by Ian Patrick
‘You see, Navi?’ said Ryder. ‘Didn’t I tell you that Nadine was a strategic thinker? Not only does she enjoy T.S. Eliot. She also likes to think with a clear head. Which means coffee. Well, maybe tea and toast for her, but definately coffee and real food for me. Choose the restaurant, Nadine. I’ll pick up the tab.’
‘You see, Pauline?’ said Nadine. ‘Didn’t I tell you that Detective Ryder is not only an officer but a gentleman, too? And also a poet.’
10.45.
When Detective Mashego saw the forensics team wrapping up on the beach, he and the six uniforms turned away and walked up the beach and onto the road. They gathered around one of the police cars for a final discussion. There was a general sense of optimism from all of them except Mashego, who had been a little unnerved by his discussion with the forensics woman on the beach. She seemed sharper than others he had dealt with.
The second detective, who had remained with the cars during the chase to the beach, had left some time ago. He had left the car for Mashego to use, and had taken a lift with one of the other cars that came in during the course of the morning to help with the police cordon. He and Mashego had arranged to get together for a discussion the next day. Before IPID started their work.
There would be a lot of paperwork on this case. It would start first thing tomorrow for each and every one of them, Mashego said to the uniforms. They needed to be in contact. And they needed to remember, he told them, that a woman had been brutally raped and murdered and disemboweled in the bush up there, and that four bad guys, the guys who did that, had been taken out. So congratulations were in order.
They parted, each of them thinking that Monday was now just around the corner.
11.10.
Ryder and Pillay had been very persuasive. They persuaded the classy Mundo Vida restaurant just down the road not only to let them start an ultra-early lunch with olives and breads and ice-cold drinks, but also to allow Sugar-Bear to join them on the deck. With a one hundred and eighty degree view of the sea, and superb cuisine, the envisaged brunch was going to turn into a much more sumptuous and much more expensive lunch. Ryder wondered how he was going to explain it all to Fiona. But the restaurant’s response to Sugar-Bear was so engagingly warm that it put him in a generous mood. Sugar-Bear’s charms were considerable, and he had already solicited his own bowl of water and a separate bowl with nibbles.
Nadine and Pauline took the two detectives through their thinking about what they had learned during the last few hours. Not about what they thought might have happened: Ryder knew that Nadine never ventured into that terrain until she had studied the evidence and turned it inside-out. But she would certainly pose some interesting questions.
‘So we have seven cops lined up,’ said Nadine. ‘Shoulder to shoulder, by their own admission, on the beach. We have four guys standing in the water about ten metres from them. No. Sorry. Not about ten metres. Exactly ten metres. Each one of the seven cops says the perps were ten metres from them. Each and every one of them says that. Interesting, not so?’
‘Rehearsed?’
‘Who knows, Navi? Anyway, what Pauline and I were asking ourselves was this. How do these four bad guys fire off thirty rounds...’
‘Thirty-one,’ said Pauline.
‘Yes, sorry. That’s right. Not thirty. Mashego was at pains to tell us that the four baddies fired off exactly thirty-one slugs.’
‘So while these guys are shooting at them, Mashego is counting the rounds?’ said Pillay.
‘Interesting, isn’t it Navi? So there they stand shoulder to shoulder and the baddies are firing away at them, and as they do so, Mashego is counting their bullets. And Pauline and I are wondering how it is that not one of these thirty-one bullets finds its target. Not one cop is hit with a slug. From ten metres away.’
‘I see where you’re going, Nadine,’ said Ryder.
‘So I asked Mashego about when his guys started returning fire.’
‘And?’ said Ryder.
‘And he replied quite strangely, I thought. He said that they had been surprised by the perps suddenly firing on them when they had to all intents and purposes surrendered. So, he told me, after just a second or two of surprise the cops began firing back.’
‘Detective Mashego seemed really interested in getting across to Nadine the message that the perps fired first and only then did the cops return the fire,’ said Pauline.
