Plain Dealing (The Ryder Quartet Book 3)

by Ian Patrick

  Plain Dealing

  Ian Patrick

  Text copyright © 2015 Ian Patrick

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction and except in the case of historical fact any resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental

  Cover designed by RGS

  DEDICATION

  To my family, for incredible love and support

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Preface

  Chapter One: Sunday

  Chapter Two: Monday

  Chapter Three: Tuesday

  Chapter Four: Wednesday

  Chapter Five: Thursday

  Chapter Six: Friday

  Chapter Seven: Saturday

  Chapter Eight: Sunday

  Glossary

  About the author

  PREFACE

  This is the third in a series of four stand-alone books. Each can be read as an independent self-contained volume. Or they can be read in sequence or out of sequence as four related episodes in which the central themes and major characters reappear in other episodes, the intention being to provide an overall organic and cohesive narrative for the quartet.

  The four individual volumes explore moral and ethical choices made by police in their day-to-day confrontation with rampant and brutal crime in contemporary South Africa. The texts are fictional but based on field research and the author’s physical exploration of actual locations where different events take place. Interviews were conducted with detectives and forensics experts both currently active and retired, and with local observers and participants, including victims of crime. The action aims for authenticity and plausibility, and strives to be resonant of conditions on the ground. The research included detective-guided tours of front-line scenes in the war against crime, and of police facilities, protocols and procedures. Actual events are reflected alongside fictive events, although all characters are fictional.

  In the thoroughly absorbing task of writing these volumes over a few years, I owe an inestimable debt to many people. Some of them prefer to remain anonymous. Others have graciously allowed me to name them. To all of them I offer enormous thanks and gratitude.

  First and foremost in the ranks of people to whom I am grateful are my family. As much as I value reading, and however indebted I am to the craftspeople of literature throughout history who have instilled in me a love of words, I cannot find language that will sufficiently express my gratitude to my wife and my two sons. They have tolerated with patience my frequent retreats into the silent joys of research and creative writing.

  The detective who took me into KwaMashu in April 2015 to study some of his work on the front line, as he described it, had no idea that he would be taking me into the teeth of a dramatic xenophobic storm on that particular day. He allowed me to sit with him while we watched drug-dealers at work. He explained in meticulous detail exactly what was going down before my eyes, and how the team of children (for that’s what they were) played their individual roles in a sophisticated series of drug trades. We watched as the various role-players passed money and contraband on the street, as cars and motorcycles and pedestrians slipped past the youthful traders and quick sleight-of-hand saw packages and money being exchanged, unnoticed by most of the people passing in the road.

  After taking me to different locations to watch the kinds of crime that permeate society on many street-corners, the detective returned me to base. On the way we ran into a horde of people caught in the throes of massive action and protest. Violent action hit the streets and the country reeled in shock at media headlines in the following week about xenophobic violence. The detective ensured that I was returned safely home in Durban, and I wrote that night into the early hours of the morning, trying to capture the flavour of what I had seen that day. I begged my detective to allow me to identify him and thank him for his work, but he declined. Nevertheless, although he felt more comfortable remaining anonymous in this prefatory statement, he kindly allowed me to re-name after him one of my characters who appears in the second of my four volumes. I am pleased to pay homage to this extraordinarily helpful detective in this way. I thank him for his time, dedication, interest, and unwavering commitment in the mammoth task of South African police work.

  I am indebted to many people for their willingness to correct my misconceptions, and to enable me to adjust some of the nuances in my writing in the interest of ensuring more authentic depiction of the day-to-day work of the police. Any remaining mistakes are entirely mine.

  I am grateful to Gerrit Smit for very helpful detailed conversations about police procedure and protocol. This ranged from day-to-day interactions among police both in the field and in the station office, to procedures and protocols and actions and behaviour at crime scenes. In particular he gave me wonderfully detailed descriptions about the work of police divers (who feature briefly in this particular volume).

  My thanks go also to Captain Saigal Singh. The enormous wealth of his experience as both a detective and a forensics specialist were particularly exciting for me, having studied various courses on forensics and crime scene management. Having him hold up a mirror of extraordinary reality to what I had until then only studied academically, was most helpful.

  Penny Katz was helpful beyond any call of duty. Apart from referring me to front-line detectives she gave me insights into aspects of crime and policing that have proved enriching beyond what I had imagined possible. To interview victims of crime, and to go some small way toward understanding the pain and loss and trauma involved, has greatly affected my approach to research and writing. My personal experience of family trauma as a result of crime plays only a background role in my writing, but Penny allowed me insight into facets of this experience that I greatly value.

  Some potential interviewees chose to decline my requests for interviews, and of course I entirely respect their choices in this regard. In one or two other cases, after initial readiness to participate the contact went cold and emails and phone-calls were simply ignored. I suspect that this was not unrelated to me mentioning that I would also be covering police corruption in my work. But even in those cases willing and helpful comments were received from people working in the very same offices as those who ignored my calls and emails.

