The Serpentine Road (27 page)

The man just stares at him.

‘Quiet guy,’ De Vries says.

‘He says he has nothing to say.’

‘Down here,’ De Vries says. ‘It’s all you guys staying?’

‘Mainly us now, few coloured families. Funny, isn’t it? Never thought we’d end up in the ghetto. Not even when we knew they were taking over. Even then, we thought we’d still be wanted.’

Selwyn laughs; a sad, strained chuckle. ‘How many years, you think, till they’ve paid us back? My son, he says never. Builder in Dubai now. Sends me something. Only thing keeps me fed. Only thing . . .’

They walk at Selwyn’s slow, lumbering pace along the road. The sky is clear, yet it seems low and heavy: an African night, a prelude to the change of seasons. The pavement narrows and deteriorates as they approach the back gates to the dominating incinerator buildings. De Vries stumbles. He looks down; the paving stones are missing.

‘They take them.’

He looks up at Selwyn.

‘Anything that isn’t tied down.’

‘People take the pavement?’

‘
Ja
. Metal, stone, brick. Everything has a value.’

Selwyn looks over the road at another dark shack which, to De Vries, is indistinguishable from all the others.

‘Think he stays there. Looks like he’s not here, or asleep.’

‘I’ll take a look. You get back. Thanks for your help.’

They shake hands. Vaughn trots across the road, climbs over a fallen concrete post propping up a bowed chicken-wire fence, and approaches the shack. He pauses, listens at the door – an old glazed wooden door, salvaged. He is about to push it open, when he senses something behind him. He turns, finds Selwyn a few paces back.

‘Let me check he’s okay,
ja
?’

‘Just stay there though.’

De Vries knocks at the door, waits. He glances back at Selwyn, pushes open the door. Immediately, he smells it, putrid and strong. Wafts of hot, fetid, rancid air hit him, flies buzz his eyes. He swallows and swallows again – tries to control his gag reflex. He reaches for the torch in his jacket pocket, switches it on. The beam illuminates a dark brown sticky pool; a slight turn of his wrist, a man on his back, his face convulsed.

‘Jesus!’

De Vries jumps, unaware that Selwyn had followed him inside.

‘Step back. Back through the door. This is a crime scene. I don’t want you involved.’

He turns back, takes a deep breath through his mouth, puffs out his cheeks, blows it out. He looks down to check that where he steps is dry, then tilts the beam towards the man once more. The light flickers on his face in Vaughn’s shaking hand. Through the stubbly beard, the wrinkled sunburnt flesh, he sees a likeness to Mike de Groot. He works the beam down his body. In his chest, over his heart, there is a deep wound. Through the blood-soaked vest, he cannot see detail; he believes that there are multiple wounds in the same area.

He forces himself to examine the man’s face again, knows that he is looking at Mike de Groot. He switches off the torch, stands in the dark, feeling his heart beating in his throat, at his temples – his mind racing, invaded by fear.

He draws himself up, turns and leaves the shack, pushing the door to. Selwyn stands on the pavement, not three metres away.

‘It’s Mike.’

‘Had to be. No one else ever goes in there. They said he was mad. Used to talk to himself, sometimes sing in the street. We spoke to him. He was okay.’

They begin to walk slowly back towards Selwyn’s shack.

‘You see anyone out of the ordinary here the last day or two?’

Selwyn thinks a moment, says: ‘Saw no one. Been out on my seat most of the last two weeks. Too hot inside. Danie’s been there too. Just the guys from the incinerator – they can leave by the back. Kids, always kids; a few blacks, coloureds. Then, just us guys, a few of the wives . . .’

‘Any cars?’

‘Look around. No cars running here. Guys who haven’t sold ’em can’t afford to run ’em. They sit there out front. Might as well be on bricks.’

‘Other cars. New cars?’

‘No one comes down here. No reason.’

‘A lot of crime?’

‘Less than your neighbourhood. Nothing to take here. Anything worth having’s been taken years back.’

‘I need you to do something for me,’ De Vries says.

‘All right.’

‘I need you to call the local cops.’

Selwyn stops, turns to De Vries.

‘You said you were a cop.’

‘I am, but this isn’t my patch. I’m here because a friend of Mike’s from the old days asked me to look for him, ’cos he wasn’t around in his old haunts any more. If I’m here, it’s hours of paperwork, questions. I can’t do that. I need a favour.’

