by Deon Meyer
‘Nothing I can’t handle. Tell me now, what info can they get from a cellular number?’
‘Everything, Tyrone. Where you are, where you’ve been. Who you phoned, who phoned you. SMSs, the works. They can even read your SMSs, brother, so I hope you kept it clean.’
‘OK, how long will it take?’
‘Depends. Who are the people who want to trace your phone?’
‘I don’t know them.’
‘Now you’re lying to me. Is it private individuals or the cops?’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘The cops have to get a warrant first. That takes time. Private individuals can do what they like, if they have the right equipment. Within half an hour, then they find you.’
He wanted to ditch the phone. Now. Because these guys, Hoodie and the Waterfront shooter, you didn’t know what they could do. They got Nadia so fast, they knew where his room was, they stalked him there at the station. They were sly bastards. And they wanted him dead.
‘OK, thanks, PC . . .’
‘Don’t thank me. Just stop all the monkey business. You’re not a player, you’re a pickpocket, for fuck’s sake.’
Griessel found Cupido in Mbali’s office busy putting SIM cards into cellphones.
Mbali was talking on the land line. ‘Alvarez,’ she said into the receiver. ‘With a “z” at the end. No, I’m not going to hold. This is a serious police matter. You stay on the line, and give me the information . . . You know I’m a police officer because I am telling you I am. And I don’t need a room number, I just want to know if you have a booking . . .’ She looked up at Griessel and shook her head in frustration.
‘Vaughn, I need to use a phone.’ Griessel pointed at the cellphones on the desk.
‘This one is ready. Take it for yourself.’ He passed one to Benny. ‘Battery’s not completely charged yet. ZTE F Nine Hundred, sorry, Benna, it’s all I could get. Earphones are still in the plastic.’
Griessel had never heard of a ZTE. It was a simple phone with a keyboard. At least he would know how to use it.
‘Thanks,’ he said as he took Nadia’s Vodacom information card out of his pocket.
He phoned the number.
It rang for a long time.
‘Thank you,’ said Mbali over the land line. ‘That wasn’t so hard,’ and she put the receiver down.
‘Hello?’ said a woman’s voice over Griessel’s ZTE.
‘Nadia?’ he said in surprise.
‘No, this is Sister Abigail Malgas of the Louis Leipoldt Mediclinic. Who’s speaking?’
Mbali’s office door flew open and Bones’s face appeared. ‘I’ve found Lillian Alvarez,’ he said in triumph. ‘Protea Hotel Fire & Ice!, New Church Street.’
‘Hello?’ said Sister Malgas. ‘Are you there?’
40
You’re not a player, you’re a pickpocket for fuck’s sake.
Not a player?
Tyrone stood in front of Brights Electrical in Frans Conradie Drive and he thought, sure, he was a pickpocket. And usually he lived according to Uncle Solly’s code. Steal from the rich. Never use violence. Be kind to the less fortunate.
Yes, he had never been a player. Until today. Until these guys changed the game. Till they introduced a whole new set of rules. Until they shot him and chased him. Until they messed with his sister, kidnapping and drugging her, and he didn’t want to think what else. And then they shot her too.
Enough is enough. Code or no code, you don’t do that. Not to the Kleinboois of Mitchells Plain.
Now he was a player. Now they would pay. Because now Nadia was safely in hospital, the police would be on the scene there soon, and he was beyond fear. Now he was the hell-in.
He called his old phone number, and he hoped they still had it, and that it was on. The phone rang and rang, until at last Hoodie answered it.
‘Yes.’ All formal and semi pissed off, like a man taking a call from his mother-in-law. And Tyrone liked that, because he knew Hoodie would not be pleased to hear from him. Because he had kicked Baseball Cap a snotskoot that he hoped gave the cunt a migraine for a week.
‘Listen, motherfucker, did you think I’m stupid?’
‘What do you want?’
‘It’s what you want. I have a small surprise for you.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m not stupid. I knew that a guy who just walks in and shoots people is a crazy motherfucker. So I got myself a little insurance.’
‘What insurance?’
