by Ian Patrick
He remembered she had a big day today. She was presenting designs and concepts and preliminary drawings to an impressive audience. The prize was a contract worth millions. Her partners had said it was now all in her hands. She was the best, they proclaimed, and they were confident she would deliver.
He did his normal routine, the volume of his atonal singing in the shower doubtless annoying the neighbours, let alone his wife. By the time he got downstairs she had muesli and toast waiting for him. Along with the best coffee. They hugged and kissed, affectionately.
‘Big day, snoeks?’
‘Very big. I think I’ll take a beta-blocker.’
‘Don’t. You don’t need it. You’ll be great.’
‘We’ll see. What about you? Ready for your speech? Yours is more difficult than mine, I think.’
‘As ready as I’ll ever be. Thanks for your thoughts yesterday. They helped a lot.’
‘You don’t need any advice. Just speak from the heart. It’ll be good. I’ll get there just before 2.30 pm. OK?’
‘That’ll be fine. I think they’ll want me sitting with the Captain and the Brigadier, so we can’t be together.’
‘I thought so. No problem. Don’t worry. It’ll be OK. I’ll have my own tissues.’
They smiled, grimly, before she continued.
‘I’m off in a couple of minutes. Will you check that the kids get off OK?’
‘No problem. I’m starting later than usual. Got stuff to do down at Comms.’
They ate breakfast together, comparing diaries and checking arrangements for the coming week while doing so. They noted specifically that the mid-term would see the kids and the dog off on Wednesday afternoon and away for the rest of the week until Sunday mid-day. They checked diaries, confirmed chores, talked about her presentation and about arrangements for Wednesday’s dinner. Then she kissed him and was gone.
Ryder drained his coffee, refilled, and went over the various things he had to check arising out of last week’s actions. Lots of loose strings to tie up, and doubtless more new stuff pouring into the office even now.
He could hear the boys stirring and the dog whining.
The week started.
07.15.
Detectives Koekemoer, Dippenaar, and Pillay were helping themselves to coffee in Sergeant Cronje’s office. Cronje’s intern, Mavis Tshabalala, was smiling nervously at the banter among the three of them as they teased her. Cronje did his best to reassure her.
‘Don’t worry about these three, Mavis. They always get hysterical at this time of the morning. They spend their days chasing all the skelms with their whoonga, and lock them up and warn them about the dangers of nyaope, but no-one ever accuses themselves of being far worse drug-takers than those okes. These three are always high on caffeine. Especially in the morning.’
‘Can’t start the day without a fix of caffeine, Piet,’ said Pillay. ‘When the Captain said he was launching his early start early finish experiment I knew that my caffeine intake would escalate for a month.’
‘Ja, Navi, you’re right, hey,’ Koekemoer added. ‘I can’t wait for this month to be finished so we can return to normal working hours.’
‘What you mean, Koeks, return to normal hours? You think we will?’ Dippenaar was genuinely surprised at what his colleague had said, and continued. ‘I heard Nyawula say that the experiment was going so well he was thinking we would stick with it as a permanent arrangement.’
There was a chorus of protest from the others, saying that there was no way they would be able to sustain these hours and that the Captain had assured them at the beginning that coming in early for one month and ending each day early was only an experiment. Dippenaar added the observation that they had been coming in early but no way were they ending early. Cronje calmed them down.
‘Yissus, you guys. Take it easy, OK? We all agreed to an early start for one calendar month only. Don’t jump the gun. There’ll be no permanent change unless we all have a discussion like we had when we agreed to go with the Captain’s suggestion. You see, Mavis, what coffee does to these okes? They get all out of control when they’re on caffeine.’
‘Ja, Mavis,’ said Koekemoer. ‘You listen to uncle Piet. He knows best. I seen the sergeant drink coffee and put smoke into his lungs out there in the car park just about every day since I met him. He drinks almost as much coffee as Detective Ryder, and that oke must have the world record for the amount of caffeine he puts away each day.’
Mavis smiled shyly, her hands half-covering her face, and Koekemoer continued.
