Killer Country (33 page)

Captain Gonsalves caught Mace at home.

Mace and Oumou in the kitchen eating breakfast, shouting to Christa that she’d be late for school.

Mace in high spirits, telling a story.

‘I’m watching this young guy, neatly dressed in a beige raincoat, ask for change for a hundred bucks. He’s stopped a businessman, nice suit, snappy tie, black umbrella popped open over his head. The businessman takes out a wallet gives the guy two fifties. The young guy says, no, what I actually need is a ten. He holds out a fifty to the businessman. The suit’s got the umbrella handle clutched under his arm and it’s not protecting him from the rain so he’s getting wet and he’s scratching through his wallet. Comes up with some notes, two twenties and a ten, and takes the fifty in exchange. The young guy’s, Thank you, sir, thank you, sir, and sir’s smiling putting his wallet in his pocket and hurrying off out of the rain. The youngster heads away in the other direction nice and easy having scored a hundred bucks.’

‘He never gave him the hundred rand note?’

‘No. Showed it. Then kept it in his fist.’

Oumou looked at Mace over the top of her coffee cup. ‘For this Mr Mace Bishop did what?’

‘Told him one day he’d get into serious shit.’

‘He should have given back the money.’

‘The businessman looked like he could afford it. People get conned every day, just got to learn to be wide awake. In a city like this.’

Christa came in reading Le Petit Prince. Sat down to eat without looking up from the book.

‘You could say good morning,’ said Mace.

Christa glanced at him, smiled. ‘Was there really an army of lamplighters before electricity?’

‘Oui,’ said Oumou, ‘how else could people see at night?’

Mace’s cellphone rang: Gonsalves.

‘You wanna know what I did last night?’

Mace didn’t but Gonsalves went straight in. ‘Last night I sat in a car inna street watching a house. All dripping night long. My legs frozen. My feet I can’t feel. Sat there outside a known gangster’s family home. So that when said gangster pitched up I could arrest him. Supposed to be he comes home every night about eleven. So no big deal. He comes home that time, by twelve he’s sitting tight with lots of his tattooed chommies in a communal. Doing a getting to know you my brother. By twelve thirty I’m ten minutes away from my shuteye, all’s well with the world. Except this gangster doesn’t come home. Not by midnight. Not by three a.m. By three a.m. I’m starving for tuna sandwiches. I’m thinking I should of brought a extra supply. Then my inspector says to me, tuna’s getting scarce. He’s seen this television programme we’re gonna have eaten all the tuna in the sea soon. No more tins of tuna. I start thinking. I’ve been a cop thirty-nine years. Each day I eat tuna sandwiches. On a stakeout I eat double. So I’m thinking in a year I’m gonna eat maybe three hundred tuna sandwiches. You take off two weeks holiday in the game reserve doesn’t really make a lot of difference. On those tuna sandwiches there’s probably seventy-five grams of tuna. Means by the end of a year I’m up twenty-two kilos of tuna. Like half a fish. Work it out over thirty-nine years the figures not far short a ton. That’s a lotta fish, Mr Bishop. Maybe a whole shoal. Catching criminals cost our seas a shoal of tuna. You add this to what the Jap chaps take down in sushi, you see why the tuna’s in trouble. My inspector, he eats burgers. Fast food shit. He’s fat. Got a gut like a tyre. He runs he’s gonna have a heart attack. Me, on tuna, I got my health. What I’m saying, Mr Bishop, is I’m sitting inna freezing cold thinking of tuna when another call comes through. They tell me forget the gangster get your arse the other end of town. I do, Mr Bishop, now what I gotta say to you is you want the good news or the bad news first?’

‘Morning like this,’ said Mace, taking in the sky over the city, blue and long, the air washed clean after the rain, ‘there can’t be any bad.’

Captain Gonsalves cleared his throat. Mace held the phone away from his ear. ‘There is. There always is. Believe me, hey.’

‘The good.’

‘Ten minutes ago I heard Obed Chocho snuffed it. One in the head. That’ll please your mate Pylon.’

Mace made no comment. ‘And the bad?’

‘Where I’m standing,’ said Gonsalves, ‘the sun’s full on the mountain. Very pretty. Fresh and green. No doubt our maniac’s heading up there for a day of rich pickings. Wet days like we’ve had must make a serious dent on his income. I’m standing on the lawn facing the house. Some uniforms here and me. My inspector’s gone home. The uniforms were called by the maid, uh, about twenty minutes ago. Ambulance on its way. Behind them the techs. The dead is one Judge Telman Visser. Client of yours I gather from the invoice on his desk.’

‘Was,’ said Mace.

‘Was, exactly.’

‘Fired us yesterday.’

‘Son of the justice copped it on the farm, am I not right? Where you were shot, I believe. Amazing links, hey.’

‘Coincidence.’

