Of Cops & Robbers (11 page)

Knead, Saturday morning. Fish’s being treated. Vicki’s driven him in her MiTo, now she’s buying him the French toast number and a cappuccino. Watching him take it down like it’s not food, it’s fuel. She’s halfway through her own, he’s eyeing that too.

‘We can order another one,’ she says. ‘I want this.’ Shielding her breakfast.

Fish catches the Nigerian waitress’s eye, points down at his plate, holding up a single finger. She smiles her pixie smile, gives him the thumbs up.

‘Done,’ says Fish, cramming in the last mouthful.

He and Vicki are sitting on the stools at the window counter checking the beach scene. The parking’s the usual SUV motor show: Grand Cherokees, Discoverys, X-Trails, CR-Vs, Prados, Benz ML300s, BMW X5s, Nissan double-cabs, the beautiful people strutting their stuff. Kids zipping into wetsuits to go ride a ripple that’s got most everyone else phoning the hotline for the surf spots.

The news is surf’s down around the peninsula. A cold front threatening late Sunday, Monday. Till then, chill, drink beer.

From where he’s sitting Fish can see the ridge on the lower slopes of the mountain, the fort hidden there under alien growth. He’s tried Colins on the cell twice, ended in voicemail. It’s nagging at him.

He points a fork at the ridge. ‘Reckon we should go take a look,’ he says.

‘For your bergie friend?’

‘Just to make sure.’

‘He’s probably sold the phone to buy booze. Probably sold the horns too.’ Vicki takes a swallow of cappuccino, stares at him over the froth. ‘What were you thinking leaving them there?’

‘Colins was watching.’

‘Colins is a bergie.’

‘I’ve used bergies before. Bergies’re good for stakeouts.’

Twenty minutes later they’re at the locked gate in the paling fence, staring upwards. The mountain above in clear light.

‘And now, smartarse, how do we get through that?’ says Vicki. Vicki in skinny jeans and a grandpa vest, hands sunk in the pockets of her fleecy jerkin.

‘No problem,’ says Fish, pulls aside the loose section. ‘Slide through.’

‘Just as well I don’t have big boobs,’ says Vicki, ducking through the opening shoulder first.

‘Not my type,’ says Fish. ‘Perky tits’re what I go for.’

Vicki snorts. ‘I noticed.’

They trudge up the path to the stone walls, Fish in front. In his belt he’s packing, in lieu of the family heirloom, the old Astra Police he inherited from Mullet in his belt. A six-shot revolver that Mullet said had got him out of shit more times than were worth counting.

He’s all ears, hears nothing to get his pulse racing, nothing to settle his anxiety either. At the entrance to the stone enclosure he stops Vicki, goes up alone into the fort. It’s empty. No Colins. No rhino horns hidden behind the rocks.

‘Not cool,’ says Fish, a prickle of perspiration breaking out despite the winter chill. ‘Not cool at all.’ Casting about for footprints, any sign.

Vicki hears him, waits him out. Watches him reading the scene. This side of Fish’s something she doesn’t see often. The fluster.

Fish’s all over the place, going, ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ He looks at her. ‘I buggered this up. Bloody amateur. Bloody Jesus Christ what an arsehole.’

She says nothing. Keeps her eyes away from him on the sea: a long view down the beach, kids riding the kiddie waves,
walkers
dotted along the low-tide sands. She’s not going to comfort
him, say, Don’t worry, babes, it’ll be alright. Mommy’ll make it better. She can see the little boy in him, the guilt on his face.

‘Let’s go,’ says Fish. ‘This’s just so stupid. This’s making me feel sick.’

Some way down the path he stops, points at some broken brush to the side. ‘That’s recent.’ He crouches to look closely at the sand, rubs a handful through his fingers. Leaves a blood smear on his skin. ‘Shit’s happened here. See.’ Holding his hand out to Vicki. ‘Blood.’ He straightens. ‘That boulder. What’s that next to it?’

Vicki’s closest, she reaches over. ‘Bits of plastic. Could be the cover of a cellphone.’

She’s examining it, Fish snatches it from her.

‘Let me see.’

Vicki biting her lip to keep her temper.

‘It’s black. The phone I gave him was black.’ Fish smoothes away sand, finds more pieces of casing. ‘This’s it. This’s the phone for sure.’ He glances up at Vicki. ‘Check around, the rest has to be here.’

