by Ian Patrick
‘Eat, wena. You eat, now. You eat. Chips with sand. Sandwich. You understand what is sandwich, zulu-boy? Is bread with sand. I got no bread. But I got chips. I got sand. Plenty sand. Now you eat special Kentucky Fried sandwich. You eat chips and sand. Now.’
The young man wept in terror as he took a chip, covered in sand, and put it into his mouth. Thabethe bent down and grabbed a handful of them with his left hand and thrust them into the man’s mouth. Then as the man choked he grabbed another handful of soil and thrust that into his mouth, too.
Thabethe stood back as the man retched and spat and wept. He waited for the man to raise his eyes and look again at him before he spoke.
‘You think you steal my car, wena? You think you can stab me? You think you cut my throat? You think I’m a pig?’
‘Sorry, nkosi. Sorry, sir...’
‘Look at me, wena!’
Thabethe’s voice was suddenly different. Calm. Cold, Measured. The man paused, petrified, as Thabethe raised the gun and placed the barrel against his forehead. Thabethe applied pressure, pushing the man’s head back, slowly. The victim clenched teeth, whimpering, and tears squeezed out from the tightly closed eyelids.
Then Thabethe took three paces back. He looked all around. No-one in sight. No-one visible. He waited for the man to open his eyes and look at him. Then he fired one shot into the man’s right shoulder and another immediately into the left shoulder. The man screamed as he fell back in agony. Thabethe moved forward and stood astride him. He waited for the screams to fade away to whimpering. And waited again for the man’s eyes to open and then to meet his own. As they did so, Thabethe paused, then pumped four bullets into the man’s face.
Thabethe turned, walked over to the car, and drove away.
15.00.
There were about forty people in the firm’s presentation arena. Efficient waiters ducked in and out offering bubbly and canapés. There was an excited buzz, and all the speeches were mercifully short.
They passed forward the giant cheque for the attention of the photographer, and Fiona Ryder was gently pulled forward to take central position. The crowd roundly applauded as this happened, but she immediately stepped forward to grab Mongezi by the hand and despite his protests dragged him to the centre of the room. As the photographer prepared for the shot, she then strode forward to grab Busisiwe, too, and pull her into the frame. The three of them laughed and were heartily cheered by the little crowd that had gathered.
None in the crowd knew the extent of the new bond that had formed between Mongezi, Busisiwe and Fiona Ryder since the near-tragic events of the previous night. Many of them had been told or had heard from others that there had been an incident at the Ryder home last night, and that a few people from the firm had been present, and that the scene had been traumatic for some. Many in the crowd had their own experiences of burglary or robbery or mugging or hijacking, but from what they had heard this particular one seemed to have stopped fractionally short of the ultimate tragedy. Word had even got around that Fiona herself had played a role in putting down one of the would-be burglars.
Which served to enhance Fiona Ryder’s reputation as a no-nonsense tough cookie, but an utterly charming one.
The rumours grew. Don’t mess with Fiona Ryder.
16.05.
‘Thanks, Piet. I appreciate you doing all of this. The crap pile grows bigger every day. I don’t have time to think and I’m getting writer’s cramp just filling out forms.’
‘Ja, hey, Captain. What forms will they invent next?’
‘Keeps someone busy in Pretoria, I suppose. What bugs me is that every case has so many damned appendices and footnotes and cross-references and extra bits added to the file. Despite the supposed move to paperless reporting.’
‘Yissus, Captain. You right there, hey? I agree. My old man would have given up long ago. Detectives in his day just got on with the job and scribbled a few notes on a file when they had a chance. Now, Some student could hand in any one of these cases and get a Masters degree for it there by the university.’
‘Speaking of students. How’s Mavis doing?’
‘Ag, you know. Alright, I suppose. But she’s still like, you know, a bit upset? I was wondering whether we could put her onto something that will take her mind off things.’
‘Of course. Have anything in mind?’
‘Well, you know, I was thinking. That Nadine Salm is so blerrie good at what she does. I know KoeksnDips are going down to see her working the scene in Folweni tomorrow...’
