Gun Dealing (The Ryder Quartet Book 2) (23 page)

‘Could
be. That’s what we think. But there’s something else.’

‘Hit
me, Koos.’

‘Number
one had number three as a
favourite
, but he also had
another
favourite
. Let’s call it number four. So,
numbers one, three and four were calling each other a
helluva
lot in the weeks leading up to Sunday. Then from Monday
there were no calls between one and either three or four until the Wednesday midday
call to number three. And here’s the thing.’

‘What,
Koos?’

‘Just
before number one called number three, on Wednesday at, let’s see, that was at
12.23, just before that he called number four at 12.22. But it looks like there
was no communication with number four. Just
dialled
,
connected, and nothing. Maybe left a message. Maybe hung up when it went to
voice-mail.’

‘So
maybe number one was testing the
favourites
, found
number four not answering, and found number three willing to talk? At, what did
you say, 12.23 Wednesday?’

‘
Daarsy
, Jeremy.’

Ryder
was scribbling notes. Then, at the detective’s request, Van Rensburg agreed to
get the geeks onto finding further information on numbers one, three and four,
and, separately, tracking number two’s recent movements. And he agreed to
Ryder’s request that he call it in as each piece of the information came
together, rather than waiting for the full picture to be available.

‘Sure
thing. But there might be a bit of a pause during the Sharks game against the
Bulls, Jeremy. Hope that’s OK?’

‘Definitely
OK, Koos. I appreciate what you guys are doing, believe me. My wife’s recording
the game for me, so whatever you do don’t tell me the score when you call. We
want to watch the recording tomorrow.’

‘OK
Jeremy.’

Ryder
was able to piece all of this new information together with what he already
knew, but he hadn’t himself shared all he knew with Van Rensburg. His own
late-night Skype call to phone number one was something he wanted to keep
entirely to himself for now. But by the end of the conversation he was able to
sketch out for himself a likely scenario. Or was he being too optimistic? Maybe
it was more realistic to think of a
possible
scenario. What would Nadine say? Don’t get to theories too soon, Jeremy. Let
the facts take us to the theory, not the other way around. Maybe.

Whatever
way he approached this, there was one thing that was certain. Spikes Mkhize was
near the
centre
of this thing. Or not too far from
it. Maybe number two.

And
he had a funny feeling that Thabethe himself was even nearer the
centre
. Maybe dead
centre
. Maybe
number one.

12.05.

Thabethe had not been able to contain
himself. He used a public phone again, and this time Mkhize answered promptly,
not knowing whether or not the caller might be Big Red.

Thabethe’s first reaction to Mkhize’s
news was an extremely angry one. Mkhize putting in three times the amount of
money for a seventy-five per cent share of the deal? It was not what Thabethe
had had in mind at all. But on the other hand, if Mkhize’s thinking was right
and it meant greater leverage on the price, then it might be worth doing. And
Mkhize had by now proven his loyalty.

The call ended in agreement. Made
even more acceptable to Thabethe by Mkhize undertaking to deliver thirty-eight
thousand rands in cash to him later today, in good time for tomorrow’s deal.
They settled on a meeting at 3.15 exactly, across the road from KFC.

With that undertaking, Mkhize proved
to Thabethe that he was definitely the only person on the planet that Thabethe
could trust.

12.10.

‘Jeremy?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Van Rensburg.’

‘Hullo, Koos.’

‘Jeremy, I got something else for
you, quickly.’

‘Shoot, Koos.’

‘Remember I said that phone numbers
three and four were
favourites
with phone number
one?’

‘Yup.’

‘And I told you that number one
called number three at 12.23 on Wednesday and had a little chat?’

‘Yup.’

‘Well, number three himself also made
two very interesting calls on Wednesday, both calls to one number. Firstly,
just before nine o’clock in the morning on Wednesday. Then again just after he
had finished speaking to phone number one at 12.25. Want to know who number
three called?’

‘Hit me, Koos.’

‘He called a number at SAPS Durban
North. On both occasions he spoke to a guy called Constable Maishe Manaka.’

13.10.

Big Red left the build-up of traffic
on Margaret Mncadi and turned across the railway tracks into the entrance to
Wilson’s Wharf. He eased his red Lamborghini LP700-4 Aventador into a parking
space right in front of the Royal Natal Yacht Club, and unloaded his enormous
body from the car. He looked all around him as he emerged. He turned a full
three hundred and sixty degrees on the spot, primarily because the left eye
couldn’t do the rotation without some help.

Satisfied that no-one was paying
particular attention to him, he set off, aiming for the end of the pier. He
carried a small bundle, half the size of a shoe-box, wrapped in rags.

His huge, muscular biceps rippled out
of the sleeves of the tight T-shirt, proudly displaying the two intertwined
snakes on the right forearm. It was a tattoo that was replicated
 
in a duplicate copy on the left upper
arm. His rippling six-pack signified a combination of long steroid use and
exhaustive gym training with weights. A truly impressive physique. Which earned
him fear and respect. Usually.

The suntan he normally sported had
faded after nearly a week in hospital, and his skin was more of a dull grey
rather than the customary pink burn for which he was well known. His face was
severely bruised and swollen under the mop of red hair, the effect of a big
cop’s fist smashing into his face only a week ago, coupled with a head-butt
that he hadn’t seen coming. In his own view, he had been taken off guard and
smashed to the ground by someone he could normally very easily take apart with
his bare hands in a straight hand-to-hand combat situation. The element of
surprise had worked against him on the day in question. The cop had been lucky.
Next time he would make sure. He wouldn’t be taken again. Next time they met he
would take the cop down for good.

