Plain Dealing (The Ryder Quartet Book 3)

by Ian Patrick

  ‘OK, I’ll remember that, Nights. And I’ll let you know if I hear anything new.’

  ‘Thanks, Thenji.’

  And they parted.

  15.05

  Spikes Mkhize took the taxi to a point half a mile from Nomivi’s, and avoided the road that ran past the tavern. He was too well known around there. So he had come in via the other road. He headed for the tree. He was now more anguished than ever. What if the money had been found? All of it would have been taken. He would be left with nothing. A wanted man both in Gauteng and in KwaZulu-Natal, with not a cent to his name. Maybe he should dig up the tin, and if the money was there maybe he should take the lot and head for the Cape.

  As he worked through the possibilities, it struck him that in any case Thabethe would be too scared to show up at Nomivi’s. He was instantly recognisable, with those eyes of his. It would be too dangerous for him. Another reason for Mkhize to take all the money. If he ever ran into Thabethe, he could say that he left half the money in the tin. Someone else must have found it….

  Mkhize wasn’t convincing himself. How would such words convince Thabethe?

  He reached the tree, ascertained that there was no-one watching, and reached into a small bush nearby to retrieve the small trowel that had been hidden there.

  Mkhize started digging.

  When he had finished, he stuffed the cash into a small cloth bag that he had brought along for the purpose, then he re-buried the tin and stowed the hand-spade. He walked off, in the opposite direction to Nomivi’s Tavern, despite feeling the urge to visit.

  Another time, he thought. He walked away, carrying more cash than was safe to carry in such a neighbourhood.

  He was sorely tempted to find a car and pay cash for it. But he knew that that would be unwise until he had spent a little more time working out his plans. Was he going to stay for a while in KwaZulu-Natal? He had often thought of getting into Mpumalanga. A different police jurisdiction would make him feel a little easier. What about heading south? Maybe even just across the Mtamvuna River. Easy pickings from clients visiting the Wild Coast Casino.

  A car could come later. For now, he thought, taxis would have to suffice.

  16.30

  Mashego drove away from Umdloti empty-handed. This time his thorough search of the bushes, both where he had found the garments on Monday and further down south where he had tracked the movements of Thabethe from the sea to his lair in the bush, had yielded nothing further. He would head back south on the M4, he thought, and pack it in for the day. Who knew what tomorrow might bring?

  But as he drove up the M27, just before he hit the glide-on for the M4 going south, he decided to have one last look at the Sugar Cane Road scene. He knew Forensic Services had been busy up there for the last three days, and he was unlikely to find anything they had missed. But he needed to see the scene again. He swung left onto the dirt track and followed it through to the scene of Saturday night’s carnage. He left the car and spent an hour on foot, looking around the scene.

  It was the eastern branch of the road he was interested in, south of where it crossed over the M4. Near to the path down to the beach where they had caught the four perps. He traced the track all the way down from the scene of the murder to the bush above the beach where he had found the garments on Monday. And then he walked back again.

  Nothing. The forensics team had done their work well. Anything to be found had already been found. He decided to go back to where the other branch of Sugar Cane Road crossed over the M4. The western branch. Here he spent some twenty minutes and then had some luck on his way back. As he crossed on foot over the bridge spanning the M4 he saw something on the far side. A piece of paper. Not on the ground but caught between dry twigs on a small bush. Deep in. Probably blown there by the wind. Difficult to see. A receipt of some kind. A restaurant receipt. Nando’s. Sibaya. Nando’s at the Sibaya Casino. He turned over the receipt. Scribbles. Someone working out his or her share of the bill. And a name.

  Sipho.

  According to the scribbles, this Sipho had to pay thirty-three rands and sixty three cents. Being exactly one seventh of the total bill of R214 plus 10%, Mashego calculated. Date? Saturday night. 10.00 pm printed on the receipt. Just before the hunt, thought Mashego. Seven friends out for a snack. Not four. Seven guys having fun. Before hunting down an innocent young woman.

  He remembered the morning newspaper. Witnesses saying there had been more guys hanging around with the gang of four. Police thinking there might be further witnesses or CCTV footage from the casino.

