by Ian Patrick
No time to finish the guy off with a killer blow to the throat, as Ryder might have preferred, because Busisiwe’s molester, in what seemed almost slow-motion to the guests, was now turning his attention one hundred and eighty degrees clockwise around to Ryder. Ryder, knowing this would be coming his way, was already swinging back counter-clockwise, calibrating the distance perfectly and smashing his left elbow into Macks’s celiac plexus. As he doubled over, Ryder, continuing the counter-clockwise movement, followed through with his right fist from low down near the floor and hammered him beneath the chin with a blow that would have felled a heavyweight boxer. It smashed the lower jaw into five pieces and drove its yellow teeth right through Macks’s tongue. The force of the blow continued through the upper jaw, fracturing the skull. He dropped like a stone.
Ryder paused only long enough to see that Fiona had grounded the third man in the kitchen, so he immediately turned back to the patio man. Who was now crawling to the patio, scrabbling around for his Desert Eagle, with blood in his eyes and in no fit state to find it. Ryder made sure by kicking aside the grounded weapon and helped him on his way by dragging him onto the patio and onto the first of the stairs that led to the garden. He placed the intruder’s right forearm across the two top steps, and snapped it with a downward thrust of his right foot. He then did the same to Themba’s left forearm, the split bones of each half ending up almost at right angles to each other.
Ivan ran to the edge of the patio and threw up into the garden. Harry punched the air with a yes!! as if his beloved Manchester United had just scored in extra time. Hans hugged Busisiwe as if he would never let her go. Mongezi and Ntombi were also clutching each other as if Armageddon was upon them. At a glance Ryder saw Kate helping Jennifer to her feet, but he was more interested in Fiona as he ran from the patio toward the kitchen.
Meanwhile Fiona had made good on her original intention. She would later tell friends that some of her finest meals had come out of the skillet, but this night proved to be the best use she had ever made of the heavy ribbed cast-iron frying pan. As Fiona had hung up the phone on the alarm company, she had calculated the exact distance she needed to stretch to get the frying pan into her hands. As her husband had started his action, she had turned instantly around on her guard, with a knee to the groin that connected perfectly. As Mavuso doubled up and stumbled backward, still with weapon in hand, she reached across to the stove. She lifted the skillet with both hands up to the ceiling and from on high brought it crashing down onto the back of the gangster’s skull. Lights out. She heard the skull-bone fracture, she would later say.
There was a moment of pure and complete silence. Throughout the house.
Then Jennifer started screaming again, hysterically.
23.10.
Thabethe was back at a spot he’d visited on more than one occasion late at night. Just north of the Umgeni River, in the bushes on the beach near the Beachwood Mangroves Nature Reserve. No fence could keep him out. Here he found tranquility. Space. Quiet.
He sat in the bush, staring out at the sea, a nyaope joint between thumb and two fingers. Time to think. A loaded SIG on the ground next to him. A carton of extra bullets in his pocket. A car at his disposal, safely parked some distance away.
Trouble is, he thought, this is a weapon that is being hunted by the cops. That drunken idiot, Themba, has probably left other clues and traces all over. It won’t take long for a half-smart cop to get hot on the trail. Then if they take down the three skollies, they’ll turn their attention to the missing weapon.
That Ryder guy. Bad business. With any luck, the three guys will nail Ryder and get him off the trail.
But if they don’t succeed, what then?
23.55.
The alarm company had been called. So had the Westville Police. The police had got there before the armed response team. This was because Fiona had had to spend a minute explaining why this time it was for real and clarifying why it was that she had been unable to send the coded alarm signal the first time.
While the police and the medics were doing their thing, the guests were all back at the dining room table. At Mongezi’s own suggestion he opened the carefully wrapped gift that he and Ntombi had brought and had handed to Ryder at the commencement of the evening. They had spoken lovingly about the gift as they had presented it to him.
‘It’s a Laphroaig PX Cask. One litre Travel Retail Exclusive, as they call it. Don’t know what the hell it signifies, but they say that it’s finished in ex-Pedro Ximinez Sherry casks,’ Mongezi had said, ‘whatever that might mean.’
‘You can read on the blurb that it’s very collectable and difficult to obtain. Hope you enjoy it over many months, Jeremy,’ Ntombi had said, not knowing how optimistic such a statement was in relation to the Ryders’ whisky habits.
Fiona now brought out the glasses with alacrity. Nerves needed to be calmed, she thought.
‘Won’t you get the ice, Jeremy? Thank you both so much. I can’t think of a better way to come down from all of that. Thank you, Ntombi. We’ve never heard of a collectable Laphroaig before. We can’t see how that would be possible in this house. Not with me and Jeremy. This is going to go down so well.’
Within mere minutes they were well into the bottle. They all participated, in between various statements being given to the police and the alarm company, and various bits of the evening’s action being replayed by each of them from different perspectives. Laughter and tears came and went. Ryder politely brushed aside Ntombi’s gracious suggestion that she and Mongezi would replace the gift and buy another bottle sometime during the week.
