Cobra (23 page)

Tyrone began to shake uncontrollably. ‘I don’t have anything . . .’

‘You stole a wallet at the Waterfront this morning.’

He said nothing.

‘Do you have the wallet on you now?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why are you being funny, Tyrone. Do you want me to hurt your sister?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have the wallet on you now?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want you to look in the wallet. There should be a memory card in there.’

His heart leaped. A memory card? There was no memory card there. ‘There’s just cash and credit cards . . .’ he said.

‘I want you to look very carefully,Tyrone. Take your time.’

‘You will stay on the line?’

‘I will stay on the line.’

He sat down on a garden bench, put his cellphone down beside him, took out the wallet. Trembling, his fingers riffled through the cash. There was nothing slipped between the notes.

The wallet had three flaps for bank cards. He went through each one.

He found it in the back flap, when he pushed his fingers into a sleeve that seemed empty from the outside at first. He pulled it out.

A blue card, light and thin.
Verbatim SDXC. 64GB.

He grabbed the phone. ‘I have it.’

‘I want you to look at the card,Tyrone.’

‘I’m looking.’

‘That card is your sister’s life. If you lose it, she dies. If you break it, she dies. If you damage it in any way, and I can’t read the data, I will kill your sister. I will shoot her right between the eyes . . .’

‘Please!’ screamed Tyrone, and squeezed the memory card tightly in his hand. ‘I will give it to you.’

‘That’s good. Where are you now?’

‘I’m in the Gardens.’

‘Where is that?’

‘In Cape Town.’

‘That’s good. Did you call your sister from a mobile?’

‘A cellphone. Yes.’

‘And you will keep this phone with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you will keep it on?’

‘Yes.’

‘That is good,Tyrone. I will call you.’

‘When?’ he asked with fear in his voice.

But the line was already dead.

Mbali, Griessel, and Cupido watched Sergeant Lithpel Davids play the video back for them. They saw Knippies, the pickpocket, catch up with Lillian and attract her attention. He held the hair clip up in front of her while his right hand fiddled with her handbag.

Smooth as silk, and fast. They observed the thief’s skill, the woman’s nervousness.

‘Lithpel, stop. What did he steal out of the handbag?’

Davids rewound the video. They watched again, but the pickpocket’s hand was too fast. The item could not be identified.

‘Try slow motion,’ said Cupido.

‘Won’t help,’ said Lithpel, but he did it.

The stolen item was still only a light brown, fast-moving blur behind the thief’s hand.

‘It’s a package of some sort,’ said Mbali.

‘Play it further,’ said Griessel.

The camera turned slowly to follow Knippies when he walked away, showing how the two security guards grabbed him and escorted him to the shopping centre door, until they disappeared out of the image.

‘That bro is a pro,’ said Cupido. ‘But they all get caught in the end.’

‘You see that screen there?’ asked Mbali, and pointed at one of the smaller CCTV screens.

‘Yes,’ said Lithpel.

‘Can you get the video to play back to the time of the crime?’

‘Of course.’

‘We’ll have to hurry,’ said Griessel.

Lithpel operated the mouse, moved the cursor on the computer screen. A new image appeared on the main screen – the scene in the corridor of the shopping centre outside the control room – and then became a comical fast-moving blur of people hurrying backwards when he rewound it at high speed. In the bottom corner a time indicator ran back just as fast.

‘Around nine o’clock,’ said Mbali.

Lithpel rewound past the two officials bringing Knippies in. He stopped the video, fast forwarded, missed it again. ‘Dammit,’ he said, then found the right moment and played it back.

The time code said 08:49:09:01. The guards pushed and pulled Knippies, the pickpocket’s arm pressed up high against his back.

‘Now just let it roll.’

‘We don’t have time,’ said Griessel. ‘Can you speed it up a bit?’

‘OK.’

The speed doubled. The three people disappeared, camera left.

Shoppers hurried past. Everyone on a linear path to the inside or outside.

Only one man walked diagonally across the walkway, in the direction of the door. Disappeared.

‘Stop,’ said Mbali. ‘That guy.’

Lithpel manipulated the video, wound it back, played it at normal speed.

The man was athletic, tall, light brown complexion. Black wind-cheater, his right hand in his pocket. The head in the baseball cap was subtly but unmistakably bowed, as though he was aware of the cameras. At 08:49:31:17.

‘That’s him,’ said Cupido.

‘I don’t know . . .’ said Griessel.

‘That’s him, pappie,’ said Cupido.

‘Who?’ asked Mbali.

‘The Cobra.’

She drew a sharp breath to ask something, but Griessel pre-empted her.

‘I’ll tell you everything later,’ he said, and looked at his watch. ‘Lithpel, speed it up. I want to see who comes out.’

Fast forward. Just over five minutes later, and a dark figure sped diagonally across the walkway. ‘There he is,’ said Lithpel. He worked the console, found the right point. 08:55:02:51. Normal speed. Knippies ran, long skinny legs stretched, arms pumping.

‘Stop,’ said Griessel, and leaned closer. ‘Can you make it sharper.’

‘No,’ said Lithpel. ‘Motion blur, nothing you can do.’

‘OK,’ said Griessel.

‘Play it, Sergeant,’ said Mbali.

Lithpel let the video run. Knippies disappeared from camera range. And then the man in the baseball cap ran across the image. With a rucksack in his hand.

‘Look,’ said Mbali.