‘You know what we talking about, when we say caffeine, Mavis?’
‘I know caffeine, yes, I know about it.’
‘You do?’
Given the opportunity, Mavis let it gush out.
‘I know, Detective Koeks. Caffeine is a - what you call it - a psychoactive drug. The people in Peru, there, they’ve been chewing the coca leaves for one thousand years. Longer than a thousand. In America the Food and Drug Administration people there say that caffeine is safe because a toxic dose is more than ten grams for one adult person, so we can have twenty cups of coffee before we reach that level.’
They were all stunned into silence. Koekemoer especially, with his mouth still open. Mavis paused only slightly before continuing.
‘Caffeine is alkaloid, just like cocaine, nicotine, and morphine. It stimulates the nervous system, and...’
‘Fok!’ said Koekemoer.
‘Yissus!’ said Dippenaar.
‘You go, girl!’ said Pillay.
‘Jeez, Mavis,’ said Cronje. ‘Where you get all that stuff from?’
‘Me, I’m studying at UNISA, Sergeant Piet, like I told you. I’m doing a BSc. I want to do forensic science. So that I can work at the DNA Project one day.’
The teasing immediately turned away from Mavis and they all focused instead on Koekemoer. The humorous barbs came fast and furious, led by Pillay but with Cronje and Dippenaar diving in with glee, as they teased him mercilessly about his assumptions, his preconceptions and his lack of scientific knowledge, while Mavis beamed. But Koekemoer took it in good spirit.
‘Fok, Mavis. When you’re working there at forensics, and I come to you for advice, you gonna remind me of this day, hey? Yissus. I’m going to ask your scientific advice next time I’m trying to decide between whisky or gin.’
‘That’s good, Detective Koeks. I can ask you if you want to drink whisky with a ‘y’ only or with the ‘e’ and the ‘y,’ then I can tell you.’
More laughter at Koekemoer’s expense as he looked nonplussed and Dippenaar had to explain to him the difference, with lots of attendant jokes about the trouble he might land in if he were to walk into a bar in the USA or Canada or Scotland or Ireland.
High fives all around for Mavis, and eventually the mirth subsided.
‘Speaking of coffee. Where’s Jeremy. Piet? Is he practising his speech for this afternoon?’
‘He’s only getting here at about 10.00 am, Dipps. He’s following up on last week’s stuff with that blerrie Thabethe bastard. He’s seeing van Rensburg in Comms to check on how they’re going with tracing him through his cell-phone. The Captain, too, is only coming in later. About 11.30. He has reports to do at IPID about the stuff that happened last week.’
‘And Sinethemba, Piet? She’s normally here by now.’
‘Ja, you’re right, Navi. I was wondering where she was. She’s usually first in. Have you heard anything from her, Mavis?’
‘No, Sergeant Piet. I was talking to her last on Saturday night. She was having a party yesterday in KwaDukuza with friends. Maybe I should call her?’
‘Ag, no, Mavis, don’t worry. It’s still quite early. I’m sure she’ll be here any minute now. Maybe she’s been writing too many essays. Like you, hey, Mavis? I reckon students nowadays work much harder than when I was a student. You guys have the internet and stuff. I hated going to the library. I would have worked much harder as a student if I could have done it at home with the
internet and cigarettes and coffee.’
Further discussion ensued about student life with some flattering observations about the impressive young Sinethemba and what a model student constable she was. The detectives learned that Mavis and she were much closer friends than any of them had realised.
Cronje thought how much better things were now, under Captain Nyawula’s command, with the unit getting to know one another as friends as well as colleagues.
‘OK, lissen, kêrels,’ he said, ‘some of us have to do some real work now so if you don’t mind can I have my desk?’
They all got down, in good humour, to the normal business of the day.
09.40.
Ryder left the SAPS Comms team with no answers. Technological wizard Van Rensurg had been very helpful but there was no trace of the cell-phone that Ryder needed to track down the wanted former cop, guns-and-drugs-dealer and murderer, Skhura Thabethe.
They had followed the phone that Thabethe used, Van Rensburg told him. They had hoped to pick up the signal and track him down. Skhura Thabethe. The unit’s most wanted man on the run.
