by Ian Patrick
‘Or in the bush somewhere,’ added Koekemoer with equal venom, and Ryder couldn’t work out whether he was making a point or simply expressing the same frustration as his partner.
There was another long pause as they each contemplated the scenario they had just heard about.
‘OK, mense,’ said Cronje, gently breaking the respectful silence. ‘Got to get back. Lots of stuff to do.’
And he led the way as they all followed, talking in sombre tones, into the building.
07.50.
Nxumalo read the newspaper report a few times. In yet another phase in the taxi war well-known taxi boss Jerry Mofokeng and his long-time friend and partner Joshua Gumede had been assassinated. The report quoted police as saying that the bodies of both men had been found in the taxi with their wallets intact, each with significant amounts of cash, and everything pointed to a cold-blooded assassination.
The article also carried quotes from a passer-by - probably drunk, thought Nxumalo - who told police he’d witnessed the whole event. He had seen various things that he depicted as a brutal attack by a gang of men in an attempted hijacking. An old woman provided a completely different eyewitness report. She had not seen the other witness until he arrived on the scene much later, she said. She had actually seen the real event that took place, she claimed. She had seen only one man, a very big black man, a giant of a man, who seemed to walk calmly away from the taxi after she had heard what she thought was a car backfiring. Only when she saw the driver of the taxi slumped forward against the steering wheel had she gone over and seen the blood and realised that it had not been a backfiring sound. By then the big man had left. And she had screamed, she told police. And only then did the other witness arrive on the scene.
The article made only cursory reference to the fact that both deceased men had been arrested on numerous occasions in the past for alleged criminal activities, but neither had ever been found guilty of the crimes alleged against them.
Nxumalo received a brief call from Frankie, telling him that Mr du Plessis was pleased and sent his thanks. And he would be in touch. Maybe even as early as this afternoon, he added.
08.10.
Thabethe made his way carefully to Nomivi’s, alighting from the taxi almost a mile away and walking the rest of the way. Although his reason for doing so was to avoid possible recognition by those in the area who knew him by sight and by reputation, merely escaping from the vehicle had its own rewards. It was overcrowded, and the air-conditioner was not functioning. As a consequence, tempers were such that a wrong move from any of the passengers might end up in a brawl. There were arguments among the passengers about the top news item, about the assassinations of the taxi men near KwaMashu. People were getting worked up. Some said it was a police hit squad. Others said it was a rival taxi company. More hot air was emitted inside the vehicle. By the time Thabethe alighted his shirt was wet with perspiration.
He watched Nomivi’s for almost half an hour before he satisfied himself that there was no unusual activity. Nothing to suggest that cops had been posted to keep a watch on the place. He and Spikes Mkhize were wanted men, but as far as he knew Spikes was still in Gauteng. No way to find him.
But Thabethe remained apprehensive. It was too quiet. He decided against going in. Instead, he walked down the road and turned to his left at the end. The tree just around the corner had provided a good hiding place for various objects over the years. Mostly up in the hollow between three branches, too high for kids to discover, and sometimes, when it involved cash, in the tin buried at the foot of the tree. There was nothing hidden up in the branches now. But in the tin lay a cool one hundred thousand rands in cash. The Bank of Spikes and Skhura. He checked to ensure that there was no-one around, and started digging with the little hand trowel that he retrieved from deep within the adjacent bush.
As he reached the top of the tin his excitement built and he dug quickly, furiously, to get the thing out before anyone came. He perspired heavily with the effort and finally hauled the tin up to the surface and opened it.
There was a moment of relief as he saw bundles of crisp two-hundred rand notes. That moment was then followed by rage and near-hysteria as he realised that someone had been there before him. The box had been raided! More than half the cash was gone! He stifled a scream of fury as someone came into view. Just an old woman, talking to herself, rounding the corner and heading down to Nomivi’s. He thought he had seen her before, somewhere. Thabethe ducked low down behind the tree as she passed. She seemed to be scolding herself. Or maybe just cursing the heat. It seemed like an eternity as she walked by, and he realised that he was holding his breath as she passed. She didn’t even glance his way, and he breathed out as she turned the corner. In anguish he turned back to the tin and started counting the bundles of cash, feverishly.
