by Kurt Ellis
‘How so?’
‘According to the official Feds’ report and Creed’s statement, after discovering Megan’s corpse he proceeded to search the house. He entered the main bedroom, where Rodriguez attacked him with a knife. They struggled, and in the process both men dropped their weapons. In the ensuing fight, they both fell to the floor, where Creed managed to get hold of his gun and shoot Rodriguez as he was trying to grab the weapon. But the evidence doesn’t corroborate this narrative. Firstly, Creed had only a small amount of bruising, mostly on his knuckles, yet Rodriguez’s injuries show that he had been beaten to a near pulp. The medical examiner stated in his report that he doubted Rodriguez was conscious at all when the shot that killed him was fired. And then there was the bullet wound itself.’ Pieter formed a gun with his forefinger and thumb, and pressed it to the top of his head. ‘At a sharp, downward angle, from the side. GSR and flash burns to the scalp.’
‘Gunshot residue on the scalp?’
‘On the scalp,’ Pieter repeated, finding a print-out among the sheets of paper. ‘All evidence pointed to an execution-type shooting in which Creed stood over him, to one side, pressed the barrel against his head and fired. And then it gets even dodgier. Phone-call records show that the first person Creed called after the shooting was Douglas Redman, his former boss, who was at home, on Mercer Island off the coast. This was at 23:16. The call lasted just over six minutes. Then Redman called Special Agent Jameson Barnes, who was Creed’s second-in-command at 23:23. That conversation lasted four minutes. Barnes then tried to call Creed but there was no answer. He then called Redman and spoke for another two minutes. Redman then attempted to call Creed on four different occasions: no answer. At 23:55, Jameson Barnes and another member of Creed’s team were the first to arrive on scene. At two minutes past midnight, Barnes called Redman and spoke for seven minutes. And then, at 00:19, they called Seattle PD to report the shooting.’
‘What?’ Tracey leaned forward.
‘Exactly. All seems very suspect. When asked to explain their delay in reporting the incident, Redman and Barnes attributed it to the bystander effect: Redman said he’d thought Creed had already called the police, and Barnes said he had thought Redman had done so.’
‘And they got away with it?’
‘Barnes got a week’s suspension, with pay, for failing to follow correct procedure.’
‘So not even a slap on the wrist?’ she shook her head. ‘He was given a paid vacation.’
‘Basically. But it looks as if it worked. Although there were questions about what happened, at the end of the day a serial killer had just murdered the former fiancée of an FBI agent and had been killed himself. Nobody was sad to see him go, and the shooting was deemed justified, at least by the media. But some of the higher-ups at the FBI didn’t like the stink this left on them so the exchange programme was abruptly brought to an end. Which brings us back to our Major Grey here.’ Pieter tapped his picture. ‘Second in charge at the IPU. Creed’s technically still a member of SAPS but needs to pass the SAPS physical and psychological evaluation before he can be put back on active duty. He has been in the country now for almost six months and he hasn’t taken the test yet.’
‘So he’s not a policeman?’
Pieter shook his head. ‘Not officially. Currently, his title on his payslip is “consultant”. The question I have is, what’s wrong with him? Why hasn’t he taken the psych evaluation yet?’
Tracey leaned back in her seat. ‘After what you’ve told me, I’d guess a whole bunch.’
‘What it smells like to me is that our golden boy here, Major Grey, is bending and manipulating the rules to help out his friend.’
‘I see that too, although I’m struggling to believe it. I mean, Grey’s integrity is beyond reproach. Or that’s how it’s always seemed to me.’
‘I know what you mean. I had the same impression. I can investigate this deeper, you know. There’s probably a whole truck-load more info I can find.’
Tracey laughed. ‘At a fee, of course.’
‘Of course. I must be paid for my services, you know, unless you want me to go on a violent strike like those miners in the North West.’
‘That’s exactly why I keep you on a temporary contract basis, Mr Vorster. But I tell you what: I’ll meet you halfway and pay for your breakfast.’
32
‘Two white okes and a black oke sitting in a parked car in Soweto doesn’t look right, Meyer,’ Steenkamp observed. ‘Not exactly inconspicuous.’
