The guy relaxed. “Fully. Watchman got plugged.” He wiped his hand and stuck it out. “Name’s Dave Judd. Site foreman.”
Zondi shook the hand. “Would you mind showing me where the shooting took place?”
“No problem.” Judd coiled the tape measure and slipped it into the pouch. He led Zondi into the interior of the house, across two planks, toward a stairway. Laborers in overalls were plastering the walls. Judd dodged the men and went nimbly up the stairs, his surfer’s balance on display.
He pointed to the stairs leading to the uncompleted top floor. “Happened right here. Guy’s pooch got taken out, shame.”
“His dog?”
“Ja. Absolutely. Right here. Can still see the bullet holes, hey.”
He pointed to the wall, and Zondi went closer. One of the slugs was embedded in the unplastered wall. “You mind if I borrow a screwdriver?”
“No prob.”
Judd freed a screwdriver from his tool belt and handed it over, handle first. Zondi dug into the hole and unearthed the slug. He removed an evidence bag from his pocket and eased the slug inside, then sealed it.
He handed the screwdriver back. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing.”
“All right if I wander around a bit?”
“Hey, whatever. I’ll be downstairs if you need me, okay?”
Zondi nodded and watched as the surfer boy bounced back down the stairs, probably counting the minutes until he could get into his wet-suit and go catch some waves. Zondi went up to the top floor, the roof open to the sky.
He was alone up there. He walked to the edge of an unfinished balcony, saw a small pile of cigarette butts. Roll-your-owns. He was prepared to bet that this was where the watchman and his dog had hung out. He wanted to talk to that watchman.
Zondi looked down onto the deck of the house next door. Another one of those high-walled boxes with big glass windows. A man stood on the deck, staring down over Cape Town, the breeze flicking his hair.
Zondi turned and walked back toward the stairs.
It had become too much for Burn. The watchman betrayed no emotion, focused on his task with single- minded determination. He applied the blade with precision to the body of the fat man, stabbing into the blubber, drawing blood that flowed down onto the garbage bags and the newspapers. He worked his way up the legs, then began on the massive torso.
Barnard, shirtless, his immense body streaked with blood, strained in the chair, the veins on his forehead popping out like cords. Sweat and blood coursed off him. He had pissed and shit himself, which, mixed with his fetid body odor and the smell of blood, made the room stink like a charnel house.
Every few minutes the watchman would remove the gag, and Burn would repeat the question. “Where is my son?”
And the fat cop would shake his head, his fringe wet and dangling, and spit two words through his bleeding lips. “Fuck youse.”
The watchman would shove the gag back in and tape it up. Then he would wipe the blade down and start his work again, inserting the knife into the body of the fat man deep enough to cause agony but not deep enough to cause death.
“I’m going upstairs. For some air,” Burn told the watchman, who merely nodded as he inserted the blade into Barnard’s shoulder. A keening noise rose from somewhere within the cop’s chest, and tears and sweat dripped from his face. His body bulged against the ropes.
Burn headed for the kitchen, where he splashed his face and drank a long draft of water. Was this fat bastard ever going to break? The longer this continued, the more remote the likelihood that he would ever see his son alive again.
Burn stepped out onto the deck and sucked air. Even the smoky breeze, still heavy with the charred smell of the fire, was sweet after the foul atmosphere of the torture chamber that was now his garage. It was hard to believe, looking out at this scene of quiet beauty, that the world went on, untroubled by the universe of pain and corruption that he had somehow stumbled into. Then he looked beyond the city and the ocean, out to where the land was flat, covered in a haze of smog and smoke.
Burn had taken Matt on a helicopter ride before Christmas. The chopper had done the usual tourist things, gone around Table Mountain, along the coast; then it had banked over the Cape Flats on its way to land, and Burn had looked down at the endless sprawl of box houses and ghett apartment blocks dumped on the scrubland like forgotten toys in a sandpit. As he stood on the deck, he had a memory of that sprawl. He knew his son was out there somewhere.
Burn had no idea how long he stood there, the wind cooling the sweat on his body, before he heard the voice calling to him. He looked down to the street and saw a black man in a very well-cut dark suit, designer shades, staring up at him.
“Excuse me,” the man said for maybe the fifth time.
Burn stepped toward the railing of the deck. “Yes. Hi, sorry.”
“I’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind.” The man was holding something toward him.
Burn focused. It was some kind of official ID. He almost wanted to laugh. Not again. Not now.
CHAPTER 27
A voice inside Burn’s head told him to open the street door, to extend his wrists in supplication toward this black cop and ask for the handcuffs. Lead him toward the garage that now doubled as a DIY torture chamber. Beg him to find his boy.
But Burn opened the door and did something with his facial muscles that resembled a smile. “Afternoon. Can I help you?”
The black man, his shaven dome gleaming in the sunlight, offered the ID document for Burn to view. “Special Investigator Zondi. Ministry of Safety and Security.”
Burn nodded, making no move to open the door any wider.
“Can I have your name, please, sir?”
“Hill. John Hill.”
“You’re American?”
“Yes, I am.” Burn made a point of looking at his watch. “I’m in kind of a hurry…”
“My apologies. Do you know anything about a red BMW that was parked next door to your house a few nights ago? Outside the building site?”
Burn shook his head. “No.”
The black cop thought for a moment before he spoke. “Was there maybe another officer here, asking questions?”
Burn was tempted to lie. But what if there was some record of Barnard having been here? He told a version of the truth. “Yeah. There was. A few days back.”
“Is that a fact? This officer, was he by any chance Inspector Barnard?”
Burn made a show of looking uncertain, playing the dumb foreigner. “These South African names kinda confuse me. He was a big guy, pretty heavy.”
“Sounds like him. He asked you about the car?”
“That’s right. Wanted to know if I had seen anybody. Heard anything. I told him what I told you.”
“Do you live here alone, Mr. Hill?”
“Well, at the moment, yes. My wife and son are away.” He was steping back. “If that’s all, I’ve got to get down to Sea Point. To the bank.”
“Just one more thing.”
The man reached into his well-cut jacket pocket and came out with a neatly folded sheet of paper. He
