The Serpentine Road (34 page)

‘Fuck off.’

The guy surrenders, stumbles back down the street. De Vries looks around, sees lunching ladies look away from him. He slams his door, crosses the street to the café. As he enters, two women leave a table. He takes a newspaper from the rack by the door, slaps it on the table, puts his dark glasses atop it. He orders a large coffee, a beer and a sandwich. He takes off his jacket, leans back with the newspaper, meets no one’s eye. He starts with sport at the back, thinks better of it, scans the headlines from the front. On
page nine
, he reads:

He swallows back bile; his sight begins to blur. He forces himself to breathe, aware that others might witness him. He looks back down, focuses on blurred black ink.

De Vries reads the article a second time, heart-rate falling, and grunts his thanks to the waitress who delivers his drinks and cutlery for his toasted sandwich. He lays the paper down, sugars his coffee, sips it gingerly.

He thinks of Mitchell Smith, his doors and windows bolted, sensors on the perimeter, alarm primed; someone walks into his home silently, like a phantom, drives the knife into him, over and over again, walks away unseen. He feels his mouth dry within its cage of sealed lips and locked jaw, forces himself to breathe.

He thinks of Mitchell Smith’s house, of how low the ceilings in the small rooms seemed. Yet, when he recalls the squat building, he remembers the pitched roof – there must be storage space above the living space, beneath the rafters. He imagines the killer getting into the house during the day when Smith is out, waiting in the crawl space there, dropping down silently in the dark, standing over his victim.

His sandwich arrives and he eats greedily, quaffs his beer and puts the bottle back down on the table, holds it there. He realizes that he is gripping it tightly, his knuckles white around the thick brown glass. He opens his fingers, orders another beer, a slice of chocolate cake.

He looks back down at the article.

‘Afterwards, the killer left the property by switching off the alarm and re-setting it.’

The beer has made him think clearly. The sentence seems simple, but it is complex. The front door was locked from the inside. The alarms were switched on, the windows and doors locked. He swallows; suddenly he knows. The killer never left. He hid, killed, hid again. In the morning, the neighbour calls the cops. They force the door. They find the body, examine the scene. They leave with the alarm off, door locked cursorily. Plastic tape guards the property now. The killer drops down from his hiding space, walks out into the dark, disappears.

De Vries wonders what to do: call this Captain Small at Bellville to share his theory? He thinks not, reasoning that if it is to be him next, he would sooner face the threat without further attention. He recalls Mitchell Smith’s stuffy, scruffy house, thinks about waiting for hours in the roof, meditating on the vicious killing to be performed, climbing back and waiting again, hearing the police beneath you. He shivers. Beer arrives. He grabs it and drinks. Cake is placed in front of him. He stares at it.

As he reaches his building in the centre of town, the skies are so dark that it seems brighter in the underground car park than outside. The skies disgorge rain so torrential he can hear it even inside the massive concrete cavern of the main foyer. He travels up alone in the elevator, his mind fearful yet determined.

His squad-room is quiet, yet to begin its next investigation. He sees Don February at his desk in the corner, walks over to him. His Warrant Officer looks up at him, then stands.

‘Are you all right, sir?’

De Vries balks.

‘
Ja
. Why not?’

‘Your meeting? It did not go well?’

Don knows nothing but that De Vries was meeting some-one, for some reason. His secrecy ceases to bother him. It is his boss’s way.

‘No.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘Why are you here, Don? We agreed some home leave, just in case.’

‘I was called in by Mr Classon. I wanted to come in. I love my wife, but I do not like being a nurse. Here, I am completing the report on Nkosi. General Thulani requested the docket, all the files, everything.’

De Vries furrows his brow.

‘Why?’

‘He said that he had been instructed to conclude matters.’

De Vries looks around the empty squad-room.

‘Where is Mngomezulu?’

‘I heard . . .’ Don says quietly, ‘that he has been taken to Pretoria with the other men.’

‘What?’

