The Serpentine Road (17 page)

‘We don’t know either of them yet.’

‘Is it believable, that he is able to avoid setting off the alarm, that he picks up the shells, leaves no forensic evidence? And where does he find the weapon?’

‘That we have to find out. We need to know whether this is a man with a good brain who is disturbed, or whether he is incapacitated by drugs, unable to plan and carry out something like this.’

They pull up at the traffic lights to rejoin Orange Street.

‘And now he is dead, with all the evidence on him . . .’

De Vries turns to him, holds his cigarette out of the window.

‘
Ja
, I agree. It would be convenient if someone wanted to implicate him to distract attention from themselves, but what bothers me is why? If someone else is responsible, they left no evidence anyway.’

‘So, we follow the trail of Angus Lyle?’

‘Whether Lyle is responsible or not, we follow it. Either it closes the case or we are being led somewhere for a reason. We go where it takes us . . .’ De Vries looks over to Don. ‘And then we find out where we are.’

Within five minutes of De Vries returning to the station, David Wertner appears in the squad room and marches over to his office. He lets himself in.

‘Is this an official refusal to co-operate with my department, De Vries?’

De Vries looks up at him calmly from his chair, eyes half-closed.

‘Close the door and sit down.’

‘In my office, De Vries. Not here, not now. In my office at 9 a.m., that was the arrangement.’

De Vries feels composed. He has expended his wrath. His head is buzzing with possibilities at the developments of the morning. Wertner now seems no more than a minor irritation.

‘We are both senior officers. I am in the middle of a serious, high-profile murder enquiry.’ He sits up. ‘I’m sure that you wouldn’t want to be accused of hindering it?’

Wertner sits, and De Vries smiles to himself.

‘What hinders your work, De Vries,’ Wertner says, leaning over the desk, ‘is your inability to control your team. As we have previously discussed, many times, when I am officially investigating you and your department, which I am now, I have technical rank. That is why you are insubordinate to have deliberately failed to appear before me at 9 a.m.’

‘Grow up,Wertner. Insubordinate? We’re not at training school now. This is the real world. I had a breakthrough in my case. It was necessary to interview a difficult witness before certain information reached him. Perhaps you have forgotten the imperatives of an investigation?’

‘I haven’t forgotten the way you operate. Have you questioned your team regarding this leak of crucial information?’

‘First of all,’ De Vries says. ‘It is not crucial information. It was a report that Trevor Bhekifa was present at this station and questioned. Whoever did leak it had no information; that was invented by the newspaper. Secondly, the article included information which I didn’t discuss with Bhekifa. I never overtly asked him if he was having a sexual relationship with Taryn Holt; intimate and close, maybe, but the word sex was never mentioned. Yet that’s what they printed front and centre. Third, I’ve spoken to all my team and they deny making even a casual mention of the topic anywhere that could have been overheard, and finally, to show you that I know exactly what is happening, I used a contact at the
Sunday Cape Herald
to confirm that the tip-off received was anonymous and that no money changed hands.’

‘That does not clear you or your team.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Wertner. Ask yourself: what is the motive for leaking the story? If it’s not money, then it’s troublemaking. They’re trying to turn this into something it isn’t. This is politics and, if you don’t know by now that I don’t do politics, then you know nothing.’

‘You could have told me this at our agreed appointment.’

‘I’m telling you now. Waste your time interviewing team members, delay my enquiry, or do some thinking and work out who gains from the leak, but it sure as hell isn’t anyone on the right side of the equation.’

Wertner gets up, runs his hand over his closely shaven head, stretches stiff, thick shoulder muscles. He is still too squat to look physically threatening, De Vries thinks. He is like an elderly attack dog whose muzzle you could hold shut, keep him at arm’s length.

‘You always have an answer, don’t you? An explanation for your deficiencies. But, know this: I am watching you all the time.’

‘I know you are.’

‘So, every last detail of your case had better be watertight, Colonel.’

He swivels, pulls open the door, marches out, slams it behind him.

‘Colonel. You have a call from a Mr Mitchell Smith. He says it’s urgent.’

De Vries sighs, glances at his watch.

