Деон Мейер - Cobra

‘It’s a long shot,’ said Radebe.

‘It’s one of the few shots we have,’ said Fillander.

‘We are only looking at international flights since Thursday,’ said Griessel.‘We know he’s coloured, we know he will probably be wearing a hat or glasses, he will be aware of cameras, so he will look away or keep his head down. What we really want, is a name, because then we can link it to a passport, and the way he paid for the flight. Maybe a credit card number . . . That’s more than Interpol has now.’

‘If he killed Adair, he’s long gone,’ said Bones.

‘Maybe,’ said Griessel, ‘but someone searched Adair’s house in England, and his room in Franschhoek. I don’t think they found what they were looking for. I think that is why Adair could still be alive.’

‘That’s how a Violent Crimes cop thinks, Bones. Live and learn,’ said Fillander.

‘Touché,’ said Bones.

‘Don’t talk of my girl like that ,’ said Mooiwillem Liebenberg.

They laughed.

‘Bones, have you anything new on Adair?’

‘Now learn how the genius department thinks, nè . I looked at everything, and here’s the thing: daars niks nuut nie , absolutely nothing new. Now, for you hot-headed blood-lust cops that would mean nada . But look at the bigger picture: until about four weeks ago Adair was blogging and writing lots of letters to the press, and gave interviews, all about the Adair Protocol. And then he went quiet.’

‘So?’ asked Cupido.

‘Why,Vaughn? Why did he stop agitating?’

Cupido shrugged.

‘Something happened, nè ,’ said Bones.

‘You don’t know what,’ said Cupido.

‘Not yet,’ said Bones. ‘Not yet.’

When they were finished and walked out, Cupido approached Griessel. ‘I thought we were partners, Benna.’

‘Vaughn, I was under orders.’

‘But still,’ said Cupido, deeply wounded, ‘where’s the trust?’

Tyrone was early enough, so he walked into the Parkade Mall in Strand Street, opposite the Cape Sun.

Seven storeys of parking. A lot of cars, a lot of people. And they all had to go down in those lifts, to the street. And there were no cameras in the lifts.

He rode them, up and down.

Lots of coloureds. He didn’t steal from coloureds.

Darkies and whiteys were fair game.

He chatted up a sexy, slinky dolly on his second trip down in the lift, but she wouldn’t divulge her cell number.

He talked to an aunty on the fifth descent. He made her laugh. He enjoyed that.

He stole two cellphones and two wallets. He rode down to the first storey, and checked his loot in privacy behind a black BMW X5.

A new BlackBerry. Worth three-fifty from the fence. An iPhone 4S. Eight hundred bucks. Three credit cards, fifty each. One driver’s licence, fifty bucks. Seven hundred in cash.

Total of about two K. Not bad for an hour’s work.

He dumped the empty wallets under the X5.

Time to rob a shipload of tourists.

19

Griessel concentrated hard on understanding Sergeant Lithpel Davids. Cupido sat there too, arms folded, his mouth a straight, sulky line, saying nothing.

‘Cappie, you know it’s illegal. Fun, but illegal,’ said Lithpel. Just one ‘s’ in the entire sentence, easy to follow.

‘I know,’ said Griessel, ‘but Morris is not a suspect. We won’t have to explain it in court.’

‘Cool. Now to hack a Gmail account, that’s easy. You can phish, or you can download an app, or you can use your own Gmail account,’ was more or less the translated version, once Griessel had filtered out all the lisps.

‘OK,’ said Griessel.

‘Phishing does not apply, since the dude has been kidnapped, right?’

‘OK.’

‘And we don’t want comebacks, we don’t want to leave tracks, so I’m not going to use my own Gmail account.’

‘OK.’

‘Which leaves us with the app. And it just so happens lat ek een hier het , right here on my system. Keeping up with the dark side, Cappie, if you know what I mean.’

‘OK.’

‘You haven’t a clue what I’m on about, Cappie.’

‘That’s right.’

‘No worries. Just sit back, relax, and watch me work.’

Body language,Tyrone. Be a student of body language.

That was how he spotted the woman. She came walking past the Cape Union Mart, in the direction of the V&A shopping centre on the Waterfront. She was somewhat lightly dressed for this weather, jeans, and a thin, blood red sweater. She gripped the handbag tightly under her arm as though it contained a fortune. She looked scared. She walked quickly, looking around as though she didn’t know where to go. In the crush of tourists from the ship.

And she was pretty, Mediterranean dark. His age.

What’s not to like?

He kept behind her, two, three metres.

She looked around once. He looked away.

He would have to strike before she got too close to the shopping centre. There were cameras.

He pushed his hand into this left pocket, grasped the hairpin. Increased his pace, caught up.

Four women approached from the left, cutting between them, so that he fell behind again.

She was only five metres from the amphitheatre.

He must turn back, it was too near the cameras.

She held the handbag, with its easy clasp, so anxiously. He knew that attitude. It usually meant there was something valuable inside. Cash? Jewellery? Carried by someone who was not accustomed to it.

A real challenge.

He jogged faster.

Just before the steps to the rows of seats in the amphitheatre. There were a lot of people.

He took a chance, tapped her on the shoulder, the hair clip held up in his fingers.

She was startled, looked around at him in confusion. Scared.

He smiled his most charming smile, relaxed and helpful. ‘I think you dropped this, ma’am.’ His shoulder against hers, his right hand at the handbag.

She looked at the clip, then at him, frowning, not understanding.

She was very pretty, he registered. ‘The hairpin. You dropped it.’

His hand was at the flap of the handbag, while he twirled the pin in his fingers and kept on smiling.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘No . . .’

His right hand was under the flap. He felt the leather of a purse.

‘You sure it’s not yours? Take a good look.’

At that instant, when she gave her full attention to the hairpin, he bumped her with his right shoulder, just lightly, as though someone had pushed him from behind, as though he had lost his balance for a second, and he slipped the wallet out and pushed it, lightning fast, into his trouser pocket.

‘No,’ she said, looking left and right, worried.

‘Sorry, then,’ he said, and lowered the pin. He turned around and walked, away from the shopping centre.

Only six paces away, the security man grabbed him from behind, a steely grip on his wrist.

He jerked. His arm came free.

He ran.

Then the second security guard tackled him to the ground.

‘And we’re in,’ said Lithpel Davids.

Griessel leaned forward to see.

‘Only one mail in his in-box,’ said Lithpel.

On the screen, beside a yellow arrow, he read Lillian Alvarez (No Subject) Arrived in CT. Phone on and working. And to the far right: 8:12 a.m.

‘That bold means he hasn’t opened the mail yet,’ said Lithpel. ‘But no worries, we can open it and then mark it as unread again.’

‘OK.’

Lithpel clicked on the message.

‘That’s it,’ he said. Because there was nothing more than Arrived in CT. Phone on and working . ‘Sent about an hour ago. Do you want to look at his other mail, Cappie?’