But nothing. Van Rensburg’s people pinged the instrument north of Richards Bay late on Saturday night and had got excited. Then they got depressed when the signal passed through Mtubatuba on Sunday morning, and before they could get a vehicle onto it the signal vanished completely. The really bad news was that it then re-appeared briefly on Sunday afternoon going into Swaziland on the MR9 from Piet Retief. It was now lost somewhere in Swaziland.
Ryder had no way of knowing that his quarry had slipped the phone onto a pantechnicon heading northward on Saturday night while he then went eastward. The identified cell-phone was now useless in the search for Thabethe.
Ryder headed back to the team.
10.05.
Cronje, Pillay and Tshabalala were suffering. There had been yet another power outage. The fans weren’t working. Jackets had long been discarded. Sleeves were rolled up. Buttons undone. The few remaining cans of Coca-Cola and Ginger Beer had long ago lost their drops of condensation and turned warm. There was no ice left in the cooler-box. The water produced from the melted ice had been poured onto the suffering plants and had already evaporated. Shirts were damp under the arms, and foreheads were beaded with perspiration.
They were engaged in focused discussion on one of Pillay’s cases when Ryder arrived.
‘Hi Jeremy. Any luck with the Thabethe phone?’
‘No, Piet. Van Rensburg was as helpful as he could be, but it looks as if they lost him somewhere in Swaziland.’
‘Bastard. Captain’s not going to like that.’
‘No, he won’t, Navi. He wants nothing more than to nail Thabethe.’
‘You think it’s worth going back to his friend, the guy who gave him the phone?’
‘Mkhize? No, Piet, not yet. I don’t think so. Besides the fact that I don’t trust that guy as far as I could throw him - which would be pretty far, I admit - we made it clear to Mkhize that once he passed the phone on to Thabethe we would ensure that there would be no trail back to him. He seemed pretty terrified of Thabethe.’
‘Unless Mkhize was spinning us a fast one, Jeremy. Maybe he played us all the way and told Thabethe the phone was bugged and Thabethe then dumped it. On someone going to Swaziland, maybe.’
‘Could be, Navi. That crossed my mind, I have to admit.’
‘Want me to go and talk to Mkhize?’
‘Maybe, Navi. Maybe. Not sure we’ll get the truth out of him if that was actually the way things went down. But maybe we could shake him up a bit. Ask him who his whoonga supplier is, now that Thabethe’s left town. But let’s give it a day or two. Van Rensburg said they would continue trying to pick up the signal and would let me know as soon as they do. In the meantime I have to follow up on the Musgrave Centre stabbing, and the assaults in Glenwood. Want to join me? I’m going to Musgrave first, then Glenwood. Would be useful to have a woman cop with me, especially for the Glenwood stuff.’
‘The sex workers? Ja, OK. I’d like to help on that one. I think you’re right. They won’t talk easily to a man alone. I’ll be very happy to come and - ag! damn, no.’
‘What?’
‘Ag, sorry, Jeremy. I forgot. Got to get my bandage and dressing changed. I have an appointment in half an hour. I’m hoping they’ll let me get rid of the sling. I can’t come to the Musgrave Centre but I’ll be able to join you in Glenwood after that, if that’s OK.’
‘Tell you what. Let’s stay in contact by phone and see whether the timing works. No problem if you can’t. It depends on what the nurses say, I suppose.’
‘How’s the arm, Detective Navi?’ asked Mavis.
‘It’s not too bad at all, Mavis. Just don’t ever get grazed by a bullet from a Desert Eagle, see?’
The three of them had a brief discussion about Pillay’s brush with death the previous week, in which she had sustained only a flesh wound, but a serious one, in a graze from a Desert Eagle bullet intended for her heart.
‘Captain in, Piet?’
‘No, Jeremy, not yet. He’s only back at 11.30 from IPID. He’s reporting on all the gemors from last week.’
‘And where’s Sinethemba?’
