The Serpentine Road (24 page)

Marantz scowls, feels his heart beat in his chest.

‘That isn’t a comfort. Perhaps it should be, but I am not that unselfish.’

‘Understandably . . . It raises the question of motivation . . . Why you might have been singled out for such action.’

Marantz stares ahead, past Basson. He sees nothing.

‘I had no idea that I, and they, had become a case study.’

‘History de-personalizes tragedy. That which might break a man becomes no more than an event recorded.’

‘Not to me.’

Basson tilts his head, studies him.

‘What is the nature of the matter you wish me to assist you with?’

Marantz swallows; Basson’s words impart both information and threat. He questions himself anew, whether he should have made this contact, taken a risk which is proving so personal. The wounds have been borne.

He says: ‘Colonel de Vries works for the Special Crimes Unit of the SAPS, based here in Cape Town. Last week, the daughter of the late industrialist Graeme Holt was murdered in her home. I’m sure you are aware of this?’

Basson leans his head back, nods.

‘The details of the investigation, the docket, I think you would say here, has not been available to me. But, based on what I know, an unlikely man – a man with a history of mental problems and drug addiction – appears to have been framed for this murder. He is dead and those above De Vries seem enthusiastic that the case should be closed. The word appears to have come from a small but influential office in Pretoria . . .’

‘To be clear: you are, perhaps, suggesting a state invention?’

‘Perhaps.’

Basson stubs out his cigarette, leans back in his chair.

‘As no doubt you anticipated, you have my attention.’

‘That is why I came to you.’

‘Yes, so you say. But, do you really know who you are speaking to?’

‘I’m sure that you relish a lack of definition . . .’

‘I was at
Vlakplaas
at the beginning with Dirk Coetzee. Do you know what
Vlakplaas
was?’

‘Only a one sentence précis.’

‘Tell me.’

Marantz hesitates.

‘A farm, west of Pretoria, housing a Nationalist-government sponsored paramilitary cell, designed to turn or kill anti-government operatives, to sustain the Apartheid regime. Others might describe it as a centre for torture.’

‘That was two sentences . . . But your précis is adequate. The unit was called C1 and it was formed from the existing South African Police of the time. You missed out the fact that we planned attacks on ANC terrorists: bombings, ambushes. We took the war to them.’

‘And you ceased activities in 1994 . . .’

‘It was, officially, closed down in 1994. And now, we are told,
Vlakplaas
operates as a centre for healing and traditional medicine.’

‘Reconciliation . . .’

‘Are you shocked that for so many years the British government has employed a man such as me?’

‘It would have been preferable not to.’

‘I can hear the apologists speaking in just such a way.’ Basson leans forward, rests his hands on his desk in front of him. ‘But it is a simple question: are you prepared to work with me?’

‘Work?’

‘Information always flows two ways.’

‘I don’t have any information. I am simply a private citizen.’

‘Then you have nothing to fear from an alliance.’

‘I’ve worked with worse,’ Marantz says.

‘I’m sure. To sustain the highest of ideals one is often forced to collaborate with those who represent the opposite. Don’t you find?’

Basson smiles, continues: ‘I always think it comes down to who you want protecting you. Someone who is whiter than white, or someone who understands the game?’

‘I am a pragmatist. It’s pointless to be anything else. Doing what we do.’

‘I thought you didn’t do it any more?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Yet, your personnel file in London suggests that you are neither retired nor dismissed. An “extended sabbatical”, I think, was the phrase.’

Marantz feels nauseous. Thoughts of his work bring back only memories of his wife and daughter, another life led, long ago lost. He says: ‘You read the files on the case which led to my family’s abduction?’

‘No.’

‘I’m surprised.’

‘I would have done but . . . they have become unavailable.’

‘Why would that be?’

Basson says: ‘A uniquely evil response to an investigation: to make the wife and daughter of the lead interrogator disappear, to leave him never knowing for certain. Nothing really gained, other than, perhaps, as a warning. Unless . . .’

‘Unless?’

‘Unless they had a reason. A reason personal to you?’

Marantz stares straight ahead, says blankly: ‘I know of no reason.’ His mind races. He has pondered the motive many times, every day. Still, he can think of nothing. He sniffs, blinks slowly, forces himself to relax.

