Gun Dealing (The Ryder Quartet Book 2) (28 page)

‘There’s lots of movement on the
ground. Maybe fighting.’

‘Excellent, Mavis. Maybe a struggle.
Maybe. The key word.
Maybe
. Always
ask yourself
maybe
. Don’t ever say
for sure
. Until you know for sure. Tell
me more.’

‘Maybe the man from the bush is
fighting the man from the car.’

‘Or maybe? If there’s movement on the
ground, what else apart from fighting?’

‘Or maybe it is not fighting. Maybe
the one man is suddenly moving backwards. He is scared of something. Maybe.’

‘And if you’re right, Mavis, what
does that mean?’

‘The dead man is the hijacker and not
the driver.’

‘Superb! Mavis, you are a gem!’

Mavis beamed. Nadine hugged her.

‘Let’s sit in the car, Mavis. I’ve
got more to show you.’

15.25.
  

Cronje knocked and then entered on
Nyawula’s immediate affirmative response.

‘Sorry, Captain, I...’

‘What is it, Piet?’

‘You have a visitor, Captain. Sorry,
I mean visitors. Sorry, I wanted to… but I couldn’t really...’

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s
Mr
and
Mrs
Ngobeni. Sinethemba’s parents.’

‘What?’

Nyawula rose from his chair,
startled.

‘They want to speak to you. I tried
to...’

‘No. Yes. Of course. Of course. Yes.
Show them in. Get some tea. Coffee. I...’

‘I’ll ask them again what they want,
unless you think...’

‘Yes, please. I… No! Well, did they
say…?’

‘They wouldn’t say what it was
about.’

‘Show them in.’

‘Um… Captain, there’s also...’

‘What?’

‘There’s another old lady with them.’

‘Sinethemba’s grandmother?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I didn’t want to
ask...’

‘Show them all in. Right away.’

‘What about the Brigadier, Captain?
He expects your call at 3.30, about the HR projections and profiles.’

‘Stuff the Brigadier, Piet.’

Cronje froze, startled.

‘Oh. OK. Yes. OK, Captain. I’ll show
them in, then, shall I?’

Nyawula didn’t answer. He walked over
to the window and stared out at the car park. Cronje left the room. The
Captain’s characteristic decisiveness had deserted him and he was at a complete
loss. All he could do was wait.

Cronje knocked on the open door and
entered first.

‘Ah... Captain.
Mr
and
Mrs
Ngobeni, and also
Mrs
,
er... I’ll be bringing in three coffees, Captain, and one for you, too, sir?’

Nyawula nodded. Cronje gestured for
the three guests to enter, and they shuffled past him into the office. Cronje
left.

The man came first. Nyawula thought
he looked older, even more frail, than he had at the funeral. His skin looked
grey. He wore a threadbare suit, and a tie that had seen many years, if not
decades. He clasped a hat in his hands, twisting it nervously in front of him.
His wife was immaculately dressed. Over-dressed, if anything. That hat…

She had hooked her arm through the
long strap-handles of her handbag, and she held her husband’s right arm tightly
with both her hands, as if concerned that he might topple over at any moment.

The grandmother walked in behind the
two of them, using a cane, and placed herself to the left of her son, as if
they were on parade. She, too, was dressed in what appeared to be best evening
wear. With a hat to go with it. Embroidered. Ornately. Hauled out on occasion
for special weddings, perhaps. But Nyawula didn’t really know. He wasn’t much
good at identifying such things.

There was an
agonising
moment of silence as Nyawula tried to decipher the possibilities behind what
was actually going on here. Then the greetings, all in Zulu, quietly, politely,
with Nyawula using both hands for each of the three handshakes, and tilting
forward from the waist in each instance. During which time Cronje came back
with an extra chair before leaving quickly again to get the four mugs of
coffee.

‘
Sawubona
baba, sawubona mama, sawubona....’
Nyawula invited them to take a chair
each, while he pulled his own chair out from behind his desk, clumsily, so that
they could all sit in a circle. They did so, amidst patches of awkward silence
and a few muttered phrases between mother and son, and as Cronje returned again
with the coffee, it seemed to be a signal for them all to switch to English.

‘Can the Sergeant he be witness,
Captain?’ said the grandmother.
‘The
Sergeant he can stay? He can speak isiZulu?’

Nyawula saw Cronje freeze in panic at
the prospect of his lexicon of fewer than thirty zulu words coming under
imminent threat of examination, and motioned for him to stay. Cronje stood,
awkwardly, hands clasped together in front of him.

‘
Uxolo, ma...’
 
Nyawula began, before she interrupted him.

‘Is all right. We three we speak
isiNgisi.
My son, he want to say something to you, Captain. You, Sergeant, you listen.
You witness.’

Nyawula and Cronje were struck dumb.
The old man started to speak but stopped. He was distraught. His wife squeezed
his upper arm with both hands, in support.

‘
Uxolo,
Captain...’ said
Mr
Ngobeni.

‘
isiNgisi!
’
said his mother.

‘What can I do for you,
Mr
Ngobeni? I know this is a difficult time....’

Nyawula wasn’t sure how to complete
the sentence, as he saw Sinethemba’s mother start weeping, quietly, still
clutching her husband’s arm. Then Ngobeni finally mustered the strength and
spoke.

‘Sinethemba, Captain.’

‘Yes,
Mr
Ngobeni.’

‘My daughter.’

‘Yes, sir,
Mr
Ngobeni.’

‘Sinethemba. My only child. She was a
good girl.’

‘
Very
good girl,’ said the old woman.

