Plain Dealing (The Ryder Quartet Book 3)

by Ian Patrick

  According to reports put together on the basis of CCTV footage and testimony from numerous witnesses, as the Colonel and the Brigadier walked toward their awaiting host they each appeared to realise who the other visitor was, so they converged to shake hands while du Plessis and Frankie walked toward them. As the four men met in front of a minibus taxi that had stopped in the middle of the parking area, eight men suddenly ran in from three different directions, and a ninth man got out of the taxi shouting into his cellphone. Four of the men ran in from the Palmer Street corner, two from the Pixley KaSeme Street corner, and two of them from the paved area a little way up from the seafront. Five of them had handguns. Two of them had R4 rifles and one had an R5 Assault Rifle. The man from the taxi had a Remington 7600 IPSC pump action rifle, and he fired the first shot, which hit du Plessis in the middle of the forehead.

  The formal autopsy reports would in time indicate that Colonel Nxumalo received seven bullets in the chest, abdomen, head, and right leg. The Brigadier’s body was riddled with twenty-three bullets, mainly to the abdomen and pelvis. The man known as Frankie died instantly from a bullet to the head fired by the Assault Rifle, followed by seven 9mm rounds fired to the neck and chest. The former police officer and well-known businessman Mr Adriaan du Plessis died with thirty-three bullets from five different weapons fired into his head, chest, abdomen, all limbs, and pelvis. Thirty-two of the bullets were fired into him when he was already on the ground, having already been killed by the first bullet that struck him in the forehead.

  All of the men died within seconds of the barrage commencing. Three bystanders were injured, one of them critically. Police cars arrived within seven minutes. Shortly thereafter the media arrived. Within one hour the first news reports went out on radio. It was reported that in what appeared to be a retaliatory strike in the ongoing taxi war, Mr du Plessis had been attacked along with colleagues who were suspected of being involved in his various enterprises.

  In subsequent radio reports further information gathered by reporters and volunteered by both known sources and anonymous callers led to a more detailed analysis suggesting that one of the deceased was a high-ranking police officer with known links to the underworld.

  By the time the first Sunday newspaper hit the street with its second edition a new front page had been rapidly reorganised and the lead story, with graphic photographs of the carnage, focused on the long-standing friendship and business partnership between Brigadier Madondo and former SAPS Colonel du Plessis. By the time the Monday papers hit the streets further work would have been been done by reporters, extending to the revelation of foreign bank accounts and a network of business holdings revealing intricate connections among private security firms, taxi organisations, and arms dealers.

  In all of the reports the man known as Frankie featured as a former police detective who had been imprisoned in the late 1990s and about whom little was known thereafter. The fourth man was a highly regarded SAPS Lieutenant Colonel by the name of Mkhatshwa Nxumalo who had many years of distinguished service in the SAPS, including numerous Merit Awards.

  By the time the Tuesday edition of the Mercury appeared it would be reported that police were investigating a new possibility. This was to the effect that Colonel Nxumalo had uncovered possible corruption in the relationship between Brigadier Madondo and Colonel du Plessis, and had attended the meeting with the intention of making an arrest. If this scenario were to be proven, it was likely that a further award would be made posthumously to the Colonel.

  The KwaZulu-Natal Provincial Commissioner commended police on their rapid response and prompt investigation of all matters arising from the incident. She was quoted as saying that the police in KwaZulu-Natal were committed to eradicating the proliferation of illegal firearms in the province to safeguard the citizens of the country, and to solving current problems in the taxi industry.

  8: SUNDAY

  09.45.

  Detective Mashego was in a serious but stable condition, the surgeon remarked to the many friends and colleagues who had gathered for the first official report on his condition. He commented that the man was extraordinarily strong and that most people would not have pulled through in the way he had. It had been a precarious situation, but he had come through and was now off the critical list.

