The Top Prisoner of C-Max

by Wessel Ebersohn

  ‘Don’t worry, ma’am. If there’s a cancellation, I’ll keep it for you.’

  ‘How will I know?’

  ‘The next flight is in an hour. If you come back in forty-five minutes, I’ll tell you.’

  Abigail found an unoccupied seat near the boarding gate and opened her laptop. For the first time, she wondered what she was going to do when she got to Cape Town. The obvious answer was that she would take the police with her to the Freedom Foundation. Face to face, they would not be able to refuse her. If only Freek were there. Yudel had introduced them some years before. She had seen him in action since then and she knew he was the man she needed.

  Abigail spent the forty-five minutes on her laptop, reading a police report on the wife of a senior politician accused of drug running, and glancing continually at her watch. The author of the report had built a case that relied largely on the testimony of criminals. Abigail doubted that it contained enough to secure a conviction. When the time was up, she returned to the registration desk and spoke to the girl who had placed her name on the standby list. ‘I’m very sorry, ma’am. There were three cancellations, but the police took them all.’

  Abigail raised both hands, her fingers spread in exasperation. ‘My business is also official, more important than theirs.’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t refuse the police.’

  Abigail was turning away in disgust when a new thought came to her. She moved forward so quickly that the girl drew back, fearing she might be attacked. ‘What did these policemen look like?’

  ‘Two old white ones and a young black one.’

  ‘The white ones, was one big and the other small with wild hair?’

  A look of panic crossed the girl’s face. ‘Aren’t they really policemen?’

  ‘They’re policemen all right. Do you have their names?’

  The girl scratched through papers pinned to a clipboard. She stopped at the page that carried the information she was looking for. ‘F. Jordaan, L. Moloi and Y. Gordon.’

  ‘Excellent. Tell the flight I need to speak to them before they take of.’

  ‘They’re taxiing already.’

  Abigail had to take more than one deep breath before she could speak. ‘You told me the next flight was in an hour.’

  ‘That was a different airline.’

  ‘Christ Almighty, kid.’ Abigail had run out of restraint. ‘I don’t give a rat’s arse what airline. I just need to get to Cape Town fast.’

  Nothing was going right for the girl. This awful woman was dissatisfied with everything she did. It was typical of rich people. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ she began, ‘I thought—’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You didn’t even begin to think.’

  Cape Town suburb of Lansdowne – ten kilometres from the Freedom Foundation

  The mountain passes had used up what little stamina remained in the old Datsun. It had boiled crossing the coastal mountains to reach the N2 coastal highway. He had to wait for it to cool and then, using a cold-drink bottle, had filled the radiator from a mountain stream.

  After that he had filled the bottle and kept it on the seat next to him. The Datsun had kept going along the rolling coastal hills, but the Houwhoek Pass, rising a thousand feet to the top of the Elgin Plateau, had almost destroyed what remained of the engine. It had boiled halfway up the pass and then again near the top. The radiator had to be topped up twice. The traffic on the highway had slipped by without slowing. No one stopped to help the driver of a thirty-year-old Datsun.

  The bastards, Hall thought. They would’ve all stopped if I’d been driving a late model Merc.

  Crossing the Cape Flats, he could see Table Mountain and knew that he was almost within walking distance of the city. She was within reach, he told himself, and he was going to have her. None of them had ever been able to stop him before, and they would not be able to now. He was going to have her and he was going to have her in every way a man could have a woman, and a few ways other men could not even imagine. He was going to leave nothing for Gordon or any of them. The pretty white dresses and the pretty speeches would mean nothing now.

  As he passed through the first cluster of suburbs, the van finally died amidst a screeching of red-hot piston rings scraping against well-worn cylinders. With two wheels on the pavement, Hall brought the van to a halt outside an enterprise that carried the name, Dignified Funerals. Next to it his attention was drawn by a small tyre-repair shop. He got out slowly and thoughtfully.

