Devil's Peak: A Novel

by Deon Meyer

  He came to sit on the chair closest to her and the two Witness Protection detectives hung around in the doorway.

  “Let’s not make her nervous, chaps,” said Beukes.

  Reluctantly, they retreated down the passage. She heard the back door open and close.

  “Where is the money?” he asked when the house was quiet.

  “What money?” Her pulse beat in her throat.

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Where is your daughter?”

  “Ask Carlos.”

  “Carlos is dead, you slut. And he never had your daughter. You know it and I know it.”

  “How can you say that?” She began to weep.

  “Save the fucking tears. They won’t work on me. You should just be fucking grateful I was following him yesterday morning. If it had been one of the others . . .”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about . . .”

  “Let me tell you what I’m talking about. The team that was on duty day before yesterday said you went to his house in his BMW. And in the middle of the fucking night you take a taxi from the front of his house and you have all these Pick and Pay bags and you’re in a helluva hurry. What was in the bags?”

  “I cooked dinner for him.”

  “And took everything home again?”

  “Just what I didn’t use.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I swear.” She wept and the tears were genuine, because the fear was back.

  “What I don’t know is where you went with the fucking taxi. Because my fucking so-called colleagues didn’t think to send someone after you. Because their job was to watch him. That’s what you get when you work with the policeman of today. Fucking black rubbish. But yesterday was another story, because I was in the saddle, my dear. And Carlos drove out of there as if the devil was on his tail, straight to your little flat. Ten minutes later he comes out with this big red mark on his face, but there’s no child anywhere. But the next minute the whole fucking radio is full of Sangrenegra and before I could do anything the Task Force was there and SVC and who knows what. But one thing I do know: your child was not with him. Not the night before last, and not yesterday morning. Of all the money in that strong room of his, there is a shithouse full of rands missing. Only rands. Now why, I ask myself, why of all the dollars and euros and pounds would someone only take South African rands? I guess it was an amateur. Someone who doesn’t want to bother with foreign exchange. Someone who had time to think about what she wanted to steal. What she could use. That she could carry in Pick and Pay shopping bags.”

  She realized something and without further thought she asked: “How do you know there are rands missing?”

  “Fuck you, whore. I’m telling you now; this thing is not over yet. Not for you, anyway.”

  Griessel’s cell phone rang. He answered and told Thobela: “They say we must drive slower.”

  He reduced speed. The Nissan rattled on the dirt road. Behind them the Pajero’s headlights shone dim through the cloud of dust. The lights of Witsand twinkled on the Breede River off to the left.

  “He says we must turn left at the road sign.”

  He slowed even more, spotted the sign that said Kabeljoubank. He put on his indicator and turned. The road narrowed between two boundary fences. It ran down to the river. In the rear-view mirror he saw the Pajero was behind them.

  “Are you calm?” Thobela asked the detective.

  “Yes.”

  He felt the fizz inside him, now that they were close.

  In the headlights he saw three, four boats on trailers. And two vehicles. A minibus and a pickup. Figures moving. He stopped a hundred meters away from the vehicles. He turned the key and the Nissan’s engine fell silent. He deliberately kept the lights on.

  “Get out and hide that pistol of yours,” he said, and picked up the assegai, pushed it down behind his neck, under his shirt. There was barely enough room in the car, the angle was too tight. He heard the blade tear the material of his shirt, felt the chill of the blade against his back. It would have to do. He opened the door and got out. Griessel stood on the other side of the Nissan.

  Four men approached from the minibus — one was tall and broad, considerably bigger than the others. The Pajero pulled up behind them. Thobela stood beside the car, aware of the four in front, the two behind. He heard their footsteps on the gravel, smelt the dust and the river and the fish from the boats, heard the waves in the sea beyond. He felt the stiffness throughout his body, but the weariness was gone, his arteries were full of adrenaline. The world seemed to slow down, as if there were more time for thinking and doing.

