Читать книгу Present Tense - Natalie Conyer - Страница 7

The sign outside read Cape Town Central Police Station but to Schalk it would always be Caledon Square. He remembered the first time he stood under its arched colonial bulk, marvelling at the size. It took up a whole block. It was summer then, the air still and heavy with history.

He’d presented himself at the front office with its cracked tile floors and red-brick walls and hopeless crowd waiting for the duty constable. Later, he was that constable, Sergeant Venter peering over his shoulder. Venter hated paperwork. Rumour had it Venter couldn’t read or write.

Today there were chairs for people to wait in, numbers to take, cops sitting in boxes like bank tellers. According to signs in English, Afrikaans and isiXhosa, this was a Community Service Centre, a Victim- Friendly Facility. If you needed it you could use the Victim Support Room Sponsored By Spar. Posters announced community events and a separate noticeboard informed people of their rights.

All this to force the pendulum as far away from apartheid as possible. Then, the police force had been a government weapon, blunt and terrifying. Now it was SAPS, the South African Police Service, emphasis on service. And Caledon Square, in the interests of forgetting, found itself renamed Cape Town Central.

Too bad the building hadn’t received similar treatment. Apart from a poorly judged annexe, some cosmetics and late-onset electricity, it hadn’t been touched for 200 years. Its corridors were dark and gloomy. Its walls sweated damp. The outcome was a mixture of dungeon and decrepitude.

Schalk got in at eight but even so Colonel Zangwa beat him to it. There she was, sitting tight behind her desk, feet on a wooden box because they didn’t reach the floor. A line of clips corrugated her hair from her ears to her bun.

‘Captain Lourens.’ She preferred formality. They’d worked together long enough for Schalk to know she wasn’t happy.

He asked, ‘You heard from Nkosi?’

Zangwa squared an already square book titled Ten Best Management Strategies from Ten Best Managers. Other than that, a mugful of pencils and a phone, her desk was clear. ‘I have been briefed by General Nkosi, yes.’

‘What did he say? He tell you I have to report to him?’

She pursed her lips. ‘I expect you to keep me up to date as well.’

‘The General stressed confidentiality.’ Before Zangwa could reply, he seized an opportunity. ‘I’ll work with Captain Fortune.’

Zangwa looked sour. ‘We have priorities, you know. Captain Fortune is required here. And you need someone else, a black face. Sergeant Mbotho. Now come, time for the meeting.’

Zangwa was right about needing a black face, a darker one than Joepie Fortune’s Cape coffee, but Sergeant Winsome Mbotho was a problem for all sorts of reasons. In her 30’s and in your face. They said she was Colonel Zangwa’s protégée – some said her lover – and if any of that were true then yes of course Zangwa would want her involved, to pass on anything she needed to know. Schalk was definitely not going to let himself become a pawn in a battle between Nkosi and Zangwa.

He opened his mouth to argue but she was already on her way out, looking like a school prefect in her black blazer.

In the corridor, he put out an arm to stop her. ‘Colonel, this is a big case. Nothing against Mbotho but she’s inexperienced. She made sergeant only a month ago. She doesn’t know what she’s doing and she’ll get in the way.’

He saw Zangwa’s face change and swung round to see Mbotho standing behind him. She pushed past them, looking grim.

The meeting was in the section commanders’ office, used for everything from community liaison to storing junk. Stuffed into it were three desks pushed together to form a table, hills of backpacks, broken filing cabinets and an assortment of drunken chairs. Dirty cream walls featured huge black and white maps of every road of every community section in Cape Town central.

Schalk navigated obstacles and found himself a seat, cursing Zangwa under his breath. Ball-breaker, he thought. Most frustrating person I ever met. How many times had the two of them argued in the – was it really only one year – since she became his boss?

Another affirmative action appointment, Zangwa was about 40, uptight and strict. As soon as she arrived she labelled Schalk an Afrikaner thug. On his side, he’d picked her as a government plant, and he still wasn’t sure about that. She wouldn’t have been sent from Gauteng, wouldn’t be so clearly destined for glory, unless she had contacts. Nobody knew who those contacts were or what they had in mind.

So the first month or two were rocky. Lately, he had to admit, things had eased between them. She was starting to respect his skills and he acknowledged her political smarts. When he thought about what they could have been landed with, the crooks and incompetents driving other stations into the dust, he felt better.

Winnie Mbotho appeared at the door, shoulders hunched and radiating anger. She armed herself with coffee courtesy of the station PA, Tiny Qoma. Tiny and Mbotho were both Xhosa but that was where it ended.

Mbotho was a solid six foot, hair in a barbershop cut, short at the sides and bushy on top. She wore her usual black jeans, Doc Martens and a safari-style military waistcoat with pockets all over the front.

Tiny, on the other hand, was short and stocky. She had a range of wigs and today’s was a doll-like synthetic apricot. Her skirt strained over her thighs, not quite meeting a top that presented breasts like melons in a tray. They transfixed Sergeant Rajendra Jamal who stared open-mouthed as she leaned forward with a plate of biscuits, a Zangwa management initiative.

Tiny said sharply, ‘You put your eyes back in your head, Rajie.’

Jamal tore his gaze away. He saw Schalk watching him and grinned, then realised he’d caught Colonel Zangwa’s attention and busied himself with his papers.

Max Myerson was next to arrive. Maxie was overweight, shorter than regulation height, with a wide sloppy mouth, blue eyes and an ego as big as America. It was hard to know why he’d become a cop. He came from a prominent Jewish family and must have been the black sheep because you could count the number of Jewish cops on the fingers of one hand. Rumour had it he’d been kicked out of Medicine at UCT. Maxie was head of intel at Cape Town Central. He avoided leaving his desk as far as possible but when you put Maxie and information together you got something wonderful. He fetched coffee and three biscuits, winked at Schalk, hoisted up his jeans and sat down heavily.

Joepie Fortune, sunglasses on his head, was last. As usual, he was dressed way above his pay scale in a white open-collar shirt, leather jacket and black pants. Nobody knew how he did it. He took the chair next to Schalk, spun it round and asked, ‘Well? Did Nkosi bump you?’

Before Schalk could answer, Colonel Zangwa rapped on the table. ‘OK, good morning, team,’ she said. ‘Let’s keep this informal.’ She took up her papers. ‘I want to start with the main items on today’s agenda, the Pieterse investigation and the election.’

