Payback - A Cape Town thriller (37 page)

That afternoon Mace opened the door on a black couple,
mid-thirties
, smart and trim, he in leather jacket, roll neck, black pants, brogues, she in an open duffel coat, white blouse, tartan skirt, calf-length boots, both huddled under a J&B golf umbrella. The man with a wispy moustache; the woman with a face the colour of dry clay, careful eye-liner, red lipstick. They looked at him, the woman flicking her eyes behind Mace into the passage. The man said, ‘Mr Bishop?’

Mace said, yes, thought, spooks.

The man didn’t introduce himself or his colleague, said, ‘Can we talk to you? And Mr Buso if he’s in?’

‘About?’ said Mace, keeping them out in the rain. ‘Where’re you from?’

They didn’t answer that. The woman, her hands buried in her coat pockets, said in an English accent, ‘Can we rather do this somewhere warmer.’

Returnee back from exile, went through Mace’s mind as he stood aside to let them in, the man collapsing the umbrella,
leaving
it to drip outside the door.

‘Get stolen there,’ said Mace.

‘I don’t think so.’ Mr Brogues grinned at him, pointed at a BMW in the square, a black bulk visible in the driver’s seat. ‘He’s watching.’

Bloody wonderful, Mace thought, not potential clients then. He closed the front door, directed them down the passage to the boardroom, calling upstairs for Pylon that there were visitors. The two went in, stood on the far side of the table, hands resting on the back of the chairs like clergy at a synod.

Mace said, ‘What’s this about?’

‘Shall we wait for your colleague,’ said the woman. ‘In the meantime do you mind if we sit? This won’t take long, but no reason to stand on ceremony.’

Mace gestured at the chairs. ‘That’s what they’re for’ - sitting down opposite them.

Pylon came in, said, ‘Save me Jesus, the NIA.’

The man smiled slightly, barely twitching his lips beneath the wispy hairs, the woman kept blank-faced. She could be a sheriff of the court delivering a summons, Mace reckoned.

‘You know them?’ he said.

‘No,’ said Pylon, ‘but you can tell can’t you? From the attitude. The clothing too. Smart-casual. Blend in with the crowd. Hi guys, I’m Pylon Buso’- extending his hand.

The man shook, the brother’s shake. The woman kept her hands knotted before her on the table.

Pylon shrugged, took a chair beside Mace. ‘So the National Intelligent Agency’s after some protection?’

‘Very funny, Mr Buso, but no,’ said the woman. ‘We’re here on another matter.’

‘Perhaps you should tell us who you are,’ said Mace. ‘Show us some ID.’

‘That’s not necessary,’ she said. ‘Seeing as how Mr Buso knows where we’re from.’

‘Bit mysterious,’ said Mace. ‘Very secret service.’

‘Think of it this way,’ said the woman, ‘if it’s going to help you. We could give you our names and show you ID and you wouldn’t know if it was real or not. So we’re not going through the charade.’

‘Thoughtful of you,’ said Mace. ‘Charades would’ve been good though.’

The agents exchanged a glance, the man getting straight to the point. ‘We’re not here on official business, not investigating anything, nothing like that. We’re not cops. All we’re wanting to do is put you ahead of the game.’

‘Huh!’ said Mace.

‘We believe you know a man called Mr Mo Siq. You were comrades.’

‘You asking or telling?’ said Mace.

The man ignored him. ‘Since the settlement have you kept in touch?’

‘Are you investigating him?’ said Pylon.

‘As my colleague told you we are not investigating anything or anyone,’ said the woman. ‘Believe it or not we are here to help you.’

Simultaneously Mace and Pylon pushed back their chairs.

She said quickly, ‘Let me be frank. We know you had lunch with Mr Siq at Uitsig restaurant in November last year. We know you visited him at his apartment in early January this year. We know that in the same month he came here to your offices. We have the records of landline and cellphone conversations, not the conversations, but the times and duration of these conversations between both of you and him over the same period. We know you have not been in touch with Mr Siq subsequently.’ She looked from Mace to Pylon.

Mace thinking, they’re onto Mo about the weapons transfers. Probably they also knew about the weekend jaunt to Luanda.

‘You can see that this might be of interest, under the circumstances?’

‘Under what circumstances?’ said Pylon.

Again she looked from one to the other. The man also
watching
them. ‘Under the circumstances of his death, his murder,’ she said.

Pylon said, ‘Jesus.’

Mace said, ‘Christ.’

Pylon said, ‘How?’