‘Please,’ says Vicki.

Fish frowns. ‘Please what?’

‘Please is what you say when you want some help.’

‘Ah, bloody hell, Vicki, not now, alright? This’s a problem we’ve got here.’

‘Yes, now.’

Vicki stands staring down at him, thinking, You say the wrong word and I’m outta here. Sees the flush on his face, his eyes gone hard. Holds his gaze. Waits, one, two, three, four.

‘Please,’ says Fish. ‘Alright. Please.’

Vicki breaks the eye lock. ‘I’m not your skivvy, Fish Pescado.’ She crouches next to him. ‘Remember that. Don’t forget it, ever.’

Fish nods.

She tucks strands of hair behind her ear. ‘You can say sorry. Men’re allowed to say that.’

He snorts. ‘Alright, sorry. But this,’ he points at the ground,
‘means they got Colins.’ Fish searching through the sand.

Vicki pulls back, raises a hand. ‘This what you’re hoping to find?’ Holds up the SIM card still clipped into the casing. Blows the sand off it.

‘Who’s he?’ says Mellanie. ‘This Vusi Bopape. Who’s he?’

They’re in the Land Rover, she and Jacob Mkezi with Tol Visagie at the wheel, driving away from the town, some children running beside the SUV. The beauty contestants and the crowd gathered in the shade outside the church door. Everyone watching them leave, waving.

To the side, Vusi Bopape’s also staring after them, his hand up shading his eyes.

‘We should’ve stayed for the food,’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘That was wrong, going.’

‘I explained,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘They know you’re a busy man. That you did this as a favour.’

‘Doesn’t matter. It wasn’t polite.’

‘And Vusi Bopape, rocking up like that?’

‘It’s strange. But we don’t know his business.’

‘A man on honeymoon comes out alone?’

‘What’s happening, Tol? What’s happening that you’re not telling me?’

‘I’m going to show you.’

The children give up playing escort, fall back as the Land Rover leaves the town. Lowland grass and thicket savannah ahead.

‘At last.’ Mellanie chirping again, ‘Who’s he? For heaven’s sake will one of you tell me who he is? And what you’re talking about?’

‘He’s a guest at the lodge,’ says Jacob Mkezi.

‘He’s a snoop,’ says Tol Visagie.

‘Why? What’s he doing out here?’

‘That’s what Tol’s not telling us,’ says Jacob Mkezi. He twists in the passenger seat to look back. ‘The mystery man’s not following.’

‘He doesn’t have to,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘I reckon he knows where we are.’

Jacob Mkezi frowns, glances at Tol Visagie. ‘You’re saying he’s got a tracker on this car?’

‘Ja, he has to have.’

‘What the hell for? You’re being very strange, Tol. What’s going on?’

‘Look,’ says Tol Visagie, ‘there’s a waterhole on the way back to the lodge. It’s off this road. We’re gonna go there and park for a while. Wait. See if he pitches up.’

‘And if he does?’

‘Then we’re eating a picnic lunch, watching the birdlife.’

‘If he doesn’t?’

‘Then I’ll show you.’

‘Ah,’ Jacob Mkezi throws up his hands, ‘come on, Tol. Stop the game. Just tell me.’

‘I can tell you what this is, sure I can tell you. But it’s not going to be the same as seeing it,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘You need that first impact.’

Mellanie leaning forward, ‘Am I any part of this?’ – neither of the men answering her.

They go on in silence, the dust swirling behind the car, clouding out the rear-view. Tol Visagie’s driving fast, stones clattering against the chassis. The landscape’s empty, the bush on either side’s hot and still, 35°C on the car gauge. Inside it’s cool, the aircon set at eighteen degrees. The kilometres click past.

‘You see if there’s a car behind us,’ says Tol Visagie to Mellanie eventually. ‘We’re getting near the border.’

‘This waterhole, is it this side or the other?’ says Jacob Mkezi.

‘Angolan side.’ Tol Visagie pointing into the bush towards a distant hill. ‘About five or six kays, other side of the koppie.’

‘Why’d I think that?’ says Jacob Mkezi. He swivels round. ‘Anything?’

‘There’s no one behind us,’ says Mellanie. ‘Not that I can see through the dust. Are you going to tell me yet what’s going on?’

‘If I knew.’

