘Except if they also throw article sixty B around here,’ the old man muttered

  Griessel ignored the sarcasm.

  He thanked the student again.

  ‘Any time, Captain, any time.’

  ‘And not a word from you.’

  ‘My lips are zipped.’

  For how long, Griessel wondered, and ran down the stairs to the BMW. He put the siren on, stuck the blue light on the dashboard, and drove off as fast as he could.

  On the N1, just beyond the Winelands Engen, he switched his cellphone back on. It beeped, and he saw that he had four voice messages.

  They would have to wait, he didn’t want to waste time putting on his earphones now.

  Tyrone grew anxious, as the minutes ticked away, the cops must be on their way already. His ears were pricked for sirens, but he heard nothing.

  Maybe it takes a while to trace a phone. And if he just ran out of here, the aunty would know he was not innocent.

  To his immense relief she returned with a smile. ‘Your sister is going to be OK, they say she was very lucky, that bullet must have hit something in front of her, because she only has broken ribs over here.’ She indicated the side of her upper torso. ‘There’s no internal damage or bleeding there, just external. And it’s very sore, the ribs. She’s stable so you can stop worrying.’

  Stop worrying. Not for a while.

  ‘Thank you very much, aunty,’ he said while he tried to think what the bullet could have hit. He recalled that moment, Nadia stumbling and falling in front of him, the pistol making its dull bark. And then he had a hunch and picked up her bag, and began unpacking it on the admin desk. He held up the thick textbook: Chemistry & Chemical Reactivity. Kotz,Treichel & Weaver. At the top end was a mark, a piece of the thick hard cover and a chunk o
f pages were shot away.

  ‘Saved by chemistry,’ said the aunty. ‘Can you believe it.’

  ‘I’m going to leave the bag here, aunty. So she can get it when she wants her stuff.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘How long is she going to be here?’

  ‘I can’t say myself, but I guess four or five days.’

  ‘How much money must I still bring, aunty?’

  ‘For safety sake, another three thousand, then we can just settle at the release.’

  He didn’t think he would be here at the release, he was a wanted man. And a hunted man. But he said ‘OK’, thanked her, said goodbye, and left.

  On the N1, at a hundred and forty-five kilometres per hour, disgust overcame Benny Griessel. At himself, and at the SSA. It was their fault that he couldn’t use his phone. That he had to make calls in front of two idiots. With a fokken borrowed phone.

  He should have phoned Nadia’s number again. He should have talked to Tyrone. If it was Tyrone. But who else could it be? A straight line of reasoning ran to Tyrone. The bullet casings at the abduction scene showed it was the Cobras. The eyewitness said it was a coloured girl who was kidnapped. The Cobras had been in Tyrone’s rented room in the Bo-Kaap, and they knew Nadia was studying at Stellenbosch. They were looking for her. And they found her. To get at Tyrone, because he had something they wanted. The Cobras were foreigners. They didn’t speak Afrikaans. It had to be Tyrone.

  Somehow or other he had got hold of his sister’s phone.

  Borrowed maybe?

  Didn’t make sense. He should have phoned again. He should have said:‘Come in. We won’t arrest you for anything, just come in, and tell us everything. We aren’t after you, we want the Cobras. And your sister.’

  But it was the one number rule that he could not call from his own phone. Because it would give the SSA a short cut.

  He swore and turned off the N1, onto Durban Road, the sirens still wailing. The traffic opened up for him. He just hoped Cupido was already there with the new cellphones.

  ‘Jissis,’ said PC Carolus. ‘What have you got yourself into?’

  Tyrone walked up Duminy Street, on the way to catch a taxi on Frans Conradie Drive, cellphone to his ear.