Gun Dealing (The Ryder Quartet Book 2)

by Ian Patrick

  After the greetings, Nadine went straight back to work, but answered their questions while she was at it, telling them quite freely what she was doing. She was conscious that Mavis was a little nervous about being there.

  ‘What’s your latest thinking on this, Nadine?’ asked Koekemoer, partly in an attempt to entice Mavis into asking her own questions.

  ‘Just having a closer look at the blood spatter.’

  ‘Finding the convergence?’ asked Mavis.

  They all stopped and turned to look at Mavis.

  ‘That’s exactly right, Mavis,’ said Nadine.

  ‘So you can tell where the bullet came from.’

  ‘Spot on, Mavis,’ said Nadine, as she continued with her measurements.

  Koekemoer and Dippenaar exchanged glances before Dippenaar risked his own question.

  ‘Don’t we already know where the bullet was fired from?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Dippenaar thought better of pursuing that point, as the emphatic response from Nadine didn’t seem to invite any further discussion. There was a pause while they moved around the room behind her, taking care not to tread where she had put her various markers.

  ‘Your assistant not with you this morning?’

  ‘No, Koeks... Can I call you Koeks? I hear they all do.’

  ‘Ja, of course. Everyone calls me Koeks. Except my wife.’

  ‘What does she call you?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Oh. OK. Sorry. Anyway…’

  ‘And please call me Dipps. Everyone calls me Dipps.’

  ‘Including your wife?’

  ‘Ah, ja. Including my wife.’

  Mavis giggled, then caught herself and covered her face with her hands as Nadine continued.

  ‘OK. Good to know. Could be helpful in a crisis, I suppose.’

  The two detectives looked again at each other, quizzically, and shrugged their shoulders.

  ‘And I believe that when I’m talking to both of you at the same time I can call you KoeksnDips?’

  ‘Daarsy!’ said Dippenaar. ‘And when you and I have a moment alone, Nadine, I’ll tell you what his wife calls him.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ said Nadine as Koekemoer smacked Dippenaar across the head. ‘As a return favour, I might even tell you what my assistant calls me when no-one is listening. Anyway, speaking of her, I was going to say, Koeks, that my assistant is busy with the ballistics guys. Doing tests on that slug I took out of the wall on Wednesday. I’d really prefer to have her here with me to do this stuff I’m doing right now. We work well together. Been doing it a long time. But it’s more important for her to ensure that they get the ballistics done. She’s up in Durban, Mavis, at Forensic Services, where they’re doing ballistics on the bullet that killed Sergeant Dlamini. You should come up to the lab sometime and see how they do it.’

  ’Thank you, Ma’am.’

  ‘Nadine.’

  ‘Thank you Miss Nadine.’

  ‘It’ll be our pleasure.’

  Dippenaar then risked a question on the blood spatter.

  ‘These angles and distances you’ve drawn here, Nadine, what’s this telling you?’

  ‘Well, Dipps, let’s see. How’s your trigonometry?’

  ‘My trigger what?’

  ‘I don’t want to be pedantic, Dipps. I could say that the width of the bloodstain divided by its length is equal to the sine of the angle of impact, or something like that...’

  ‘Ag, jirra, Nadine, no, please don’t say something like that...’

  ‘Say it in Afrikaans for him, Nadine,’ Koekemoer couldn’t help intruding as he watched the consternation on his partner’s face. ‘Whenever he wants to look intelligent he speaks Afrikaans. As you’ve noticed, Mavis, Detective Dippenaar speaks very little Afrikaans.’

  ‘Can’t do that, Koeks,’ interjected Nadine. ‘My Afrikaans is what you guys would both call kak. Tell you what, Dipps. You tell me what Koeks’s wife calls him and I’ll tell you in English what I mean about the blood spatter analysis.’

  ‘She calls him Koeksister!’ said Dippenaar.

  ‘Vuilgoed!’ said Koekemoer.

  ‘Hau!’ said Mavis.

  ‘How sweet!’ said Nadine. ‘Your wife, that is. I already know koeksisters are sweet. What a sweet thing for her to call you, Koeks. What do you call her?’