  The quartet came right up to him. The big one looked him up and down.

  “You are the spearman,” he said as if he recognized him. He was as tall as Thobela, with long straight black hair down to his massive shoulders. He wasn’t carrying a firearm. The others had machine pistols.

  “Where is my daughter?” asked Griessel.

  “I am the spearman,” said Thobela. He wanted to keep the attention; he didn’t know how stable Griessel was.

  “My name is César Sangrenegra. You killed my brother.”

  “Yes. I killed your brother. You can have me. Let the girl and the policeman go.”

  “No. We will have justicia.”

  “No, you can —”

  “Shut the fuck up, black man.” Spit sprayed from César’s lips, the drops making shiny arcs in the light from the Nissan. “Justicia. You know what it means? He made the trap for Carlos, this policeman. Now I have to go back to my father and say I didn’t kill him? That will not happen. I want you to know, policeman, before you die. I want you to know we fucked your daughter. We fucked her good. She is young. It was a sweet fuck. And after you are dead, we will fuck her again. And again. We will fuck her so long as she can be alive. You hear me?”

  “I will kill you,” said Griessel, and Thobela could hear his breaking point was close.

  He laughed at Griessel, shaking his head. “You can do nothing. We have your kid. And we will find the white whore too. The one who tells lies about Carlos. The one who steals our money.”

  “You are a coward,” Thobela said to César Sangrenegra. “You are not a man.”

  César laughed in his face. “You want me to attack you? You want me to lose my temper?”

  “I want you to lose your life.”

  “You think I did not see the spear you put behind your back? You think I am stupid, like my brother?” He turned around, to one of his henchmen. “De¨me el cuchillo.”

  The man drew a knife from a long sheath on his hip. César took it from him.

  “I will kill you slowly,” he said to Thobela. “Now take out that spear.”

  46.

  When Superintendent Boef Beukes had gone, she went to the bedroom where her things were.

  She opened her handbag, took out her identity document and put it on the bed. She took out her purse, cigarettes and a lighter. She clipped the bag shut and lifted up her dress. She pushed the ID book and the purse down the front of her panties. She carried the cigarettes in her hand.

  She walked to the front of the house and said: “I’m going outside for a smoke.”

  “At the back,” gestured the one with the mustache. “We don’t want you to go out the front.”

  She nodded, went through the kitchen and out the back door. She closed it behind her.

  There were fruit trees in the backyard. The grass was long. A concrete wall surrounded the property. She walked straight to the wall. She put her cigarettes on the ground and looked up at the wall. She drew a deep breath and jumped. Her hands gripped the top of the wall. She pulled herself up, swung one leg over. The top of the wall felt sharp against her knee.

  She dragged her whole body up onto the wall. Beyond was another garden. Vegetables in tidy rows. She jumped, landing in the mud of a wet vegetable bed. She got up. One of her sandals stayed behind in the mud.
She pulled it out and put it on again. She walked around the house to the front.

  She heard the animal’s paws on the cement path before it appeared around the corner. A big brown dog. The animal barked deeply and feinted back a little, as much in fright as she was. She kept her hands protectively in front of her. The dog stood square, growling, exposing big sharp teeth.

  “Hello, doggy, hello,” she said.

  They stood facing each other, the dog blocking her way around the house.

  Don’t look scared, she knew, she remembered that from somewhere. She let her hands drop and stood up straight.

  “Okay, doggy.” She tried to keep her tone caressing, while her heartbeat rocked her.

  The animal growled again.

  “Easy, boy, good dog.”

  The dog shook his head and sneezed.

  “I just want to come past, doggy, just want to come past.”

  The hairs on the dog’s neck dropped. The teeth disappeared. The tail gave one uncertain wag.

  She took one step forward. The dog came closer, but didn’t growl. She put out her hand to his head.

  The tail wagged more vigorously. He pressed his head against her hand. The dog sneezed again.