‘That’s right. He really pushed that point, didn’t he, Pauline? Anyway, I then asked him if any of the perps had been struck by bullets while they were firing at the cops, and that was the question that really flummoxed him.’
‘How so?’ asked Ryder.
‘Well, Jeremy, I asked him if one or two of the perps went down before the others, or whether they had all been struck by police bullets at more or less the same moment.’
‘Why would that be the case, Nadine? How could they all be… why would you put that to him?’ asked Pillay.
‘I asked because each of the magazines in the four guns carried by the bad guys was empty when they died. Not one of them died with a bullet still left in his weapon.’
There was a moment of surprise as the two detectives took this in. Nadine paused. She and Pauline sipped their cold drinks.
‘I see,’ said Ryder, after a long pause.
‘Uh-oh!’ said Pillay.
‘Interesting, not so?’ said Nadine.
‘Did the detective answer the question, Nadine?’
‘Well Jeremy, he said that things had all happened very quickly and he couldn’t quite remember. But his very next sentence was perhaps the most intriguing.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He asked me whether I wanted to talk to him about the woman that the baddies had killed on Sugar Cane Road. I pointed out that another team from forensics would be looking at her and that my own focus was on lifting evidence from the beach, but he came back a couple of times about the evil these guys had perpetrated on the woman, how bad they were, and that kind of stuff.’
‘In other words,’ Pillay interjected, ‘these were evil guys who deserved to be taken down.’
‘Just so, Navi,’ said Nadine.
The waiter arrived and they broke off the conversation while orders were placed. Two children had arrived with their parents and were being charmed by Sugar-Bear. Ryder placed his order and stared out at the Indian Ocean.
Then Mike Pullen appeared seemingly out of nowhere and before any of them could react he had pulled up a chair from the vacant table next to them.
‘Sorry to intrude, folks, but just a quick question or two before you start your lunch.’
‘Now wait a minute,’ Nadine protested.
Sugar-Bear suddenly got to his feet and started growling at the newcomer.
‘Hold it,’ Ryder said, and at the same time patted the dog, who calmed down just a little and sat back down, but kept his eyes on the journalist as if this was a fox after his sheep. ‘Give me a minute here, Nadine. Mr Pullonit here is persistent, and I want to know what’s driving him.’
‘Thank you, Detective. It’s Pullen. Mike Pullen.’
‘Like I said. Mr Pullonit. All you want. What can I do for you, Mike? Who peed in your porridge this morning? What’s eating away at you?’
‘Just a quick couple of questions, I promise.’
Sugar-Bear growled again.
‘Journalist’s promise?’ said Nadine.
‘You’re the CSI, aren’t you? From the beach. Forensics? Or pathology? Or ballistics?’
Ryder was about to cut him short when Nadine held up her hand.
‘No, Jeremy, let me have a moment, will you? Mr Pullen, maybe you watch a lot of that CSI stuff on TV? Bad training for a journalist. You could end up confusing your pathologists with your mythologists.’
‘Oh? So why is that Miss - er…?’
‘Mizz, to you, Mr Pullen. Because it rots your brain, that CSI stuff on television. Makes you think that evidence grows on trees. Makes you think
that evidence is something lying around all over the place just begging to be found. But evidence is actually a lovely secretive little worm that needs to be coaxed out of dark corners. With the right kind of love and attention, Mr Pullen, evidence might even be something that journalists like you might actually one day become interested in. But there’s no news in evidence, is there, Mr Pullen? So you’re not really interested. Evidence is boring. News is not allowed to be boring. Therefore news shouldn’t have anything to do with evidence.’
‘Really?’ retorted Pullen. ‘Wow! So if you know so much about evidence, then, what can you tell a poor journalist like me about the kind of evidence you’re capable of unearthing?’
‘OK, buddy, you’ve had your...’