  A man in overalls came out of the workshop door. He leant against the doorframe. With one hand he tapped a spanner in the palm of the other. ‘You going to need more than tyres, my man,’ he told Hall.

  He was a lean, wiry character, his face deeply lined. Like so many from this part of the country, including Hall himself, his features looked European, but his hair and skin colour were African. Hall could see no one else in the place. This guy would have a car and probably some cash too. Hall approached him, shaking his head. ‘My damn car’s finally had it.’

  The other man nodded. ‘Sounds like it. Prob’ly not worth fixing. You’ll get a few hundred from a scrap dealer. That’s the best you can do.’

  Hall stopped close enough to enable him to keep his voice down, sounding almost confidential. ‘Maybe you can help me, buddy.’ He was again using his working-class Cape Coloured way of speaking.

  ‘Not with that.’ He inclined his head towards the old Datsun.

  ‘I got a address I got to go to. Maybe you can tell me where it is.’ From his pants pocket Hall took out the computer printout Ashton had given him. He handed it to the tyre-repair man.

  ‘My friend, you got a distance to go.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘I’ll show you on the map.’

  Hall followed him into a small office in which papers, telephone and everything else carried smudges of tyre dirt. A road map of the city hung on a wall. A car key dangled from a hook next to it. ‘You work alone?’ Hall asked.

  ‘All by myself. It’s the best way. When you got staff you always got problems. I say, be your own staff and you can rely on your staff.’ It had been intended as a joke and he laughed.

  Hall joined in briefly. ‘So show me where this place is, buddy. That’ll be a big help.’

  ‘This is where we are and this is the suburb you want. You got a distance to go.’

  Hall moved in behind him. He glanced towards the window, but it was grimy with dust and partly covered by a calendar. The day was still bright outside. It would be impossible to see into the gloom of the little office. ‘What road should a man travel?’

  ‘If you can get a car, this is the way.’ His forefinger was tracing a route on the map. ‘Like this.’

  The tyre man was studying the map as if he had never seen it before. This was all too easy. Hall moved up close behind him. He lifted the elbow of his knife arm so that it would not be easy to ward it off. The slice was so clean that the pain came only a moment later. Hall’s main problem was to avoid the blood pumping out of the carotid and to see that the tyre man fell where the body would not get in his way. It was just too easy.

  FORTY-ONE

  THE BOEING taxied unhurriedly to a position opposite a boarding gate in a temporary wing of Cape Town International Airport. The airport had been undergoing an expansion programme for some months and part of the concourse was now inside a tented structure. Freek had spoken to the captain of the flight and he, Yudel and Lieutenant Moloi were allowed to disembark before the rest of the passengers.

  Moloi had been reluctant to accompany them, telling Freek that he was in the middle of developing a drive to promote greater client satisfaction at the Lodge. He said that the girls were all enthusiastic about his plans and he needed to be there to see that the plans were properly implemented.

  ‘I need you in Cape Town,’ Freek had told him. ‘Let’s remember what your real job is.’ To Yudel he had said, ‘This is a smart young guy and I don’t know what we’re going to find when w
e get there.’

  The southeaster that blows across the Cape Flats off False Bay was strong enough to blow a kid off a bicycle. Going into the teeth of it, Yudel did his best to follow Freek and Moloi across the short stretch of tarmac to the temporary boarding area. Just before they reached it, Moloi turned back to take his arm above the elbow and first drag him, then push him into the building. They entered with Freek leading, a flustered Yudel just behind him, still suffering Moloi’s assistance.

  Four men were waiting for them, two in the uniform of police inspectors. The two older ones wore suits. One of them spoke. ‘You’re a long way from home, Freek.’ He nodded to Yudel. ‘And Mr Gordon, I think.’

  Yudel looked from the speaker to Freek. ‘Good evening, Willem,’ Freek said. ‘I didn’t expect to be met at the airport.’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t.’ The speaker was a small, hard-faced man, who, like Freek, had the reputation of suffering no nonsense and had the singular distinction of having grown up on the same streets as Oliver Hall.