Jamal raised his hand like a schoolboy. Zangwa fixed him with a death stare and he retracted it. ‘As I was saying,’ she continued, ‘Petrus Pieterse. I’m sure you all appreciate this is a very public and politically sensitive case. Captain Lourens is in charge, working with Sergeant Mbotho. Captain Lourens, update us.’

Ignoring Joepie’s nudge, Schalk took them through what he already knew. Further down the table, Mbotho made notes in a shorthand notebook. She didn’t look up.

He said, ‘Pieterse’s wife gets back from Namibia tonight. Until we talk to her, our priority is to follow up Trevor Malgas, but I’m not convinced it was a farm murder or even a robbery. It doesn’t make sense. Pieterse wouldn’t clear the decks and turn off the alarms for someone like Malgas. We need to find out what Pieterse’s been up to lately and also if anything in his past’s come back to bite him.’

‘Jesus,’ said Maxie Myerson. ‘That’s a hell of a lot of digging. That dude got up to some serious shit. Black Friday, for example. I bet the families are all over the place now.’

Jamal was still sulking from Zangwa’s put-down. He said, ‘So what’s Black Friday?’

‘Didn’t they teach you anything at school?’ asked Myerson. ‘How can you not know about Black Friday?’

Winnie Mbotho pushed her notebook aside, leaned forward. She stabbed a finger on the table. ‘Black Friday,’ she said, ‘was a terrible atrocity against our people. It should never be forgotten. Have you heard of Kromrivier?

Jamal shrugged, grinning stupidly.

‘What about Vlakplaas?’

More grinning. ‘Kromrivier and Vlakplaas,’ Mbotho said, ‘were farms, places where the security police’s death squad did their dirty work. They killed people there, tortured them. Vlakplaas was in the north, Pretoria. Kromrivier was here in the Cape.

‘And that’s where Piet Pieterse and Brian de Jager, they worked there with askaris, who–’

‘He probably doesn’t know what an askari is,’ said Maxie Myerson, mouth full of biscuit. Jamal shrugged again.

‘An askari is what we call black Struggle fighters who were turned’ – Mbotho put turned into quotation marks – ‘were turned and became spies or soldiers for the apartheid regime. Pieterse and De Jager got their askaris to find eight young guys from the townships. The askaris told these guys they were from the ANC and recruited them to be anti-government activists. This was in the 80s, there were bombs, riots, everything.’

Mbotho’s eyes flashed. ‘They took them to Kromrivier and trained them to blow up a police van. The boys – some of them weren’t 20 yet – when they got to the place, the police and army were waiting. They ambushed them, shot them all dead. Even though they tried to surrender. Then they planted guns on the bodies and said they were MK terrorists.’

‘Why did they do such a thing?’ asked Jamal.

‘To get money,’ answered Colonel Zangwa, ‘and government support to back their cause. Thank you, Sergeant, this isn’t a history lesson. Captain Lourens, continue.’

Mbotho subsided, shaking her head. Schalk kept his face bland but his mind was buzzing. The last thing he needed, a fanatic. Did she have any personal connection to Black Friday? Meanwhile he realised how much that applied to him, too. Did anyone know? It hadn’t come out at the Commission, the photos didn’t show it. He saw Joepie looking at him quizzically, cleared his throat.

Colonel Zangwa broke in. ‘As I said, Captain Lourens will partner with Sergeant Mbotho–’

‘But if necessary, others will be involved.’ Schalk prepared for battle but Zangwa ignored him.

‘Agenda item two,’ she said, ‘the election. In our executive meetings’ – she paused to let the importance sink in – ‘we have been considering how best to make this election safe.’

Myerson snorted. Zangwa lifted her chin. ‘You’ve got something to say?’

‘It’s too late!’ Myerson dunked a biscuit into in his cardboard cup, splashing. ‘Protests have already started. They burned down a fire station somewhere or other last night. It was on TV.’

‘Those protests are at present confined to the North and may not even be connected to the election. Nevertheless, you’re right. The government is aware of the mounting threat and so today the Minister will announce a joint task force, the Election Response Task Force–’

‘The errrtttff,’ whispered Joepie Fortune to Myerson, whose eyes lit up as he whispered back, ‘should be FART. For A Responsible Turnout.’ Joepie smothered a chuckle.

Colonel Zangwa cleared her throat. No chit-chat at her meetings and they both shut up at once. She continued, ‘The task force, the E.R.T.F,’ she emphasised in Myerson’s direction, ‘will be responsible for ensuring a trouble-free election process. Like all other units, we’re on standby to respond to election problems. Any questions?’

‘Who’s in charge of the task force?’ asked Joepie.

‘General Nkosi,’ said Zangwa, ‘is ERTF commander. He will handle liaison between the police service and the government. I will take personal charge of election co-ordination and response for my team. Captain Fortune, you will work with me in this initiative.’

Joepie sounded pained. ‘Any extra money or people?’

Zangwa didn’t bother to respond. She said, ‘I urge those of you who aren’t up to date about election issues to do some homework. The ERTF will erect posters of election candidates so you can get to know the people you’re protecting. Which brings me to agenda item three.’

Agenda item three was home invasions. They were spreading across the city, the latest in the city bowl, in the Vredehoek-Oranjezicht area. Two men in balaclavas, which pointed to a level of professionalism. These were robberies rather than hate-crimes – no gratuitous trashing, no shit smeared on walls – but they were violent. Homeowners were tied up and beaten, forced to give combinations of home safes, to hand over credit cards. Getting worse, and because these suburbs meant money, pressure was mounting. ‘Sergeant Mbotho, Sergeant Jamal,’ said Zangwa, ‘this docket has been passed to Serious Crime. You’ll assist.’

Jamal grimaced. Mbotho wrote steadily.

‘As a matter of interest,’ Maxie Myerson again, ‘how come Serious Crime isn’t handling the Pieterse case? It’s a hell of a lot bigger than the home invasions.’

Zangwa took this in her stride. ‘Orders. Moving on now, agenda item four.’

In turn, each of them summarised their current cases, the endless grind of murder and robbery and rape and other things people did to each other. Schalk had at least 60 dockets on his desk. Nothing he could do about it, they would have to shuffle down the queue.

Colonel Zangwa consulted her watch. ‘There being no further business,’ she said. ‘I declare this meeting closed. Captain Lourens and I are due at a press conference.’