  He had sustained numerous very serious wounds. The most dangerous were the three 9 mm bullets, all in the back, none of them now life-threatening, but two of them having required fairly intricate surgical procedures. The outcome was entirely satisfactory, and the surgeon was happy to confirm that the prognosis was excellent. Nevertheless, the detective had lost a lot of blood, and it had been a very delicate case in which timing had been crucial. Five deep stab wounds - in the back and on both arms - had contributed to the loss of blood that had brought him to a critical stage, but the medics had done a good job in stabilising him and getting him into surgery quickly.

  As for Constable Buthelezi, the gathered friends went through a moment of trauma themselves. A young well-meaning doctor with poor communication skills had been asked by his mentor to explain to the audience of family, police colleagues, and other well-wishers, the condition of the patient for whose treatment he had been responsible. He rattled off at an enormous speed that he had been asked to handle a twenty-five year old policewoman by the name of Constable Buthelezi who had undergone emergency surgery. He told them, almost as an automaton, that she had received a penetrating wound to the left upper quadrant of the abdomen by a knife of about 6 cm in length and that on examination of the patient he had ascertained a pulse rate of 80/mt, BP of 120/80, and temperature of thirty-seven point six degrees. Digital exploration of the wound under local anesthesia had been performed and peritoneal penetration proved. The patient had been admitted under observation and after twelve hours the pulse rate increased to 110-120/mt with BP remaining at 120/80 and temperature slightly raised at thirty-seven point eight degrees. Exploratory laparotomy was undertaken fifteen hours post-trauma and he discovered jejunal perforation with jejunal mesenteric haematoma, and suturing took place in two layers and the patient…

  He was interrupted by the surgeon in charge, who looked at the glazed eyes of the onlookers and summed up by saying that in short the patient had undergone surgery for a perforated stomach wall, had been checked for damage to vital organs, and was now off the critical list but could receive only approved visitors at this stage.

  The audience relaxed and decided to retire to the canteen for tea while the surgeon put his arm around the young doctor’s shoulders and took him for a walk, whispering to him in an encouraging undertone.

  It was over tea that the gathered friends received further information from one of the officers stationed at Durban North who had come down to the Addington Hospital to check on the progress of the two priority patients. He had been fully briefed on Saturday evening, he said, by the attending police officers from Margate and Port Edward, one of whom had been put in charge of the scene on the beach between Trafalgar and the mouth of the Mpenjati River. He explained to the friends in the canteen that after Mashego and Buthelezi had been stabilised and taken to the Margate Netcare Hospital, their condition had been considered serious enough to transport them both by helicopter to Durban’s Addington Hospital. There had been critical moments for both of them during the night, but by morning the doctors had pulled them through.

  The same officer saved what he considered to be the best part of his report for the end. He told the gathered friends that the four shots Thenjiwe Buthelezi had managed to get off before she lost consciousness had all connected. The first man had received two bullets, one centimetre apart, in the left temple. The other man had received two bullets, one centimetre apart, in the right temple.

  The gossip in the hospital was that the shots were so perfectly aligned that it looked like the work of a professional hit-man using a sniper’s rifle. When told that they had in fact been shots from a 9mm Vektor Z88 standard issue handgun fired by a severely injured p
olicewoman from a distance of forty metres, no-one believed the analysis.

  The only change from the original gossip was that in that case, then, it must have been the work of a professional hit-woman.

  10.05.

  Ryder and Pillay were given special permission to pay very brief visits to the two cops, each in their private wards. They started with Buthelezi. Still in pain and very weak, she managed half a smile as they told her about the canteen’s response to her marksmanship.

  ‘I got lucky,’ she said. Then she paused and spoke again. ‘I wrote a note for Nights,’ she croaked, very feebly.

  ‘Sorry, Thenjiwe, what was that?’ Pillay asked.

  ‘I wrote a small note for Nights. Will you give it to him, Detective Ryder?’

  ‘Of course, Thenjiwe. Of course. We’re going to see him now, just after we leave you.’

  She struggled to reach across to the drawer in the cabinet next to her bed, and Pillay helped her.

  ‘In there. In my purse,’ she said, very weak and in obvious pain. ‘Piece of paper.’

  Pillay took out the purse, opened it, and retrieved a piece of paper, folded over, which seemed to have been torn out of a notebook.

