Payback - A Cape Town thriller (35 page)
Read Payback - A Cape Town thriller Online
Authors: Mike Nicol
The map showed two entrances to Hippo Pools: one a private dirt track through the bush from the airport for the shuttle Jeeps so the guests never knew they were fifteen kilometres from a small town and granite mine; the other a ten kilometre stretch of tar road off the main north/south arterial. He would have to use that and bullshit his way through the main gate.
In the town Mace bought a Big Jack steak and kidney pie, two toasted cheese sandwiches and a litre of Coke from a Kwikspar. At the junction to Hippo Pools pulled off the road to eat the pie and sort through the messages on his cellphone: a list of irate callers, including four voicemails from Gonsalves up to half an hour ago wanting to know where he was, what he was playing at, to get in touch with him ASAP; five from Pylon saying call me urgently; three from Francisco that were incoherent; two from Oumou, the least panicked of the bunch. Five SMS messages: four from Pylon, one from Oumou. He reckoned by now Pylon would have been onto Gonsalves or vice versa and would know the details but that’s where the trail would stop. He wasn’t going to respond to either because they’d have him located to the nearest cellphone mast in half an hour. To Oumou he sent a message telling her where he was, that he would be off-air, that he’d speak to her first thing in the morning. And not to tell anyone, not even Pylon, that she’d heard from him. That Pylon and Gonsalves had contacted her he took for granted. He switched off his phone and headed for the main gate to Hippo Pools Safari Lodge.
The guard on the gate was in his mid-thirties, a dapper sort in pressed khakis and a wide-brimmed hat. Mace stopped at the boom and got out. The guard sauntered over and Mace went into a routine that involved sharing a smoke and a chat about how they were in the same line of business, Mace whipping out his SIRA licence to make the point and mentioning that he’d been asked to look over the security arrangements at the lodge following one or two incidents in the other private game reserves where bandits had walked out of the bush and robbed expensive tourists at gunpoint. In the exchange he learnt the guard - ‘I am Zwide’ - was on a six-to-six daily shift, seven days on seven days off. Day five of his current shift ending in an hour. Mace said he’d better be getting on before it got too late, he’d see Zwide on his way out in the morning. Pressed on him the pack of smokes and as he’d expected the guy opened the boom, not bothering to radio reception for clearance.
Mace parked among the other guests cars with a clear line of sight across a rockery of aloes to the front doors of the lodge. He checked there was cellphone connectivity, then sat and waited for dark.
Shortly before sunset, people gathered at the entrance for the night drive, among them Paulo and Vittoria. He watched them get onto the first Land Rover, choosing the highest seat at the back, the woman clutching her man like they were on honeymoon. When the vehicles left, Mace went to find their chalet.
Number one was occupied, number two contained the neat order of Germans, number three was where he would’ve put his money even without checking the passports lying on the table. The open suitcases, the rumpled bed, the towels strewn about the floor, the empty bottles outside on the deck, the traces of white powder along the glass top of the dressing table: exactly how he imagined Paulo and Vittoria. He did a cursory search of the room although he couldn’t see Paulo putting the diamonds anywhere but in the jewellery safe. How quickly Paulo opened that safe would depend on Paulo but Mace believed he’d be cooperative.
He went back to his car to eat a soggy sandwich, and wait.
From the darkness he watched the Land Rovers return. Watched Paulo and Vittoria talking to the ranger. Watched them sucking up to him, the ranger enjoying their adoration. Watched them shake his hand, head off for the dining room, the ranger fixated on her arse.
Mace walked quickly down the path to their chalet. Order had been restored: the towels replaced, the bed made, the empty bottles removed. Five-star lodge service.
He sat on the bed, shook the rope from the bag and measured out two four-metre lengths, hand to chin, cut them with the Leatherman and fashioned a hangman’s noose in each.
They were the first things Paulo saw when he and Vittoria, slightly drunk, getting off on the scare of lions on the walk from the dining room to their chalet, stumbled in, fumbled for the light switch, giggling.
The nooses hung side by side from the main truss over the bed.
‘What the fuck?’ said Paulo.
Behind them Mace cocked the nine mil and shut the door. The couple turned to face him.
‘Who the hell’re you?’ said Vittoria.
‘Ask your boyfriend,’ said Mace. ‘Meantime we’ve got business. The sooner we do it, the sooner it’s over. So let’s have your head in a noose, either one, the choice is yours, and your hands behind your back.’
She didn’t move. ‘Paulo?’
