Devil's Peak (30 page)

* * *

She met him at the Newport Deli in Mouille Point, because she was “mad about the place.” They sat outside on the pavement at a high, round table.
Captain Ilse Brody, Investigative Psychology Unit, Serious and Violent Crime, Head Office,
he read on the card she passed across the little table. She was a smoker, a woman in her thirties with a wedding ring and short black hair. “You’re lucky,” she said. “I fly back tonight.” Relaxed, self-assured. Accustomed to the man’s world she worked in.
He remembered her. He had been on a course she presented two or three years ago. He didn’t mention it, as he couldn’t remember how sober he had been.
They ordered coffee. She ordered a flat biscuit with chocolate on top and nuts underneath with some Italian-sounding name that he didn’t quite catch.
“Do you know about the assegai murders?” he asked.
“Everyone down here is talking about them, but I don’t have the details. I hear the media first speculated that it was a woman.”
“Couldn’t be a woman. The weapon, the MO, everything . . .”
“There’s another reason too.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll get to that. Tell me everything first.”
He told her. He liked the intense way she listened. He began with Davids and finished with Uniondale. He knew she wanted details of the crime scene. He gave her everything he knew. But two things he withheld: the pickup and the fact that the suspect might be black.
“Mmm,” she said, and turned her cigarette lighter over and over in her right hand. Her hands were tiny. They made him think of an old person’s hands. There were fine gray hairs between the black at her temples.
“The fact that he confronts them in their own homes is interesting. The first deduction is that he is intelligent. Above average. And determined. Orderly, organized. He has guts.”
Griessel nodded. He agreed with the guts part, but the intelligence was a surprise.
“It will be difficult to determine a vocational group. Not a laborer, he’s too clever for that. Something that allows him to be alone so he doesn’t have to explain how he spends his time. He can drive to Uniondale without anyone asking questions. Sales? His own business? He must be quite fit. Reasonably strong.”
She took a cigarette from a white packet with a red square on it and put it in her mouth. Griessel liked her mouth. He wondered what effect her work had on her. To use the gruesomeness of death to paint a mental picture of the suspect, until she could see him, vocation and all.
“He’s white. Three white victims in white neighborhoods. It would be difficult if he wasn’t white.” She lit the cigarette.
Exactly, he thought.
“In his thirties, I would say.” She drew on the cigarette and blew a long white plume into the air. It was windless here where the mountain blocked the southeaster. “But what you really want to know is why he is using an assegai. And why he is killing people.”
He wondered why he was so conscious of her mouth. He shifted his eyes to a point on her forehead, so that he could concentrate.
“I think the assegai is one of two things. Either he is trying to convince you he is not white, to put you off the trail. Or he is looking for media sensation. Is there any indication that he has made contact with the media yet?”
Griessel shook his head.
“Then I would go with the first option. But I’m guessing.”
“Why doesn’t he just shoot them? That’s what I’m wondering.”
“I think it must be connected to the why,” she said, and drew again on the cigarette. There was a masculine manner to her smoking, probably because she always smoked with men. “It definitely isn’t because he was molested or abused himself. In that case the victims and the MO would have been very different. That’s another reason it has to be a man. When men are damaged, if they are abused or molested, they want to do the same to others. Women are different. If there is damage from a young age, they don’t do it to others. They do it to themselves. Therefore not a woman. If it had been a man who was damaged, his target would have been children. But this one is going for the ones who are doing the damage. And he is psychologically strong. What makes more sense to me is that a child of his has been a victim. Or at least a close member of his family. A younger sister or brother perhaps. A personal vendetta. A pure vigilante. They are rare. In our country it is usually a group with a very specific dynamic.”
“And the assegai?”
“I have to admit the assegai bothers me. Let’s think about stabbing versus shooting. Stabbing is much more personal. Intimate and direct. That fits a personal loss. It makes him feel that he himself is exacting retribution. There’s no distance between him and the victim, he isn’t acting on behalf of a group, he represents only himself. But he could have done that with a knife. Because he is smart, he knows a knife can be messy. Also less effective. He wants to get it over quickly. There is no pathology of hanging about at the scene. He leaves no messages. But maybe he wants to intimidate them with the assegai; maybe it’s a tool to gain immediate control, so that he can do his work and be done with it. Now I’m speculating freely, because I can’t be sure.” She stubbed out the cigarette in the small glass ashtray.
He told her he also thought the suspect was white. And he still thought so, but there was evidence to the contrary. He told her about Uniondale and the fact that the child abuse report only appeared in
Rapport.
She pressed the tip of a finger on the biscuit crumbs in her plate and licked them off. She did it again. He wondered if she knew it made him think of sex, and then he was faintly surprised that he was thinking of sex at all and eventually he said: “If he is black, you have much bigger problems.”
A third time the finger went to the plate and then to her mouth and he looked at her mouth again. An eyetooth, just the one, was canted to the inside.
“I would also put more check marks against intelligence and motivation. And that puts another light on the assegai. Now we start to talk of symbolism, of traditional values and traditional justice. He’s sophisticated, at home in a city environment. He’s not a country boy—it takes too much skill to execute three white victims in white neighborhoods without being seen. He reads Afrikaans newspapers. He is aware of the police investigation. That’s possibly why he went to Uniondale. To divide attention. You should not underestimate him.”
“If he’s black.”
She nodded. “Improbable but not impossible.” She looked at her watch. “I will have to finish up,” she said and opened her handbag.
Quickly he told her about Sangrenegra and asked if she thought the ambush would work.
She held her purse in her hand. “It would have been better if you could have set your trap outside Cape Town. He feels the pressure here.”
“I’m paying,” he said. “But will he come?”
She took out a ten-rand note. “I’ll pay half,” she said and put the money under the saucer with the bill. “He will come. If you play your cards right with the media, he will come.”