 The cop in question had bust
his drug deal, a big deal, months in the planning, and had set him back a
couple of years, financially. He had long been a major player in the local
trade in
nyaope
. Then he had seen an
opportunity to move into terrain further afield. Up the coast, reaching all the
way to Maputo and beyond. He had been set to make millions. Then the cop had
taken him down, and more than a third of his supply had been confiscated.
Mercifully, the rest of his stock had been well hidden.

 Thanks to his lawyer he had
made bail. The court case would take months. His lawyer was unbelievably
expensive, but he knew the game inside out, and if it ever came to trial, Big
Red had no intention of being around in the country to face anyone in court.
The bastards had taken his passport, but he had connections, and money. And he
had sea-going transport. They had impounded one of his yachts, but they had no
idea about his other holdings.

There was no way he was going to get
caught again. Especially by the cop that had taken him down. A cop who he
needed to meet again, on a quiet night. A cop called Detective Jeremy Ryder.

His thoughts turned from Ryder to
Thabethe. That guy who had long been a customer of his. Scary guy. Weird eyes.
But a no-nonsense guy. He always paid and then disappeared for a few months.
Went into the bushes up and down the coast, they said. Then he would come back
for more. A regular, he used to be. Before he was put away for something. Now
he was back. He had been making enquiries.

But Big Red was being extra careful
ever since the cop had taken him down. He wasn’t going to get caught again.

15.05.

Pillay stood in the office of the
Station Commander in Durban North, waiting. The Durban North sergeant on duty
was present, seated, but no senior officer was there. Whether this was intended
as a deliberate slight against Nyawula was not clear, but it had taken the
intervention of the Cluster Commander, who greatly admired Nyawula, to overcome
some perceived resistance from the Station Commander at Durban North to having
his people do any work on a Saturday.

Why the SC at Durban North should
have the rank of Colonel while Nyawula remained still only a Captain had for
some time been the source of some personal irritation to the Cluster Commander.
With a single phone call he had cut through the bullshit and told them that one
of Captain Nyawula’s detectives was coming to interview their Constable Maishe
Manaka, so they better have a senior person present, along with Manaka, and they
better bring them in from whatever Saturday lunch party they might be having.
He also told the duty sergeant who answered his call that he was at pains to
try and understand why it was that persistent phone-calls from Captain Nyawula
remained unanswered by the SC at Durban North. The duty sergeant promised the
Major General a response to that question the moment the Colonel returned to
the office. The Major General told him to tell the Colonel to stuff his formal
response and not waste his time, but to simply do his job properly and respond
promptly next time to requests from colleagues. Then he slammed the phone down.

Within minutes the sergeant called
Nyawula’s office and told him that the Station Commander’s office in Durban
North would be at the disposal of Nyawula’s detectives to interview Cst.
Manaka, but that with regret the Colonel would be out and unavailable to meet
them when they arrived. But someone, still to be designated by the Colonel,
would be in attendance.

Pillay was then immediately dispatched
by Nyawula. She had responded instantly to his call and said she could do it
before heading out directly after that for Sinethemba’s funeral. He had thanked
her and told her he would see her at the funeral. She wondered how the Captain
managed to do a hundred things a day, seven days a week.

Pillay knew nothing about the
politics and rivalries behind the scene. All she experienced was a frostiness
in the Durban North office when she arrived, which made her even more grateful
that she worked for a guy like Nyawula.

While waiting for Constable Manaka to
arrive, Pillay tried to start a conversation with the sergeant, with little
success. After dropping a few unanswered hints about how nice a cup of tea or
coffee would be at this time of the day, Pillay ambled around the office
looking at photos on the walls.

‘Check this out, hey? This private
security
oke
getting an
Award for an Outstanding Contribution by a
Local Security Company
. You guys use lots of private
okes
in Durban North?’

The sergeant grunted a reply which
indicated something that Pillay heard as
a
few, I suppose
.

‘Is that your Colonel shaking hands
with the
oke
?’

‘No.’

‘Who, then?’

‘Previous Station Commander.’

Pillay read further on into the
accompanying blurb.

‘
Durban
North Performance Awards Dinner.
Looks like a grand dinner. Were you there,
sergeant?’

‘No.’

‘They do this every year?’ She
persisted in her attempt to find life.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, here’s a nice picture of the
Provincial Commissioner, and check here, a chart of all the stations and
cluster commands in KwaZulu-Natal. I knew there were twenty-five clusters but I
didn’t know there were so many stations. Did you know there were one hundred
and eight-five stations?’

They were interrupted by the arrival
of Constable Manaka. The sergeant stood up and whispered a few words to the
constable then introduced the detective.

‘This is Detective Pillay from
Durban. She just wants to ask you a few questions.’

Pillay nodded, offering no handshake,
and the sergeant ushered Manaka to the chair before standing back to lean
against the door that he had closed. Pillay leaned back against the desk in
front of the constable.

‘So tell me, Maishe. You been with
Durban North long?’

‘
Eh-heh
.’

‘How long?’

‘Six years.’

‘Six years?’

‘
Eh-heh
.’

‘Happy in your work?’

‘Yebo
.’

‘Happy with your salary?’

‘Yebo
.’

‘Really?’

‘
Eh-heh
.’