Cobra (2 page)

He walked to the second bedroom. Tidy. Two single beds. A small travelling case at the foot of one. A jacket on a hanger, hooked into the handle of the dark brown wardrobe. A toilet bag hung from a rail in the adjoining bathroom.

He walked out into the passage again, opened a door to the right. It was a big bathroom, gleaming white, with a bath on ball-and-claw feet, a washbasin on a marble slab, bidet, and a toilet.

The next two bedrooms were empty, with no sign of occupation. The last one was right at the end, on the left. The door was open, the room inside almost in darkness. He switched on the light.

Outside the rain stopped abruptly, leaving an eerie silence.

It was a large room. In chaos. The loose carpet lay rucked up. The double bed was askew, the mattress and bedding thrown off. The chair in front of a beautiful antique desk lay on its back, the standard lamp on the desktop was overturned, all the drawers were pulled open. And the doors of the massive wardrobe stood wide too, a pile of clothes on the ground. A large suitcase in the corner, upside down.

‘Benna!’ A sharp interruption to the softly dripping silence, from the front door, startling him.

Captain Vaughn Cupido had arrived.

‘I’m coming,’ he shouted back. His voice echoed hoarsely through the huge empty house.

Cupido stood on the threshold in his long black coat, a new piece he confessed he had picked up ‘at a factory shop in Salt River, for a song, pappie; classic detective style, the Hawk in Winter, I’m telling you’.

And as Griessel carefully negotiated the hall, he was suddenly conscious of his own crumpled trousers. The thick blue jersey and jacket hid his shirt at least. Yesterday’s clothes. And Cupido wouldn’t miss that.

‘Howzit, Benna. How many are there?’

Griessel walked out onto the veranda, began taking off the gloves. The dark mass of clouds was gone; the sun was trying to break through, making him blink. The view was suddenly breathtaking, the Franschhoek valley unveiled in front of him.

‘One of the farm workers is lying in the vineyard. There’s been too much rain; I haven’t been able to get there. And there are two inside.’

‘
Jissis
. . .’ Then Cupido looked sharply at him. ‘You OK, Benna?’

He knew his eyes were bloodshot, and he hadn’t shaved. He nodded. ‘Just slept badly,’ Benny Griessel lied. ‘Let’s go and look at the one out there.’

The first victim lay on his back, between two rows of vines – a coloured man, dressed in what looked like a dark red uniform with a silver trim. Cupido and Griessel stood on the edge of the lawn, just four metres from the body. They could see the large exit wound between the eyes.

‘He was shot from behind. And dragged over there.’ Griessel pointed at the two faint, washed-out furrows that ended at the man’s heels. ‘And these are the footprints of the labourer who found him lying here this morning.’

‘It’s a brother,’ said Cupido, and then, accusingly, ‘In a slave outfit.’

‘He works at the guesthouse. According to the—’

‘This is a guesthouse? I thought it was a wine farm.’

‘It’s a wine farm with a guesthouse—’

‘As if they don’t make enough money. You’re sure you’re all right?’

‘I’m fine,Vaughn.’

‘Did you go home last night?’

‘No. According to the—’

‘Was there a case I don’t know about?’

‘Vaughn, I worked late. You know how the admin piles up. And then I fell asleep.’ He hoped Cupido would just let it go.

‘In your office?’ Sceptical.

‘Yes. The station—’

‘So that’s how you got the call so early?’

‘That’s right. According to the station detectives, around about nine last night this worker was supposed to come to top up the firewood and check that all the guests were happy. When he didn’t come home, his wife thought he must have gone out on the town . . . Then the morning shift found him here. Then they saw the other one in the hallway. The trouble is, they say there were three.’

‘Now you’re losing me, man. I thought there were three?’

‘There were three guests. Inside.’

‘So there shoulda been four victims?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘So where’s number four?’

‘That’s the big question. The thing is . . . We have three head shots, Vaughn. The other one in there was shot through his pistol hand
and
in the head, the two shells are lying this close together . . .’

It took a second for Cupido to grasp. ‘
Jissis
, Benna. Double tap.’

‘On a moving target . . .’

Cupido merely shook his head in awe. ‘That’s sharp shooting, pappie . . .’

‘What bothers me most: the last bedroom shows signs of a fight. Now why would a man who can shoot like that wrestle with a person?’

Cupido looked at Griessel anxiously. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’

Benny didn’t want to say it, the implications were serious. He merely nodded.

‘There’s a newspaper photographer at the gate, Benna.’

‘Fuck,’ said Griessel.

‘Kidnapping. When last did we see
that
?’

‘There’s more trouble. Both the men inside look like . . . If I think of their build, hair, the clothes, both carrying Glock Seventeens. I think they are law enforcement. Or military, or Spooks . . .’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘And a man who shoots like that, faultless . . . He’s had training. Task force, Special Forces, Intelligence . . . Something like that. A pro.’

Cupido turned around and stared at the house. ‘Shit. Trouble, Benna. Big trouble.’

Griessel sighed. ‘That’s right.’

‘We’ll have to get moving, pappie.’

‘I’ll have to call the Giraffe. They’ll have to manage the press.’

They didn’t move. They stood side by side, heads bowed – Cupido a head taller than the stocky Griessel – mulling over all the implications, hesitating before the chaos that they knew would ensue.

Until Cupido, with the tails of his Hawk in Winter coat flapping in the icy wind, put his hand protectively on Benny’s shoulder.

‘Benna, at least there’s one silver lining.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The way you look this morning, I thought you must’ve gone on a bender again. But a
dronkgat
couldn’t do it; you couldn’t have figured all that out if you’d been pissed . . .’

He turned and began to walk towards the guesthouse.

