Dead at Daybreak

∨ Dead at Daybreak ∧

53

Meet me at Café Paradiso on Kloof Street in ten minutes,” the man on the telephone said to Hope.

“How will I know you?”

“I’m wearing a brown leather jacket.” And then the line went dead. She replaced the receiver. “Thank you so much,” she said to the Taiwanese woman, and ran out the door.

Nougat O’Grady swore softly and ran after her.

“Have you heard of fat guys who are incredibly nimble on their feet?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Well, I’m not one of them.”

♦

“Who sent you?” Bester Brits had asked Gary, and the answer was “Oh-ri-un,” and he didn’t want to hear it because his head was filled with the past and then he began to think, think, think, and here he was, with the telephone book, his finger moving down the list: Orion Motors, Orion Printers, Orion Telecom Corporation, Orion Solutions, Orion Wool & Crafts, all printed in heavy black letters except for Orion Printers and Orion Solutions.

Oh-ri-unSh…

All obvious business enterprises except Orion Solutions.

Oh-ri-unSh…

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. Tired, he thought, so tired, so many years of searching.

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 Café 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.”

“I’ll have one,” said O’Grady, and took a menu. “You can bring me a Diet Coke in the meanwhile. A big one.”

“Is Miller your real name?” Hope asked when the waiter had gone.

“No,” he said.

“Are you Venter? Or Vergottini?”

“I have a wife and children.”

“It says here they have a Mediterranean buffet,” said O’Grady from behind the menu.

“Are you going to publish my photo as well?”

“Not if you cooperate.”

He was visibly relieved. “I’ll tell you all I can, but then you’ll leave me alone?” A begging question, hopeful.

“That depends on your innocence, sir.”

“No one is innocent in this thing.”

“Why don’t you tell us about it?”

He looked at them, looked at the door, across the room, eyes never still. She saw the sweat glistening in the light of the restaurant, small, silver drops on his forehead.

“Hold your horses,” said Nougat O’Grady. “I want to have a look at the buffet before you start spilling the beans.” He hauled himself upright.

The sniper’s bullet that was meant for Miller punched through the window of the restaurant and plowed through the fat policeman’s body between the fourth and fifth ribs, nicked a corner of the right lung, went through the right ventricle of the heart, exited through the breastbone, and buried itself in a wooden beam above the bar in the center of the restaurant. There was no sound of a shot, only the window shattering and O’Grady being thrown across the table by the impact of the bullet, his considerable weight smashing the table under him. He fell to the floor in a welter of broken wood and blood but he was unaware of it all.

Miller was the first to react. He was up and running when the first screams erupted, not toward the front door but in the opposite direction, the kitchen. Hope sat transfixed, paralyzed. The breaking table had injured her knee, and O’Grady had fallen half across her. She looked at the policeman’s face, the staring eyes.

“God,” she said softly, looking confusedly at him, at Miller’s retreating back, at the window, hearing screaming tires outside. She half rose, saw a white panel van driving down Kloof Street, and her legs shook. She reached for her handbag, she had to stop Miller, the restaurant staff were hypnotized, bug-eyed, and Miller had disappeared. She ran after him, shoved her hand into her handbag, looking for the SW99, stumbled, her legs shaking, ran on.

♦

“We want to know who rents 612 Rhodes House,” Van Heerden said to Maria Nzululuwazi of Southern Estate Agents.

“You’re from the police,” she said knowledgeably.

“It’s a murder case,” said Tiny Mpayipheli.

“Hoo,” said Maria, looking Tiny up and down and shuddering. “Wouldn’t mind being chased by you.”

“I can always arrest you.”

“What for?”

“You’re way over the beauty limit.”

“Rhodes House,” said Van Heerden.

“612,” said Tiny.

“A sweet talker,” said Maria, and tapped on the keyboard of her computer. “612 isn’t to let.”

“We want to know who rents it now.”

“It’s not let, it’s owned.”

“Who owns it?”

Typed again, looked at the screen. “Orion Solutions.”

“Do you have an address?”

“I do, I do, I do,” she said, and looked at Tiny.

“Can we get it today?” asked Van Heerden.

“He’s real good with the ladies,” said Tiny.

“I’ve noticed. It’s Solan Street in Gardens. 78 Solan. Do you want the telephone number as well?”

“I do, I do, I do.”

♦

Miller ran down the side street. Hope Beneke saw him through the gusts of rain. “Miller!” she screamed, hysteria in her voice, as he ran on.

“I’m going to publish the picture, Miller.” Despairing, angry, upset, O’Grady’s staring eyes filled her head. She saw Miller halting, looking round, waiting for her. Her hair was soaked, she kept her hand on the weapon in her handbag, and when she reached him she took out the SW99.

“You’re not going anywhere, do you hear me?”

“They’re going to kill us.”

“Who the fuck are they?” she said, distraught.

“Orion,” he said. “Orion Solutions.”

“And who are you?”

“Jamie Vergottini.”

♦

They drove to town, to Gardens, 78 Solan Street, in the Mercedes. Tiny’s cell phone rang. “Mpayipheli,” he answered. “It’s for you” – passing the phone to Van Heerden.

“Hallo.”

“I’ve got Vergottini,” said Hope.

“Where are you?”

“In the rain on Kloof Street, on the corner, at Café Paradiso, and I know who’s behind it all.”

“Venter?”

“Orion Solutions.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“We tracked the clues.”

“O’Grady is dead, Van Heerden.”

“Nougat?”

“They shot him. In the restaurant. I – we…it’s a long story.”

“Who shot him?”

“They shot from outside. I didn’t see. Vergottini says the shot was meant for him. O’Grady got up to fetch food…”

“Jesus.”

“What do I do now?”

“Wait for us – we’re on De Waal Drive, we’ll be there in five minutes. Give me the street’s name.”

“O’Grady is dead,” he said to Tiny Mpayipheli when he’d finished talking, the cell phone shaking in his hand.

“The fat policeman?”

“Yes.”

“Now the shit is going to hit the fan.”

“He was a good man.”

Rain on the window, wind blowing from the harbor, the Mercedes swerving as they drove across the spur of the mountain on De Waal Drive.

“A good policeman,” said Van Heerden.

“I saw you in the flat, searching that body,” said Mpayipheli. “Your heart is soft.”

“It’s all getting too much.”

“Why did you become a policeman?”

He shook his head.

“You’re a good person, Van Heerden.”

He said nothing. He would have to phone Mat Joubert. But first, the dollars.

It was all getting too much.