Joepie and Myerson followed her out and Jamal scuttled after them. Schalk was left with Mbotho. He was damned if he was going to apologise for what she’d overheard.

She took a deep breath. ‘Captain…’ she began.

He held up his hand in a stop sign. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘later. Meanwhile I need background on Trevor Malgas. Captain Fortune will give you details.’ And he headed after Colonel Zangwa.

They met Nkosi on his way to the conference room. His limp was more pronounced than the night before and again Schalk wondered how he got it. Struggle legacy? Not everything’s about the past, he told himself.

Nkosi and Sisi Zangwa nodded at each other. No handshake, no smiles. Lots of space. Schalk’s unease increased. History there, he was sure of it.

Pieterse’s murder was headline news and the conference room, crammed with people, buzzed. Schalk, Nkosi and Sisi Zangwa filed into a blaze of TV lights and seated themselves at the top of the large oval table. Captain Ezra Isaaks, responsible for PR and communications at Cape Town Central, adjusted his mike to start proceedings. Nkosi put a hand on his shoulder, gently pushed him back. ‘I’ll handle this,’ he said.

Nkosi rose, expansive. ‘I see there are more of us than usual today,’ he said, ‘and obviously the murder of Mr Petrus Pieterse is what brings us together. So let’s begin. I have with me the officers in charge of this case, Lieutenant-Colonel Zangwa on my left and on my right Captain Lourens. Captain Lourens, as the investigating officer, will you bring us up to date?’

Schalk had long ago learned that with the media, less was more. He cleared his throat. ‘Early yesterday morning the body of Mr Piet Pieterse was found at his farm in Franschhoek. There are no immediate suspects, however –’

‘Captain?’ a woman who’d secured a seat nearby had her hand up, interrupting. Indian, young, sharp. Schalk hadn’t seen her before.

‘Good morning. Ava Arno, Cape Times. Is it true Pieterse was necklaced?’ The room was electrified. People turned to each other, cameramen crouched. Nobody else had this information. Ava Arno paused for dramatic effect, then pressed her advantage. ‘Do you think this is apartheid payback, for things like the Black Friday massacre?’

Fuck! thought Schalk, how the hell did this get out so quickly?

Ezra Isaaks leaned forward, offering PR rescue with his eyes. Schalk gave a little headshake. ‘There are a number of possibilities and we want to take them all into account. Obviously Mr Pieterse’s involvement in… apartheid activities is of interest to us but there are other lines of enquiry–’

‘You mean the burglary?’ Ava Arno had the drop on everyone and was revelling in it. ‘We hear there are things missing?’

‘We can’t be sure if anything’s missing yet,’ Schalk replied.

‘But he was necklaced?’ Reggie Hawkins was in his 60s, very tall, a veteran. Jailed twice during apartheid. The second time for not revealing sources. The first time after Black Friday, for his front-page story asserting guns had been planted on the corpses. ‘Any comment on the necklace, Captain? And why you’re keeping it secret?’

‘There is no secret. Yes, he was necklaced. Obviously it raises the possibility of political payback, but we aren’t sure and we don’t want to sensationalise this already high-profile case. The last thing we need is copycat crimes.’

Hawkins stared straight at Schalk. ‘You worked with Pieterse. Any ideas?’

Schalk’s mouth was dry. What did Hawkins know? ‘Ideas about what? He was a captain here when I was a constable –’

‘As I recall he demoted you.’

Schalk relaxed. He said, ‘Suspended. That makes no difference now. That’s past and gone. Now we must do our best to bring his murderer to justice.’

The Guardian correspondent butted in. ‘This isn’t the first time that someone granted amnesty by the TRC has been assassinated, so with hindsight would you say the Commission was a failure?’

Nkosi, on safer ground, fielded. ‘The TRC was over 20 years ago. It dealt with hundreds of injustices. This murder is only one of them and it happened last night so it’s too soon to say if it is even connected to Mr Pieterse’s past. It could be something quite different, like a farm murder. It is not useful to blame everything on the past. That’s all we have for the moment. We’ll let you know any developments. Meanwhile…’

He shut off further questions, to a general dissatisfied murmuring. Then a freelancer spoke up. ‘On another matter, General, what plans do the police have for ensuring the coming election is violence-free?’

On cue. He must have been primed. Nkosi beamed. ‘The government is aware of unrest spreading in the north and have set in train preparations to support a peaceful democratic process. Later today the Minister will announce an exciting initiative to ensure all candidates are supported, electioneering and voting goes smoothly, and disruptions are prevented or dealt with very quickly.’

‘Even for Hans Toebroek?’ Afronews couldn’t resist. The Reverend Toebroek was notorious. His party, the Volkskrag or People’s Power Party, was a magnet for every white-rights nutcase in the country.

‘Yes, certainly,’ said Nkosi. ‘We aren’t the rainbow nation for nothing. We’re all about equality. Reverend Toebroek will get the same loving care as every other candidate, you may be sure of that, sir.’ Nkosi joined in the laughter. Even Colonel Zangwa’s face lightened.

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Nkosi. ‘That’s all for now.’

Schalk’s office was a compromise. He’d fallen for this third-floor shoebox the moment he saw it and claimed it the instant he made Captain. Various station chiefs had tried to move him or at least get him to tidy it up but he’d outlived them all.

He liked the light. He liked the beautiful old windows overlooking Buitenkant Street. Things could get hot in the afternoon but he solved that by bringing a fraying piece of floral sheet from home and tacking it to the wooden frame. And he liked the wide windowsill where he kept his ashtray and his ancient ghetto blaster. Over the years he’d salvaged bits and pieces of furniture, and his desk, when you could see it under the dockets, was the multi-level result.

He stuck papers to his walls with sticky tape. Eventually they fell down, leaving tape-ends flapping in the blast from his portable fan. The only constant was a huge plastic sign behind his head, announcing YOU MAY SMOKE HERE. It didn’t go down well with the occupational health and safety people but Schalk stood his ground.

The floorboards were worn, the cabling was suspect, the roof leaked. But it was his office. The compromise was that, when visitors were shown round the station, the door stayed shut.

It was shut now. Someone knocked, Schalk called ‘In!’ and Mbotho appeared, notebook in hand. Schalk picked up a pen and pulled a random piece of paper towards him. When he looked up again there she was, looming over his desk.