Suddenly he stopped. A broad grin appeared on his face. Then he started laughing. Half. Exactly half of the cash. Exactly fifty thousand rands. That could only mean one thing. Spikes is back in town! He’s taken his half, and by doing so he had left a signal. No written message, but the message is as clear as if it had been written down in a note and placed in the tin. Bra Skhura. It’s me. Spikes. Here’s your half. See. You can trust me, bra Skhura. Spikes will never cheat Skhura.
Thabethe was ecstatic. Spikes was back in town. He must have left a message down at Nomivi’s. He’s sent a signal, but he wouldn’t have taken the chance of coming all the way out here without contacting someone at Nomivi’s.
Thabethe stuffed the cash into his pockets and into his underpants. He quickly buried the empty tin and stashed the trowel. They might come in useful again, one day. Then he hurried down to the tavern. Still wary of the place, he started at the back and saw very quickly that the room Mkhize had used for years was locked up and had been locked up for some time. No trace of anyone having used the place for weeks.
Then he saw the old woman who had passed him near the tree. She was filling a bucket of water from the tap outside the tavern. She turned as she felt his presence and she froze for a moment as she saw the eyes. Eyes that she had seen a few times before and which had unnerved her on each and every occasion. She recognised him in the same moment he recognised her as one of the cleaners that had been around for years.
‘Sawubona, mama.’
‘Yebo, bhuti.’
Her apprehension in dealing with this man with the strange eyes was not lost on him. He was initially very surly, as he picked up on her anxiety, but within a minute he relaxed, because she provided exactly the news he was hoping for. Yes, Spikes Mkhize had been in contact. No, he wasn’t staying around here. He was somewhere in KwaMashu, she thought. No, she didn’t know where, exactly. And - the most important thing of all, which she kept to the end - yes, he had left a phone number. He had given her instructions that only Skhura Thabethe must have the number, and no-one else.
Thabethe went through extreme agitation and anxiety as he had to wait for her to then go indoors, fetch her bag, and come out, rummaging in its depths before she found two scraps of paper in the hidden internal pouch of the bag. She handed one of them over to him. It had nothing but a phone number scribbled on it in pencil. It was all he needed. At last, back in contact with the only person on the planet that he knew he could trust.
He left the old woman with a curt and barely audible thanks. She was pleased to see him go, and watched him as he walked down the street to the corner.
10.05.
Nyawula, Pillay and Ryder were in the Captain’s office. Each of them was nursing a can of coke that was dripping condensation. The power had just come on and two fans were doing what they could to get rid of the stifling warm air. Nyawula was finishing off his report-back to them on the further information he had received on last night’s events at Virginia Airport.
‘So it seems that Mashego arrived just as Buthelezi’s incredible effort came to an end. Apparently he arrived to see the two guys still firing off their last shots as she dropped them.’
Ryder searched the Captain’s face for any sign that his use of the word apparently contained any irony. He could find none.
‘Horrific stuff,’ said Pillay. ‘Did you know, Captain, that Thandiwe and Thenjiwe were in a relationship?’
‘I didn’t know, Navi. Until it was mentioned this morning in my call from Durban North. I also heard that Mavis was a friend of Thandiwe.’
‘That’s right. She’s pretty upset, but hanging in there.’
‘Bad stuff all round. But it’s looking very much from all the reports that the three guys were the remaining bastards from the Sugar Cane Road slaughter. I understand you’re in contact with the team up there, Jeremy?’
‘Yep. And with forensics. I’ll let you know as it all comes together.’
‘OK,’ said Nyawula, his tone signalling a change of subject. ‘Well, what else have you got for me?’
‘Your favourite subject. Navi and I have been thinking, Captain, about Skhura Thabethe.’
‘Thabethe? Oh boy. Hit me with it.’