  She began to walk slowly, the dog following. She could see the front garden gate. She walked faster.

  “Hey,” came a voice from the front verandah.

  An old man stood there. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I’m just walking through,” she said, one hand on the gate. “I’m just passing through.”

  He reached for the assegai behind his neck and César Sangrenegra’s movement was subtle and rapid and the long knife cut through Thobela’s shirt and across his ribs, a sharp, red-hot pain. He felt the blood run down his belly.

  He took a step back and saw the grin on the Colombian’s face. He held the assegai in his right hand and bent his knees for better balance. He moved to the right, watching César’s eyes; never watch the blade, there are no warnings there. César stabbed. Thobela jumped back and the knife flashed past in front. He stabbed with the assegai. César was no longer there. The knife came again. He jerked back his arm, the blade sliced over his forearm. Another step back. The man was fast. Light on his feet, ten kilograms lighter than he was. Moved again, this time to the left, César feinted right, moved left. Thobela dodged, up against the front of the Nissan, he must not be trapped against the car, three, four short steps to the right, the knife flashed so fast, it missed him by millimeters.

  Thobela knew he was in trouble; the big man with the long hair was skilled. Faster than him. Lighter, younger. And he had another great advantage — he could kill, Thobela could not. Carla Griessel’s life depended on him not killing César.

  He must use the length of the assegai. He adjusted his grip, held it by the end of the shaft and swung it with a whooshing noise through the night, back and forth, back and forth. He felt the wound in his arm; saw an arc of blood spray as he swung. César moved back, but calmly. The henchman widened the circle. One made a remark in Spanish and the other four laughed.

  The opponents looked into each other’s eyes. The Colombian darted forward, the knife flashed, then he was back.

  The man was toying with him. César was aware of his superior speed. Thobela would have to neutralize that. He would have to use his power, his weight, but against a knife that was impossible.

  The Colombian’s eyes betrayed his attack. Thobela pretended to move back, but came forward, he must keep the knife away, forward again, within the sweep of the knife arm, stabbed with the assegai. César grabbed at it, grasping the blade in his left hand and unexpectedly jerked it towards him, Thobela lost his balance. Saw the blood on César’s hand where the assegai had cut deeply, here came the knife, jerked his own left hand up to block it, got hold of Cesar’s arm, forced it back. César adjusted his grip on the assegai, getting his hand on the shaft.

  They stood locked in that grip. The knife bowed down, the point entered Thobela’s biceps, deep. The pain was intense. He would have to move his grip close to the wrist. Would have to do it swiftly and efficiently. He shifted suddenly; the knife cutting through his biceps saved him, because it kept the hand static for a split second. He knew the injury was serious. He had César’s wrist, all his strength behind it. His forearm shrieked. Brought up his knees, kicked César as hard as he could in the belly. Saw in his eyes it was a good contact.

  Would have to finish now, in this moment of slight advantage. Pushed the knife hand back. His left arm would not last; the muscle was deeply cut. Shifted his point of balance, jerked the assegai free from the grasp, let it drop in the dust. Both hands on the knife-arm, bent it behind César’s back. Lord, he was strong. Straining, he kicked him at the back of the knee and César began to fall; he twisted the arm the last centimeters and César made a sound. The henchmen called out. Swinging weapons from their shoulders, they moved too late. He twisted the arm until something popped and the knife came free from the fingers.

  His right hand pressed César’s arm against his back, the left hand had the knife, arm around the throat, pressing the point into the hollow of the neck. Deep. César screamed and jerked and struggled. Strong. Would have to neutralize that. Turned the arm another bit, until ligaments tore. César’s knees buckled. He kept the man upright, as a shield in front of him.

  He pressed the point of the knife deeper into the neck. Felt the blood run over his hand. He felt his own pain shrill in his arm. He didn’t know how much blood he was losing. His entire left side was soaking, warm.

  “You are very close to death,” he said softly into César’s ear. The henchmen had carbines and machine pistols aimed at them.

