The Serpentine Road (12 page)

‘And did you see her after that?’

Nkosi looks up from his notes, hesitates.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘When?’

‘I visited her home on Thursday, 2 April.’

‘Why?’

‘I wished to apologize for failing to prevent the incident at her gallery.’

‘What made you think that was something you should do?’

‘I . . .’ Nkosi looks embarrassed. ‘Knowing who she was, I wanted to make sure that there would be no complaint against me. I thought if I apologized, she would not think so poorly of me. If I had posted an officer at the entrance to the gallery, perhaps this would not have happened. Perhaps she might not even have been killed.’

‘What time did you visit her house?’

‘It was before my shift. I visited her house at approximately 8 p.m.’

‘How long were you there?’

‘Not long. Maybe five minutes.’

‘What was her reaction?’

‘She seemed pleased that I had visited her personally. There would be no complaint.’

‘Did you notice anything about her that made you think she might be concerned about her own safety?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Nothing which made you at all suspicious?’

‘No, sir.’

‘She was alone?’

‘Yes.’

De Vries sits back, wonders what else he should ask.

‘How did you come to answer the call to Miss Holt’s house yesterday morning?’

‘It was the end of my night shift. I was the senior detective officer. When I heard the address, I took control, immediately assumed command of the scene and was reminded by my Sergeant to notify your desk, which I did. By 7.30 a.m., you had taken control of the scene and the case. That was the end of my involvement with Miss Holt.’

De Vries studies Nkosi; he is a different man to the one from whom he had taken over the murder scene not thirty-six hours previously.

Whenever he looks at black Africans, he is always filled with a mixture of innate suspicion and prejudice; he strives to counter such feelings. It leaves him doubting his interpretation, a state which he finds saps his self-confidence. Yet, there is something about Nkosi today, the efficiency and respect with which he is delivering his account, that makes De Vries suspicious. He does not know of what, but he cannot help thinking about Julius Mngomezulu in the lift with Nkosi and whether they know one another. He dismisses the notion: Mngomezulu prowls the corridors only of this building.

‘The threats against Miss Holt: you have kept them on record?’

Nkosi stutters.

‘The earlier ones, I told her to throw away. We have a letter from the church congregation and the later written threats.’

‘Send them here straight after this meeting.’

Nkosi nods.

‘With hindsight, Lieutenant. Is there any one person, or individual threat, which you think you should have taken more seriously?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes, sir. I have asked myself that question.’

‘So, who killed Taryn Holt?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

De Vries travels down to the building’s exit with Nkosi as an excuse to walk across two side streets and towards a café which serves strong, thick coffee, the antithesis of what is available in the squad-room. He stands outside, under the canopy, with a double, double espresso and smokes three cigarettes, lighting each from the previous one. A movement catches his eye, and he realizes that it is Don February, hurrying towards him.

‘I have been trying to call you.’

De Vries takes his cell-phone out of his pocket and presses a button. He tries again.

‘It’s dead. What is it?’

‘We have identified one caller who Taryn Holt has spoken with more than any other in the last four weeks. He was the caller at 10.23 p.m. on the Wednesday night, twelve minutes before my witness said that she saw a man who could have been him entering the Holt property.’

‘Who is it?’

‘You are not going to like it, sir. It changes everything. We must call Mr Classon.’

‘Don, who the fuck is it?’

‘It is Trevor Bhekifa.’

De Vries takes a moment to process the information.

‘The son of Bheka Bhekifa?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The colour drains from De Vries’s face.

‘Jesus, Don. I thought we had ourselves a clean murder . . .’ Don February recalls Taryn Holt’s bedroom: the volume of blood; the walls, carpets, windows, mattress. He looks back up at De Vries, hears him say: ‘But if we’ve got fucking politicians involved, it’s going to get dirty.’

