Century City, I’m on my way to you. Found anything?’
‘Nothing. We’re nearly done, Vaughn, you can go straight to the office. Give IMC the cellphone numbers of the two bodyguards, so they can identify the cell tower and begin checking all the calls from Friday.’
‘That’s smart, Benna . . .’
‘It was Ulinda’s idea.’
‘That darkie, hey. Nobody’s fool, despite the battering.’ Radebe was a light heavyweight who had lost all four of his professional fights on points before he left the sport. It was his capacity to absorb blows that earned him his nickname of ‘ Ulinda ’, the hardy honey badger.
‘See you at the office,’ said Griessel, and rang off.
Just after dinner, he, Liebenberg, Ndabeni, Radebe, and Fillander went walking along the remainder of the farm boundary, but they found nothing. If there were tracks, the rain had washed them all away in the interim.
Just after three, when the state pathologist had come and gone, and the last ambulance had driven away, they sealed the crime scene. His colleagues went back to the office, and Griessel drove into the city to go and negotiate with Jeanette Louw of Body Armour.
He turned on the heater in the car to banish the cold and damp. The pressure of being JOC leader made him uncomfortable, so that he thought through it all, slowly and with extreme concentration. Because his head was not clear. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Not after all the odd looks his appearance had drawn.
He swore out loud over the stupidity of last night. Because JOC leader was an opportunity to be relevant again. He had worked so hard over the last six months to catch up, to fit in with the Hawks, to accept the whole team thing and become an efficient cog in the Hawks’ wheel. Despite the fact that he was the oldest detective in the Violent Crimes group, steeped in the traditional way of doing things.
And now he looked like this .
He would have to keep his head.
He focused on the case, ran through everything that he had seen and heard that morning. He came to the same conclusion: first they must know who Morris was.
Fuck knew, tonight he would have to get some sleep, he couldn’t look and feel like this tomorrow as well.
What worried him most, was that he had begun lying again. This time to Alexa, to Nyathi, to his colleagues. And the déjà vu that brought back all the old, bad memories of ten, eleven years ago. Anna, at that time still his wife: ‘Where have you been, Benny?’
‘At work.’ Breath reeking of alcohol, drunken eyes, swaying on his feet.
‘You’re lying, Benny,’ she would say, with fear in her voice. That is what he remembered – the fear. What was going to happen to her husband, what was going to happen to her and the children?
It had been so easy to lie to Alexa this weekend, and to Cupido this morning. The old, slippery habit was like a comfortable garment, you just slipped back into it.
In those days he could justify it. Rationalise. The stress, the trauma of inhuman violence and what that did to his head, the impossible hours, the sleeplessness, dreams, and his own phobias, that something like that could happen to his loved ones.
But no more.
He didn’t want to lie any more.
9
When he emerged from the lift on the sixteenth floor of the office building in Riebeeck Street, he saw what Vaughn meant by ‘grand, pappie, big bucks’. Bold masculine letters on the double glass doors announced BODY ARMOUR. Below that, in slim sans serif: Personal Executive Security.
He pushed open the door. The walls and luxury carpets were grey, the minimalist furniture was of blackwood, only here and there a splash of verdant green and chrome. Behind a black desk, with only a silver Apple laptop computer, a slim green telephone, and a small aluminium name-plate that said Jolene Freylinck , sat a beautiful woman – long dark hair, deep red lipstick, black blouse and skirt, elegant legs ending in black high heels.
‘You must be one of
‘Nothing. We’re nearly done, Vaughn, you can go straight to the office. Give IMC the cellphone numbers of the two bodyguards, so they can identify the cell tower and begin checking all the calls from Friday.’
‘That’s smart, Benna . . .’
‘It was Ulinda’s idea.’
‘That darkie, hey. Nobody’s fool, despite the battering.’ Radebe was a light heavyweight who had lost all four of his professional fights on points before he left the sport. It was his capacity to absorb blows that earned him his nickname of ‘ Ulinda ’, the hardy honey badger.
‘See you at the office,’ said Griessel, and rang off.
Just after dinner, he, Liebenberg, Ndabeni, Radebe, and Fillander went walking along the remainder of the farm boundary, but they found nothing. If there were tracks, the rain had washed them all away in the interim.
Just after three, when the state pathologist had come and gone, and the last ambulance had driven away, they sealed the crime scene. His colleagues went back to the office, and Griessel drove into the city to go and negotiate with Jeanette Louw of Body Armour.
He turned on the heater in the car to banish the cold and damp. The pressure of being JOC leader made him uncomfortable, so that he thought through it all, slowly and with extreme concentration. Because his head was not clear. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Not after all the odd looks his appearance had drawn.
He swore out loud over the stupidity of last night. Because JOC leader was an opportunity to be relevant again. He had worked so hard over the last six months to catch up, to fit in with the Hawks, to accept the whole team thing and become an efficient cog in the Hawks’ wheel. Despite the fact that he was the oldest detective in the Violent Crimes group, steeped in the traditional way of doing things.
And now he looked like this .
He would have to keep his head.
He focused on the case, ran through everything that he had seen and heard that morning. He came to the same conclusion: first they must know who Morris was.
Fuck knew, tonight he would have to get some sleep, he couldn’t look and feel like this tomorrow as well.
What worried him most, was that he had begun lying again. This time to Alexa, to Nyathi, to his colleagues. And the déjà vu that brought back all the old, bad memories of ten, eleven years ago. Anna, at that time still his wife: ‘Where have you been, Benny?’
‘At work.’ Breath reeking of alcohol, drunken eyes, swaying on his feet.
‘You’re lying, Benny,’ she would say, with fear in her voice. That is what he remembered – the fear. What was going to happen to her husband, what was going to happen to her and the children?
It had been so easy to lie to Alexa this weekend, and to Cupido this morning. The old, slippery habit was like a comfortable garment, you just slipped back into it.
In those days he could justify it. Rationalise. The stress, the trauma of inhuman violence and what that did to his head, the impossible hours, the sleeplessness, dreams, and his own phobias, that something like that could happen to his loved ones.
But no more.
He didn’t want to lie any more.
9
When he emerged from the lift on the sixteenth floor of the office building in Riebeeck Street, he saw what Vaughn meant by ‘grand, pappie, big bucks’. Bold masculine letters on the double glass doors announced BODY ARMOUR. Below that, in slim sans serif: Personal Executive Security.
He pushed open the door. The walls and luxury carpets were grey, the minimalist furniture was of blackwood, only here and there a splash of verdant green and chrome. Behind a black desk, with only a silver Apple laptop computer, a slim green telephone, and a small aluminium name-plate that said Jolene Freylinck , sat a beautiful woman – long dark hair, deep red lipstick, black blouse and skirt, elegant legs ending in black high heels.
‘You must be one of
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