  ‘That’s it. That note. Please, Detective Ryder. You give it to Nights, please?’

  ‘Of course. Yes, of course, Thenjiwe, don’t worry. We’ll see that he gets it.’

  The two detectives could see she was exhausted and in agony, so they said their farewells and left the room. They made their way down the passage to Mashego’s ward, knocked, and in response to a hoarse voiced whisper, they went in. Pillay noticed that Ryder looked down before they entered, and flipped open the note he was carrying. He took in at a glance the message scribbled there, then folded it back again.

  The greetings were low-key, warm, and respectful. They could see that the man was in pain and quite weak. They started with reassurances about Thandiwe’s family and friends and the plans at Izingolweni, but he interrupted them. In a weak voice he switched to another subject.

  ‘I heard one of the doctor’s talking about what happened in Durban last night. I called him over and he told me everything he had heard on the news.’

  ‘About du Plessis and the Brigadier?’ asked Ryder.

  ‘And Mkhatshwa Nxumalo,’ said Mashego. ‘My good friend Cat Nxumalo. Colonel Cat.’

  ‘He was your friend, Nights?’ asked Pillay.

  ‘The best friend a man could have, Navi. Once. We worked together a long time ago, me and Cat. Big man. Like me, I suppose. I was maybe an inch or two taller. They called us the two giants when we worked together. One General who got his legends mixed up used to call us Scylla and Charybdis.’

  He couldn’t stop himself from chuckling as he said this, which produced enormous pain and he took a moment to recover, wincing as he did so.

  ‘Sorry to hear we lost him, Nights,’ said Ryder. ‘I heard he was one of the best.’

  ‘One of the very best, Jeremy. Strange thing...’

  ‘What?’ asked Ryder, as Mashego drifted away into memory and went silent.

  ‘Strange thing is I met him late on Thursday night for the first time in years. He called me and asked to meet. At very short notice.’

  Ryder and Pillay were intrigued. Ryder’s head was computing dates and times. The taxi assassinations at KwaMashu on Wednesday. Big black man. One big black man. Same for the Friday hit in Maphumulo.

  ‘You know what he asked me, guys? You know why my good old friend asked to meet me late on Thursday night? He asked me if....’ Mashego grimaced as another spurt of pain ran through his body. He took a moment to recover, then continued, his voice thin and strained. ‘He asked me if I would join him and work with du Plessis.’

  The two detectives were shocked rigid. Why was he telling them this? They were rendered speechless, so Mashego continued after a further pause.

  ‘It led to a shouting match between us on Thursday night. It was strange. We were standing next to the surf at Umgeni River mouth. Lagoon Drive. The waves were crashing. It felt more like Scylla and Charybdis than ever before. But we parted friends. I warned him not to sup with the devil. I even joked with him about it. Rather take your chances with Scylla and Charybdis, I said to him, than be caught between the Devil and the du Plessis...’

  He coughed painfully at his own joke, but there was a great sadness there, thought Ryder.

  ‘Why am I telling you this? Because I think I’m more like you two, now. I used to be like Cat. Cat and me, we both had our reasons to be the way we were, and to be the way Cat still was, at the end. He still wanted to go out there and hunt for the bad guys. Find them and take them down. Me, I’m one who waits for the bad guys to come to me, now. I won’t be treating them gently when I meet them. But I’ll wait for them to make the move. Then I’ll deal with them. Simply and plainly.’

  He drifted away into silence with his eyes closed. The two detectives thought he might even have fallen asleep. But after a few seconds he opened his eyes again.

  ‘What can you tell me?’

  They told him what they knew, brought him up to date on the facts, and reassured him that the family at Izingolweni had recovered from the shock of the events and that from tomorrow they were planning to renew with gusto their series of Nine Nights celebrations. He in turn told them that the doctors had said he would be discharged in time to make it to the biggest and most important event in the sequence of activities celebrating the life of Thandiwe. He also told them that he had received a message from the deceased constable’s father. He and Thenjiwe were to be guests of honour at that culminating event.