‘My daughter, Captain, she was a very
good girl, and she wanted to be a good policeman.’

‘Police
woman
,’ said the grandmother.

‘She wanted to be a detective,
Captain.’

‘I understand,
Mr
Ngobeni.’

‘Sinethemba, Captain, she wanted to
study. She wanted to do the college courses. The - how you say - academy
courses. She wanted to take the exam. She wanted to be the detective.’

Nyawula saw the old man try to
prevent the tears but he failed. His wife cried, silently, head lowered, still
clutching her husband’s arm. Cronje had lost it, too, and surreptitiously
dragged a handkerchief from his pocket. The old woman clenched her jaws tighter
and kept all tears at bay. As Nyawula made to speak, the old man continued.

‘You know the name
Sinethemba
, Captain?’

‘I know the name.’

‘The name it means
we have the hope
, Captain.’

‘I know it,
Mr
Ngobeni. I know it.’

‘Captain, this family… we have the
hope… Captain...’

His wife clutched his arm, exerting
pressure on him to continue.

‘You see, Captain Nyawula. You see,
now, we want to give you the money for the police.’

Nyawula tried to understand, but
couldn’t quite put it together. The old woman’s intervention helped him.

‘My son he wants to give the police
the money for the bursary. For the prize. For the best police student who wants
to study to be the police man. Or woman. Sergeant, you must make the slip.’

Nyawula was about to clarify for the
startled Cronje, who was trying to understand, but the old woman mimed a
scribbled pen on paper and then he understood.

‘You want a receipt,
Mrs
… you want me to sign a receipt for money?’

‘
Eh-heh!
We want the slip. The paper. We want the paper to say that the money she will
be used for the prize for the police student and not for the other things...’

Nyawula was about to protest,
motivated by nothing more than a desire to protect this family. He didn’t want
them to part with their money. He would ensure that Sinethemba’s name… but he
was stopped in his tracks by the old man drawing from his breast pocket a wad
of cash, held together by a single rubber band, and which he handed over to
Nyawula delicately, as if it were an injured baby chicken. His wife assisted,
and the two pairs of old gnarled hands covered Nyawula’s reluctant open hands
as the old man continued.

‘Is twenty-two thousands rands,
Captain. We want the police to make a prize. We want one police student every
year to get the prize for the best student policeman...’

‘Or police woman,’ said the
grandmother.

‘For the best student policeman or
policewoman.’

‘And the prize she must have the name
The Sinethemba Prize
,’ said Ngobeni’s
wife. Nyawula thought she was employing all the courage she had left in her to
make her own contribution to the discussion, before covering her face with both
hands and lowering her head in the vain hope that they would not see her tears.

Nyawula
realised
that nothing was going to stop them. This was a decision that had been forged
in the worst kind of furnace, and this family was investing everything they
could in an effort to reclaim their daughter from oblivion.

There was a long silence, as all of
them fought to recover. Eventually, the Captain coaxed them into a gentle
discussion, sketching possibilities for them. He watched as they slowly relaxed
and sipped their coffee, with Cronje
marvelling
at
the grandmother first putting five teaspoons of sugar in her coffee.

The discussion about possible
options, with Nyawula clutching at straws as he sought the best way to meet
their needs, ranged from an annual prize for the best student police constable,
to a bursary to assist students who couldn’t afford to study, to special grants
for needy students. They finally settled on an annual prize. It would be
Cronje’s task to set it up. He would speak with a colleague in Pretoria who
knew about awards for students in police college training. He thought that the
South African Police Academy would be able to provide advice. Nyawula said that
no final decision would be taken without the family’s approval. The old woman
asked for everything to be in writing, and she wanted the document stamped with
the same SAPS stamp, she said. The same stamp that the Sergeant had just put on
the receipt for the money.

The family eventually left. They
walked arm in arm down to the corner of the street to hail a taxi. Cronje and
Nyawula watched them go from the top of the stairs leading to the car park.
They stood silently for a moment, then Cronje suddenly gasped and turned to the
Captain.

‘
Ag,
jirra,
Captain. I forgot!’

‘What?’

‘The Brigadier!’

‘Oh. Yes. The Brigadier. What did I
tell you earlier?’

‘What, sir?’

‘Stuff the Brigadier.’

‘
Ja
,
Captain. OK. I see what you mean. Stuff the Brigadier. Um… if you’ll excuse me
saying so, Captain.’

‘I can call him anytime.’

‘
Ja
,
Captain.’

‘Right now, I need more coffee.’

‘Me too.’

As Cronje went indoors Nyawula
watched as the three remaining members of the Ngobeni family stood on the
pavement, waiting for a taxi. The grandmother stood firm against the strong
gust of wind that tugged at all three of them and threw up eddies of brown
leaves from the pavement gutter. She clutched the hands, on either side of her,
of the frail
Mr
and
Mrs
Ngobeni. She spoke quietly, more to herself than to them.

‘
Sinethemba
Ngobeni Prize
. We still have the hope,
nè
,
my children?’

15.35.
  

Nadine and Mavis were sitting in the
car above Cato Manor, still at the scene of Thursday’s incident.

‘Tell me, Mavis, about the discussion
in Captain Nyawula’s office this morning. What did you learn from everything
that the detectives were saying?’

Mavis wasn’t sure how to answer, so
Nadine helped her along.

‘We covered a lot of different facts,
and everyone had something to add to the story. What kinds of things were connecting,
to allow us to understand the story?’

‘Oh, yes. I see, Nadine. I see. Yes.
The story was a long story. It went over two years. But then it was the guns.
When they talked about the guns then we could see the full story.’