Present Tense. Natalie Conyer
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know? ‘Ideas about what? He was a captain here when I was a constable –’
‘As I recall he demoted you.’
Schalk relaxed. He said, ‘Suspended. That makes no difference now. That’s past and gone. Now we must do our best to bring his murderer to justice.’
The Guardian correspondent butted in. ‘This isn’t the first time that someone granted amnesty by the TRC has been assassinated, so with hindsight would you say the Commission was a failure?’
Nkosi, on safer ground, fielded. ‘The TRC was over 20 years ago. It dealt with hundreds of injustices. This murder is only one of them and it happened last night so it’s too soon to say if it is even connected to Mr Pieterse’s past. It could be something quite different, like a farm murder. It is not useful to blame everything on the past. That’s all we have for the moment. We’ll let you know any developments. Meanwhile…’
He shut off further questions, to a general dissatisfied murmuring. Then a freelancer spoke up. ‘On another matter, General, what plans do the police have for ensuring the coming election is violence-free?’
On cue. He must have been primed. Nkosi beamed. ‘The government is aware of unrest spreading in the north and have set in train preparations to support a peaceful democratic process. Later today the Minister will announce an exciting initiative to ensure all candidates are supported, electioneering and voting goes smoothly, and disruptions are prevented or dealt with very quickly.’
‘Even for Hans Toebroek?’ Afronews couldn’t resist. The Reverend Toebroek was notorious. His party, the Volkskrag or People’s Power Party, was a magnet for every white-rights nutcase in the country.
‘Yes, certainly,’ said Nkosi. ‘We aren’t the rainbow nation for nothing. We’re all about equality. Reverend Toebroek will get the same loving care as every other candidate, you may be sure of that, sir.’ Nkosi joined in the laughter. Even Colonel Zangwa’s face lightened.
‘Thank you for coming,’ said Nkosi. ‘That’s all for now.’
Schalk’s office was a compromise. He’d fallen for this third-floor shoebox the moment he saw it and claimed it the instant he made Captain. Various station chiefs had tried to move him or at least get him to tidy it up but he’d outlived them all.
He liked the light. He liked the beautiful old windows overlooking Buitenkant Street. Things could get hot in the afternoon but he solved that by bringing a fraying piece of floral sheet from home and tacking it to the wooden frame. And he liked the wide windowsill where he kept his ashtray and his ancient ghetto blaster. Over the years he’d salvaged bits and pieces of furniture, and his desk, when you could see it under the dockets, was the multi-level result.
He stuck papers to his walls with sticky tape. Eventually they fell down, leaving tape-ends flapping in the blast from his portable fan. The only constant was a huge plastic sign behind his head, announcing YOU MAY SMOKE HERE. It didn’t go down well with the occupational health and safety people but Schalk stood his ground.
The floorboards were worn, the cabling was suspect, the roof leaked. But it was his office. The compromise was that, when visitors were shown round the station, the door stayed shut.
It was shut now. Someone knocked, Schalk called ‘In!’ and Mbotho appeared, notebook in hand. Schalk picked up a pen and pulled a random piece of paper towards him. When he looked up again there she was, looming over his desk.
‘Well?’
‘What you think of me,’ she asked, ‘is it because I’m black or because I’m a woman?’
Schalk sighed, audibly. He’d spent the last 20 years defending himself against this sort of kak, some of it true. ‘If you heard me,’ he said, ‘then you heard me say you’re inexperienced. Nothing else. I haven’t got time for anything else. And we should be past that sort of stuff by now. You don’t like it, go file a complaint or something.’ He dismissed her, returned to his piece of paper.
‘Maybe I will.’ Mbotho’s lips were compressed, hands clenched round her notebook. She tried to contain herself, came out with ‘What I can’t understand–’
Schalk raised his head. ‘What? What are you still doing here?’
Mbotho lost it. ‘Not me,’ she spat, ‘you! What are you still doing here? Why aren’t you on a stoep in Swellendam, drinking beer? Or in America? Australia? This place isn’t for you anymore.’
Schalk shot up fast enough to send his chair smacking against the wall. His blood was surging. ‘You’re out of line, Sergeant!’ He stabbed the desk with his finger. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m doing here,’ he said. ‘I’m doing my job. Enforcing the law. Being a policeman. Which gets harder every day because of the total cock-up you lot are making. I’m here because without my experience the whole country falls in the sea.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ she threw back. ‘Your experience. The only experience you have is oppressing people like me. Perhaps we make mistakes but they’re our mistakes. You’re wrong if you think we need you. In case you haven’t noticed, your time’s past. Nobody wants you here anymore.’
She added, in a rush, ‘And if you don’t like what I’m saying then go ahead and report me or sack me or something!’
There was a moment’s stand-off. Mbotho realised what she was saying and who she was talking to and, looking horrified, stood to attention.
Schalk got ready to pull rank. His mind was racing. How to handle this? Formal discipline? Informal, by sidelining her? Then he thought of her accusation, the certainty of her winning any appeal, the paperwork, the hassle. He swore at himself for losing his cool.
They were saved by Joepie, signalling wildly at Schalk from behind Mbotho’s back. Schalk couldn’t work out what he was trying to say. Mbotho turned and Joepie let his hands drop, too late. ‘Howzit? I came to see if you got anything on Trevor Malgas.’
‘Oh. Yes,’ said Mbotho, grabbing her notebook like a lifebelt and leafing through pages. Her voice was unsteady. ‘I looked him up. He’s got a record. Stealing, drugs, that sort of thing. No evidence of gangs.’
‘Photo?’ Schalk held out his hand.
Mbotho passed over a photocopy. Full on and profile, thin face, eyes half-closed. Zigzag shapes shaved into the side of his head.
Schalk said, ‘Good.’ He saw Mbotho’s shoulders soften slightly. ‘Know where to find him?’
‘Not yet,’ Mbotho said. ‘No fixed address.’
Schalk considered, clicking his pen on and off, trying to reach some sort of balance. ‘OK. We’ve got to think more broadly. Pieterse was waiting for someone and it wasn’t Malgas.’
He tried to sound dispassionate as he added, ‘Pieterse was necklaced. That points to apartheid, so let’s start with the obvious – Black Friday. Where are those families now? What about the agents, the askaris who worked with Pieterse? The ones who recruited those…’ he drew air-quotes, ‘terrorists.’
Mbotho gathered herself. She seemed about to say something, decided against, executed a formal and elaborate salute, left.
Joepie flopped into the visitor’s chair. ‘What was the shouting about? They could hear you in Paarl.’
Schalk told him, and about Mbotho overhearing him and Sisi Zangwa. ‘She’s Zangwa’s spy.’
Joepie swatted it away. ‘Nay. Maybe there’s a connection between Mbotho and Zangwa, it’s not for certain. Zangwa picked her specially but it was because Mbotho did so well at Muizenberg – she was part of that drugs clean-up team. Davids was running the show and you know what he’s like. He’s a hardegat bastard. In any case, they say she’s not a smooth talker. They say she’s a handful but her work’s good. And she’s keen, which is a lot more than most of the new ones these days.’
‘How