by Ian Patrick
‘Talk, my friend. Speak to Skhura.’
‘Eish, is bad, Skhura.’
‘Easy, broer, easy my bra. You can tell Skhura. Tell me what you thinking.’
‘You remember that one time, Skhura. I’m saying to you, I’m saying I know when I’m having trouble with guys then Skhura can sort them out, nè?’
‘Is right, Spikes. Is right. I tell you then, that time, that you just call me and I will fix you up. I remember.’
‘Eish, Skhura. Is my daughters. Jessica and Nobuhle, you know? They in trouble, my friend.’
‘They pregnant?’
‘Haikona. Not them. They not pregnant, you know. No, is bad guys wanting to bulala my girls.’
‘Talk, Spikes. Tell Skhura.’
And Mkhize filled Thabethe in on the details. First the twins seeing the shooting. Then the three men going to his mother’s home in KwaDukuza, looking for the twins, and asking her questions not only about her granddaughters but about her son. About him, asking questions about Mkhize himself! They had asked her all these questions. Like what was Mkhize doing, as a father, to allow his girls to talk to the boere? Speaking to the enemy of all the local people. People who were just trying to get on with their own lives. What were these girls doing? Trying to get all these people in trouble with amaphoyisa? Where were the girls now? What was the name of the detective they talked to? Where was this detective based? KwaDukuza? Central? Or where?
Thabethe listened to Mkhize’s story, calming him down as he got more and more agitated about the interrogation of the old woman. He learned that the grandmother had deflected attention away from the twins. She had given the men some story about the twins being taken to Gauteng by a relative to be interviewed for college. The men had left, very angry, warning her that if the girls or Mkhize talked to the police again there would be trouble.
‘Fokken moegoes! Skhura, bra, these guys they big trouble for me. I must get them. I must take them out one time. I finish them one shot. They big trouble. Skollies.’
‘Big trouble. Is true, Spikes. Big trouble.’
Thabethe was only half-aware of the anguish underlying his friend’s bravura words. He was busy thinking ahead. His mind was racing as he deliberated how much he should tell Spikes. He had no doubt, now, that the three men he had seen in the bush on Sunday night were the same three men looking for the Mkhize twins.
20.45
Themba, Mavuso and Macks drove away quietly and entirely unnoticed from the house in Isithupha Close. News reports the next day would carry the story of another dead cop. They would sing the praises of Sergeant Lucky Dlamini from the Folweni Police Station. They would mention the fact that he had been in a relationship with the murdered Constable Lindiwe Xana. They would express the view, based on the first superficial police report, that it was a tragedy that the highly regarded policeman had gone home from work, sat down in his favourite armchair and taken his own life by shooting himself in the throat with his service pistol.
The three perpetrators had waited in silence after Themba had fired the single shot from Dlamini’s own cherished private weapon, his beloved Desert Eagle. As Dlamini’s body slowly slumped in the chair where they had forced him, at gunpoint, to sit, the three of them each rushed to a different window to lift a corner of the curtain or, in one case, the blind, to see whether there was any response to the single shot from across the street or from the adjacent properties.
Nothing. Neighbours were doubtless engaged in their own entertainments. From the house opposite came the loud thumping rhythms of techno rave, the throbbing beats exhibiting the proud owner’s out-of-date quadraphonic speakers, distorting the sound but providing ideal cover for the three intruders. From the house next door on the left came some competition with someone playing on better equipment and at top volume a Durban Poison remix of Made U Look.
Having attracted no attention with the single shot from the Desert Eagle, the intruders were emboldened. Themba tucked Dlamini’s prized possession into his own belt in the small of his back then removed the luckless sergeant’s Vektor Z88 from its holster on the bed, where he had carelessly tossed it on entering the house. Pushing the Vektor into the edge of the mattress on the bed, Themba fired a single shot into it, parallel to the floor, aiming from the foot to the head of the bedding. He checked the damage, decided it was minimal, then pulled the sheet and blanket back into place to cover the hole. Then he wiped his prints off the weapon and placed it into Dlamini’s hand, taking care to avoid the pool now forming from the blood dripping slowly down from the chair onto the carpetless floor.
‘Is good, Themba. Let’s go,’ said Macks.
