"So what do we do? Scratch our backsides, then what?"
"We just have to wait."
* * *
It was a huge funeral.
The gathering was illegal. Under the amendment regulations following the state of emergency it was prohibited that mourners should march in formation to open air funeral services. It would have required a battalion of infantry to have prevented the column reaching the grave that had been prepared for the body of a thirteen-year-old girl, knocked over ten days before by a speeding Casspir.
Sometimes the regulations were enforced, sometimes not. Enforcement depended on the will of the senior police officer for the area, and the size of the forces available to him.
On this Sunday the military were not present. The police seemed to have stayed back and watched from a distance as the migrant ant mass of men and women and children took the small white wood coffin to the cemetery.
An orderly march to the grave. Hating faces, but controlled. The young men who had charge let the priest have his say, and they allowed the bereaved family to get clear in an old Morris car, and they gave time for the old men and the women and the small children to start back towards the township.
There was organisation of a sort in what happened afterwards.
A single police jeep was out in front of the main force, there to overlook and photograph. A shambling charge at the jeep, and the driver had lost his gears, and lost time, and the men who guarded the photographer and his long lens had fired volleys of bird shot and gas to keep the running, stoning crowd at a distance.
The driver of the jeep never found his gears. The crowd surged on, vengeance within reach. The police ditched the jeep, left it with the engine howling, ran for their lives. Good and fit, the policemen, and running hard because they knew the alternative to running fast, knew what happened to policemen who were caught by a funeral mob. The photographer didn't run fast, not as fast as he had to run. The lens bouncing awkwardly from his stomach, and the camera bag on his shoulder, and none of the policemen with guns taking the time to cover him.
The officers commanding the police were still shouting their orders when the fleetest of the mob caught up with the photographer. The photographer was White and a year and a half short of his fiftieth birthday. A growl in the mob, the breath intake of a mad dog.
The hacking crack of rifle fire, aimed at random into the crowd at four hundred metres. The crowd of youths not caring because the photographer was caught.
The Casspirs came forward, and the kids fled before them, back towards the township.
The photographer was naked but for one shoe and his socks and the camera with the long lens that lay on his belly.
His clothes had been taken from him as vultures take meat from bones. He was dead. An autopsy would in due course state how many knife wounds he had received, how many stone bruises.
The start of a routine township battle. An hour of unrest.
Shotguns and rifles and tear gas grenades from behind the armour plate of the high built Casspirs. Petrol bombs and rocks from the kids. Pretty unremarkable happenings for the East Rand.
The police saw the kids back into the warren streets of Duduza and left them to their destruction. Eighteen months after the start of the petrol bombing and the rock throwing against the Black policemen's homes and councillor's homes there was little left for the crowd that was worth burning.
Two shops were destroyed by fire. The days were long since gone when the elderly would try to prevent the kids burning a shop out. To have tried to have saved a shop from the fire was to have invited the accusation of collaborator.
Two shops burned.
Four kids died. Eighteen kids were treated for buck shot injuries in Duduza's unregistered clinic. No chance of them going to hospital.
A thirteen-year-old girl had been successfully buried.
Sunday afternoon in Duduza, and time to bring the buckets indoors.
• • *
His eyes were red rimmed.
He sat on a wooden chair in a small room.
Faces peered at him through the cracked glass of the window. Jack looked straight ahead, looked all the time at the man who had been introduced as Henry Kenge, and at Jan.
He dabbed his eyes with his water-soaked handkerchief, and each time he did it he heard the pitter patter of laughter from all around him.
He had made his speech. He had asked for help. He had been heard out. He had been vague and unspecific until Jan had waved him quiet, taken over and whispered urgently a statement of intent in the ear of the one identified as Kenge.
He was filthy from the ditch he had lain in as the Casspirs had rumbled down the main street. With Jan in the bottom of a ditch that doubled as a street sewer.
He thought that if the youngsters he had seen that afternoon had been Black kids on the streets of London or Birmingham or Liverpool then he would have rated them as mindless and vicious hooligans. He thought the kids of Duduza were the bravest he had ever known. So what was the morality of that? Fuck the morality, Jack thought.
Kenge brought Jan a holdall. Jan passed the bag to Jack.
He counted five R.G.-42 grenades.
Jack tugged at Jan's sleeve. "This shouldn't be in bloody public."
"The necklace has made ashes of informers, they're scrubbed out of Duduza. The eyes of the security police have been put out with fire, that's why they're losing . . .
They have a song about you. They don't know who you are, but they have a song in praise of you. They made a song about the man who carried the bomb into John Vorster Square."
Jack shook his head, like he'd been slapped. "You told them about that?"
"You've been given half of this township's armoury. You grovel your thanks to them."
When they left they could see the lights of the road block vehicles. Jan kept his own headlight off and drove cross-country in a loop taking them well clear of the block.
For a short time a searchlight tried to find the source of the engine sound in the darkness, and they stopped in shadow until it lit upon some other threat, and then rode on.