‘No, Jeremy, please. I would like to answer Mr Pullen’s question.’ Nadine touched Ryder’s shoulder as she said this, to prevent him rising to his feet, and then continued extremely rapidly. ‘OK, Mr Pullen, let me tell you a little about evidence. Evidence is something that lies a helluva long way from conclusions. In the work I do, that is. With journalism, on the other hand - at least the kind of journalism practised by idiots like you - one might jump straight from a glimpse of evidence to a rapid conclusion. So, for example, if I were a journalist rather than a forensic scientist, I might say that the corner of the condom package that I can see there in your breast pocket is evidence of you hoping to get lucky sometime today.’
Pullen went bright red as his hand moved instinctively to his breast pocket and tucked away the offending corner of the little packet. But Nadine didn’t pause.
‘So because I’m not a journalist but a forensics person, I’d rather like to reserve my judgement and ponder a couple of possible explanations for the evidence of the condom in your pocket. Like, well, maybe you do indeed hope to get lucky. Or maybe, instead, you have a genuine interest in using prophylactics to prevent the spread of more low life journalists in the community. Or maybe it’s evidence of the fact that you’re the kind of guy who carries a few with you so that during the course of the day you can wank off without too much mess when you suddenly get an idea for a story, or while you’re typing up the stuff that really gets you excited. Which is why Detective Ryder here, being an excellent detective who shares my views about evidence and about precision in these matters, hasn’t mispronounced your name at all.’
‘Very funny. I suppose...’
‘I haven’t finished the lesson on evidence, Mr Pullonit. The other bit of evidence I see is the coffee stains on your teeth and the bit of egg in your beard from this morning’s breakfast. Or maybe it was from last night’s omelette, eaten all alone at home in your dingy little apartment while typing up the stuff that gives you a hard-on. Now a journalist might conclude that these are pieces of evidence indicating a personal hygiene problem, and stop there and write a gossip column. A forensic scientist, on the other hand, like my companion, here, wouldn’t stop at such a shallow observation, would you Pauline?’
‘Certainly not, Nadine. A forensic scientist would link those two pieces of evidence to the other evidence already obtained and build up a picture where all of the evidence plays some part. A picture, something like, perhaps, a man with low self-esteem who carries condoms for various reasons such as you’ve described, a man who seldom gets laid because of his personal hygiene problems, a man who consequently becomes an even more bitter person and alienates even more people and becomes even more of a very large and obnoxious prick than he already is.’
‘You go, girl!’ said Pillay.
And Pauline obliged by carrying on.
‘In fact, Nadine, if you don’t mind me adding another observation, the teeth and the egg in the beard resonate with me in relation to Mr Pullen’s socks, which don’t quite match, along with the dirt under his fingernails.’
‘Oh, Pauline, you’re so observant. Yes, I had noticed that too,’ said Nadine. ‘And what do those tell you?’
‘Well, I’ll reserve my judgement, because I’m not a journalist so I won’t leap to conclusions. But as a forensic scientist I’d say that that probably speaks to a problem with relationships more generally. Maybe - and I posit this merely as something that we need to test against other evidence - maybe it speaks to the absence of a loving partner who might advise on dress, on cleanliness, and on general appearance.’
‘And general social demeanour, perhaps,’ added Nadine.
‘And the absence of a partner speaks to a deep loneliness and bouts of depression, perhaps, Nadine? All to be tested against the evidence, of course.’
‘Of course, Pauline. No jumping to conclusions. We aren’t journalists, after all.’
There was a long pause, with all eyes on Pullen. Sugar-Bear growled.
Pullen smirked, made to say something, but thought better of it. Then he pushed back his chair and left the table, not without a little stumble. Sugar-Bear barked as he did so. Ryder patted the dog and he sat down again, eyes still on the departing Pullen, growling quietly.
As he strode away Nadine called after him.
‘Your shirt’s hanging out at the back, Mr Pullonit. Another bit of evidence...’
‘And your fly is down,’ Pillay called after him.
Which it wasn’t. But Pullen looked down at it anyway. Then he was gone, amid stares from the other patrons.
The four of them looked at one another, blankly. Then chuckled quietly together.