  At the mention of Thenjiwe’s name, he frowned and then, after he had finished and recovered his strength, he whispered something that neither of the detectives could hear clearly. They asked him to repeat his question.

  ‘Is Thenji doing OK? Are they watching her? Someone must watch her,’ he said.

  ‘She’s OK, Nights,’ said Ryder. Navi and I have just come from her. She asked me to give you a note.’

  ‘She what?’

  ‘She asked me to give you a note. She scribbled down a note and asked me to hand it to you, Nights. Here it is.’

  Ryder handed over the folded paper. The big man took it from him, opened it, and read the few words scribbled there. Pillay was then, for a moment, rendered completely aghast by what happened next. The giant Detective Mashego, his naked arms and enormous chest rippling with hard muscles, his jaw clenched tight and the sinews on his powerful thick neck held taut, started weeping.

  The detectives paused, then Ryder spoke.

  ‘Stay well, Nights,’ said Ryder. ‘We’ll see you soon, OK? Let’s go, Navi.’

  Ryder moved toward the door. Pillay followed suit, but only after turning to him for a moment.

  ‘So long, Nights,’ she said, and her right fist kissed his, held up to her for that purpose.

  He nodded at both of them, managed a smile as he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, waved them away, and they left, closing the door behind them.

  Outside the room, Pillay looked at Ryder.

  ‘What happened, there, Jeremy? What did the note say? What did Thenjiwe say to him?’

  ‘Not sure what it means, Navi,’ said Ryder, as they started walking down the passage. ‘Something about Thandiwe.’

  ‘What? What did she write?’

  ‘Not sure what it means, Navi. But the words were Don’t worry about me, Nights. Thandi told me not to hurry. You and me, we have work to do.’

  ‘Weird,’ said Pillay.

  ‘Yep. Weird,’ said Ryder.

  As they reached the exit to the hospital they were hit with a bright blue sky.

  ‘Great day for the picnic,’ said Pillay. ‘Chance to relax at last.’

  ‘Yep,’ said Ryder, as they strode out to his car. ‘Time to eat, drink, and be merry. All over bar the shouting.’

  16.55.

  Nyawula and his team, along with their partners, and including special gue
sts Nadine Salm and Pauline Soames, were all spread out enjoying the last of the sun. They leaned back or sat on canvas fold-out chairs, blankets and straw mats, in a corner of Mitchell Park bordered by clumps of plants and foliage. Picnic hampers and the detritus from shelled boiled eggs, roast chicken, cold meat wrappers and breads lay strewn about or stuffed into plastic bags ready for disposal at the end of the afternoon. Two cooler boxes boasted nothing more than water from the long-ago melted ice-cubes, and the area was surrounded by empty juice-boxes, beer cans and wine bottles.

  Annatjie Koekemoer had broken her ankle a week ago, and had been brought down to the picnic spot by her husband in a wheelchair. But she had chosen to vacate the wheelchair after eating her lunch and was now lying stretched out on one of the blankets. Ryder had then appropriated the wheelchair and spent most of the afternoon enjoying it. His lower back problem meant sitting on the ground was difficult. He needed a backrest, he explained.

  Following the happy updated news reports about Nights Mashego and Thenjiwe Buthelezi, both still to remain in hospital for a couple of days, they had spent a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon together. Nyawula was enjoying the camaraderie exhibited in the team and among their guests. Nadine, Pauline and Mavis had teased them all about their taste in music, as evidenced by the nineties hits now being played on the ancient CD player Dippenaar had brought along. Detective Dipps hadn’t moved on to more recent technology, said Mavis. This led to a discussion about the invitation having been extended to the children of team members. And further conjecture about why none of their children had accepted the invitation.

  ‘Maybe they knew what music you’d be playing,’ Nadine had offered, and received responses ranging from sombre acknowledgement that she was probably correct, to self-protective denials such as that uttered by Dippenaar’s wife, Sannie.

  ‘No, really, Nadine, the only reason Dirkie and Kosie aren’t here is that they’re playing rugby with friends. Normally they would just love to come along and be with us, you know? No, really. Hey, Dipps?’