Just the name of the firm and the number, 462-555, no address, no fax number, nothing. They had kept the name. Were they that arrogant, that challenging?
Bester Brits dialed the number of Orion Solutions.
“Leave your name and number. We’ll call back.”
Not exactly client-friendly.
He dialed another number.
“Sergeant Pienaar.”
“Pine, it’s Bester Brits.”
“Colonel!”
“I’m looking for an address for a telephone number. I don’t want to go through the channels.”
“Give me five minutes, Colonel.”
He leaned back. Rank had its advantages.
¦
He was wrong about the ammunition: the R4 stuttered out as he rolled into the flat. He kept on rolling, the bullets stitching a row behind him, and he shot wildly, one, two, three shots with the Z88, hopelessly wide of the mark, fear injecting adrenaline, chunks of plaster and wood, dust and splinters, earsplitting noise. Tiny Mpayipheli’s Rossi .357 Magnum thundered once and then everything was quiet and he rolled to a halt behind the cheap sitting- room chair, his heart beating, blood hammering through his body, his hands shaking.
“He lied about the ‘us,’ ” said Tiny.
Van Heerden got up, shook the dust from his clothes, saw the man, the top of his head shot away by the heavy-caliber pistol. The sirens were close now, loud and clear. “We don’t have time,” he said. “We must be out of here before the police arrive.”
He shoved his hands into the dead man’s pockets – the fifth corpse today, he thought – revulsion against the bits of brain and bone and blood rising in his throat. He found nothing, looked round at the spartan flat, empty pizza boxes on the melamine kitchen counter, empty beer bottles on the coffee table, empty coffee mugs in the sink, two small boxes of ammunition on the floor, one open.
“I’ll choose my painting later, thank you.”
Mpayipheli walked to the bedroom while Van Heerden jerked open drawers and cupboards in the kitchen.
Nothing.
“Have a look at this,” Tiny called from a bedroom. He went through: R1 and R5 attack rifles leaning in a bunch in a corner, clothes strewn on the bed, two-way radios on the floor. Tiny stood in front of a cupboard, staring at an A4 sheet taped to the door, a printout from a dot-matrix printer.
Shift schedule:
00:00-06:00: Degenaar and Steenkamp
06:00-12:00: Schlebusch and Player
12:00-18:00: Weber and Potgieter
18:00-00:00: Goldman and Nixon
Sirens in front of the block. He knew the police procedure: they would come up the fire escape, two would cover the lift on the ground floor. He didn’t know how many uniforms there were by now, didn’t want to speak to the police now – this was no time to be caught up in the machine. He jerked the paper off the cupboard door. “Come on, got to go,” he said, and walked, Tiny following him, taking one last look at the body and the damage, out of the door. He pressed the call button for the lift, and the door opened immediately. They walked in, pressed P for the parking garage. As the door closed and the lift moved, he held his breath: it mustn’t stop on the ground floor.
“Your pistol,” Tiny said softly.
“What?”
“You can put it away now.”
He gave an embarrassed grin and looked at the lights above the door, GROUND FLOOR, which flashed once, the lift moving, PARKING GARAGE. His gaze fell on the handwritten note against a side panel of the lift.
Two-bedroom flat for rent in this building.
Call Maria at Southern Estate Agents,
283 Main Road.
When the door opened, he took the note down. They walked out. He looked at his watch: 14:17. Why didn’t Hope’s contact telephone? Why didn’t Hope phone?
¦
Sergeant Pienaar’s call was two minutes longer than the promised five. “The number is registered in the name of Orion Solutions, sir. The address is 78 Solan Street, in Gardens.”
“Solan?”
“I don’t pick ’em, Colonel, I just dig ’em out.”
“Thanks, Pine, you’re a star.”
“Pleasure, Colonel.”
Bester Brits put the pen down and rubbed his hands over his face with slow, rhythmic movements, softly, soothingly, comfortingly.
Another dead end?
He would have a look.
Alone.
He walked out of the office. It was suddenly cold outside, the northwester tugging at his clothes, the fine rain, preceding the cold front, sifting down. He was hardly aware of it.
They wouldn’t be so arrogant.
Orion Solutions.
The hatred was all-encompassing.
¦
As usual there was no parking on Kloof Street, so she parked the BMW on a side street. She wanted to get Zatopek van Heerden on the cell phone but decided against it. First she must check to see whether the caller was here. She took her umbrella from behind the seat, handed it to O’Grady.
“Be a gentleman,” she said.
“No running?” He took the umbrella from her and got out.
“No running,” she said.
They walked from the corner to Cafe Paradiso, she and the fat detective under the umbrella, the rain gusting.
“He’s not expecting someone else with me,” she said.
“Tough shit,” said O’Grady. “It’s my case.”
“He might run when he sees you.”
“Then you’ll have to catch him. You’re the fast one in this little team.”
They walked up the stairs, the wooden tables outside empty, the light inside shining through the windows. He opened the door for her, shook out the umbrella. Her eyes searched the room, saw the man sitting alone at a table, cigarette in his hand, brown leather jacket, late thirties, gold-rimmed glasses, dark hair, black mustache. He looked up, saw her, his face tense, and he half rose, nervously stubbing out the cigarette as she walked up to the table.
“I’m Hope Beneke.” Extending her hand.
“Miller,” he said, and shook her hand. She felt the dampness of the sweat on his palm, saw the wedding ring on his finger. “Sit down.”
“This is Inspector O’Grady of Murder and Robbery,” she said.
He looked at Nougat, confused. “What’s he doing here?”
“It’s my case now. As a matter of fact, it’s always been my case.”
They sat down at the table. A waiter approached with menus.
“We don’t want anything,” said Miller. “We’re not staying long.”
