‘What?’ Yudel demanded as they entered a small office at the back of the building.
Lieutenant Moloi was seated at a table with two handsome black girls, one on either side of him. He was writing in a notepad. An open bottle of beer was within arm’s length. He was wearing a collarless West African shirt and jeans, his uniform on a hanger against the wall, his left hand on the knee of the girl on that side. He leapt to his feet. ‘Deputy Commissioner.’
Freek had adopted his stern, senior officer demeanour. ‘Working hard, Lieutenant?’
‘These ladies are assisting me with an evaluation of the company’s strategy.’ He held out a hand to Yudel. ‘Louis Moloi,’ he said.
‘Yudel Gordon.’
Freek glanced at the ladies in question. ‘Perhaps you ladies could give us a moment alone with the lieutenant,’ he said.
Both rose, one of them saluting. ‘Please don’t take him away,’ she said. ‘He’s so clever. He’s turning the business around.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of parting you,’ Freek told them. As soon as they were out of the room, he turned to Moloi. ‘He’s so clever, turning the business around?’
‘Well, since I came we’ve made some strategic adjustments that have already increased revenues and the ladies’ earnings. So everyone’s very happy. And the sole shareholder, which is us, is also doing much better.’
Not many things surprised Freek. This one did. ‘All this in two days?’ he asked.
‘Almost three. I’ve been working hard.’
‘And what have you changed?’ Freek’s face still held its stern senior officer expression.
‘I looked at the cars driven by our clients and decided they could pay more. So I changed our standard package to a two-hour treatment, instead of half an hour or an hour. And I upped the rate per half hour by twenty-five per cent. We’re getting more clients than before and making twice the money.’
‘Anything else?’
‘We also worked on the treatment, refining it.’
‘Treatment? That’s the term you use?’
Moloi shrugged.
‘Who did the refining?’
‘Mostly the ladies. I offered a few suggestions.’
Freek looked from Moloi’s eager face to Yudel’s stunned one. ‘What do you think, Mr Gordon?’
‘I think the lieutenant has found his calling.’
Johannesburg Central Business District – 1 405 kilometres from the Freedom Foundation
OLIVER HALL
had waited too long to be patient now. The years in prison had been a torment that he had only been able to endure because he knew that his day would come. He had always felt in some deep, secret place within him that freedom would again be his. Now it was.
The task given to him by Enslin Kruger so exactly fitted his own needs and desires that it could have been designed to reward him. In his mind he saw the face of Beloved Childe, looking at him across the table after Yudel had been called away. And he remembered how that little Gordon bastard had not wanted to go. He had seen looks on the faces of women just like the one he saw on Beloved’s face. I know a randy woman when I see one, he thought. She knew he was coming out and she would be waiting.
And he had seen women who looked like that as they died. He knew what that was like too. And it had been too long since he had last seen that.
And then there was the matter of Elia Dlomo and his woman. Down the years, Hall had heard about Jenny Pregnalato more than once. Some years before he had even paid to get her address. He had written it down on a piece of paper that was now tight against his skin in the back pocket of his pants. Not that he needed the paper. The address was carried indelibly in his mind. Hall never forgot what was important to him. The way Kruger knew what it would take to destroy Yudel, he knew what it would take to destroy Dlomo.
Before he had boarded the minibus taxi to take him the sixty kilometres from Pretoria to Johannesburg, he already had a clear idea of how he would travel to Cape Town and make that one pleasurable stop along the way. He had been given too little money to travel by air. That did not matter. Air and train travel held essentially the same distrust for him. In both, once you were on board and moving you were trapped. You could perhaps jump from a train, but if it was moving fast you might kill yourself. That was not a chance he intended to take.
The walk from the Noord Street taxi rank to the house where his brother lived took almost an hour. The house was much as he remembered it, but if anything it was in better shape. The roof and walls were newly painted, and the garden wall was higher now. A new, heavier gate with an intercom had been installed. He pressed the button and the gate’s lock clicked open. Someone inside was expecting him.
A narrow strip of grass in front of the house was neatly trimmed. A few petunias grew in a small bed on one side. The curtains were open, but he could not see into the front room through the heavy lace curtain.