‘Will
you
ever retire?’ Marantz says.

‘I think I am unlikely to find relaxation and security outside my field. Doing what we do demands a simple faith: the end always justifies the means.’

‘That is a very frightening prospect to many people.’

‘But not to you?’

‘Philosophy seems an unlikely subject matter.’

‘But it proves what we believe,’ Basson says. ‘It encapsulates us. Every system of government demands protection and active response to threat, to protect its ideology. Many claim democracy empowers them, but it is not really so. As you know . . . Does this knowledge compromise your decision to ask me for help?’

‘I’m sure you are eminently qualified. ’

Basson nods.

‘If I undertake some research on Colonel de Vries’s behalf, it is with the understanding that neither our meeting, nor his – should it come to that – ever be revealed. Your position suggests to me that you can be trusted on this but, in the case of De Vries, I would require your word that this will be instilled in him, without fail . . .’

‘I will do that.’

‘. . . It is whether I deem it likely that you can control him, you see?’

Marantz waits; he knows that he has done all that he can now. Basson contemplates for several minutes, occasionally looking up at him.

‘Let us leave it like this,’ he says finally. ‘If the information I find, assuming that it is there, warrants my taking such a risk, then I will do so. I hope you are satisfied?’

‘Thank you. Yes.’

‘And, it occurs to me, since we are keeping this between ourselves, there might come a time when such mutual discretion has another use. You understand me?’

‘I am in your debt.’

‘Potentially.’ Basson rises and offers his hand, looks Marantz in the eye.

‘Goodbye, John. It is most unlikely that we will meet again.’

Don February follows the two telephoned takeaway orders from the Woodsman’s Grill to residential addresses within two kilometres of the restaurant. Neither are remotely suspicious. The late call-in, identified by the greeter, Judy, as a policeman, presents him with a problem. He does not try to find out from the Central Station rota who would have been free to drive to the restaurant and then, perhaps, to De Waal Park; that would raise questions he could not answer. Instead, he goes to the administration offices for Central division, speaks with a young Sergeant, obtains a black-and-white print-out of ID pictures of all officers attached to the district, and does exactly the same for Gardens district.

Then he returns to Oranjezicht, waits outside the Woodsman’s Grill.

Two murder scenes, maybe, where no one has seen the killer; where there is no forensic or physical evidence. De Vries feels aimless, helpless. He longs to hunt down the perpetrator; he needs only one lead. He stares at the board in the squad room, stands smoking in his office; he wonders where Don February might be.

Judy Miles arrives in a battered white CitiGolf, parks with difficulty on the steep gradient. She gets out and walks towards him. When she sees him, she says: ‘Good morning, officer.’ She gestures at the door. ‘Has Henk not opened up yet?’

‘He is inside?’

She laughs.

‘He lives above the restaurant. Henk is always here.’

She unlocks the front doors, leaves the hanging sign showing ‘closed’, throws down her rucksack behind the cash desk.

‘You want to talk to Henk or me?’

‘You, Miss Miles. I want you to look at some pictures, please.’

She looks up at the oversized clock on the far wall.

‘I have to prepare for lunch service, but I have a few minutes.’

Don lays out the sheets on the counter top.

‘What racial group was the police officer you saw?’

‘He was black,’ she says, seeming awkward. ‘Maybe in his thirties. Looked quite fit.’

She starts to scan the sheets. Don notices her hesitate as her eyes fall on each black officer. She reaches the end of the first set, covering the officers from Metro; Don lays out the ones showing Cape Town Central SAPS officers. After a few minutes, she has viewed all the pictures.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t recognize him from any of these.’

‘That is all right,’ Don tells her calmly. ‘Do you think you would know him if his face was there?’

‘I think so.’ She looks up at him.

‘It is not so easy,’ he says gently, ‘to distinguish between those of a different racial group?’

She blushes.

‘I’m not sure, but I don’t think he was amongst those pictures.’

Don gathers up his papers.

‘Thank you. I may need to show you some more pictures.’ He nods at her and turns to leave, but twists back. ‘The vehicle you saw? Was it a car or a van? Do you remember?’