  ‘Yissus. You two are as bad as each other. Let’s get back to the blood stains. I’ll find some dirt on Dipps to tell you some other time.’

  ‘OK, sorry, guys. Let me tell you what I’m thinking, then.’

  While continuing to work, Nadine gave the three of them a brief run-down which even further enhanced the already considerable respect they had for her. She explained to Mavis the traditional textbook differences between passive drip stains, transfer stains and spatter stains, teasing the two detectives about their own doubtless splendid performances in exams on this subject during their training as detectives. Then she illuminated for all of them various current theories and debates about blood spatter measurement and analysis.

  She decided, despite not really wanting to divulge anything important before compiling her report, to share one piece of information, largely for the benefit of Mavis.

  ‘Let me show you quite a good example of a transfer stain, Mavis. Have a look here.’

  She placed on the floor a large A3 colour photograph of Dlamini’s body in the position it had been discovered on Wednesday morning. She pointed to a very small smudge on the left lapel of Dlamini’s jacket. They all leaned in to see what she was pointing to. A miniscule smear of blood.

  ‘Now that’s what I call an interesting transfer stain. A transfer stain, as the textbooks tell us, Mavis, happens when something comes into contact with blood that’s already there and transfers it to another surface. So let’s have a closer look at this particular stain.’

  She pulled out another photograph, this one a close-up of the smear in question.

  ‘See what I mean? Now I would say that after the poor unlucky sergeant had parted with some of his blood, some nice guy or gal decided they would lift up his right lapel, reach in, and take care of whatever might have been in his right breast pocket. Something like a wallet, perhaps. And as he or she withdrew the wallet, it picked up a little spot of blood here, and transferred it … here.’

  The two detectives were intrigued, and immediately leaped into a likely scenario, built on a theory involving a thief entering the house after Dlamini’s death, but Nadine stopped them in their tracks.

  ‘Yes, sure, guys, anything like that might be possible, but, you know, we need to get all the evidence in place first before we start developing any theories about what might have gone down here. Ever read Arthur Conan Doyle, Mavis?’

  ‘No, Miss Nadine. But he writes that book on Sherlock Holmes, nè?’

  ‘Exactly, Mavis. And what he says there is quite important. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. Very pompous English, don’t you think, Koeks? Dipps? But quite a useful observation. So let’s get all the evidence together, first, before we decide whodunnit.’

  There were some witticisms about how Sherlock Holmes might have sounded in Afrikaans, but Dippenaar didn’t really want to go there, so he closed that down quite quickly.

  The two detectives eventually decided it was time to take Mavis with them back to Durban. They only did so when it appeared that Nadine had completed the work in Dlamini’s front room and said she now wanted to do a thorough search of the bedroom. They couldn’t really see why she wanted to do that, so they decided to head back to Durban.

  They all said their goodbyes, Mavis expressing profuse thanks and promising to come and visit her in the laboratory in Durban. Nadine watched them go. Then she walked into the bedroom. She paused, looked around at the room, then went straight to the two pillows. She picked them up, quickly inspected them, and put them aside. She then carefully
pulled off the blanket. Then the single sheet. She lifted the top end of the mattress away from the headboard and inspected it. Nothing. Then she turned the mattress over to see what might be underneath. Nothing. She looked at both sides of the mattress and again there was nothing. Then she moved round to the foot of the bed and squatted, looking closely at the edge of the mattress.

  She smiled as she saw the little hole. As close as it was possible to get to being the exact centre of the bottom edge of the mattress. She reached for her camera.

  The Folweni constable guarding the front of the house would tell his family that night that the strangest part of his day was when the woman from that laboratory in Durban asked him to help her carry Lucky Dlamini’s mattress from the house to her car and fold it with great difficulty into the vehicle. He had stood, perplexed, shaking his head, as she had driven away in her four-door Citi Golf.

  11.15.

  Koekemoer, Dippenaar, Cronje and Pillay were completing notes and reports related to the various cases they were each handling. Cronje was putting pages and forms into their appropriate files in the cabinet behind the door, as each of the detectives handed things across to him.

  ‘Jirra, Navi. Last week alone you took three guys down. You break one oke’s leg. You send one guy off to meet his maker, and you scar one guy’s face for life and make him poep all over the place. All of this means extra forms to fill in both for you and for me. Can’t you just let some of these crooks off the hook, man?’