‘Tell him I have two minutes only. Then put him through.’

He has managed to put Mitchell Smith, the memories he conjures, to the back of his mind; he has forced himself to focus on what gets him through each day.

‘Is this secure? Is this a safe line?’

‘Mr Smith. I told you I’d return your call. What is it?’

‘I told you it was urgent. I need to speak to you.’

‘What do you want to tell me?’

‘I don’t want to say on the phone.’

‘Then I can’t help you . . .’

‘Sheldon Rich, Johan Esau, Joe Swanepoel.’ He shouts the words. ‘Do you remember these men?’

‘This is a long time ago. I don’t have time to reminisce.’

‘They’re dead, Colonel de Vries. Each of them is dead. In the last two weeks.’

‘How?’

‘They were killed. It’s in the local papers.’

‘We live in a violent country.’

‘Three men who were there. Those three. It cannot be a coincidence.’

De Vries closes his eyes.

‘It’s twenty-one years ago. No one remembers any of it . . .’

‘I . . .’

‘No,’ De Vries says firmly. ‘I . . . have to go back to work. As I said before: when I have some time, I will return your call. Take care of yourself, sir.’

He puts down the phone, feels a gripe in the pit of his stomach.

1992

De Vries is a racist. He knows that this is true because when he hears Suzanne talking with her friends, he hears opinion and reasoning which, before, has eluded him. But he is not mindless. His upbringing has taught him and his training is teaching him to judge based on evidence and, for him, the evidence is clear. The white guys have built South Africa; they have the experience, the brains, the work-ethic to develop it still. He only has to look at the African countries that have demanded independence to see the corruption, the inefficiency, the violence and prejudice – their rapid decline, total regression into third world states. He fears for his future; fears for their future.

He grew up on a farm in the Overberg, saw for himself: the black farm workers arriving late each day, working slowly for a few hours, then swigging warm cool-drink and pulling the stuffing out from white loaves, snoozing in the shade until his father, or Mike du Clos, the farm manager, or, later, he himself, had to kick them awake to get them back to the fields.

But, when he was a teenager, his English mother, an immigrant herself, had told a different story. In her quiet voice, she explained that the white man might seem more intelligent, but that was because the white man wanted it that way: if you refuse to educate, you deny opportunity; if you oppress, you remain at the top. When she said this, he had listened and then forgotten her words but, now, when he hears Suzanne and her friends, they come back to him, and he thinks of them now.

The blacks are not the enemy, no matter how much his colleagues repeat their mantra. Colour is not evil. The enemy is the robber, the rapist, the murderer, the terrorist: those are the people De Vries thinks about as he prepares for his shift each day. He turns away from his colleagues at work, their overt hatred exhausting, pointless, and their pessimism for the future depressing, repetition of their blinkered beliefs closed to any challenge. He pays lip service to them, to conform, to belong.

He always resented the subjugation of childhood, the patronization of his parents and their friends. He longed for adulthood, for respect, for an understanding of the world which would allow him to be independent. Now, he longs for rank: to rise above the mere obeying of orders to the forming of them. Above all, he wants the police to police and investigate, to cease their role as paramilitaries and repressors. Amongst his peers, he is alone.

April 2015

The phone trills again. He snatches up the receiver.

‘What now?’

He hears a hollow silence, like an evening wind blowing in the trees.

‘I am about to begin my post-mortem examination of the man identified as Angus Lyle.’

De Vries checks his watch again. It is 11.35 a.m.

‘You are?’

‘It seems,’ Anna Jafari says, ‘that your appeal to General Thulani was heeded. I have been instructed to begin work immediately. You should know that I, too, have complained officially at this interference.’ Her voice sounds even more irritating to De Vries over the phone than in person.

‘Fair enough.’

‘You wish to be present for the examination?’

‘Not really. I want to know time of death, cause of death, anything else you consider unusual or noteworthy. And the blood work. That will be sent to Doctor Ulton’s lab?’

‘He already has blood samples. I will send stomach contents and other samples as required.’

‘Thank you, Doctor.’

‘Don’t thank me, Colonel. I am acting directly on General Thulani’s orders.’

‘I’m grateful nonetheless. I’ll call in later.’

