Payback - A Cape Town thriller (39 page)

He remembered the face. And the hand. Mikey Rheeder.

In the rear-view saw the Camry slew to a stop across the road, saw muzzle flash as Mikey pulled off two rounds but he and Ducky were laughing, could hardly hear the retorts. Saw the Camry make a three-point and come after them again.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Ducky, skewed in the seat to look back. ‘Would you bloody believe it? Doesn’t this guy know when’s enough?’

‘Seems not.’

Mace ran the speed higher to Camps Bay, taking Geneva up to the Nek and back to town, losing the Camry.

‘And now?’ said Ducky when they drove into Dunkley Square.

‘And now,’ Mace said, ‘we’re going to organise a meeting with your priest and the imam and whoever else’s got themselves frothing at the mouth. Right here. Right today.’

‘Nothing more to be said with them.’

Mace parked the BM on the square. ‘Bullshit. For starters, they can pull off the heavies. Maybe you can offer some concession.’

‘Oh yeah. Like what?’

‘Hell, Ducky. How should I know? A plaque in the entrance. For Godssake. Anything.’

They made a dash through the rain for the office. Stood shaking off like wet dogs in the hall. Pylon came downstairs holding a rose in a box, grinning at Mace.

‘For you,’ he said.

A deep purple, long-stemmed rosebud.

Mace took it, opened the attached envelope: no name, no message on the florist’s courtesy card. ‘Any clues?’

Pylon shook his head, still grinning. ‘The florist delivered. Poor guy on a motorbike. On a pissing-down day like this. But, hey, it’s for the irresistible Mace Bishop.’

‘Seven months off Valentine’s,’ said Ducky.

‘And Gonsalves is after you. Wants to know why you don’t answer his calls.’

The meeting was set for 5:00 p.m., Mace and Pylon hosting. The reverend and the imam not overly keen. A quiet chat they were told, to sort out some issues.

On the phone, the Reverend Carney got up on his hind legs. ‘We will not be bullied. ‘You cannot intimidate us.’

‘I don’t imagine so,’ Mace said, ‘considering your tactics.’

‘Protest is not intimidation.’

‘Trying to kill us is.’

‘People are upset. They throw stones when they’re frustrated.’

‘I’m not talking about stones, reverend.’

A silence. Then: ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Yes you do. And it wasn’t very Christian either.’

‘God’s gonna get you,’ Ducky Donald shouted from where he sat across the room.

‘What’s he say? What’s he say?’ said the reverend. ‘We will not stand for any abuse.’

‘Till five,’ Mace said, disconnecting.

‘They won’t rock up,’ said Ducky. ‘I’ll bet you.’

Mace didn’t respond.

Pylon said, ‘They will. They can’t afford not to.’

They took Ducky Donald home, giving him a lecture on the way about the need for a concession.

 ‘That’s why I’ve got you,’ he said. ‘So I don’t have to do that. What you want’s a PR job ‘n since when’ve you been experts in that field, huh?’

‘Think about it,’ said Pylon. ‘It might save your life.’

Ducky Donald wasn’t happy at the prospect of thinking about it but Mace wasn’t happy about grey Camrys on his tail. Also if Gonsalves was agitated Mace needed to clear some space. His voicemail message: ‘Get back to me asap, Mr Bishop, some serious shit’s gonna hit the fan about those Americans.’ Undoubtedly, Mace believed. But first things first.

The florist turned out to be a boutique high up Kloof. You went in a bell tinkled, a young man sucking his pencil behind the counter, said, ‘Hi there, can I help you?’

Mace held up the rosebud in its box. ‘This was delivered to me. I’d like to know from who.’

‘Ooo,’ he said. ‘You are Mr …?’

Mace told him.

He licked his thumb, paged back in his delivery book. ‘A lady bought it for you. Yesterday.’ He sucked his pencil, smiling. ‘A lovely lady.’

