by Kurt Ellis
‘This unit is not about me. It needs to be able to continue after I’m gone.’
Meyer took a step forward, ‘So it’s true. Interpol.’
Grey sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘The gossip in this place is ridiculous.’ He shook his head. ‘All right, yes, it’s true. Unofficially, I’m being considered for a position with Interpol to head up the Criminal Pathology Training Division. The Director is retiring next year.’
‘I see.’
‘Nothing is set in stone yet, though. As I said, it’s all unofficial, but should it happen, I need to know that this unit is stable. I need to be certain that the best I could find are keeping the sheep out there safe.’
‘I see,’ Meyer repeated, though he wondered how safe these sheep would be under the protection of a demon dog like Creed.
25
The tarred road glistened with moisture. The heavens had been open for most of the day, rain pounding the earth. Though it had eased up by that evening, the damage had already been done to the Seattle, Washington streets. Creed battled to control his speeding car on the slick roads. The siren on the roof screamed to motorists to get out of his way, but in his ears the sound was dull and distant, as if his head was submerged in water. His shirt stuck to his wet back and the leather of the car seat.
Impossible. No way would Rodriguez be that stupid. He wouldn’t fucking dare.
Driving the FBI standard-issue GM SUV with its high ground clearance was a struggle, especially in bad weather and at high speed. It was like trying to drive on ice. But he didn’t ease off the accelerator; he ground it further into the carpeted floor of the car as if killing a bug. He pulled the steering wheel hard to the right, then fought to prevent the car from fishtailing. His forearms began to cramp and there was a feeling in his gut he barely recognised. It had been years since he had felt anything close to that sensation. He had almost forgotten what it was. It was fear.
The road he was looking for came into view on his right. Again, he fought with the black metallic bull, willing it to obey his instructions. It finally relented. There it was, the house that had been his home. He brought the car to a screeching halt in front of the driveway and leapt from the vehicle before it came to a stop. It crept further down the road and climbed the pavement before hitting the neighbour’s mailbox with a thump.
Creed reached to his hip holster and pulled out the Glock. Keeping low, he ran up to the front of his former residence and pressed his back against the wall.
His chest was starting to hurt. His pulse was drumming in his ears. He had to calm down, relax and allow his training to take over. He had to … His eyes panned to the door. The lock was broken and the door frame splintered. Someone had kicked their way in. Any hope of remaining calm was lost. He rammed his shoulder into the door, and he saw her …
He always awoke at that part of the dream, just as he caught the first glimpse of her. His back and neck were knotted in pain as he rolled over on the cold floor. One of the dogs, who had snuggled in next to him, growled softly in annoyance at being disturbed.
‘Shut up,’ he groaned, still unsure of where he lay.
It took a minute to adjust to the harsh, morning sunlight cutting through the open door. Creed was sleeping on the unkind, tiled floor with the frigid winter wind blowing in. His leather jacket covered him from waist to chin.
‘You’ll get sick if you don’t get off the floor.’
The voice startled him and Creed instinctively reached to his hip, for his gun. It wasn’t there.
She stood just inside his doorway, dressed in her brown school uniform.
‘I managed to cover you with your jacket,’ she continued. ‘But your dogs wouldn’t let me go to the room to get you a pillow or blanket, especially the one with three legs. He’s very cheeky.’
Creed sat up with a groan and rubbed his eyes. ‘Didn’t your parents teach you not to talk to strangers? Or to go into a stranger’s house?’ The teenager from next door shrugged. ‘And shouldn’t you be in school?’
‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ was her curt reply.
Creed pulled himself to his feet using the counter top for support. He tried to stretch the pain out of his neck and shoulders but the muscles remained tight. His head throbbed. What the hell had he been doing last night? He was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes but his knuckles were bruised. The mist of blankness began to lift: the prostitute had come over last night. She’d been sexy as sin but that was it. Zero personality. So he’d paid her for her services and asked her to leave, then gone to a strip club nearby. He hadn’t wanted to be alone.