  He searched thoroughly all around for any other evidence, but that was it. Nothing else. He retraced his steps back to the car, got in, and thought for a while in silence. Then he called Jeremy Ryder.

  ‘Ryder.’

  ‘Jeremy?’

  ‘Nights? Can I help you? I was just talking to your … what’s up, Nights?’

  ‘Jeremy, tell me. Do you know who’s working the case up on Sugar Cane Road? The Saturday night stuff?’

  ‘Colonel Nene’s heading the team, Nights. But I’ve got a few contacts in there. What’re you needing?’

  ‘Do you know if they’ve picked up any more leads on the four guys that we chased down?’

  ‘They have, Nights. They sure have. I was going to call you and feed some stuff back to you.’

  ‘What’ve you got, Jeremy?’

  ‘Well, they did a thorough examination of footprints around the area, and the scuffles in the sand up there, and they’ve collected five different counts of semen.’

  ‘Five?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So we know it was definitely more than the four guys that your team took down on the beach. But there’s more, Nights.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Only two of the four guys you took down are matched to the semen. Not all four.’

  ‘I see. That means...’

  ‘Seven guys involved.’

  Mashego nearly dropped the phone.

  ‘You still there, Nights?’

  ‘I’m here, Jeremy.’

  ‘There’s more. The footprint analysis also suggests seven perps. So seven is the big thing the team are looking at. And the figure of seven also ties in with a couple more witnesses from Sibaya Casino who are now talking about a gang of seven guys. Seven guys getting drunk in the casino on Saturday evening. Two witnesses have identified the mug-shots of your four perps, the ones published in the Mercury, as being among those seven guys seen in the casino.’

  Ryder paused. Silence. Then he continued.

  ‘What have you got for me, Nights? Aren’t you supposed to be standing back from this case?... Don’t answer that... What have you got, Nights?’

  ‘Get your guys to ask questions at Nando’s, specifically, Jeremy.’

  ‘Nando’s?’

  ‘Nando’s up at Sibaya, Jeremy. Get your guys to ask around in Nando’s.’

  ‘We’ll do that, Nights. Well, they’re not my guys, remember? We aren’t leading on that case. It’s just that I’m linked up to the team who are working on it, and I’m hearing about their progress. What’ve you got for me?’

  ‘I found a Nando’s receipt in the bush on the western branch of Sugar Cane Road, Jeremy. The casino side of the M4. The receipt is dated Saturday. Cash register shows 10.00 pm exactly. A party of seven people.’

  Ryder’s silence spoke volumes.

  ‘Want to hear more, Jeremy?’

  ‘Hit me with it, Nights.’

  ‘There’s a name scribbled on the receipt. looks like one of the seven, calculating his share of the bill.’

  ‘Yes? And?’

  ‘His name is Sipho.’

  ‘Oh my god!’

  ‘What, Jeremy?’

  ‘Your constable. Thenjiwe. Thenjiwe Buthelezi.’

  ‘What? What, Jeremy?’

  ‘Thenjiwe called fifteen, twenty minutes ago to ask whether we had heard of any new names yet from the casino witnesses, and I had t
o tell her no, nothing yet. Then she told me she’d called because she had pulled over some bastard driving like a drunkard, who had cut her off on the road. He was driving with two other guys as passengers, and she and her fellow constable - what’s her name - ...’

  ‘Thandiwe! They’re always together.’

  ‘That’s it. Thenjiwe and Thandiwe questioned the driver, checked his driver’s licence and car registration, and everything checked out in order. No licence problems. Car OK. So eventually they had to let him go but as they got back in their car Thandiwe told Thenjiwe that she’d seen a Sibaya Casino card on the back seat of the car, and that she had a funny feeling about the guys… and here’s the thing, Nights… Thenjiwe then called us again a second time, just minutes ago, a minute before you called me, to say that they’d decided to follow these guys at a distance and would keep us informed. She also said that you were up the north coast somewhere and she couldn’t reach you because your car radio’s not working and your cellphone was out of....’

