Tiny Mpayipheli shaking his head and saying it was just like the Anglo-Boer War: the people of color who had nothing to do with the fight were in the middle. They were the ones who died.
“Billy is a fighter. He’ll make it,” said Orlando.
He had phoned Hope before Joubert and the others had commandeered his living room. Told her the SAPS had officially taken over the case. But they didn’t know about the 14:00 call. She must take it. And contact him on Tiny’s cell phone.
“Good,” she’d said. Their conspiracy.
He had told her the one who phoned might be Venter or Vergottini.
The others were dead.
Six out of eight.
She was quiet at the other end of the line. And then she said she would phone.
What had happened, two decades ago, to make Death so frequent a visitor now?
Brigadier Walter Redelinghuys arrived, went over to Bester Brits. They talked for a long time, then walked toward him. He went to meet them, heard someone behind him. It was Orlando Arendse.
“I have a stake in this. Don’t look at me like that.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
Joubert, O’Grady, and Petersen came out of his house, saw the new grouping, also came over. The detectives’ eyes widened when they saw the crime baron.
“Orlando,” said Mat Joubert without warmth.
“Bull,” Orlando said in acknowledgment, using the nickname Joubert had earned on the Cape Flats.
“What is he doing here?” Joubert asked.
“It’s my man who’s in hospital.”
“Who are you?” Walter Redelinghuys wanted to know.
“Your worst nightmare,” said Orlando.
Mat Joubert frowned deeply. “What are you doing, Van Heerden?”
“I’m doing what I have to do.”
“I want to know how we’re going to cooperate,” said Walter Redelinghuys.
“I won’t work with him,” said Joubert, nodding in Arendse’s direction.
“Just as well, I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Orlando and his men made a valuable contribution to the investigation,” Van Heerden said uncomfortably.
“You’re one of us, Van Heerden. If you needed cover fire, we would’ve helped.”
“Without asking questions?”
And they all stood there.
“We’ve just taken over the case with Van Heerden’s support, Brigadier.”
“Nonsense,” said Redelinghuys.
Joubert ignored him. “I’ll leave ten uniforms here,” he said to Van Heerden. “You don’t need Orlando.”
He did. Because of the dollars. But he couldn’t say that.
“I want Tiny Mpayipheli.”
“He also Orlando’s?”
Van Heerden nodded.
Walter Redelinghuys: “Bester is also in.”
“No,” said Van Heerden.
“Why not?” Heavily.
“He creeps around this thing like a thief in the night. He tried to get me off the investigation, he lied like a trouper, he withholds information, putting people’s lives in danger. He contributes nothing and he bugs my phone calls. Bester is out. We’ve kept you out of the media but more than that I bloody well won’t do. He can carry on creeping if he wants to, but up to now all he’s done is cause trouble.”
“I contributed what I could.”
“Have you told Murder and Robbery about the body in Hout Bay, Brits?”
“Which body, Brits?”
“Schlebusch.”
“Jesus.” Joubert turned. “Tony, Leon, we’ve got to go.”
“There’s nothing left for you,” said Brits.
“Did you interfere with a murder scene?”
“I solved a military problem.”
For a moment Van Heerden thought Mat Joubert was going to hit the Defence Force officer, but then Joubert gave a deep sigh. “I’m getting married on Saturday, and on Sunday I’m going on a honeymoon to the Seychelles. It gives me two days in which I’ll use every possible channel to get you out of this thing, Brits…”
“I object,” said the brigadier.
“Fat lot of difference that’s going to make,” said Orlando Arendse. “You don’t know the Bull.”
Redelinghuys opened his mouth but was forestalled by a woman’s high, distraught voice.
“It’s you!”
Carolina de Jager came walking up, her finger pointing at one of them.
“It’s you,” she said, her voice breaking. She walked past them to Bester Brits, hit him on the shoulder.
“It’s you. You’re the one who took away my son. What did you do, what did you do to Rupert?” She hit the man on the chest and he simply stood there, didn’t stop her. She hammered at him, weeping, until Van Heerden reached her.
“Easy,” he said in a soft voice.
“It’s him.”
“I know.”
“He brought the news of his death.”
He took her hands away from Brits, held her against him. “I know.”
“Twenty years. And I’ll never forget his face.”
He held her.
“He was the one who took Rupert away.” She cried uncontrollably, the sorrow of a lifetime. He could do no more, heard Bester walking away without a word.
There was nothing he could say to comfort her.
¦
Shortly before one, he closed and locked the door of his house behind him, arranged a few loose papers on the table in front of him, put down a pen, and tugged the wallet out of his pocket.
Worn leather that fastened with a stud. Two hundred and fifty rand and loose change. Bank cards. ABSA MasterCard in the name of W.A. Potgieter. ABSA cash card with the same name. Receipts. All in the past week. Van Hunks Tavern, Mowbray, R65.85. The Mexican Chili, Observatory, R102.66. Vee’s Videos, Main Road, Observatory. Pick ’n Pay, Mowbray, R142.55 for groceries, a credit card slip from the Girls-to-Go Agency, Twelfth Avenue, Observatory, R600.00.
That was it.
He gave the little pile a disappointed look. It wasn’t much help. It needed work. He fetched his telephone guide, looked up the number of the ABSA Card Division, dialed. “Art World Frames and Studio, Table View, here. I have a client at the counter,” he said in a whisper, “of whom I want to make quite sure.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He wants to buy a painting for nearly a thousand rand. His card number is 5417 9113 8919 1030 in the name of W.A. Potgieter and the expiry date is 06/ 00.”
“Just a moment.”
He waited. “The card hasn’t been reported as missing, sir.”
“What is his registered address? I want to make doubly sure.”
“It’s…er…177 Wildebeest Drive, Bryanston, sir.”
“Johannesburg?”
“Yes, sir.”