‘No way. I can’t think of a better way to enjoy your gift. Who could possibly forget this particular bottle now?’
As they chattered on about things as profoundly important as the merits of, or the scandal of ice in single malt whisky, Ryder was occasionally up and down, speaking to the investigating officers and the medics. He had been particularly pleased to be told by the detective from Westville that he had pulled some strings on the phone to get Nadine Salm, as one of the best forensics experts he knew in the province, to come out in order to package and record the three weapons carefully, and to dig up from the living room floor the bullet from the Desert Eagle. She had been happy to do so, the detective told Ryder, even though it was near midnight and even though there were no deaths.
‘The moment I told her that there were two SIG Sauer 9mms involved, she said she would come immediately. Because she was working on another case also involving SIG Sauers, she said, and what was amazing was that she said she had just left her laboratory where she had been doing tests with her assistant. Can you believe the woman? At this time of night?’
‘Yeah. I’m not surprised. She’s well known for that. Works around the clock. Gets amazing results.’
‘But she’s got a weird accent, hey, Jeremy?’
‘Oh?’
‘Ja, man. Weird. Not all the time. Just with some sounds, you know?’
Ryder could see that the detective was about to demonstrate Nadine Salm’s distinctive and somewhat idiosyncratic diphthongs.
‘Yes, I must admit I’ve noticed that myself.’
‘Ja. She said, about looking at other cases with SIGs, that she was on a bit of a rool, you noo?’
The detective chuckled and shook his head.
‘Blerrie weird, don’t you think?’
‘Yup. It does sound a bit...’
‘I thought at first she was from England, you know, but then I listened some more and thought no, man, maybe she’s a Joburg kugel. But no, she’s definitely not that….’
Ryder had no desire to chatter to the detective about these matters, especially with his guests waiting, so he tried to break off the conversation politely.
‘Anyway, I agree with you about her talents. I’ve worked with her before and know her well. She certainly knows her stuff...’
‘Oh, ja. Other thing. When I told her on the phone that the crime scene was the home of Detec
tive Jeremy Ryder she was really amazed, hey? She said something about strange coincidences and stuff. Anyway she said she would come right away so she should be here any minute.’
‘OK, that’s good, and look, I have to head back to my guests...’
‘Ja, sure, Jeremy. No problem.’
Ryder went back to the guests. It wasn’t long before the house was crawling with different people doing different tasks, while the dining room got progressively more animated.
According to the medics, all three of the attackers would probably survive their wounds, horrendous as they were, but all three of them were likely to spend a significant amount of time in hospital. Particularly the man whose skull had encountered Fiona’s skillet. The medics thought that of the three he was in the worst shape. By a long way.
Ryder insisted on more detailed work than the investigating officers would normally have undertaken. Every angle was covered, Ryder ensuring meticulous coverage of the whole scene. He questioned the officers on their recording of detail, ensured that they paid closer attention to aspects of the scene than they might otherwise have done, and satisfied himself that the medics were clear about their responsibilities in relation to the three patients. In the case of Nadine Salm, however, after greeting her effusively upon arrival he left her and her assistant entirely alone to do their own thing on the three weapons. No-one could advise Nadine, he thought. She always knew exactly what she was doing.
Eventually police and medics and patients and the rest all departed. As she took her leave, Nadine invited Ryder to visit her lab the next day, if he could, and she was sure they would have something for him on the KwaDukuza killings. He told her it would be his priority to do so.
‘I also want to have a closer look at this bullet I dug out of your lounge floor. Sorry about the hole and all, by the way.’
‘No problem, Nadine. You do what you have to do. Rather a hole in my floor than in one of my guests, right?’
‘Right. But I got to thinking as I was prising this little feller up from your nice Oregon pine flooring.’
She waved the evidence bag in front of Ryder.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Well, nothing that I can tell you just yet. But it made me think of a slug I dug out of someone else’s wall earlier today. Can’t wait to have a closer look at it. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow about the other stuff, Jeremy.’
‘Bye, Nadine. Good to see you.’
She was gone, along with her assistant, and Ryder returned to his guests in the dining room.
When the bottle of Laphroaig was empty it became the signal for the guests also to depart and for the three English visitors to go to bed, Jennifer with a final tumbler of lesser-quality whisky to help her sleep after the traumatic experience.
They departed amidst hugs and kisses and laughter and tears.
Ryder and Fiona were left alone, cleaning up in the kitchen.
‘I once told your mum that the reason I married you was that you were a dab hand with a skillet.’
‘Hmmm. I am, aren’t I? Better be careful from now on. No more coming up behind me in the kitchen.’
‘Well, I don’t know. I think I could handle you better than that guy did.’
‘Think so? Want to try?’
‘Hmmm. Maybe.’
He took her in his arms and they hugged, and became serious for a moment.
‘Things could have gone badly wrong,’ she said. ‘Makes me shudder to think of it.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘If you hadn’t...’
‘Shhh.’
‘OK.’
They parted and she looked at him. Then kissed him.
‘Think Jennifer will be OK?’ he asked.
