The October Killings (31 page)

Robert moved toward her to take her in his arms, but she drew away. “Not now. If I soften, I'll collapse completely.”

“I feel so useless that I can't help you. I wish I could,” Robert said. “Jesus.”

“Just call me Abigail,” she said. “Oh, God, that wasn't even funny.”

“It's okay, just call me Robert.”

This time they both laughed, but it was the helpless laughter of impotence and it lasted only a moment. “Just stay with me, support me tonight and tomorrow.”

“I shouldn't even do that.”

She was looking at him with desperate, questioning eyes.

“That meeting with the head of the National Prosecuting Authority is tomorrow. The word is that he's going to tell us that he has a prima facie case against the deputy president, but not enough evidence to prosecute. It looks like he wants to try him in the media because he doesn't have enough for the courts.”

“Oh, that's so important, but I don't think it's wise,” Abigail said.

“Well, it seems that this is what he intends doing.”

“You can't come with me, not while this is happening.”

“I'll stay away if you ask me to.”

“No. You have to go. It's too important.”

“I can send my deputy.”

“No, never. You must go—a black editor of genuine ability like you.” She smiled bleakly at him, but the attempt at a joke was again a feeble one.

*   *   *

For Abigail to remain still was difficult at any time. With midnight approaching, it was impossible. Sleep was not something she had even considered. Robert had tried staying up with her in a gesture of solidarity. He had pointed out that going back to the police station where Bishop was being kept was foolish and unnecessary. The police were doing everything possible, and she was not a trained interrogator. Why not leave it to the professionals? And there was no point in her continually pacing up and down. That also would do no good.

She nodded in apparent agreement with all his arguments. But he had fallen asleep in the chair. Abigail waited only long enough to be sure that he would not wake up with the very gentle opening and closing of the apartment door.

It took her almost thirty minutes from the time she left the building before she stopped in the street outside the police station.

*   *   *

Sergeant William Tshabalala had taken careful note of everything Captain Nkobi had told him before Nkobi left to assist Deputy Commissioner Jordaan at the township riot. The prisoner had been given the last cell in the corner of the small cell block. No one would need to pass his cell. The only cell that shared a common wall with his had been left empty. He was completely isolated and the police officer on duty at the cells had been ordered not even to venture into the passage outside his cell.

For much of the evening, Tshabalala occupied himself with fairly routine tasks. He certified a number of affidavits for members of the public, filled in the log book, gave advice to a woman who said her former husband had stopped paying maintenance for his children, took a statement about a matter he thought might end in civil court, opened a docket for car theft, and booked a drunk found sleeping at the foot of a statue of the leader of the old Boer republic.

By midnight, visits by members of the public had long since ended. Even the sounds of traffic on the artery that passed close by were sporadic now. With his immediate duties over, Tshabalala spent an hour on his plans for the day when he would leave the force. According to his calculations, he would need at least half a million to start a small security company that would specialize in providing guards and dog handlers to protect office parks, warehouses and factories. Inflation and his own spare time renovations had increased the price of his house. He calculated that he could probably get a second mortgage on the family home, of about a quarter of a million. This meant that together with his savings he was still short to the tune of over 200,000 rand. By the time the extra bedroom on the house was finished, that figure should be halved. Another year or two, the sergeant thought, if house prices continued to climb, and he would be able to make his move.

When Abigail came in demanding to know where Deputy Commissioner Jordaan was and why the prisoner was not being interrogated, he rose and tried to explain about the riot and that the deputy commissioner had been called away by the national commissioner himself.

“You can't stop interrogating the prisoner,” she almost shouted. “He has to be interrogated every moment. We have to find out what he knows.”

Tshabalala tried to defend himself. “The deputy commissioner ordered me to stay away from him.”

“How long is he going to be at this riot?” She was suddenly aware that she could probably be heard in the street and perhaps in the buildings on either side. “He shouldn't have gone,” she muttered to herself.

But he had gone, and Tshabalala did not know how long Freek was going to be away or exactly why he had found it necessary to go. From the direction of the cells, Abigail heard what she was sure was a humorless chuckle. “Who made that sound?” she demanded.

“Just a prisoner, ma'am. Just a prisoner.”

But which prisoner? she almost asked, but managed to suppress the question.

Eventually there was nothing to do but go. The sergeant would not allow her to attempt an interrogation of the prisoner. And she knew that there was very little point in her trying. From her car she called the number of Freek's mobile, but the answering signal indicated that he was out of range.

*   *   *

By two o'clock, Tshabalala and the officer who had been assisting him in the charge office were playing cards for stakes of twenty cents a hand. The constable in the cells was asleep in a straight-backed chair, snoring softly through his open mouth. There were only three prisoners besides Bishop in the cells. They were all in one cell and they too were asleep. All of them had spent nights in the cells on other occasions and were not bothered by the thinness of the mattresses or the greasiness of blankets that had, over the years, provided warmth for a great many bodies and had not been washed for too many months.

The constable had positioned his chair exactly as Captain Nkobi had told him to. He had also assisted Sergeant Tshabalala in placing the prisoners in the cells that Nkobi had selected. There were only two ways out of Bishop's cell. One was through a heavily barred window set into a wall nearly half a meter thick and so high off the ground that no prisoner had ever been able to reach it. The other was through the barred door of the cell that led into the passage. Before the constable fell asleep, he had inspected the arrangements one last time and been satisfied that he had done as he was told. He had wondered only briefly who this white man was that they had to be so careful with. And why this woman from the Department of Justice was so excited about him. It was not the sort of thing that usually exercised his mind. He was a good cop, whatever this Abigail Bukula might think. He followed the orders that were given to him and did not ask questions. Tonight, only one instruction had been forgotten. Captain Nkobi had told him to leave the cell keys in the charge office. But here they were, dangling from his belt.