‘Help me out,’ Mace said, ‘what’s her name?’

‘Ooo no, sir. I don’t have her name. Cash payment. Secret admirers never use credit cards.’ The pencil went back between his lips.

‘How about a description?’

‘Lovely, but I told you. A bit shorter than sir. In a beautiful coat with a hood. Swanky boots too.’

‘The colour of her hair?’

‘I would say dark.’

‘You didn’t see it?’

‘She kept on the hood, sir. So cool. Black gloves, Ray-Bans. Even in the bad weather. I can’t tell you. Very juze.’ He tapped his teeth with the pencil. ‘Ringing any bells for sir?’

In the car Pylon said, ‘What’d that get you?’

‘A female monk by the sounds of it.’

‘What can I say?’ He accelerated down Kloof. ‘Beware of cloisters.’

Back in the office, Mace settled with a coffee and the gas heater punched up to three panels, and phoned Captain Gonsalves.

‘Whyn’t you answer your phone more often?’ the captain said.

Mace sipped coffee, watched steam rising from his socks. ‘Busy life. You know, clients to satisfy.’

Gonsalves snorted. ‘Come down, we need to talk.’

Mace told him, ‘Sorry, captain, no can do. I’m up against it.’

Gonsalves chewed on this. ‘The busy life, huh?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Listen, Bishop, we’ve got a bad situation developing. They’re gonna subpoena you tomorrow.’

‘Oh yeah?’ The news gave Mace’s heart a kick though. ‘For all the good it’ll do they could subpoena the president if they wanted. It’s my word against theirs that I was even there.’

‘They can put you there Bishop. Airplane ticket to and from. Car hire. One cellphone SMS from the local point of presence, I believe they call it, to your wife.’

‘So what? I was in the district. Doesn’t mean squat. A coincidence that’s all.’

‘Helluva coincidence two and a half thousand kilometres from your home.’

‘Happens all the time. First thing: it’s a fact I was there somewhere but the court wants facts of where exactly I was. Second thing: a subpoena’s not a charge, captain. I don’t have to lay out an alibi.’

‘Remember the guard on the gate. Guy called Zwide something or other, Ramatlhodi. He ID’d you.’

‘No chance.’

‘It’s an affidavit. Time in, time out. Registration of the car. Colour and make. Logged up on their book in his handwriting. All that’s missing is your name.’

‘And he ID’d me. How?’

‘From a photograph included here. Looks like you’re coming out of your office door. Doesn’t flatter you but it’s good enough.’ He chuckled. ‘Sharp lawyers they’ve got. People’ve been snapping you when you’re not paying attention. Scary hey?’

‘Not possible that he could’ve made a positive ID. I had on sunglasses. A floppy hat. He’s a black for Chrissakes. He didn’t look me in the eyes.’

‘All the same. It’s here: sworn and attested.’

‘But full of holes.’

‘Admittedly. But what a story for the papers. Investigating officer gets a mysterious call that natural born killers are relaxing in a game lodge. The boys in blue shoot over, find our NBKs dangling from the rafters. Not literally but you know what I mean. Standing there tied up with nooses round their necks. Question is, who did this? Deduction suggests the man in the hire car. The hire car that came in at sunset ‘n went out at sunrise, half an hour before the
investigating
officer got his anonymous call. Know what else?’

‘Surprise me.’

‘Zwide says this guy in the hire car told him they were in the same line of business: security. Now, was that a smart thing to say?’

‘And the point is?’

‘What point?’

‘The point of all this? They’re nailed. You’ve got the case tied up. What’s all this supposed to get them?’

‘A lighter sentence. Maybe some sympathy.’

‘They killed four people.’

‘Allegedly.’

‘Ah for heaven’s sake!’

‘Exactly. Point is Bishop, this isn’t gonna help me. There’re other questions here the lawyers are gonna bring up. Like why we didn’t find who did this to them? That’s what they’ll put to me. Make me look incompetent. Or worse, colluding.’

