City of Blood

by Martie de Villiers

  ‘You are a tsotsi.’

  ‘Yes,’ Progress grinned. ‘I am. I’m bad news, Siphiwe. I’m Letswe’s man. I am twenty-four and already I own property, a car, nice clothes. In ten years’ time I shall be as big as Letswe, I shall run this city. And you will know that you spoke to me on this day and that I owe you. You have a problem, you come to me. You need something, you come to me. Now you think about it. Think about the future. This is my number. Keep it safe.’

  ‘What do I tell Obembe? Why do you want to speak to him?’

  ‘Tell him I have important information about his man, the one who was thrown down the Ponte. I know who did it.’

  ‘Are you going to kill Obembe? You want me to set him up?’

  ‘No, I just want to talk to him. You give him my number. He can phone me. Tell him to ask to speak to John, that way I’ll know it’s him. That’s all you have to do. And then, one day, I shall return the favour.’

  Progress walked away, and looking over his shoulder, he saw that Siphiwe still stood there watching him. He’d run back to his shelter now. He’d hide and not go anywhere near the Nigerians. Progress spat sideways. How did Lucille expect him to arrange this? It was impossible.

  22

  THAT EVENING ADRIAN went round to the shelter to show Siphiwe the photo of William Sibaya. The children had already gone to bed and the house was quiet. They sat around the kitchen table drinking coffee. Siphiwe had a book open on the table. Adrian checked the title. A Long Walk to Freedom.

  ‘Have you read it?’ Siphiwe asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Grace said that every South African should read this book,’ Siphiwe said.

  ‘It’s thicker than the Bible,’ Adrian said. ‘I’m not big on reading.’ He didn’t want Siphiwe to think he was stupid. ‘OK, lend it to me when you’re done.’ Adrian was glad to see he was only on page 91.

  ‘Check this out, Siphiwe. Do you recognise this guy?’ He pushed the photograph across the table. Siphiwe sat with the photo in his hand for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and there was a wariness in his eyes that Adrian had not seen since their first meeting.

  ‘He’s with Letswe,’ Siphiwe said. ‘He’s a big man and he wears lots of jewellery. Gold chains around his neck and rings on his fingers. One of the rings has the head of a snake on it. Last time I saw him he wore a black T-shirt, and black shoes.’

  Robert was right about one thing. He had an eye for detail, Siphiwe. How many people would notice the colour of a man’s shoes?

  ‘What does Letswe look like? Is he tall, short, fat?’

  ‘Not tall,’ Siphiwe said. ‘Not short, just normal. He has a scar here.’ He used his forefinger to draw a line on his face, starting above his left eyebrow, making a semicircle that stopped just under his left cheekbone. ‘His eyes are different. They are far apart and small. When you look at his face you can see that he’s a tsotsi.’

  It was enough to recognise him by. A man of average height with a scar like that and small eyes. It would be great to get a sketch artist to talk to Siphiwe, but he knew Siphiwe wouldn’t agree to it.

  ‘Are you afraid of Letswe, Siphiwe?’

  ‘He is the devil.’

  ‘And the Nigerians?’

  ‘I don’t want to get killed by anyone.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Adrian said with a smile.

  Siphiwe frowned. ‘Then you must be more careful,’ he said. ‘Letswe is a big man among the tsotsis. They all fear him. If you want to stay alive you must watch your back all the time. If you see Letswe, don’t talk to him. Pull your gun and shoot him. Don’t think he will not kill you. He has killed many cops.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Siphiwe.’

  Siphiwe was still frowning. ‘I think, Adrian, that you are now my friend. I don’t want to hear that you were killed, but I don’t want to talk about Letswe again. You want information you must ask someone else. I don’t think you should come here again. There are people watching me.’

  Everyone at the station was trying to discover Letswe’s whereabouts. The superintendent wanted to know where he was, what he was doing, why he was back in the city, and he wanted to know all that by the end of the day. That was Monday. By Wednesday there was still no sign of Letswe. Not even a whisper.