‘Wait, comrades. Let’s check. Maybe good stuff to steal.’
‘Hayi, Mavuso. We came for the gun. I got the gun. Let’s go. This guy’s got nothing here,’ said Themba.
Mavuso’s protests were cut short, Macks agreeing with Themba, and the three of them left by the back door, taking care to check anything that might have given away the evidence of their intrusion. Mavuso was last, and he took advantage of that fact to hang back as the other two made for the exit. He quickly lifted the flap of Dlamini’s jacket and took the dead man’s wallet. He stuffed it into his back pocket and walked quickly after the others.
They walked from the back door, around to the front and down the road to their car. Casually, attracting no attention from anyone.
20.55
Thabethe decided to play his cards close for now. There was nothing to be gained by telling Spikes what he knew about the three men. Instead, he reassured his friend that he would make it his business to find out who they were and to do what he could to take the heat off his daughters.
They shared a few more beers, and talked further. Thabethe asked more probing questions around what the twins had told Mkhize about the ambush on Sunday and the grandmother’s experience with the three men that afternoon. Then he remembered something specific that Mkhize had said to him earlier.
‘Spikes. I want to ask you one thing.’
‘Is what, Skhura? What one thing?’
‘You say to me just now. You say to me that when these guys are talking to your mother, they say to her what is the name of the detective who the girls talked to. You were saying that your mother she is telling you that these guys they want the information about this detective.’
‘Is correct, Skhura. That is just what she says to me.’
‘And she give you the answer, bra? She tell you if she told those guys who was that detective?’
‘Hayi, Skhura, she doesn’t tell me the name of the detective. She just tells me they ask his name. I’m not knowing if she tells them his name. I can find out if she tells them, if you like.’
‘See if you find out, Spikes. You tell me if the old gogo she told those guys, OK?’
‘OK, Skhura. I call her and find out. But not tonight, hey bra? That old woman she’s mad. She’s not talking to me tonight. Is too late for her. I phone her tomorrow. Then I phone you and tell you. Is OK?’
‘Is OK. You phone me tomorrow. Tell me if she told those guys the name of that detective.’
‘Yebo, bra. I do that. I phone tomorrow and tell you.’
‘Sharp, Spikes. I must go now.’
They took leave of each other, nodding and punching fists and laughing at a few of Spikes’s customary lewd comments. Thabethe checked through the windows to see that the street was functioning exactly as it should on a weeknight after dark. Then he left, wondering how he might use some of the information he had picked up.
He wondered specifically how he might find out the name of this detective that was investigating the case. If that detective was looking for the three men who hid in the bush at Blythedale, then he would be looking for the three pistols, and if he found the men, he would find two of the pistols. He would then start looking for the third pistol.
That detective would then come looking for Skhura Thabethe.
He paused as this thought struck him. He had not yet got t
o the street. Mkhize, who stood in his doorway, some twenty paces back, watching him, called out.
‘Is OK, Skhura?’
Thabethe turned and walked back to him.
‘I’m thinking, Spikes.’
‘Yebo, Skhura. You thinking what?’
‘I’m thinking, you saying you gotta 1974 Ford?’
‘Is a good car, Skhura, I’m telling you. Twenty-five thousand rands only for you, bra.’
‘No thanks, Spikes. I’m not wanting to buy ‘nother car. But you rent to me? You know I like to rent and not buy. How much for one week?’
‘No problem, bra. For you, Skhura, special price. You want now? Tonight? I got there at the back. Take five minutes, bra. I get the papers and we do it right now.’
21.25
The three thugs made their way back to Themba’s shack in KwaMashu M with only one scary moment. This was just as they left the R102 for the M25 when police sirens arrived out of nowhere and suddenly blue lights appeared in their rearview mirror. Their first reaction as Themba pulled over onto the verge was that they had been caught, with no escape possible.
Macks thought they might have been followed since leaving the shebeen just north of Greyville, where Mavuso had surprised him and Themba by suddenly pulling out cash they never knew he had, and buying all the booze. Seeing them carrying a large box laden with bottles of gin, whisky, brandy, vodka and beer to the car, perhaps someone had got suspicious and called the cops.