Bheka Bhekifa is a hero of the Struggle, a scholar from a poor family who made it all the way to Manchester University in England. He is rumoured to have been a key backroom figure in the Mandela administration of 1994, a political advisor who sought to keep that first ANC government on a more socialist footing, who argued against the free-market solutions to which Mandela soon turned. Nonetheless, he is credited with helping to mould a freedom-fighting organization into a functioning political party. Now, ostensibly away from politics, it is said that he still wields considerable influence at the highest level; that political leaders call on him for advice.

Some might question how a man devoted to the socialist cause could have graduated to living in a mansion at the very top of Bishopscourt, the smartest inland real estate in Cape Town, safe from the relentless South-Easter, surveying the Southern slopes of Table Mountain as far as Devil’s Peak. A plan of his property would reveal that his house is angled towards the mountains, away from the townships and squatter-camps which were, and he might insist, remain, his constituency.

Although he has never been a businessman in the traditional sense, he has been an unofficial ambassador separate from, yet also innately connected to, the South African government. As a result, his word is said to carry some weight on the international stage. It was his influence, commentators claim, which brought about the slashing of wholesale prices to South Africa of retro anti-viral medication for HIV sufferers; it was his name attached to NGO projects throughout the country, in education, health, opportunity for black African children, the promotion of indigenous African cultural identity. With Mandela gone, those who were part of the Struggle see him as a link to those times, when victory had come, and the future lay before them.

‘As soon as Attorney Classon informed me that you were acquainted with Mr Bheka Bhekifa, sir, I came here to inform you of developments in the case.’

De Vries is standing before General Sempiwe Thulani in his relentlessly air-conditioned office, said to be the coldest place in the Southern Hemisphere save for Antarctica itself.

‘We go back a long way,’ Thulani says, musing. ‘He is a great man who has served our country all his life . . .’

‘His son left home years ago, though. It is not as if this matter will reflect on him personally.’

‘There is no doubt that the maker of these calls is Trevor Bhekifa? He could not have lent his cell-phone to another party, or had it stolen?’

‘We contacted him on that phone,’ De Vries tells him, ‘explained why we wished to speak with him, and he has agreed to return to Cape Town to be questioned. He had not, apparently, heard the news of Miss Holt’s death.’

‘Trevor and his father disagree on many things. I do not believe that they are even in regular communication with one another but, Colonel, we are different from you here. For us, family is everything, and anything which affects one member, affects us all.’

Thulani slips off his high chair, his girth appearing from behind his over-sized desk.

‘I will visit him and inform him personally of what is happening. When you speak to Trevor, I want you to show him every respect. When you have completed your interview, take no further action until you have spoken with me. I wish to be kept informed of every development. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The media, the newspapers: can you imagine what a story like this would mean to them? Less than a year after the elections? Instruct your team that no information is to be leaked under any circumstances. If what you tell me is accurate, then Trevor Bhekifa was an acquaintance of the victim and is doing his duty by submitting to interview with you.’ He stares at De Vries. ‘You agree?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Thulani dismisses him with a flick of his thick wrist.

‘Colonel?’

De Vries turns back to face him.

‘You are being uncommonly co-operative. I hope that this is not merely lip-service.’

De Vries mouths: ‘No, sir.’

Thulani misses the jibe, and Vaughn exits the office, finds Julius Mngomezulu standing in the ante-room with Thulani’s secretary. De Vries walks past him, through the outer door, into the grey but temperate corridor. Only then can he feel his jaw begin to relax.

Norman Classon says: ‘The Democratic Reform Group was a think-tank set up in 2010 by political refugees from the ANC, intellectuals and public figures in South Africa, to examine the possibility of genuine multi-party politics in the country.’ He looks from De Vries to Don February to Ben Thwala; all are attentive. ‘Trevor Bhekifa was amongst them, a rebel to the cause. A few months back, they announced the formation of a new political party, the Democratic Reform Party – DRP. Can you imagine what a coup it was for them to have Bhekifa? Even though it is his son, that name buys hundreds of thousands of black votes. It could transform them from a fringe party to one with a real chance of upsetting the status quo. Considering the results of the 2014 election, this could blow open the entire political system. They posted an invitation to the people to join them, seeking those with expertise to become spokesmen and women on their behalf: white, coloured, black. Trevor Bhekifa is an entrepreneur; he speaks for them on business opportunity.’