They had found the green house in Mmabolepu Street and parked two houses away. The residence stuck out like a swollen thumb – a sickening, bright colour among the brown and white homes around it. After they had observed the house for approximately ten minutes, Meyer reached for his door handle.
‘Wag ’n bietjie.’ Steenkamp’s hand was on his shoulder. ‘We can’t see the back of the house. We can’t just go up there and knock on the door. This oke could run through the back without us knowing. Also, he might not be there at all, hey? What if he’s with Reggie right now, and we go knocking on the door, saying the police are looking for him? A simple phone call and he’ll be in the wind. He might never come back and we’ll be left here with nothing but our dicks.’
‘So what do you propose?’ said Meyer. ‘We can’t sit here and watch the place all day.’
‘I propose Zwane goes in alone, like he’s an old mate of Reggie, you know? He won’t attract the same attention we will.’
Meyer looked at Zwane through the rear-view mirror. ‘Are you up for this, Zwane?’
The young man smiled confidently. ‘Bring it on.’
Zwane worked his jacket off in the back seat of the car and removed his tie. After stepping out, he pulled his shirt out of his pants and lost all appearance of a professional cop.
He leaned in at Steenkamp’s window. ‘Okay, so what story must I tell?’
‘You’re Reggie’s cousin from eThekwini, and you’re looking for him. Someone told you he’s staying here with Senzo.’
He nodded.
‘Zwane,’ Meyer said, ‘take your weapon and tuck it in the back of your pants, under your shirt. You see even a small sign of danger, you pull it and shout for back-up. We’ll be right there.’
Zwane smiled. ‘Relax, Father. I got this.’
He trotted across the street, and walked down the pavement with a tsotsi’s swagger.
‘The kid looks good, hey?’ Steenkamp said. ‘Like a real gangster.’
Meyer nodded.
‘You know he’s just a BEE appointment, right?’
Meyer shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. Race? Again? He sighed. ‘Zwane was the top of his class. He shows immense promise and commitment. He’s here on merit alone.’
Steenkamp put his hands in the air. ‘Hey, I’m not saying merit wasn’t a factor, my boet. But what I’m saying is, so is his skin colour. And the fact that he has family lunch with Lieutenant General Ngcobo didn’t damage his chances much, hey.’
Meyer didn’t respond. They watched the young man disappear into the yard and Meyer pulled his Heckler & Koch semi-automatic pistol from his hip and placed it on his lap.
‘And what about that kak in the North West, hey? Those miners?’
‘What about them?’
‘They want to earn twelve thousand, thirteen thousand rand a month.’
‘So?’ Meyer felt edgy. He was becoming concerned that Zwane was taking too long, though he had only turned the corner less than a minute earlier. They were unable to see him, their view obstructed by the neighbour’s fence. ‘We’d all like to earn more money,’ he said.
‘Ja, but why must they burn cars and kill innocent people to earn more money? Anyway, shit, do they deserve more? All that complaining about how much the CEO and the executives are earning.’
‘Mining is a dangerous job.’
‘So is being a South African. I mean, these CEOs are earning big bucks because they studied hard, got the qualifications and stuff t
o earn that money. Most of these miners didn’t finish school, I bet. My son finished school and got a diploma, but he’s earning only five thousand rand a month. Why should uneducated people earn more than him, hey?’
Meyer had had enough of waiting. He pushed the car door open and began to climb out. ‘Maybe your son should consider a career change and become a miner instead.’
Just as he closed the door, Zwane emerged from the yard. Meyer quickly slipped back into his seat. Zwane dropped onto the back seat.
‘Eish. That was hectic,’ he said with a wide grin. Streams of sweat ran from his temples despite the cold. ‘Heart is beating like a drum.’
‘What happened?’ encouraged Steenkamp.
‘Okay, Senzo’s not home. I spoke to his mother. She doesn’t know where he is, but Reggie’s been staying with them for a few days. She said we should try Senzo at his girlfriend’s place. I’ve got the address here,’ he tapped his shirt pocket. ‘It’s a few streets away.’