  Needless to say, Superintendent Pahad was pissed off. Horne was saying Adrian’s informant was making a fool out of them and insisted on speaking to him. Adrian refused. Robert backed him up, which helped, but still he felt under pressure. He had no idea how they were going to find Letswe, so he was back paging through files and old dockets. There was the photo of William Sibaya. Adrian jumped up from the desk.

  ‘Robert,’ he yelled, ‘we’ve got to go.’

  He had an idea, and it was so simple, he could have kicked himself for not having thought about it earlier.

  ‘Where to, whitey?’

  ‘To the Ponte. To have a look at their security footage for the ninth.’ The day the man was thrown from the top.

  ‘Has been done,’ Robert said.

  ‘Ja, but not by us. We’ll know what to look for now.’

  Adrian took the photo with him.

  Robert went along with it, and he explained to the security guards at the Ponte what they wanted. It took two hours of trawling through security footage before they found him. Big William Sibaya with his polished head and flashy gold jewellery. He had entered the Ponte at 10.11 with another man and had left with three men at 12.07. The victim had entered 21.22 the previous night and was killed just before twelve that morning. That placed Sibaya and his mates at the scene of the crime.

  ‘Not enough,’ Robert said.

  ‘Enough for me,’ Adrian said. ‘It proves Letswe’s in Joburg, so one of these guys with Sibaya must be Letswe. The question is, which one?’

  ‘The one who keeps his face hidden all the time,’ Robert said. ‘The one with the cap.’

  A man of average height, average build. Must be him. Nike cap, blue jacket, ordinary-looking. But he wasn’t ordinary. He was McCarthy Letswe: armed robber, gangster, cop killer.

  Adrian stood by the car, looking up at the Ponte. Washing on balconies, flapping in the wind, further up only patches of blurred colours. Could be a red dress, or shirt. Too high to see.

  ‘I just thought of something,’ Robert said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Bring that photo.’ He was already marching down the street.

  Adrian followed him. ‘The victim was in the building all night,’ he said. ‘The next day, these two showed up, victim gets murdered. But he never left the building, so he must have had a flat in there.’

  ‘Or he might have known one of the residents,’ Robert said. ‘Could have stayed in someone’s flat. We’ll check.’

  It would be hard getting information out of anyone. No one talked about Letswe. But Siphiwe had. He provided a description. They might just get another break. Robert kept walking. Round the corner from the Ponte was a Jamaican fried-chicken place, next door was a cafe, a hairdresser’s and an Italian restaurant.

  ‘If they were in the area, they might have stopped here,’ Robert said. ‘To get some food, buy a pack of smokes, you never know.’

  Adrian thought it was a long shot. No luck with the fried-chicken place, or the cafe. At the Italian place two men sat under an umbrella outside eating pizza that smelled of garlic and dripped with oil.

  Robert called the waitress over. ‘Have you seen this man?’

  ‘No.’

  Another waitress came over and glanced at the photo.

  ‘He was here yesterday with three other men. Didn’t leave a tip.’

  ‘You sure?’ Adrian asked.

  ‘Sure I’m sure. He comes here often.’

  Robert smiled. It made him look cruel, but then the smile disappeared and he nodded at the girl. ‘How often? Was he here on the ninth? It was a Saturday, around lunchtime.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘My shift. I’m sure. I mean, he’s hard to forget,
isn’t he?’

  ‘If you see him again, please contact us.’ Robert gave her his number. ‘But don’t confront him. He’s dangerous. Wanted for murder.’

  ‘Really?’ she said. She put the paper with Robert’s number in her pocket.

  ‘Let me talk to the manager,’ Robert said, and the little round man who was hovering in the corner bounced towards them. Robert explained that one of his regulars was a suspect in several crimes, that he was violent and that he was armed.

  ‘He won’t think twice about killing someone,’ Robert said.

  ‘Best not to make a fuss if you spot him,’ Adrian chipped in. ‘Just give us a call.’

  ‘I really want to get this guy,’ he said as they left. ‘I mean, for fuck’s sake, he throws a man off a building and goes for a pizza.’

