The Serpentine Road (20 page)

Wroughton brushes down his stained blazer. It is exactly what Don imagines Englishmen wear, and here is one, on an Englishman.

‘Did you see anything around his body, sir?’

‘Like what?’

‘I am thinking specifically, sir, of spent ammunition, or apparatus for a weapon. A silencer: a black tube, about this long?’

Wroughton scratches his bulbous nose.

‘No. I didn’t see anything like that.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Just litter. Always litter.’

‘Anything you can remember? A box or wrapper from a fast-food restaurant?’

Wroughton closes his eyes, stretches his face. The dog looks up at him, licks his neck.

‘I think there was a box, yes . . . Sort of over his shoulder. Clyde made a beeline for it, of course. Pulled him back.’

‘Do you remember which restaurant it came from? What it looked like?’

‘Heavens, no.’ He holds Clyde by the haunches and squeezes him. ‘I don’t know. Blue? Maybe blue and yellow?’

‘Blue and yellow?’

‘Maybe . . .’

Don pulls out his smart-phone, opens a new webpage, types in a search. After a few moments, a picture of a blue and yellow logo begins to open very slowly down the screen. He smiles at Leslie Wroughton, looks around the cluttered room. It is untidy and faded, but it is cosy, with squashy furniture and a grandfather clock with a slow, almost mournful tick. He glances back to his phone. Finally, when the download is complete, he holds it up to Wroughton.

‘Like this?’

The dog stares at the phone above him; little yellow teeth appear beneath his nose.

Wroughton fumbles in his top pocket for glasses, puts them on and looks down at the small image. He nods, shows the screen to the dog, and looks up.

‘Yes.’ He gives the phone back to Don, then points at it. ‘Exactly like that.’

‘You got the impression that it was his?’

‘Yes. Like he had been eating and just collapsed.’

‘Did you see inside the box? Was there anything in it?’

‘Looked like half a meal to me. Poor fellow was halfway through his dinner and then . . .’ He draws a hand across his throat.

Don pockets the phone, stands.

‘Thank you, sir.’ He looks at Clyde, whose head is still but whose eyes are following him. ‘Thank you, both of you.’

Don walks the length of De Waal Park along the side where Angus Lyle’s body was found. He sees one empty brown paper bag and no other litter at all. He searches in the waste-bin at the far corner, again finds almost nothing. Instead of retracing his steps, he walks further around the green space, peers down towards the fenced-off reservoirs on the tier below the park, and eventually does the best part of a circuit. There is little litter, and Don wonders who tidies it away. Just for a change, he had hoped it would be a sea of detritus.

De Vries has shut his office door, lowered the one blind that is still working over the one pane of the internal window. It gives a semblance of privacy.

‘I’m reading Doctor Ulton’s report and,’ Norman Classon pronounces, ‘I have to say, it looks pretty much done and dusted.’

‘Yes.’

Classon stares at De Vries.

‘That scarcely sounds like an unequivocal yes. Vaughn?’

‘It’s a yes, but with a nagging doubt. You do this job long enough and sometimes something just doesn’t feel right.’

‘In what way?’

‘I don’t know . . . If someone tells me that Angus Lyle knew how to handle a gun, that he had a violent and aggressive streak, even that he could concentrate on one thing for longer than a day, I’d agree with you. As it is, I’m still concerned there’s doubt.’

‘Well, I’m not here to comment on your investigation, only to tell you that if you were to report that Lyle was guilty of Taryn Holt’s murder, I would agree that all the key elements are in place.’

‘They are, aren’t they?’

‘They are, and I’m told that those upstairs would be happy to see this one wrapped up.’

‘Another statistic in favour of the SAPS. There’s never been a case I’ve been involved in that they haven’t wanted to hurry to a conclusion. I understand why. I know that the moment this ends, the next one begins. But, after twenty years, I just know that nothing is automatic; everything requires a little more thought.’

‘I won’t argue with you,’ Classon says. ‘Call me when you need me and we can get everything written up and put away. I’ll talk to Director du Toit and let him know where we’re at.’

De Vries smiles at Classon until he has left the office; then the smile leaves De Vries’s face. He feels it leaving, knows that this is the position his lips prefer.