  ‘Ja, hey, Piet,’ added Dippenaar, ‘I heard from a guy at Addington Hospital that ever since Navi joined the unit the number of broken bones they treat there has escalated. Me and Koeks, we just talk nicely to the guys and then they behave themselves. No need to get so rough, you know? Actually, I heard one guy in the holding cells say...’

  Actually? There you go again, Dipps, actually. Yissus, man, when you going to praat proper Afrikaans again?’

  ‘Ja, Koeks, you’re right, hey? He’s becoming more and more like Jeremy. And like old Ed. I asked Dipps the other day whether I could get him a coffee and he asks me if I got any caffeine-free. Caffeine-free? Yissus. I nearly asked him if I could get him some clotted cream scones or cucumber sandwiches for high tea.’

  ‘You okes. Jirra.’ Dippenaar just shook his head in despair and carried on reading.

  11.40.

  Ryder was in the car park about to get into the Camry when the call came through.

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘Detective Ryder?’

  ‘Nadine. How nice to hear your voice.’

  ‘All the detectives say that. I have something for you, Detective.’

  ‘I’m listening, Nadine. Hit me.’

  ‘I’m not that type, Jeremy. You should know that. But what I’m calling about I think you’ll still find very interesting. Remember how I was a bit unimpressed with the theories about Dlamini’s suicide?’

  ‘Uh-oh.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good grief.’

  ‘Yes. I was a bit concerned at the suggestion that the guy could turn his own Vektor Z88 on himself. It wasn’t only the suggestion that if he was going to shoot himself he would choose to put the bullet into his throat. You know. Instead of his mouth, I mean. Or his temple. Or something else. The throat is a bit strange, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so, Nadine. Yeah. True. Very strange, now that I think of it.’

  ‘Not only that, Jeremy. I did some careful stuff down there, firstly on Wednesday morning and then again this morning, and one would expect to find gunshot residue all over the place from a self-inflicted shot at that distance, right?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘No GSR, Jeremy. Well, I mean hardly any GSR. Certainly none of the kind that one would expect at a distance of a few inches. This morning I did a full reconstruction of the scene along with BPA.’

  ‘BPA?’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot. You guys. Tsk, tsk. I give you detectives far too much credit. Blood Pattern Analysis. When you’ve got a moment, ask your nice KoeksnDips detectives to give you a tutorial on blood spatter patterns. Better still, ask young Mavis Tshabalala. I think she’s going to be a bit of a star. But tell them all that I want to be the one to mark any exam paper you might write on the subject. In brief, Jeremy, this sergeant Dlamini guy was shot at a distance of at least eight feet. Last time I looked, when I checked the corpse, his arms were a little shorter than eight feet in length.’

  ‘Jeez.’

  ‘Yup, and wanna hear more?’

  ‘Please, Nadine.’

  ‘Dlamini’s bullet entered his throat, went through the thyroid cartilage, straight through the bone of the fifth cervical vertebra, through the chair, and well into the wall behind him. Determined bullet, don’t you think? Do you know of any 9 mms from a Vektor Z88 that can do that?’

  ‘Can’t say that I do.’

  ‘Me neither. So I had already dug the slug out of the wall on my first visit on Wednesday and the ballistics results have now just come through, courtesy of my gorgeous assistant.’

  Silence.

  ‘Are you there, Jeremy?’

  ‘I’m all ears, Nadine.’

  ‘Shame. I noticed. Did they call you wingnut at school?’

  ‘I still love you, Nadine, even if you’re so horrible to me. Go on. Tell me what you’ve got.’

  ‘Well, before I tell you the big thing, let me just add this. The Z88 in Dlamini’s hand was certainly fired, no doubt about that. One bullet missing from the magazine. One bullet recently fired. But the reason there was no GSR on Dlamini’s hand or lower arms or neck was that the single bullet from the Vektor had been fired by a hand other than his. And fired not into Dlamini but into his mattress in the bedroom. Fired all the way up from the foot of the mattress toward the head of the mattress, neatly staying within the mattress with no exit hole. That mattress has now had an autopsy. The stuffing is all over my lab, along with a lovely little 9mm slug in very good shape. Now, detectives as sharp as you are obviously know why one would want to do something strange like shoot into a mattress like that.’