‘Nasty,’ said Mace.

‘Bloody nasty.’

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘So what about fixing it.’

‘Shit, Bishop. What d’you think I am?’

‘A good man.’

The captain disconnected. Mace thought, cops. Sometimes you had to spell it out for them.

At 5:00 p.m. the doorbell rang and there was the Reverend Carney and the Imam Ahmed Jabaar on the front stoep shaking out their umbrellas. Pylon opened for them, Carney starting immediately, ‘We will not be lectured to. We have come in good faith. We have a mandate.’ Mace heard Pylon pacifying, ‘It’s exploratory, okay. To work something out.’

Mace had collected Ducky Donald already, set up a tea-
and-scones
sideboard in the room with the round table. Told him, no war. Alright they’ve stirred the shit to start with, but enough. No more drive-bys, no more car chases, no more skop, skiet en donder. And no funny stuff.

‘Me! What’ve I done? Except stay calm under the worst provocation.’

‘Keep it that way.’

Pylon ushered in Carney and Jabaar.

Ducky held up his bandaged right, ‘Hey, I’d shake hands if I wasn’t shot.’

Before Carney could answer, the doorbell rang again.

‘Someone else?’ Mace asked the priests.

‘Our lawyer,’ said Jabaar

Mace went to the front door, opened it to Sheemina February.

‘Mr Bishop,’ she said. ‘Isn’t this cosy.’ Stood there, wearing a coat she hadn’t bought in Cape Town, leather briefcase in her right hand, rain beaded in her hair, those pale blue eyes levelled at Mace. ‘Such a small city.’

‘You weren’t invited,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘Client’s request.’ Looked over his shoulder down the passage. ‘Perhaps we should get started. I assume my clients are waiting?’

‘So what?’ Mace keeping the passageway blocked, the air between them saturated with her perfume. Nothing subtle about it.

She said, ‘Let me through’ - waving her left hand to move him aside. ‘Please.’ Not subservient, ironic.

Mace nodded, keeping eye contact, drawing out the moment. ‘Okay.’ He stepped aside. ‘Oh yeah, my condolences on the death, the murder, of your ex-husband.’

She brushed past him, stopped, half turned towards him. ‘No need. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer man.’ Again the smile. ‘But perhaps I should offer you condolences for the loss of a
business
partner?’

‘Hardly,’ said Mace. ‘Not our league.’

‘No? I think very much your league. From what I remember. That little Luanda adventure.’

Before he could answer, Pylon, standing in the doorway of the boardroom, said, ‘What’s she doing here?’

‘Ah, the gallant Mr Buso,’ Sheemina February said. ‘What a pleasure.’

Pylon stepped in front of her. Said to Mace, ‘You’re letting her in?’

‘It’s alright.’

‘Be gracious,’ she said, ‘like Mr Bishop. I’m their legal
representative
.’ The passage was narrow, they were close together. ‘Don’t carry grudges, Mr Buso, they lead to intestinal problems. Ulcers. Irritable bowel syndrome. Now, please. My clients and I have matters to settle with Mr Hartnell. That, I believe, is why we’re here.’

‘No crap,’ said Pylon. ‘You got that?’

She flashed her smile: the white teeth, the plum lipstick. ‘Or what?’ She waggled the fingers of her right hand. ‘Or what, Mr Buso?’

Pylon took a pace back to let her into the room. ‘Don’t push it.’

‘Oh I know my place,’ she said. ‘The question is, do you?’

He caught her by the shoulder but she made no effort to shrug off his grasp. Merely waited until he let her go.

‘You’re muscle, Mr Buso. You look strong but in here’ - she tapped his chest with her left hand, ‘you’re weak.’ With that entered the room. Pylon caught Mace’s eye, and drew a finger across his throat.

‘What we want,’ Sheemina February told Ducky Donald half an hour later, ‘is for the bones to go back where they came from.’

