Gun Dealing (The Ryder Quartet Book 2) (25 page)

As he thought of Ryder, he
instinctively touched the fractured orbital socket. The result of Ryder’s lucky
punch. He learned from the doctor who had treated him in Addington Hospital,
and who had been more concerned about the effects of concussion than the actual
fractures themselves, that there were three main types of orbital fracture. His
was a combination of two of them. He had an orbital rim fracture coupled with a
blowout fracture. He barely remembered what the doctor had said. No serious
fracture of the floor of the orbit, or something. But sinuses badly affected,
and something called the medial wall fractured. Rather than a serious orbital
floor fracture, which was normally the case in injuries like this. And all of
that was apart from the damage caused by the head-butt he had sustained in the
same fight with the cop. Rounded, depressed fractures of the anterior sinuses,
fracture of the nasal bone and cartilage, or something like that…

Whatever the doctor had said, Big Red
only half-recalled. What he knew for certain was that he had everything that
went with the diagnosis. All the symptoms the doctor warned him about. Blurry
vision. Difficulty looking left or right. Black and blue eyes. People looked at
him as if his face was one big birthmark. Bloated skin. Intense pain.

His week had been one hell of a week
centred
on antibiotics, ice packs, pain-killers, and
decongestants.

Detective Jeremy Ryder would pay for
this.

15.40.

Ryder clicked off after the call with
Pillay, but immediately pulled out his notes again. She had given him an idea.
Phone number one had provided the information to phone number three and phone
number three had then immediately phoned to check the information with Durban
North. Clear enough.

But what was it that Nadine Salm was
so fond of saying about facts and theories? Step back. Take a longer view.
Widen the frame. What else comes into focus?

He sketched a new diagramme for
himself.

Maybe, as Pillay had worked out,
phone number one had indeed possessed all the information and had relayed it to
phone number three who then immediately checked it with Durban North. But what
might have happened before that? How did phone number one get hold of the
information that he passed forward? Especially if, according to the perp lying
in hospital, phone number one had been lost and found by persons unknown. How
would such a person get hold of the private information?

His diagramme had phone number one at
the
centre
. From there he had arrows pointing out to
or from or between each of the three other cell-phones, along with an
additional phone which he
labelled
‘Durban North.’ He
forced his gaze to move away from phone number one. What else could have been
in play here?

Gradually he began to focus on phone
number two. What was it Van Rensburg had said? Not in his previous call, but in
his first call to Ryder? He had said something else about phone number two.
Phone number two, he’d said, was the first number called by number one’s
presumed new owner on Monday. Then number two had returned the
favour
on Wednesday. When? At 10.15 in the morning. Number
two had called number one and, according to Van Rensburg’s timings, had spent a
bit of time in the conversation.

And all of this just two hours before
number one decided to relay information to the instrument’s previous
favourite
numbers.

Maybe it was number two who had
originally passed on the information about Detective Jeremy Ryder.

And when Ryder had Skyped phone
number one anonymously, late last night, the man who answered must have been
taken off guard. He didn’t check the caller’s ID, and before he could think he
had asked whether the caller happened to be someone called Spikes.

Come
on, Koos. Call me. I need to know more about phone number two.

15.45.

Big Red finally left John Dory’s,
having psyched himself up into vengeful anger the more he thought of the cop he
hated so much.

The Lamborghini roared as he revved
before taking off. He hit Margaret Mncadi at speed, ducking into the traffic
and roaring away from the drivers who were hitting their horns in fury at his
impertinence, before immediately dropping back as he raised his hand to give
them the finger and they saw the size of his biceps.

Within a minute he was shooting up
toward the old Toll Gate, and from there he roared his way into Westville.

All the way thinking about Detective
Jeremy Ryder.

15.50.

‘Jeremy?’

‘Koos. I thought it might be you. I’m
waiting with bated breath.’

‘OK, Jeremy. I’ll tell you the latest
news.’