‘Ja, well, to tell you the truth, Jeremy, Mavis and me and Navi were all wondering about that. We think she must be sick, but her cell is on voicemail and her mom’s phone at home is engaged all the time so we can’t find out. We’ll keep on trying.’
‘OK, I’m off to Musgrave. Maybe see you in Glenwood later, Navi?’
‘OK, Jeremy. I’ll call when I know what’s happening.’
As the two detectives left, Mavis reached for the phone again, and Piet went back to work on his computer.
11.10.
The power had come on again at the top of the hour. They had been told that there would be no more load-shedding for the day. Hopefully. Fiona Ryder strode through the open-plan office toward the elevator, briefcase in her right hand and back-up memory-sticks clutched in her left. She had never in her entire career needed the back-ups, but they were a security blanket. If there was a technological disaster with any presentation, she felt that at least she had some fall-back, with multiple copies of the presentation available.
The trouble is, she thought, if there’s another power failure in the middle of the presentation the audience will scramble for the exit-doors. Without air-conditioning that room would be unbearable.
Her assistant strode purposefully behind her, rolls of poster-size drawings tucked under the right arm, briefcase clutched in the left hand. The personnel in the office each called out, variously, as they passed.
Good Luck, Fiona.
Knock them for six, Fiona.
Show them the future, boss.
Blow them away, Fiona.
Fiona smiled grimly and nodded in acknowledgement. A great deal hung on her presentation. The future of the firm, perhaps. The distinguished visitors gathering in the arena for her presentation represented big financial backers who had their eyes on the future profits available in one of the biggest envisaged design and construction projects this city would see for a long time. Fiona and senior partner Mongezi were leading the firm’s pitch for the design and planning work. Mongezi had done his bit, and now it was all down to her, with the crucial nuts and bolts of the proposal, and the vision and the magic that went with it.
By 12.30 it would all be over. Then a quick sandwich lunch with the investors, who had a flight to catch at 2.30. Giving her time to join Jeremy at the Trewhella funeral.
Fiona took a deep breath as they entered through the huge double doors of the presentation arena.
11.45.
Sergeant Cronje knocked before entering. Nyawula’s desk was covered in files, notes, post-its and scraps of paper clipped together.
‘How are you today, Piet? All organised for the funeral?’
‘Yes, fine, Captain. I mean… well, you know… what I meant to say was…’
‘I know, Piet. Don’t worr
y. Good turnout expected, though?’
‘Yes, for sure. Everyone I know’s coming.’
‘Sad day for all of us, Piet.’
‘Ja, Captain, and I’m sorry but it doesn’t get any better.’
‘Oh?’
‘Bad news, Captain. Really bad. This report here is by one of the Stanger detectives...’
‘KwaDukuza.’
‘Yes, sorry, KwaDukuza. With the trouble they’ve been having up there they’re short-staffed and all that, and they made phone calls all the way up to the Provincial Commissioner who then spoke to the Major General. He called while you were at IPID and he asked me to say, because he’d be in meetings when you returned, that he has agreed with the Commissioner that we should be asked to take over this case...’
‘And we’re not short-staffed?’
‘There’s another reason, too.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s all in the report here, Captain. No autopsy or ballistics yet, but this is the preliminary report from the KwaDukuza detective who went to the scene last night. Four dead. They want to hand it all over to us.’
Nyawula took the report from him.
‘Us? Handling a KwaDukuza matter?’
‘One of the victims was Sinethemba.’
Nyawula froze in shock. Then hung his head, as Cronje continued.
‘Four constables killed. One from Folweni. Two from Isipingo. And Sinethemba. They were all friends coming back from a birthday party. Ambushed. The Commissioner apparently said that because one of them was ours, and because of the problems at the moment in the station up there, we should take over, and the Major General agreed.’
Nyawula’s gaze ran quickly over the brief document, picking up the key facts. He felt drained.
‘Thanks, Piet. Anyone in the team know about this?’
‘I’m afraid so, Captain. In the car-park. Mavis was called by a friend a couple of minutes ago, just after this was delivered to me. She and Sinethemba were very close, and...’
‘Anyone else know?’