  To think that Letswe and Sibaya were this close to them on the day of the murder. While they went to check the murder scene, Letswe was here relaxing over a meal.

  ‘Just how fucking arrogant is this guy?’

  They grabbed lunch on their way. Chicken and chips in Twist Street, opposite Joubert Park, like they did every Thursday. Robert liked his little routines.

  Back at the station after lunch Robert went to share the news with Captain Piliso. Adrian went to the office, feeling pretty good about himself, although they had not arrested Letswe yet. He felt even better when Robert returned.

  ‘The captain says good job,’ he said. ‘He’s seeing the boss now.’

  ‘Boy’s gonna get a big head,’ Ferreira said, walking into the office with a bundle of case dockets under his arm. ‘You’re a lucky devil, Gerber. You better hope you don’t run out of luck, my boy. You run out of luck you get shot full of holes.’ He banged the files onto the desk and flashed Adrian a sly grin. ‘Eh, where are you taking Rita on Saturday? You better put your best foot forward, my boy. Nice girl, she. I should warn her about you.’

  ‘How come everybody knows about this?’

  ‘Cos this is a police station. It’s our business knowing everything about everyone.’

  He blew Adrian a kiss over the table.

  ‘I swear if you weren’t a sergeant . . .’

  Ferreira laughed at him.

  Robert’s phone rang and two minutes later they were off. The call was from an ABSA bank manager in the CBD, concerned about a man who had featured on the security camera too many times. So, they went over. And there he was. On camera. William Sibaya.

  ‘What’s he up to?’ Adrian asked. ‘Staking the place out?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Robert said.

  Sibaya was seen withdrawing money from a teller, only to return later to deposit money at another teller. The camera in the street showed him standing on the corner, a full ten minutes he stood there, watching the bank, before he walked off.

  They walked to where the car was parked. Adrian looked over his shoulder, taking in the crowded pavement behind them. He felt a cold, uncomfortable feeling building inside him. They were chasing McCarthy Letswe, up there in South Africa’s Most Wanted. And he could be anyone, anywhere. He could be the man walking behind them and they wouldn’t know, because they had nothing to go by other than Siphiwe’s description.

  ‘They’re going to hit this bank, I tell you, bru,’ Adrian said.

  ‘And guess who will be waiting for them.’ Robert had that strange little smile on his face again.

  23

  THERE WERE DAYS when I did not feel like talking. They used to come more frequently, the silent days, and even now that I was older I still had them. Days when I could think of nothing else but what happened to my brother. I could still hear his voice and see his face as he lay there in the dirt, bleeding. I had long since stopped asking why. But last night I could not sleep and it was all because of something Moruti had said at church. His sermon had been about forgiveness. He’d said we should let the past go. Let it go? Was it a suitcase that you could leave on the street and walk away? It made me angry, listening to him. You could not just cast aside a part of you, cut out memories and throw them away. What would be left if you did that? You’d end up all empty.

  And then Monday morning this man waited for me in the street. Letswe’s man. A young man, only a few years older than me. Playing tough, trying to scare me. I was tired of being pushed about. I wanted to punch him, but I didn’t. I listened to what he had to say. I sensed something in him, not anger, but resentment. He looked down on me. Him, a tsotsi.

  When he left me, I considered throwing the piece of paper with his number on away – I was not going near the Nigerians – but then I thought it through. What if Letswe had sent him? If he had, and I didn’t do what he asked, I’d be the one getting killed.

  I went to work, but could not stop thinking about it. This was what I decided: Letswe was trying to set up the Nigerian, Obembe, to kill him. He was using me, through Jackson Zebele, to flush the Nigerian out. If Letswe failed to kill his man, the Nigerians would believe I was working for Letswe. I’d be like Lucky, running for my life, hiding in a cemetery. But I’d never heard of Letswe failing to kill someone he’d wanted dead. I did not think the Nigerian stood much of a chance. That Jackson Zebele was right about one thing. I was caught in the middle.

  That afternoon I went to Loveday Street. There was no sign of the Nigerians, but I did not spend a lot of time looking for them. I went over to Hope’s stall, greeted her and bought two mangoes.