‘Well?’

‘What you think of me,’ she asked, ‘is it because I’m black or because I’m a woman?’

Schalk sighed, audibly. He’d spent the last 20 years defending himself against this sort of kak, some of it true. ‘If you heard me,’ he said, ‘then you heard me say you’re inexperienced. Nothing else. I haven’t got time for anything else. And we should be past that sort of stuff by now. You don’t like it, go file a complaint or something.’ He dismissed her, returned to his piece of paper.

‘Maybe I will.’ Mbotho’s lips were compressed, hands clenched round her notebook. She tried to contain herself, came out with ‘What I can’t understand–’

Schalk raised his head. ‘What? What are you still doing here?’

Mbotho lost it. ‘Not me,’ she spat, ‘you! What are you still doing here? Why aren’t you on a stoep in Swellendam, drinking beer? Or in America? Australia? This place isn’t for you anymore.’

Schalk shot up fast enough to send his chair smacking against the wall. His blood was surging. ‘You’re out of line, Sergeant!’ He stabbed the desk with his finger. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m doing here,’ he said. ‘I’m doing my job. Enforcing the law. Being a policeman. Which gets harder every day because of the total cock-up you lot are making. I’m here because without my experience the whole country falls in the sea.’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ she threw back. ‘Your experience. The only experience you have is oppressing people like me. Perhaps we make mistakes but they’re our mistakes. You’re wrong if you think we need you. In case you haven’t noticed, your time’s past. Nobody wants you here anymore.’

She added, in a rush, ‘And if you don’t like what I’m saying then go ahead and report me or sack me or something!’

There was a moment’s stand-off. Mbotho realised what she was saying and who she was talking to and, looking horrified, stood to attention.

Schalk got ready to pull rank. His mind was racing. How to handle this? Formal discipline? Informal, by sidelining her? Then he thought of her accusation, the certainty of her winning any appeal, the paperwork, the hassle. He swore at himself for losing his cool.

They were saved by Joepie, signalling wildly at Schalk from behind Mbotho’s back. Schalk couldn’t work out what he was trying to say. Mbotho turned and Joepie let his hands drop, too late. ‘Howzit? I came to see if you got anything on Trevor Malgas.’

‘Oh. Yes,’ said Mbotho, grabbing her notebook like a lifebelt and leafing through pages. Her voice was unsteady. ‘I looked him up. He’s got a record. Stealing, drugs, that sort of thing. No evidence of gangs.’

‘Photo?’ Schalk held out his hand.

Mbotho passed over a photocopy. Full on and profile, thin face, eyes half-closed. Zigzag shapes shaved into the side of his head.

Schalk said, ‘Good.’ He saw Mbotho’s shoulders soften slightly. ‘Know where to find him?’

‘Not yet,’ Mbotho said. ‘No fixed address.’

Schalk considered, clicking his pen on and off, trying to reach some sort of balance. ‘OK. We’ve got to think more broadly. Pieterse was waiting for someone and it wasn’t Malgas.’

He tried to sound dispassionate as he added, ‘Pieterse was necklaced. That points to apartheid, so let’s start with the obvious – Black Friday. Where are those families now? What about the agents, the askaris who worked with Pieterse? The ones who recruited those…’ he drew air-quotes, ‘terrorists.’

Mbotho gathered herself. She seemed about to say something, decided against, executed a formal and elaborate salute, left.

Joepie flopped into the visitor’s chair. ‘What was the shouting about? They could hear you in Paarl.’

Schalk told him, and about Mbotho overhearing him and Sisi Zangwa. ‘She’s Zangwa’s spy.’

Joepie swatted it away. ‘Nay. Maybe there’s a connection between Mbotho and Zangwa, it’s not for certain. Zangwa picked her specially but it was because Mbotho did so well at Muizenberg – she was part of that drugs clean-up team. Davids was running the show and you know what he’s like. He’s a hardegat bastard. In any case, they say she’s not a smooth talker. They say she’s a handful but her work’s good. And she’s keen, which is a lot more than most of the new ones these days.’

‘How the hell do you know all this?’

Joepie shrugged modestly. His network was peerless.

Schalk spent an hour or so writing up the case. Pieterse taught him that as well, how important that first impression was, you needed to get it down before you lost it. He’d nearly finished when Mbotho reappeared. He decided it was now or never, they had to have it out. But she got in first.

‘I wish to apologise,’ she said, fixing her eyes on the wall behind Schalk’s head, ‘I should not have spoken as I did.’

‘No, you shouldn’t.’

He could see Mbotho getting fired up all over again. She controlled it, asked, ‘Are you going to take action against me?’

The station’s equal opportunity process flashed through Schalk’s brain. ‘I’m thinking about it,’ he said. ‘What have you got for me?’

‘I found out about the Black Friday families. And the askaris.’

‘That was quick.’

‘I got it from the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. It’s all on the web.’

‘Start with the askaris.’

Mbotho stayed standing, consulted her notebook. ‘There were three askaris, the ones,’ she added bitterly, ‘who betrayed our people by becoming secret agents for the regime. One of them committed suicide even before the TRC. The other two got amnesty. One of those two died in a car crash last year. It was in the news. The last one, he’s still alive, lives in Khayelitsha. Vusi Modise.’

The name gave Schalk a small jolt. He remembered Modise, the cloth cap, the attitude. Not so cocky at the Commission. Modise gave his testimony softly, in monosyllables, keeping his head down.

Schalk said, ‘Phone?’

Mbotho shook her head. ‘Just an address.’

‘What about the families?’

Mbotho flipped pages. What she had was light on detail. Eight dead boys, eight families. Too much to ask for them to be in the same place 30 years later.

Raj Jamal came bustling up, important. ‘There’s been another home invasion,’ he said to Mbotho. ‘I can see you’re busy. I’ll handle the locals alone.’

Schalk’s cell rang. He held up a finger while he answered. Sergeant Bheki, an address, a pawnshop in Durban Road, Bellville.

‘Go with Jamal,’ he told Mbotho, ‘and keep looking for those families.’