Paulo sneered at Mace. ‘Her one-time screw. Isabella’s old gigolo.’
Mace whipped the pistol across Paulo’s face, opening the cut that had almost healed, Paulo staggering back clutching at his mouth.
‘You bastard,’ screamed Vittoria, and Mace hit her too, Vittoria collapsing against the bed.
‘Cooperate,’ he said. ‘Make it easier for all of us.’
‘What d’you want?’ said Paulo, the words slurred through his bleeding lips.
‘I told you once,’ said Mace. ‘For her to put her head in a noose, either one. You don’t want me to repeat it.’
‘We haven’t got the diamonds.’
Mace hit him again and Paulo fell, Vittoria sliding over to him crying ‘Baby, baby.’ Mace tapped her on the head with the gun butt.
‘Into the noose.’
She spat blood at him, coming up fast to make a run for the door.
‘Not a good idea,’ said Mace, and caught her by the hair and slammed her hard into the wall, hearing her nose break at the impact.
‘Listen to me people, okay? Before you get truly hurt.’ He pushed Vittoria towards the bed. ‘Humour me.’
She did and stood unsteadily beneath the noose but the noose was too high.
‘Stand on the pillows,’ said Mace, ‘and you’ - he kicked at Paulo - ‘go on, help your girlfriend.’
Raised by two pillows Vittoria put her head into the noose. Mace told Paulo how to tighten it and had him tie Vittoria’s hands behind her back with a length of rope. ‘Now you,’ he said, ‘down here’ - and had Paulo kneel on the floor while Mace tied his hands. Paulo saying all the time, they hadn’t got the diamonds. ‘That’s alright,’ said Mace, ‘at this point we don’t need the diamonds.’ When he was done, helped Paulo onto the bed, brought the noose over his head and tightened the knot against the side of Paulo’s face. Paulo stretched up on tiptoe to stop choking.
Mace sat down on a chair behind them and the room went quiet.
‘Please,’ rasped Paulo. ‘Enough.’
‘I hope so,’ said Mace.
Vittoria screamed then which brought Mace out of the chair to sweep away the pillows from beneath her feet and Vittoria dangled, her cry choked off. Mace let her hang. Paulo in tears going, ‘Please, please, she’s gonna die.’ Until Mace put the pillows back beneath Vittoria’s jerking feet.
‘Screaming wasn’t a good idea,’ he said, the woman gasping and heaving, almost losing her balance. Mace steadied her. ‘What I want you to do is think about your situation. I want you to think about the diamonds you have stolen but more than that I want you to think about the two people you killed on the weekend, and you’ - he dug the pistol’s barrel into Vittoria’s back, ‘you must also think about the two men you killed last month. That wasn’t nice. Especially cutting off the one’s dick.’
While he spoke Mace searched through the suitcases, fishing out a bra that he used to gag her, Vittoria snorting and snuffling through the blood of her broken nose.
‘And when you’ve done enough thinking then tell me and you can make your confession into this tape recorder.’ He held it up for them to see. ‘But what you need most now is some time to think about the dead and about your situation.’ He opened the mini-bar and selected a beer and uncapped it. ‘Take as long as you want, there’s no hurry.’
It took Paulo half an hour before he moaned, ‘Please, please, help me.’
‘I’d like to,’ said Mace. ‘Really I would. But what I have in my head is this picture of Isabella with a hole right here between her eyes. Isabella lying on a mortuary slab. That’s not how I like to think of Isabella.’
‘The diamonds …’
‘Forget the diamonds for a moment, Paulo. Mourn for your wife. The woman who married you to give you opportunities.’ Mace paused, heard Paulo sniffing. ‘Good, Paulo. Good. You should get emotional. Let the grief come out.’ He paused again, seeing the shake in Paulo’s shoulders. ‘Let me tell you how I’m feeling. How Isabella’s old gigolo’s dealing with his grief. Right now Isabella’s old gigolo cannot accept she’s dead. He has to keep reminding himself of the corpse he saw in the morgue. That that corpse was once Isabella. The woman who was his friend and, you’re right, lover once upon a time. Isabella’s old gigolo’s got a problem dealing with these emotions. Can you understand this, Paulo?’
‘The diamonds …’
Mace waited. Watched Vittoria jerk towards her lover, making muffled noises which could’ve meant anything.
‘… in the safe.’
He got up and went to the safe, looking across at Paulo expectantly. The guy’s face was red, streaked with tears.
