Zulu (23 page)

“You always know the right thing to say to a woman.”

“It's not every day I meet someone like you.”

“How am I supposed to take that?”

“That depends a lot on what you think of this,” he said, handing her the sheet of paper.

Nonchalantly, she looked over the document. “Nail clippings, locks of hair,” she said. “The basic ingredients for a quack's remedy. He's trying to make a
muti
. Oh, and I see there are also some unusual plants,
upindamshaye
,
uphind'umuva
,
mazwende
. Don't you have any botanists in the police force?”

“What I don't have is a culprit.”

“There's no lack of them in South Africa.”

“You're an
inyanga
, aren't you? An herbalist.”

“I thought I was just making potions for schoolgirls?”

“I was wrong about you.”

“And I was wrong about you, if that's any consolation.”

No.

“Do these plants form the basis of an
intelezi
?” he asked.

“Why are you asking me questions if you already know the answers?”

“That's my job, believe it or not. Well?”

“Yes,” Zina replied. “A Zulu pre-battle ritual.”

“Can you tell me anything more about that?”

She looked into his eyes, but they had become opaque. “The composition of an
intelezi
varies depending on whether you're trying to weaken your enemy or strengthen your own weapon,” she said. “Judging by the composition of this one, I'd say it was used to weaken the enemy.”

“Killing young girls with a club, I wouldn't exactly call that a battle.”

“It may not be young girls he sees as his opponent,” she said.

“Who then—the police?”

“You, the government, the whites who run the machine. If your guy believes he's a Zulu warrior, that means he feels strong enough to defy the whole world.”

Neuman didn't know if it was the drug that gave the killer this feeling of invincibility, if he was planning to take his
muti
back to one of the township
sangomas
, if he was attacking these girls out of racism, cowardice, or pure insanity. His eyes wandered down to the orange patterns on the carpet.

“What are you afraid of?” she asked.

He looked up. “Not him, anyway.”

“Your hands are shaking,” she said.

“Maybe. Do you want to know why?”

“Yes.”

Neuman's legs, although quite still, were giving way. “I have a list of murders committed in the cities where you and your group have performed,” he said straight out. “At least three unsolved murders, all of men who were highly placed officials under apartheid.”

She tightened her grip on the towel around her neck. She hadn't been expecting that. His eyes had lied to her. He did not love her. He was setting a trap for her. He had been hunting her down from the start.

“Did you use one of your love potions to poison Karl Woos?” he went on.

“I'm not a praying mantis.”

“Woos, Müller, and Francis didn't testify before the Truth and Reconciliation Commission,” he said. “Did you kill them because they'd gotten off scot-free? Are you still settling scores with the past?”

Zina again looked every inch the ex-militant. “You're talking to a ghost, Mr. Neuman.”

“Did you kill in the name of Inkatha?”

“No.”

“Could you kill in the name of Inkatha?”

“I'm a Zulu.”

“So am I. I've never killed anyone as a Zulu.”

“You would have done it for the ANC,” she hissed. “You would have done it to avenge your father.”

So she knew about that.

“You're still active in Inkatha,” he said softly. “At least unofficially.”

“No. I'm a dancer.”

“Sugar to attract the wasps.”

“I hate sugar.”

“You're still lying.”

“And you're crazy. I'm a dancer, whether you like it or not.”

“Yes, you're a dancer.” Neuman took a step toward the dressing table, where he had cornered her. “Is your next target here, in Cape Town? Have you already approached him?”

“You're crazy,” she repeated.

“Really?”

For a brief moment, there was silence in the dressing room. Zina took hold of his hot, feverish hands and unflinchingly placed her lips on his. Neuman did not move when she slid her tongue into his mouth. He was the target.

Zina was kissing him, her eyes wide open, when the cell phone rang in his pocket.

It was Janet Helms.

“I've found the suspect's DNA in the records,” she said.

 

 *

 

Sam Gulethu, born December 10, 1966, in the Bantustan of KwaZulu. Mother a housewife, died in 1981, father died two years earlier in the mines. Leaves his native village as a teenager, wanders in search of a pass to work in the city. Convicted of the murder of a teenage girl in 1984, serves six years in Durban prison. Joins the ranks of the Inkatha vigilantes in 1986, during the state of emergency,
32
and remains with them until the end of apartheid. Suspected of several murders of opponents during the difficult period preceding the democratic elections, Gulethu is granted an amnesty in 1994. He is next heard of in 1997, when he is sentenced to six months' imprisonment without remission for drug trafficking, then to two years for armed robbery—again served in Durban prison. Moves to Cape Province, where he is associated with various gangs in the township of Manenberg. Involved in selling marijuana, extortion on buses and trains. Sentenced again in 2001, this time for six months for aggravated assault, kidnapping, and acts of torture—sentence served at Pollsmoor prison. Released September 14, 2006. Does not attend any of his appointments with social services in Manenberg, where he is supposed to be living. Unknown
sangoma
activities. Has probably joined one of the township gangs. Distinguishing marks: pockmarked face, one upper incisor missing, tattoo of a spider on the right forearm.

