The Serpentine Road (15 page)

‘Colonel?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Twenty-four hours.’

‘Yes . . . Sir.’

De Vries feels wretched doubting his own team, but he questions each of them in turn. He picks up nothing from the interviews, believes each of them when they deny any possible indiscretion.

He feels worse that he is wasting time on a matter unrelated to finding Taryn Holt’s killer. The early days of a murder investigation offer, by far, the best hope of solving it and time is racing by without a significant breakthrough. By late morning, he is convinced that the leak did not come from own team, reasons that anyone in the building seeing Bhekifa could have formed their own theory to sell to the press.

He asks himself what the motive might be for releasing such information and concludes that, if it is not money, then it is either an attempt to cause him and the enquiry trouble or that, in some way, it is political; that this was an opportunity to discredit Trevor Bhekifa. He calls a contact on the
Sunday Cape Herald
at home, traps himself into promising advance information subsequently in exchange for the journalist contacting the authors of the story and ascertaining not their source, but whether any money was paid.

At lunchtime, Don drives De Vries to Stellenbosch, retracing his route to Trevor Bhekifa’s apartment building. They knock on the tall glass doors and the security guard behind the desk in the foyer buzzes them in, intercepts them with a clipboard.

‘We are here,’ Don tells him, showing his ID, ‘to see Mr Trevor Bhekifa.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We can go up?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The guard uses his clipboard to indicate the lifts.

‘Were you on duty on the night of Thursday, 2 April last week?’

‘No, sir. Thursday and Friday are my days off.’

‘Okay.’

When the doors close, De Vries says: ‘I know it’s a low-paid job, but you’d think . . .’

They get out on the top floor, turn towards Bhekifa’s apartment, ring on the doorbell. From behind the door, they hear laughter, then the door opens and Bhekifa is framed for a moment, barefoot in shorts and sleeveless teeshirt, muscles bulging, broad smile on his face. It fades as he registers De Vries.

‘You people don’t call first?’

‘We need to speak to you again, Mr Bhekifa,’ De Vries says. ‘We came to you as a matter of courtesy. Can we come in?’

Bhekifa glances behind him, runs his hand through his hair, stands aside.

De Vries and Don walk past him into a broad living area. Their attention is distracted from the view of old Stellenbosch oaks and the little park beyond by a young black woman in denim cut-offs and a top which stops well short of her navel. She gets up, smiles at them, sits again, looks up at Trevor.

‘Would you prefer,’ De Vries says, turning to him, ‘to discuss these matters in private?’

Bhekifa is suddenly uneasy; he stands wordless for several seconds, then walks over to a cabinet and switches off the music. He goes over to the girl and murmurs something to her. She gets up again, saunters out of the room and into another. In the awkward silence, they all hear a door opened and closed again. De Vries says nothing, stands in the middle of the room and waits. Finally, Bhekifa invites them to sit down.

‘Have you seen today’s
Cape Herald
?’ De Vries asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Firstly, I want to apologize. We have no knowledge of how this information reached the newspaper. We have already begun an investigation as to who could have spoken to the press.’

Bhekifa looks sullen.

‘It was inevitable. I expect it from the press and I expect it from the SAPS.’

‘Well, I don’t expect it from my team, and I don’t believe that it was one of them. Nonetheless, we hoped that your interview with us could be discreet, and I’m sorry it has turned out not to be.’

Bhekifa raises his eyebrows.

‘However,’ De Vries continues, ‘we have another matter of importance to discuss with you. I want you to recall what you told us when we spoke to you yesterday: that you left Taryn Holt’s home at approximately 10.30 p.m.?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘But you did not return to this building until 12.23 a.m. – that is seven minutes short of two hours. Can you explain what you were doing during that time?’

De Vries watches Bhekifa strain to comprehend, sees him struggle to focus.

‘Mr Bhekifa? Are you all right?’

Bhekifa smiles.

‘I’ve had a few drinks. We had a few. I shouldn’t drink at lunchtime.’

‘I need a proper account from you regarding the time between you leaving Oranjezicht and returning here to your apartment.’

‘I told you. I was in my car for a while. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘How long did you sit in your car?’

‘I don’t know . . . Maybe ten, fifteen minutes.’

De Vries sighs.