‘That ZIP file on the card is bullshit. You used the password I gave you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you saw another ZIP file?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you use the same password I gave you, it will open, sesame. And you will see a hundred and two high-res, full-colour photographs of the beauty of Cape Town, for your viewing pleasure. You want to do that now, to see if I’m pulling your chain?’
Silence over the line.
And Tyrone thought, Take that, MoFo, put that in your pipe and smoke it.
It was a while before the man asked: ‘Where is the original file?’ But cool and calm.
‘I have it right here, in the famous stolen wallet, motherfucker. Do you want it?’
‘You are a dead man.’
It was just a statement, no emotion, and Tyrone shivered, but he said, ‘Fuck you. Do you want the original file?”
A heartbeat of silence, then, ‘Yes.’
‘Then you are going to pay.’
‘How much?’
It was a question he had thought deeply about, all the way from the Mediclinic. His gut feel was one million, but then he thought, these guys are not local, that accent is continental, they work in euros and dollars, one million is chump change.
‘Two hundred thousand euros. That’s about two point four million rand. And that’s how I want it. Local currency.’
No hesitation. ‘That is not possible.’
‘Tough shit, motherfucker. Then you can kiss the ZIP file goodbye. Hang on to my phone. I will call you again later tonight, in case you change your mind.’
And he took the phone he had bought from the Somali, still switched on, and he dropped it in the dustbin in front of Brights Electrical. Let the cops or the Hoodie gang trace it now.
Fuck them all.
He ran for a taxi.
In Mbali’s office he held his hand up in the air for silence. He said to Sister Abigail that he was Captain Benny Griessel of the SAPS Directorate of Priority Crimes Investigations, and they were urgently looking for Nadia Kleinbooi.
‘Yes, the phone belongs to Nadia. You are very lucky, Captain, I was on the way to take her personal effects to storage when you phoned. She was admitted about an hour ago for a gunshot wound. We have already reported it to the Bellville Station. They said they would come as soon as—’
‘Is it serious?’ asked Griessel, while his colleagues stared at him in silence.
‘No, thank goodness, it’s not critical. They are busy treating her wound now, but she is conscious.’
‘Sister, thank you very much. We’re on our way.’ He ended the call and told his colleagues the news. Mbali said something in Zulu that sounded like a prayer of thanks.
‘Bones, is Lillian Alvarez at the hotel?’
‘I didn’t ask, Benny. But she has definitely checked in.’
‘Vaughn, can you and Bones go and find out?’
‘Of course we can,’ said Bones enthusiastically. He was a member of the Statutory Crimes group of the Hawks’ Commercial Crimes branch. For the most part his daily routine involved wrestling with financial statements, but like most Hawks detectives he would never pass up a chance to be part of a violent crimes investigation.
Cupido laughed. ‘There’s a phone and a charger for everybody. Watch the batteries, plug them in whenever you can. I’ll drop off the Giraffe’s on the way out. And I’ll SMS the numbers to everybody.’
Griessel thanked him and said to Mbali, ‘Let’s go ta
lk to Nadia.’
The taxi stopped in front of Parow’s small, grey Metrorail station,Tyrone got out and walked straight to Station Street, nowadays a lively pedestrian market with a host of colourful stalls. It was different from Bellville, here it was mostly South Africans doing business – in cheap Chinese bric-abrac, vegetables, fruit, sweets, cigarettes. But between the butchers, fast food, clothing and furniture shops that flanked the street, there were at least seven cellphone shops. And one of them was Moosa Mobile.
That was where he went, as fast as he could, even though he felt the fatigue in every fibre of his body, and the pain across his back, even though he wished he could just lie down on a soft bed somewhere and go to sleep.
Eat your veggies first,Ty. Work, then play.
That’s what I’m doing, Uncle Solly.
He had come to Moosa Mobile because, in his industry he had heard that if you want to peddle a hot phone in the northern suburbs, Moosa was the fence to see. Tyrone didn’t do business in this area, so Moosa didn’t know him. But he was looking for three second-hand phones that were not traceable.
