In the Midst of Wolves

by Kurt Ellis

  48

  Thursday, 20 June

  Tracey’s words followed him like a persistent ghost the entire day. When he awoke the next morning, they still loomed over him. He sat at his desk in the office and paged through the substantial list of Reggie Mthembu’s known associates. He and Zwane had been cold-calling all the friends and family of the suspect, hoping that one of them could reveal his whereabouts. Each person pleaded ignorance.

  Just as he punched in a new string of numbers, Cho hurried past into Major Grey’s office. The rest of the team were busy with other duties involving the case. Steenkamp was on the road, overseeing a troop of uniformed cops who were patrolling Orange Farm with photographs of Reggie Mthembu. They hoped that luck would be kind on them and that someone had spotted him. Earlier, Patel had released another statement to the press regarding the status of the man hunt. The press, like Tracey.

  Although he knew she was trying to manoeuvre him like a pawn on a chess board, Meyer still felt a tingle of electricity whenever he was in her company – whenever her hand would casually touch his, whenever she chose to honour him with her smile – and he felt completely and utterly foolish about it. He knew she was a vulture of a reporter. All she cared about was her story, and he was just a cog in her plan to get to a sensational one. Yet he still wondered where she was at that moment. If she was thinking of him.

  ‘Meyer. Zwane.’ Major Grey called urgently from his door. ‘My office.’

  ‘That sounds serious,’ Zwane whispered to Meyer as he stood. ‘What did we do wrong?’

  Meyer hung up the receiver just as the next person to deny knowing Mthembu said hello, and led the way into the office.

  ‘Close the door,’ Grey instructed once they were over the threshold. ‘Take a seat.’

  Zwane and Meyer sat. Cho stood to their right with a file in his hand, an even distance between Grey and the two of them.

  Major Grey started flatly. ‘We have a problem. During the scene investigation and clean-up at the Legodu Mine, a bucket was found.’ As if they had choreographed this in advance, Cho opened his file and withdrew a glossy A4 photograph, which he slid onto the desk between the two officers. The bucket was dirty blue with a closed white lid. It had been photographed on sand, with metal electricity towers stretching behind it. Meyer guessed it had a capacity of about ten litres, but the darker shadow at the bottom told him that it carried three to four litres of substance. ‘Upon opening it,’ Grey continued, ‘a brown liquid was discovered. It contained some roots, shells, bones … and a human hand.’

  Cho pulled out a second glossy print. The shot had been taken from above the bucket. A greying thumb and forefinger floated just above the surface, the rest of the hand hidden beneath.

  Cho said, ‘I had to wait for DNA samples, but now I can confirm that the fingerprints taken from the hand match the fingerprints of Lorraine Sinamane.’

  ‘Christ,’ Meyer whispered. ‘It’s muti.’

  Grey nodded. ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘But … that doesn’t match the profile of the boyfriend as the perp.’

  ‘I know,’ Grey gritted his teeth. ‘But muti was Creed’s first suggestion at the scene. I pushed him off it, so that we didn’t lose the case to the Occult Squad.’

  For a second, Meyer saw a flash of anger in his commanding officer’s blue eyes.

  ‘So, what now?’ Zwane asked.

  ‘Our original theory is that Mthembu killed and mutilated her; that he took her hands, tongue, lips and so on in a jealous rage,’ said Meyer. ‘But a jealous rage doesn’t tie in with him then selling or giving these parts of her away to be used in muti.’

  ‘Maybe he sold parts for muti to cover his tracks?’ Cho offered.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Grey ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m still not willing to give this case over to the Occult Unit. Not yet, at least. I’m sending you two to the North West, to this mine. We need to find out where that muti came from.’

  ‘And Mthembu?’ Zwane asked. ‘Are we calling off the search for him? Is he no longer our primary suspect?’

  ‘This development,’ he nodded towards the photograph, ‘might blow our thoughts on motive right out the water, but it doesn’t change Mthembu being our primary suspect. Whether he killed her out of jealousy or for muti, he’s still our best lead. That said, we need to establish what happened with the body parts in the North West and how they link with Mthembu.’ Pause. ‘If they link with him. I need answers. Our neat case is starting to unravel and I won’t allow that.’

  His phone rang. ‘That’s probably Occult now. Get a move on.’