Tol Visagie turns sharply onto a track hardly visible in the long grass. It leads downhill between thickets to a dry floodplain, through dense vegetation, sandy drifts that have no tyre marks on them.

‘You better hope the sand’s not soft,’ says Jacob Mkezi.

Tol Visagie fights the wheel. ‘I know this track. It’s okay.’

The koppie comes ahead, the track going round it to the north, then east to a vlei that gives on to deeper water. Some buck along the mud edge, drinking. Otherwise nothing. Tol Visagie stops beneath the trees, kills the engine.

‘If I’m right he knows where we are. Maybe he’ll come find us, maybe he won’t. We’ll give him an hour.’

‘Thanks,’ says Mellanie. ‘That’s what I really need, an hour out here in the heat. We could be back at the lodge with a drink.’

‘There’s cold beer,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘Sandwiches.’

‘And then what?’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘If he doesn’t pitch up, then what?’

‘Then we take a short walk. Not far.’ He waves his arm to the south. ‘Not far from here at all.’

An hour later he swings open his door, says to Jacob Mkezi, ‘Let’s go.’ To Mellanie says, ‘You stay here, in the Landie. I’m sorry, hey.’

‘I’m going with you.’ Mellanie opening her door, getting out.

Tol Visagie turns to Jacob Mkezi. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Mkezi, I can’t have Miss Munnik with us. That’s the deal, alright?’

‘Like hell you can’t,’ says Mellanie. ‘If you think I’m going to sit out here, you can think again.’

‘Fifteen, twennie minutes, that’s all.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘She can come,’ says Jacob Mkezi.

‘I’m not sure. I’m not sure I want that.’

‘Non-negotiable,’ says Mellanie.

‘Please, Mr Mkezi, Miss Munnik. Do me a favour, won’t you?’

The three of them standing at the back of the Land Rover,
prickly in the midday heat.

Jacob Mkezi shrugs. ‘Your call.’

‘I’m going with you.’

‘There you have it, Tol.’

Tol Visagie opens the back of the SUV. ‘I don’t like it. The more people that know this, the more the risk.’ He slides a Remington 700 out of a canvas rifle sleeve.

‘Nice gun,’ says Jacob Mzezi. ‘You don’t see them often.’

Tol Visagie works the bolt back, raises it, presses four
cartridges
into the magazine, the fifth into the chamber, pushes the bolt handle down. ‘Present from a Yank after his safari.’ Tol Visagie leaving it there; Jacob Mkezi thinking it’s not the end of the story, but not pressing it. The vet shrugs into a backpack, hands floppy hats to Jacob Mkezi and Mellanie.

Mellanie says, ‘I’m not wearing that.’

‘Your burn,’ says Tol Visagie, throwing the hat back into the car. He slams closed the rear door, remote locks the vehicle. Grunts, ‘Come’n,’ heads towards the koppie, the scattering of black rocks at its base. Jacob Mkezi follows, Mellanie behind him, saying, ‘Christ, Jacob, what’s his case?’

‘Leave it,’ he says. ‘You can stay in the car.’

‘Yeah, like that’s going to happen.’

At the base of the koppie, they thread up through black rocks to a cut overgrown with a mosaic of thickets. Tol Visagie pushes through, calling out ‘Mind the branches’ – the branches whipping back into the faces of Jacob Mkezi and Mellanie. Mellanie swearing, putting her hand to the sting on her cheeks. ‘Chrissakes, Tol, watch it.’

Tol Visagie holding back the last bush for them to step through into a small clearing, a rock face rising in front of them. Heaps of bones, huge skulls, skeletons draped in old skin piled about.

Jacob Mkezi sucks in his breath. ‘What’s this place?
Somewhere
animals came to die?’

Mellanie says, ‘Hectic.’

‘It’s amazing, hey?’ says Tol Visagie. ‘Comes as a surprise. You
step outta one reality into another. From outside you wouldn’t say this koppie’s got a hole in it.’

‘What’re these bones?’ says Mellanie.

‘I told you you had to see it.’

‘You,’ Mellanie giving heat to the word, ‘wanted me to stay in the car, remember?’

‘Ja, okay …’ Tol Visagie turns to Jacob Mkezi. ‘Impressive, hey?’

‘You brought us here to see this?’

‘This and something else.’ Tol Visagie steps over bones towards a gap in the rock wall. ‘Come.’