 

Neuman was staring at the screen of Janet Helms's computer, having quickly joined her at headquarters. Manenberg—the township where Maia lived—the tattoo, Pollsmoor. It was all coming together. There were shadowy areas, but the Gulethu lead seemed the right one. Most of the vigilantes who had maintained order in the Bantustans by force had stayed in the townships. Despised, unemployed, they ended up becoming involved with the armed gangs and the Mafias. Gulethu may have set up a new gang on leaving prison, with whoever he found on the streets—former militiamen, child soldiers, whores, junkies. Gulethu and Sonny Ramphele had both spent time in Pollsmoor prison. Gulethu must have found out about Sonny's drug dealing on the coast, and when he got out had set up in business with Sonny's younger brother to sell his drug to a white clientele, which was more lucrative than the losers in the township. Stan must have said something to him about his tattoo, and mentioned his own fear of spiders. The young Xhosa may have pimped Nicole Wiese for him, for money, without knowing that he was going to kill her. But with Stan's “suicide,” who had handed Kate Montgomery over to Gulethu?

Neuman couldn't take his eyes off the mug shot on the screen. Gulethu wasn't ugly—he was terrifying.

 

 

 

H
out Bay was the largest fishing port on the peninsula. The first boats were returning from the open sea, trailing a swarm of seagulls in their wake. Brian waved at the colony of sea lions nesting in the bay, walked past the picturesque Mariner's Wharf and the seafood restaurants on the edge of the beach, and parked his Mercedes near the market stalls.

Women in pretty dresses were setting out their wooden toys, in preparation for the arrival of the tourists. The ATD office was located a bit farther on, at the far end of the jetties. One of the biggest security companies in the country. Head of the Hout Bay branch was Frank Debeer.

Brian passed the refrigeration depots, where black workers were waiting for the day's haul, and headed for the office, a colonnaded building somewhat set apart from the bustle of the harbor. The forecourt was deserted apart from a Ford bearing the company colors, roasting in the sun. He walked to the nearby garage and pushed open the heavy sliding door. Another brightly colored Ford lurked in the shadows, and beyond it, partly hidden, the dark lines of a Pinzgauer four-by-four.

Swallows had nested under the metal beams. Brian approached the vehicle, and tried the door—locked. He peered in through the tinted windows—impossible to see inside. The bodywork looked almost new, without any traces of fresh paint. He was examining the few soil marks on the tires when a voice echoed behind him.

“Looking for something?”

A big white in blue fatigues had just come in from the forecourt: Debeer, a middle-aged Afrikaner with reflective sunglasses and a huge beer belly.

Brian waved his badge in the direction of the swallows. “Are you Debeer?”

“Yes, why?”

“Is this toy yours?” he said, indicating the car.

The man wedged his thumbs under his pot belly. “It's the company's,” he said. “Why?”

“Is it often used?”

“For patrols. I asked you why?”

“And I'm asking you to change your tune. What patrols?”

The looks they exchanged were like the current
pax americana
.

“For our work,” Debeer grunted. “We're a security company, not an intelligence agency.”

“Private police forces are supposed to cooperate with the SAP,” Brian retorted, “not crap all over it. I'm investigating a homicide. You're the boss here, so you're going to answer me or I set this place on fire. What kind of patrols?”

Debeer lifted his belly as if it was a baby trying to get away from him. “We cover the whole peninsula. It depends on the calls we get. There are plenty of burglaries.”

“Do you patrol at night?”

“Twenty-four hours a day,” Debeer retorted. “Like it says on our sign.”

The swallows started chirruping beneath the beams.

“Who used this vehicle on Thursday of last week?” Epkeen asked.

“No one.”

“How do you know without checking your records?”

“Because I'm the one who uses it.”

“This vehicle was filmed on Baden Powell at two in the morning last Thursday,” Brian said.

He was bluffing.

Debeer pulled a face, which did nothing for his double chin. “It's possible. I was on night duty last week.”

“I thought you said no one used the Pinzgauer.”

“No one except me.”

The guy was messing around.

“Did you get an emergency call?” Brian asked.

“We don't have to wait for people to be robbed to go out on patrol.”

“So you were patrolling Baden Powell that night.”

“If you say so.”