The Durban Road of Schalk’s childhood was changed beyond recognition. They’d lived there, he and his mother, in a flat above the paint shop. The sleepy commercial strip was gone. Now Durban Road heaved and shimmered in the heat, people cramming the pavement in front of table-loads of clothes, cheap appliances, cooking pots, stock spilling onto the street. Signs seemed brighter against a blue sky, Smart Fashion Wholesale/Retailer, Zam Zam Restaurant, Used Camping. The furniture store had become a mosque, the muti shop at the station, where they once played mbaqanga music, had grown into a full-blown market. You could be anywhere in Africa.

Bheki met Schalk outside the pawnshop. ‘How did you know where to go?’ Schalk asked.

‘This place,’ said Bheki. ‘Lots of stuff goes through here, drugs, car parts, other things.’

‘Never heard of it. You let it carry on?’

‘If we shut it down it would just move somewhere else. And the guy owes me. He says he’s got cameras.’

The shop was tiny. Chicken-wire covered the windows, bars covered the wire. Schalk remembered it from before, when it was Goldberg’s Tailoring and Alteration. They buzzed for entry. Inside, the original fittings were intact, oak counter and shelves designed to hold bolts of fabric. Now floor-to-ceiling steel bars split the shop in two, and glass – bulletproof probably – made a hutch at the counter. There was a small hole, big enough for one hand only.

The owner came to greet them. He was short and skinny, hair gelled to a crest at the top of his skull. He was too old for it. In his tight jeans and long pointy shoes he looked like a gnome in a leather jacket. But familiar.

‘Schalk!’ he said, ‘my man! Howzit? I heard you were a cop.’ He came into focus. Evan Goldberg, nickname Porky. Fat boy. Former fat boy. Porky had been in Schalk’s class in high school. Prick then, prick now.

‘Ja, well,’ Schalk replied. ‘I hear maybe you’ve got some stuff for us?’

Porky unlocked a gate in the bars and ushered them through, locked it behind them and took them into the back office where a screen monitored the entrance and the street outside. He saw them looking. ‘Man,’ he said, ‘I been robbed so many times, man, finally put in proper security. Alarms, CCTV too. Country’s going to hell, man, every day something else.’

‘Have you got footage of this guy?’ Schalk asked.

‘Sure.’ Porky took two cameras from a shelf. ‘This is what he brought in.’

‘Who?’

‘Malgas.’

‘You know him?’

Porky looked shifty. ‘No, man, of course not. I had to take his name down. Like I told your friend here…’ Goldberg gestured to Bheki, ‘he said his name was Malgas, he had these cameras. And of course I wouldn’t want to receive stolen goods. But I didn’t know they were stolen.’

Total bullshit, of course. The shop wasn’t made into Fort Knox for the belongings of the desperate poor.

‘How much did you give him?’

‘A thousand rand.’ The buzzer went and all three of them looked at the screen. Standing outside was a thin young man with a small, wheeled case behind him. It was Malgas, even to the lightning-bolt hairstyle.

‘That’s him!’ said Porky. ‘What must I do now? What if he knows it was me who tipped you off ?’

‘How can he know?’ said Bheki. ‘Look at the bag. You can see he’s got things to sell.’ But Porky was hopping from leg to leg. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be right behind you.’

Schalk considered. No cover in the shop. He said, ‘What do you usually do? Let them in with their stuff, to the back?’

‘No, never. They show me what they’ve got. If I need to handle it, I send them outside first. Then I bring it in and then they can come back. You can’t trust these coons.’

Next to Schalk, Bheki shifted, Porky oblivious.

‘Okay,’ said Schalk. ‘We’ll wait in the office. This time you bring him through behind the counter. We’ll come out and take over. Understand?’ Porky hesitated, nodded.

The buzzer went again. Schalk gestured to Porky, who pressed a button. The front door clicked open and the young man pulled the case through. Porky went out.

Malgas said, ‘Morning, boss.’

‘What you got there?’

The camera didn’t cover the shop and Schalk and Bheki couldn’t see what was happening. They heard Malgas zip open the case, say, ‘Look!’

‘What? I can’t see anything.’ Porky’s voice was squeaky. ‘I’m going to let you in. You can show me in the office.’ They heard the bars being unlocked, swung open. Sounds of movement.

Then Malgas said, ‘What’s that? Oh Jesus God in heaven! Don’t shoot me!’

Schalk and Bheki looked at each other and burst out of the office to see Porky at the counter waving a gun, Malgas still in the outer half of the shop with his hands up. He saw them and gaped.

Porky was blocking their path. ‘Get out of the fucking way!’ yelled Schalk. Porky didn’t move. Schalk put his hand on Porky’s shoulder. Porky jerked in surprise and the gun went off, the recoil sending him spinning back into Schalk and Bheki. Malgas clicked open the latch and ran.

By the time they reached the street there was no sign of Malgas. They didn’t bother to go after him. There was no point. Trevor Malgas would vanish in an instant into the teeming mass at the station market, be on a bus or train before they reached the end of the street.

Porky joined them. ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing?’ demanded Schalk.

‘Protecting myself,’ said Porky, pouting, ‘just in case. You should know…’

Schalk wanted very much to punch Porky in the face, needed willpower to avoid it.

Bheki went back to the shop. ‘Have a look,’ he said. Schalk, still fuming, pushed past Porky and went in.

Bheki laid out the contents of the suitcase. One Apple MacBook, one iPad, two iPhones and a TomTom, all wrapped in a soft blue woman’s coat. A woman’s handbag, empty except for a couple of tissues. A leather wallet, empty. Two passports, June Fanmeier, 51, and Michael Fanmeier, 56, same address, Toronto, Canada.

‘Hotel,’ said Bheki, ‘probably while they were sleeping. Maybe next time they’ll use the safe.’

Schalk took the passports. Then he turned and, using his big body, forced Porky backwards till he had nowhere else to go; pushed him hard against the shop counter. Brought his face down till it was right up against Porky’s, hissed. ‘I’ll have your balls for this.’

‘What? I didn’t have anything to do with that!’ Porky tried to wriggle out from under. ‘I wouldn’t accept shit like that! Typical police incompetence, blaming innocent people for the hopeless way they do their job. I want my lawyer. Now!’

Bheki touched Schalk’s arm, shook his head almost imperceptibly. Schalk felt very tired.

Bheki said, ‘Mr Goldberg. I don’t think Malgas will return, but just in case, we’re going to watch the shop.’ He stared at Porky, who opened his mouth and thought better of it.