  Meyer nodded, standing. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Grey answered the phone, but before he touched it to his ear, he added. ‘Take Creed with you.’

  49

  Creed was leaning against a lamppost, smoking, when Meyer arrived in a SAPS-branded BMW. When it stopped, he tossed the cigarette to the ground and got in the back seat. Meyer glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. A look that told him that he wasn’t welcome on this excursion.

  As Meyer slipped the car into gear and started to pull away, Creed rested his head on the seat and looked out of the window. His cranium was throbbing – the result of a bad bag of weed. At his back door, Carly was standing on the top step, waving vigorously at him.

  ‘Hey, I didn’t know you had a daughter,’ Zwane said from the passenger seat.

  ‘I don’t,’ Creed replied. ‘I have a squatter.’

  Since that first day he had let her into his house, she had been coming over every day after school. Surprisingly, he didn’t mind. She would just sit in his kitchen reading or doing her homework. She was quiet and stayed out of his way. Whatever mess was made, she would clean up. And she could cook. She didn’t cook as well as Lizzie did, but she cooked well enough.

  Another bonus was that his dogs were now familiar with her – he could ask her to look after them while he was away. Although he would probably only be gone for a day, if anything changed and they had to spend the night in the North West, it was good to know that the dogs would be fed and taken care of.

  The silence spoke volumes for the first twenty minutes on the road.

  As Meyer eased the car onto Albertina Sisulu Road, Zwane started. ‘You know what, ne, ever since this muti thing came up, I can’t stop thinking about that old woman.’

  ‘Which old woman?’ Meyer asked.

  ‘The one by Sinamane’s flat. You remember? The one complaining about the Nigerian drug dealers. The one who said Sinamane brought evil with her when she moved in. The Tokoloshe and Imfene.’

  Meyer smiled. ‘The ramblings of a lonely old woman. You said it yourself, Zwane.’

  ‘No, Father. This stuff is true. This stuff is real.’

  Creed spotted it. A small twitch in Meyer’s neck when Zwane called him ‘Father’. ‘Forgive my untrained eye, Meyer,’ he sat forward, ‘but you don’t seem to be the right age, or complexion, to be the daddy of young Zwane here.’

  Zwane laughed. ‘Hey, don’t you know? Meyer’s a priest.’

  Creed inched further forward, intrigued. ‘Really? Is that so, Detective Meyer?’

  Meyer glared at him once more in the rear-view mirror before slowly replying. ‘Yes, I was. A long time ago.’

  ‘Well, you just got a whole lot more interesting to me. What denomination?’

  ‘Catholic.’

  Creed smiled broadly. ‘Hey, me too. I was raised Catholic. So, you diddle any boys?’

  The fury in Meyer’s eyes was like flames consuming a paper house painted in gasoline. Creed didn’t doubt that if he hadn’t been driving, he would have socked him right in the mouth, just like that fatty in the lift a few days ago.

  ‘Relax,’ he said, licking the wound on his bottom lip. ‘I’m only kidding, Father.’

  ‘Don’t you call me “Father”.’

  ‘I can’t help it. Old habits.’ He chuckled. ‘Do you know what your name means, Luke?’ He didn’t wait for him to respond. ‘It m
eans “light giving”.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Did you know that it’s also a derivative of Lucifer?’ Again, he didn’t wait for him to answer. ‘So, tell me, Father, why did you leave the Church? Crises of faith?’

  ‘My faith has never been in crisis.’

  ‘I see.’ Creed nodded. ‘So you still believe?’

  ‘Yes. I never stopped believing.’

  ‘So even though we do the kind of job that we do – interact with killers, rapists, molesters and the like – you still believe that there’s this omnipotent being out there, watching us? Loving us and all his other creations, great and small?’

  ‘I do.’

  Creed laughed hard. ‘Then he must be one hell of a sadistic bastard, don’t you think? To give us disease, famine, wars and these sick puppies that we try to find. Something like a little brat burning ants with a magnifying glass.’

  ‘And you, Creed?’ Meyer asked. ‘When did you stop believing?’

  Creed sat back. ‘Who says I have?’ The two men eyed each other in the mirror. ‘I still believe in God. I just don’t like him. Not after all the shit he’s done. He’s nothing but a bully.’