Jack thought he was pretty damn fortunate to have the grenades. He appreciated that after Thiroko was killed Jan would be isolated from the Movement. That's what any Movement would do. He pounded Jan's back, in gratitude, in relief to be out of Duduza.
Ros was at the flat in Hillbrow. She showed Jack what she had brought. Only after he had seen and handled the pump action shotgun and the two revolvers and the ammunition did Jack realise that she had changed herself.
He thought Ros van Niekerk was quite lovely.
He had fifteen pounds of explosives and detonators and firing fuse and five grenades and a shotgun and two revolvers.
And he had a crippled student to help him, and a girl who worked in an insurance office and who was lovely.
No going back, but then there had never been a time for going back.
16
A crisp, bright, autumn morning over the flat veld, the diamond frost going with the sunlight.
Monday morning. Another week. One more used up.
Jack had dismantled the model. He had returned the pieces to the bread bin.
In a corner of the yard at the back of the block of flats he discarded one of the two metal tubes. He had explosive enough for one tube only. He had to go out the way that he went in.
Jan carried the suitcase to the car. Ros had the shotgun, broken and carried under an overcoat, and the two revolvers.
Jack brought the tube.
Jack had told them he needed a stop on the way for a bag of readymix concrete. He said that he would sit in the back of the car, that he needed to think. He sat in the back of the car and concentrated on an approach from the south side over Magazine Hill, and diversions on the north side near the guarded perimeters of Defence Headquarters.
They could rent a service flat in Pretoria, Ros said. It wouldn't be difficult to find one, but it would be expensive.
Jack p
assed her a wad of rand notes. He slipped back to his thinking.
How much could he ask of them, of Jan and Ros?
* * *
The principal hotels were tried first.
Two detectives, with the two original photo-fits and also with a third photo-fit that was an amalgam of the shopkeepers' opinions, were briefed to visit the city's four and five star hotels. Other teams were directed towards the two and three star hotels, the booking offices of South African Airways, of the European airlines, and to Jan Smuts.
Every one of them worked from John Vorster Square, had been violated by the bomb. The two with the four and five star list appreciated that the hotels worked shift systems of reception and porter staff. They knew that if they drew blanks with this visit that they must come back to interview those staff who were not on duty that Monday morning.
At the Landdrost, first visit, the detective found the Indian day porter on duty. He left his colleague with the brunette on reception, poring over the composite photo-fit. She had known the face. The detective showed the day porter the photo-fits.
The day porter recalled the features. He had quite liked the man. He'd had a good tip for arranging the visit to Soweto, and another tip when the man had checked out. He nodded his head. He understood that the detective was from the security police. And if it was the security police then it was not pilfering or the fraudulent use of a credit card, it was sedition or terrorism. Heavily, the day porter nodded.
He wrote a room number on a slip of paper and pushed it across his desk to the detective. He was asked whether he knew the man's name.
"His name was Mr Curwen."
"Was?"
"The middle of last week he left, sir."
The day porter was in work. Not big pay but the tips were good. He'd remembered this man, for courtesy and for a warm word of thanks when the man had gone, carrying his own suitcase out, he hadn't forgotten that. It hurt the day porter to implicate the young Englishman.
The detective went to the cashier's desk. With the name and the room number it took only half a minute for him to be given a copy of the bill, and the dates of the guest's stay.
Soon afterwards a watch salesman from Port Elizabeth, sleeping in late with a Coloured call girl, was disturbed in his room. They were given two minutes to get their clothes on.
The salesman was in the corridor zipping his trousers, his 100 rand companion was beside him buttoning her blouse, as the dog was unleashed in the room. The salesman, in increasing desperation, tried without success to discover why his room was being searched. The detectives stayed in the corridor and gave him no satisfaction. Just the handler and his small black labrador dog in the room.
The dog explored the bed, and the drawers of the bedside tables, no reaction. It covered the desk beside the window, and the drawers there. It went past the television set. The cold nose flitted over the dressing table. The dog and the handler had made a slow circuit of the room when they reached the wardrobe in the corner opposite the bathroom door.
The dog snorted.
It had been trained over months to recognise the scent of minute traces of explosive. The dog had no skill at tracking a man, nor at finding hard or soft drugs in luggage. It was an explosive sniffer dog. The dog pawed at the wardrobe door, scratched at the varnish finish. The handler slid open the door. The dog sniffed hard into the bottom corner of the wardrobe, then up to the inside of the door. The dog barked, the tail going, then came out of the wardrobe and sat, and the handler gave it a biscuit.
"There were explosives in this cupboard," the handler told the detectives. "My guess would be that the suspect had traces on his hands from handling the explosives when he closed the cupboard door. The dog has found the traces inside only, but the outside would have been cleaned by the maid staff. But there's no doubt, there were explosives very recently in this room."
• • •
He had the name of Jack Curwen. He had an address in the Surrey town of Leatherhead. He had a date of arrival in South Africa.
The colonel dictated his telex.