  ‘Where are they, Jeremy? Where are Thenjiwe and Thandiwe?’

  ‘When she called the second time they were driving up Adelaide Tambo Drive in the direction of Durban North Police Station. But that was more than five minutes ago. And here’s the killer, Nights.’

  ‘What Jeremy?’

  ‘The guy they questioned and whose driver’s licence checked out is a guy named Sipho Radebe.’

  Ryder and Mashego leaped into action. Given Mashego’s radio problems, Ryder said he’d get hold of Thenjiwe immediately while Mashego would hit the gas south for the Durban North Police Station.

  As Mashego’s wheels were tearing up clouds of sand and dirt on Sugar Cane Road, heading back to the M27, Ryder got hold of Thenjiwe Buthelezi on her car radio. The message was simple.

  Pull in the guy named Sipho Radebe. Now. Whatever you do, grab him. Suspicion of rape and murder. Mashego on his way to help.

  Then he called Mashego. No luck at first on his car radio, which gave back only distortion and fuzz. He was about to give up and try him on his iPhone when the radio finally burst into life, and he was able to tell him that Thenjiwe was on the tail of the three guys. Mashego replied, shouting, that he was burning up rubber on the freeway, that the radio seemed OK, now, and that he would get hold of her and Thandiwe. Ryder told him to stay in contact and to call for back-up if he needed it.

  17.55

  As soon as the sirens were switched on, the three men knew the game had changed. The man named Sipho floored the pedal and the car surged forward, leaving clouds of blue smoke. Buthelezi cursed as the oncoming traffic jammed her and Thandiwe behind a painfully slow truck. The sirens eventually did their work and the truck driver pulled over to the left in a panic while at the same time the oncoming cars pulled over to their left, allowing a passage for the police car. But by then precious seconds had been wasted and the three men had vanished.

  Buthelezi pulled hard on the wheel of the police car as they hit the vast traffic circle travelling north on Norrie Avenue. Instead of taking the clockwise route, which would have her entering the circle and only leaving it on the fifth exit at 300 degrees of a 360 degree circle, she brought her fellow constable to the edge of a heart attack by suddenly jerking the wheel to the right. She entered the circle in a counter-clockwise direction, to the heart-stopping fury and frantic hooting of an oncoming driver heading clockwise against them. The man just missed the police car as he was moving out of the circle heading south into Norrie Avenue.

  She swerved to miss him and kept her car on the road going the wrong way. Then she took the exit lane from Hinton Grove instead of the entrance lane, travelling almost fifty metres before she then moved left into the correct lane. She thought she had gained precious seconds through these life-threatening tactics, but the three fugitives had done exactly the same. As the two policewomen shot under the Ruth First overpass they could see their quarry ahead, turning right at the intersection with Fairway. Buthelezi pulled the wheel to the right again, barely slowing at the intersection. She could feel the back wheels slipping out from under them until they found traction again followed by fishtailing just opposite Virginia Airport Hanger Number Three, before hurtling straight down Fairway after the fugitives. Holding on for dear life and screaming at every dangerous move, Thandiwe marvelled at Thenjiwe’s skill behind the wheel. She jerked the wheel this way and that, managing the skids and swerves perfectly.

  The fleeing men turned sharp left down to the beach, and the constables followed them, gaining distance with each second until both cars reached the poorly-surfaced track, lined by bush on both sides, that went straight down to the sea. The constables could see the Indian Ocean gleaming bright blue directly ahead. Buthelezi shouted at her companion.

  ‘Get Mashego, Thandiwe! Get Mashego! Tell him where we are.’

  Thandiwe responded instantly and her call-sign received an immediate response. But then distortion hit the radio and she couldn’t hear. She tried again, shouting into the mouthpiece that they were south of Virginia Airport heading eastward and toward the beach.