2

Tyrone Kleinbooi saw the aunty climb up into the third-class carriage, here where the Metrorail train 3411 stood at Platform 4 of Bellville Station, just before 8.50 on the Monday morning. She was clearly in her best outfit, wearing a sober headscarf, clutching her large handbag with both hands. He shifted up a little to make the empty seat beside him seem more alluring.

She looked at the seat, and at him, and then she headed towards him, as he knew she would. Because he looked respectable.
Even features
, as Uncle Solly used to say.
You’ve got even features, Ty. It’s a boon in this industry.

Industry.
As if they worked for a company.

She sat down with a sigh, balancing the handbag on her lap.

‘Morning, aunty,’ he said.

‘Morning.’ She looked him up and down, taking in his tall, skinny frame, and asked: ‘Now where do you come from?’

‘From the city, aunty,’ he said.

‘And where are you going to?’

‘Stellenbosch, aunty.’

‘You swotting there?’

‘No, aunty.’

‘Then what you doing there?’

‘Going to see my sister, aunty.’

‘So what’s she doing there?’

‘She’s swotting, aunty. B.Sc. Human Life. First year.’

‘That’s a grand course,
nè
? What do you
do
with that?’

The train lurched, and pulled out of the station.

‘There’s lots you can do, but she wants to become a doctor. She didn’t make the selection last year, now she’s trying to get in like this.’

‘A medical doctor?’

‘
Ja
, aunty. She’s a
slim kind
, very clever.’

‘I would say so. Medical doctor
nogal
. And you? What do you do?’

‘I’m a pickpocket, aunty.’

She gripped her handbag more tightly for a moment, but then she laughed. ‘
Ag
, you,’ she said, and bumped her elbow in his ribs. ‘What do you do, really?’

‘I’m a painter. But not pictures. Houses.’

‘I didn’t take you for a manual labourer, but that’s good honest work,’ she said, ‘for a young
lat
like you.’

‘So where is aunty going to?’

‘Also to Stellenbosch. Also to my sister. She struggles with gout. It’s so bad she has to go and lie down . . .’ And Tyrone Kleinbooi
,
dark as full-roast coffee beans, and even-featured, nodded politely and listened attentively, because he really did enjoy it. He was only vaguely aware that the rain had stopped. And that was good. Rain was bad for his industry. Pickings had been slim this month.

The modern farmyard of La Petite Margaux was higher up the mountain, minimalist, stacked glass squares held in almost invisible frames of concrete and steel.

The German owner met Griessel and Cupido at the front door, clearly disturbed. A large, bald man with the neck and shoulders of a weightlifter, he introduced himself as Marcus Frank. ‘It is a great tragedy,’ he said, with just a hint of a Teutonic accent, as he led them to the sitting room. The ceiling was two storeys high. On both sides was a wide, impressive view over mountain and valley.

Two women stood up when they came in: one, young and attractive, the other, older – with an unusual, eccentric air about her.

‘Captain Cupido, Captain Griessel, this is Christel de Haan, our hospitality manager,’ said Frank, and touched the younger woman’s arm sympathetically. Her eyes were red-rimmed behind the trendy dark-framed glasses. She gripped a tissue in her left hand and just nodded, as if she couldn’t trust her voice.

‘And this is Ms Jeanette Louw,’ he said with an inflection that was just a tad too neutral, making Griessel focus more sharply, noticing the body language. There was something in the atmosphere here that didn’t quite fit.

Louw stepped forward and put out her hand. She was possibly around fifty, with big bottle-blonde hair, a chunky frame and a strong jaw. No make-up, and she wore a man’s black designer suit, with a white shirt and red-and-white striped tie. ‘Hello,’ she said sombrely in a deep smoker’s voice, her handshake firm as she greeted the detectives.

‘Christel and I will leave you now, at Ms Louw’s request,’ said Frank. ‘We will be in my office, when you need us.’

‘No,’ said Cupido, ‘we need to talk to you now.’

‘I want to talk with you alone first,’ said the blonde woman with an air of authority.

‘Please. My office is just here.’ Frank pointed down the passage.

‘No. We don’t have time for this,’ said Cupido.

‘Those were my people in the guesthouse,’ said Louw.

‘What do you mean “your people”?’

‘Vaughn, let’s hear what she has to say.’ Griessel didn’t have the energy for a confrontation as well. And he had picked up the atmosphere between these people. Along with the loss, there was friction, a certain tension. De Haan began to cry.

Cupido nodded reluctantly. With murmured words of consolation, Marcus Frank sent his hospitality manager down the passage.

‘Sit down, please,’ said Jeanette Louw, and took a seat herself on one of the angular couches.

Griessel sat down, but Cupido remained standing with his arms folded over his chest. ‘What’s going on here?’ he asked, clearly not happy with the state of affairs.

‘I am the managing director of Body Armour, a private security company in the Cape. We rented the guesthouse, and our contract with La Petite Margaux includes an NDA. They have no—’

‘A what?’ asked Cupido.

‘A non-disclosure agreement,’ she said as though maintaining her reasonable tone with some difficulty.

‘What for?’ asked Cupido.

‘If you give me a chance, I will explain—’

‘We are working against the clock, ma’am.’

‘I realise that but—’

‘We are the Hawks. We don’t have time for small talk and monkey business.’

‘Small talk?’ Griessel could see her control beginning to dissolve, and her expression altered to a mixture of anger and grief. She leaned forwards, thrust an accusing finger at Cupido. ‘You think I want to make small talk while some of my men are lying dead in that guesthouse? Drop your act, and sit down, so I can give you the information that you need. Or I will walk out of here, and you can come and find me if you like.’