In the Midst of Wolves

by Kurt Ellis

  ‘A month?’ Zwane looked shocked. ‘But according to Cho, she was killed between midnight and four last night.’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t mean she only went missing between midnight and four last night. The unsub could have kidnapped her a while ago, and held her for days before finally killing her.’

  ‘I didn’t think of that.’

  ‘Unsub?’ Reshmee took another file from the centre. ‘I heard Creed say it. What does it mean?’

  Zwane answered before Meyer could. ‘Unknown subject. It’s what we call the perp when we haven’t identified him as yet. Or her, for that matter.’

  Meyer nodded as he paged through the next file. Black female. Age: thirteen years old. Last seen going home from school. He felt a ping of sadness. She was only a child.

  What horrors could she be experiencing at that very moment?

  Horrors that he was powerless to stop. Horrors that may have already taken her life, but then where was her body? Discarded somewhere, subjected to the cruelty of the elements?

  No funeral. No words of peace.

  He closed the file and placed it on the stack that didn’t meet the description they needed. The next file: coloured female. Age: five years old. Last seen going to the local shop. He closed it and placed it on the rejection stack. The next: black female. Age: eight years old. Last seen …

  ‘Zwane,’ Meyer said softly, ‘go ask one of the admin clerks to get us all the files of females reported missing from the last month.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ He shot to his feet.

  Zwane was at the door when Meyer called out. ‘Zwane.’

  The young detective turned.

  ‘Call me Luke or call me Meyer. Please don’t call me “Father”.’

  The young man smiled rather sheepishly. He nodded, then left the room.

  10

  Tuesday, 11 June

  Another goddamn fight. Another night of accusations of infidelity. Christ, it had been over three months since she had found out about Lorraine. Why couldn’t she just bloody move on?

  Clifton Hlongwane parked his metallic black Defender in his underground parking bay. A sharp pain stabbed at the back of his neck as he reversed into the bay – the result of spending the night sleeping on the couch. That bloody woman, he thought. I give her a house with a pool. I buy her a car. I pay for her studies and she does this to me. All because I screwed someone else at the company Christmas party.

  A soft voice whispered from deep within him. Be honest, Clifton. You were screwing her for at least six months before that. And you’re still screwing her.

  Clifton told that voice to shut up as he slung his laptop bag over his shoulder and walked towards the glass doors of DLC: Direct Lines Communications. The moment he passed through the doors and into the building, he left his personal drama at the doorstep.

  It was his duty as call centre operations manager to do so. As he always told his staff, you leave your personal problems at home, or else they’ll become your work problems. After nodding a greeting to the security guard at the desk, he got into the lift.

  The three mirrored walls made him study his reflection, in particular the gut that hung over his belt as he was carried up to his floor. When the hell did this happen? he wondered. How had he ever let it get this big? He was still in his thirties. He was still a young man. How could he have allowed himself to get a beer belly?

  The lift chimed. The moment the doors opened on his floor, Clifton was met with a cacophony of noise: voices male and female, different accents, different dialects, all coming from his call centre. The noise made him smile.

  ‘Collect, you bastards,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Collect.’

  The call centre had an open-floor design with rows of desks facing one other. There were five rows for five teams, with a single desk at the end of the row. This was the workstation for the supervisors he had hired to motivate and manage individual teams and drive an environment of competition. The agents with their headsets on were loud and aggressive. That was what he wanted them to be. That was what the business required.

  The DLC business model was the same as that of all other debt-collection companies. They bought books of old debt from companies such as banks, cellular providers and retail stores, and would then call these credit defaulters and collect the money on the outstanding accounts. Sure, if the debt was older than three years, legally it was regarded as prescribed debt – which meant that it had been written off by the creditors and the people owing didn’t have to pay them back.

  But the people on the other end of the line didn’t know that. DLC had just spent R1 million on a debt book to the value of R5 million from First National Bank.