He walked in and said straight out what he wanted. And the little man gave him that look, and he knew he looked awful, but at least no one was going to take him for an undercover cop. The man took out three phones from the back, no boxes, no trimmings, just the instruments and their chargers. Cheap stuff, that the little man put in a Pick ’n’ Pay plastic bag. Then Tyrone bought three prepaid SIM cards: Vodacom. MTN. Cell C. He put sixty rands of airtime on each one.
Then he walked to the stalls and bought a small, cheap travel case, two shirts, white and blue. A smart pair of black trousers, a grey pullover, a purple windcheater – because that was the only colour they had in his size – six pairs of underpants, four pairs of black socks, and a dark grey tweed jacket. Because a jacket, Uncle Solly used to say, is the ticket.
And then he walked back to the station. He would have liked to be near Nadia. But it wouldn’t help him; he couldn’t afford to go near there, that’s what the cops would expect. But still, the urge to be close to her was strong. To protect her. But he must do the smart thing. The northern suburbs were a foreign country. He must get back to the city. That was his hunting ground. That was where he was at home.
Sister Malgas told Griessel and Mbali what she knew. Someone had drugged Nadia Kleinbooi, and then she had been shot, at Bellville Station. Her brother Tyrone had brought her in.
Griessel took out the photo of Tyrone and Nadia from his jacket pocket, and showed it to her.
‘Yes, that’s the brother.’
He asked if Tyrone was still around, but he already knew what the answer would be.
Had he left a contact number?
Sister Malgas said the number was on the system – she looked it up and gave it to him. ‘But he can’t take calls.’ She explained about a strict boss at a paint contractor.
Griessel nodded as if he believed it, and asked if they could see Nadia.
No, they would have to wait. Perhaps in the next hour.
She had spoken of Nadia’s personal possessions. Could they look through them?
She would ask the superintendent. She made the call, got the OK, and went to fetch them.
While he waited, Griessel phoned the SC of Bellville police station to get the details of the shooting. He heard that a security guard had been fatally wounded, and a girl had been admitted to Louis Leipoldt. That was all the station commander could say for sure now, because his detectives were still at the scene, busy questioning witnesses. But he thought it was gang-related, most likely drugs.
‘Colonel, at what time did this take place?’
‘Just after three.’
While he had been in Stellenbosch, the Cobras had shot people, less than a kilometre from the Hawks’ headquarters.
‘We are at Louis Leipoldt now to interview the wounded girl. If you retrieve any bullet casings, let me know. And when the detectives are finished, ask them to phone me. We suspect the case is related to an urgent matter that we are investigating.’
‘I’ll do that.’
Sister Malgas approached with a bulging shoulder bag, which she put down on the desk in front of them. Mbali took out rubber gloves from her equally large handbag, pulled them on, and began to unpack Nadia’s belongings: textbooks on biology, chemistry, physics, and maths.
‘Look here, the bullet hit the book,’ the sister pointed out.
Two notebooks. A bright yellow zipper bag for pens and pencils. A transparent lunchbox with a sandwich and two sticks of dried fruit. A charger for an iPhone, and the phone itself. A small toilet bag with a comb, make-up, and women’s things. A purse, of denim fabric, with Nadia’s student card, a cash card from FNB, a few cash slips for groceries from Checkers, prepaid airtime from Vodacom, and just over a hundred and fifty rand in cash. Two packs of chewing gum, one half empty. A single condom. And last, a key ring with the black and white yin and yang symbol on it, with a round chip for an electronic gate, and a key that would probably fit her apartment’s front door.
Griessel took the phone and began to look at the call register. TYRONE was listed for all the calls from ten o’clock this morning and just after one. Her brother had been phoning her continuously. Or she him. After that, numbers that were not identified in her contacts. The last call, before his own, new phone number appeared, was just before five.
He saw that there was not much charge left in the battery, but he used Nadia’s phone in any case to call Tyrone’s number
Perhaps he would answer.
It rang for a long time, and then went over to voicemail.
‘Hi, this is Ty. You’re looking for me. Why?’