‘Jeez,’ said Pillay, addressing herself to Nadine and Pauline, ‘I hope I never ever get into an argument with you two.’
‘Did you notice the other bit of evidence, guys?’ asked Ryder.
‘What was that, Jeremy?’ asked Nadine.
‘Sugar-Bear.’
‘Oh, yes. Definitely,’ said Pauline. ‘What a great dog you have, Jeremy.’
‘My children make a useful observation about Sugar-Bear. I don’t know whether the two of you would consider this as reliable evidence or not, but it’s become a rule of thumb in our house. According to my sons if someone is lank suspicious then Sugar-Bear growls at them. If someone is lank cool then Sugar-Bear is cool with them. I think Sugar-Bear has pronounced his judgement on Mr Pullen.’
‘Definitely hard, reliable evidence, that is,’ said Nadine.
‘No question,’ said Pauline.
As if he, too, was fully engaged in this conversation, Sugar-Bear went over to Nadine and nuzzled her. After receiving a reward pat and cuddle from her, he then did the same to Pauline, with the same response. Then he curled up on the floor at Navi’s feet, with one ear down in relaxation and the other ear up in case he might be required for any impending action.
They all chortled together, savouring the moment. Then the waiter arrived to take the orders for food.
2: MONDAY
04.59.
Ryder did his normal weekday thing. He opened his eyes a minute before the alarm and hit the switch before the timer clicked through for the sound. Silence. The house was still.
He turned to look at Fiona, who was making the gentlest of noises in what he would later describe to her teasingly as a snore. She would be shocked and would want assurance that she hadn’t in fact been snoring, that she never snored, and that he was just teasing. He would make her suffer for a few seconds and then eventually give in and confess that she was right. No snoring. Just a sweet gentle whistle, he would say, like a bird. A bird with laryngitis, perhaps, but a bird all the same. Maybe a vulture, he would add.
He followed the routine, and when he emerged from the bathroom, pink and steaming and washed and shaved and hair neatly brushed back, she was downstairs doing the coffee.
He made the bed and got dressed. When he joined her in the kitchen he knew immediately that there was something radically wrong.
‘What?’
‘You’re on the front page of the Mercury.’
‘Whaaaat?’
‘Terrible photo. Looks like you’re trying to avoid the camera, hand across your face and all. You look as guilty as sin. Apparently you’re
the prime suspect in a homicide on the beach at Umdloti on Saturday night.’
Ryder was astounded. He grabbed the paper and scanned, rapidly. He was furious.
‘These guys...These damn....’
He was speechless with rage, as he took it all in. Allegations about another police hit squad. Detective Jeremy Ryder heads up a Durban North police squad who, it is alleged, executed four criminals on the beach at Umdloti at midnight on Saturday night. Witnesses allege that all the men had their hands up in the air at the time. It is alleged that more than forty bullets were pumped into them by Ryder and his team. Ryder has a reputation as a brutal and physical no-nonsense cop, who is alleged to have a number of kills and serious assaults to his name, all allegedly committed in self-defence…
Ryder couldn’t help thinking that his thoughts yesterday about the word apparently were absolutely spot on in relation to that other remarkable word alleged.
Fiona put her arms around him from behind and whispered into his ear.
‘Don’t worry. They say you’re based at Durban North. Wrong. They say you’re not able to provide an alibi for Saturday night. Wrong. They say you led the team who conducted the Umdloti action on Saturday night. Wrong. This journalist will have poo all over his face by the end of today when Nyawula tells them that you were the life and soul of the party at the Brigadier’s home at midnight on Saturday and that, like the rest of us, you left well after midnight. Near 2.00 am, in fact. To be testified to by a Major General, a Colonel, a couple of Captains and a Brigadier, among others. And if they want an alibi for you for the two hours after that, well, I can give them all the lovely juicy amorous details. I remember those so well. You probably don’t.’
‘Oh. Hmmm. Yes. I remember, now. Was that you?’
She punched him on the arm, hard. Really hard. And handed him his coffee.