‘Wait,’ said Griessel. He raised his hands, as though to make everything stand still for a moment. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking over what they had here, and what lay ahead.

His colleagues looked at him expectantly.

Griessel opened his eyes. ‘Vaughn, the passage door out there. See if it locks from inside. If the SSA come, delay them for as long as possible.’

Cupido smiled happily and left in a hurry.

‘Lithpel, can you hide the videos? Or put them on a system where only you can find them?’

‘The files are too big, Cappie, we don’t have time. All I can do now is delete them.’

‘Do it.’

‘Benny, that’s tampering with evidence,’ said Mbali, deeply concerned.

‘Mbali, we’ve already seen the evidence. The SSA are not criminal investigators.’

‘You will be in trouble.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Lithpel, erase the videos.’

‘Roger, Cappie.’

They heard someone hammering on the door.

Griessel moved fast. He took his iPhone out of his pocket. ‘Does your phone have a camera?’ he asked Mbali.

‘Yes.’

Griessel aimed his cellphone at the notice board and took a picture of Knippies. ‘If you could take the same photo? Just in case . . .’

‘OK,’ she said, and dug in her handbag.

Bellowing, indignant voices out in the corridor.

Suddenly the doorway darkened. ‘Everybody out,’ said the herd leader of the State Security Agency. ‘Right now.’

28

Tyrone sat curled up on the bench in the Company Gardens, cellphone and wallet in one hand, memory card clutched in the other. He scarcely heard the footsteps that shuffled up to him, and only properly registered when the shadow fell across him.

‘Brother,’ came the voice abruptly, making Tyrone jump.

‘What?’

‘
Askies
, brother, I didn’t know you were meditating.’

It was a
bergie
, a little, crumpled man, bent right over. The tramp’s apologetic grin was nearly toothless.

Tyrone was back in reality. He stood up, pushed the wallet and cellphone instinctively and hastily into his pocket as he walked away.

‘Now where you going, brother? No offence, five rand for a loaf of bread, children didn’t eat last night, you’ve got it good, I saw.’ The whining words came ever faster as Tyrone walked away. The beggar pursued him. ‘
Moenie soe wies nie,
brother, hey man, don’t be like that. Show some solidarity, show some charity, just five rand . . .’

Charity
. Tyrone stopped.

The
bergie
was startled by this turn of events. He took a step backwards.

Never forget charity,Tyrone. To ease another’s heartache is to forget one’s own.

Tyrone took out the wallet. He carefully put the memory card away in its original place. He remembered an Uncle Solly quote:
But you don’t just give when you have. A bone to the dog, that’s not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog when you are just as hungry as the dog.

He took out a fifty-rand note from the stolen wallet and gave it to the man.

‘God bless you, brother.’ The little grubby hands made the note disappear like a stage magician, and then he, too, melted away, as though he were afraid Tyrone would regret his lavishness.

Tyrone began walking towards Queen Victoria Street.

Keep moving.

He could think while he walked.

A pickpocket can’t afford to hang around. Keep moving.

He could handle the dreadful tension inside better if he was moving.

OK, so this is what happened. He stole the wrong wallet, on the wrong day.

It wasn’t a drug deal gone south.

The mall cops were dead because he stole the wrong wallet, at the wrong time.

And now they had Nadia. For the same reasons.

Keep moving.

It didn’t help to beat himself up over this mess. He had to get Nadia out of there. Then he would worry about himself.

It was easy. He would just swap the card for his sister.

Then why are you so afraid?

He walked along Perth and Vredenburg, towards Long Street.

He was afraid, because that
guy
with those eyes, a guy who strolled in so calm and collected and shot mall cops, like one, two, three, four, five, fish in a barrel, no emotions . . . That guy wasn’t going to stand there and say: ‘Thanks, my brother, pleasure doing business with you’. He was going to take his memory card, and he was going to shoot him and his sister just like that.

He shivered, because he had got Nadia involved in all this. If they laid a finger on his sister . . . His heart beat in his throat. He turned left into Long Street and walked south, towards the mountain.

Keep moving.

Get those pictures out of your head. Think.

Tyrone Kleinbooi slowly suppressed his fears, and he walked, and he thought. He went through the whole thing from the beginning. He must forget about what happened to him, he must get into the mind of the man with the cool eyes, he must get a bird’s-eye view, that’s what he needed.

He walked over the Buitesingel crossing and up Kloof Street, through the hubbub of students, business people, tourists, slim models, and
bergies
trying to guide motorists into parking places. He walked to the front of Hudsons The Burger Joint Est. 2009. Then he stopped, his hand resting a moment on the back of his head, deep in thought.

Tyrone turned around and began running in the opposite direction.

Griessel drove with Mbali to Schotsche Kloof so that he could tell her everything. He left nothing out.

It wasn’t easy. She was a painfully law-abiding and over-cautious driver. And she was upset. She interrupted him, shaking her head, over the interference of the State Security Agency, over the ‘colonial tendencies’ of MI6, over the fact that she was an accessory to the destruction of evidence in a robbery and five murders.

Griessel pressed on. He only finished when they had been parked in front of the house at 18 Ella Street for five minutes, beside the ambulance and the six SAPS patrol vehicles.

‘This is completely unacceptable,’ said Mbali.

‘I understand. But it is what we have,’ said Griessel.

‘This is a democracy,’ she said.

‘You think so?’ said Cupido.