* * *

He drove along the coast, because he wanted to go to Camps Bay again. He saw the new developments on the sea front in Green Point. Big blocks of flats under construction, with advertising boards romantically depicting the finished product.
From R1.4 million.
He wondered if it would revive this part of the city. What would they do with the
bergie
hobos that lived on the commonage behind? And the old, dilapidated buildings in between, with paint peeling off in long strips and the rooms rented out by the hour?
That made him think of Christine van Rooyen and that he should tell her what they were planning, but he would have to pick his words carefully.
Along Coast Road through Sea Point. It looked a lot better here by the sea. But he knew it was a false front—further inland was erosion and decay, dark corners and dirty alleys. He stopped at a traffic light and saw the scaffolding on a sea-front building. He wondered who would win this battle. It was Europe against Africa—rich Britons and Germans against Nigerian and Somalian drug networks, the South Africans marginalized as spectators. It depended on how much money poured in. If it was enough, the money would win and crime would find another place, southern suburbs, he thought. Or the Cape Flats.
The money ought to win, because the view was stunningly beautiful. That’s what money did. Reserved the most beautiful for the rich. And shunted policemen off to Brackenfell.
At the traffic circle he turned left in Queens, then right in Victoria, all along the sea, through Bantry Bay. A Maserati, a Porsche and a BMW X5 stood side by side in front of a block of flats. He had never felt at home here. It was another country.
Clifton. A woman and two young children walked over the road. She was carrying a big beach bag and a folded umbrella. She was wearing a bikini and a piece of material around her hips, but it blew open. She was tall and pretty, long brown hair down the length of her back. She looked down the road, past him. He was invisible to her in his middle-class police car.
He drove on to where Lower Kloof Street turned up left and then took the road round the back, to Round House. He drove up and down three times and tried to assess it as the assegai man would. He couldn’t park here, it was too open. He would have to walk a long way, above maybe, from the Signal Hill Road side. Or below. So that, when he had finished with Sangrenegra, he could flee downhill.
Or would he choose not to come through the bushes? Would he chance the street?
He has guts,
Ilse Brody had said. He has guts
and
he’s clever.
He phoned Bushy Bezuidenhout and asked him where he was. Bezuidenhout said they had found a house diagonally opposite Sangrenegra’s. Belonged to an Italian who lived overseas. They had got the keys from the estate agent. They were not allowed to smoke in the house. Griessel said he was on his way.
His cell phone rang almost immediately. “Griessel.”
“Benny, it’s John Afrika.”
The commissioner.
Fuck, he thought.

36.

H
e wanted to shower, eat and sleep.
Thobela was driving down York Street in George when he spotted the Protea Forester’s Lodge. It was nameless enough for him. He parked in front of the building and had already put a hand on his bag when the newsreader began to talk about the Colombian and the child over the radio.
He listened with one hand still on the carry straps of his bag, the other on the door latch and his eyes on the front door of the hotel.
He sat like this for three or four minutes after he had heard everything. Then he let go of the bag, started the pickup and put it in reverse. He made a U-turn and drove down York Street, turned right into C.J. Langenhoven Street. He headed for the Outeniqua Pass.