  The bank was happy to reduce the loss it would make on the bad credit, which is why they sold the debt book for twenty per cent of the value. And DLC was happy to pay the R1 million because whatever they managed to collect from the defaulters, they would keep. Clifton’s call centre had a target of R2 million to collect, but screw that tiny amount. He wanted at least R2.5 million to be made. Five per cent of the total amount collected paid to the call centre operations manager as a bonus. He wanted that R125 000. Collect, you bastards. Collect.

  Clifton ran a strict operation in the Randburg call centre. DLC had three other call centres; one in Cape Town, one in Pretoria, and a new one that had just opened in Durban that he was competing with for commission. It was a cut-throat business. His agents had no time for politeness. They had to threaten. They had to harass. As long as he got his money.

  Themba Mphela, one of his supervisors, came shuffling up to him. Watching the short man shamble over, Clifton regretted promoting him. Not because he was a bad supervisor, as he did a decent job, but simply for the fact that Themba was one of the best debt-collecting agents he had. The boy could get money out of a pauper, but he’d had no choice but to take him off the phones. Deon Moonusami from the Durban call centre had tried to poach him. Clifton had needed to keep hold of Themba at all costs, so reluctantly he’d given him his own team.

  ‘Hello, boss,’ Themba said.

  Clifton nodded and shook his subordinate’s hand. ‘Hi, Themba. How are my numbers looking?’

  ‘Eish.’ Themba rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Slow this morning, boss. Conversion rate is at nine per cent. Success-to-calls ratio at about four per cent. Absenteeism is killing me, boss.’

  ‘Hey,’ Clifton said, ‘voetsak with that kak. That’s a shit story, Themba. I don’t want to hear it. It’s your team. Can’t you manage your team?’

  ‘I can manage them, boss,’ he said, fidgeting. He tried to tuck in further an already tucked-in shirt. ‘I’m putting together the information for human resources so I can start doing performance counselling.’

  ‘Good,’ Clifton nodded. ‘If these fools don’t appreciate their job, we’ll get people who do. We don’t play games here.’ He spoke loudly, to ensure his staff would hear. ‘If they don’t want to be here, then they must go.’

  ‘Well, boss, er …’ Themba rubbed the back of his neck again. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you. One of them is … er, Lorraine Sinamane. She didn’t come in yesterday and she’s not here again today.’

  Clifton’s nostrils flared. That bloody girl is not only interfering with my home life, but now with my work as well. With my bloody money.

  ‘Did you try calling her to see if she’s sick?’

  ‘I’ve done that already, boss. No answer. I tried yesterday and today. Nothing. Her phone just rings.’

  He gritted his teeth. ‘Don’t take anything to HR just yet. Let me try and sort this out first.’

  He didn’t wait for Themba to respond. He headed to his office in the corner and resisted the urge to slam his door. They all knew he was having an affair with Lorraine, he suspected. A small part of him felt that it set the wrong example for his employees, but the other part of him, the bigger part of him, said fuck them all. He was the boss. When they had they own call centres, then they could do what the
y wanted. Until then, they’d better shut their mouths and make him his target.

  He stabbed her number into his land-line dialler with his middle finger. Just as Themba had said, there was no answer. He tried again from his own cellphone, hoping that if she saw his number on her caller ID, she would take the call. And then perhaps he could drop by for an angry quickie if she was just playing truant. He smiled at the thought and felt himself begin to stir. That will show that damn bitch wife of his. Still no answer.

  ‘Sfebe,’ he cursed.

  He dropped his phone on the desk before flopping into his office chair. With a sigh, he decided he would drive pass her flat during lunch.

  11

  Eli Grey found him sitting on the steps that led from the car port to the back door of his home. A cigarette was lodged in the corner of his mouth. Tripod had managed to squeeze himself in between his calves and the steps. That morning was colder than the previous day. Frost coated the car windows. Creed breathed deeply, his eyes fixed on the house next door.

  ‘They were fighting again this morning,’ he said softly to Grey, not taking his gaze off the building.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The neighbours. I saw the girl rushing out of there again this morning. Looks like she got a bit of a shiner.’