Hall hesitated only a moment at the bottom of the short cement path before approaching the house and knocking on the front door. He thought he heard a voice from inside, but a truck was passing in the road and he could not be sure. He knocked again. This time he could make out the voice of his brother and what he was saying. ‘Come in, Oliver. Come inside.’
The knife was holstered below Hall’s left armpit. He had told them what he wanted and they had got it exactly right. The haft of the knife pressed lightly against his upper arm. If needed it would be in his right hand in less than a second.
The door opened at a gentle push. The entrance hall was dark compared to the daylight outside and his eyes took a moment to adjust. A few doors opened out of the hall. ‘Come in, Oliver.’ He heard his brother’s voice again. It seemed to be coming from the first door on his right.
He stopped in the doorway. Ashton was seated at a small desk, facing the door. A three-eight special lay in front of him. A small, white, woollyhaired dog at his fleet was growling softly. Ashton had changed almost beyond recognition in the years since Hall had last seen him. His face, which had been lean, was puffy now. His body too had become heavy and distended. He seemed to be breathing with difficulty. But his voice was the same. Even after all this time, Hall would have recognised it in a crowd. ‘Come in, Oliver,’ he said, ‘but just two steps.’
‘Ashton, my man …’ Hall’s face glowed with warmth.
‘Just two steps, no more, then stop.’
The two steps took him away from the doorway. The dog barked once, a shrill soprano sound, then went back to growling, but with greater intensity now. Hall nodded in the direction of the animal. ‘That thing supposed to protect you?’
‘This is what protects me.’ Ashton waggled the revolver at his brother. It was in his right hand now, and the hand was resting on the surface of the desk. In its present position it was pointing at Hall’s genital region. With the slightest movement it could find a target in his gut, heart or head. Hall considered that his genitalia were a serious enough target. ‘And the gun? What’s the gun for?’
‘I was told this morning you were released yesterday. I’ve been expecting you. The gun is to welcome you.’
‘Christ, Ashton.’ The sound of his voice was all injured innocence.
‘The jacket, take off the jacket. Touch nothing else, just the jacket.’
‘Jesus, Ashton—’
‘Just take it off.’
Hall knew that once his jacket was off the knife would be useless. If he moved first and Ashton hesitated or fumbled for only a moment he would die for his clumsiness. On the other hand, all Ashton had to do was pull the trigger, an action that would take perhaps a quarter of a second. The little dog was trembling.
‘The jacket,’ Ashton said again. His voice was deliberately low and reasonable. ‘Take off your jacket.’ He had lifted the gun off the surface of the table. The barrel was now pointed somewhere in the region of Hall’s solar plexus.
‘I came because I need some help from my brother. I thought I could get some help …’ The knife’s handle was an insistent pressure against his left bicep.
‘The jacket,’ Ashton said again. ‘Take off the jacket. Remember, you’re a murderer who’s breaking the conditions of his parole. I won’t even be charged.’
Hall slipped out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. The dog made a dash forward, but stopped almost immediately.
‘Come, Rosie. Come back.’
‘Sweet little thing,’ Hall said. He had seen his brother’s eyes follow the dog when it moved, but the distraction had been too brief. And yet, maybe the little mongrel would yet be useful.
Ashton’s eyes found the knife, but he showed no surprise. ‘Now, unbuckle the holster and let it fall to the floor. If you touch the knife – or my dog – I’ll fire.’
‘Jesus, I thought … Just tell me why.’ Hall was still trying the injured innocence approach.
‘You know me and I definitely know you. Don’t touch the knife. Just unbuckle the holster. Any wrong move and I got a hair trigger here.’
Hall did as he was told and the holster dropped to his feet.
‘Now take a step back.’
Hall followed the instruction. He knew he was now too far from the knife to make any kind of move. But the moment may come when Ashton would be distracted. It would only have to be a moment. He tilted his head in a gesture intended to take in the neatly furnished room and its contents. ‘Things going good for you, I see.’
Ashton ignored the remark. ‘What do you want?’