‘Very well.’

She hangs up. Vaughn chuckles, reflects that his interactions rarely end with a pleasantry.

* * *

‘No one knows what is happening,’ Don tells him as they travel down to the Forensics Lab. ‘Angus Lyle changes everything. I do not know what to tell them to do.’

‘Go to lunch?’

‘That is what I did say.’

‘Then you are becoming a good leader of men.’

They enter the lab. Ulton is leaning over a technician, squinting at a computer monitor. When he hears them, he looks up, murmurs something to his colleague, walks towards them.

‘Let’s go over here.’ He leads them to the other end of the lab, looks around to check that they are alone.

‘I heard you’ve been having some leakage problems . . . thought we’d restrict this info to the three of us.’

‘That’s a good idea.’

Ulton produces some papers from inside his lab coat. He snaps the papers taught.

‘According to his police record, Angus Lyle was born on 18 April 1984, making him a couple of weeks short of thirty-one years old. He did not have ID on him when he was found, but he was recognized immediately by the officers who discovered him.’

‘Who were they?’

Ulton reads from his notes.

‘Officers Hendricks and Uzoma, Metro.’

Vaughn turns to Don, who is already writing down the names.

‘Okay,’ Ulton says. ‘Let’s start with the gun. I’ve run the ballistic tests and, despite missing the silencer, I can tell you for certain that this is the weapon used to kill Taryn Holt. The striations on the bullets match those seen after test firing.’ He takes a breath. ‘The grip bears palm and fingerprints from Angus Lyle . . .’

De Vries shakes his head.

‘This is looking pretty conclusive.’

‘Maybe . . .’

‘Why maybe?’

‘There are a few things bothering me. It’s my opinion only and it’s certainly open to dispute. Looking at the palm and fingerprints on the weapon, to me, it looks like his hand could have been placed on the weapon. Studying the entire weapon indicates that, apart from the marks from Angus Lyle, the rest of it is clean. That is to say: it looks as if it has been cleaned; it’s devoid of any prints or dirt whatsoever. I find it hard to be certain that the gun hasn’t been cleaned and then Lyle’s prints overlaid.’

‘Could Lyle have cleaned the weapon after firing and then held it subsequently?’

‘Yes, that is exactly what could have happened, but it’s a marker of oddness, that’s all. It bothers me.’

‘What else?’

‘There are traces of animal fats on the marks made on the grip. I’m analyzing them now, but it’ll take time.’

‘What does that suggest?’

‘That he had greasy hands and touched the weapon, possibly an otherwise clean weapon. Then, there were no casings at the scene. No casings found on or near the body of Angus Lyle. Why collect the casings and then dispose of them when you are still holding the weapon?’

De Vries says nothing. Ulton continues: ‘The silencer. We know that one was used because of the markings on the bullets and also the style of entry wound. But, it’s not around and I don’t know why you’d discard it or hide it and keep the gun on you. Again, it’s explicable but peculiar.’

‘I’ve encountered situations like that before.’

‘Me too . . .’ He trails off, snaps to: ‘The Bible is straightforward, covered with Lyle’s fingerprints and in a fashion consistent with handling the book repeatedly over a period of time.’ He looks at De Vries over his spectacles. ‘As you know, he has underlined and highlighted several passages mainly, but not exclusively, referring to immoral women. Many refer to punishment, usually death or hellfire.’ He looks at De Vries, smiles. ‘Thought you’d like this: “
Just as Sodom and Gomorrah and the surrounding cities, which likewise indulged in sexual immorality and pursued unnatural desire, you shall serve as an example by undergoing a punishment of eternal fire.
”’

De Vries sighs.

‘It’s obvious and repetitive,’ Ulton continues, ‘but the quantity of highlighting and annotation suggests that he had been doing this for a period of months, maybe years. A cursory study of the ink and pencil marks seems to confirm this.’

He moves the top page in his hand to the back and looks over his notes before continuing.

‘The leaflet about the exhibition: Lyle’s prints are on the two outside plains when it was folded. Inside, there are no prints. This suggests he never opened it. He picked it up or it was given to him and, perhaps, he put it in his pocket.’