Between sobs Paulo gave the combination numbers and Mace pressed them into the safe’s keypad. The diamonds inside in a draw-string pouch.
‘This’s a start,’ said Mace, spilling some of the stones into the palm of his hand. ‘It goes a little way towards demonstrating remorse. Maybe even sorrow.’
He uncapped another beer, sat down again to drink it. The problem, he thought, was that at this rate Paulo would be done and dusted within an hour, while the chick wasn’t anywhere near being obliging. You had to admire her, holding out even with a broken nose.
After he’d finished the beer, Mace waited in the chair, half an hour slipping past before Paulo broke down again, crying, enough, he couldn’t stand it, he’d talk.
‘Okay,’ said Mace coming round to face him, holding up the tape recorder. ‘It’s got a sensitive mic, all you have to do is speak clearly. Start by giving your name, followed by the sequence of events that led to you shooting Isabella and Ludovico.’
‘Then you’ll go?’
Mace shrugged. ‘Maybe. Depends on what you say.’
‘In court,’ said Paulo, sobbing still, ‘I’ll say I was tortured.’
‘I know.’ Mace adjusted the volume on the tape recorder. ‘This isn’t about evidence. Nor about courts of law. It’s personal. It’s about how Isabella died. It’s about admitting the truth. That’s what we do here, Paulo. That’s our party trick.’
‘She shot her,’ said Paulo. ‘She shot the gay guys too.’
‘Slowly,’ said Mace. ‘I want you to start with your name.’
Paulo’s confession had Vittoria as the shooter of both Isabella and Ludovico. When he’d finished Mace said to Vittoria, ‘You want to talk now?’
But Vittoria made a muffled noise and Mace went back to his chair. ‘I can wait.’
‘You … you said you’d go,’ said Paulo. ‘Please go.’
‘Not yet. Not without her story.’
Paulo said, ‘Ria, please Ria.’ Vittoria giving him no response.
‘Like I said,’ said Mace. ‘I can wait.’
He sat watching them over the next few hours until the first red of dawn started low in the east. Quarter to five. Another hour until the friendly guard came on the gate. He took the sodden bra out of Vittoria’s mouth and held up the tape recorder by way of asking did she want to talk? But the woman was past it. Mace clicked off the tape, glanced from one to the another, Paulo snivelling. Another time, another place he’d have done it differently, he thought. He shook his head, partly in disgust at the twosome, partly in wonder at his change of approach. From the chair picked up the pouch of diamonds and weighed it from hand to hand, the stones clicking. Slipped it into his pocket.
Mace slowed to a stop at the gate and slipped the gear into neutral. Zwide came smiling towards him.
‘You are the first person out of the paradise this morning.’
‘Some of us have to work.’ Mace grinned at him. ‘One day what I’d like to do is come back and do nothing with the rich people.’
Zwide laughed. ‘Me, I want to see New York. One American said he would send me a ticket for the jumbo jet but maybe the ticket is lost in the post.’ And again he laughed, lifting the boom for Mace to drive through.
‘Hope you get to New York,’ Mace said, holding his hand up in salute, seeing Zwide in the rear-view mirror waving goodbye like they were big buddies.
‘… in this city rise up the angry bones …’
- Anonymous imam
At 6:00 p.m. the barometer measured 1000 millibars. Down two hundred over six hours. Mo Siq tapped the instrument through the day, watching it drop as the storm came in. Watching the storm come in. From the first slates of high cloud in the
morning
to the dense, low greyness of the sky by late afternoon. From the stillness when he’d stepped onto his balcony mid-morning to make a cellphone call, to the gusts of wind that now buffeted his windows. New flush-fitting anodised windows that shook
nonetheless
. At times during the afternoon he stood at these windows looking out at Signal Hill, at how the wind flurries chased patterns through the tall grass. He stared down at the little yacht basin, no longer a building site, two yachts moored against a jetty.
Once, while Mo stood there smoking a cigarette, he watched a man wearing a beanie and thick jersey hurry onto the further boat and test the ropes and the knots and the pins that secured the hatches, then dash back into the apartment block. Mo smiled. The man considered himself an old salt, would hold cocktail evenings on his yacht for people with too much jewellery. Mo had been to one, got a deal going with an Israeli to supply five hundred thousand rounds of 7.62mm they could use in their carbines. At that party the old salt promised Mo a sail into the wild ocean. Mo took a rain check, then again he’d never seen the old salt put to sea. At 6:00 p.m. Mo set the marker on the barometer at 1000 millibars.