  ‘A bully?’ Zwane enquired, turning in his seat.

  ‘Yes, a sadistic bully. He watches gleefully as humanity tears itself to pieces. He sends floods and droughts, famine, disease – and still demands that we worship him. And then you have these priests, pastors, imams, rabbis, prophets and the like who are just a bunch of thieves. Narcissists who believe they’re more special than anyone else. Like they’ve got a direct fuckin’ line to God himself. Charlatans and scam artists, looking to make a quick buck off ignorant and desperate people.’

  Meyer kept his eyes on the road, but Creed saw his knuckles tightening on the steering wheel.

  ‘It all started when the first monkey pointed to the sun and said to the second monkey, “He says you must give me your share of fruit or else he’ll smite you.” And the scared, dumb second monkey obeyed,’ said Creed.

  ‘Eish,’ Zwane said, turning back to the road. ‘You shouldn’t say stuff like that.’

  ‘Why not? Let me tell you something, Zwane. According to the Bible, his own word, our wonderful God killed over two and a half million people, and that’s not even counting the Great Flood, the plagues, Sodom and Gomorrah, and all the others. How much would his body count run up to if I included them? And then there’s the Devil, Satan, Beelzebub,’ he looked at Meyer, ‘Lucifer, if you prefer. Do you know how many deaths he’s responsible for in the Bible? Ten. Only ten. Those were Job’s kids, and he only did that because God gave him permission to do so in order to win a bet. So, tell me, Zwane, who’s the real evil one?’

  ‘You still shouldn’t say things like this. It’s wrong.’

  ‘No more wrong than what happens every day on this planet. If there is an all-powerful being out there, then why doesn’t he intercede when a grown man rapes a baby? Or when an innocent person is gunned down on their way to church. Or when a young woman is murdered, her body hacked to pieces and used in muti?’

  Meyer’s eyes caught his in the rear-view. ‘Or when a man, in a fit of rage, kills another man – executes another man by shooting him in the head. And then uses his connections in the FBI to get away with it.’

  Creed smiled. ‘Exactly. Where was he to stop that? Or maybe it was just his will?’

  50

  The media frenzy was outlandish. Scores of men and women bustled outside the small Rustenburg police station, demanding answers. They shoved their microphones and smartphones into the face of any passer-by who seemed important. They gave Creed one look, saw the unshaven face, the grey beanie, the jeans, black T-shirt and the old leather jacket, and decided he wasn’t a person who knew anything about the mine shooting. They lurched instead towards Meyer, who now had a tide of reporters swallowing him.

  Creed used the parting in the sea of reporters to get through the doors and into the police station unscathed. Zwane followed shortly and they waited a few minutes for Meyer to push through the press amoeba.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ he said when he had finally managed to get inside. ‘It’s insane.’

  ‘It’s a huge story,’ Creed shrugged.

  The desk sergeant eyed Creed from head to toe, then turned to Meyer. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Detective Luke Meyer of the Investigative Psychological Unit. This is Detective Dumisani Zwane, and Nicholas Creed. I believe you’re expecting us.’

  The young woman looked puzzled. She turned and yelled, ‘Commander!’

  Real professional, Creed thought. His legs were numb and his butt hurt from the drive. He walked around the small reception area to improve the blood flow to his lower extremities. Behind the dark-wood counter was a passage that appeared to lead to offices. A sign above a door to the left of the desk read Holding Cells.

  A fat, brown-skinned man in a pale-green shirt emerged from the offices. ‘Ja?’

  ‘These men here say they’re from the IPU,’ said the desk sergeant. ‘Are we expecting them?’

  He smiled warmly. ‘Yes, yes.’ He reached over the desk and shook Meyer’s hand. ‘I just spoke to your Major Grey an hour ago. I worked with him on a case in the Free State a few years ago. I don’t think he remembers me.’

  ‘Thank you, Commander,’ Meyer responded.

  ‘Come along. I have the interview room ready. I’ll bring him in now.’ He smiled, ‘And let me tell you now: he’s not a happy man.’

  51

  Joe Baloyi came into the room with a huff. Sweat glistened on his shining bald head and trickled down his cheeks. His eyes were wide with anger. The scars on his face told Creed he’d had a vicious battle with acne in his youth, a battle he had badly lost.