‘I need your car and your
ID
.’
As if life around you was that simple, Ashton thought. ‘What happens after that?’
‘Then I’ll be gone and I won’t ever be coming back.’
‘I got no car. The radiator’s in for repair.’
Hall had seen no car in the street outside and the houses had no garages, so it could be true. ‘Can you get one for me?’
‘No. I got money for you though. I knew you gonna be coming so I drew all the money I got.’
‘How much?’
‘Five hundred.’
‘It’s not much.’ Hall knew Ashton was lying. ‘I’ll take it. What about your
ID
?’
‘My driver’s licence picture was taken before I put on the weight. You can have it. It’s the only
ID
I got.’
‘Okay.’ There was no need for thanks. He knew Ashton was trying to make a deal that would get rid of him permanently. He would take what he could get. The permanent part would look after itself. ‘But I need my knife.’
‘Leave the knife where it lies.’
‘Give me the knife and the five hundred and I’ll go and you’ll never see me after this.’
Ashton threw the small roll of notes across the room. It landed at his brother’s feet and stopped against his shoes. Hall glanced down and, as he did, the driver’s licence card landed next to the money. The dog growled again. ‘Good throw,’ Hall said.
‘Pick them both up carefully and get out. Keep away from the knife.’
Hall picked up the money and the driver’s licence. ‘I’m going to need my knife.’
‘Get outa here. When you outside you can have the knife.’
Hall started towards the hall, but stopped before he reached it. ‘There should also be a message on your computer for me.’
‘I printed it out. It’s in amongst the money. You’ll find it there.’
‘Okay.’
‘Now, fuck off. For two seconds while you in the hall I won’t be able to see you. If you not on the stoep in three seconds where I can see you, I’m coming and this time I will pull the trigger.’
‘And my knife?’
‘Get outside, down by the gate. I’ll throw the knife.’
‘You don’t need to worry. I’m not coming back. I’m never coming back.’ Hall had never forgotten the padlock on the inside of the shed where his brother slept as a teenager or a great many other indications of his brother’s knowledge of him. He did not even pause in the hall. He crossed the stoep and went down the path without looking back. Behind him he heard the little dog’s shrill bark.
With an effort Ashton rose from the chair and moved to the window. He threw the holstered knife in the direction of the gate where his brother was waiting, but closed the window before it landed. He watched his brother pick up the knife and holster. Carrying them in one hand, he set off in the direction of the city centre. Ashton stayed at the window until he was out of sight around the first corner. It was only then that he became aware of the presence of his wife, next to him. In her right hand she had the point two-two that she usually kept in her handbag. ‘Did you give him the money?’
‘Yes, and my driver’s licence.’
‘Is he coming back?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Any time. We gotto get outa here now. We can go to your sister’s place.’
‘For how long, do you think?’
‘I dunno. He’ll be back inside in a few months max. Then they won’t let him out again. We gotta stay at Margaret’s till then.’
‘Oh God, Ash. Are you sure they won’t let him out?’
‘With his record? Absolutely I’m sure,’ Ashton lied. He knew how erratically parole decisions were made and that there was no telling how long his brother would be inside next time. ‘Next time they’ll keep him inside for good,’ he told his wife.
Ashton’s wife was not convinced. She knew that other criminals may rob you and even hurt you, but they would stop at that. Oliver was different. He would never stop. Nothing would be enough for him.
SOLOMON RIEKERT
had been a twenty-five-year-old detective constable back in 1994 when the apartheid government fell. During the early years of transition, he had been a problem to his officers, twice getting into fights with black constables and three times being reported for insubordination by black officers.
Now, seventeen years later, Riekert was still a constable. He liked to think that this was because the department was now run by a bunch of useless black racists who would never let him get ahead. The truth was different though. He was a man of limited intelligence and deep prejudices that clouded every aspect of his judgement. No sensible management was ever likely to promote him.
His view of life had made his immediate seniors wonder about the wisdom of giving him Jonas Mahlangu as a partner. It seemed a recipe for utter disaster. At their first meeting Mahlangu appeared to hate Riekert as much as the white man hated him.