‘My world doesn’t know coincidence. Everything’s connected.’

Mace paused a beat, let the captain think he was being profound. ‘How? How’d he die?’

‘Come’n have a squiz.’

Mace could hear Gonsalves chewing. ‘I’ll be there now.’

‘Join the rush, kiddo.’

‘You want a tuna sandwich? From Woolies?’

Too bad the cop had cut the connection.

Mace got to the judge’s house the same time as Pylon. The street gate was open, Captain Gonsalves standing on the stoep chewing tobacco. They walked up the garden path between the rose beds.

Pylon said, ‘He tell you how?’

‘No. Probably wants to surprise us. Get a kick out of the reaction. You know Gonsalves.’

‘Angle for a tip-off tip no doubt. A pension contribution.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘No we bloody won’t.’

‘Such suave gents,’ called out Gonsalves. ‘You always wear black?’

‘Only to collect clients,’ said Mace. ‘The international set. They appreciate black. It’s reassuring.’ They mounted the steps to the stoep. ‘Where’s he?’

‘In the study. Room with lots of law books.’ He led the way indoors. ‘You boykies keep your hands in your pockets, okay.’

Still wearing the smart suit, Judge Telman Visser sat askance in his wheelchair behind his desk. He had fallen forward face down on the desk blotter. A clear plastic bag was over his head, held fast at his neck by a belt. 

‘Takes a certain type of person, does it this way,’ said Gonsalves. ‘Usually, in the cases I’ve seen with plastic bags, they try to tear them off. Sometimes people succeed. Spend the rest of their days in the gaga ward. Drooling. What’s a new thing for me is the belt. People use rope, duct tape, elastic bands, that plastic tape you use to seal parcels, that’s the best. Strong and tight. A belt’s a new one on me. Though you can see the effectiveness. Draw it, notch it. When you’re gasping it’s too finicky to undo. Alles kaput.’

Gonsalves stripped a cigarette, rolled the tobacco in a ball in his palm.

‘Another thing people usually do is drug themselves. Take a packet or three of Panado. But not our judge. He wanted to do this. God knows why.’

‘Maybe,’ said Pylon.

Captain Gonsalves flat-handed the pellet into his mouth. ‘Why’d he fire yous?’

‘Said he didn’t need us anymore. The state’d stepped up security because of the arms commission.’

‘Some security.’ The captain chewed. ‘Not a spook in sight. Blarry typical. But hey’ – he cupped his ear – ‘do I hear an ambulance. Twenty minutes later. Just as well the judge’s dead.’ He ushered Mace and Pylon out of the room. ‘Was this worth it?’

‘Why would it be?’

‘Dunno. You came pretty chop chop.’

Pylon looked at Mace. ‘What’d I tell you.’

‘Two hundred,’ said Mace.

‘That’s all?’

‘Was an ex-client. No stain on our rep.’

Gonsalves spat tobacco juice into a rose bed. ‘Such generosity.’ Held out his hand. ‘Quickly then.’

Pylon palmed him two blue notes. They grabbed a cappuccino on the café balcony at Kirstenbosch Gardens, the autumn sun warm across their shoulders. Watched the tourist coaches arriving. Mostly Japanese going off to photograph every flower in the gardens. Happy voices rising to them.

Pylon said, ‘That was a helluva thing for the judge to do. Conscience or something else, you think?’

‘Not his conscience,’ said Mace.

‘I didn’t think so either. Nor did Gonsalves.’

‘Thing is,’ said Mace, ‘when you’re in a wheelchair, what’re you options? Slitting your wrists. Overdose. Can’t drown yourself if you haven’t got a swimming pool.’

‘If you had you could strap down in the chair, ramp it into the water. Long as the pool was deep enough you’d be okay.’

‘True.’

‘Hanging’s out.’

‘Could blow a hole in your head, if you’ve got a gun which I don’t think the judge had.’

‘Can’t jump off a building.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Could crash the car except the airbag would pop ‘n save you.’

‘Could get assistance.’

‘Or be assisted.’

The coffee came.

Mace said, ‘How about a blueberry muffin?’

‘They’re still warm from the oven,’ said the waitress.

Pylon nodded.

Mace held up two fingers to the waitress. ‘With butter.’ Said to Pylon, ‘Do you believe that?’

‘What?’

‘Warm from the oven.’

‘No.’

‘So why’s she say it?’

‘It’s what waiters say. To give you that special feeling.’ 

Mace shook his head, spooning froth and chocolate dusting from the head of his coffee. ‘I never believe them.’

‘Very middle class. Treasure loves it. Falls for the bullshit every time, like they’re baked just for her.’

The waitress brought the muffins, steaming.

‘Probably been nuked,’ said Mace, halving his, spreading butter melt over it.