  The Colombian was frozen against him.

  “If I move the knife, I will cut an artery,” he said. “Do you hear me?”

  A noise.

  “Your men have to put down their weapons.”

  No reaction. Was it going to work? He thought he understood the hierarchy of the drug industry. The autocracy.

  “I will count to three. Then I cut.” He tightened the muscles of his arm as if in readiness but it didn’t work so well. He knew there were sinews cut.

  “One.”

  César jerked again, but the arm was bent too far back, the pain must be dreadful.

  “Two.”

  “Coloque sus armas.” Practically inaudible.

  “Louder.”

  “Coloque sus armas.”

  The henchmen did nothing, just stood there. Thobela began to move the knife point slowly, deeper into the throat.

  “¡Ahora!”

  The first one moved slowly, putting his weapon carefully down on the ground. Another one.

  “No,” said one of the Pajero men, the one with the shaven head.

  He stood beside Griessel, the Heckler & Koch against the detective’s temple. “I will shoot this one,” said Shaven Head.

  “Shoot,” said Thobela.

  “Let César go.”

  “No.”

  “Then I shoot this one.”

  “Do I care? He is a policeman. I am a murderer.” He turned the knife in César’s throat.

  “¡Ahora!” The cry was hoarse and high and desperate and he knew the blade had scraped against something.

  Shaven Head looked at César, back at Griessel and spat out a word. He threw the carbine in the dust.

  “Now,” said Thobela in Afrikaans. “Now you must get your daughter.”

  At a stop sign in Eleventh Avenue she knocked on the window of a woman’s Audi and said: “Please, ma’am, I need your help.”

  The woman looked her up and down, saw the mud on her legs and drove off.

  “Fuck you!” Christine yelled after her.

  She walked in the direction of Frans Conradie Avenue, looking back often. By now they must know she was gone. They must be looking for her.

  At the traffic lights she looked left and right. There were shops across the street. If she could just get there. Unseen. She ran.
A car braked and hooted at her. She kept on running. Oncoming traffic. She stood on the traffic island waiting. Then it was clear. Jogged across. The sandals were not made for this sort of thing.

  Turned left, up the hill. Not far now. She was going to make it. She must phone Vanessa. No taxis. They would follow those up; know where she was dropped off. Vanessa would have to fetch her. Vanessa and Sonia. Take them to a station. Catch a train, anywhere. Get away. She could buy a car, in Beaufort West or George or wherever. She must just get away. Disappear.

  Griessel crossed in front of him where he held César in an embrace. The policeman walked slowly, with empty hands. Thobela wondered where the pistol was. Wondered what the expression in the white man’s eyes meant.

  Griessel walked to the minibus.

  He opened it. Thobela saw movement inside. He heard Griessel speak. Lean inwards. Saw two arms encircle Griessel’s neck.

  He looked at the henchmen. They stood still. Uneasy. Ready, their eyes on César.

  He made sure of his grip on the Colombian. He didn’t know whose blood was running over him. Looked back at the minibus. Griessel stood half in the minibus, his daughter’s arms around him. He thought he heard the detective’s voice.

  “Griessel,” he said, because he didn’t know how long he could hold out.

  A henchman shuffled his feet.

  “You must be quiet. I will cut this man’s throat.”

  The man looked at him with an unreadable expression.

  “Shoot them,” said César, but the words came out with blood, unclear.

  “Shut up, or I will kill you.”

  “Shoot them.” More audible.

  The henchmen inched closer. Shaven Head stepped towards his firearm.

  “I will kill César now.” The pain in his upper arm reached new heights. There was a buzzing in his head. Where was the policeman? He looked quickly. Griessel stood there, with the Z88, and his daughter, hand in hand.

  They all looked at Griessel. He shuffled up to the first henchman.

  “Did he?” he asked his daughter.

  She nodded. Griessel raised the pistol and fired. The man flew over backwards.