Present Tense. Natalie Conyer
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to be anti-government activists. This was in the 80s, there were bombs, riots, everything.’
Mbotho’s eyes flashed. ‘They took them to Kromrivier and trained them to blow up a police van. The boys – some of them weren’t 20 yet – when they got to the place, the police and army were waiting. They ambushed them, shot them all dead. Even though they tried to surrender. Then they planted guns on the bodies and said they were MK terrorists.’
‘Why did they do such a thing?’ asked Jamal.
‘To get money,’ answered Colonel Zangwa, ‘and government support to back their cause. Thank you, Sergeant, this isn’t a history lesson. Captain Lourens, continue.’
Mbotho subsided, shaking her head. Schalk kept his face bland but his mind was buzzing. The last thing he needed, a fanatic. Did she have any personal connection to Black Friday? Meanwhile he realised how much that applied to him, too. Did anyone know? It hadn’t come out at the Commission, the photos didn’t show it. He saw Joepie looking at him quizzically, cleared his throat.
Colonel Zangwa broke in. ‘As I said, Captain Lourens will partner with Sergeant Mbotho–’
‘But if necessary, others will be involved.’ Schalk prepared for battle but Zangwa ignored him.
‘Agenda item two,’ she said, ‘the election. In our executive meetings’ – she paused to let the importance sink in – ‘we have been considering how best to make this election safe.’
Myerson snorted. Zangwa lifted her chin. ‘You’ve got something to say?’
‘It’s too late!’ Myerson dunked a biscuit into in his cardboard cup, splashing. ‘Protests have already started. They burned down a fire station somewhere or other last night. It was on TV.’
‘Those protests are at present confined to the North and may not even be connected to the election. Nevertheless, you’re right. The government is aware of the mounting threat and so today the Minister will announce a joint task force, the Election Response Task Force–’
‘The errrtttff,’ whispered Joepie Fortune to Myerson, whose eyes lit up as he whispered back, ‘should be FART. For A Responsible Turnout.’ Joepie smothered a chuckle.
Colonel Zangwa cleared her throat. No chit-chat at her meetings and they both shut up at once. She continued, ‘The task force, the E.R.T.F,’ she emphasised in Myerson’s direction, ‘will be responsible for ensuring a trouble-free election process. Like all other units, we’re on standby to respond to election problems. Any questions?’
‘Who’s in charge of the task force?’ asked Joepie.
‘General Nkosi,’ said Zangwa, ‘is ERTF commander. He will handle liaison between the police service and the government. I will take personal charge of election co-ordination and response for my team. Captain Fortune, you will work with me in this initiative.’
Joepie sounded pained. ‘Any extra money or people?’
Zangwa didn’t bother to respond. She said, ‘I urge those of you who aren’t up to date about election issues to do some homework. The ERTF will erect posters of election candidates so you can get to know the people you’re protecting. Which brings me to agenda item three.’
Agenda item three was home invasions. They were spreading across the city, the latest in the city bowl, in the Vredehoek-Oranjezicht area. Two men in balaclavas, which pointed to a level of professionalism. These were robberies rather than hate-crimes – no gratuitous trashing, no shit smeared on walls – but they were violent. Homeowners were tied up and beaten, forced to give combinations of home safes, to hand over credit cards. Getting worse, and because these suburbs meant money, pressure was mounting. ‘Sergeant Mbotho, Sergeant Jamal,’ said Zangwa, ‘this docket has been passed to Serious Crime. You’ll assist.’
Jamal grimaced. Mbotho wrote steadily.
‘As a matter of interest,’ Maxie Myerson again, ‘how come Serious Crime isn’t handling the Pieterse case? It’s a hell of a lot bigger than the home invasions.’
Zangwa took this in her stride. ‘Orders. Moving on now, agenda item four.’
In turn, each of them summarised their current cases, the endless grind of murder and robbery and rape and other things people did to each other. Schalk had at least 60 dockets on his desk. Nothing he could do about it, they would have to shuffle down the queue.
Colonel Zangwa consulted her watch. ‘There being no further business,’ she said. ‘I declare this meeting closed. Captain Lourens and I are due at a press conference.’
Joepie and Myerson followed her out and Jamal scuttled after them. Schalk was left with Mbotho. He was damned if he was going to apologise for what she’d overheard.
She took a deep breath. ‘Captain…’ she began.
He held up his hand in a stop sign. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘later. Meanwhile I need background on Trevor Malgas. Captain Fortune will give you details.’ And he headed after Colonel Zangwa.
They met Nkosi on his way to the conference room. His limp was more pronounced than the night before and again Schalk wondered how he got it. Struggle legacy? Not everything’s about the past, he told himself.
Nkosi and Sisi Zangwa nodded at each other. No handshake, no smiles. Lots of space. Schalk’s unease increased. History there, he was sure of it.
Pieterse’s murder was headline news and the conference room, crammed with people, buzzed. Schalk, Nkosi and Sisi Zangwa filed into a blaze of TV lights and seated themselves at the top of the large oval table. Captain Ezra Isaaks, responsible for PR and communications at Cape Town Central, adjusted his mike to start proceedings. Nkosi put a hand on his shoulder, gently pushed him back. ‘I’ll handle this,’ he said.
Nkosi rose, expansive. ‘I see there are more of us than usual today,’ he said, ‘and obviously the murder of Mr Petrus Pieterse is what brings us together. So let’s begin. I have with me the officers in charge of this case, Lieutenant-Colonel Zangwa on my left and on my right Captain Lourens. Captain Lourens, as the investigating officer, will you bring us up to date?’
Schalk had long ago learned that with the media, less was more. He cleared his throat. ‘Early yesterday morning the body of Mr Piet Pieterse was found at his farm in Franschhoek. There are no immediate suspects, however –’
‘Captain?’ a woman who’d secured a seat nearby had her hand up, interrupting. Indian, young, sharp. Schalk hadn’t seen her before.
‘Good morning. Ava Arno, Cape Times. Is it true Pieterse was necklaced?’ The room was electrified. People turned to each other, cameramen crouched. Nobody else had this information. Ava Arno paused for dramatic effect, then pressed her advantage. ‘Do you think this is apartheid payback, for things like the Black Friday massacre?’
Fuck! thought Schalk, how the hell did this get out so quickly?
Ezra Isaaks leaned forward, offering PR rescue with his eyes. Schalk gave a little headshake. ‘There are a number of possibilities and we want to take them all into account. Obviously Mr Pieterse’s involvement in… apartheid activities is of interest to us but there are other lines of enquiry–’
‘You mean the burglary?’ Ava Arno had the drop on everyone and was revelling in it. ‘We hear there are things missing?’
‘We can’t be sure if anything’s missing yet,’ Schalk replied.
‘But he was necklaced?’ Reggie Hawkins was in his 60s, very tall, a veteran. Jailed twice during apartheid. The second time for not revealing sources. The first time after Black Friday, for his front-page story asserting guns had been planted on the corpses. ‘Any comment on the necklace, Captain? And why you’re keeping it secret?’
‘There is no secret. Yes, he was necklaced. Obviously it raises the possibility of political payback, but we aren’t sure and we don’t want to