‘Well, we haven’t told you this yet but something interesting happened on Monday. Piet received a call from none other than Nights Mashego.’
‘Oh? About what?’
‘About a guy called Skhura Thabethe.’
Nyawula was immediately intrigued. Ryder then explained the call from Mashego to Cronje, asking him all about Thabethe. Then both he and Pillay described the subsequent meeting with Mashego in Durban North, before he then outlined the theory they were now both working on.
‘Of course we can’t verify any of this, yet, but the way we see it is this. Whoever provided that journalist prick with the information about what happened on the beach on Saturday night, got so much detail into his report - along with one big pile of crap about me being the detective in charge - that we think there must indeed have been a witness when the action happened. Nadine Salm and her assistant think there are big holes in Mashego’s story about what happened, and in fact, if you look at what Nadine has identified on the scene, there’s a very strong possibility - and Navi and I are not making any final judgements here - there’s a very strong possibility that this unknown witness was actually present and that what he reported was actually true. Except for the one glaring mistake of me being the guy in charge.’
Nyawula stared for a few seconds at both of the detectives, deep in thought, before he spoke.
‘OK. So let’s assume there was a witness. I understand that there are rocks right next to where the action happened...’
‘That’s right, Captain,’ said Pillay. ‘Jeremy and I have been out to have a look. Definitely the only place where any witness could have been close enough to describe what happened.’
‘And let’s assume that that witness got out of there and then picked up the phone and called the Mercury guy,’ Nyawula continued. ‘When the Editor called me to apologise for their screw-up, he told me that he had been uneasy about the journalist - what’s his name - having only one witness, and...’
‘Pullen. Michael Pullen,’ Pillay offered, before Nyawula continued.
‘...and that they normally insisted on corroboration from other witnesses, but that this Pullen guy was able to show later in the morning when he went out to the scene that the facts he had been given by his anonymous caller fitted perfectly with what had actually gone down - with the exception of Jeremy being the guy in charge. But then, when we all found out that Mashego was the guy in charge… Well, let’s face it, there are few guys as big as either Jeremy or Mashego, so isn’t it a fair enough mistake to confuse the two?’
‘We thought through that, Captain,’ said Ryder. ‘And of course you’re right. But then the question is this. Who is this guy who mistook Mashego for me? How come he knows me well enough to identify my physique on a beach at night but not notice that my accent and speech - not to mention skin colour - are all significantly different from those of Mashego?’
‘Unless the witness knows perfectly well that the big guy is not Jeremy Ryder but decides in any case to identify him as Jeremy Ryder,’ added Pillay.
‘Someone with a grudge,’ said the Captain. ‘I see. So that’s why you think that our old friend Thabethe is back in town.’
‘We think so, Captain,’ said Ryder.
The three of them pursued the subject for a while, including a discussion of why Mashego would so painstakingly search for Thabethe when the whole Umdloti beach case was subject to an IPID investigation. None of them wanted to admit it, but it was clear to each of them that Mashego’s focus in the hunt for Thabethe was to take out of the picture once and for all the one witness to the Umdloti shootings.
‘So we’re looking at a situation, here, where Thabethe is being hunted by both Mashego and us,’ said Ryder. He didn’t add the further thought that one of the hunters wanted to take him down while the other one wanted to take him out, permanently.
‘OK, guys,’ said Nyawula, by way of wrapping up. ‘So I suppose we just have to be careful and ensure that Mashego works with us and not against us.’
‘Don’t worry, Captain,’ said Ryder, as the two detectives got up to leave. ‘Navi and I will do our best to keep Mashego close. The guy needs a few friends. And he’s a good cop. Whatever that means, these days.’
10.15.
Thabethe and Mkhize had been overjoyed to hear each other’s voices on the phone. They agreed to meet at the Kentucky Fried Chicken in KwaMashu, just off the M21. Corner Behjane Road, by Malandela Road, Mkhize had said on the phone.
‘Mandela Road?’
‘No, bra. Malandela Road,’ Mkhize had replied.
‘What is Malandela Road, Spikes?’