‘These Canadians are going to think South African cops are just wonderful,’ Bheki continued, zipping up the bag. ‘I’ll find out where they’re staying.’

Schalk said, ‘Give me the cameras. You sure that’s all Malgas brought you?’

Porky was still blustering. ‘Yes! What–’

‘This is a murder case, Porky. You an accessory?’ Schalk edged forward again.

‘No, no…’ Porky put the counter between them, piled the cameras on it. Neither Schalk nor Bheki moved. Slowly, Porky extracted a laptop from a drawer, added it to the heap. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I swear.’ He didn’t meet their eyes.

‘Where’s the gun?’ asked Schalk.

‘No gun. There was no gun,’ said Porky. ‘You got to believe me, there wasn’t any gun.’

Outside, Schalk asked Bheki, ‘What was going on there? You and Goldberg in the passport business together?’ Bheki didn’t take offence. He smiled. ‘You really want to know, Captain?’

‘No, probably not,’ replied Schalk.

Strictly speaking, Schalk should have handed the laptop over to the IT guys. But they were new and so far he wasn’t impressed. And he didn’t have the weeks it would take for them to get things done. On the other hand, Maxie Myerson. He could have got a job at NASA so Schalk asked him to take a look. Maxie cradled the laptop like a baby.

Schalk collected his messages from Tiny Qoma; one to call a Sylvia Natinsky. He recognised the name. Sylvia was CEO and founder of SN Security, a big national security firm offering everything from surveillance to bodyguards and much more besides, no questions asked.

He dialed the number and was put through straight away. Sylvia’s voice was pure South African princess, a drawling screech, the sound of fingernails on blackboard. ‘Hiiiii! Thanks for calling baaacck! So I’m talking to the famous Captain Lourens, hey?’

‘What can I do for you, Ms Natinsky?’

‘Sylvia, please. It’s rather what I can do for you. I’ll get straight to the point. I saw you on the news just now, about that farm murder, and it gave me an idea. How would you like to double, triple your salary?’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ So she was recruiting. The last thing he needed was to be a bodyguard. ‘Ms Natinsky, thanks for thinking of me–’

‘You haven’t heard what the job is, yet.’ Sylvia was amused. ‘I’m considering you for a national, senior post with SN Security. You won’t be some low-level guarding rich people’s luggage. If you’re interested, come and see me and I’ll tell you more.’

Wouldn’t hurt to listen. ‘Right. As you can imagine, things are hectic right now. I’ll ring you in a couple of days, say the end of the week?’

‘Sure.’ Don’t leave it too long. Call me! Byeeee.’

He switched off his cell. It wasn’t the first time he’d been approached but perhaps he should take this one seriously. It would give him more time with Elsa, for a start. That what you want? More time with Elsa? Really? He swatted the thought away.

He spent what was left of the day shuffling dockets, Pieterse’s murder front of mind. Nothing new, nothing he could do right now. He was fiddling, avoiding going home. So much for spending time with Elsa. As he started to pack up, Colonel Zangwa rang, talking and clinking of glasses behind her. ‘You still at work? I need someone at an election rally, St George’s Cathedral.’

‘Aren’t there cops down there already? Isn’t Fortune looking after that?’

‘Yes, but it’s our patch. I want someone from our unit. We need to show we’re on top of this so take Sergeant Mbotho with you. Captain Fortune can’t come, he’s with me, at drinks for the ERTF. That’s how I heard about the rally.’

‘The task force? The one supposed to support the election? Wouldn’t it be better if they looked after this…’ Schalk stopped. He was telling Zangwa something she already knew.

On the stairs he ran into Mbotho and Jamal, back from the home invasion. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘with me.’ He’d be able to see her in action and at least he wouldn’t suffer alone.

It was quicker to walk, so they set off down Roeland Street. Schalk told Mbotho to go on ahead. He stopped, turned away to phone Elsa, made the usual apologies, kept it short. He didn’t want Mbotho knowing his personal affairs.

He clicked off his phone and caught up. ‘What’s the story with the home invasions?’

‘Bad,’ said Mbotho, slowing down. ‘Husband and wife. He put up a fight. He didn’t want to hand over the credit cards and now he’s in intensive care. She got knocked around but not so much. No rape. It’s the same pattern – two men, faces covered, not the usual gang stuff. They know what they’re doing. They’re there to clean the place out. And later, when they use the credit cards,’ she added, ‘they hide their faces from the cameras.’

‘How do they get in? What about alarms, security?’

‘That’s the thing. We don’t know how they’re getting in or what cars they use to get away. The community watch people are sending hundreds of photos of anything they think might help. We haven’t even started going through them yet.’

‘Ja.’ In the end, security means nothing, thought Schalk. People had to come and go, and at some point they had to turn off alarms, open doors and gates. He pocketed the phone.

‘Christ!’ he said.

He was commenting on the size of the throng in the Company’s Garden. Government Avenue was full of people all going the same way, talking and strolling in the balmy evening air. Schalk and Mbotho joined them. Before they got there, they could hear noise coming from the top of Adderley Street. They shoved through to the front and saw two groups, a larger group in the street facing a smaller one on the steps of St George’s Cathedral.

The smaller group lined up in ranks like a school photo. About 50 of them, all white, all ages. Their theme was vaguely military, a few older men in safari suits and the rest, including the women, in a uniform of pants, khaki shirts and army-style khaki baseball caps. Some of the group carried placards with big Afrikaans headlines proclaiming Volkskrag! South Africa for South Africans! Reclaim our Country! Stop the Genocide! Above the slogans sat a photo of the Reverend Hans Toebroek, three-quarter profile, responsible, wise. On the top step stood the real thing, Toebroek himself, a reduced version with hair slicked back and ears at right angles to a battered face.

Facing Toebroek was the full Cape Town contingent, a crowd of black, white, Malay, Indian, tourists, locals. Young and old, they sported everything from T-shirts to turbans, including here and there the distinctive red berets, tops and overalls of the Economic Freedom Fighters. Placards and flags covered a range of issues, from union power to anti-rape, but most focused on corruption.

Aparthate Stole Our Past, Corruption Steals Our Future! they read, and Corrupt Government Must Go!

Near the front, a squad in ANC yellow, black and green carried versions of the poster Schalk had seen on the truck, their candidate Gideon Radebe gazing benevolently out, urging people to Vote Gideon Radebe, ANC, The People’s Choice!

