Maybe he had fled the ghetto block too soon? Maybe there was somebody there who could tell him where Matt was? He could offer money. He still had a million in local currency in the trunk of the car.
Jesus, he told himself, you go back to that place, even if you could find your way back, and you’ll be arrested or murdered. And you’re the only person who has some vague idea of what happened to your son.
Burn passed a group of youths, who shouted something. One of them threw a beer can, which bounced off the rear window of the Ford. Without the watchman he had no idea of how the hell to get out of this place.
Burn was lost.
CHAPTER 32
When Zondi heard the kid talking American, he didn’t doubt for a second that this was the son of the man who’d called himself Hill. He had to be. Just too many coincidences.
The child was sitting on the counter in the charge office, wearing a soiled T-shirt and pajama bottoms. They matched the pj top Zondi had seen in the apartment. The child’s hair was matted on one side with something that looked like blood. He was saying, through tears and snot, that he wanted his mommy.
In that unmistakable accent.
A prim-looking woman with tight hair and tighter features stood next to the boy in the charge office. She looked as if she couldn’t wait to unload him and get the hell out of there. The constable on duty was taking her statement with painful slowness.
“How did this child get here?” asked Zondi.
The woman looked him up and down, immediately suspicious of this dark stranger. He allowed her a glimpse of his ID before repeating his question.
“My name is Belinda Titus. I’m a social worker. A girl, a former case of mine, brought him in. She refused to say where she had found him.”
“Name of Carmen?”
“Yes. Carmen Fortune.”
Zondi had no patience with children, but he manufactured a smile as he turned to the boy. “What’s your name, son?”
“He says his name is Matt,” said the woman.
Zondi’s smile frosted over when he turned it on her. “Thank you, but let me handle this.”
Zondi took the pen and a piece of paper from the desk cop’s hands and slid them to the boy. These American kids were precocious, so he went with a challenge. “Bet you can’t write your name.”
The kid looked at him through the tears, wiped a grubby hand across his nose. “I can, too.”
“Do you like ice cream?” The kid nodded. “Okay, you write me your name and I’ll buy you an ice cream. Deal?”
The kid weighed the offer; then he took the pen and concentrated, tongue jutting from his lip, while he applied himself to the paper. His penmanship only a little worse than the desk cop’s.
Zondi looked at the paper. “Matt Burn?” The kid nodded.
Zondi reached into his jacket pocket and took out the same mug shot printout he had shown the American. He held it up for the kid to see. “Matt. Who is this?”
“That’s my mommy,” the kid said, and started to wail again.
Zondi scooped him up off the counter. His suit would need to be cleaned after this. The child stank, and already he had deposited a smear of snot on Zondi’s shoulder.
“I’ll take this from here,” he told the woman.
“This child needs medical attention,” she said, anxious that her guest role in this little drama not end without the proper climax.
“I’ll take him to hospital, don’t worry.”
Zondi walked the kid out to his car, set him in the rear, and tried his best to secure him with the seat belts. He retrieved his laptop from the trunk and went online. It took him less than two minutes to find out that Jack and Susan Burn were fugitives from justice.
He didn’t know where Jack was, but he had a good idea where he could find Susan.
But first he had to find an ice cream.
Susan Burn lay in the recovery room, feeding her baby. A painkiller dripped into the catheter in her spine. She removed Lucy from her breast and lay with her cradled in the crook of her arm. Susan felt blank. Empty. Devoid of volition. Waiting for something to happen.
She became aware of voices outside the recovery room. The nurse’s voice, insistent, agitated, and then a man’s voice, emphatic. The door opened, and the nurse came in.
“Susan, I’m sorry, but there’s a policeman here. And he insists on seeing you.”
Susan sat up. The waiting was over. “Okay, bring him in, please.”
A tall black man in a dark suit came in. He carried Matt. She saw that her son was filthy, his light hair crusted with dried blood. When Matt saw his mother, he reached for her and started crying. Susan was beyond surprise. She held out her arms for her son.
The man gently placed Matt on the bed beside Susan. She hugged her son, staring at the man over Matt’s shoulder. The man turned to the nurse. “Leave us alone, please.”
“She’s just had a procedure. This is highly irregular.”
“I won’t be staying long.”
The nurse left, reluctantly.
The man showed Susan his ID. “My name is Special Investigator Zondi. Ministry of Safety and Security.” She nodded. “Is your name Susan Burn?”
She felt relieved. It was over. Finally. “Yes. Have you come to arrest me?”
“No. That’s out of my jurisdiction. I came across your son, and I wanted to return him to you. Get a positive ID on him.”
“What happened to him?”
The man was standing. “I’m going to leave you now. I’ll ask the nurse to take a look at your son and clean him up.”
“Where’s my husband?”
“I have no idea, Mrs. Burn.”
Susan was staring at him. “That’s it? You’re just going to leave?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Wait. Please tell me what happened. Where you found Matt.”
He looked at her. “I don’t know exactly what happened. My guess, and I could be wrong, you understand, is that your son was kidnapped. And your husband tried to get him back, but the boy was released out on the Cape Flats.”
Susan was processing this, through the fog of the painkiller. “Matt was kidnapped?”
“Yes. I believe so.”
“And Jack, my husband, tried to handle this on his own?”
“It seems that way, yes.”
“My son could have been killed?”
He nodded. “Yes. It was a dangerous situation.”
Susan felt Matt crying, his body racked by sobs. Then she felt an enormous and all-consuming anger, like a fire raging inside her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Zondi.”
“Mr. Zondi, I want you to help me, please. Help me to put an end to this.”
Zondi stared at her. Then he nodded.
Burn had found the distant Table Mountain through the smoke, and that led him to the freeway. He was on his way back into Cape Town. He had made up his mind; he was going to Sea Point police station to report the kidnapping of his son. He knew this almost certainly meant that the truth about who he was would emerge, but he