Meyer nodded. ‘Okay, good. Great job.’ He started the engine and did a sharp U-turn.
The late-morning streets on this end of Soweto had grown more docile. A few pedestrians were walking about and a couple of taxis sped by, but there was no other notable activity. Meyer followed Zwane’s back-seat instructions and turned into a tight side street. They had just straightened into the new road when a white Citi Golf appeared from an adjacent street and stopped abruptly, blocking their path.
Meyer slammed on the brakes and his passengers jerked forward. ‘What the …’
There was a screech of rubber behind him. Meyer’s eyes whipped to his rear-view mirror to see a red minibus squeal to a stop mere inches from his rear bumper, preventing him from throwing the car into reverse. The sliding door of the vehicle behind them slid open and masked men tumbled out. Meyer didn’t have time to count how many of them there were; all he could see was that they held automatic guns in their hands. His own hand dropped to his lap where his gun lay, but it was too late.
33
Creed was confused. Was he more pissed off with Grey or with himself?
He turned his Ford Ranger into Rose Street and pulled up to the house numbered 133 on the mailbox. His house. He pressed the button on the remote dangling off his key chain and the large green gate creaked open. He didn’t need a full-time job, he thought as the gate’s slow motor hummed. He owned this house and this car, paid for with the cash he made from the royalties from the two books he co-wrote and the movie based on one of them. Royalties fattened his bank account every six months with US dollars. He had also made a good profit from the sale of his property and goods in the United States, and could manage on the interest from those savings alone. He didn’t need to go back to SAPS to earn a salary.
She stood up when she saw his truck drive into the yard. Two of his younger pups were jumping and playing at her feet.
He parked his car and got out. ‘What are you doing here?’
Carly was still in her school uniform. ‘Your dogs were barking like crazy. You didn’t feed them this morning before you left, so I fed them.’
‘How do you know I didn’t?’
‘Because after I fed them, they stopped barking.’
‘Why aren’t you in school?’
She looked to the ground, ‘I’m sick. So I came home early.’
‘Liar,’ Creed growled.
‘I’m not a liar,’ she growled back, her eyes snapping up from the earth to meet his defiantly. ‘Why aren’t you at work?’
‘I’m sick.’
She laughed. ‘So who’s lying now?’
He closed his door. ‘If you’re sick, then why are you not in your house?’
‘There’s no one home. My mother is at work and my father …’
She didn’t finish the sentence but looked back at the ground instead. Nick stared at her. For some reason, she reminded him a lot of Lizzie when she’d been her age. Headstrong. Maybe it was that, or the fact that she was trying to cope with an alcoholic father, and that Creed was trying to deduce whether he himself had already become an alcoholic or was just on his way to becoming one.
‘I’m going to sleep,’ he said. ‘You can come in and eat something while you wait for your mother.’
34
‘You’re a real son of a bitch, Modise,’ Steenkamp spat, but with a smile.
The greying man dressed in a pair of beige chinos and a white shirt grinned broadly. His shiny, tar-coloured skin made his pearly whites look even brighter. ‘But how, Oom? You brought this on yourself.’
They sat in the back seat of the red minibus taxi – the very same vehicle that had prevented their potential escape after leaving Senzo’s house. Meyer and Steenkamp had managed to get their weapons into their hands, but had been unable to raise them before the automatic rifles were pressed to their temples. They were dragged out of their car and shoved into the minibus, which sped off with a terrifying shriek of rubber.
Their hands were cable-tied behind their backs as they cut through roads and traffic sharply, before coming to a stop in the parking lot of a small children’s playground. Here, the smell of fish and chips from a tiny, nearby takeaway had made Meyer nauseous. He’d wondered if it was going to be the last thing he smelt before he was executed. It was then that the driver had turned to face them and Steenkamp started to laugh manically.
‘What do you think you guys are doing?’ Steenkamp asked after the binds were cut from their wrists.
‘No, Oom. The question is, what do you guys think you’re doing?’
‘Okay,’ Meyer spoke up, his heartbeat still accelerated. ‘Can someone please tell me what’s going on here?’