Don February looks across the road, over the central reservation mound of grass and through the trees towards the Woodsman’s Cabin Grill, its blue and yellow awnings shading early lunchtime diners from the noon sun. He is, according to the tachometer in his car, 0.8 km from De Waal Park. He steps out onto the road, slams his door, walks over to the restaurant.

He shows the greeter his ID, asks to see the manager. She looks him up and down, asks him to wait, and disappears into the partly open kitchen. The aroma of grilling meat fills the space and wafts onto the street. The blackboard of the day’s specials advertises smoked warthog ribs, whole grilled chickens, thrice-roasted duck. Don wonders why he has never come to eat here; he realizes that his wife would not consider it a proper restaurant, that she would hate the brown paper table-coverings and wood-handled cutlery. He snorts to himself. Before he went to university, he had never been to a restaurant in town, had never imagined that he would. And now, he is almost a middle-class Capetonian.

A short, heavy-set man with a beer belly pulling a check shirt from his waist appears from the kitchen, beckons Don towards him, walks over to the corridor which leads to the restrooms.

‘
Ja
, officer. What is it? We’re going to be really busy today. I can’t be away from the kitchen.’

‘What is your name, sir?’

‘I’m Henk Koeppler. I own and manage this place, last eleven years.’

‘I am investigating murder. I need two minutes of your time.’

Koeppler taps his foot, folds thick hairy arms over his chest.

‘Shoot, man. Do it. Ask away.’

‘You offer takeaway here?’

‘Yes . . .’ He elongates the word.

‘Is your system computerized?’

‘
Ja
. . . You said murder. What is this?’

‘On your system, can you recall a list of orders from last week?’

Koeppler jerks his head back and frowns theatrically.

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘I want to do it, sir. I want to see the orders you gave out for takeaway last Friday, 3 April.’

Koeppler flicks his hand.

‘Ask Judy, the girl you spoke with. She knows the system.’ He begins to turn away.

‘Sir?’

He turns back. Don holds up his smart-phone, displaying a picture of Angus Lyle.

‘Do you know this man?’

Koeppler glances at it.

‘Sure, that’s Angus.’

‘Angus Lyle?’

Koeppler shrugs.

‘How do you know him?’

‘Because he comes here sometimes, when we’re closing up, asks very politely if there are any scraps. I usually give him some.’

‘In one of your boxes?’

‘Nah. In a baggie, man. Those things cost. I’ll help the guy out but I don’t want people thinking he’s a customer.’

‘Was he here last Friday?’

Koeppler sighs and makes a point of thinking about the question.

‘I don’t know. Friday and Saturday, we’re packed from noon till eleven, when we have to close. I can’t remember.’

‘He didn’t come looking for scraps, or earlier in the evening?’

‘Not that I remember . . .’ Koeppler takes his hand off the wall. ‘Has something happened to him?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Koeppler curses under his breath, looks up.

‘Now I have to go cook. Talk to Judy.’ He whistles and, when the girl turns, he waves her over. ‘Talk to this police officer. He wants to know about takeaway orders on Friday,
ja
?’

Judy nods, smiles momentarily at Don, leads him towards the cash desk by the entrance.

‘Were you working last Friday night?’

‘Sure.’

‘You hand over the takeaway boxes?’

‘Usually, yes. If I’m seating some people a waiter might do it, but it’s one of my duties. I take payment, fetch the order from the kitchen and hand it over.’

Her intonation rises at the end of every sentence, as if she is asking a question. Don decides that she is copying an American or Australian accent, something she can surely have heard on television.

She stands behind the counter, fingers poised at the keyboard.

‘What did you want to know?’

Don holds up his smart-phone again.

‘Do you know this man?’

‘Sure . . . He’s around from time to time. Comes round the back, asks for leftovers. I think Henk gives him some.’

‘Did you see him last Friday?’

Judy freezes, eyes blinking. Then she jolts out of it.

‘No. No, he wasn’t here. I haven’t seen him for a while, but I have Thursday off so he may have come then.’

‘But not on Friday?’

‘No.’

Don studies her for a moment, taken aback by her breezy manner and vague certainty. She is very tanned, made up to look happy, he thinks. Don asks: ‘Can you see what takeaway orders you gave out last Friday? Chicken and fries.’

‘Sure.’ She taps the keyboard confidently, clucks to herself a couple of times, looks up at him. ‘I don’t usually look backwards . . . Okay, I have them.’