‘One problem with blueberry,’ said Pylon, ‘is that it looks so good. Flavour’s so good. Afterwards you wonder what’s this metal taste in your mouth. Was it chemicals you ate.’

‘You still eat it though.’

‘That’s the other problem.’

They shut up to eat, getting through half a muffin each before Mace said, ‘So what’s your take on the judge?’

‘Assisted suicide.’

‘Meaning someone had a gun to his head.

‘That sort of thing.’

‘Why?’

‘Could’ve been arms deal related. Powerful figures involved there. The talk I hear’s even fingering the president. One of the sidebars on Obed whacking Rudi Klett was as a favour. For someone near the top of the food chain.’

‘Why not just do a Spitz special on the judge, shoot him.’

‘Too obvious, maybe.’

Mace took a long pull at his cappuccino, wiped froth from his upper lip. ‘This’s not about the arms deal.’

‘What then?’

‘Who then, rather.’

‘Who then?’

‘Sheemina February.’

‘Ah come on.’ Pylon stuffed the last of his muffin into his mouth, spoke through the chew. ‘She was Obed’s sidekick.’

‘Maybe she reckoned the judge pulled the hit on Chocho over  the farm killing. Got his bucks and blotted the evidence. Maybe she didn’t like that. Having a major money source terminated. I don’t know. What do I know? Everything’s weird. Except, I know, yesterday, when we saw him, wasn’t a flower in his study. Today there’s a rose.’

Pylon swallowed. ‘He grows roses. All over the garden.’

‘Most of them shrivelled and brown. This one was a rosebud. Aren’t any rosebuds anywhere in his garden. Plum coloured.’

‘Like those she sends you.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Which proves what?’

‘Christ knows. Doesn’t even prove it was her. Unless she wanted to tell us something.’

‘Like?’

‘Like look how powerful I am.’

‘Bit macho.’

‘We’re talking Sheemina February.’

They finished their coffees. Pylon called for the bill.

‘Probably we’ll never know,’ said Mace. ‘Doesn’t matter anymore. All the baddies are dead.’

Crossing the parking lot to their cars Mace said, ‘This sort of day I could go up the mountain and hunt the maniac.’

‘Two hours time we’ve got clients to collect.’ Pylon put his hand on Mace’s arm. ‘Do me a favour, calm down.’

Mace laughed. ‘I like it this way. Bit like the old days. I couldn’t give a shit.’

‘Save me sweet Jesus,’ said Pylon ducking into the Merc.

Mace said, ‘You’re right about the blueberry. Tastes like I’ve been sucking bullets.’

Sheemina February told Spitz to meet her at Rhodes Memorial. At the bottom of the steps. That way she could watch him approach for no reason other than she wanted the drop on him. For the hell of it. Wanted to clip down the steps towards him saying, ‘Bang, bang, Spitz boyo, you’re dead.’

She got there fifteen minutes early. Banked on being five minutes ahead of him. Knowing he’d case the area first as a matter of habit. She left her car in the upper parking lot near the restaurant, took the path to the memorial, waited in the shadow behind the columns. Gazed across the suburbs and the industrial belt towards the Durbanville hills, beyond that to the Hottentots Holland and the winelands. Thought about money. That of all human inventions money had the measure of each person’s heart. Hers was expensive.

She watched Spitz drive up in his white hire, park beneath the stone pines in the main lot. He got out, looked around for her black Beemer. Only seven cars there, none of them a BM. At this hour of the morning no one hanging around either. Too early for tourists. Probably the car owners were walkers, strolling the contour paths, enjoying themselves.

Spitz walked quickly to the lower entrance that led onto the flagstones below the steps. A viewpoint with a wider aspect than the memorial. Almost a bay-to-bay sweep: west coast to Hangklip. He took this in, pivoted to look at the memorial, Devil’s Peak rising behind it. Sheemina February wondering what he’d make of a classical folly with columns, steps leading up flanked by walls, eight lions at rest on them. In front, on a plinth, a horse and rider, the rider shading his eyes, squinting at the hinterland. Spitz turned back to the view.

Sheemina February watched him. An elegant man, the crease on his trousers exact. Black polished shoes. The bandage on  his little finger encased in a leather sheath. A slender man, and graceful.

She waited until his back was to her before she came out of the shadows and down the steps, her heels clicking on the granite. Spitz spun round almost immediately.

‘Do you know, Spitz,’ she called out, ‘there are forty-nine steps. One for each year of his life.’

‘Who is this?’ said Spitz.

‘Cecil Rhodes. Used to come up here to contemplate, according to the tourist guides. Stare out at the dark continent and think of money.’ She came level with the hitman. ‘Worked for him.’

‘But he did not make even fifty years.’

‘Neither did Obed Chocho.’

