Devil's Peak

* * *

There was an atmosphere of faint despair in the detective?s office. Files lay about in untidy heaps, the meager furniture was worn out and the outdated posters on the walls made hollow claims about crime prevention. A portrait of Mbeki in a narrow, cheap frame hung askew. The floor tiles were a colorless gray. A dysfunctional fan stood in one corner, dust accumulated on the metal grille in front of the blades.

The air was thick with the oppressive scent of failure.

Thobela sat on a steel chair with gray-blue upholstery and the foam protruding from one corner. The detective stood with his back to the wall. He was looking sideways out of the grimy window at the parking area. He had narrow, stooped shoulders and gray patches in his goatee.

?I pass it on to Criminal Intelligence at Provincial Headquarters. They put it on the national database. That?s how it works.?

?A database for escapees??

?You could say so.?

?How big would this database be??

?Big.?

?And their names just sit there on a computer??

The detective sighed. ?No, Mr. Mpayipheli?the photos, criminal records, the names and addresses of families and contacts are part of the file. It is all sent along and distributed. We follow up what we can. Khoza has family in the Cape. Ramphele?s mother lives here in Umtata. Someone will call on them . . .?

?Are you going to Cape Town??

?No. The police in the Cape will make inquiries.?

?What does that mean, ?make inquiries???

?Someone will go and ask, Mr. Mpayipheli, if Khoza?s family has heard anything from him.?

?And they say ?no? and then nothing happens??

Another sigh, deeper this time. ?There are realities you and I cannot change.?

?That is what black people used to say about apartheid.?

?I think there is a difference here.?

?Just tell me, what are the chances? That you will catch them??

The detective pushed away from the wall, slowly. He dragged out a chair in front of him and sat with his hands clasped. He talked slowly, like someone with a great weariness. ?I could tell you the chances are good, but you must understand me correctly. Khoza has a previous conviction?he has done time: eighteen months for burglary. Then the armed robbery at the garage, the shooting . . . and now the escape. There is a pattern. A spiral. People like him don?t stop; their crimes just become more serious. And that?s why chances are good. I can?t tell you we will catch them now. I can?t tell you when we will catch them. But we will, because they won?t stay out of trouble.?

?How long, do you think??

?I couldn?t say.?

?Guess.?

The detective shook his head. ?I don?t know. Nine months? A year??

?I can?t wait that long.?

?I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Mpayipheli. I understand how you feel. But you must remember, you are only one victim of many. Look at all these files here. There is a victim in every one. And even if you go and talk to the PC, it will make no difference.?

?The PC??

?Provincial commissioner.?

?I don?t want to talk to the provincial commissioner. I am talking to

you.

?

?I have told you how it is.?

He gestured towards the document on the table and said softly: ?I want a copy of the file.?

The detective did not react immediately. A frown began to crease his forehead, possibilities considered.

?It?s not allowed.?

Thobela nodded his head in comprehension. ?How much??

The eyes measured him, estimating an amount. The detective straightened his shoulders. ?Five thousand.?

?That is too much,? he said, and he stood up and started for the door.

?Three.?

?Five hundred.?

?It?s my job on the line. Not for five hundred.?

?No one will ever know. Your job is safe. Seven-fifty.?