Night In London (Night Series Book 2)

by Casey Christie

  “Because, now how can I say this, you do seem to genuinely care about us, as in you would get upset if we were shot or wounded.”

  That was all Night could manage for the time being, this conversation was getting way too touchy, feely.

  “And you think that’s strange?”

  “Ja! Very!”

  The Colonel was now the one with the confused look on her face.

  “May I leave now, Colonel.”

  “Yes… but wait, I wanted to warn you… and not because I care or anything… but because, well, hell I don’t know, because you work for me. A reporter has been asking around about you, first my husband told me about him, and then yesterday the Charge Office Commander told me about a reporter fitting the same description asking questions about you, here at the station.”

  “Is it to do with the Gaddafi thing?”

  “Looks like it, but my husband tells me the man has known links to British Intelligence and other mercenary connections in London so I thought you ought to know.”

  “Oh Jesus Christ, this week just gets better and better!”

  “Are you okay, Michael, do you want to talk?” said the Colonel who then instantly regretted sounding maternal.

  “No, Colonel. I don’t want to talk… thank you for asking though… but I do have a question… do you know if any names are being published in the papers with regards to the recovery of the Gadaffi.. um stash..?”

  “You mean are you, Shaka and your new friend being named as the South African Police officers involved in the recovery of Gadaffi’s Billions?”

  So she knew, Night thought to himself.

  “Of course I know, the General had to ask me to sign off on the operation, he couldn’t just take two of my men from under my command without good reason. It was perfectly done, I must admit. The police will take credit for leading the operation but Arosi’s private military company gets the commission, brilliant really. So in answer to your question no names are being published. Not even my husband knows the details – the media have been fed exactly what the South African Police and South African Government want them to know. It’s a win, win for everyone, really. But having said that, that is why I was concerned about the British reporter asking questions about you, because he shouldn’t know about you.”

  “Because he shouldn’t know about me and because he’s not really a reporter is he?”

  “Well he is, he has all the credentials but…”

  “Permission to shoot him on sight, Colonel?”

  “Of course not, Michael” said the station commissioner with only the slightest hint of a smile. “Now get out there and do what you do best and protect the citizens of Norwood and Johannesburg.”

  Night saluted and was gone.

  The four police officers sat in November Whisky 33 as Sergeant Shaka pulled the old sedan out of the station and onto the road.

  “Cappy, why do we have to use this rubbish, isn’t there anything better and where is The Beast?” said Dlamini from the back seat while looking around in disgust at the state of the old and battered Toyota Corolla.

  “No, there’s nothing better. We almost had to book off for the day as the station is so short of vehicles, we’re lucky to have this while November Whisky Fifty gets a new windshield.”

  “How long will that take, boss?”

  “Because it’s armoured, longer than usual. Hey Dlamini, want to book us on with control?”

  “Yeah, boss, I would love to!”

  “Okay, Zulu, pull into the Doll’s House and we’ll grab something to eat while Dlamini books us on air with control.”

  The three veteran police officers sat around a wooden table, Sergeant Shaka digging into a triple burger with eggs and fries. Student constable Dlamini was in the vehicle waiting to get a break in radio traffic so that he could book their vehicle on duty for the day. While the men had ordered their food Dlamini had gone to each man and asked for their full names and force number which he had written in his pocket book so that he could relay the information to Control. All he got from Kalahari was “007 Kalahari”.

  “What did Lembedi want with you, Mike?” said Shaka in between a mouthful of fries.

  “She wanted to let us know that the Gadaffi story will be published in the newspapers today but not to worry as no names will be printed.”

  “So she knows about our involvement?” said Kalahari who seemed to have already abandoned his food.

  “Yes, she’s a bit of a mystery, Lembedi. Seems pretty connected. And did you know her husband is a reporter?”

  Shaka nearly choked on his food at the news and then spluttered:

  “I can’t stand reporters, they’re like circling vultures.”

  “Did she say anything else?” asked Kalahari.

  “Yeah, she said she cared about us!”

  Shaka and Kalahari just looked at each other totally confused and then the Sergeant said:

  “What, as in like if we got shot or something?”

  Night just shook his head and shrugged his shoulders “I don’t know, maybe.”

  “That’s fucking weird” said Kalahari “My commander would just kick my arse if I got shot and send me for some more tactical training somewhere and say it was my fault for being sloppy.”

  “She also said that some English reporter has been asking questions about me at the station.”

  Shaka finally finished his burger and let out a huge belch “Looks like we’re going to have to deal with this English connection sooner or later, it keeps popping up.”

  Night nodded his agreement and was sure General Arosi was already working on something.

  A waiter approached the table and offered the bill to Kalahari who then gestured to Night with a grin “I’m skint, no ammo. Besides the Captain’s earn the most, so give it to him.”

  “What? I’m broke as well, the vets bill killed me! Shaka, my brother, looks like it’s on you?”

  “Shit guys, I’m also penniless… what about the boy?” said Shaka who then pointed at Dlamini sitting in the car while talking into the radio.