He shook his head, ‘No ways. No ways in hell.’ Turned to Mace. ‘We’ve been through this, boykie. A thousand times. I said no before. I’m saying no still.’ Holding up his bandaged hand to her. ‘I don’t scare.’

Sheemina February touched the glove on her left hand as if she might take it off, said, ‘Nor do I.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Ducky. ‘Doesn’t mean shit. I’m talking about the hits you ordered.’

‘What we want,’ Mace said, ‘is for you’ - pointing at her and the priests - ‘to call off the hitman.’

‘That has nothing to do with us,’ said Carney.

‘Absolutely,’ said Jabaar. ‘We condemn it.’

Sheemina February leant back in her chair. ‘That is a radical group. We have no control over them.’

‘But you know who they are.’

‘We suspect we know who they are,’ corrected Carney, Jabaar nodding agreement.

‘I know them, yes,’ said Sheemina February. ‘They’re radicals. They will not listen to Reverend Carney or Imam Jabaar. They have had enough talk. Since 1994 they have been preached to but nothing changes. Once a woman called us God’s stepchildren. We are still that.’

‘Ah, save me Jesus!’ Pylon threw up his hands. ‘My heart bleeds.’

‘You’re black,’ she said. ‘What do you know of our lives?’

Ducky Donald was enjoying this, grinning hugely at Pylon and Sheemina February trading insults, Carney and Jabaar supporting her. Abruptly he thumped his hand on the table. ‘Children, children. I give in.’

A sudden silence, everyone looking at him.

‘You can have your crypt. A small room in the basement not the foyer. A symbolic gesture. That’s it. What you do with the rest of the bones is your indaba.’

Mace watched Ducky, the man’s small eyes beneath the wiry eyebrows darting from Sheemina February to Carney, Jabaar, back to the lawyer. The priests not believing what they were hearing, Sheemina February poker-faced.

Pylon said, ‘Hallelujah brothers.’

Mace wasn’t so sure, knowing Ducky Donald Hartnell.

‘What about a plaque?’ said the imam.

‘Sure, whatever.’ Ducky held up his hands about half a metre apart. ‘About this square I can live with. In brass. Tasteful, alright. No shitty wording about oppressive colonial masters. Any stuff like that it doesn’t go up. And it’s your baby. You’re the descendants. So you pay. Bring it to me with four screws I’ll put it up.’

‘Prominently.’ This from Sheemina February.

‘How about next to the lifts?’

Mace frowned in wonder at what he was hearing. Ducky Donald at a hundred and eighty degrees and sounding like Jesus Christ.

Reverend Carney looked satisfied. ‘God is great,’ said Imam Jabaar. The two priests shook hands as if they’d achieved a significant victory.

Sheemina February said, ‘We’ll need it in writing.’

‘Write it now, I’ll sign it,’ said Ducky. ‘You’re the lawyer.’

‘I’ll draft it,’ she said, stacking her papers. ‘A proper contract.’

‘Then send it to my lawyers,’ said Ducky, rattling off the name of a legal firm. ‘The buggers charge enough, they can argue with you about the wording.’

When the priests and Sheemina February had left, Pylon said to Ducky, ‘What was that about?’

‘Seeing the light, boykie,’ he said, helping himself to a single malt from their cabinet. ‘You get to a point where you think, what the hell? What does this mean anyway? Hey? A stack of bones in a locked room. Ten, twenty years’ time someone’s gonna clear them out, throw them away. Who’s gonna know the difference?’ He glanced from Pylon to Mace. ‘A plaque in the foyer. ‘People’ll stop seeing it. Any friends they have come visiting are gonna say, hey, isn’t this cool? Imagine that?’

‘Not what you said before,’ Mace reminded him.

‘Like I said, what’s it mean? Call it weaving in the historic heritage of our city.’ He sipped his drink. ‘That’s good don’t you think? Something for the spin doctors.’