  Meanwhile the fugitives skidded suddenly into another left turn and were now hurtling northward, the ocean on their right and the bush-lined Virginia Airport on their left. But after only a few metres their car suddenly skidded to a halt on the left of the road right up against the new high security steel fence. They abandoned the car and used the front bonnet of the vehicle to leap up and scale over the fence into the bush, heading now on foot through the undergrowth toward the open grounds of the airport on the other side. The policewomen skidded to a halt behind the abandoned car and prepared to follow right behind them. As they did so, Thandiwe leaping out as the car came to a halt, Mashego’s voice crackled over the radio. His words were indecipherable. Buthelezi snatched the crackling radio and screamed back into the mouthpiece before following Thandiwe.

  ‘Halfway up the sea road on the edge of Virginia. They’re in the bush going for the airport. If you come in from the southern end you’ll catch them.’

  She paused for a moment, then could think of nothing better to add. So she repeated.

  ‘In the bush at the southern end.’

  And she leaped onto the bonnet of the fleeing men’s car, clambered over the security fence and plunged into the bush after Thandiwe. Buthelezi was now some twenty or thirty paces behind her companion. She could hear her fellow constable crashing through the undergrowth ahead and called after her.

  ‘Thandiwe, wait. Wait for me!’

  Then she heard a shot. And another. And another. She burst into a clearing and saw Thandiwe sprawled, face down. Welts of blood from three bullets in her back. Then everything went black as she was struck a heavy blow from behind.

  18.00

  Mashego cursed. He was hurtling south down the M4, siren blaring, blues flashing. Umhlanga Rocks came and went. La Lucia. Glen Ashley. Where are they! Suddenly the radio crackled. He shouted back. He could hear Thandiwe. What was she saying!

  He heard her struggling to make herself understood. She was shouting something into the mouthpiece. What was it? What was she saying? Then he heard the word Virginia! He heard it when he was no more than fifty metres before the green exit sign for Durban North with the airplane icon and the word Virginia below, giving him barely another fifty metres to swerve left across the slower lane, almost wiping out a packed family car as he just made it to the slip-off, incurring the wrath of hooting drivers all around. Doubtless they were cursing all cops, anywhere, anytime, he thought. Doubtless pigeon-holing me as Blue-Light Brigade.

  He hurtled down the exit road, spinning the wheel left at the intersection with Hinton Grove then immediately right again to go down Fairway, parallel to the airfield. He fishtailed through the dog-leg and nearly rolled the car as he swung into Fairway. He punched the button and screamed into the radio. Nothing but crackling and distortion. He tried again. Then he heard another voice. Was it Thenjiwe? He could hear nothing except the isolated words bush and airport and s
outhern end. He heard the words just as he was approaching the road to the beach at the southern end of the airport, so he swung to the left and sped down the narrow road toward the sea. Then he heard Thenjiwe’s voice again, this time suddenly completely clear and free of distortion.

  ‘In the bush at the southern end.’

  As he heard the words Mashego saw a wide flimsy-looking double-gate made of wire strands stretched across a metal tubing frame and topped with blade wire, standing open at the southern end of the airfield. Someone was loading something and had left it wide open. Mashego made a snap decision and pulled the wheel to the left, speeding through the gate before spinning right again. Now he was on grass and he was speeding toward the bush at the corner of the airfield, throwing up clouds of dust.

  He slewed to a halt right up against the bushes and plunged in, drawing his gun from his holster as he ran.

  18.10

  Buthelezi opened her eyes to find that she was blindfolded and gagged. She tried to scream, but her mouth was stuffed with an old oil rag. She could taste petrol or paraffin or diesel. The pungent fumes and burning taste choked her and she screamed again. Hopeless. The sounds were swallowed, lost in the back of her throat. Her arms were bound behind and someone was tearing at her trousers. She could feel them tearing, someone’s hands ripping the belt free and pulling her pants down. Another man was laughing. Two other men.

  The image of the appalling fate of her mother and her 10-year old sister, all those years ago, rammed into her consciousness. She was going to suffer the same fate. The anguish of the memory gave her superhuman strength and she kicked out at the assailant. She must have connected because whoever was tearing at her clothes screamed in agony while the more distant voices burst out in peals of laughter.

  ‘Eina, Sipho! Get that one, bra! Show her who is the man, bra. Quick, bra, then let’s go.’