After a few drinks, he had seen this drunk prick being aggressive with a dancer who wasn’t interested in his advances. Creed didn’t know who she was but he still decided to knock that prick’s teeth in. He’d floored him with a single punch, but that had got him kicked out of the club. That was all he could remember. Squinting, he could see his Ford Ranger behind the girl from next door, so he had clearly driven himself home. But he couldn’t remember that drive at all.
‘I made you a cup of coffee,’ she said. ‘It’s on the table.’
Creed nodded.
With her hands to her hips. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘Thank you,’ he croaked.
‘You do know coffee is no good for a hangover. It’s a diuretic, just like alcohol. Your headache is a result of dehydration. Coffee will make your headache worse. You should just drink water.’
Creed’s mouth was arid. ‘So, if you know it’s no good for me, then why did you make it?’
‘If you know alcohol is no good for you, then why do you drink it?’
Creed took a sip, then slipped his hands into his jacket to search for his phone. He finally found it in his jeans pocket. Three missed calls and an SMS, all from Grey.
The text read, ‘Where are you? We have a lead on the boyfriend. In Soweto. Call me for the address. Grey.’
‘Shit.’ He slipped his phone into his coat. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Carly.’
‘Carly, do you know who I am?’
She shrugged. ‘A policeman.’
Creed shook his head. ‘No. I was a policeman. Not any more. But when I was a policeman, I saw and investigated some horrible things, most of them done to girls just like you. Do not ever do again what you just did. Do you understand? Even if I was a cop, you don’t do this crap. You don’t go into a strange man’s house. It’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, and if …’
Carly didn’t wait for him to finish. She turned and ran from his doorsteps.
He watched through his back window as she exited his gate and ran down the street. Shaking his head, he took another sip of the lukewarm coffee. Tripod waddled in.
‘Don’t you look at me like that,’ he said. ‘It’s for her own good.’
26
Luke Meyer could see that Eli Grey was angry. And with every moment that ticked by, with each glance at his watch, he was becoming even more irate. The four policemen stood in the car park of Jabulani Mall, waiting for Creed. The mall, the largest in the south-western township of Johannesburg, was already abuzz with activity.
Soweto residents were streaming through the parking lot to shop or catch a minibus taxi. They gave the four men a knowing stare. The residents of this township were wary of cops, thanks to their history of conflict with the apartheid police, in the Seventies and Eighties in particular.
Grey, Steenkamp, Zwane and Meyer had been waiting for almost an hour. Grey had received a call from Creed a half-hour earlier to say he was on his way, but he was yet to arrive.
‘This is kak, man,’ spat Steenkamp to Meyer, but loud enough for Major Grey to hear. ‘Mr Hollywood Man thinks he’s so special that we must all wait for him? Jislaaik.’
Ignoring Steenkamp, Meyer re-read the criminal record they had on Reginald Lucky Mthembu, twenty-seven years old. His first arrest was for assault at the age of fifteen, after he was involved in a fight at a tavern. The ch
arges were dropped. His second arrest was at the age of sixteen, for assault again; he was sentenced to probation.
His third arrest was for sexual assault a few months later. The complainant eventually dropped the charges and he walked away free. He was arrested once more, at the age of seventeen, for assaulting a police officer when pulled over for driving a taxi without a licence. For this, Mthembu was given six months in a juvenile facility. An arrest at the age of twenty followed, for the armed robbery of a local OK store, and a sentence of five years in jail. He was released after serving only eighteen months. He was arrested again, for assault, at twenty-four, and again the complainant dropped the charges.
That was the end of the information they had on his criminal curriculum vitae. Mthembu’s file also contained a photograph. The suspect had a glazed look in his eyes, the whites of which were discoloured, a hue somewhere between yellow and brown. He had a box of facial hair around his mouth and a thin scar under his left eye.
Why would a girl like Lorraine date a thug that looked like this?
