He couldn?t reconnoiter. This afternoon when he drove down the long curve of the main street there were eyes on him. The eyes of colored people in front of a few cafes, the eyes of black petrol attendants at the filling station, which consisted of a couple of pumps and a dilapidated caravan. The eyes of Uniondale?s few white residents watering their dry gardens with hosepipes.
Thobela knew he had only one chance to find the house. He wouldn?t be able to look around; he wouldn?t be able to drive up and down. Because here everyone knew about the Scholtz scandal and they would remember a black man driving a pickup?a strange black man in a place where everyone knew everybody.
He had to be content with a signboard in the main street indicating the road. It was enough. He took the R339 out of the town, the one running east towards the mountain. As the road curved around the town, he saw there was a place to park with pepper trees and clefts in the ridges beside the road where he could leave the vehicle in the dark. He drove on, through the pass, along the Kamannasie River, and at twelve kilometers he filled up with petrol beside the cooperative at Avontuur.
Where was he going? asked the Xhosa petrol attendant.
Port Elizabeth.
So why are you taking
road?
Because it is quiet.
Safe journey, my brother.
The petrol attendant would remember him. And that forced him to drive back to the main road and turn right. Towards the Langkloof, because the man?s eyes could follow him. If he deviated from that route, the man would wonder why and remember him even better.
In any case he had to pass the time until dark. He made a long detour. Gravel roads, past game farms and eventually back via the pass. To this spot above Uniondale where he stood beside the pickup in the moonlight and watched the town lights below. He would have to walk through the veld and over the ridge. Sneak. Between the houses. He would have to avoid dogs. He must find the right house. He must go in and do what he had to do. And then come back and drive away.
It would be hard. He had too little information about the lay of the land and the position of the house. He didn?t even know if they would be home.
Leave. Now. The risk was too great. The town was too small.
He took the assegai from behind the seat. He stood on a rock and looked over the town. His fingertips stroked the smooth wooden shaft.
He had all night.
Between Bishop Lavis and Camps Bay his cell phone rang twice.
First it was Greyling from Forensics: ?Benny, your man drives a pickup.?
?Oh, yes??
?And if we are not mistaken, it?s a four-by-two with diff lock. Probably a double cab. Because the imprint is from a RTSA Wrangler. A Goodyear 215/14.?
?What make is the pickup??
?Hell, no, it?s impossible to say, the whole lot come out of the factory with the Wrangler?Ford and Mazda, Izuzu, Toyota, you name it.?
?How do you know it?s not an ordinary pickup??
?Your ordinary one comes out with the CV 2
from Goodyear, which is a 195/14, the G 22, they call it. Trouble is, nearly every minibus-taxi comes out with the same tire, so it?s chaos. And your four-by-four is a 215/15. But this print is definitely a 215/14, which is put on the four-by-twos. And eighty per cent of your four-by-twos are double cabs or these other things with only two doors, the Club Cabs. Which also means our suspect is not a poor man, because a double cab costs the price of a farm these days.?
?Unless it?s stolen.?
?Unless it?s stolen, yes.?
?Thanks, Arrie.?
?Pleasure, Benny.?
Before he had time to ponder the new evidence, the phone rang again.
?Hi, Dad.? It was Fritz.
?Hi, Fritz.?
?What?re you doing, Dad?? His son wanted to chat?
?Working. It?s a circus today. Everything is happening at once.?
?With the vigilante? Has he nailed someone else??
?No, not him. Someone else who thinks they are the assegai man.?
?Cool!?
Griessel laughed. ?You think it?s cool??
?Definitely. But I actually wanted to know if you listened to the CD, Dad.?