He finds his wallet, pulls out a blue hundred rand note, a red fifty, and watches Selwyn’s eyes follow the coloured paper.

‘Can you go up to a shop, buy you and your friend some dinner, ask one of the guys there to make the call? Just tell them you looked in on him ’cos you hadn’t seen him and that’s what you saw.’

Selwyn nods. Vaughn hands him the notes.

‘If you mention me, it’ll fuck me up. Can you keep me out of it?’

‘
Ja
.’

‘And Danie?’

‘Danie doesn’t say anything.’

‘You’re sure?’

Selwyn crosses his arms, says slowly: ‘Danie and I will have tinned chicken stew and beer for dinner. If we talk, we’ll talk about that a while.’

Vaughn watches Selwyn gesture to Danie and begin to walk towards the main road. De Vries waves as he drives away, but neither of them see him. He wonders whether they will keep their word and keep him out of it. He doesn’t know what to tell Mitchell Smith, or what to do himself. His mind is racing, but he cannot imagine who would be killing these men twenty-one years after the event. Four of them stabbed. No doubt now: no coincidence. He wonders whether Smith and he will be next, whether Kobus Nel is tidying up history for some reason. No one knows that there is a connection between these deaths. He does not know whether he must reveal it, or whether he must play the scene out, discover the meaning behind it; keep history’s secret. He feels hungry and tired but knows that he will not eat, will not sleep.

It is not raining. Still the clouds are high, forming quickly over the mountain range, disappearing again over the City Bowl. De Vries has spent the night wondering what to do about Mike de Groot and Mitchell Smith. In the early hours, it hits him that he has a major investigation with an SAPS officer as prime suspect. He feels weak and helpless.

Don February arrives in the office later than usual.

‘My wife has what she calls man flu,’ he tells De Vries. ‘It is a cold, but she has upgraded it to stay home from work. And, as it was so serious, to keep up appearances I had to go shopping for her. I am sorry.’

‘Keep ’em happy, Don. That’s my advice.’

Don nods.

‘What did Holt’s neighbour tell you?’

‘Nkosi – she identified him from the pictures immediately – has been watching the road. He arrived there at ten fifty-two on the night Taryn Holt was murdered. She says that he did not get out of his car while she was watching, but that she is sure it was the man she had seen, six times in all, she stated.’

‘Why didn’t she tell you this before?’

Don stutters: ‘She is . . . She is a girl who only answers precisely the question she has been asked. It is an affliction, I think. I had not asked her the correct question.’

‘She is certain of his identity?’

‘She says she saw the same man, in the grey suit, talking with the police officers, coming out of the Holt house on the morning we arrived.’

De Vries nods, contemplates.

‘So, maybe we have a witness who can place him at the scene. But, he still has room to manoeuvre.’

‘I would not want the entire case to depend on her testimony . . .’

‘Why?’

‘She is not . . .’ He searches for the words. ‘. . . A sympathetic witness. And I am not certain that she would be allowed, or even herself prepared, to testify.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Fourteen.’

De Vries shakes his head.

‘She had noted the license plate. I had it checked before coming up. The registration belonged to a car which was wrecked in an accident two years ago. There is no link to a silver BMW.’

‘So, he drives an anonymous car . . .’

‘There is one more thing, sir . . .’ Don says forlornly. ‘I was working here at the side of your desk yesterday. I saw Lieutenant Mngomezulu come into the squad room, which was empty. He did not see me. He was looking around. He went to my desk and I had left papers there. He took one. I am not sure, but I think it was a note about the chicken takeaway and whether Nkosi had been to the restaurant.’

‘What did it say?’

‘Just that. Hand-written by me.’

‘So Mngomezulu knows we have a link there . . .’ De Vries sighs. ‘I’m going to make a suggestion: I’m closing the case. It’s over. We have what we need to tie in Angus Lyle. I am going to report to General Thulani that we have almost tied up all the loose ends and that we will conclude our report in the next two or three days. You go home to your wife. I have an appointment. If I can, I’ll make sure Mngomezulu hears we’re closing it down. Then, on Saturday, we can regroup and see what we have learned.’

‘What will we learn at home?’