  Grey looked at the neighbours’ house, then at Creed. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’m thinking of going over there and kicking his ass.’

  Grey nodded, running his fingertips over his freshly shaved jawline. ‘I’m thinking that would be a mistake. An assault charge would ruin your chances of rejoining the SAPS for good. I’m thinking it would be best to report it to the relevant department and have them deal with it.’

  Creed sucked hard at his cigarette.

  ‘Why are you so … intent on me returning, Eli? What’s in it for you?’

  Grey met the question with a steely stare. Creed noticed his jaw muscles ripple, as if he was chewing invisible gum.

  ‘You remember Hettie, right?’

  ‘Of course. How could I forget?’

  ‘I think you did forget, Nick, if you’re asking me a question like that.’

  Grey inhaled deeply. ‘You were there for me when I needed you the most. And now you need me, even if you don’t know you do or if you won’t admit that you do. And I’m also willing to admit that I need you too. I need you on this team.’

  Creed dropped the cigarette and ground it beneath his heel. ‘Bullshit. You’re the best cop in the SAPS. I followed your career, Eli. Hell, it could’ve easily have been you who went on the exchange programme to the Feds, not me.’

  ‘But it wasn’t. It was you. You have the knowledge and experience I need in order to make this unit a success. This unit needs you. And you need this unit.’

  Creed rubbed his cold nose before getting to his feet. His buttocks felt frozen, despite the thickness of his jeans. He stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  ‘What if I don’t have it in me any more? What if I can’t do this any more? What if I’ve lost that fire?’

  ‘Really?’ Grey offered him a smile – a very rare sight, one of only a few Creed had witnessed since Hettie. ‘You cracked the Erasmus case in five minutes.’

  ‘Come on, Eli. That was Profiling 101. Basic shit. Any fool could’ve seen that.’

  ‘Steenkamp didn’t.’

  ‘That’s because he’s not just any fool.’ It was Creed’s turn to smile. ‘Why is he in the team anyway?’

  ‘There’s still a good cop in him. Somewhere. I promised the General I’d do my best to find it.’

  Creed put another cigarette to his lips. ‘I think that good cop may have been drowned in an ocean of booze.’

  ‘What is the pot saying about the kettle?’ Grey let his words hang in the cold air for a bit. ‘I hear you ended your session early with Dr Tlau yesterday.’

  Creed scoffed. ‘Oh, did she tell my daddy on me?’

  ‘Cut the crap. I want you to see her on a daily basis. Talk to her, if you want to get better. If you don’t want to end up like Steenkamp.’

  Creed pulled a match from a box and lit the new cigarette. ‘Do you ever really get better?’

  Grey was silent once more. ‘Not completely. But it does get easier.’ With that he pulled the cigarette from Creed’s lips and flung it to the floor. ‘Let’s get moving; potential ID on our vic.’

  12

  Meyer could see there was something wrong with Steenkamp the moment the car eased to a halt at the kerb. His eyes were fixed straight ahead; wide, unblinking, wetter than usual.

  That morning, Meyer had received a call from a police station in Ennerdale regarding a missing persons report that had just been filed. The description matched their victim so closely that the station commander had sent Meyer a photograph of the missing woman from the complainant’s cellphone.

  The woman in the photo looked exactly like the corpse lying on Cho’s table, with the addition of lips, a smile and a bottle of Bacardi Breezer in her hand. When Meyer reported this to Grey, he was instructed to collect Steenkamp and Zwane and wait for the Major’s arrival at the residence of the suspected victim.

  The three were seated in the unmarked blue Volkswagen Golf with the heater blowing warm air into their faces. Meyer tingled with the desire to enter the apartment immediately, to study the flat of this Lorraine Sinamane and determine if she was indeed the vic. The quicker they confirmed the identity, the quicker they could progress to the next step.

  Every second they spent waiting for Grey and Creed was another second spent not finding the culprit. Meyer had collected from Ennerdale police station the apartment key left there by the woman’s manager from work. It felt like a piece of hot coal in his pocket. He gripped the steering wheel with frustration, then turned to Steenkamp.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, eager to distract himself.