Steenkamp turned to his colleague. ‘This is Captain Fana Modise. We worked together out of Brixton for a while, then at Krugersdorp before he went to the Takies.’ Takies was the acronym for the Tactical Response Team.
The Captain reached out his hand to Meyer but it wasn’t accepted. ‘So then what the hell was that all about? Dragging us out of our car? Are you insane? It could have led to a gun fight.’
The man withdrew his hand. ‘We were prepared,’ he said. ‘We didn’t know who you were.’
Steenkamp interrupted. ‘Fana, so tell us, what’s going on here?’
Modise turned to his old colleague. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you what we are doing here, but then you tell me what you’re doing here.’
Steenkamp nodded.
‘We’re waiting on Senzo Matlata and his gang. They’ve committed two cash-in-transit heists in the last six months, leaving two guards dead and two others shot. One of the survivors …’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t look good. We were given a tip that he and his crew were planning a third one so we’re staking out his residence so we can take him down. But then we see you three. I didn’t know who you were, but when I saw le nkwenkwe’, he looked at Zwane, whose face creased with annoyance at being called a boy, ‘with a gun in his belt, we thought you could be part of the gang. Or at least involved somehow, so we took you down. Now it’s your turn. What are you up to?’
‘You heard about that body found near the Golden Highway?’ asked Steenkamp.
Modise nodded.
‘Well, we’re liking the ex-boyfriend for it. We were told we could find him here, living with this Senzo. His name is Reggie.’
‘Reggie Mthembu?’ Modise leaned further over the back of his seat.
Steenkamp leaned forward. ‘Same one.’
Modise clicked his fingers at one of his officers, who swiftly handed him a bulging file sleeve. Modise pulled out a stack of A4 glossy photographs, paged through them quickly and held one up.
‘Same one?’ he asked. ‘Lo msunu?’
Meyer glanced at the picture. It was different to the photo they had of Reggie Mthembu, but it was certainly the same man with the same scar.
‘Same one,’ Steenkamp nodded.
Modise smiled and slipped the photograph back into the sleeve. ‘Okay. It’s a small world hey? Le nja … We want hi
m too.’
‘And this meeting’s supposed to take place today?’ Meyer asked.
Modise nodded. ‘According to our informant, it was supposed to be at one.’ He looked at his watch. ‘In another hour.’
‘We want in,’ Steenkamp said flatly.
Modise laughed. ‘Not going to happen, Oom. You’re not—’
‘Modise,’ Steenkamp interrupted, ‘we want him. You owe me this, mos, after that night we all went to … you know where.’
‘How, Oom?’ Modise protested. ‘You can’t. That’s a long time ago’
Steenkamp laughed. ‘Ja, Fana. I can. Do your team know about that night, or must I tell them all now? What you fucking got up to? I covered your ass that night, Fana. Time you repaid me.’
35
Steenkamp had called Grey to update him on the change in plan. From what Meyer could hear, Grey was happy with their joining the task team on the raid.
Modise issued the three of them with Kevlar vests. Steenkamp struggled, unable to get the straps to stretch around his stomach.
‘Eish, Oom,’ Modise said. ‘Too much pizza and beer. You must join Virgin Active.’
Steenkamp scowled and pulled as hard as he could, until a sliver of Velcro held his vest in place. It only covered his upper torso, though, leaving most of his stomach exposed and vulnerable.
Meyer felt a cool trickle run down his cheeks from his temples. All the tinted windows of the taxi were closed. He had removed his jacket and could see the pools of perspiration darkening his shirt under the arms. The special task-force team had circled back to Senzo’s house and parked nearby. Meyer could see the white VW Golf that had blocked their route an hour earlier, parked a few houses down on the other side of the road.
He held his gun in his left hand; in his right, his rosary. He mumbled to himself, ‘Almighty God, have mercy on me and my colleagues, and on all who bear us evil will and would us harm, and their faults and mine together by such easy, tender, merciful means as thy infinite wisdom best can devise, vouchsafe to amend and redress, and make us saved souls in heaven together where we may ever live and love together with thee and thy saints. O glorious Trinity, for the bitter passion of our saviour Christ. Amen.’