  Freek turned to Yudel. ‘Colonel Willem Muller, Yudel Gordon from Corrections.’

  Yudel shook the colonel’s hand. ‘How do you do?’

  ‘I’m all right. I’m on my own turf tonight.’

  Freek looked for Moloi to introduce him, but the lieutenant, who had been close behind Yudel, was no longer with them. He turned back to the colonel. ‘This is a surprise. What can we do for you?’

  ‘You can get back on the next flight and go home. And that is not my view. My commissioner advises you that you are outside your jurisdiction and you must leave immediately.’

  Freek looked past the colonel and yawned slightly. ‘Yesterday your commissioner was in intensive care.’

  The colonel stared unblinkingly at Freek. The yawn had no effect. ‘He’s still there. But he sent me with this message.’

  Freek looked studiedly bored. He waved a hand in a gesture of exasperation. ‘Willem, do you know what we’re here for?’ Freek’s attempt at establishing seniority had no effect on the other man. He took a step closer.

  ‘Of course, I do. We heard from your office that you were coming and this is our response.’ He stopped and seemed to sigh. ‘Christ, Freek. You’re insulting us, you know that? Do you think we can’t handle this matter? Come on. You walk in here as if you’re the only policeman in the country.’

  ‘Well, what are you doing about this matter?’

  ‘We’ve got a man on it – around the clock.’

  ‘Just one?’

  ‘The commissioner thinks one is enough.’

  ‘We know this Oliver Hall and one is not enough.’

  ‘Freek, old son, you act as if you’re in charge wherever you go, but you’re not in charge here. We don’t interfere in Gauteng. My commissioner instructs you to go back home. He sent me here to give you the message that unless you have orders from our minister you are to get onto the next flight back to Johannesburg.’

  Freek looked thoughtfully at the little colonel. The colonel knew he had won the argument and that Freek was the last white officer of that rank in the country. Crossing territorial boundaries and ignoring a legitimate order was no way to retain his position.

  Yudel looked at Freek, then at the colonel, then he looked for Moloi. It took a moment to pick him out in the crowd. He was at the far end of the hall, clearly feeling this matter had nothing to do with him. He glanced back once before he turned a corner and was gone.

  The flight Abigail was on lifted off just over an hour after the one that Yudel, Freek and Moloi had taken. She was seated between a fat man who overflowed his seat and a six-year-old boy who spent the flight playing an electronic game on a hand-held device.

  The man had soon fallen asleep and was snoring loudly. Abigail felt herself leaning away from him. That brought her closer to the child. To avoid watching his game, she switched on her laptop. She had finished the police report on the politician’s wife and had not meant to open her emails, but suddenly they were on the screen before her. A number had not yet been answered. That at least gave her something useful to do. Answering the new mails took close to half an hour. They were made up largely of the trivia that was part of running any office: the requisition of copying paper had not arrived, the tea lady was sick so Johanna wondered if she would have to make the tea, the servicing of her car cost twice the garage estimate, the new intern wanted two days’ leave although she had only been with them a week … An hour of the flight remained.

  In the act of closing the emails, the hand on the mouse slipped and she found that she had opened the drafts. Without consciously searching, her eyes picked out an address that should not have been there. It had not been sent by her. The subject line was empty, but the mail had been directed to ashtonhall@gmail.com.

  Ashton Hall, Abigail thought. Oliver Hall’s brother?

  She opened the mail, but whoever had created it had deleted the message. She was troubled by the discovery of this out-of-place bit of correspondence on her computer and was ready to switch it off, when a new thought came to her. She opened the deleted items section and let her eyes run down the list of superfluous mail. Halfway down the first page she came to the same address.

