Present Tense. Natalie Conyer
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someone to pull us out of the shit, man.’
‘Joep, you got to stop looking for true love.’
‘Oom Schalk, you’re a true philosopher. An ou kan maar only hope. But you won’t find love in the EFF, that’s for sure. Radebe’s more my style.’
‘You watch,’ warned Schalk. ‘We’ll end up with the same kak we’ve got now.’
Apart from a security guard, Police Provincial Headquarters was open to the world, not even a lock on the glass entrance doors. Cameras in the foyer recorded comings and goings. General Nkosi’s office, top floor and spacious, sported large windows overlooking the harbour. Past seven, and the sky had turned violet. The Robben Island ferry was tied up for the night. Tourists were strolling to restaurants. The wharves were lit up like a stage, cranes moving like alien fingers. Nothing stopped business.
Nkosi came forward to shake hands. He was about 60, glasses, cheeks rough with faded acne scars. Like Radebe, he’d earned his stripes fighting apartheid in the Struggle. According to reports Nkosi’d worked his way through the ranks of the ANC’s military wing, Umkhonto We Sizwe, and when peace came was parachuted into public service, hopping from department to department until, less than a year ago, he landed in police. They said he was a good manager, someone who listened to reason. A smooth operator.
No trace of Nkosi’s fighting past now, though Schalk noticed he walked with a limp. Immaculate in a pinstriped suit, he eyed Schalk’s outfit: tie rescued from the glove compartment. He waved an invitation, said in his surprisingly rich bass, ‘Can I offer you a drink?’
‘Thanks.’
In one corner, two armchairs hugged a low table. Nkosi pressed the top edge of a low built-in cupboard, which swung open to reveal a fridge. He took out a bottle of whiskey, a label Schalk had never seen before, put ice in two heavy cut-glass tumblers, pinched them between his fingers and brought them over. Schalk scanned the shelves behind the desk. Stuff on the Struggle, thick books on policing, virgin spines. Tribal clay pots in the spaces between. Obligatory photo of Nkosi being anointed by Madiba.
‘So, the famous Schalk Lourens. I mean your name, of course.’ Nkosi smiled. ‘Do people comment on it often?’
‘All the time.’
‘Literary parents?’
‘My father.’
‘Did he admire the stories?’
‘I don’t know.’ His father’s idea of a joke, probably, naming him after Oom Schalk Lourens, Herman Charles Bosman’s fictional farmer in stories famous enough to be studied at school. His father, who never gave a reason for anything, not even for leaving.
Nkosi was sympathetic. ‘Must be a burden, being saddled with such a name. I hope your father was thinking of the character, not the author. You know about him of course, Bosman? He murdered his brother and they nearly hanged him.’
‘Step-brother.’ Schalk couldn’t resist. He was sick of people telling him about Bosman. He saw something flash in Nkosi’s eyes, realised he didn’t like being corrected.
‘In either case, Captain Lourens, the contradiction’s always interested me. The Afrikaners, their dark underbelly.’
‘I’m not Afrikaans.’
Nkosi let the comment pass. He swirled his drink, making ice ting against glass.
‘I must say, Lourens, you’re certainly a survivor. I mean as a policeman.’
‘I don’t know about that. I’ve been a policeman a long time.’
‘Since when? When did you join up?’
‘After police college. I started in ’85.’
‘Right in the middle of it all – State of Emergency.’
Schalk grimaced.
‘And in ’86 you got yourself suspended. Why?’
Schalk tried to work out the agenda. Nkosi had access to his file and could easily find this out. Certainly already had and was now working up to taking him off the case. Why not just leave it to Colonel Zangwa?
He said, ‘I was suspended for stopping an interview – an interrogation.’
‘Petrus Pieterse and Brian de Jager doing the interrogating,’ said Nkosi. ‘And now Pieterse himself is killed. Any news?’
Schalk put down his whiskey, leaned forward. Here it came, the pre-handover briefing. Keep it simple. ‘Early days. A necklace – could be apartheid payback. Pieterse was alone, definitely expecting someone. But it looks like things are missing. His wife is away and we won’t know what was taken till she gets back. So maybe it was someone from the farm, a farm murder and a robbery. One of the servant’s boyfriends was hanging round. Although I don’t–’
‘You’ve got someone?’ Nkosi interrupted, startled. ‘The boyfriend?’
‘Only possibly. Pieterse was necklaced, so more than one person must be involved.’
Nkosi knocked back the rest of his drink, levered himself forward, set his glass down. ‘Lourens, you will be wondering why I’ve called you in. As you no doubt appreciate this case will attract massive media interest, here and overseas as well. When we had our Truth and Reconciliation Commission the world wanted to know how we could forgive criminals who caused such terrible suffering. Pieterse was one of those criminals. Now he’s been killed in a way that points to an apartheid-related execution. Think about it. If Pieterse was murdered because someone didn’t like the TRC’s decision then we fail in front of the whole world. Already people say we’re descending into chaos and if we’re going to prove them wrong we must show we’re on top of crime. With the election only a few months away it is vitally important – vitally important – that we deal with this as soon as possible. Understand?’
‘Yes.’
Nkosi rubbed his trousered thighs with his palms. ‘For that reason, Captain, I am putting you in charge of the case.’
Schalk blinked. Heard Joepie telling him to watch himself. ‘General, I thought you’d be doing the exact opposite. I was a cop with Pieterse, not Branch like him, but I was a cop. A white cop, during apartheid.’
‘That’s precisely the point. I want to show we can be even-handed. That we’ve put the past behind us. We don’t want to be accused of not doing our best to find Pieterse’s killer, no matter what the man himself did, or was.’
‘What about the Hawks?’
‘No. The Hawks are too politicised.’
‘So me, because for once I’m the right colour? I look right?’
Nkosi chuckled, surprised. ‘Yes, because you look right but also because you’re an excellent homicide detective. You’ve got experience, you’ve got runs on the board. And of course your career could benefit from a high-profile case like this, if the outcome is successful.’
Schalk heard Pieterse’s voice, advising. And if it’s not successful, if everything goes to hell in a bucket you’ll be Schalk Lourens, the white hangover from the old days. They’ll feed you to the lions. They’ll say we gave the umlungu a chance but what can you do?
Schalk knew what Nkosi’s flirting was for. Good move, though, you had to admire it.
Nkosi limped to his desk and wrote on the back of a card. ‘Here’s my private cell number. You report directly to me, nobody else. Directly to me, understand? I want a daily update, more if there’s something urgent. And as I said, keep this confidential.’
This wasn’t good news, not at all. Nkosi was up to something. ‘Why?’ Schalk asked, watching Nkosi raise his eyebrows. ‘Why does it have to be confidential?’
‘Why? Politics. The press will know you’re in charge but not about my involvement. I want to