  “Three broke-ass cops, who would have thought, I’ll give you guys some time, should I or perhaps you could come back later after taking some cho-cho (Bribes) off some poor, hard working, citizens” said the waiter.

  The sad truth was that the vast majority of South African police officers did in fact supplement their pathetic salaries with bribes.

  “Hey wena, thula (Quiet) , you little shit. Just leave the bill here and come back when I call you” said Shaka while pulling himself up to his full height to tower over the waiter. The man quickly put the bill on the table and made a hasty retreat while muttering something under his breath.

  “Nah, we can’t ask the kid to pay, again, he’s probably poorer than all of us, if that’s even possible” said Night.

  “Let me check my account, guys, I asked someone to you know, borrow me some cash until the end of the month… it might be in by now” said Shaka who then left the table and walked towards the cash machine located inside the roadhouse.

  “Ja, his mom!” said Night with a wink to the Warrant Officer.

  “I heard that!”

  Steven Dlamini had finished booking November Whisky 33 on air and joined Night and Kalahari at the table.

  “Captain, Senior General, hey, where’s my food?” he said while staring at an empty place mate and cutlery.

  “Ah shit, I thought you ordered the kid something, Kal?”

  “Me? He’s your student!”

  “Go get it yourself, Steven, sorry Shaka was supposed to order for you but he must have forgotten.”

  Dlamini stood and then hesitated “I’m sorry to ask, Captain, Commander of all of Johannesburg, but can you borrow me some cash please, my salary doesn’t last very long?”

  Night now felt truly pathetic.

  “I’m sorry, Steven, but I’m broke. We all are. Just wait until the Sergeant returns he might have something.”

  “Okay” said Dlami
ni who retook his seat while trying to look not too disappointed. His stomach obviously didn’t get the memo and let out a huge growl.

  “Here, have mine” said Kalahari who then pushed his plate in front of the student.

  Dlamini didn’t need to be told twice and dug in.

  Night now genuinely felt terrible as he knew how little student constables got paid, particularly compared to a Captain’s salary, which Night had not yet been paid and was in fact due back-pay starting from the day he was due to be promoted to Captain. The promotion system in the South African Police Force worked on years served as opposed to just merit so when Night was paid he was looking forward to a nice windfall as he would have Warrant Officer pay in the back log as well, years of it. He made a mental note to spoil the kid when he was eventually compensated.

  The door to the Roadhouse crashed open and Shaka shouted at Night to come to him. All three of the police officers got to their feet and instinctively drew their side arms thinking the restaurant was being robbed but when they reached the large Sergeant they all drew to a hasty stop when they noticed Shaka looking down at a small piece of paper in his hands. His ATM receipt.

  “Mike! LOOK!” said Shaka while pressing the paper into Nights hands.

  Night looked down and had to look again and then again but before his mind could take in what he was seeing Kalahari snatched up the paper, looked at it and then handed it back before rushing off inside the Roadhouse himself.

  “Holy Mother of God, is this real?” asked Night.

  “I don’t know, I think so.”

  Night looked at the Cash Machine Slip and then read its contents to himself slowly:

  Standard Bank Limited

  Bank Balance: R2000,500,00.

  “Holy Moly, Senior General, Shaka Zulu, I didn’t know you were a millionaire!” said Dlamini who stood under the giant’s shoulder while looking wide-eyed at the slip of paper.

  “Check yours Mike, it must be the payment for the General’s job.”

  Night returned the slip to its now very happy owner and was about to rush in to check his account balance when the radio in Dlamini’s hand burst into life:

  “Any November Whisky vehicle for a 91 Alpha in Orange Grove come in for control?”

  “That’s a Shooting in Progress!” said Dlamini.

  Another November Whisky Unit immediately answered the call and stated that they were very close.

  Kalahari was now walking out of the roadhouse and Dlamini shouted at him to hurry up as there was an Alpha. Night pulled himself out of his shock and he and Shaka ran towards their vehicle. Seconds later and all four officers, their blood now pumping with adrenalin, Shaka partly for different reasons, were now sitting in the battered police vehicle as Shaka pushed it to its apparent top speed of an incredible 80KM per hour down Louis Botha Avenue.

  “November Whisky 18, break at 91 Alpha, Orange Grove, Control” said the responding police officer.

  “Oh my God, we’ll never break first at any Alphas in this piece of junk” said Dlamini.

  Three minutes later than they would normally have, Night’s crew broke on the scene to already find two other Norwood Units standing by with their blue lights flashing, parked down a quiet, small side street feeding off Louis Botha Avenue.

  A mini-bus taxi was parked awkwardly on the side of the road with the driver’s side door open. Before Night could even step out of the old Corolla one of the Norwood constables approached his window.

  “Morning, Captain.”

  “Morning, constable, what happened here? Any suspects on scene? Any Zero Six?”

  “Negative, Captain. Looks like it was a hit. One dead bravo male, one bullet wound to the chest. Must have happened very early this morning, before sunrise. The lady called it in as she was leaving for work” the constable gestured to a woman in her early thirties talking to another constable.