‘Shoot.’

‘It’s going very badly.’

‘What?’

‘It’s a total disaster, Jeremy.’

‘What’s happened, Koos?’

‘I don’t know how to tell you,
Jeremy.’

‘Tell me, dammit, Koos!’

‘
Ag
,
Jeremy, the Sharks are being hammered, man...’

‘What the blazes…?’

Van Rensburg’s peals of laughter were
echoed by the laughter of what Ryder assumed were the three geeks in the room
with him.

‘Sorry, Jeremy. Bad joke, man. The
kick-off is still a few minutes away.’

‘
Jeez
,
Koos. You’re a cruel man. Do you beat your wife?’

‘No way, Jeremy. You should see my
wife. Bigger than you. Bigger than any of the guys in the front row of the
Sharks, too. Anyway, Jeremy, we got phone number two.’

Ryder knew the answer before he heard
it.

‘The phone is registered to a guy by
the name of Mkhize.’

16.05.

Squeezed in among many other close
friends and relatives, Mavis Tshabalala sat on the floor.
She leaned back against a wall in the modest kitchen of the Ngobeni
family. Captain Nyawula sat alone in a corner opposite, on one of the hard
straight-backed chairs. Pillay had just arrived, and found a seat in the
passage just beyond on a hard plastic crate normally used for carrying
bottles.The
three of them were the only people in police
uniform.

Most of the mourners were in the
kitchen because that was the largest room, spreading L-shaped into another room
that had been cleared of furniture for the occasion. A few chairs and cushions
had been brought in by
neighbours
. They lined every
available cupboard and wall-space. Other cushions, scattered on the floor, were
also occupied. Chairs and boxes had been placed against one wall of the passage
leading from the kitchen so that the overflow could be accommodated. Younger
people from the
neighbourhood
looked through the
windows or sat on the ground outside in groups, whispering.

Inside, a mournful hymn was being
hummed, quietly, by those who could manage. The rest wept quietly in silence.
No-one conversed.

Sinethemba Ngobeni’s grandmother was
clutching the hands, on either side of her, of the broken mother and father.
The grandmother looked stronger than either of the parents. Her jaw was
clenched and her mouth set firmly, as if resolutely prepared against the evil
that had been perpetrated upon this family.

The uniform cap of a policewoman lay
perched on a cushion placed upon a box in the
centre
of the room. A simple sign on a white postcard rested against the cap. It
displayed the words written in block capitals: ‘Sinethemba - We Have Hope.’

Around the box were layers of cards,
flowers, mementoes, and scribbled notes.

My
dearest friend.

The
best of the best.

Ngiyakuthanda!

The
thin blue line.

Hamba
kahle, Sine.

We
all have hope.

A young priest entered the room and
gently brought things to order, then led with a simple prayer. When he
concluded, another young man spoke from the doorway telling them that the
procession would be leaving in a few moments for the church, where the service
would commence in one hour and thirty minutes. Other people were already
gathering, he said, but the front rows on both sides of the church had been
reserved for family and close friends, so there was no need to hurry.

The people inside the house began to
stir, slowly. Quiet keening or silent contemplation gave way to brief whispered
exchanges, and they all gradually moved outside into the street to form up.

As the grandmother, supported on one
side by Sinethemba’s mother and on the other by her father, moved from the
front gate into the street, the crowd parted for them as if for Moses
commanding the waters.

Nyawula put his arm around Mavis and
gave her a supporting hug as they lined up behind the family. Pillay stood on
the other side of her, holding her hand. The three of them
 
exchanged no words.

The procession formed. At a signal
from the young man who had called them to order, it started off slowly, moving
down the street toward the distant church. As they did so the crowd began to
sing. The words and haunting melody of
Thinantsha
sounded mournfully at first, but gathered buoyancy as the procession moved down
the dusty road, gathering
neighbours
and friends from
every street corner on its long journey. They arrived in their hundreds and
joined in behind.