The crowd surged and bubbled, some toyi-toying, some singing, a rock-concert sea of phones in the air. The mood was charged. It felt like a party but people were arriving by the minute and Schalk knew how quickly crowds could turn and things get ugly. He stretched his neck to see where the police were. Three Metro cops leaned against the Crypt wall, each hunched over a cellphone. So much for police presence. He plucked at Mbotho’s sleeve. ‘Call for backup. Not the riot squad, we don’t want to start a war. And make those guys get their fingers out. Now.’ She dived off into the mob.

There was movement on the steps. Behind a standing mike the Reverend Toebroek raised a hand, bellowed. ‘Vriende! Friends! I come here to talk to you about the way forward for our beloved Suid-Afrika, the way out of this terrible hell we are in.’ He clasped his hands under his chin. ‘O liewe here – O lord,’ he switched from Afrikaans to English as he went, accenting words in a sing-song rhythm, ‘bless with your presence all the people here tonight, all the lost souls of our homeland. Let them see the way, the true path, the path our fathers and forefathers took when they trekked into the dark heartland of this country, when we made it our own.’

The other group didn’t like this. They muttered and shoved, here and there a shout. The Boers had indeed won the country, over the many bodies of people who got in their way. Toebroek didn’t notice or didn’t care. He stretched his arms upward. ‘Now, my brethren,’ he cried, ‘come sing our lied, our anthem, together with me.’

His followers broke into the old national anthem.

Uit die blou van onse Hemel

Uit die diepte van ons see…

From the facing crowd, more foot-stamping, more yelling, all languages. People at the back surged forward, forcing those in front right up against the Cathedral steps. The shouting – some singing as well – grew louder, angrier. One by one, the singers on the steps realised they were in trouble. The song petered out. Only Toebroek and a lone soprano kept going until the end, ‘Ons vir jou, Suid Afrikaaaa!’

Pressed from behind, a couple of people stumbled forward into Toebroek followers, who pushed back with their placards. Shoving started, to and fro. What Schalk feared was starting to happen. He looked for Mbotho but the crowd blocked his view. Then he spotted her, phone to her ear, too far away.

Meanwhile, in the front row, two opposing supporters engaged. Punches were thrown, clothes torn. More people joined the battle. Things were seconds away from disaster and Schalk had to do something.

‘Come on!’ he bellowed, at the top of his voice. ‘Police! Stop now!’

No effect whatsoever. So he plunged in, thinking at the same time how stupid he was being. Two of the Metro cops materialised, guns drawn. Shit! That could only mean disaster.

Schalk saw a Toebroek follower step forward. A kid, a teenager, reddish hair. He was shouldering a rifle, looking down a barrel aimed into the general mass. Schalk couldn’t get to him. His hands were full trying to pull a big EFF man away from a Volkskrag supporter, at the same time fending off blows from people who saw a white man attacking one of their own. He was thrown to the ground, kicked hard. Around him was chaos, feet and bodies and noise and he could see himself being trampled to death.

A voice came booming from the distance, a caramel voice amplified like the word of God. ‘Comrades,’ it said. ‘Stop. We are better than this. Are we so small we cannot hear another point of view? Are we turning into our enemies?’

The voice fixed everyone in place. The crowd opened to let through a man in slacks and a Mandela shirt. He was holding a megaphone.

Schalk, on his knees, recognised the face from the ANC poster. Gideon Radebe. He was as tall as Schalk but built like a barrel. Not young. Calm, in charge.

Radebe cut through the action like Moses parting the Red Sea. For an instant his eyes met Schalk’s. He stopped directly in front of the boy with the rifle, waited. The boy looked to Reverend Toebroek for guidance but the Reverend, hands frozen in benediction, stared down at Radebe. The boy turned back to Radebe who kept waiting. The boy lowered his rifle, broke it.

There was a space around Radebe now, enough for Schalk to get up. His shirt was torn and his elbow grazed. Near him, Mbotho had somehow returned and was making a Metro cop holster his gun. Good move.

Radebe climbed to the top of the steps. He turned to face his people, voice reverberating through the megaphone. ‘Friends,’ he boomed, ‘I understand your anger and your frustration, but Reverend Toebroek has every right to be here. He is standing for election just as I am. So you should listen to him very carefully. We are a democracy, after all. Who knows, perhaps he will convert some of us to his cause?

Here and there people laughed, a mixture of relief and admiration. Then a shout from the crowd, a woman, ‘Ja, what, you and him, you’re all the same, just out for yourselves. We’re sick of being run by criminals and crooks, white, black, all of you, you’re the ones who pulled the whole country right into the dirt.’

Growls of support. Radebe held up his hand. ‘I understand your outrage. And I want to say one word to you.’ He lowered his mike.

The crowd grew still, on a knife-edge. Schalk and Mbotho were part of it now, shoulder to shoulder, expectant.

Radebe nodded slowly, twice. He returned the mike to his mouth, took his time. ‘That word,’ he said, ‘that word is sorry. Sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry we let you down for so long, we who had in our trust the responsibility of building a country of hope, a country where people help everyone, not just themselves. I am sorry we broke faith with you. Most of all, I am sorry we betrayed ourselves and what we stand for. Because the ANC stands for you, all of you. We stand together with you. We were, and we are your voice, and we lost our way. Now we want to get back to the right path and I ask you to give us a chance to redeem ourselves.

‘If I am elected, the time of corruption is over. Over. Corruption is dead and gone. Not just small corruption, the corruption of petty bureaucrats, but corruption at all levels, in government and in business also. I will not promise miracles – change takes time – but I will promise recovery. I will promise infrastructure, services, a narrowing of the gap between rich and poor. My government will be held to account. We will be transparent. We will hold public meetings, we will make our financial records available to all. We will protect you, your money, your land, your spirit. We will heal your – our – wounds. That is my promise. That is what I will give you, with my words and my deeds.’

He was either the best actor in the world or he meant business, and Schalk inclined to the latter. So did the crowd, all of them with Radebe now, even EFF supporters nodding in agreement.

Radebe held up his mike again. ‘However,’ he said, ‘I remind you I am not here to speak tonight. This is not my platform. That would be most unfair. We have come not to listen to me, but to hear from Reverend Toebroek.’

Radebe bowed slightly. ‘Reverend, we await your message. Please, continue.’ He walked slowly down the steps and turned back to face Toebroek, a general with his army at his back.