‘Eish, Skhura. Now you asking me. I don’t know. Maybe half of that apartheid Afrikaner Malan. And half of Madiba. I don’t know. These people they make the names, not me. Maybe they think it’s the reconciliation, you know? Half amabhunu and half Madiba. They think it’s making the peace, maybe.’
‘I find it, Spike. I see you there 10.00 o’clock sharp.’
‘Sharp, bra.’
Thabethe had found a taxi very rapidly, a smile on his face, thinking that Spikes Mkhize seemed to be the only one who could make him smile these days.
They had bought a take-away and walked around the corner to the Emahawini Tavern, where they found a place to sit on the ground, outside. To get there, Thabethe had been shocked to find himself walking right in front of the Durban Metropolitan Police Service North Region Command building. Mkhize had laughed it off, saying that no-one around here was likely to recognise them, and accompanied that with some disparaging comments about the interest shown in their local surroundings by the inhabitants of that building.
They spoke while eating their chicken and chips. Thabethe filled Mkhize in on the whole experience on the beach at Umdloti, the Natal Mercury article, the retraction and apology, and then the call from Michael Pullen. Mkhize couldn’t help observing, running through the narrative, the venom with which his friend uttered the word Ryder at every point. Mkhize showed his support on each of these occasions, interjecting with observations about how Ryder had destroyed their plans, and saying that nothing would please him more than nailing the big detective.
There arose a moment when both of them ran out of words and drifted into silence. Thabethe was troubled. His mind was far away.
‘What you thinking, Skhura?’
‘Just something, Spikes.’
‘What something?’
‘I’m thinking that maybe that big other detective, Mashego, is looking for me.’
‘Why, Skhura? Why you thinking that?’
‘Maybe him and Ryder, they are talking. Mashego knows that someone was watching. Everything in the newspaper on Monday was right except for the one thing: Ryder and not Mashego was there. Mashego knows that only that one thing was wrong. All the other things - the seven cops, the bullets, the four guys - he’s wondering who was watching him and the other cops on the beach. Those two, they will talk together and then Ryder
will say he knows who was doing the report to the newspaper. Then the two of them will come for me.’
It was a sobering thought for both of them. Mkhize could offer no solution. He paused, watching his friend to see what might come next.
‘But I’m thinking, you know, Spikes, how we can maybe use umlungu Pullen.’
‘Tell me, Skhura. What you thinking?’
‘This guy, he is wanting Ryder even more than you and me. He hates that detective, and he’s telling me he wants to get him. So, bra Spikes, I’m thinking we can make the plan. This newspaper man he can help us get Ryder.’
Within a few minutes Thabethe had laid it all out for Mkhize. He would arrange a meeting with Pullen. Mkhize would masquerade as a drug dealer who is controlled by none other than one Detective Jeremy Ryder. Mashego would be identified as being part of the conspiracy. Mkhize would spill the beans on a large police network of corruption. Pullen would be lured in because they would paint the scene in such a way that Pullen’s earlier error would be revealed as simply an understandable mistake. This was because what was happening behind the scenes in the local police actions on drugs was part of a much larger conspiracy. Ryder would come under investigation. He would have his time cut out dealing with police investigators, and with other journalists asking questions.
Mkhize chuckled with lascivious glee as Thabethe laid out the plan. First, Thabethe said, he needed a new name. Pullen hadn’t yet enjoyed the benefit of knowing the name of his favourite informant.
‘Me, bra Spikes, me, I’m now Mkhohlisi. Mzenzisi Mkhohlisi. That’s me. And you, Spikes, you my brother, nè? What’s your first name, bra?’
‘Mina, ngi-Mlungisi,’ said Mkhize, and they both guffawed.
‘Mlungisi Mkhohlisi,’ said Thabethe.
‘Yebo, Mzenzi!’ said Mkhize.
‘Yebo, Mlungi!’ replied Thabethe.
Thabethe, noticing that they were attracting interested looks from passers-by with their levity, calmed down his companion, and sketched out how he wanted them to proceed.