Themba thought that maybe the police had somehow traced the false number plates. That detective who was looking for them: maybe him. He’d thought that somehow the detective had managed to trace them. This Jiminy Rider guy. Jimmy Rider. Whoever he was. Themba was doubly terrified that he was carrying Sergeant Dlamini’s Desert Eagle. If he was stopped by the cops how would be explain that away?
Mavuso panicked because, unknown to his two companions, he had a murdered cop’s wallet in his pocket.
The moment of terror then passed as the two cop cars swept past them, on their way to some other action.
Heart thumping, Themba cursed as he swung the car back onto the road heading toward KwaMashu M. As the danger receded, bravura returned. Macks and Mavuso began joking about the experience. Themba was quiet, still shaken by it.
‘Eish, Mavusies! I’m thinking there that maybe someone was telling the boere we had so much isiphuzo and they better check us, that’s why they were coming with their sirens.’
‘Yebo. Me too, Macks. I was thinking maybe they see us leave with vodka and whisky and not just zamalek and they get jealous, and they call the blue lights.’
There was a moment’s silence before Themba picked up the same idea.
‘Where you get the bucks, Mavuso?’
‘Yini?’
‘Where you get the money?’
‘Money? Is mine.’
‘Hey, wena!’
‘What you talk?’
‘Where you get the money?’
‘Yes, bra!’ Macks joined in with Themba. ‘Themba and me, we see you with the big bucks back there. Where you get that money?’
‘Nxa, man. What you talk? Is mine. Is my money.’
Neither Macks nor Themba was satisfied with the response, but they left it there. Themba turned on the radio and they drove for little more than half a minute with the thumping sounds of some newcomer whose music none of them could identify. Themba switched it off again and they drove in silence.
‘What you think, Themba?’ asked Macks.
‘Nothing.’
‘Hayi. Not nothing. I know you, bra. I know you thinking big things.’
‘I’m thinking we get that Jiminy Rider before he’s getting us.’
That produced a new energy as they spoke over each other, excitedly, about getting to the detective before he got to them.
‘How we find him, bra Themba?’
‘I told you, Macks. I got a friend there at Durban North. I call him tomorrow when he starts there by the office. He’s got a computer with the names of the boere. Names and addresses. He’s got that Jim there in his office. He got that Jim Rider there in that computer. He’s telling me tomorrow, then we go and see this detective there at his house.’
4 WEDNESDAY
05.45.
The Ryders were more frantic than usual with their morning schedule. Fiona had asked him to pack the children’s bags for their four days away, so that when school broke at midday for half-term they would be ready for her to drop off, along with the dog. He had done so. She had then inspected the bags and promptly started re-packing them. They exchanged harsh words while she did so. He stormed out to get more coffee, telling her to pack the damn things herself next time.
Sugar-Bear knew something was up and was running all over the house, barking in excitement. He would have to wait a few hours for Fiona to pop home from work in order to take him with the luggage to the school, for transfer to the friends who had been brave enough to invite the dog along with the children.
The children were fighting in one of the bedrooms. Someone’s hiking boots had disappeared. A glove had gone missing.
The phone rang. Ryder ignored it.
‘That won’t be for me, so please answer the damn thing,’ Fiona called.
Ryder answered the phone in the kitchen.
‘It’s for you,’ he called.
‘Who is it?’
‘Mongezi!’
‘Coming!’
Ryder told Mongezi she was on her way and that he was putting down the receiver. He grabbed his coffee and scarpered before she arrived to pick up the call.
‘Mongezi!’ she said, as sweetly as she had ever spoken into any telephone mouthpiece. ‘How are you?’
07.35.
Koekemoer, Dippenaar, Pillay, and Cronje were more sombre than usual over their coffees. They had been reminiscing about Trewhella. Koekemoer had started it off by remarking that by this time in the morning Trewhella would normally have told half a dozen jokes, whereas the only joke so far today had been Dippenaar, on his arrival, greeting them all in Afrikaans for a change.
‘I’ve noticed, ou boet, that it’s only me and Piet that talk Afrikaans in this place now.’
‘Ag, kak, man,’ Dippenaar responded.
Cronje reported that Mavis had called in earlier to say that she would be late. She was still broken up by the death of Sinethemba and had had a rough night with the Ngobeni family, who were still inconsolable.