Debeer was hiding behind a lot of bluster, hoping to pull the wool over his eyes. Brian caught his own reflection in the sunglasses—he wasn't looking too good.

“Do you patrol on your own?”

“I don't need anyone else to do my job.”

“Don't you work in pairs?”

“Most of the time we check out break-ins. Sometimes, you only need one person for that.”

Less manpower equals more profits, even if it meant doing a botched job. A standard procedure—Brian wasn't convinced. He took a photograph from his linen jacket.

“Do you recognize this house?”

Debeer looked at it blankly, as if he was reading Chinese. “Don't know it.”

“A house in the dunes, near Pelikan Park. It doesn't have any security protection. Strange for an isolated house, don't you think?”

He shrugged. “If people want to be burglarized, that's their choice.”

“This house is in your area. Didn't anyone try to canvass the owners?”

Debeer sniffed. “I'm the head of the branch, not a salesman.”

“And yet you look like the kind of man who lies as easily as breathing.”

“I don't breathe. That's why they gave me this job.”

A billy club, a cell phone, and a service pistol hung on his broad hips.

“You're an ex-cop, right?” Brian said.

“That's none of your business.”

“Can I take a look at the vehicle?”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“Do you have a reason not to show me what's inside?”

Debeer hesitated for a moment, emitted an unpleasant sound with his mouth, and took a key from his pocket. The lights of the Pinzgauer blinked.

The interior of the four-by-four smelled of detergent. To judge by the layout, the back had been used to transport goods. Brian inspected the passenger compartment. Everything was clean, no trace of ash in the ashtray, not a speck of dust on the dashboard.

“What do you carry in this car?”

“That depends on what we've been called in for,” Debeer replied behind him.

There was room enough inside for eight people.

Brian emerged from the vehicle. “Have you cleaned it recently?”

“Nothing illegal about that, as far as I know.”

“It's funny,” he said, turning toward the Ford. “This other car's really dirty.”

“So?”

Sweat was forming rings under his uniform.

Brian felt his cell phone vibrate in the pocket of his fatigues. Giving Debeer a dirty look, he left the garage to take the call. It was Neuman.

“Where are you?” Neuman asked at the other end of the line.

“In Hout Bay, with a jerk.”

“Let it go. We've been sent a gift. Join me at Harare police station.”

Brian grumbled as he put away his phone. Debeer was watching him scornfully behind his reflective glasses, in the shade of the garage, his thumbs stuck in his belt.

 

 *

 

There was an unpleasant smell in Walter Sanogo's office, which the fan didn't do much to dispel. Ali Neuman and Brian Epkeen were standing in front of him, waiting in silence. Sanogo took the plastic bag from the icebox at his feet and placed it carefully on the desk. There was something round inside, a human head, its Negroid features visible through the blood-spattered plastic.

“Found this morning in a garbage pail outside the station,” Sanogo said in a neutral voice.

He untied the handles of the bag and uncovered the decapitated head of a young black, his eyes and cheeks swollen, staring at them with a monstrous grin. The closed eyelids had been cut lengthwise, leaving only a bloody crack by way of eyes. Eyes like razors. The Cat had had a bit of fun, before sending his master the corpse.

“A gift from Mzala?”

“It bears his signature.”

Neuman kneeled and looked at the head. He had met this boy on the construction site ten days earlier, with Joey. The one who'd limped.

“Do you know this man?”

“No,” Sanogo replied. “He must be a foreigner, or from the squatter camps.”

“I met him in Khayelitsha ten days ago,” Neuman said. “He was beating up the boy who attacked my mother.”

Sanogo shrugged. “I sent a patrol to the dunes on Cape Flats to look for the rest of the body,” he said. “That's often where the wolves leave their prey.”

Neuman looked at the decapitated head on the desk and its sliced eyelids. “In that case, let's go have a word with the leader of the pack.”

 

 *

 

Mzala was playing darts in the private room of the Marabi. The
shebeen
was already full of the kind of people who had suffered everything life could throw at them and so were ignoring the insults that Dina was flinging at them like bones at birds of prey.

“Buy drinks, you heap of vermin! This isn't a steam room!”

That was when she saw the big black cop in the entrance, with a whole bunch of Sanogo's cops following him, and released her pressure on the drinkers. Neuman walked though the alcohol-dazed crowd, with Brian covering his back.

“You—”

“I told you once before, shut up.”

With a look, Neuman boxed her in behind the counter. He walked past the pillar and pulled open the metal partition that led to the Americans' private room. A noisy fan was stirring the smoke-laden air. Three guys were slumped on straw mattresses, waiting their turn to play. Mzala had his eyes fixed on the target, apparently contemplating his next throw.