‘And Mavis is interested in forensics. I see where you’re going, Piet.’
‘Ja, so I was wondering...’
‘Why don’t you pick up the phone and ask Nadine if Mavis can go down with them?’
‘You think that’s OK?’
‘Sure. Why not? Get KoeksnDips to take her along with them. Just call Nadine and ask. Tell her I asked you to ask her, if you like.’
‘Really, Captain?’
‘Of course.’
‘Ja, well, OK. No. Fine. I’ll do just that then. Thanks, Captain.’
‘Not at all. Good idea. It’ll do her a lot of good. OK. Well, I have one call to make and then I’m off to Cluster Command for that five o’clock meeting. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘OK. Thanks. I’ll sort out the papers here, and… Ja, well. OK, then. Thanks, Captain.’
Cronje gathered the files and left Nyawula, who reached for his phone.
21.45.
Ryder and Fiona were at home with some Sauvignon Blanc on the couch, watching a really bad TV drama, when his iPhone rang.
‘Ryder. Nadine? Hi Nadine. Where are you? Not still in the lab at this time of night?’
Having been scolded by Fiona earlier in the evening over his comments about Nadine’s idiosyncratic pronunciation, Ryder resolved to make himself impervious to her vowel sounds, and because he knew she would have news for him that he desperately needed, he didn’t as a consequence even register any of Nadine’s diphthongs this time.
‘Would you rather have me watching a replay of CSI on TV, Jeremy? Learning from those guys in New York and Miami and Las Vegas how to do ballistics and DNA testing?’
‘Well, Nadine, those CSI guys are so good. They solve a hundred cases a week and they can turn around DNA sampling in about four seconds. Much faster than you. You’ve got a helluva lot to learn from them, you know?’
Fiona punched him on the thigh, muted the television, and snuggled closer so that she could eavesdrop on the conversation, as Nadine continued.
‘Thanks, Jeremy. I’ll put my TV recorder on and try and catch up on all the old CSI shows in a binge between Christmas and New Year. My assistant is nodding at me. Wants to join me and do the same. Who knows, by New Year we may be able to get a whole lot better at what we do. Sounds like you have enough time at your disposal to watch quite a few of them yourself? Anyway, we like the lab. Nice and quiet at this time of night. It allows us to find out things that would be so interesting for you detective types to hear about. Want to hear what we’ve found out for you?’
‘Shoot, please, Nadine.’
‘I’m not the shooting type. That’s you.’
‘OK, then talk to me. I’m all ears.’
‘We’ve got the DNA from all three of your dinner guests. Not the posh guests. I’m sure their DNA would be, like, really interesting, you know? But no, this time I mean the DNA of the three gate-crashers.’
‘Great stuff. And?’
‘I’ve put together the DNA stuff that my colleagues have shared with me, matched the finger marks and the fingerprints that we lifted, and put it all against the evidence that they’ve tested from the KwaDukuza crime scene. Two of the perps in your home were the two rapists in Sunday’s hit on the four constables.
‘Knew it. Bastards!’ said Ryder as he clenched his fist like a tennis champion breaking serve in the final set.
‘Want to guess which of the three options worked out, Jeremy? SIG one and SIG two, or SIG one and De
sert Eagle, or SIG two and Desert Eagle?’
‘Hit me with it, Nadine.’
‘SIG one and SIG two from your dinner party were the two rapists at KwaDukuza.’
‘Which means we have nothing yet that puts Desert Eagle at the KwaDukuza crime scene.
‘Right. Nothing yet.’
‘But we know he was there.’
‘You guys know that. We don’t believe in everything the cops believe. We only believe in evidence.’
‘You’re so pure, Nadine, you know that? How do you survive?’
‘I rely on big, strong, violent men to make my life interesting. Hold on. My assistant wants to add something to that. Oh. Yeah. For sure. She says that she, too, wants the same thing. Big, strong, violent men. Both cops and robbers, she says.’