That led to further reminiscences about the student constable, and a further downward spiral in the mood.
In response to a question from Koekemoer, Pillay said that Ryder would be late this morning.
Cronje’s desk phone rang and he took the call.
‘Hullo, Cronje. Sorry? Who? Oh, yes, Captain. Sorry, Ma’am. Sorry. I mean Miss. Yes. Yes, he’s in. I’ll put you through, Captain.’
He transferred the call to Captain Nyawula.
‘Station Commander at Folweni,’ he said to the others.
‘Do they also start early down there, Piet? I thought it was just us.’
‘I dunno, Navi. I thought Nyawula was the only captain that started early. He’s asked me before to try and get some of the different okes on the line, and both of us eventually realised that it was usually no good trying to get a Station Commander on the phone before 8.00 am. This one sounds different. She was quite, how can I say, sharp, you know?’
Dippenaar yawned loudly and stretched.
‘Yissus, ou broer,’ said Koekemoer, ‘what were you dopping last night?’
‘Ag, nee, man,’ came the reply. ‘Only tea last night. I actually had an early night for a change.’
‘Actually? Actually? Yissus, Dipps, you becoming more like an Engelsman every day. I swear, hey, ever since old Ed joined us you started talking more English and less Afrikaans. Like English English, you know? Not just Seffrikan English. Actually. I beg yours. May I have the next dance? Could I prevail upon you? Are you actually a closet soutpiel, jong?’
&nb
sp; ‘Actually? Ja, Koeks, actually I actually am.’
Nyawula entered from the inner office.
‘Koeks. Dipps. You saw Sergeant Dlamini yesterday?’
‘Yes, Captain,’ they replied together.
‘How was he when you left him?’
‘Ag, he was in a bad way, Captain,’ said Koekemoer. ‘We left him at about three o’clock.’
‘Very bad, Captain. He was still messed up about Constable Xana. Actually, we were quite worried about him when we left him, hey Koeks?’
‘That was my opposite number from Folweni Station on the phone, men. I need you both to go back down there as soon as you can. Now, if possible.’
‘What’s happened, Captain?’ asked Pillay.
‘The Captain didn’t have anything more than a first responder report, but she’s been told that Sergeant Dlamini shot himself last night. He’s dead.’
08.55.
Maishe, the policeman friend in Durban North, was unable to help. Themba’s exasperation had grown to bursting point. The more he insisted that Detective Jimmy Rider’s name must be on the database, the more the constable asserted the contrary.
‘I’m telling you, Themba, I am looking now at this computer. I am looking at all the names in KwaZulu-Natal. All over. Everywhere. There is no Jimmy Rider, or James Rider or Jiminy Rider. Or Jeremy Rider. There is fokall Rider.’
‘And I’m telling you, Maishe, wena, that his name is there. He is a detective in Durban, I think Durban Central. You try Durban Harbour? You try Durban Point? What about maybe Isipingo? He is Jimmy Rider. Maybe Jiminy Rider. Maybe James. I don’t know. But Rider. Detective Rider. Look properly, wena!’
‘I’m telling you I’m looking. I’m looking now. I got all the names. I’m looking at R and a. I’m looking at R and e and R and i and o and u. There is nothing, I’m telling you.’
‘Listen, Maishe, the name is there, I’m telling you. Look again one more time.’
‘Themba, I’m telling you. There is Rhadebe and there is Rhoyi and there is Rice two times, and Richard, and again Richard, and Richards, and two more Richards, and Richardson. Richey. Richie. This one she is spelling R-i-c-h-i-e, and Richter, and Rickert, and no Rider. Fokall Rider! No R-i-d-e- and whatever else. Then there is next one, Ridgway. Then comes Riggs. There is one Ritter, and ‘nother one Ritter, and Rivera. Then finished with R and i. All finish and klaar. After that is coming R and o. I got here Robb, the next one. Then is coming Robbins, and Roberts, lots of times, that one, and then comes Robertson. Then Robinson. I got Roelofse. Roets. Rohloff. Rolihlahla. Just like Mandela, nè? Then I got Roodt. Rose. Roux. Rowe. Russel and then also Russell with two times ‘l,’ nè? And lots of R and u and now I’m telling you fokkof man, there is no Rider here I am telling you now.’