‘Meyer,’ Major Grey called to him. He had parked his BMW behind the police-branded Toyota and was leaning against the door.
Meyer walked over. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Creed’s on his way but I want you guys to go on ahead without me. We’ll catch up.’
Major Grey didn’t wait for a response. He climbed into his car and started the engine before switching on the heater, his face tight with anger.
Good. Hopefully this will lead to him putting an end to Creed’s involvement in the unit, Meyer thought as he walked back to the car and informed the others that they would go ahead without Grey or Creed.
Steenkamp shook his head and gave a wry laugh. ‘Fucking ridiculous.’
27
They arrived at Mama Soul’s shebeen and spaza shop, located deep within the core of Soweto, just before ten in the morning. Soweto was not in fact one township but a collection of smaller townships such as Pimville, Orlando, Moroka, Jabavu and Kliptown. Its roots went back to the discovery of gold in southern Johannesburg and the need for cheap black labour close to the mines. Although those mines had long started to run dry, the people remained, and Soweto had flourished into one of South Africa’s most vibrant areas. No matter the day of the week or the time of day, the dusty streets of this sprawling collection of townships were always packed with people.
Steenkamp led his colleagues through Mama Soul’s red gates to a sandy yard. Four men were sitting on plastic chairs, a crate of beer on the ground between them. Kwaito music was playing from two large speakers standing on either side of an open garage, the storefront of the establishment. A counter had been built at the entrance and acted as a divider. Behind it, in the bowels of the garage space, were wire shelves stacked with loaves of bread, bags of tea, tins of food, packets of sweets and chips and other groceries. It reminded Meyer of how the morgue at Charlotte Maxeke has stacked the deceased in their care.
The men on the chairs scanned the policemen as they entered. Meyer saw Steenkamp ostentatiously sliding his gun into his hip holster, as if making sure that the men saw he was armed.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Meyer said. ‘On leave today?’
The oldest-looking of them, his beard flecked with grey, laughed. ‘On leave? From what work, mlungu? Huh? What job? Are you hiring?’
Meyer responded with a smile. He opened the file he was carrying and pulled out the photograph. ‘We’re looking for this man. His name is Reggie Mthembu.’
Two of the men glanced at the photograph, got to their feet and walked away. One of the two who had remained seated clicked and muttered ‘voetsek’ under his breath. He put the brown bottle to his lips and took a gulp of beer. The older man didn’t even look at the picture. ‘Don’t know him,’ he said. ‘Never see him before, sorry.’
‘Are you sure? We want to talk to him about the murder of his girlfriend in Orange Farm.’
‘Don’t know him,’ he repeated. ‘Never see him before.’
‘Haai, haai, haai.’ A short woman came rushing out of the store. Her eyes were almost completely buried beneath firm, fat cheeks. ‘What you doing? Don’t harass my customers, wena.’
Meyer turned to her. ‘Good morning. My name’s Detective Luke Meyer. This is Captain Steenkamp and Detective Zwane. We’re looking for this man.’ He showed her the picture.
She looked at it. ‘I don’t know him. He don’t come here. You must leave.’
‘Are you sure? We heard that he frequents this place.’
‘I said no. Not all black people are crooks, you know? Why must you come harass me and my customers?’ She squared up to Meyer, though her forehead only reached his chest. ‘Why not harass the white people? Hey? Can’t a black person run a legit business? Why must you come and try and spoil it?’
‘Hayikhona, mama,’ interjected Zwane. He spoke to her in Zulu and she responded aggressively. The dialogue went back and forth, rapid like automatic gun fire. She gave Steenkamp a look of pure contempt before finally looking at the photograph once more.
‘He is friends with Senzo.’
‘Senzo who?’
‘Angazi.’
‘She doesn’t know,’ Zwane translated.
‘When was the last time you saw him?’ Meyer asked.
‘On the weekend. I think he sleeping by Senzo.’