‘You won’t learn anything, and that’s fine.’ He sits at his desk, gestures Don towards him. ‘Ben Thwala: he worked up in Pretoria, didn’t he?’

‘I think for three months.’

‘That’s fine. He’ll know the basics of how it works up there. Call him now, Don. I want him here.’

‘Now now?’

‘
Ja
.’

Don turns away from the desk, faces the window and calls Thwala. De Vries sits back in his chair; he counts off names on his fingers, mouthing the words.

‘He’s coming just now.’

‘Good. We need to brief Classon, Ulton and, God help us, Doctor Jafari. We need everything seemingly concluded.’

‘The rest of the team?’

‘Tell them to take leave. If we’re writing it all up, that’ll make sense. Nkosi didn’t kill Taryn Holt on a whim. He planned it and carried it out and, since there is so much interest from above, we can assume he was acting under orders.’ He pauses. They catch each other’s eye, realize what the statement actually means.

‘I’ve got an old SAPS contact too. He may be able to help us with what might be happening.’

There is a rapid knock at the office door. Ben Thwala ducks to enter the office, sits where De Vries points, sits in the low wonky chair, sits straight.

‘I’ll call Steve Ulton at home. He knows what’s happening. He’ll do whatever is needed.’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘Of course you don’t, Norman,’ De Vries tells him. ‘But we’re not doing anything illegal. We are just conducting a private enquiry to gain information on a suspect. That must be acceptable?’

Norman Classon stretches his neck and shoulders.

‘We’re informing General Thulani that a case is closed and the perpetrator found when we know full well that it is not.’

‘We know, yes. But until we can prove it, you think that means anything? We’ve discussed this before. I need you to tell no one. Not Thulani, not anyone. No one. That way, no one else is implicated and we don’t have to worry about trust – on any level.’

‘Does that include Brigadier du Toit?’

‘With him, it is not a question of trust. It is just better not to tell him, or he will worry. Don’t you think?’

‘And that, I suppose, is your defence when this all comes into the open?’

‘Ever the attorney . . .’

‘Did you order Sergeant Thwala to Pretoria?’

‘I told Thwala exactly where we were,’ De Vries says. He’s a good officer. He understands the position. The fact is, he was seconded to Pretoria two years ago, spent three months there, including time in Liaison with the Police Ministry. He’ll stay with a relative and make some discreet enquiries. He ought to have a good idea of someone he can trust there. If he’s found out, he knows what’s at stake.’

‘I hope he does.’

‘He does.’

‘And you? What will you do?’

‘Nothing. I want to be seen to be doing nothing. If they’re watching, they’re watching me. I’m going to a beer festival, in Greyton.’

‘I saw the posters.’

‘You need to be in the process of drawing all the paper-work into the form it would have to be in to close the case around Lyle.’

‘And Doctor Jafari?’

‘I’ll talk to her. I think the doctor will react positively if the right language is used. After all, she contacted me when she found the syringe mark. I’m taking that to mean she understands.’

‘You trust her?’

De Vries smirks.

‘You know what? Strangely, I do.’

De Vries travels to Greyton in the passenger seat, driven by the son of his neighbour for the agreed fee of the price of the fuel. The boy’s girlfriend is working at one of the stalls at the beer festival and they plan to camp out for the last night in the back of the
bakkie
. Next day, the arrangement is for the girl, who is to remain moderately sober since she is at work, to drive all three of them home.

De Vries has called Anna Jafari, explained what he is doing and why, and she has accepted what he has told her. Off rotation for two days, there is no reason for her to comment on her report.

The teenager drives carefully, both hands on the wheel at all times, diligently checking his mirrors, sticking rigidly to the speed limit. He asks if he can play music; De Vries, who plans to doze for the ninety-minute journey, agrees.

He wakes as the
bakkie
struggles up Sir Lowry’s Pass to drive across the Overberg, the area atop the plateau known for its forestry and fruit growing. At MacNeil’s Farmstall, they pull in to pick up their renowned pies and some cool drinks. De Vries remains in the car and does not tell the boy that this is where one of his most testing cases began: the dump-site for two teenage bodies in a skip around the back. He has not stopped here since.

After another forty minutes, they turn onto the road which takes them through Genadendal, then on towards the country town of Greyton. The cloud is lower and darker now, the humidity rising. Even with both windows open the cab of the
bakkie
is warm and sticky.