A distant police siren sounded as it
passed by on the nearby freeway, as if heralding the next phase in an ongoing
struggle.

13.30.

Pillay and Ryder pulled up in the
street outside Nomivi’s Tavern. They could see an immediate scurrying from
inside the tavern as they pulled up, and someone rushed out and around to the
back even before they had locked the car. Within less than a minute Spikes Mkhize
was walking toward them, doubtless having given strict instructions to the
woman who had rushed to the back to warn him, and he had probably tasked her
with cleaning up whatever illegal stuff might be on display.

‘
Heita!
detectives. Welcome to Nomivi’s
again. Long time no see. Only last week,
nè?
’

‘Maybe we can make it a regular
arrangement,
Mr
Mkhize. We could call in here once or
twice a week for lunch and to check on you. No problem.’

‘
Hau
,
Inspector Ryder, is not fair. Is not fair. Spikes Mkhize is friends with lots
of policemen. No need to check up on Spikes. Hullo, Inspector Pillay. Is good
the police they work on Sunday. Sunday is bad time for the
skelms
. Other people they in church. Is better for the police to be
here.’

‘
Mr
Mkhize.’

‘
Yebo
,
Inspector.’

‘Detective. I’m Detective Ryder.’

‘Is it?
Hau!
I was thinking you a big chief,
Mr
Jeremy. Detective Ryder. Is good. Not Inspector. I remember now.’

‘
Mr
Mkhize.’

‘
Yebo
,
Detective.’

‘How is your friend,
Mr
Thabethe?’

‘Thabethe? That one?
Eish!
 
That one, Skhura Thabethe, he is maybe
there in Gauteng, maybe Richards Bay, maybe Umlazi. He’s staying lots of
places, that one. That telephone, you find him?’

‘No. The cell-phone we gave you, and
that you agreed to hand over to
Mr
Thabethe last week
so that we could track him, is somewhere in Swaziland.’

‘Hau!
That Thabethe, yes, I remember one
time he was telling me he’s got the family in Swaziland. So he is visiting
there by them now?’

‘We don’t think so,’ said Pillay

‘No?’

‘No,’ she continued, ‘we think it’s
just the cell-phone that is visiting Swaziland. All alone.’

Mkhize paused. No wisecrack this
time.

‘We think you might have put the
cell-phone on a truck or a lorry heading for Swaziland,
Mr
Mkhize,’ Pillay persisted.

‘
Hayibo
!
Not me, detectives, not Spikes. You remember you ask me...’

‘I remember you made a suggestion,
Mr
Mkhize,’ said Ryder. ‘It was your suggestion. It would
be a good idea, you said, to bug Thabethe’s cell-phone so that we could trace
him. You wanted him off your back. You didn’t like him. He was a
skelm
. A bad guy. You didn’t want him
bothering you anymore so you suggested to us that we give you a cell-phone to
give to him so that we could trace him.’

‘Is true,
Mr
Jeremy. Is true. That idea was not working, then? The phone it is gone?’

‘So tell me,
Mr
Mkhize.’

‘Yes,
Mr
Jeremy.’

‘Thabethe is a
skelm,
you say?’

‘
Hau!
Skelm! Skabenga!
Thabethe. That one?
Hayi!
Definitely, he is a big bad one, that one!’ He laughed loudly. Cackled.
Thoroughly enjoyed himself. The detectives stood, poker-faced, until his
laughter could not continue without it being obviously forced, and he stopped.

‘And there we were, thinking that he
was your friend. But you tell us he’s not your friend.’

‘Is true, what you say, Detective
Ryder. Is true. That Skhura...’