The same voice that had answered Nadia’s phone a while back.
With the leaden feeling of frustration and disappointment he rang off, without leaving a message.
This whole thing had played out at Bellville Station. And David Patrick Adair’s death warrant had been signed there.
41
‘Cool,’ said Vaughn Cupido as they walked into the Protea Hotel Fire & Ice! and he spotted all the neon lights, the slick fittings in glass and wood.
‘Funky,’ said Bones.
They walked to reception, Cupido’s long coat tails flapping.
Bones showed his SAPS identity card to the woman behind the desk. ‘Major Benedict Boshigo, Priority Crimes Directorate of the SAPS.’
Cupido could hear how his colleague relished saying it. He knew Commercial Crimes were mostly desk jockeys; they didn’t get the chance to flash plastic every day.
‘How may I help you, sir?’
‘We called earlier about a Miss Lillian Alvarez. You told us she has checked in.’
‘That must be our reservation desk, sir.’
‘Could you please give us her room number?’
The woman was uncertain. ‘I . . . Our policy . . . I’ll have to check with my manager, sir.’
‘Could you call him for us?’
‘Her. Just a minute . . .’
Cupido looked at an iPad that stood on the counter. Photos of the hotel’s rooms flashed up and dissolved on a constant loop, and below that, Today’s tariff: R899.00 per night (Room Only).
‘Can’t be doing too badly as a research fellow to be able to afford that,’ said Cupido. ‘Unless the rich, digital bank robber of a sugar daddy is paying.’
‘That’s nothing if you’re from England, nè,’ said Bones. ‘Less than sixty pounds.’
Cupido only nodded, unwilling to discard his financial fraud and mistress theory.
A woman came walking up on black high heels, accompanied by the receptionist. Late thirties, black skirt and jacket, white blouse, thin smile. She knew the SAPS were not good news.
‘Gentleman, how may I help?’
Cupido knew Bones was eager to speak. He stood back.
Bones explained the situation to the manageress. She asked for their identification cards, and studied them carefully.
She
looked up. ‘Is there some sort of trouble?’
‘No, she was the victim of a pickpocket this morning. We would just like to talk to her.’
‘A pickpocket? That does not seem like a priority crime.’
‘Uh . . .’ Bones was taken by surprise.
Cupido stepped forward. ‘Ma’am, please, we don’t want to do this the hard way.’ His expression was stern, but he kept his voice low and courteous.
The manageress’s smile disappeared entirely She looked at Cupido, thought for a moment, then nodded to the receptionist. ‘You can give them the room number.’ While the younger woman consulted the computer, the manager said, ‘If there is something I should know . . .’
‘We’ll tell you, of course,’ said Cupido. ‘Thank you.’
Griessel and Mbali had to wait in the hospital restaurant until they could question Nadia Kleinbooi.
They walked from Emergency in Voortrekker Road to the new wing of the hospital on Fairway Road. He walked half a step behind his colleague, still trying to process and express his disappointment. At least the girl was safe, he thought.
And he hadn’t had a drink today, though it had been close, so fucking close. He shivered as if someone had walked over his grave. It was always a danger, when there was so much chaos in an investigation, so much crazy rush and pressure. And trouble. He just mustn’t let the lost battle with the Cobras mess with his head as well. Let him first test his theory on Mbali.
He looked at her, saw how she turned up the collar of the blue SAPS windcheater to keep out the cold late afternoon wind. There was a quiet strength in her walk. On the way to the hospital she had been very quiet, and in the interview with the nurse she was as solemn as ever. But he knew she had been like that from this morning, since the conversation in the car outside the house of the Schotsche Kloof murder. The disapproving frown, the determined, almost arrogant attitude had given way to something else – dismay.
He thought he knew what it was. And he understood.
He had walked that path himself, when he had been appointed by Murder and Robbery – and before he started drinking. Christ, it was a lifetime ago. He had been so full of fire and full of himself and his status, and his responsibility as a Servant of Justice. As Detective. Because when you worked at Murder and Robbery, your role was spelled with a capital letter. What you did mattered.