The constable was woken by the soft sound of sobbing. It was coming from the cell of this white man in the last cell in the row. Yes, the constable thought, it's too late to cry now. You should have thought of that before you turned to crime.

The constable's instructions were to stay away from the prisoner's cell. He remained seated on his chair, listening to the sobbing. It had a whining, almost animal sound, neither growing nor diminishing in volume. Despite himself, the constable found himself listening to it. Eventually, he reacted: “Hey, keep quiet there. You are not allowed to make a noise in the cells.”

The admonishment had no effect. The pathetic keening, an animal in pain, continued as evenly as before. For all the effect it had, the constable might not have spoken at all. He felt that this was not the way to enforce discipline with a prisoner. To call to him in the cell at the end of the passage, where he could not even see you, was no way to do it. If you wanted to enforce discipline with a prisoner you had to have him in front of you, where you could see him and he could see you. Then you could shout orders at him.

The constable pondered briefly the idea of going to Sergeant Tshabalala in the charge office to report the prisoner's behavior, but he resisted the thought. He had been given a job to do and received his instructions. There was no need to bother the sergeant.

There were pauses in the sobbing now, moments of silence broken by periods of crying more intense than before. The constable got up. He would only go far enough down the passage to be able to see into the cell. By staying out of the prisoner's reach, he would still be obeying orders. But it was his duty to see what was happening. It was the job he had been given to do.

The constable went carefully down the passage. Where he stopped he was still almost three meters from the cell door, but he could see the prisoner on the far side of the cell, another three or four meters from him. The prisoner was lying down on one of the thin plastic foam mattresses with his face to the wall. His left arm rested awkwardly against the wall above his head. The constable did not even notice the wristwatch with the mirror face that the prisoner was using to follow his every movement.

A strange gasping for breath joined the sobbing. With the prisoner obviously asleep on the far side of the cell, the constable moved closer until he was almost touching the bars. At that moment the sound of singing reached his ears. Some damned drunk, he thought. The voice was slurred and not holding the tune well, but he could make out some of the words. “Down to the barroom he staggered and fell down by the door, the very last words…” The constable only turned in the direction of the singing for a second. It was a reflex that was over almost as quickly as it started. He was already turning back when an arm snapped round his throat, clamping him against the bars. A few seconds later he lost consciousness.

Sergeant Tshabalala had also heard the singing. He was not pleased to have his card game interrupted. The singing had started somewhere behind the building and was coming closer. “Here's another one who wants board and lodging tonight,” he told the officer opposite him.

“I'll go and have a look,” his colleague said.

The singing wavered a little, paused, then started again in a lower key. “… the very last words that he uttered, I'll never love blue eyes no more.”

“Drunk as a skunk,” Tshabalala said. “Go and get him and he can sleep it off in the cells.”

“Beautiful, beautiful brown eyes, beautiful, beautiful brown eyes…” the singing continued.

“Get him before he wakes up the people in the flats,” Tshabalala said as his fellow officer went through the charge office door into the night.

The singing stopped abruptly. Yes, Tshabalala thought, not so keen on singing now, are you? He waited for the officer and the singer to appear in the doorway. When they did not come immediately he thought that he had better go to help. Perhaps the drunkard was resisting. But it was not the sort of thing his fellow officer usually had a problem with. He waited a moment longer, still watching the door. It turned out to be a moment too long. His back was toward the passage that led to the cells. He had not heard the sobbing from the cells or the scuffle as the constable, who had been left to guard the cells, had died. He had also not heard Michael Bishop's approach.

37

Saturday, October 22

When Abigail returned from the police cells, Robert was still asleep in the same position, just as she had left him. She switched on the kettle to make coffee and sat down in the chair opposite. Sleep was not on her agenda. But Abigail had slept for only a few hours in the previous two days and even the strongest human beings sometimes yield to the weakness of the flesh.

She woke with the day bright outside and the clock's hands showing that the time was already 10:25. She showered and dressed with a desperation driven by guilt that on this day, of all days, she had wasted so much time. Leon, she thought, why couldn't you have sought help from a stronger person?

She tried to remember if Johanna had discovered a time when the other killings had taken place. But she could not recall Johanna saying anything about it. The precision with which Bishop operated gave her some hope. He had always used the exact date of the original event. So surely he would also use the exact time? And that had been long after dark. If it were so, there was still what remained of the day, this one day.

She thought about calling Yudel, but he would almost certainly be down at the police station already.

*   *   *

Abigail was wrong about that. Yudel was in his study. He had not even noticed that the night and much of the day had passed. Rosa had come in a few times with food and coffee, but her years with Yudel had taught her that this was not the time to interrupt him. He had not slept at all that night or the night before. Instead, he had spent most of both nights in his study, allowing the events of the past week to mull over in his mind. He knew that in that jumble of incidents, testimony and assumption, he was missing something. As surely as anything he had ever known, he felt that he was overlooking some fact, probably just a single incident, that he should have noticed. Perhaps if he had seen it, it might all be over by now and Leon Lourens might again be united with his family.

For Yudel, long periods of inaction had never been a trial. His search was internal, and required no outside stimulation. He was sure that no other action was needed, not until his thoughts had reached the conclusion that would guide him in the direction he needed to take. Even at a time like this, the battle that had to be won was with the tangle of impressions that his brain had already stored. All this information, including the unknown missing piece, had been assembled into a coherent order.