He had forensic confirmation that the explosive traces found on the inside of the wardrobe door matched the types of plaster gelignite most generally issued by the Soviets to the military wing of the A.N.C.
By choice he was an overworked man. He drew to his own desk as many strands of investigation as it was possible for him to gather in.
He missed a link.
He did not marry the information he now possessed with the report sent from London by Major Swart before the John Vorster Square bomb, which had been circulated to the colonel by Pretoria.
The colonel had so much to concern himself with, it was understandable, only human, that he missed the link.
• * •
The telex had been transformed from a jumble of numbers to a demand for immediate information. The telex lay on the desk of Major Swart.
Major Swart's office was deserted. The telex was placed on the untenanted desk.
* * •
Halfway through that Monday morning.
There had been a short hail shower. The forecast was for rain later.
Major Swart thought it a dismal occasion. A burial service without dignity. But then Arkwright had been a pathetic creature.
It was an hour's drive out of London for Major Swart. Piet had brought him down the M4 to the village beyond Reading.
They were dressed for the part, the major and his warrant officer.
The major was unshaven and in jeans with an old donkey coat on his shoulders. The warrant officer had chosen denims with a Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament logo on the back of his jacket. The major had thought there would be a better turn out. It was the last chance perhaps to get a tail on the young man introduced by Arkwright to Jacob Thiroko. And the bastard hadn't shown. He could have saved his time.
He recognised faces from Anti-Apartheid. No one that was special. A few kids out of the secretaries' pool, a man who made speeches at the really bum meetings when the seniors didn't want to know. He saw Arkwright's parents, country people, and they looked as embarrassed at the contingent from London as they were by the attendance of Arkwright's wife's people whose Jaguar was a flashy intrusion in the lane outside the church.
The group was around the open grave. He could hear the vicar's voice, as sonorous as the clouds. He and Piet were standing back, amongst the old head stones.
"Pleasant surprise to see you here, Major Swart."
He turned fast. He didn't know the man who had come silently over the wet grass to stand behind him. A big man, wearing a good overcoat.
"Detective Inspector Cooper, Major Swart. Didn't expect you'd be out and about to offer your condolences at the death of an Anti-Apartheid activist."
The anger was crimson on the major's cheeks.
"I'd have thought the embassy could have done better on the clothing allowance, Major Swart."
Swart saw the amusement on the detective inspector's face. "There is no regulation restricting the travel of South African diplomats inside the United Kingdom."
The detective inspector looked him over, with mocking enjoyment. "None at all, Major. Going on afterwards to the family for a drink and a sandwich, are we?"
"Go and fuck yourself," Major Swart said.
"Nice language for a cemetery, Major, very choice. I doubt you'll tell me why you're here, but I'll tell you why I'm here. Our investigations tell us that Douglas Arkwright was followed out of a public house on the night of his death.
It is our belief that he was attacked as he walked home.
Some of his injuries were consistent with a kicking. Stroke of luck for us, really, but when he went under the bus only his head and shoulders were hit by the tyres, that's how we can say for sure what were other injuries he had very recently sustained. It is our belief that Arkwright was running away from his assailants when he fell under the bus. Wouldn't be murder, of course, manslaughter would be the charge. You'd know about that, Major Swart, you being
a policeman back home. Any ideas on who would be interested in roughing up a creep like Douglas Arkwright?"
"Any time you want advice on how to police your inner cities, just telephone me, Inspector."
"The National Theatre could give you a hand with your costume, Major. And you, Warrant Officer. It is Warrant Officer Piet Kaiser, isn't it? I thought so. Ask for the wardrobe mistress at the stage door. Very helpful folk."
The major walked away, his warrant officer close behind him. He didn't look back. He presumed the man was Special Branch.
They drove off, crashing through the gears, causing the vicar to pause in mid flow.
Major Swart and Warrant Officer Kaiser stopped at a pub on the Thames and didn't leave before closing time.
It would be late afternoon before he found the telex on his desk that required immediate attention.
* * •
The funeral of James Sandham, held by coincidence that same Monday morning, was an altogether grander affair.
The Foreign and Commonwealth Office saw to the arrangements. The Personnel Department had booked a chapel of rest, and the official fleet of cars, and the crematorium, and enough flowers to make Sandham seem to have been a loved and respected colleague.
His former wife had married again, and successfully, and was able to afford a clinging black frock that set her off well against the men from the F.C.O. She was allocated the front row in the crematorium chapel, never whimpered, never produced a handkerchief. The P.U.S. was behind her, and sitting alongside him was Peter Furneaux, head of the late Jimmy Sandham's section.
They didn't speak, the P.U.S. and Peter Furneaux, until after the curtains had closed on the coffin, and the taped organ music had come to a stop. As the mourners scraped to their feet and followed the former Mrs Sandham to the door and into a light shower of rain, Furneaux said, "I wonder if I could have a word with you, sir."
"I've lunch out of town, I am afraid, then the Cabinet Office, so I haven't a lot of time."
"It's quite pressing, sir."
A SONG IN THE MORNING Page 27