  I extend grateful thanks, therefore, to many people, from police Brigadiers to Detectives and Constables both retired and currently active, from victims of crime to forensic investigators, and from family and friends to colleagues. Many don’t know exactly how helpful they have been to me even in brief communications or by referring me to other sources. Hennie Heymans, a retired policeman in Pretoria, has done extraordinary work in preserving the historical record on policing in South Africa, and he answered my questions promptly with extensive knowledge of the past.

  For any shallowness, superficiality or mistakes that might remain in my text, I apologise to these sources. I can only offer the excuse that the act of writing transports me into realms of satisfaction where not a day goes by during which I do not marvel at my good fortune in being able to create characters both evil and understandable. I live each day with them, exploring their thoughts and actions, enjoying their deviousness, their energy, their joyfulness, and the excitement of their lives.

  I derive great pleasure from coaxing my characters out of the shadows and refining and polishing them in an attempt to reflect authenticity and plausibility. Some of them move me emotionally, and some of them are devilishly evasive and lying villains. But they all fascinate me and I still carry them in my head. I want to know what makes them tick, and I want to know their counterparts in real life. I have gone out into the field to find my fictitious characters because I i
nsist on plausibility and authenticity in fiction. Otherwise how will we learn about our lives?

  Ian Patrick, August 2015

  1: SUNDAY

  00.25.

  The four men smashed their way through the undergrowth. They headed toward the surf, still at least four hundred metres away. Occasional flashes of moonlight out on the water guided them as they stumbled in panic through the blackness. The whipping sound of 9mm bullets spitting into the trees and foliage on either side of them prompted rapid changes of direction as they zig-zagged their way through the bush.

  Screams and shouts from the five pursuing cops forty metres behind them mingled with the crackle of radio. Orders were called out from the detective still sitting in one of the two police cars back on the road. In the distance, five hundred metres southwest of where he waited, he saw reflections of flashing blue lights in the treetops as a third police vehicle skidded to a halt halfway up the hill. He barked radio instructions to the new arrivals. In response their doors sprang open and two more cops joined the charge through the bush and down toward the beach, creating a second line of pursuit from the south.

  The pincer was in place. The detective mused: impondo zenkomo. The horns of the bull. Shaka would have approved.

  Meanwhile the fugitives had burst through the final line of foliage onto the beach. Clear white sand gleamed silver in the moonlight. It was only then that they realised their error. At least the bush had provided some cover. Now there was nothing but the open beach between them and the surf. Instinctively, without pausing, they turned right rather than continue the hopeless sprint for the water. Maybe they could run forty or fifty paces southward along the edge of the bush before doubling back into a thicket further down.

  Too late. They travelled only twenty paces, slowed down by the softer sand of the beach, before they saw the flashlights of the two constables from the third car, who had made it down the hill and were already approaching the beach from the southern end. Having had less of the thick bush to tunnel through, these two policewomen hit the shoreline even before the main group of pursuing cops.

  The four fugitives switched direction again, sharp left this time. The water was now all that was left as a possible escape route.

  They ran past an outcrop of anthracite rocks protruding onto the shore from the surf. One of them glanced momentarily toward the outcrop as he saw movement from what he thought must have been a startled seal, its wet black body glimmering in the moonlight as it slipped behind a rock.

  As the men reached the water the first lot of policemen burst through the bush and hit the beach from the north, joining with their two colleagues in closing down the options for the escapees. The four fugitives considered doubling back to the rocks, which provided the only visible cover. But the two policewomen from the south were approaching too rapidly. The men switched back toward the open water. It was a lost cause. They were fully exposed in the surf with a bright clear moon overhead.

  All seven cops slowed to a walk as they joined up and approached the water’s edge to watch the fugitives wading, as if through quicksand, through the surf that was now halfway up their thighs. The breathless pants and wheezes of the police now gave way to jeers and jokes as they watched the four men wading out hopelessly in the direction of Australia.

  The cops lined up on the edge of the water, laughing and cat-calling as they waited for the four men to accept the futility of their efforts. They did. All four of them turned, wearily, in despair, and raised their hands above their heads. Two of them still held their weapons, pointed upward at the sky.

  The detective leading the first group of cops was a giant of a man with a deep resonant voice that echoed over the silent scene. He pointed his Vektor SP1 at them as he called out, his words intended for the two men who weren’t holding their weapons above them.

  ‘Take out your weapons and hold them above your head. Now! I won’t be asking you a second time!’

  The two men looked at their companions already holding their pistols overhead, one of whom snapped out an order.

  ‘Yebo. OK! Make like he says. Quick, wena! I know this cop. I seen him once before. Don’t mess with him!’

  His two companions slowly, painfully, drew their weapons, one from his belt and the other from a holster strapped under his arm. Slowly, carefully, they too raised their pistols above their heads. The cops sniggered and joked as they did so. The four men knew the game was up. They thought only of the lengthy prison terms ahead.