‘Where does Senzo stay?’
‘On Mmabolepu Street. A green house. Only green house on the road.’
‘Do you—’
‘That is all I know,’ she interrupted. ‘Goodbye now. Go.’
She turned and walked back into her shop. Meyer watched her disappear before he and his two colleagues walked to their car.
As they slammed the doors behind them, Steenkamp hissed, ‘You know what? I’m sick and tired of this crap.’
‘What crap?’ Meyer responded.
‘This race crap.’ He pointed outside the window. ‘That woman telling us we’re harassing her, telling us we must go harass the white people. Why must it always be about race with you people?’
‘You people?’ Zwane spoke up from the back seat.
‘Yes, you people,’ he repeated. ‘Apartheid is long gone. It’s been over twenty years now, bloody hell. But you’re still holding that racism card. Every time. You’ll play it, every time. When will you people stop making everything about race?’
‘When?’ Zwane repeated. ‘I’ll tell you when. When I can walk down the street and a white woman doesn’t suddenly cross the road for no reason at all, but because I’m black. Or when I can walk through the mall and those same women don’t suddenly hold their bags tighter like I’m a thief. Or when I can go into a shop and the shop owner stops following me around, then it will stop being about race. Until you know that feeling, Steenkamp, it will always be about race.’
Meyer could see Steenkamp inhale as if he was about to respond but then change his mind. He was grateful for that. This was a topic Meyer dreaded, a topic that came up far too frequently in South Africa. On one hand, Luke understood where Steenkamp was coming from. Meyer was Afrikaans too, and that was how he had been raised for the first eleven years of his life, before he had gone to live at the St Dominic’s Home for Boys. But, more significantly, he was white. And he too had been overlooked for promotion because of his skin colour on at least one occasion.
There was also the case of Lieutenant Major Renate Barnard who, despite having been the best candidate for a promotion, had been rejected twice because she was white. This was despite a strong recommendation by the interview panel and her divisional commissioner, who happened to be black. Of course Meyer felt that it wasn’t right, but he understood where Zwane was coming from and the need for it.
The apartheid legacy was still clearly felt by the victims of the unjust system. He had lost count of the times he had been in a pub or at a braai with colleagues who all happened to be white, and the K-word had been thrown around after they’d had a few drinks. There was no denying the fac
t that eighty per cent of the country’s wealth was still held by ten per cent of the population: white people.
An umbilical cord connected to the past still fed impoverished black, coloured and Indian people anger, despair and injustice. Racism and discrimination were still rife in a supposedly non-racial democracy. It’s now only more discreet and whispered behind closed doors or under aliases on social media like Twitter, Meyer thought. The words of Dr Martin Luther King whispered in his ears:
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they won’t be judged by the colour of their skin, but by the content of their character.
Had Dr King ever dreamed of South Africa?
28
Creed could see the anger on Grey’s face as he parked his Ranger next to the Major’s BMW. He knew him well enough to read that steely glare.
Creed opened the door and stepped out. ‘Traffic,’ he started. ‘It was a bitch.’
‘Tell me, Nick, what more must I do?’ Grey spoke calmly but his eyes raged.
‘Regarding?’
‘You, Nick. You. For Christ’s sake, I’m doing everything I can to help you, Nick, and you come here smelling like a brewery.’
‘I didn’t ask you for your fucking help, Eli.’ Creed surprised himself with his own burst of anger. ‘You came to me. Remember?’
Grey raised his voice, just slightly, his equivalent to shouting. ‘Because that’s what friends do. They help each other, even if the other friend is too damn stubborn to ask for it.’
Creed gritted his teeth, then sighed. ‘Look. I don’t want to fight. Let’s just forget this whole thing and move on. What are we doing today?’
Grey shook his head. ‘You …’ He sighed hard. ‘Go see Reshmee at the office.’
‘What? I thought we were going to see the boyfriend?’
‘No. You’re not. Not while you’re in this state.’