Schalk thought he detected a note of amusement. Radebe’d just given a convincing election speech. Handing over to Toebroek was a risk but if it worked Radebe would come away the winner.

The Reverend Toebroek moved forward but at that moment the crowd swiveled towards the sound of vans careening down Wale Street, sirens screaming, lights flashing. The backup summoned by Mbotho had arrived and out of their vans charged the cream of Cape Town SAPS, ready to save the day. When they saw there was nothing to save they joined the throng, turning their faces towards Toebroek.

Toebroek was thrown. He stumbled over an opening sentence. He gathered momentum but there was no electricity. He rambled, about whites being the only ones able to run the country, about corrupt black governments, blacks in general. About how whites were being systematically ostracised, killed even, their murderers allowed to walk free.

‘The conspiracy stretches through the length and breadth of this our country. Even yesterday, just yesterday, one of ours was murdered in his own home, necklaced, just like they do to each other, they can’t control themselves…’

Radebe motioned to a man next to him, perhaps a bodyguard, and left. That was the end of it. People were drawn along in his wake and drifted off in twos and threes to enjoy the late-summer night. The boy with the rifle reappeared and Schalk considered whether to haul him in. It wasn’t worth the pain. He walked through the thinning crowd to where Winnie Mbotho, rolling a cigarette, leaned against the plinth of the Smuts statue.

She didn’t see him until he was close. She glanced at her cigarette, put it in a pocket, smartened up. He grimaced. ‘They kill you, those things. Time to go, sergeant.’ They started the walk back up Roeland Street. Neither commented on the rally.

Gradually the crowd around them thinned. Mbotho was quiet for a while, then turned to Schalk and said, ‘Nothing I can do about it, you know.’

‘About what?’

‘Being black and being a woman.’

Not that shit again. ‘Seems to me,’ he said, ‘being black and being a woman puts you in the front seat these days.’

‘That’s what you think. I just want to let you know I’m not going to make a complaint.’

Schalk walked on, head down. Next to him, Mbotho kept pace, leaned in, held up a forefinger. ‘I’m good’, she said. ‘Very good. I was part of the drug clean-up in Muizenberg.’

They’d reached the corner of Buitenkant Street. Outside the bookshop they came to a natural stop. ‘Listen, Sergeant,’ said Schalk. ‘Nothing against you personally. But I’m in charge of this case, and that means managing a team. You’re part of that team. Not my choice, but there you are. And a team is only as strong as its weakest link. I don’t know you. I don’t know how strong or weak you are. I’m waiting to see.’

Mbotho threw her hands up. ‘With all due respect, Captain,’ she said, ‘with all due respect, my impression is you’re not giving me a chance. You’re writing me off before I can show you what I can do. You’re making me beg for what is my right. And I conclude that is because of my colour or my sex.’

Christ, she was irritating. ‘Did all your senior officers put up with this cheek? Did you talk to all of them like this?’

Mbotho realised she’d gone too far, tilted her head away. ‘No. Only – yes. Sometimes. I just get so, so frustrated.’

‘Not as much as me,’ he muttered. ‘Now come on, Sergeant.’ They walked in silence the rest of the way.

Before he left the car park, Schalk made a call. Nkosi answered immediately. Schalk told him about Trevor Malgas. Nkosi said, ‘Concentrate on Malgas. Keep in touch,’ and hung up.

Elsa was in the front room, watching Australian Masterchef. She didn’t greet him. She was used to his being late, it couldn’t be that.

He put some Dettol on his arm, cracked open a Castle while his food was heating. Then he took the tray in. The program had finished and something else was starting, something with doctors. ‘Switch it off,’ he said, ‘tell me what’s the matter.’

‘Ag, Schalk, I’m just moeg. Tired. Sometimes I think, what’s it for, why am I even here, what good am I to anyone?’

Schalk put his tray down. He’d heard her talk like this before and his heart sank. He hoped she wasn’t starting the slide into what he thought of as her black hole. In his mind he saw an actual hole, a narrow shaft descending into the heart of the earth, Elsa already inside, hanging on the edge by her fingertips, looking up at him for rescue.

Every couple of years Elsa went into a deep and hopeless depression. Twice she tried suicide, twice they brought her back to life. Medication kept her balanced but lethargic, couch-bound, nothing left of the bright, smart woman Schalk had fallen for.

It was Elsa’s black hole that changed Schalk’s life, stopped his life, if he was being honest, dissolved his marriage and took away his friendships, the braais with the rest of the guys, the Klippies and coke after work, the general naughtiness to let off steam. Not that he’d ever been at the forefront of what homicide detectives got up to, but he used to be one of the gang. Used to be, not anymore. Nobody said anything. They must know and pity him, and he hated the thought of that.

Now he concentrated on finding out how far gone she was. ‘Tired? From what? Are you sick?’

‘No – I’m just – I just feel so low and so sort of…empty, all the time.’

‘Are you taking your pills? You want to go to the doctor?’

‘No, he’ll just tell me I’m too fat.’ Her voice got teary. ‘Ag, it’s nothing, really. Just the same old thing.’

It sounded like she was coming out of it. Schalk gave her a sideways hug, kept his arm round her, squeezed, partly out of relief. ‘If you like,’ he said, ‘we could go on holiday. Why don’t we think of somewhere nice to visit?’

Elsa put her head on his shoulder. ‘You always say that. Then you have to work.’ Then, ‘I’m sorry, Schalk. I try, really. But sometimes things just get me down, you know?’

‘Ja, I know.’ They sat quietly. Schalk’s thoughts went to Trevor Malgas. Where would he be likely to go? Would he take a chance, creep back to the farm?

‘It would be nice to go to Durban,’ said Elsa. ‘I haven’t seen my sister for a year. Over a year. Connie’s got a grandchild on the way.’

‘We could take a trip overseas. Why not London, or even New York?’

They both knew it wouldn’t happen. It was hard enough to get Elsa to leave the house, much less the country. But this was the way the discussion always went and neither of them was willing to upset the fiction.

They stayed there a few minutes longer. Elsa’s mood was lifting. ‘You mustn’t take any notice of me,’ she said, moving out from under him. ‘I’m just bedonnerd. Go eat your supper, it’s getting cold.’

Then: ‘Schalk! What happened to your shirt?’