‘I do not know the details.’

‘And Nkosi?’

‘He is still in the cells. General Thulani refused to release him.’

De Vries feels anger overtake all his fears. He turns away from Don, strides towards the elevators, jabs the call button. He is about to take the stairs when the doors open. He sees Norman Classon, tries to enter the lift, but Classon pushes him back out. He is surprised by the lawyer’s strength.

‘Come with me.’

Classon puts his arm around De Vries’s shoulders. Something in Classon’s tone persuades him to acquiesce. They walk back to the squad-room, into De Vries’s office. He calls for Don. They sit.

‘I already know what you’re thinking,’ Classon says. ‘Before you say anything, just hear what I have to say.’

De Vries nods.

‘Thulani and I drew up charges against everyone involved. He was hands-on, Vaughn, utterly determined. Nkosi, Mngomezulu, all the men at the docks. This morning, bloody Sunday morning, I get a call at 8 a.m. The Police Ministry contacted the Provincial Commander, and Thulani received orders directly from him that all of them should be released into the custody of the Central Independent Police Investigation Department in Pretoria. Thulani spent most of the morning with him and then on the phone to Pretoria. He fought his corner, Vaughn. I was there. I was impressed. But this comes from the Police Ministry – and above.’

‘What about Thwala?’

‘Nothing. The Ministry deny all knowledge, claim it is unconnected.’

‘You get the CCTV footage from the airport?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘They’re claiming it’s missing. Nothing from the security area at that time.’

‘Nothing surprises me.’

‘This will,’ Classon says. ‘Thulani refused to release Nkosi. Got me to find a legal clause which would prohibit him from being taken out of Province. Said it wasn’t going to happen.’

‘He’s still here?’

‘Yes. And it looks like he’s staying. Pretoria issued an internal memorandum stating that the others have been returned for investigation but that they were likely influenced by Nkosi and were only obeying orders.’

‘Sound familiar?’

De Vries looks down, shakes his head.

‘We still don’t have Nkosi. We don’t have forensics; we don’t have eyewitnesses. Not conclusive. Not so that he or some
crook
Advocate can’t deny it all, wriggle free. If he uses Thwala to negotiate, he could walk. We needed Mngomezulu, perhaps even the others, to provide substantive evidence.’

Classon says: ‘The guy was going to kill you. He admitted it to you.’

De Vries laughs dryly.

‘You think that matters? He’ll have some concocted story, the other guys will back him up. I only care about Angus Lyle and Taryn Holt. To use your terminology, they’re my clients. They deserve justice. And, for god’s sake,Thwala. What does he have to do with this?’

‘We put him there. We have to get him out.’

De Vries appreciates Classon’s use of the word ‘we’.

‘We’ve got what we’ve got,’ Classon says. ‘We have to work with it. That’s what we have to do ordinarily.’

‘And the others, sir?’

Classon turns to Don.

‘I don’t know, Warrant . . .’

‘I do,’ De Vries says. ‘I know exactly what will happen to the others. Nothing. Someone high up knew all about this, authorized it, and now the Police Ministry will play their game. They’ll be put on leave for a few weeks, sent somewhere else. Nkosi had his name changed, for Christ’s sake. You think he was an exception?’

‘We don’t know that,’ Classon says.

‘We do. We do, Norman. Is this what it’s going to be like for the rest of my career?’ De Vries lays his head on his desk, clenches his fists. ‘We’re supposed to serve the people, for fuck’s sake. Not the ANC, not the Nats, not any of them. You have a state police force, you might as well have an army. I thought that’s what they all fought for: a new way. You go down this route and what’s the point of anything that’s happened in the last twenty-five years? All you’ve done is change the colour of the oppressors.’

De Vries braces himself for the cold, knocks and enters General Thulani’s office. Thulani has his back to him, staring out of the window. Vaughn hears the clatter of rain against the windows; Thulani may not even have heard him knock.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’

Thulani turns, gestures to him to sit in the corner where there are two sofas at ninety degrees to one another. Thulani wanders over, sits heavily. Vaughn sits on the edge of his sofa, half at attention.