Spitz looked away. ‘I was not able to…’

‘Oh, I’m not blaming you Spitz.’ Sheemina February touched his sleeve with a gloved hand. ‘Things have worked out better than I planned. And for this I have you to thank all along the way. Last night especially. Without you the judge would not have been so… accommodating. Men are much more inclined to listen to other men I find. Particularly to one who’s pointing a gun.’

She paused. The dull growl of the city filled her silence, and closer birdsong, insistent sunbirds.

‘Up here,’ she said, ‘you can understand his point. Old Cape-to-Cairo Cecil. The birds make it peaceful.’

‘What do you want to tell me?’ said Spitz.

She sat down on the low parapet, faced the memorial. Patted the stone alongside her. Spitz sat.

‘Obed had a contract with you on Mace Bishop and Pylon Buso, how much was that for?’

‘There was no money.’

‘You were doing it for free? You?’

‘Because I had spoken his name to them.’ 

She crossed her legs. ‘Obed getting his payback. Fair enough. And now, are you going to honour it?’

‘There is no point.’

‘I suppose not. But there would be a point if I offered you money.’

‘Of course.’

‘So, I will offer you one hundred and fifty thousand, not to kill them, but to kill the wife of Mace Bishop.’

‘That is more than my fee.’

‘I know. There is a catch.’

‘What is this catch?’

‘I don’t want you to use a gun.’

‘My weapon is a pistol.’

‘I know, Spitz. But think about it. You kill her with a .22 or any other calibre and Mace Bishop will not even stop to think who did it. He will think Spitz-the-Trigger. What’s more he knows exactly where to find you. Before you got home he’d be waiting inside your apartment.’

Spitz stroked his bandaged finger to ease the throbbing. ‘Which is the weapon you want me to use?’

‘A knife.’

‘I do not use a knife. It is too dangerous.’

‘That is why I’m paying you a lot of money.’ She smiled at him. ‘Let me be generous. How about two hundred thousand? I can afford it.’

She watched Spitz think about this. Not a twitch on his face. No frown. No tightening of the lips. She liked that, the calm contemplation.

‘Once,’ she said, ‘you used a knife.’ She drew a finger across her throat. ‘Your trademark. No noise. Spitz the silent steps out of the shadows and ssssh the blade slits open the jugular. I know about that Spitz.’ She reached out, lightly squeezed his forearm with her gloved hand. ‘I might, too, Spitz, have a position for you. In my organisation. A career change. The comfort of a salary. Medical aid. Shares. A pension. The full rooty tooty of the late-bourgeois world.’

Smiled at Spitz staring at her, his lips glistening.

Eventually he said, ‘Alright for that much I will use a knife.’

‘There is another condition,’ said Sheemina February. ‘It must be in her pottery studio.’

‘It has to be in some place.’

‘The pottery studio is underneath their house.’

‘I do not like that.’

‘Can’t be helped. I’m willing to pay a lot of money for this, Spitz. Offering you a future. There have to be some risks.’

She waited. When Spitz made no comment, held out a photograph: Mace, Oumou, Christa eating breakfast beside a swimming pool.

‘Happy family. They live on the mountainside. The studio has access onto the lower garden. The only other access is a spiral staircase inside the house. A man with your resources shouldn’t have any problems getting in.’ She dangled some keys from her gloved hand. ‘But these may be a help.’ Spitz reached out, she dropped them into his hand. From a coat pocket took out a barber’s razor. ‘As might this.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘this is not a knife.’

Sheemina let it lie bone-white against the black leather of palm. ‘You thought differently once, I am given to understand.’ She closed her fist, used the fingers of her good hand to open the blade. ‘This is a special razor. It is not something I picked up in a junk store. It has provenance, Spitz. A history. A memento you should leave at the scene.’ She held it towards him.

‘When I used knives I was a younger person.’

She laid it against his hand, the blade’s edge lightly on his skin. ‘Take it. This is how I want it.’

‘You are a demanding woman.’

‘Not demanding, Spitz. Insistent. But generous too. I pay for that over the odds.’

Spitz closed the blade into the handle. Lifted it from her fingers.

Sheemina stroked his arm. ‘I’m impressed. Now listen.’ She gave him more details: access, the Bishop routine, the best time to do it. ‘I must go now, Spitz.’ Stood looking down at him. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t get to have a drink on the town but under the circumstances this would no longer be a good idea.’ She held out her hand. ‘I must say you have been an easy person to work with. My offer remains open for the future.’

‘Please,’ said Spitz, keeping a grip on her hand even as she gently pulled away.

‘No, Spitz,’ she said, using her gloved hand to free herself. ‘Some things are not to be.’ She headed for the steps. ‘When the job is done, you’ll get the money in cash at JB’s. Special courier. While you’re drinking a latte. After that I’ll be in touch.’ She pointed at Devil’s Peak. ‘Maybe you’ll be able to get up the mountain this time. It’s a wonderful view from the top.’