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to leave that for the newspapers,’ she said. ‘Mr Buso, Mr Bishop you will understand that we interpret your dealings with Mr Siq as of a business nature. Our concern is not with the nature of that business but to ensure that this
information
goes no further. We believe that it is probably not in your best interests either. Consequently we have taken the liberty of amending the records of the telephone calls, unfortunately we could not do the same for Mr Siq’s diaries. The police will follow up those leads. They will call on you. They will want to know why you had lunch with Mr Siq, why you visited him, why he came to your offices. They might even ask you why you have had no
subsequent
contact. May we suggest you get your ducks in a row. I have found that often the simplest stories are the best in such cases. You were comrades after all. Old friends.’ She stood, for the first time smiled. ‘I’m sorry I had to bring you such sad news.’

Afterwards they poured double scotches to toast Mo’s life.

Pylon said, ‘Could be any one of hundreds of people.’

‘The thing is how much the cops will find out.’

‘Not much,’ said Pylon, ‘if Ms Pasty Face and her sidekick do their job properly. What I want to know is how? And where? Mo wasn’t the sort of guy to let that sort of thing happen to him.’

‘Did though.’

‘This’s a problem. Probably says something for all of us.’

‘Like what?’ said Mace.

‘Like I can’t say. Like we all need protection from our lives.’

On the day the news broke about the murder of Mo Siq, Ducky Donald Hartnell was shot leaving his house, 10:24 in the morning. The shooter firing two 5.56mm rounds, probably from a revolver the cops said, as they didn’t find any shells. But then you wouldn’t, Mace thought, if the gun was a pistol and was fired from inside a car.

The first lead clipped the wing mirror of Ducky’s car, the second hit him in the hand he had clamped on the steering wheel. Not good shooting given the range: less than four metres. And the fact it was done from a stationary vehicle. At that distance anyone
halfway
hot with a handgun would’ve scored two head hits, in Mace’s opinion. Ducky Donald would’ve been no more. Which raised the questions for Mace: was it a botched job? Or did they just want to frighten the developer?

He decided it was a botched job. If you wanted to frighten someone what you did was pump two bullets close together into the metal work. What you’re telling that person, should he or she care to think about it, was that you knew how to group your shots and that where you put them was where you meant to put them. Next time, supposing there needed to be a next time, you were going to arrange them differently.

‘Lucky Ducky,’ Mace told him the first opportunity he got.

‘Very funny,’ Ducky said, propped up in his hospital bed, private ward, one of Complete Security’s heavies stationed at the door. ‘I sign you up, two days later I get shot. I told you they wanna kill me. You don’t believe me? You give me that quizzical look, like I’m a drama queen. So now what d’you think? That maybe I’ve got a point? Huh!’

Mace nodded. ‘Seems so.’

‘Bloody goddamned right it seems so. Right now Donald Hartnell should be on the slab. That’s hectic. A radical position. That’s ratcheting up the heat. Anybody takes that kind of stance is declaring war. Know what I’m saying: they’ve opened a range of possibilities. So guess what? I’m gonna bring them war. We’re building a democracy here. You don’t run around shooting people.’

Mace thrust a newspaper at him. ‘You seen this about Mo Siq?’

‘What?’

‘Shot in the head, in his apartment. One of those larney ones in the Waterfront. People run around shooting people.’

Ducky waved his good hand dismissively. ‘Mo Siq, schmo prick.’

‘Helped you out once.’

‘Once. ‘Cos he owed me. What I’m saying, Mace, is you gotta protect me. That’s all I’m asking here. I do the fighting. You keep me safe. Then I don’t get to end up like Mo.’

‘Easier said than done.’

He caught the critical tone.

‘I was outta line. Accepted. Such a thing won’t happen again.’

‘Better not,’ said Mace, ‘or you’re history’ - walking out of the ward, leaving Ducky Donald lying there with a sheepish grin on his dial.

What had happened was they were waiting for Ducky. A shooter and a driver. Had actually called him out. And Ducky Donald, a hipster, a streetwise dude, a trader in a range of merchandise legal and illegal, a club owner, the father of a known drug dealer, this man of the world, fell for trick number one: if you want a guy to act stupidly pull his dick.

At 9:46 a.m. Ducky Donald Hartnell’s latest black bimbo puts through a cellphone call: come rescue me Ducky the cops have got me for partying. I’m on my way, says Ducky, grabbing his cheque book to pay the fine. Never for a moment pausing to consider, hey, I’ve only known this chick for two weeks, is she worth the hassle? Let alone thinking, wait a minute, disturbing the peace is no major event, most times you’re gonna get off with a warning. What’s she done that there’s an admission of guilt fine? Let me check with the cop shop. At this point smelling the proverbial rat: is someone setting me up? Seeing as a sector of the community have already told you they want to uncoil your intestines. A suggestion you’ve taken seriously and hired people to prevent. But no, you do not proceed cautiously. No, Mr White Knight hops into his BMW presses the remote to open the garage door, reverses down the driveway, presses the remote again to slide open the wooden gate onto the street. Slowly exits. Parked at the curb on the wrong side of the street, in other words facing the oncoming traffic and looking straight at him, are two people in a white car. Make unknown. One of these people is holding a gun. Bang, bang.

