Present Tense. Natalie Conyer
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Schalk.
‘Protecting myself,’ said Porky, pouting, ‘just in case. You should know…’
Schalk wanted very much to punch Porky in the face, needed willpower to avoid it.
Bheki went back to the shop. ‘Have a look,’ he said. Schalk, still fuming, pushed past Porky and went in.
Bheki laid out the contents of the suitcase. One Apple MacBook, one iPad, two iPhones and a TomTom, all wrapped in a soft blue woman’s coat. A woman’s handbag, empty except for a couple of tissues. A leather wallet, empty. Two passports, June Fanmeier, 51, and Michael Fanmeier, 56, same address, Toronto, Canada.
‘Hotel,’ said Bheki, ‘probably while they were sleeping. Maybe next time they’ll use the safe.’
Schalk took the passports. Then he turned and, using his big body, forced Porky backwards till he had nowhere else to go; pushed him hard against the shop counter. Brought his face down till it was right up against Porky’s, hissed. ‘I’ll have your balls for this.’
‘What? I didn’t have anything to do with that!’ Porky tried to wriggle out from under. ‘I wouldn’t accept shit like that! Typical police incompetence, blaming innocent people for the hopeless way they do their job. I want my lawyer. Now!’
Bheki touched Schalk’s arm, shook his head almost imperceptibly. Schalk felt very tired.
Bheki said, ‘Mr Goldberg. I don’t think Malgas will return, but just in case, we’re going to watch the shop.’ He stared at Porky, who opened his mouth and thought better of it.
‘These Canadians are going to think South African cops are just wonderful,’ Bheki continued, zipping up the bag. ‘I’ll find out where they’re staying.’
Schalk said, ‘Give me the cameras. You sure that’s all Malgas brought you?’
Porky was still blustering. ‘Yes! What–’
‘This is a murder case, Porky. You an accessory?’ Schalk edged forward again.
‘No, no…’ Porky put the counter between them, piled the cameras on it. Neither Schalk nor Bheki moved. Slowly, Porky extracted a laptop from a drawer, added it to the heap. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I swear.’ He didn’t meet their eyes.
‘Where’s the gun?’ asked Schalk.
‘No gun. There was no gun,’ said Porky. ‘You got to believe me, there wasn’t any gun.’
Outside, Schalk asked Bheki, ‘What was going on there? You and Goldberg in the passport business together?’ Bheki didn’t take offence. He smiled. ‘You really want to know, Captain?’
‘No, probably not,’ replied Schalk.
Strictly speaking, Schalk should have handed the laptop over to the IT guys. But they were new and so far he wasn’t impressed. And he didn’t have the weeks it would take for them to get things done. On the other hand, Maxie Myerson. He could have got a job at NASA so Schalk asked him to take a look. Maxie cradled the laptop like a baby.
Schalk collected his messages from Tiny Qoma; one to call a Sylvia Natinsky. He recognised the name. Sylvia was CEO and founder of SN Security, a big national security firm offering everything from surveillance to bodyguards and much more besides, no questions asked.
He dialed the number and was put through straight away. Sylvia’s voice was pure South African princess, a drawling screech, the sound of fingernails on blackboard. ‘Hiiiii! Thanks for calling baaacck! So I’m talking to the famous Captain Lourens, hey?’
‘What can I do for you, Ms Natinsky?’
‘Sylvia, please. It’s rather what I can do for you. I’ll get straight to the point. I saw you on the news just now, about that farm murder, and it gave me an idea. How would you like to double, triple your salary?’
‘Who wouldn’t?’ So she was recruiting. The last thing he needed was to be a bodyguard. ‘Ms Natinsky, thanks for thinking of me–’
‘You haven’t heard what the job is, yet.’ Sylvia was amused. ‘I’m considering you for a national, senior post with SN Security. You won’t be some low-level guarding rich people’s luggage. If you’re interested, come and see me and I’ll tell you more.’
Wouldn’t hurt to listen. ‘Right. As you can imagine, things are hectic right now. I’ll ring you in a couple of days, say the end of the week?’
‘Sure.’ Don’t leave it too long. Call me! Byeeee.’
He switched off his cell. It wasn’t the first time he’d been approached but perhaps he should take this one seriously. It would give him more time with Elsa, for a start. That what you want? More time with Elsa? Really? He swatted the thought away.
He spent what was left of the day shuffling dockets, Pieterse’s murder front of mind. Nothing new, nothing he could do right now. He was fiddling, avoiding going home. So much for spending time with Elsa. As he started to pack up, Colonel Zangwa rang, talking and clinking of glasses behind her. ‘You still at work? I need someone at an election rally, St George’s Cathedral.’
‘Aren’t there cops down there already? Isn’t Fortune looking after that?’
‘Yes, but it’s our patch. I want someone from our unit. We need to show we’re on top of this so take Sergeant Mbotho with you. Captain Fortune can’t come, he’s with me, at drinks for the ERTF. That’s how I heard about the rally.’
‘The task force? The one supposed to support the election? Wouldn’t it be better if they looked after this…’ Schalk stopped. He was telling Zangwa something she already knew.
On the stairs he ran into Mbotho and Jamal, back from the home invasion. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘with me.’ He’d be able to see her in action and at least he wouldn’t suffer alone.
It was quicker to walk, so they set off down Roeland Street. Schalk told Mbotho to go on ahead. He stopped, turned away to phone Elsa, made the usual apologies, kept it short. He didn’t want Mbotho knowing his personal affairs.
He clicked off his phone and caught up. ‘What’s the story with the home invasions?’
‘Bad,’ said Mbotho, slowing down. ‘Husband and wife. He put up a fight. He didn’t want to hand over the credit cards and now he’s in intensive care. She got knocked around but not so much. No rape. It’s the same pattern – two men, faces covered, not the usual gang stuff. They know what they’re doing. They’re there to clean the place out. And later, when they use the credit cards,’ she added, ‘they hide their faces from the cameras.’
‘How do they get in? What about alarms, security?’
‘That’s the thing. We don’t know how they’re getting in or what cars they use to get away. The community watch people are sending hundreds of photos of anything they think might help. We haven’t even started going through them yet.’
‘Ja.’ In the end, security means nothing, thought Schalk. People had to come and go, and at some point they had to turn off alarms, open doors and gates. He pocketed the phone.
‘Christ!’ he said.
He was commenting on the size of the throng in the Company’s Garden. Government Avenue was full of people all going the same way, talking and strolling in the balmy evening air. Schalk and Mbotho joined them. Before they got there, they could hear noise coming from the top of Adderley Street. They shoved through to the front and saw two groups, a larger group in the street facing a smaller one on the steps of St George’s Cathedral.
The smaller group lined up in ranks like a school photo. About 50 of them, all white, all ages. Their theme was vaguely military, a few older men in safari suits and the rest, including the women, in a uniform of pants, khaki shirts and army-style khaki baseball caps. Some of the group carried placards with big Afrikaans headlines proclaiming