‘This is what it comes to, Colonel. I am at work on a Sunday, and I feel ashamed by what I do. This is a sad day for us. You have been told by Mr Classon, I understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I want you to be clear that this is not my doing. I believe that the Commander also argued against the release of the other prisoners. This comes from the National Head Office. From the top. We are powerless.’

‘We have Nkosi,’ De Vries says.

‘They have Thwala.’

‘Without wishing to be inhumane, sir, Nkosi is far more important.’

‘For now. We face a difficult problem with Nkosi. If it becomes clear that he can be convicted of his crimes, those who sent him will fear that he may testify against them. That will lead to greater pressure for his release back to them.’

De Vries says nothing.

‘That is not why I have asked you here, Colonel. I wish to inform you that everything is being done to seek the release and safe return of Sergeant Thwala. You are not to be involved. If there are to be negotiations, then they will be carried out by me or the Provincial Commander. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Additionally, I hope that we have a chance to facilitate this officer’s release at a meeting I wish you to attend this evening.’

‘Sir?’

‘It is impossible for you, Colonel, to understand what it was like to be part of the Struggle. Many brave, committed men died in the cause of the freedom we enjoy today. I lost my brother, shot down by the South African Police – yes, before we became what we are today – in 1983. Many of my friends were imprisoned; some disappeared. But, it was a fight which, somehow, had to be supported. Bheka Bhekifa fought. He risked his life and well-being and, when the time came, it was right that he should become a man of influence in our government. He fought for freedom and truth, and my respect for him was great.’

He meets De Vries’s eyes for the first time.

‘Using a contact we have with the private security company that monitors the properties in Bishopscourt, I have viewed footage of Sergeant Mngomezulu coming and going on three recent occasions at the house of Bheka Bhekifa. We have also confirmed that it is his voice on the tape you obtained.’

He stops. De Vries waits: he has no idea what is expected of him.

‘Before Sergeant Mngomezulu left, he asked that the office of Major Mabena was contacted. He assumed perhaps that he would receive immediate aid. I expect his welcome back in Pretoria to be less than warm.’

Thulani hauls himself up.

‘The connection is made. Bheka Bhekifa and Mngomezulu; Mngomezulu and Mabena. This evening, I intend to make a visit. I want you to come with me.’

‘Sir?’

‘The information we have uncovered, corroborated by your own investigation: it is quite clear. Julius Mngomezulu reported to Bhekifa, informed him of our highest-level decisions, the state of our major investigations. Bhekifa must choose either to support us, to support justice, or I will consider him the hidden hand behind these matters.’

De Vries nods at Thulani. The man has surprised him.

‘This is a sad day, Colonel. It has destroyed my faith in the political struggle which we now fight. The moment the ANC became a political party, it was corrupted, slowly but surely. It is a sad day for all of us.’

De Vries suspects that he is not included in the group classified as ‘us’.

‘But,’ Thulani adds, more in the tone to which De Vries is accustomed. ‘We will behave in a civil manner. It is appropriate that you are present with me to indicate that, here in the Western Cape, we are all as one in our pursuit of justice.’

‘A show of unity.’

‘Indeed. This is not a racial matter. It is not a political matter.

We must be above such things. I believe it is the basis of our years in the SAPS. We serve the people, not the state.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In the car, I will explain what you are to say.’

Schoolchildren, neighbours and their visitors, workmen – all walk down the road on which Vaughn de Vries’s house stands. If they travel by train, they walk across the little bridge above the Liesbeek River, over the crossroads and straight on down towards the steps to the station. His successful ex-wife, Suzanne, has insisted he keep the house as a base for their daughters, in case they choose to return to Cape Town. Vaughn would be just as happy in a small apartment in the centre of town but, for now, the familiarity of his family home reassures him.