‘Maybe this is what he was discussing with Taryn Holt?’ Don says.

De Vries turns to him.

‘We’ll find out.’

‘Considering Miss Holt’s financial weight,’ Classon says, ‘I would think he was discussing funding. Any political party must have considerable backing to stand any chance of making an impact.’

‘Was she political?’

‘Her father was no friend of the ANC. They called him and his company . . .’ He consults his notes: ‘“Co-conspirators with the oppressive regime”.’

‘So,’ De Vries says, ‘she has been around questions of politics all her life.’

‘Yes,’ Classon says, ‘but Bhekifa and she come from the opposite ends of the spectrum. It is a truly strange match – politically, anyway.’

‘Both rebels, perhaps?’

‘You don’t really consider him a suspect, surely?’

‘Why not?’ De Vries says immediately. ‘He was at Holt’s house around the time she died. He obviously visited it regularly. He knew about the alarm system, had knowledge of the set-up there.’

‘But if Bhekifa was lining her up as a benefactor for the party, why would he kill her?’

‘We don’t know anything right now, Norman. We speak to him; we see what he says. Then we can start trying to put everything together.’ De Vries stands. ‘Must be a treat for a lawyer like you. All the taboos in one go: money, politics, sex and violence.’

Trevor Bhekifa arrives from Stellenbosch within an hour and a half, and is sitting in the Interview Room opposite De Vries and Don February a few minutes later. De Vries likes this place, knows that cases are often made in here, feels that the surroundings alone exert a pressure on a suspect which begins to break their resolve.

Bhekifa is offered coffee or water, both of which he declines.

De Vries begins.

‘We are here, sir, merely to establish some facts about the murder of Miss Taryn Holt, and the relationship which you may or may not have had with her. Do you understand?’

Bhekifa nods, says: ‘Yes, I do. But, I am in shock, sir, because I did not know what happened to Taryn until I was informed by your Sergeant only two hours ago.’

De Vries pauses a moment, then says: ‘We can take it in your own time.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Bhekifa is dressed in a dark suit, white shirt with gold cufflinks, and a patterned silk tie; his shoes are high quality and smartly polished.

‘I need to establish first whether the calls indicated on Miss Holt’s activity record in the last seven weeks, to and from your cell-phone number, were made and received by you.’

‘Yes. Taryn and I were involved. We spoke often.’

‘How long had you known Miss Holt?’

He leans his head back, closes his eyes.

‘I suppose . . . . Maybe six or seven months ago, at the end of spring. It was at the launch of a book about the political writer and film-maker Ousmane Sembene, in a bookshop in town – and then a party at the Rust en Vreugd Museum in Buitenkant Street. We started talking, and then I suggested that we meet up again. She accepted.’

‘You went out together?’

‘Yes . . .’ He shifts position in the small chair. ‘That is . . . We met at our homes. Mainly, I would visit her at her house.’

‘You didn’t go out to bars or restaurants?’

‘We preferred to stay private.’

‘This developed into an intimate relationship?’

‘Yes. We would see each other once or twice a week. We are both busy people. We have businesses to run, employees to mentor, but we became close.’

‘Did you discuss politics?’

‘Yes. Taryn was interested in the political alternatives that the group, the party I belong to, was discussing.’

‘The . . .’ De Vries looks down, reads: ‘“Democratic Reform Party”?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was Miss Holt interested in joining your party?’

‘We were talking about it, yes. Taryn was very passionate in her support of the arts, of women’s rights. She was a passionate woman who had much to offer.’ He bows his head. ‘I cannot believe it . . .’

‘Was she considering donating money to the party?’

‘Why do you ask this?’

‘Because,’ De Vries says, ‘I need to know some background before we come on to the specifics of when you last saw Miss Holt, whether you had cause for concern for her safety. Matters like that.’

‘Taryn and I did discuss whether she would be able to donate to the party.’