  She opened the mail and this time the message was still present. It read:

  Dear Mr Hall. Please pass this address to Oliver when you see him:

  12 Sea View Crescent, Scarborough. Cape Town.

  Thank you so much. With deepest sincerity,

  Beloved Childe

  Ashton Hall was in hospital, but he had seen his brother before the two cops got hold of him. In that case, Hall would be going to that address, not to the Freedom Foundation offices. And this stupid, stupid girl was waiting for him there.

  FORTY-TWO

  The Freedom Foundation

  THE COMPLEX in which the Freedom Foundation had its offices had once housed a small factory and warehouse. When the factory had moved to a bigger building, a smart executive had seen that the long, narrow, two-storey building lent itself to premises for smaller organisations.

  The rents had been reasonable and within a month of completion, it was filled by social-welfare bodies, non-governmental organisations, human rights lawyers and others with commendable social aims. The entrance to the complex was at one end of the building and the Freedom Foundation’s offices at the other. Their offices occupied two suites, making the foundation the complex’s largest tenant.

  The taxi dropped Elia Dlomo at the gate. He paid the driver the six hundred he had promised and approached the lone watchman, who was behind a steel palisade fence. The complex was on the mountain’s eastern slope. It had been in shadow for a few hours already and twilight was deepening. ‘Good evening, brother,’ Dlomo said to the guard in Zulu.

  The guard opened the pedestrian gate and stepped into the road. He answered in the same language. ‘Yes, Father, how can I help?’

  ‘Freedom Foundation? It’s here?’

  ‘Yes, Father, it’s here.’

  ‘They want me to talk at a meeting there, brother. Can I come? My name is Reverend Khumalo.’

  ‘You come to talk to the criminals, Father?’

  ‘They not criminals now, my brother.’

  The look on the guard’s face suggested that could be a matter for debate. ‘There’s never too many in the evening, just a few, seven, eight, maybe ten. That American lady comes.’

  Dlomo tried to smile. ‘Yes, Beloved.’

  ‘That’s the one. What a name, Father.’

  ‘Very beautiful name,’ Dlomo said. ‘She’s here?’

  ‘Not yet. She comes half past six, seven o’clock.’

  ‘Thank you, my brother.’

  The watchman stood aside to let Dlomo enter. He started down the long drive that skirted the building, putting down his feet carefully to keep the pain under control. He kept the injured hand in the pocket of his pants. Dlomo walked in a way that was purposeful, but unhurried. He had long since realised that this was a style of walking that
raised no alarms in policemen, prison officers or watchmen. It was the way officers, managers, business owners and reverends walked. Like his adopted identity, his walk had served him well.

  A light was on downstairs in the Freedom Foundation. It came from a small meeting room that seemed to be empty except for a white boy of maybe twenty, who was sorting brochures into piles, perhaps in preparation for the evening meeting. None of the other lights were on.

  The door was open. He was in the hallway before he saw the constable asleep on a chair. The door to the meeting room was on his left, but it was closed. Ahead of him was another closed door and on his right a steep staircase led to the floor above.

  Killing the constable would have been simple, but there had been too much killing already. This Beloved had to die. That was different. The young policeman could be allowed to live.

  He climbed the staircase carefully and stopped on the landing. From the only window he could look down into the driveway and perhaps halfway up the drive. He would be able to see anyone arriving or leaving. There was always the possibility that someone would come upstairs, but if they did, he would have three advantages. He would be prepared, the clerical collar had worked so far and it would give him at least a momentary advantage, and finally, whoever came would probably be some pathetic social-worker type who would give him no trouble. He took the Makarov from his satchel and tucked it into his belt at the back where it would be easily accessible to his right hand. Then he took up his position a step back from the window in the shadows, where the deep brown of his face would be almost invisible from the driveway below.

  Some ten minutes later a small car came down the drive from the direction of the gate. It seemed well looked after, but Dlomo recognised it as a model that was already on the roads when his sentence started. Through the windscreen he caught a momentary flash of blonde hair in the light from the meeting room. He was surprised by the car. He had expected a newer, more expensive model. It stopped in front of the building and he took another step back.