  ‘Is this what our police have become?’ he started loudly and aggressively. ‘A law unto themselves? You think you can do anything you want and get away with it?’

  ‘Please,’ started Meyer. ‘Sit down, Mr Baloyi.’

  ‘Why? So you can kill me too? You’re just as bad as the apartheid police. Even worse. You pretend to be different but you’re not. I want my lawyer, now.’

  Meyer remained calm and again gestured to the chair opposite him. Creed stood in the back corner with Zwane.

  ‘I won’t sit down. I won’t be silenced.’ Spittle flew from his lips. ‘You’re murderers. You killed hundreds yesterday. Hundreds.’

  ‘Mr Baloyi. We killed no one. We weren’t here yesterday. We’re here now on a completely different matter. Please have a seat and we’ll explain.’

  Baloyi stared at Meyer, then looked at Creed and Zwane. He said something to Zwane in Xhosa, to which the young man responded in English by saying, ‘Sit down and he’ll tell you why.’

  ‘And these?’ He held up his hands, showing the cuffs on his wrists.

  ‘We can take those off.’ Meyer got to his feet and undid the handcuffs with his key. He placed them on the table beside a brown case file before sitting again.

  Baloyi slid into the bolted-down chair. ‘So, what’d you want?’

  Meyer pulled out his small flip pad from the inside of his jacket. ‘Mr Baloyi, you oversaw the march yesterday. Is that correct?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t in charge. Are you trying to blame this all on me?’ He leaned forward.

  ‘No, we’re not. So, who was in charge?’

  ‘Nobody.’ He sounded like an insolent child.

  ‘But you’re a shop steward for your union. Are you not?’

  He paused for a minute, then said, ‘Yes, I am. But I wasn’t responsible for what happened. The gathering was peaceful until the police started shooting. We tried to defend ourselves. It’s our constitutional right to defend ourselves.’

  ‘Mr Baloyi. We’re not here about the shooting.’ Meyer opened the brown folder and withdrew the photograph of Lorraine Sinamane. ‘Have you seen this woman before?’

  ‘No,’ he said without looking at the picture.

  ‘Would you m
ind taking a closer look?’

  He glanced down at the photograph for less than a second. ‘No. I don’t know her.’

  Meyer pulled out another picture. ‘Have you seen him before?’

  Baloyi looked at the picture of Reggie Mthembu. ‘No.’

  ‘And this?’ The third photograph was of the blue bucket. ‘Have you seen this bucket before?’

  Again, a brief glance. ‘No.’

  But Creed spotted a small twitch in his eye – a glint of recognition.

  ‘You’re a lying bastard, Baloyi,’ Creed hissed.

  ‘What?’ the shop steward shot to his feet, his jaw knotted with anger. ‘You can’t talk to me like that. You …’

  ‘Sit down and shut the fuck up.’ Creed rushed forward and got right in his face. ‘Do you think I sat in that car for two fucking hours to listen to you bullshit us?’

  ‘You can’t talk to me like this. I know my rights.’

  ‘Fuck you and your rights.’ Creed slammed his hand on the table. ‘Let me tell you about my rights. Unless you stop stonewalling us, I’ve the right to go out there and announce to the press that your union is involved in the trade of human body parts for muti purposes.’

  ‘But—’ he hesitated. ‘But that’s a lie.’

  ‘Really?’ Creed grabbed the picture of Lorraine and thrust it into his face. ‘This girl was killed. Her genitals, tongue, feet and hands were taken. Cut off. Now those hands are found here.’ He dropped the picture of the victim and slammed his fist on the picture of the blue bucket. ‘In here, a bucket of muti that was confiscated from members of your union.’

  Baloyi’s shoulders slumped slightly for a second before he recovered. It was a little too late.

  Creed knew he had him.

  ‘But you can’t prove that we had anything to do with it. It …’

  ‘I don’t need to prove shit,’ Creed responded. ‘I just need to say it. And watch the angle the media takes on this entire shit-storm change. Right now, they’re on your side. Right now, you guys are the victims and the police are the monsters. Let them find out about this, though’ – he tapped the photograph once more – ‘that you guys killed an innocent girl, chopped her body up and used it for muti, and watch how quickly it will all change.’