  Steenkamp licked his dry lips. He took a minute before he spoke, as if he was searching his mind for how to begin. Eventually he whispered, ‘My life got fucked up two roads away from here, you know. Just up the road there.’

  The car windows were closed and Meyer could detect the scent of brandy beneath the body odour steaming off Steenkamp. Could Zwane smell it from the back seat?

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, turning the heater off and opening a crack in the window.

  The car creaked as Steenkamp shifted in his seat. ‘About twenty years ago. Actually, it was nineteen years ago, almost to the day. She was just a kid, man. She was only eighteen. Jislaaik. Eighteen, my boet. She came from this fucked-up area. Her ma was a maid and she saved every cent to send this meisie to college, but she didn’t have to do that. Her school marks were so good that she got a bursary, my boet. This meisie, she was good girl. You know? A good student from what I found out.’ He slowly shook his head. ‘She was found in the park around the corner, there. Throat cut, but that wasn’t even the worst part. She was pregnant.’

  He ran his index finger from his belt line, up the centre of his round stomach to below his ribcage. ‘He took the baby. He took the baby and we never found it.’

  Zwane leaned forward between the seats. ‘Did you ever find out who did it? Did you catch the guy?’

  ‘We caught sweet fuck-all,’ Steenkamp snapped, but then he sighed and shook his head. ‘No witnesses. No leads. Nothing.’

  Meyer looked down the street to where Steenkamp was staring.

  ‘And your life changed for the worse that day?’

  ‘Ja. That was the case that gave me the nightmares and the thirst, you know? I just couldn’t get that girl out of my head. She was right here,’ he covered his eyes with his hands. ‘Like she was stuck on the inside of my eyelids. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her. Just lying there. Looking at me. Gutted like a fish. Asking me why I hadn’t caught the guy yet. That was when the thirst started. I had to have a dop, you know, to calm my nerves. Then two dops to get to sleep. Then three to wake up proper. But then my hands started shaking when I was awake.
So, I needed a bottle just to get through the day. It was no good.’

  ‘It still isn’t,’ Meyer commented.

  Steenkamp ignored the indictment. ‘Twenty years, boet. Still not solved.’

  Like a velvet curtain, those heavy words hung in the car for a minute, before Zwane said. ‘Maybe you should ask Creed to look at the case for you? Maybe he can help you out, like he did with Erasmus.’

  The car rocked violently as Steenkamp pushed the car door open. ‘You and Creed can both get fucked.’

  He stormed off across the road towards the block of apartments.

  Zwane watched him walk off. ‘What’s his problem?’

  Meyer didn’t answer.

  ‘Father, did I say something wrong?’

  ‘Again, don’t call me “Father”, Zwane.’

  He looked at the young man in the rear-view mirror. A taxi came speeding by and skidded to a halt just in front of the car. Two women, one elderly and the other in her twenties, climbed out the side door and walked past. The older woman, perhaps in her sixties, gave Meyer a curious look.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you personally,’ Meyer continued. ‘He’s just upset about … certain things in this unit.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Well, firstly, he’s not a Creed fan.’

  Zwane snorted. ‘I can see that, but what did Creed do to him?’

  ‘It’s not what he did. But a lot of detectives are not happy with Grey bringing in an outside consultant to join the unit. They feel the funds going towards paying a consultant, to paying Creed, could have gone towards paying another SAPS member. A proper cop.’ Meyer paused. ‘And I must say, I agree with them.’

  ‘You agree? But Creed can teach us so much. I mean, he …’

  ‘Did you not hear about what happened in Seattle? About why he was dismissed from the FBI?’

  ‘You honestly can’t believe …’

  Meyer held up his hand. ‘I don’t know the facts, so I shouldn’t comment. But what I do know is that the SAPS has many good detectives who could have joined the unit instead of Creed: good men and women with families, good cops who have proven themselves over and over again, and who deserve the break.’ Zwane didn’t respond, so he continued. ‘But Steenkamp is still one of the most competent detectives we have.’