The detectives paused and let him
stew. They had originally decided that at this point they would pull the carpet
out from under his feet and ask him why, if Thabethe was not his friend, he was
speaking to him on his new cell-phone. On Monday night at 9.30, then on
Wednesday at 10.20, and again on Thursday at 13.00. But they had then thought a
little further through such a strategy and they had decided that Mkhize could
wriggle out, arguing ‘wrong number’ or ‘pest
 
caller’ or something else. Instead they
had decided merely to plant some seeds and then retreat, allowing Mkhize time
to react and then allowing Van Rensburg and his hobbits to monitor phone
numbers one and two a little further in order to see what that might lead to.

‘So anyway,
Mr
Mkhize,’ said Pillay, ‘we wanted you to know that we’ve lost track of that old
cell-phone from last week, but we are still looking for
Mr
Thabethe. You’ll call us, won’t you, when you hear anything about where he is?’

‘Definitely, Detective. Definitely,
Mrs
Pillay. Me, I got the friends. They talk to me. If they
tell me they see Skhura Thabethe, I will call you and tell you what they tell
me. Is good.’

It crossed Ryder’s mind to throw into
the pot something about Mkhize’s daughters and his mother, but he thought that
that might be powder worth keeping dry for the moment. Instead, he gave the
signal to Pillay and they withdrew, with much obsequious bowing and scraping
from Mkhize.

They drove away, and Mkhize’s false
smile faded instantly. He was very unsettled. These two cops seemed to know a
lot more than they were telling. He would have to get hold of Thabethe.

13.50

Big Red drove the Lamborghini away
from his Westville home, heading for the city. He drove slowly. He was
distracted. His breathing was constricted, as if some great pressure was
building inside his massive chest. He could feel the pulse in his temple, and
it brought a painful reminder of the damage done to his eye socket. The
bruising on his face was massive. He glanced at himself in the mirror and his
anger increased.

He had been doing research all
morning. He now began to think that he knew Jeremy Ryder better than most
people in the trade. Knew where he lived, now. Just down the road from him, in
fact. Maybe he should case the joint. He was prepared to do damage not only to
Ryder but to his family, too. Perhaps, soon, a night visit to the Ryder home?

As he came off the glide onto the
highway, leaving Westville, he glanced over to his right. Somewhere down there,
the Ryder home. Maybe he would come back that way one night just to have a
look.

But he was too careful to get into
that kind of thing himself. He needed to hire the right kind of guy. Someone
who wouldn’t blink if push came to shove. Someone who had the right kind of
experience. Someone who would kill without hesitation. Someone who hated cops
as much as he did.

As he came up the highway toward the
Toll Gate he reached for his iPhone. Time to call the intermediary who would
then put a call through to Mkhize. Who would then contact Thabethe, so that the
deal could go down.

14.00.

Thabethe took the call on the first
ring.

‘
Yebo
.’

‘Skhura, is me.’

‘Talk, Spikes.’

‘That Big Red. He says you must go to
Wilson’s Wharf.’

‘I’m there, Spikes.’

‘What you say?’

‘I’m there. I’m there at Wilson’s.
I’m there right now. Where is he?’

‘
Hau
,
old Skhura.
Wena
!
Hau!
OK. He is saying you must come
there but only at 3.00 o’clock.’

‘Where, Spikes? Where must I meet
him?’

‘He is saying he will look for you at
3.00 o’clock. One hour from now. He is saying you must walk in front of the
Yacht Club there.’

‘3.00 in front of the Yacht Club?’

‘
Eh-heh,
bra
.’

‘
Sharp
,
Spikes. We talk later.’

‘OK, Skhura. We talk later. You call
me.’

‘OK.’

‘Wait, Skhura.’

‘What?’

‘That Ryder and that
charra
woman. They were visiting me
today lunchtime. At Nomivi’s. Nomivi’s is becoming too hot for me.’

‘What they asking you, Spikes?’

‘They looking for you,
bra.
That cell-phone from last week? You
throwing the phone on the lorry to get rid of
amaphoyisa
? They tell me, those cops, they tell me your phone is
there in Swaziland.’