* * *

The policemen who should have been guarding Christine van Rooyen’s door were not there. Griessel knocked and assumed they would be inside.
“Who’s that?” her voice sounded faint from the other side of the door. He gave his name. The guards were not inside, or she would not have answered. As the door opened he saw her face first. It didn’t look good. She was pale and her eyes were swollen.
“Come in.” She was wearing a jersey, although it wasn’t cold. Her shoulders were hunched. He suspected she knew she would not see her child again. She sat down on the couch. He saw the television was showing a soapie, the sound muted. Is that how she got time to pass?
“Do you know he was granted bail?”
She nodded.
“Do you know we arranged it?”
“They told me.” Her voice was toneless, as if she was beyond caring.
“We think he will lead us to Sonia.”
Christine just stared at the television, where a man and woman stood facing each other. They were arguing.
He said: “It’s a possibility. We have forensic psychologists helping us. They say the chances are good he will go to her.”
She turned her eyes back on him. She knows, he thought. She knows now.
“Would you like coffee?” she asked.
He considered a moment. He was hungry. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Can I go and buy food? Take aways?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“When did you last eat?”
She didn’t answer.
“You have to eat. What can I get you? Even if it’s something small.”
“Whatever.”
He stood. “Pizza?”
“Wait,” she said and went into the kitchen. A Mr. Delivery booklet was stuck to the door of the big two-door fridge with a magnet. “They can deliver,” she said and brought the booklet to him. She sat down again. “I don’t want you to leave now.”
“Where are the two policemen that were at the door?”
“I don’t know.”
He flipped through the booklet. “What do you like?”
“Anything. Just not garlic or onion.” Then she reconsidered. “It doesn’t matter. Anything.”
He took out his cell phone, phoned and placed an order. He hesitated when asked for the address and she provided it. He said he had an official call to make and asked if he could go out on the balcony. She nodded. He slid the door open and went out. The wind was blowing. He closed the door behind him and found Ngubane’s number on the cell phone.
“Tim, are you aware that Organized Crime’s people aren’t guarding the mother anymore?”
“No. I haven’t been there today. I called, but she didn’t say anything.”
“Jissis, they’re idiots.”
“Maybe they think she isn’t in danger anymore.”
“Maybe they think it’s not their problem now.”
“What can we do?”
“I haven’t any spare people. My entire team is busy in Camps Bay.”
“I’ll talk to the sup.”
“Thanks, Tim.”
He gazed out over the city. The last rays of the sun reflected off the windows of the hotels in the Strand area. Was she in danger? His SVC team was watching Sangrenegra. His four henchmen were still in the cells.
Boef Beukes would know. He would know how big Sangrenegra’s contingent was. How many there were who did not live at the Camps Bay place. There had to be more. Local hangers-on, assistants, people involved: you don’t run such a big drug operation with only five people. He called SVC and asked if Captain Helena Louw was still there. They put him through and he asked her if she had Boef Beukes’s cell phone number.
“Just a minute,” she said. He waited until she came back and gave it to him.
“Thanks, Captain.” Could he trust her? With Domestic Violence part of the Organized Crime structure? Where did her loyalties lie?
He called Beukes. “It’s Benny, Boef. I want to know why you withdrew Christine van Rooyen’s protection.”
“It’s your show now.”
“Jissis, Boef, don’t you think you might have told us?”
“Did you tell us anything? When you decided to hang Carlos up for bait. Did you have the decency to consult with us?”
“You feel fuck-all for her safety?”
“It’s a question of manpower.” But there was something in his voice. He was lying.
“Fuck,” said Griessel. He ended the call and stood with his handset in his hand thinking, that’s the problem with the fucking Service, the jealousy, the competition, everyone had to fucking PEP, everyone was measured by Performance Enhancement Procedure and everyone’s balls were on the block. Now they were stabbing each other in the back.
Commissioner John Afrika had phoned him while he was on his way to Christine van Rooyen. Benny, are you sober? he had asked. He had said yes, Commissioner, and John Afrika had asked him, Are you going to stay sober and he said yes, Commissioner. Afrika said, I will get the people who ran to the papers, Benny. Matt Joubert tells me you are the best he has. He says you are on the wagon and that’s good enough for me, Benny, you hear? I will stand by you and I’m going to tell the papers that. But, fuck, Benny, if you drop me . . .
Because if he dropped the commissioner, then the commissioner’s PEP was blown to hell.
But he appreciated it that the man was standing by him. A colored man. He was thrown on the mercy of a colored man who had to swallow so much crap from the whites in the old days. How much mercy had John Afrika received, then?
He had said: “I won’t drop you, Commissioner.”
“Then we understand each other, Benny.” There were a few beats of silence over the air, then John Afrika sighed and said, “This backstabbing gets me down. I can’t get a grip on it.”
Griessel thought over his conversation with Beukes. Organized Crime were onto something. He knew it. That’s why they went to the papers. That’s why they withdrew the guard detail.
What?
He opened the sliding door; he couldn’t hang around out there forever.
Before he came in, while he was putting his phone away, he tried to think like Boef Beukes. Then he understood and he froze. Christine van Rooyen was OC’s bait. They were using
her
as an ambush. But for whom? For Sangrenegra?
His visit to Beukes’s office. The other detective there, the one in the suit and tie. Nobody dressed like that anymore. Who the fuck was that? The Scorpions, the special unit for the public prosecutor?
Never. Beukes and Co. would rather slit their wrists in the lavvy than work with the Scorpions.
He became aware that Christine had got up and was standing watching him.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he said. But would
she
be okay?