  ‘You’ve probably got 14 reasons, Nadine. I can only think of two.’

  ‘Have a go.’

  ‘Shoot into the mattress to keep the sound muffled?’

  ‘Got one of them, Jeremy.’

  ‘And at the same time fire off a round to get rid of it in a nice hiding place so that when you put the gun in the dead guy’s hand it looks as if the single bullet that has been shot from the weapon is the one that...’

  ‘I’m so proud of you Detective Ryder, and no, I don’t have 14 reasons. Only two. The same two as you.’

  ‘Where does that leave us, Nadine?’

  ‘Sergeant Dlamini was shot in the throat by a person or persons unknown. Said person or persons shot him at a distance of about eight feet, not with a 9mm bullet from the Vektor Z88 found in his right hand, but with a .44 round fired from a Magnum. A Desert Eagle. Marx XIX. Want to hear the best bit?’

  ‘I have a feeling you’re about to tell me, Nadine.’

  ‘The same Desert Eagle that we picked up from your living room floor on Wednesday night.’

  12.15.

  Thabethe had dug up his secret stash again. He took the remaining twelve thousand rands from the tin and then re-buried it, empty. Need to replenish soon, he thought. He covered the ground, threw some detritus and leaves over it, and made his way back to the road where he had parked the car.

  He wondered whether Mkhize had established contact with Big Red. Maybe it was too soon. It would take him time. But no harm in trying him to see how he was doing.

  Mkhize was nowhere to be seen around Nomivi’s. Thabethe didn’t bother to ask anyone for him. He just looked around the place himself. Even went to the back. The room was locked.

  He sat behind the wheel and drew out the cell-phone. Then he paused.

  Another call to Spikes? What if the cops were tracing? He decided against it. Probably too soon, anyway. Let Mkhize have some
time to get to Big Red.

  He hoped it wouldn’t take too long. he needed to turn his twelve grand into something much bigger. Short of a lucrative robbery, he couldn’t think of a better way of doing this than buying and selling whoonga.

  He drove off. Aimlessly, not knowing what his next step should be. But obsessed by the thought of Ryder. The thought of that cop was bothering him. Big time.

  12.35.

  Nadine was seated in one of the two guest chairs in Nyawula’s office. Pillay sat in the other. Nyawula and Ryder were standing in front of the desk, leaning back against it. All four of them had a mug of coffee.

  ‘It’s good of you to come over here in this damn traffic, Nadine. I’m only sorry Mavis isn’t here. She’s in a workshop this afternoon, and then she’s involved in funeral preparations after that. She thoroughly enjoyed the lesson with you this morning. Thanks very much for that.’

  ‘It was an absolute pleasure. She’s gonna go far.’

  ‘We think so, too. Anyway, Nadine, shoot. We’re in your hands.’

  ‘OK, Captain. Having updated Jeremy barely an hour ago on the Desert Eagle connection between the attempted hit on his home and the Dlamini murder, no sooner had I put the phone down to him than new evidence came up from the work we’ve been doing in the lab. So after checking it out I thought it best to give you this new stuff face to face. And anyway your coffee is so much better than ours, Captain.’

  ‘We know that, Nadine. We’re very proud of it. It’s the only thing that keeps Detective Ryder with us.’

  ‘So I hear. Anyway, Captain, remember me saying to you on the phone yesterday morning that my interest had been aroused by the Desert Eagle used at the Ryder home?’

  ‘You told me you were interested because of those Umlazi cases a couple of years back.’

  ‘That’s right. We’ve kept an open file on those Umlazi homicides ever since. When we removed the slugs from those bodies at the time we hoped that the weapon might reappear one day. Since then, whenever we pick up a Desert Eagle we routinely run the ballistics against the records of those slugs. So when we linked this particular weapon not only to the Dlamini murder but to those old homicide cases, we realised that the guy who foolishly took on Detective Ryder in his own home might have had some really interesting connections. But we were still unable to place him at the KwaDukuza crime scene on Sunday evening.’