Mace’s arrangement with Ducky Donald was simple: he didn’t step outside the house without either Mace or Pylon holding his hand. Technically the same went for Dave Cruikshank. Though Dave wasn’t being targeted. Nobody had written or phoned to let him know they wanted to spill his guts. At least not yet. But then Dave didn’t have the profile. He kept out of the glare. And when Pylon showed him the splendours of Lake Garda he started talking about taking a holiday. Which was a good idea, to Mace’s way of thinking. The three of them in Complete Security’s offices talking over some alternatives.

‘Just go,’ he told Dave. ‘Why not? You wouldn’t want to be where your partner is now. Or worse. I’ve seen him, he’s not a happy camper.’

‘You’re right, my old son,’ said Dave. ‘Phone a travel agent, get the missus to pack our cases, just go.’ He flicked a finger against the Lake Garda brochure. ‘Be good to get away from here. Out of all this nonsense.’

‘Wouldn’t it?’ said Pylon. ‘Let Ducky Donald handle the shit.’

Dave glanced at him. ‘I’m not running away.’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Pylon. ‘Thing like this is a Hartnell situation. We have experience of it.’

‘Right then, I’m away,’ said Dave, launching himself off Pylon’s couch. ‘What you reckon, two, three weeks should wrap it?’

‘Three,’ said Mace. ‘Treat yourself.’

‘Should be fun, my son.’ At the door he paused. ‘Yeah, Mace, a thing I meant to tell you. Your old house, the Victorian’s, on the market again. She phoned me, the woman who bought it, said she was moved out, could I sell it. No hurry, but she wants her price.’

‘Sheemina February?’

‘Her, yes. Very modern miss. That’s quick, I say to her by way of pleasantry. It being, what, three years she was there. Too suburban, she tells me. Not her scene. Says she wants to live with a bit more life around her.’ He waved the brochure. ‘Ta-rar then. Best to the missus, Mace.’ Calling back, ‘I can see myself out.’

They heard him clomp down the stairs, the front door slam closed. The office went quiet.

Pylon said, ‘Months go by you don’t hear a name. Suddenly it’s there in the ether again. Strange how that stuff works.’

‘Isn’t it?’ said Mace. ‘With her ex-husband suddenly dead.’

‘Coincidence.’

‘No such thing. Another word for the brown stuff’s going to hit the fan.’

‘You reckon it’s her?’

‘I’m not saying that. I’m saying it’s a factor, the sort of thing I’d be investigating if I was the cops. Okay, Mo was into a heap of shit with that arms business. But Mo was a smart operator. No ways he’d let someone into his flat unless he knew them.’ Mace took up the newspaper, ran his finger down the page three story, nice photograph mid-way in the column of Mo dancing at the party thrown to celebrate the acceptance of the constitution. ‘What’s it say here? “Police said there was no sign of forcible entry.”’

‘Could be a colleague. Could be a deal’s gone bad, the people are pissed off. Doesn’t have to be Sheemina February. She’s not likely to do it herself.’

‘She tried it once before,’ Mace said. ‘According to Mo. And herself, she admitted it.’

‘They were married. They’ve been divorced for how long, years? Maybe ten years. Why’s she waited this long?’

‘There’s two factors why I’d say it wasn’t her,’ said Mace. ‘She’s not hands-on, even considering what’s said about revenge tasting sweet when it’s cold.’

‘Served,’ said Pylon.

‘Served what?’

‘Served cold. That’s the saying.’

‘Served, tasting, it’s about eating.’

‘Serving’s not eating,’ said Pylon. ‘That’s the point.’

‘I can’t see it.’ Mace stood and stretched. ‘What I’m grateful for, though, is our friends from the agency. They could start a cleaning service with all the dusting they do.’ He pulled his car keys from the back pocket of his jeans.

‘You’re ducking?’

‘Actually, yes. With the arsehole in hospital, what’s the need to hang around?’

‘This’s true.’ Pylon searched under the travel brochures for his keys. ‘A drink somewhere?’

Mace shook his head. ‘Quality time with Oumou.’

‘Racking up brownie points,’ said Pylon.

‘A man can’t have enough, the way I see it.’

* * *

After the death of Isabella, Mace reckoned that all he had worked for, all that he valued, was in danger of breaking. Those that he loved he almost threw away. Mace didn’t want to go there again.

Isabella’s murder made the headlines: “Foreign tourists found shot in sand dunes.” At some point he knew Oumou had to hear about it. But he didn’t tell her. One night, getting into bed, she said, ‘I cannot sleep with you anymore. Please go. Sleep in another room.’

Mace said, ‘What? What for?’

‘I have heard about Isabella,’ she said. ‘She was here.’