‘Now where?’ says Mellanie.

The gap in the rock is narrow and low. Tol takes off the backpack, pushes it into the opening. Goes down on his knees in the dust. ‘You’ve gotta squeeze through.’ He unclips a torch from his belt, shuffles into the opening.

‘Ah, no,’ says Mellanie. ‘Why’d I do this?’

‘Your choice,’ says Jacob Mkezi, not smiling, kneeling. ‘Beauty contests and caves all in one day.’

He and Mellanie follow Tol Visagie into the cave, Mellanie swearing, breaking a nail as she scrabbles through. The entrance is short, opens into a large chamber.

‘Check this,’ says Tol Visagie, standing, clicking on the torch.

‘What the hell’re those?’ says Mellanie.

‘Rhino horns,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘Maybe four hundred, five hundred rhino horns. Those’re their remains outside, some of them.’

‘Those’re rhino bones?’ says Mellanie.

‘Ja,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘They must’ve had like a factory going here.’ He keeps the light on the horns stacked in a five-metre column sloping back against the cave wall. ‘I dunno. I haven’t counted exactly. That’s a guess based on the depth of the column. It’s a lot of horn. What’re you think we’re talking, Mr Mkezi? Twenty-five, thirty million US?’

Jacob Mkezi runs his hand over the horns, they’re dry, dusty,
he smacks his palms clean. ‘They’ve been here a while.’

‘I reckon,’ says Tol Visagie. ‘About twenty years, thereabouts.’

‘These’re worth twenty-five million dollars?’ says Mellanie. ‘These’re just sitting here worth twenty-five million dollars!’

‘They could be worth that.’ Jacob Mkezi caressing the horns with his fingers, rubbing a tip. ‘Locally, you’d get ninety, maybe a hundred million rand right off.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘Pass me the torch.’ Tol Visagie takes a spare Maglite out of his backpack, hands it over. Jacob Mkezi bends close to peer at the horns: there’s no mould on them, no rot. He gives the torch back to Tol Visagie. ‘When’d you find them?’

‘Two weeks ago. By accident. I was over here tracking an old buffalo, we had a radio collar on it. Thought I’d go up on the koppie to check out the area, and found the bones, then this huge stack of horns.’ He runs the beam up and down the column.

‘They’re war stock,’ says Jacob Mkezi.

‘Ja, I scheme. They have to be. This was UNITA territory, Jonas Savimbi land. He probably traded them with us for guns and ammo. Food, medicines, God knows. Don’t you think? I mean this was like a bank for him.’

‘Could be. Question is, why’re they still here?’

‘They got forgotten.’

‘You think so?’

‘Has to be like that.’

Jacob Mkezi plays the torchlight over the cave walls: it’s a sizeable chamber, the column of rhino horns almost reaching the ceiling; the floor space big enough to park two SUVs. ‘No San painting?’

‘I looked. There’s three circles, that’s all, nothing fancy.’

‘These them?’ Jacob Mkezi picks out the forms near the entrance, vague, ochre in the torchlight.

‘Ja. Doesn’t mean anything to me. Bushmen were into weird stuff.’

‘Like a kid’s done it,’ says Mellanie.

‘Who else knows?’ says Jacob Mkezi. ‘Apart from Cake
Mullins.’

‘No one.’

‘And how’d Cake get in on it?’

‘I know Cake. He was up here a lot about ten years ago.’

‘I’m sure he was.’

‘I know what he was doing, dealing, trading, middleman stuff. He didn’t tell exactly what, but you find out things in the bush. In the bush nothing’s secret. Someone’s always watching. You think you’re in the middle of nowhere, not a soul in sight but, no, no, my friend, there’s eyes in the bush.’

‘Go on.’

‘After Cake stopped coming, we kept in touch. Once, twice a year he visited for old times’ sake. To keep his hand in, he said. He’d meet people, drive around. I’d take him with me into the bush, to the villages when I did clinics. Cake helped with money.

‘Generous.’

‘Ja, he’s like that.’ Tol pauses, listens.

‘What’s it?’

‘I thought … No, it’s nothing.’ He flashes the light onto the rhino horns. ‘When I found these, I phoned him. He came up to have a look and he said to speak to you. He said you’re the only one could handle this sort of thing.’ Tol Visagie stops again. Listens. ‘It’s a vehicle. I think we better go.’