‘Can I see . . . ? Or can you print them for me?’

‘Well,’ Judy says, ‘there are three pages. I’ll print them.’ She presses a button. ‘They’ll come out in the office.’ She hurries away and Don stands facing the road. A group of teenagers come into the restaurant, look him up and down, wait by the door.

Judy returns with three A4 pages. She sees the teenagers and walks past Don, greets them, seats them by the open window overlooking the outdoor tables and the leafy residential road. She comes back to Don and hands him the papers.

‘One more question, please?’

She nods.

‘Anyone ever just come in and order and then wait?’

‘Sure. Sometimes, but it’s best to call ahead.’

‘Did anyone do that last Friday?’

She freezes again, eyes blinking.

‘Can’t think of anyone . . . It would be a long wait on a Friday.’

Don thanks her, turns to leave.

‘Officer!’ She is laughing. ‘I forgot. About ten, last orders for grills, we did get a walk-in. One of you guys.’

‘A policeman?’

‘Yes.’

‘A uniformed officer?’

‘No.’

‘A detective, plain-clothed?’

‘I guess.’

‘How did you know he was a policeman?’

Judy laughs, shakes her head at him.

‘I can tell. I mean, I just can.’ She chortles.

‘How?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘How can you tell, miss?’

She scrunches up her lips.

‘The way you guys walk; the way you speak . . . Everything.’

Don pauses, says slowly: ‘What did the policeman order?’

‘Chicken, I think.’

He gestures at the sheets: ‘It won’t be on here?’

‘Not if it’s a walk-in.’

‘You would remember what he looked like?’

‘Yes, maybe.’

‘I might ask you,’ Don says.

‘It is,’ Henrik du Toit tells him in a hoarse whisper, ‘a living nightmare. Just like these conferences always are. But, the day after tomorrow, I’m on leave, and I’m clinging to that.’ De Vries hears voices in the background, Du Toit responding charmingly, ever the diplomat. ‘I heard from Norman that the Holt case is pretty much concluded?’

‘Possibly . . .’

‘Oh, don’t tell me that, Vaughn. I had some assertive Major asking me about it yesterday and then again today. I told him it was almost closed.’

‘Who was that?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Who was this Major?’

‘Just an interested party . . .’

‘Why would this case be of interest there?’

‘I assumed that Taryn Holt was high-profile enough to warrant some attention.’

‘Really . . .’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘You know me, sir. It has to feel right. And it doesn’t. I’m not talking on the phone about it. It’s in hand.’

‘It would look good to wrap this up fast. A good result.’

‘I’m sure it would.’

‘Keep Norman posted. He can fill me in.’

‘You think I need supervision?’

‘I think you need support. I gather there was talk of Wertner involved, over the newspaper thing?’

‘Even he could see there was nothing in it.’

‘I have to go,’ Du Toit says. ‘A speech on racial tension in the workplace. Just the thought induces tension. Good luck, and keep calm.’

De Vries laughs.

‘Thank you, sir . . .’ He listens, realizes that Du Toit has already hung up.

De Vries is smoking again, illegally, with his arm out of the window. Even the open window is against regulations; they were all sealed because of a new air-conditioning system, but he got his re-opened by a workman for the price of a packet of cigarettes.

‘A box?’

Don February has laid out the three sheets of printed takeaway orders on De Vries’s desk.

‘I have gone through the take-out orders from Friday . . .’

‘Don. These boxes get everywhere. He could have picked it out of the refuse.’

‘He could have done, sir, but first of all, why would he? He went to the back of the restaurant regularly and asked for food. The owner gave it to him. He would not need to scavenge. And the boxes: this is not like a Wimpy or KFC. This is upmarket. People do not eat this food on the street. They take it home and put it on plates. I only thought of it because I passed the restaurant twice on my way up to the Holt house last week and remembered the blue and yellow awnings.’

‘But who cares? He had a meal.’

‘But he did not buy it. No one remembers seeing him that evening. But three people did order a half chicken and fries and somehow, maybe, the box got to Angus Lyle.’

‘Don . . . ?’

‘My witness said the meal was half-eaten. Doctor Jafari said that there was half a meal inside his stomach. It was a full meal. How did he get it?’