‘That doesn’t explain why you took so long to make a short journey.’

Bhekifa sits staring ahead of himself, begins to nod gently as if he has come to a decision.

‘I did not drive home directly. I made a detour, all right? Only across the park there. I went to see my girlfriend, Sandi. She is the girl who is with me here today.’

‘You went to see this lady?’

‘Yes. I called on her. We spoke for maybe half an hour and then she told me to go, that she was tired. So, I came home.’

‘Right,’ De Vries says. ‘I want to be clear. You were in a relationship with both Taryn Holt and this young lady?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did Miss Holt know about the existence of your other girlfriend?’

‘I don’t think so.’

De Vries gestures in the direction the girl had exited the room.

‘She is in another room, yes?’

‘She is in our bedroom.’

‘Warrant Officer February is going to take a statement from her there.’

‘Okay.’

Don moves away to find Sandi; De Vries writes down what Bhekifa has told him, glancing up at the man from time to time. His eye is drawn to the man’s arms, to his big hands.

‘Your wrists, Mr Bhekifa?’ His eyes drop to the table where they rest. Bhekifa looks down also. ‘How did you get that bruising?’

Bhekifa blushes.

‘It is nothing.’

‘I’m afraid I need to know.’

‘It is not violence. It is games.’

‘Games you played with Taryn Holt?’

He says nothing.

‘Your girlfriend here, Sandi? She doesn’t notice?’

‘It is not her business. In my culture, a man may see who he pleases.’

‘And, as well as Sandi, you saw Taryn Holt. Did those bruises come from games you played with her?’

Bhekifa pushes his chair back, withdraws his arms from the table and places them in his lap. He speaks very quietly, without making eye contact with De Vries.

‘Taryn liked to be in control. She knew that I could dominate her physically. She liked to dominate me. We played games. Many people do.’

‘Sex games. She tied you up?’

‘We would use ropes and cuffs, sometimes, yes.’

De Vries thinks about Taryn Holt, knows that he has seen no bruises on her wrists.

‘How did that make you feel?’

Bhekifa frowns ostentatiously.

‘That is not your business.’

De Vries smiles, meets his wide-eyed stare.

‘Taryn Holt is dead, murdered by someone who knew her, someone who knew her house, her alarm system, her routine. Everything I ask you about Taryn Holt is my business.’

Bhekifa looks down.

‘Did you resent this behaviour?’

‘No. What lovers do in the bedroom is private. It was a game Taryn liked to play. I loved being with her and I was happy to play, or I would not have come back.’

De Vries waits for more, but Bhekifa stays silent.

‘If I find that the account of your movements is still incomplete, I will prosecute you for interfering with this inquiry. Are you clear?’

Bhekifa nods. ‘When I came to you, I had only just heard, sir. I did not know what I was thinking.’

‘Well, think now,’ De Vries says. ‘I asked you before: did Taryn Holt express concern about any individual in particular when you discussed the matter of the threats against her and her gallery?’

Bhekifa shakes his head.

‘No. If she had done, I would never have left her that night.’

De Vries waits, nods at him and moves away. Then he stops and turns back to him.

‘I came here to apologize to you, but it is you who should apologize to me. You have wasted my time and delayed my enquiry.’

Bhekifa looks him in the eye, presses his palms together in front of himself.

‘I am sorry, sir.’

Don appears from a doorway to the right of the front door, nods at De Vries who is already opening the door, follows him out. De Vries pulls the door to, puts his hand on Don’s arm, waits by the door. A few moments later, they hear hushed voices then laughter.

De Vries turns away abruptly, heads for the lift.

‘He’ll make a fine politician. As insincere as the best of them. What did that girl tell you?’

They step into the lift, begin to descend.

‘She said he arrived late, maybe a little before midnight. She was already in bed, and not happy to see him. He stayed for twenty minutes, half an hour, and then she sent him home.’

‘You think it is a serious relationship or just a game?’

‘She said she often stays here with him.’

‘That fits,’ De Vries says. ‘You hear him refer to it as “our” bedroom?’

‘What, then, was Miss Holt?’

The doors open onto the spacious foyer, the now unmanned security desk, the four clocks three minutes slow.