“Did you like my gift?” he asked, and simultaneously launched the dart.

It landed a long way off target.

Two red-eyed
tsotsis
came from the corridor and took up position on either side of Mzala. Brian had them in his sights—they both had guns under their shirts. The other three seemed to be snoozing behind their eyelids. Sanogo was standing against the metal partition, next to Dina, who had come to the rescue.

“Where does the head come from?”

“Not far from here. Near Crossroads, on the edge of the township, where he was trying to sell his dope.” Mzala gave an impassive smile. “Not a good idea.”

He was about to throw another dart, but Neuman went and stood in front of the board. “So you cut his head off.”

Mzala assumed a contrite air, which suited him about as well as a clown's nose. “I have nothing against cops,” he said, “but I don't much like finding out from them what's happening on my own pitch. The story you told me almost kept me awake. It made me think the Americans' territory isn't watertight.” He clicked his tongue. “You're an educated man, you know what private property means. We had to send a strong signal to those fucking foreigners.”

“The Nigerian Mafia?”

“Apparently.” He smiled enigmatically. “Dogs like that, you chase away ten, a hundred come back.”

“How do you know they're Nigerians?”

“They talked Dashiki among themselves, and those gangs of theirs grow like weeds.” He pointed his nose in Sanogo's direction. “Just ask the captain there.”

Sanogo didn't bat an eyelid. There were two constables at the entrance of the
shebeen
, the others were keeping an eye on the drinkers in the main room.

“Who's their leader?” Neuman asked.

“One of those fucking niggers, I suppose.”

“You cut his eyelids with a razor. That wasn't just for fun, was it?”

Mzala wiped the palm of his hand on his faded T-shirt. “I didn't ask their names, brother. They were just Nigerian dogs. A territory can't be shared. Especially not the Americans'.”

For the moment, no one was making a hostile move. Brian glanced through the barred window looking out on the street corner. Outside, boys in shorts were watching from a distance, held back by their elders.

“Where's the rest of the body?” Neuman asked.

“We sent the son of a bitch back where he came from!” Mzala said, swaggering in front of his court. “To the other side of the tracks.”

The line separating Khayelitsha from the squatter camp.

“So the gang comes from the buffer zone?”

“Seems so, brother.”

“What are they doing on your territory?”

“I told you—trying to sell their dope.”

“What dope?”

“
Tik
. Anyway, that's what the guy told us. He didn't have any reason to lie,” he added with a sly smile. “These hyenas were prospecting around here, for a while apparently. It's just not done, you agree. We're the Americans, we don't like sharing.”

“You're a funny guy, you know that?” Neuman held out the photograph of Gulethu. “Know him?”

“Er . . .”

“Gulethu, a Zulu
tsotsi
. He was skimming off the gangs, then he disappeared. He's killed several people, two white girls in particular.”

“Is he the Zulu the papers are talking about?”

“Don't tell me you can read.”

“I have girls who've learned to read for me,” he said, turning to a colored girl sprawled on the couch. “Isn't that right, girl, you know heaps about reading?”

“Yeah,” the girl replied, her breasts bursting out of her red leotard. “I even have the Bible written on my ass!”

They all laughed coarsely. The girl's breasts shook rhythmically.

“Well?” Neuman said impatiently.

“No,” Mzala replied. “Never seen the guy.”

“What about the rest of the gang? Where's it hiding?”

“In Cape Flats. An old spaza shop according to the guy, down near the tracks. I didn't go see. It stinks over there.”

Mzala was smiling with his yellow teeth when suddenly the windows exploded. Before the two cops at the entrance were able to raise their guns, they were riddled with bullets, and the sign and the door were both shot to pieces. A pickup truck with the tarp removed screeched to a halt outside the
shebeen
, and from the back of it three men sprayed bullets. Inside the
shebeen
the customers retreated from the entrance. A man fell to the floor face down, another collapsed in front of the bar counter, his neck broken. The strongest of them surged back, knocking over the stunned drunks, forcing their way through with their fists. A burst of fire took off the jaw of one of the constables who had been caught in the crush, and he let out a piercing scream. Neuman had thrown himself to the ground. Bodies were falling around him. People were taking refuge in the games room. The firing came from AK-47s. In a panic, some customers tried to escape through the windows, but the killers outside picked them off, and they dropped back inside, covered in blood. Neuman looked for Brian, saw him on the floor, his .38 in his hand. Crouching against the wall, Mzala was yelling orders into his cell phone. People were falling onto the metal partition, machine-gunned at close range. The bullets were still raining down in an explosion of plaster, glasses, bottles, billboards. Mzala and his men posted themselves at the window of the private room and opened fire in their turn.