  ‘Lucky is OK,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry about him, but the Nigerians are still watching you. You must be careful.’

  When I walked away my heart was beating fast. I was sure that they were near. Watching me. I turned left and waited. No one followed me. I walked down the street at the same pace as the people around me. I kept looking at my reflection in the shop windows and that was how I spotted the man coming after me. I crossed the road and waited on the other side. The man crossed as well. He pretended to be looking the other way and then took out his phone.

  The man with the bleached hair came from the opposite direction, joined the man who now put his phone away, and they both came towards me. Rock Star opened his jacket to show me his gun, then motioned with his head for me to follow him. We went into a side street, still busy with people but less crowded.

  ‘What you want with that woman, eh?’ Rock Star asked.

  ‘Mr Obembe said I must ask her where her son is,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. He was just getting ready to show me how tough he was, but now he stood there frowning, not knowing what to do. He wasn’t very smart, I could see that.

  ‘She doesn’t know where he is,’ I said.

  ‘She’s lying.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said and took out the piece of paper Jackson Zebele had given me. ‘You must give this to Mr Obembe. He must phone that number, ask for John.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He has information for him. Important information about the man who was thrown down the Ponte.’

  His eyes widened.

  ‘Don’t lose the number,’ I said and turned back to the main street. I expected to be called back, or to hear a gunshot. I wondered if I would hear the shot before the bullet hit me. But he let me walk away. Out of your depth, that is what Grace would say about this. Siphiwe, you are out of your depth. I shivered. Letswe had better kill Obembe and not fool about.

  I did not know what I was thinking. That the Nigerian would give the message to his boss and that they would forget about the messenger? I was not thinking at all. I had forgotten what they were like. Walking home, later that afternoon, I was looking out for danger as ever, but as I approached the shelter I relaxed. A mistake, but it would have made no difference. They came from two sides: two cars, six men. I was punched in the face and thrown to the ground and before I could get back on my feet they forced my hands behind my back. I fought them, kicking and shouting, but they soon had my hands tied. They tied my legs with a roll of tape. They pulled a black rag that smelled of grease over my eyes. I was bundled into t
he boot of the first car.

  The boot slammed shut. Silence. Darkness. I licked my lips and tasted blood. The car accelerated, took a sharp left turn that sent me crashing into the back. Had anyone seen them? Perhaps someone would call the police. No, this was not like on TV, no one would rescue me. They were going to kill me. I struggled against the tape. It cut into my wrists, but I did not give up until I was exhausted. I tried to focus, but my mind was racing. What did they want? How would they kill me? I didn’t want to die. You are a coward, Siphiwe. You must fight them. I reminded myself of my brother. He was so brave.

  ‘God help me,’ I whispered. ‘Let me not cry or beg, let me stand up and face them and let them not see my fear.’

  I tried to keep track of the turns they took, but couldn’t. All I heard was the sound of traffic, the sound of the tyres on the road. It was hot. I was thirsty. It could have been an hour’s drive, perhaps less, before they stopped. I waited, my heart beating wildly.

  The boot opened.

  ‘Get out! Out!’ One of them grabbed my arm and forced me out of the boot.

  There was no daylight, that I could see – the blindfold had moved a millimetre – and all I heard was the sound of their shoes on a hard surface. Stale air, petrol fumes. Where were they taking me? Why not kill me here? A door slammed behind us. I stumbled, and almost fell. My shoulder connected with a wall. We were on a staircase, going up. I counted thirty-two stairs, then I was pushed back against a wall – my fingers brushed against a smooth surface.

  A sharp pinging sound startled me. They pushed me forward. We were in a lift, going up fast. No one talked. Another ping and the lift’s doors opened. Dragged out. There were at least two men with me, two pairs of hands guiding me. Now there was carpet under my feet. The man to my left knocked on a door. The door opened.

  ‘This is him,’ one man said.

  I wished they would remove the blindfold. My muscles contracted. I waited for a bullet to hit me and thought of Obembe. A knife, he’d use a knife. Nothing happened. Why would they bring me here? Why did they not kill me in the street?