‘Think so. Tough on her. Harry and Katherine seemed OK. They’ll have some stories to tell in the UK, won’t they? You think you should have stayed with Thames Valley Police? Much safer there.’
‘No way,’ Ryder said. ‘We would have died of boredom. Much better to die with a skillet in your hand.’
She moved quickly and grabbed the skillet, which was drying on the counter, and raised it above her head with two hands. But he moved in too quickly for her and kissed her full on the mouth with his arms enfolding her. Halfway through the kiss she brought the skillet down ever so gently, lightly tapping his head with it. They parted.
‘Hate to get on the wrong side of you,’ he said, exaggeratedly rubbing his head.
‘Then don’t. Bed time.’
And they started their well-known routine, switching off the lights and priming the alarms. Then went to bed.
5 THURSDAY
10.35.
Ryder, Pillay, Nyawula, Koekemoer and Dippenaar were in the Captain’s office.
‘Any one of us would have been happy to come out and help you sort out things, Jeremy. You should have called.’
‘I know that, Captain, but the action was all over and it was near midnight and the Westville guys were handling it. All of you guys have enough on your plates. For you to come out and help me pick up the pieces would have been really good of you, but really wasn’t necessary.’
‘Ag, jirra, Jeremy, man. When Fiona called Piet this morning to say you were checking in with the guys at Westville, he passed the phone over to me. She told me all about it. I liked the bit with the frying pan, hey?’
‘Thanks, Dipps. Don’t mess with my wife.’
‘I also heard about that bit, Jeremy. I called Fiona the moment Piet told me. She seemed fine but she told me that your guests were still a bit shaken this morning.’
‘I assume so, Captain. I left before they were awake. Asked Fiona to say goodbye to them for me, ‘cos they’re flying back to England. Taking a taxi to do some shopping at Gateway and then off to the airport this afternoon and England tonight. They’ll have some stories to tell over there.’
‘Ja, Jeremy,’ said Koekemoer, ‘I hear that those English ouens think that crime is when someone steals your flower-pot.’
That started a whole buzz of conversation which Nyawula then brought to a close.
‘Anyway, Jeremy, I thought you’d like to hear this.’
‘What’s that, Captain?’
‘I had a call from Nadine Salm a few minutes ago. She was looking for you so Piet put her through to me.’
‘And?’
‘She’s been talking to her colleagues in ballistics. They already have two pieces of information for us from the action last night.’
‘Good grief. Does that woman ever sleep?’ said Ryder. ‘What two pieces, Captain?’
‘The Desert Eagle on the one hand and the two SIG Sauers on the other.’
All of the detectives knew Nyawula well enough to know that he was about to announce a game-changer of some sort.
‘The two 9mms used in your robbery were two of the three weapons used in Sunday’s shooting of the four constables.’
Pandemonium. High fives and clenched fists and back-slaps. Ryder punched the air as he marvelled at Nadine’s extraordinary commitment in turning all of that around so quickly. Cronje came in from the interleading office to see what was happening.
‘Come in, Piet. I’ve just told them about Nadine Salm’s report.’
‘Yissus, Captain, I thought that someone had died in here.’
‘And what about the Desert Eagle, Captain?’ asked Pillay.
‘According to Nadine Salm, the Desert Eagle used last night at Jeremy’s home was the same one used in two different homicides in Umlazi two years ago. Nadine says that ballistics have an open file on those two homicides and were hoping this weapon would re-appear sometime.’
Ryder was suddenly thinking again about the sequence of events in his home. What was it that one of the robbers had said last night? His mind raced as he tried to recall. The guy had said something that had only partly registered in Ryder’s brain. He tried to recall it.
It started coming slowly into focus as he replayed the scene in his head. The guy who had reached out for Busisiwe with the worst o
f intentions. What was it he had said?
Then later we want to talk to the Detective, Mr Jeremy Ryder, after we have some fun.
Ryder paused as the recollection came into focus.
‘What is it, Jeremy? Jirra, okie, you still with us?’
’I’ve just thought of something, Dipps.’
‘What, Jeremy?’
‘I’ve just remembered a moment from last night, Captain. One of the guys said, while they were holding us at gunpoint, one of them said we want to talk to the Detective, Mr Jeremy Ryder. Never mind how they found out where I live - that probably wouldn’t be too difficult. What intrigues me is that the reason for their visit wasn’t just robbery. The reason for their visit was me.’
10.45.
Thabethe wasn’t taking any chances. He had started calling the Mx favourite on his cell-phone. The number for Macks. Then, before it connected, he had shut off the call. Better not link the two phones again, just in case. Find a public call-box. Safer. At least until he knew what might have happened last night.
Had they put Ryder down? Had they got the cop off his back? There was nothing on the radio about a cop-killing in Westville. Maybe the cops were keeping it quiet for as long as they could.
After trying three obsolete public call-boxes without success, he took his chances at a small grocer. He handed over the cash first and then made the call. The grocer monitored the number, and only after ensuring that it was a standard cell-phone call with no international prefix, did he retreat a few paces to let Thabethe speak in private. When Thabethe stared at him he retreated further.