  Night guessed that the controller gave the complaint out as an In-Progress call to ensure a rapid response. This was not unusual, particularly when it came to calls for dead bodies being found, as the controller knew that most vehicles would not want to be first on scene as it would mean standing on sight while waiting for one of only two mortuary vans that serviced Johannesburg to attend, which normally took hours, if not an entire shift. And a lot of paperwork.

  Night got out of the vehicle and noticed Dlamini do the same. He moved over to the body sitting in the mini-bus drivers seat to get a better look and immediately saw a small red blotch of blood over the man’s chest pocket. On the seat and right next to the driver’s left hand was a small roll of bank notes, it was obviously not a robbery then. Clearly another hit in the never ending Taxi wars that plagued Johannesburg.

  Night looked back at November Whisky 33 and saw both Shaka and Kalahari still sitting inside and looking down at something, he knew well what they were so fixated with. So Kalahari had been paid as well. Night now had an incredible urge to get to the closest petrol station to make use of their cash machine.

  “Who broke first?” asked Captain Night.

  “I did, Cappy” said the constable talking to the complainant.

  “Okay, you know what to do, get on to control and get all the necessary people down here, call me if you need any help.”

  “Copy that, Captain.”

  “Dlamini, what are you doing?”

  “Taking a photo, Cappy.”

  “Well hurry up, we’re leaving.”

  Chapter Eleven

  An hour later and November Whisky 33 pulled into Norwood Police Station after returning to the Dolls House to pay their previous bill and order more food, a lot more food. Dlamini was now so stuffed he could hardly get out of the vehicle. Since Night had checked his bank account and also confirmed that he had been paid, Dlamini had more offers for food than he knew what to do with. But in the end Night had insisted that he pay for everyone’s meal. He had also slipped R500 into Dlamini’s pocket.

  The police officers were forced to abandon their shift early as after the Corollas little sprint down Louis Botha avenue the engine kept stalling after going into second gear. It was not the first time Night had to book off early because of car problems and certainly wouldn’t be the last he mused to himself.

  “Steven, go to the charge office and complete the rest of your shift there.”

  “Ah, Cappy, please don’t make me work in there, it’s so damn boring! Can’t I crew with another vehicle?”

  “Look, Dlamini, you have to complete your mandatory hours in there anyway before you will make full constable. And besides we might even have November Whisky Fifty back for tomorrow’s shift and if I put you with another vehicle now you should stay with that vehicle for the rest of the week’s rotation.”

  “Okay, Cappy, guess I better get it over with then, cheers Sarge, Cheers Senior General!” Dlamini then put his hand in his pocket looking for his pen, which was about to be well used, and found a small stack of notes, he turned back and was about to say something when Night caught his attention and winked at him.

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  “All right gents, follow me” Night said to Shaka and Kalahari.

  “Where are we going, Mike?” said Shaka.

  “To my desk and computer.”

  “You have a desk and computer now?”

  “Apparently, though I haven’t seen it yet..”

  Some minutes later and Night rapped on the door of the Crime Prevention Office, a large shared administration space of eight desks. Only three were occupied by civilian clerks. One of the clerks stood and saluted, it was an odd salute Night thought. But the man couldn’t be blamed and didn’t actually need to salute an officer since he was just a civi.

  “Captain Night, I have been waiting for you. My name is Obokeng. ”

  “Oh, have you, Obokeng?”

  “Yes, the Station Commander said that you might make an appearance some time looking for your desk… but not so soon.”

  Shaka laughed at the administrator’s
statement and said:

  “True, our Captain here is somewhat allergic to offices, and desks and paperwork.”

  Night turned to his friend and said:

  “And you’re not?”

  “Anyway, Captain here it is.”

  The clerk showed Night to his desk and pointed out his computer.

  Night was relieved to find that his desk was situated in a corner of the office looking out towards the door.

  Kalahari sat on the desk and asked the clerk where everyone else was while indicating the other empty desks.

  “All the other officers are out on the road, on a course or working different shifts. And to be honest it seems the Captain here isn’t the only Police Officer to have an aversion to desks. It’s usually just us three in here, Warrant.”

  The polite clerk then once again tried to make Night feel welcome and even offered Night and his colleagues some tea or coffee. They politely declined.

  Night then beckoned for his two friends to pull up the unused chairs and join him around his PC.

  “Obokeng, what’s the username and password for this thing?” Night asked over the monitor of his computer.

  “For now it’s your full name and force number. Sometime this week you’ll receive a text message with a secure password. Then you’ll be able to access secure files and the SAPF police intra-net, for now though you’ll just have access to the web, Google and that sort of thing.”

  “That’s fine by me, that’s all I need right now.”

  “And just to give you a heads up, once you receive your password every time you log on and everything you do will be chronicled at National…. so... no funny girly websites..” said Obokeng who then made a noise like someone half laughing and half choking to death.

  “Ja, no porn. Gotcha!”

  Night then logged on and pulled up Google then typed in the words Gaddafi Billions. He then hit Enter.

  “Let’s hope the Colonel was right and none of us are now famous, gents.”

  Night trawled through the results and opened the ones referring to South Africa, there were five in total:

  The UK’s Daily Telegraph had an article headlined: