Dead at Daybreak

∨ Dead at Daybreak ∧

55

Speckle Venter, he thought, the only one left. “And then they allowed us to sleep. We were very tired but then Speckle took out his guitar. His real name is Michael Venter. He’s very short, Pa, and he has a birthmark on his neck. So they call him Speckle. He comes from Humansdorp. His father is a panel beater. He wrote a song about his town. It’s quite sad…”

A guitar-playing country boy. Behind all this?

He punched a number into the cell phone.

“Murder and Robbery, Mavis Petersen speaking.”

“Mavis, it’s Zatopek van Heerden. Tony O’Grady has just been shot in Café Paradiso, on Kloof Street. You must get hold of Joubert. And tell De Wit as well.”

“Good Lord,” she said.

“Mavis…”

“I hear, Captain. I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you, Mavis.” He cut the call. All hell was going to break loose. But before that happened…“We’ll have to get a map of Cape Town,” he said to Tiny Mpayipheli.

“There’s one in the glove compartment.”

He opened it, took out the map book, looked for Solan Street in the index, found the reference, turned to the map.

“It’s just below us.”

“But are we fetching the attorney first?”

“And James Vergottini.”

Then this whole affair would be sliced open, this Pandora’s box, this can of worms.

At last, a live witness.

Mpayipheli let the Mercedes ML 320’s tires scream around the corner of Kloof Street and the corner Hope had mentioned. An ambulance stood in front of Café Paradiso, a white Opel with blue police lights. They saw Hope’s BMW farther up the street, drove nearer, stopped next to the car.

There was no one near the car.

“Fuck,” said Van Heerden.

“You should become a writer,” said Mpayipheli. “Such a gift for language.”

Van Heerden said nothing. He felt exhausted. Too little sleep. Too much adrenaline. Too much struggling.

Tiny’s cell phone rang again. He answered, listened. Eventually, slowly, he put the phone down.

“That was Orlando. Billy September is dead.”

“Too many,” said Van Heerden. “Too many.”

“Someone will pay,” said Mpayipheli. “Now someone will fucking pay.”

♦

They drove up Solan Street. Warehouses, engineering works, panel beaters, a clothing factory, a Vespa scooter repair shop.

Number 78 was on the corner, an old, rundown, grayish blue single story, long and low, without signboards, its small, high windows protected with excessive burglarproofing. They turned, drove past again. The front door was on Solan Street, a single door on the sidewalk, on the side street a big double door allowing entry for vehicles, a small brass plate next to the front door with a barely legible ORION SOLUTIONS on it.

“Video cameras,” said Tiny, and pointed, but Van Heerden saw nothing.

“Where?”

“Under the overhang of the roof.”

His eyes searched, saw a closed-circuit camera in the shadows, barely visible, then another one.

“Lot of security,” he said.

“What do they do?”

“Rob and murder.”

“For a living?”

“I don’t know.”

“They know we’re here. Those cameras have seen us.”

“I know.”

“You have a plan?”

“Yes.”

“Like the one at the flat?”

“Yes.”

Tiny Mpayipheli shook his head but said nothing. He parked the Mercedes a block away.

“You can’t call the police, because you’re looking for the dollars.”

“Yes.”

“Let me call Orlando. Backup.”

“I’m not going to wait for backup.”

“Jesus, you’re a stupid whitey.”

Van Heerden put his hand into his jacket pocket. “Here’s a list of their shift schedule,” he said, unfolding the piece of paper that had been stuck to the door of the cupboard in the flat. “There are eight names. Schlebusch is dead and I presume the four who were at my mother’s house are on it, because Potgieter led us to the escort agency and the flat. That’s five, plus the one in the flat. Six dead or out of action. And Venter. Do you think we can handle three guys?”

“You want to go in at the front door, where they can see us coming a mile away. Where’s the strategic advantage?”

“Tiny, if Orlando sends a busload of soldiers, it’ll attract attention so fast that the police will be here within minutes.”

“True.”

“Phone Orlando but tell him to give us half an hour. No. An hour.”

Mpayipheli nodded and dialed, spoke. “Orlando’s giving us sixty minutes.” He took out the Rossi, reloaded it with bullets from his jacket pocket. “Never thought I’d go into battle with a white ex-cop,” he said, and opened the car door.

They walked down the road side by side, through the sifting rain, the wind lifting their jackets. Van Heerden looked up at the bulk of the mountain above them, the well-known flat summit covered in low, dark cloud. Just as well. Wouldn’t have been a good sign if it had been clear.

Those weeks after Nagel’s death.

All he had done was stare at the mountain. A huge, unavoidable, permanent reminder of his guilt. Of his badness.

They stood in front of the door. The brass plate bearing the name of the firm was dirty. He put his hand on the latch, turned it. The door swung open. He looked at Tiny, who shrugged his shoulders. They walked in. A large area, dim inside, an empty warehouse, the gray paint faded, the floor a rough cement surface, dusty, dirty. In the gloom he could see a table in a corner. Someone sat there, a dark shadow, unrecognizable, a heavy mass. They walked nearer, Tiny’s hand on the Rossi in the shoulder holster.

The figure at the table started clapping its hands, slowly, the sound of palm upon palm sharp and echoing in the great, empty space, keeping pace with their footfalls on the cement floor. They walked up to the table, the shadows forming themselves into something human: broad, thick neck, shoulders and chest bulging under the camouflage overall, squat, powerful, the face familiar, like a vaguely remembered friend, and then Van Heerden saw the dark mark on the neck, a splash as big as a man’s hand, and the rhythmical clapping stopped and it was suddenly quiet, only the rain pattering softly on the corrugated-iron roof.

“Speckle,” he said.

The face sunburned, the eyes bright and intelligent, the smile sincere, wide, and winning.

“You’re good, Van Heerden, I have to hand it to you. You achieved in…what, six, seven days, something that took the entire SADF twenty-three years.”

It was the voice from the telephone that morning. Quiet. Reasonable. “And now it’s over,” said Van Heerden.

The smile widened, white teeth gleaming. “You’re good, Van Heerden,” he said again. “But you’re not that good.”

“But he’s not alone,” said Tiny Mpayipheli.

“Shut up, kaffir, the white bosses are speaking now.”

Van Heerden felt Mpayipheli stiffen as if an invisible knife had sliced into him.

“It’s over, Speckle.”

“No one calls me Speckle now.” The smile vanished.

“Where’s the will, Speckle?”

He hit the metal table with the flat of his hands, a thunderclap in the room. “Basson!” The exclamation an explosion, he was halfway up, but Tiny’s Rossi was in his hands, big black hands gripped around the stock, the barrel gleaming, a deathly hush in the air.

Slowly Venter sat down again. “They call me Basson,” he said softly, his eyes on Van Heerden as if Mpayipheli didn’t exist. His whisper filled the echoing space.

“Where’s the will?”

“Didn’t you get my message?”

“I didn’t believe your message.”

The smile back again. “Dr. Zatopek van Heerden. Criminal Psychology, if I’m not mistaken.”

Van Heerden said nothing.

“The will is at the back.” The hand indicating a door behind him was large and weather-beaten, the fingers and wrist thick.

“Let’s fetch it.”

“You fetch it. The kaffir and I want to discuss white domination. If he’s not scared of putting down his little gun.”

Mpayipheli turned the Rossi in his hands, holding out the butt to Van Heerden.

“Take it.”

“Tiny.”

“Come on, Speckle.” The Xhosa’s voice was a deep growl, like an animal’s. He tore off his jacket, threw it aside.

“Tiny!”

“Fetch the will, Van Heerden,” said Mpayipheli, his eyes on Venter. He thrust his hand into his collar, ripped the shirt off his body, buttons flying, material tearing.

“Open that door, Doctor.” Venter stood up behind the table, short, impossibly broad, unzipping the military overall, massive muscles rippling, a network of tattoos covering the impressive torso. They stood facing each other, the tall, athletic black man, the short white man, a freak of thick bundles of tissue and bulging blue veins.

“Open that door.” Venter had eyes only for Tiny, his voice a bark, an order.

For a moment he was undecided.

“Go,” said Tiny.

He took two, three steps to the door, opened it.

He froze.

Hope Beneke, Bester Brits, and another man, all on their knees, arms manacled behind their backs. The barrel of a gun in each of their mouths, three men standing there. They didn’t look at him, kept their eyes on their targets, fingers on the triggers. Behind them stood a Unimog truck, the back covered with a tarpaulin, and a white panel van.

“You see, Doctor, it’s not over. It’s not over by a long chalk.”

He looked back at Venter, saw the two men facing each other in the murky light, both crouching, ready, swung back to the other room, saw Hope’s shivering body, her lips around the barrel of the M16, the tears rolling down her cheeks, her eyes turning toward Van Heerden. He lifted the Rossi, saw his hands shaking, aimed at the soldier in front of Hope.

“Take the gun out of her mouth.”

“I planned it differently, Doctor.” Speckle Venter’s voice came from behind him. “I assumed you would come on your own, the way you handled the investigation. Alone. And then we would’ve negotiated. Hope Beneke and the will for you. Bester Brits and Vergottini and the dollars for me. The will is there – do you see it?”

The document, rolled up and pushed down Hope’s neckline.

“The dollars are on the truck, a few gemstones, and my little arsenal. And we would ride heroically into the west, against the setting sun, and everyone would’ve been happy…”

And then he spat out, “But then you brought the kaffir. And now things have changed.”

Van Heerden didn’t look round, his eyes and the Rossi still on the soldier in front of Hope. He could see they were young, rough, tough, like the bodies in front of his mother’s house.

“Take the gun out of her mouth.” His heart jumping, Lord, he’d got her into this.

A shuffling of feet in the room behind him, the two big men circling each other.

“Now you’re going to close that door, Doctor. And if the Xhosa opens it, you must take your chances in there. And if it’s me we can negotiate again.”

“No,” he said.

“But first, to show you how serious I am, Simon is going to shoot Bester Brits. And it’s ironic, Doctor, because twenty-three years ago I shoved a Star pistol into Bester’s mouth and he survived, can you believe it? I should’ve blown his brains out and I simply shot out his teeth. But now we have more time.”

“No.”

“Simon is going to shoot Bester, and if you don’t close the door Sarge will shoot Vergottini. And then the attorney, but I don’t know how you’ll feel about that because it seems to me you can’t choose between her and Kara-An.”

The Rossi shook in his hands, with powerlessness, rage, fear.

“Shoot Brits,” Speckle barked from the warehouse behind them.

He shouted and at the same time the shot rang out. Bester Brits was thrown back, fell. He aimed the Rossi at Brits’s murderer, fired, the big weapon jerking in his hands, and missed. Simon pointed the M16 at Van Heerden.

“I’ve heard about your problem with firearms,” said Venter. “Put that thing down now and shut the door. Otherwise Beneke is next.”

He stood, paralyzed.

“Sarge, I’m counting to three. If he doesn’t do as he’s told, shoot the woman.”

Van Heerden bent slowly, put the Rossi on the floor, turned, and started to close the door.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” said Tiny Mpayipheli.

Venter laughed and then the door was closed, and he stood looking at Bester’s body lying on the floor and Simon and the M16 aimed at him and Hope’s whole body shaking and Vergottini with his eyes closed as if he was praying, and he wondered how he would get his Z88 out from above his tailbone, how he could keep down the overpowering nausea that was rising in his throat, how he was going to control his fear. And then he heard the sounds on the other side of the door, brutish cries, flesh smacking against flesh, someone hitting the wall between the two spaces with a dull thud and the building shaking, then silence. He looked down at Bester Brits’s still form, lying on his back, one arm thrust out, the blood oozing from the wound at the back of his head, the red pool slowly growing. He looked at Simon, the M16 that hadn’t moved, the black eye of Death staring at him, then more sounds from the other side, the battle starting all over again, Hope Beneke crying jerkily, her tears dripping onto the document against her neck.

“She’s a woman,” he begged the man standing in front of her. Neither the man nor his gun moved. “Don’t you have a conscience?”

He put his hand under his jacket, felt the stock of the Z88, curled his fingers around it. He didn’t stand a chance – he wouldn’t even have it out before they shot him down like a dog. Someone bellowed in the other room, someone screamed, hate and pain combined, dull blows, wood breaking, the table. How could Mpayipheli win against that brute mass?

“Please, let her go,” he said. “I’ll kneel, I’ll put my mouth around your fucking gun.” And he moved closer, the Z88 out of his belt, still behind his back, still under the jacket.

“Stand still,” said the one in front of Hope, the one Venter had called Sarge.

He stopped. “Are you in charge?” he asked Sarge.

“Just stand still. Then she’ll be safe. You, too.” The man didn’t even look at him, simply stared at Hope’s face down the barrel of his firearm.

“She’s a woman,” he said.

Heaving, grunting, the sick sound of heavy blows to a body, an unidentifiable voice that went “Hu, hu, hu, hu.” He didn’t know how much longer he could stand like this, the adrenaline crying out for action, reaction, movement, the total aversion to the scene in front of him, Brits, Hope, his hand clamped on the Z88, sweating. Lord, he couldn’t shoot, Lord, he mustn’t miss, the one in front of Hope first, then they must shoot him.

The awareness sank over the whole group – the three soldiers, Hope, Vergottini, Van Heerden – that it was quiet in the warehouse, the scraping of feet on the floor, the blows, the cries, suddenly silenced.

He stared at them. Simon stared at him; Sarge and the other one only had eyes for their targets.

Rain on the roof.

Silence.

Safety catch of the Z88 off, slowly, slowly, slowly, mustn’t make a sound, his fingers wet with sweat. He was going to die here today, die today, but he’d been here before, he wasn’t scared anymore, he’d already been here at the gates of death. He would dive to the right first, pistol extended, shoot, shoot Sarge away from Hope, that was all he would be able to do, and he must not miss. The silence stretched and stretched and stretched.

“What are we going to do if no one comes in?” His words hoarse, his throat dry, no saliva left.

Sarge’s eyes darted toward him, the eyes off the target for the first time, then they flashed back. He saw a drop of sweat on the man’s forehead, and something happened in his head, the panic receded: they were only human after all, they hadn’t bargained on this, they were waiting for Venter, Basson, whatever they called him.

“What do we do?” Louder, more urgently.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” Sarge’s voice echoed in the large space, uncertainly, and when he realized it, he repeated it, quietly, more in control. “Shut your mouth. Basson will come.”

“The police as well,” he lied. “You shot a detective this afternoon.”

“It was an accident. We wanted Vergottini.”

“Tell that to the judge, Sarge.”

He knew he had to keep on talking, he knew he had inserted the thin edge of the wedge, caused uncertainty.

“If we could find you, so can the police, Sarge…”

“Shut up. If you speak again, if you say one fucking word, I’ll blow away the bitch’s face.”

Sweat on everyone’s faces now despite the cold outside, the chill in the room.

What now? he wondered. What did he do now?

Rain on the roof.

Seconds ticking away. Minutes.

“Simon,” said Sarge. “You must have a look.”

Silence.

“Simon!”

“It could be a trap.”

“For fuck’s sake, Simon, after that fight?”

“Basson told us to stay here.”

“Come and take my gun.”

Indecision. Van Heerden’s eyes moved from one to the other, looking for a moment of distraction, just a moment, and then he heard something.

Not in the warehouse. Outside. In the street.

Sarge looked up – he had heard it as well – and then all hell broke loose.

The Mercedes burst through the wall, steel on steel and concrete and bricks, and then he had the Z88 out and he stood with his feet wide apart and he saw that their eyes were on the wall, all the eyes, and he shot Sarge, the one in front of Hope Beneke, saw him fall, turned the weapon, missed Simon, Jesus, not now, fired again, the barrel of the M16 angling toward him, fired again, hit him in the neck, swung the Z88, and then the lead tore through him, hot as hell, lifted him off his feet, threw him against the wall, another bullet. Where was his pistol? Fuck, it hurt, he was so tired, he looked at his chest, such small holes, why were the holes so small? So many shots in the room, so much noise, someone screamed, high and scared, Hope, it was Hope, why was it so terribly dark?