Mkhize chuckled at the thought of the
cops on a wild goose chase after a decoy phone.

‘They ask me if I know where you are
and I’m saying I don’t know where you are. I’m saying maybe you visit friends
or family there in Swaziland.’

He guffawed at the thought. Thabethe
paused.

‘You there, Skhura?’

‘I’m here, Spikes. I’m here. We talk
later. We must get this Ryder.’

‘
Yebo
,
Skhura. We get that one, and that
charra
woman.’

‘’We talk later.’

Thabethe hung up. He had an hour to
kill before Big Red would look out for him. Maybe he could explore around among
the small boats moored in front of the Yacht Club. It was from one of those
boats that Big Red used to deal, and where Thabethe had on occasion bought the
stuff from him. But he knew it wouldn’t be the same boat this time. When the
cops took down Big Red they took down his boat. He must be working from another
one. Or he might not be working from a boat this time.

 Thabethe walked slowly along
the wharf, trying to appear like a man with no purpose other than strolling in
the sun. But his eyes were hard at work, scanning each vessel he passed,
looking for any sign that might suggest the presence of the big man.

14.15.

The Ryders were watching the recorded
Sharks match on television. Sugar-Bear was barking hysterically, because Fiona
had suddenly leapt from the sofa and screamed in anguish as the Sharks knocked
on yet again while scrambling toward the
tryline
a
mere five
metres
away. Now she was on her knees in
front of the television set, forehead on the floor, hands splayed out on the
carpet before her. Sugar-Bear whimpered and licked her face, not understanding
her distress but trying to resuscitate her.
 
Ryder sat in the sofa, numbed and
drained. Exhausted. Despairing. Both of them were distraught as they watched
their team go down the tubes.

‘I can’t stand this any longer,’ she
said, leaping to her feet. ‘Another beer?’

‘Please.’

‘I’m going to switch teams, I swear.
I can’t take this. I’m going to be a Bull’s supporter next season.’

‘I’ll divorce you.’

‘You can’t expect me to carry on
suffering like this.’

‘They’ll come right. Eventually.’

‘Not in my lifetime.’

She went to the kitchen. The moment
she left the room the Sharks got an interception on their own twenty-two
metre
line and ran all the way up the field to score a try
between the posts, and it was Ryder’s turn to leap to his feet and scream at
the TV at full volume as he willed them on, all the way to the line -
yes! yes! yes! yes! yes!
- while
Sugar-Bear went hysterical again. Fiona came running back with the two beers,
just in time to see the spectacular flight of the player swooping over the
line, like a dolphin in full flight, to ground the ball for a magical five
points.

‘I can’t believe it! Just as I leave
the bloody room. Re-wind, quickly. I want to see that.’

Ryder re-wound and hit the ‘play’
button, and they both admired the beauty of the moment as it played again.

‘Maybe. Just maybe,’ she said, as
they both swigged from their bottles. Shall we call the boys to come and
watch?’

‘No. They won’t.’

‘What? Why not? Where are they?’

‘They’re in their rooms. Recovering
from the holiday. They won’t come. You know they don’t like the way you behave
when the Sharks are playing. Don’t embarrass them.’

She punched him hard on the arm. But
she knew he was right, so she dropped the suggestion and settled in for the
rest of the match, snuggling up to him.

15.15.

Thabethe sat with Big Red, who looked
even more like a giant in the constricted confines of the boat. Red counted out
the cash and handed over the bundle.

‘It’s a pleasure doing business with
you again,
Mr
Thabethe. I’m sure you’ll agree that
I’ve given you a good price.’

‘Is good. Is not bad.’

‘You can more than double that on the
street, yes?’

‘Maybe.’

‘In fact I think you can more than
treble that on the street.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I hope you don’t mind that I worked
through your friend and not you. I don’t like too many people knowing how to
get hold of me. I’d rather get hold of them.’