  The detective watched them carefully. They were still fifteen to twenty metres out in the water, and starting to wade in, slowly and dejectedly, weapons above their heads, as the detective spoke quietly and with intimidating authority to his colleagues, four men and two women.

  ‘OK people. Tell me, now. Who wants to spend a couple of hours filling in forms? Spend a few hours in court? Hear later that someone paid a bribe and bought the dockets for these men? Or watch some clever lawyer get them off so that they can do the same stuff all over again? How many of you want to do that? Tell me.’

  There was a chorus of chuckles and laughter from his colleagues and a refrain of ‘tchai, not me, Captain,’ ‘hayibo! Captain,’ ‘hayi, boss, not me.’

  ‘S’what I thought, guys. So, OK. Each and every one of you is a part of this. OK?’

  The cops reacted as one and readied their weapons. The detective called out to the four men, now only ten metres in from the water’s edge.

  ‘OK stop there!’

  The men stopped.

  ‘Now I don’t want to take any chances with you guys, so lissen to me very carefully! I want you four men to empty your pistols. Hold it! Don’t move!’

  He barked out at the first man who had immediately started lowering his pistol with the intention of ejecting the magazine. In response to the detective’s angry shout, the man froze.

  ‘I don’t want you fiddling with any magazine. Keep your hands above your heads! Pistol in one hand only! Pointed up! Up! I want each one of you to point your gun at the moon, and I want you to fire off every round remaining in your weapons!’

  The four men exchanged shocked looks but were brought back instantly into focus by the detective’s voice.

  ‘I don’t want any of you putting a foot on this beach with a single bullet still sitting there in your gun. Now! Go on! Fire your pistols. At the moon! If you lower your gun while you still have a single round left, you’re a dead man. Go on. Now. Shoot!’

  There was a moment of stunned silence and then the first man obeyed. He pointed directly above his head and fired once. Twice. Then, rapidly in succession, another and another and another until he had fired off nine rounds altogether and then the weapon clicked. Nothing left. His startled companions stared at him, bewildered. The detective continued, as his fellow cops sniggered.

  ‘Good man! Nine rounds. Good. Hope you didn’t hit the man in the moon, hey? You can go to the tronk for that, you know? Now the rest of you. Go on! Go on, I’m telling you! Fire now! At the moon.’

  The three men followed their companion’s lead and fired off all the rounds in their weapons. One of them fired off six then click. Each of his two companions fired off eight rounds then click. When the last round had been fired and the last click heard, they slowly lowered their weapons, arms exhausted from the effort. There was a moment of silence.

  Then the detective spoke again to his colleagues, dropping the volume slightly.

  ‘Did you see these men, people? I give them a simple order to put up their weapons, and what do they do? They fire at us. They fire thirty rounds at us! I think, in fact, that I counted exactly thirty. No. Thirty-one. Yes, thirty-one bullets. If any one of the six of you has not yet had a chance to prove yourself a good cop and put down a really evil skollie rapist and murderer, this is your chance. Self-defence, my people. I want ballistics to prove that a bullet from each and every one of your guns went into at least one of these evil murdering tsotsis.’

  There was a moment of sheer terror for
the lead fugitive as he realised what was happening, and before he could dive under the water.

  The seven cops, lined up on the edge of the beach, fired at will.

  00.40.

  The detective back up on the road first took the call from his detective colleague on the beach. Then he called in to a sleepy respondent at Durban North Station Command. He finally got some sense out of the man on the end of the line.

  ‘Yes. OK. Again, then. I’ve got all night, haven’t I? Shootout on the beach at Umdloti. Yes. Shootout. Which part of that fucken word do you not understand? Four down. Dead. Yes. No. No. No. Yes. No, no cops down. I’ve already said that. Are you listening? Yes. We need big-time help on the scene here. Get this over to Crime Scene Management. What? The four guys died in the surf. In the water. For Chrissake! In the water. They were trying to escape in the sea. Yes. No. Yes. God preserve me, no, they were in the sea and they turned and fired on the police, who shot them in self-defence. Yes. Tell them what you need to tell them, but we want forensics, photographers, video, lights, everything. They’ll probably need the Waterwing guys in here a little later when it gets light. Get the guys to turn right toward Selection Beach. No, Selection Beach. Yes. Then go down South Beach Road. To the end. Yes. Two of us, along with six uniforms. I’ll be here, with the cars. Detective Mashego is down on the beach at the scene. Captain Mashego. Captain Nights Mashego. Yes. I’m back here with the cars. Two cars with me. Third car further up the hill on the other side because they came in around the back road opposite the Sibaya Casino to head them off, but the bastards hit the bush for the beach instead. Yes, and what about sending something for breakfast? It’s going to be a long morning. Yes. Thanks. OK.’

  The detective shook his head in despair. He sat and contemplated. Then he called his wife, to tell her he probably wouldn’t be in time for the big family lunch she had planned with her parents.