Mace looked at her, at how she hugged herself standing there in one of his T-shirts, the hem riding high on her thighs. Saw her fierce beauty in that moment. ‘Isabella was murdered,’ he said.

‘You should have told me. I should not get this picture in my email.’ From her bedside drawer she took a print-out of Isabella and Mace, dressed in long coats, clutching one another. ‘In the email it says, I should be happy this woman is dead.’

‘What email?’ said Mace, grabbing at the print-out. ‘Who sent this?’

‘It does not matter,’ said Oumou. ‘You should have told me.’

‘Told you what? What should I have told you for Chrissakes? That she was here? That she was murdered?’

‘Both of them.’

‘Jesus, Oumou. She’s dead. She was shot between the eyes.’

‘You knew that. When you came back from Luanda you knew that. That is why you disappeared for that night.’

‘Yes, okay. Yes, I got back from Luanda, I found out she’d been killed. I knew who’d killed her. I had to sort it out.’

‘But you could not tell me. Me, the person who is your wife, you keep this a secret from me.’

‘Don’t you understand,’ said Mace, walking up and down the room, up and down. ‘Don’t you understand, she was murdered.’

‘Before that,’ said Oumou, ‘she was here. In Cape Town. A couple of times you went to her, no? When you said you are with clients you went to her. You have secrets. Inside you keep these things hidden from me. All of my life you know about but you hide your life from me. Oumou can know that. But Oumou cannot know this. You have been sleeping with her, no?’

‘No. You’re wrong. You’re wrong about that.’ Mace afraid even of coming close to the truth.

She stared at him, a long brown stare of anger. ‘I cannot believe you. For all these years. When you fly to New York you go to her. You make fun of me. You think I am cheap. A toy like your motor car?’

‘No. It’s not like that. Not like that at all.’ He balled the
print-out
in his hand, hurled it across the room. ‘How can I convince you?’

‘Why do you lie?’ she said. ‘Tell me the truth. I do not want your stories.’

‘You want the truth,’ Mace said, ‘okay this’s the truth. You want to hear this?’

‘Of course,’ said Oumou. ‘Tell me. Let me hear if it is more lies.’ Going to sit in a chair, dumping his clothes on the floor.

Mace thinking fast, considering how much should he tell, fearing that if he said too much she’d leave. Take Christa and walk out. He said, ‘I knew Isabella was here. Yes, I knew that. She phoned me before she came over from New York and I saw her while she was here. Yes, I did that. We had supper. Nothing more, me and her. For old-times’ sake. She was on business, I didn’t ask her what. With her husband and a colleague. She wanted to see you and meet Christa. I said no, I didn’t think that was a good idea.’

Oumou said, ‘Oui, I am listening.’

‘Then I was away for that weekend in Luanda. With Pylon. We get back I find out she’s been murdered. Her and her colleague. Ludo-something. But her husband’s missing. Vanished. I talk to her brother in New York, he tells me it’s got to be Isabella’s husband, who’s killed her. The man’s distraught. Sobbing on the phone. Find him for me, he says. I’m asking you.’

‘Why?’ said Oumou. ‘This is what I do not understand.’

‘Why what?’

‘Why you did not tell me. Why I must find out from this email.’

‘I can’t answer that. I’m sorry. All right, I should’ve told you. I’m sorry. I messed up there. I wasn’t thinking straight at the time.’

‘This is because you had been to bed with her.’

‘You think that?’

‘I do not want to,’ said Oumou quietly, getting up from the chair, going to the bed. Standing and looking at him. ‘In my heart I am not sure. I see in the photograph that you are laughing. You and her.’

‘That was before I met you,’ said Mace. ‘That was in Berlin. Before the wall came down. I hadn’t been to Malitia yet. I’ve told you all this. What’s worrying me now is who sent the email.’

Oumou held up her hand. ‘Don’t talk.’ She touched the swell of her breasts. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘in here you can hurt me. Even now my heart is sore. I can hear what you are saying but I know this man, Mace Bishop. I know he has done bad things. Also, I know he has done good things. Long ago, I thought to myself, this man can take my heart. I can give it to him. If I did not think this there would be no Christa.’

Mace moved towards her round the bed. Again she held up her hand.

‘Tonight,’ she said. ‘Tonight I must be alone.’

He stopped. ‘Okay. Okay, I can respect that. But then it’s over. Tomorrow we’re on new ground.’

Except Isabella was on the new ground too. A month later Oumou learnt it was Isabella who’d bought up her exhibition. Another anonymous email.

‘I do not want her money,’ she screamed at Mace, the two of them in her studio late into the night.

‘She liked your work,’ said Mace. ‘She bought it. I can’t see the issue here.’

‘How does she know?’ said Oumou. ‘How does she know about my exhibition? Because you have told her. Because maybe you took her there.’