‘Thanks, Nadine. I appreciate this. Very much. Can I drive over there right now and bring you each a frothy coffee or something, to keep you awake?’
‘No, thanks, Detective. Some of us have to get some sleep, you know, while others can watch TV all night. I’ve arranged to go out at crack of dawn tomorrow back to that Folweni sergeant’s house. Something bothers me about what’s supposed to have gone down in that incident, so I want to go back and do a full reconstruction. I dug out the bullet on my first visit and my colleagues still have to do tests on it. But in the meantime the Folweni cops are meeting me there early, and your two guys, too, I hear, are coming back for a second visit. The ones with the funny names.’
‘KoeksnDips?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Koekemoer and Dippenaar. Good guys.’
‘So I thought when I met them the first time.’
‘They also spoke highly of you, Nadine.’
‘Really? Well, like I’ve always said, you can’t trust the judgement of cops, only forensics people. Except, maybe, your new young intern cop. KoeksnDips are bringing her along with them tomorrow because she’s interested in forensics.’
‘What, Mavis Tshabalala?’
‘The same. Apparently your Sergeant Cronje spoke to Nyawula who then said they should ask me if I mind having an extra observer tomorrow along with KoeksnDips and I said no problem. I hear she’s a part-time BSc student and interested in a future career in forensics. So I said OK. She’s coming down with them tomorrow morning.’
‘That’s great, Nadine. Thanks for doing that. Mavis has been in a bad way all week. She was very close to Sinethemba Ngobeni, who we lost at KwaDukuza on Sunday. Maybe this will be a way of getting Mavis up and going again.’
‘That’s what Cronje told me. He also told me she was quite a sharp cookie. So, you see, maybe there are a few cops whose judgement one can trust, after all.’
‘You and I need to spend more time together, Nadine. Let’s find a few more crime scenes so that you can change your opinion about cops.’
‘Sounds promising. Anyway, Jeremy, so we’re going home now. Maybe some other time for your frothy coffee.’
‘No question, Nadine. But I warn you, I’m going to tell my wife I love another woman!’
‘Better not, Detective. I hear she’s a dab hand with a frying pan. Bye.’
And she hung up.
Both of Fiona’s eyebrows were still raised quizzically at his last comment. Ryder bent over her and kissed each of them in turn.
‘What was that all about?’
‘Nadine’s put together some great DNA and ballistics and fingerprint stuff for me. But she said she won’t respond to my overtures to her because she’s heard you’re quite dangerous with a frying pan.’
‘She’s right.’
‘So I won’t pursue her any further.’
‘Good. Bed?’
‘Definitely.’
They embraced briefly then went around the house doing the lights and alarms together.
22.35.
Thabethe watched as the last light, except for what was probably a reading light in one of the bedrooms, went out in the Ryder home.
He had tried in vain to ascertain whether the detective was up and about. But they were too careful with curtains and blinds. Lights were switched on only after blinds were closed and curtains drawn. They knew their stuff, these people.
His real concern was to find whether there were any dogs around. He moved slowly from his vantage point in the road. He paused in the dark shadow of the willow tree on the edge of the property as a car travelled down the road. Teenagers coming back from somewhere, to judge by the music that thumped and throbbed as they passed by. Then he continued slowly up the driveway, keeping close to the hedge bordering the neighbour’s place. A strong gust of wind sent leaves scurrying past him.
He got to the top of the driveway where it levelled out onto the front lawn and listened. Nothing. No sign of any dogs. Good. Dogs are bad news. Try and creep up on the house with a dog around? No way.
He moved down the side of the house toward the back area. As he hit the corner opening on to the back garden, a bright white light came on. He ducked back into the hedge. Was the light sensor attached to an alarm system? Was there a signal in the master bedroom that was triggered when the lights came on? After a few frozen seconds Thabethe concluded that that was probably unlikely, because from where he was, tucked back into the hedge, he could see on the corner where the driveway intersected with the open area at the back that there was a big clump of pampas grass, three metres in diameter, with flowering stalks that must have been almost four metres tall. The silver-white feathery stalks swayed vigorously in the wind. It wasn’t his movement that had set off the light. It was the pampas stalks. On a windy night these things must set off the lights every couple of minutes, he thought.