She closes her eyes and concentrates, very still.

‘It was big,’ she declared finally. ‘I don’t think it was a car. Maybe a van? A tall van.’

‘You didn’t see any markings on it?’

‘It was parked down the hill,’ she says quickly. ‘It was white. That’s all I remember.’

She follows Don to the door, unlocks it, and lets him out.

‘Thanks for coming,’ she says sweetly, mechanically. ‘Call again.’

‘Somewhere along the line,’ De Vries says, ‘there has to be something that leads us in the right direction.’ He holds his hand up. ‘And don’t mention that fucking chicken again, Don. You’re an adult, you do whatever you like, but if I hear about it again, it had better be solid.’ He looks at Steve Ulton. ‘Anything at all we can use to get a handle on this guy?’

Ulton struggles to sit upright in De Vries’s crooked visitor’s chair.

‘No prints or impressions of any kind outside in the garden or on the terrace. Inside, there’s lots of stuff. But, you tell me that she had at least two boyfriends, visits from people protesting about her exhibition; there are half a dozen part-time domestic workers and the live-in maid. Even if we had the resources, which we don’t, I can’t see us finding anything significant. If there’s anything there, it’s hidden in the comings and goings.’

‘The guy can shoot,’ De Vries says. ‘We think he kills Taryn Holt with the first shot. He shoots her four times more. Why? To cover the fact that he’s such a good shot?’

‘Possibly,’ Ulton responds. ‘It makes as much sense as any other explanation.’

‘He collects the casings, arranges Holt with the dildo in her mouth. Again, why?’

‘To make it look not like an execution,’ Don says. ‘To make it look like something it is not.’

Ulton nods. De Vries scratches the back of his neck.

‘That’s the point, isn’t it,’ he says, clenching his fists. ‘We know it’s not what it seems. We just don’t know what the fuck it really is.’

He is still in his office as dusk turns to night. This is a special time for him, when the squad room goes quiet and dark, and only the lamp on his desk is on. The windows in the office buildings opposite him are mainly dark also but, beneath him, the street is a string of white and red lights as, slowly, the CBD empties out, leaving it deserted but for some sleeping forms in doorways. De Vries doesn’t want to go home; he has no desire to repeat his failings to Marantz. He considers the bars of Long Street but knows that, in truth, he is happier drinking alone.

He opens his bottom drawer, fumbles in it with his left hand without looking down, feels the bottle. The previous year, he spilt whisky in the drawer, trying to hide his office tipple, just as David Wertner came into his office. He smiles at the memory. He has stayed off spirits for a while but, this evening, the thought of a warming draft suddenly overwhelms him, and he extracts the bottle. His hand fails to locate the plastic beakers which used to accompany it. He peers into the drawer, but they have gone. He gets up, strolls into the squad room and takes a mug from next to the jug of weak, tepid coffee, then wanders back again, shutting the door after him. He pours himself a modest double measure, sips it, smiles, knocks it back, and pours another, larger tot. Twenty seconds, he reflects, between pours; reminds him of how he used to be.

His thoughts turn to Julius Mngomezulu; he wonders whether it is personal with him, this need to interfere and disrupt De Vries’s inquiries. He asks himself what Mngomezulu has to gain by leaking information on Trevor Bhekifa to the press, but cannot find an answer. He pours again.

By 9 p.m., he is tapping a rhythm only he hears on the surface of his desk, running through evidence which produces no answers. He stops, realizes that he has been told what to do: to dismiss what appears in front of him; to consider everything from the other side, the opposite angle. Steve Ulton’s words: ‘If there is anything there, it’s hidden in the comings and goings.’ De Vries thinks: that’s the point. The killer knew the house, took the alarm remote, loosened the window. The killer knew Taryn Holt, had been there at the house – any sign of him hidden in the comings and goings? The killer shoots perfectly, then masks it; the killer kills again to hide himself, to hide the motive. None of the suspects fit this description. Yet De Vries feels that there is no one unaccounted for, no one who is hiding other than in plain view. Don February’s chicken takeaway: a policeman. De Vries looks up – the room tilts and he squeezes his eyes shut. He opens them, feels suddenly sober, knows all at once: Nkosi.