‘I’ll tell you what she was,’ De Vries says bitterly. ‘A publicity coup; maybe a good time but, above all, a potential donor to be wooed and coerced. The more I learn about the people around her, the less surprised I am that she trusted no one.’

As they drive back to Cape Town, De Vries receives a call from the
Sunday Cape Herald
journalist. He hangs up, turns to Don.

‘Anonymous tip-off. No money involved. The more I think about it, there’s no substance to the story. It’s just one piece of information parlayed into an eye-catching headline. Anyone who saw me with Bhekifa could guess why he was there.’

‘So why is General Thulani so concerned?’

De Vries chuckles.

‘Because he and old man Bhekifa are friends, or so he likes to think. Thulani wanted to show off to him that he could keep his son’s indiscretions under wraps. And now he can’t, it’s an embarrassment.’

‘We now have two men who visited Taryn Holt shortly before she was killed. But we have no clue as to who the third visitor was.’

‘No,’ De Vries says, serious once more. ‘And we have Wertner and the Internal Investigation Unit coming for us. It’s happening again, Don. One crack in our armour and they’re straight after us. We don’t even have Director du Toit between us and them. We need a breakthrough: for the case, and for us.’

By the time De Vries reaches his office on Monday at 8 a.m., every member of the investigating team is present in the squad room. He wonders whether, after his questioning the previous day, this is a show of commitment and loyalty. Whatever it is, he is grateful for it.

As he reaches his desk the telephone rings and he grabs the receiver.

‘De Vries.’

‘This is Wertner. We have a meeting at 9 a.m. this morning. My office.’

De Vries takes a short, shallow breath.

‘9 a.m., Colonel.’

He replaces the receiver, wonders how Wertner knew he would arrive at his desk at that moment, and looks at the ceiling and the four corners of his office. Whenever he has involvement with the Internal Investigation chief, he becomes paranoid.

His cell-phone rings. He sees that it is Steve Ulton from the Crime Lab. He greets Ulton, listens for almost two minutes, and hangs up. He exits his office and hurries away towards the elevators.

‘We’ve been incredibly lucky,’ Ulton says as he leads De Vries to the main bench on which a series of items are laid out.

‘At approximately 2 a.m. on Saturday morning, the body of a man identified as Angus Lyle was discovered by Metro officers at the base of a hedge in De Waal Park. Lyle is known to both them and Central officers as a former mental patient, with drug problems, released into the care of a relative. Seems he preferred the street and usually escaped his relative’s custody.’ He looks down at his clipboard. ‘Apparently, he could often be found sleeping under the overpass at the junction between Maynard Street and Mill Street.’ He turns to De Vries. ‘When a colleague of mine at Evidence was checking inventories of suspects, he came across these items and, because we had been discussing it previously, immediately contacted me.’

De Vries holds up a hand.

‘Hang on. This Lyle is dead, right? When?’

‘According to the initial readings, two to four hours previous to the discovery.’

‘So, Friday evening . . . What else?’

‘I’m having his body brought over here and I’ve asked for extra protection of the hands in case there’s still a chance of residues, but it’s Doctor Jafari’s show and she says that she’ll get to him if and when her schedule is complete.’

De Vries shakes his head.

‘We need it done now.’

Ulton’s chuckle is without mirth. ‘She’s all yours,Vaughn. She takes no prisoners.’

‘You’re talking about gunshot residues?’

‘I am.’

‘What’s the point of having a mortuary here if our work doesn’t take priority?’

Ulton faces him.

‘Too many bodies. Way too many. . .’

‘I’ll go to her just now. Nothing works if we don’t prioritize.’

‘Be careful, man. She’ll be on to you about elitism, and then you know where the argument goes . . .’

‘This isn’t racial . . . Not everything in this country has to be racial.’ He checks himself. ‘Sorry, Steve. Go on.’

He turns back to the table.

‘See what we found and then make your decision.’

De Vries turns back to the bench

‘This is what he found on Lyle’s body,’ Ulton says, indicating each item with his pen. ‘Nine-millimetre Beretta. I’ve not run any tests yet, but it has been fired recently. Serial number’s gone, but we may be able to find something. A leaflet for the New Worlds Gallery exhibition of paintings by Dazuluka Cele; a Bible . . . I’ve only glanced at it, but there is underlining and notes. Finally, on his sweatshirt, two blood spatters . . .’