He froze, just in case someone in the house chose to investigate. Nothing. He waited till the corner light went off again, and moved forward once more. As he hit the corner the lights came on again, this time doubtless because of his own movements. But all he needed now was a quick look to see the lie of the land. He did so. No dog-box. No sign of any animals. He retreated to his hedge in the driveway.
He waited. Still nothing from inside the house. He retreated back to the top of the driveway, from where he could again see the light in the bedroom. Still nothing happening there. It was not possible to get any closer in order to see who exactly was in the house. Or what alarms and cameras and other stuff there might be. He watched the window with the reading light, just in case someone came to the curtain to have a look outside. But nothing. He waited. And waited.
Should he attempt a break-in at the far corner, at the room on the other side of the house from the reading light? The only room which didn’t have a curtain drawn or a blind closed. Just a black space beyond the closed window. Would the sound of a break-in there travel that far? What if there was an alarm that had been set? No dog, that’s for sure. Any dog would have sensed him outside by now. But maybe worse than a dog was the cop himself. He had been doing some research on the guy. Came across stuff while he was searching to see what had happened last night. Ryder was a tough guy. He was unlikely to come running to check on the sound of a break-in unless he had a weapon with him. He was known as one of the top shots. That guy never missed. Seldom used his gun but when he did they went down, every time. The guy’s reputation was scary, thought Thabethe. Maybe he should think through this some more.
He gave up, after another half hour. Whoever it was in the bedroom was reading late into the night. Or maybe they had forgotten to switch the light off.
He retreated slowly to his car in the street. He got in and sat thinking for a minute. Then he started the engine and drove slowly up the hill.
He headed down to the beach near Suncoast Casino. He knew it well. He derived comfort from the silence in the bushes on the beach.
23.15.
As Thabethe moved down the driveway, in the single room in the house where the curtain hadn’t been drawn closed there was a slight movement. Ryder stepped forward and stood against the glass of the window and watched. He saw the man he had been observing
for the last twenty minutes walk down to the road, stop, turn and look back at the house, then walk twenty paces down the road to a car. Ryder couldn’t make out the details of the vehicle. He wasn’t great on car models at the best of times. It was too far away to discern any features, let alone a licence plate.
He stood immobile, watching the man as he got into the car then sat for a short while before driving up the road. Even then Ryder couldn’t make out any features of the vehicle that might help with identification.
Interesting, he thought. Just a burglar casing the joint, or what? He re-set and put his service pistol back into its holster. Then he drew the curtain. He returned to the bedroom, where Fiona had fallen asleep with the Kindle on her chest. He removed it gently and placed it on the cupboard next to her side of the bed. Then he put his pistol back in its normal position in the wardrobe, under a T-shirt.
He switched off the light and lay on his back in the dark. Is this just a solo player taking his chances? Or is he connected in some way to the events of last night? If Sugar-Bear had been here instead of on the farm with the kids, the guy would have scarpered within a second of setting foot on the property. Sugar-Bear had an uncanny knack of knowing when someone - even an inquisitive cat - had merely set foot on the property. Almost as if he had built-in sensors that were triggered by the slightest movement of a grain of sand in his marked-out terrain.
With the dog away, thought Ryder, it was time for extra vigilance. Just in case.
He closed his eyes and, not unlike Sugar-Bear, envisaged himself falling asleep with one ear up and one ear down.
Just in case.
6 FRIDAY
08.05.
Nadine Salm had set up a full shooting scene reconstruction at the home of Lucky Dlamini. Laser beams, strings, diagrams, notes, printed photos from her first visit, a laptop, and a protractor were all in play when Koekemoer, Dippenaar and Mavis Tshabalala arrived, having been shown through by the Folweni constable on duty at the front of the house.
