Деон Мейер - Cobra

‘Hell,Vaughn, anything is possible, but that would mean that Adair or an accomplice knew enough about the Cobra to use the same pistol and engravings. So that it looked like the Cobra had done the shooting . . .’

‘No, Benna, I’ve been thinking . . . Adair might have hired the Cobra. Remember, he’s for sale to anybody. And if Adair had been skimming off dough, then money is no problem.’

Sometimes he battled to keep up with Cupido’s wild mental leaps. The problem was, his colleague was right at least sixty per cent of the time.

Tyrone put an old T-shirt on first. In case his shoulder started bleeding again. Another T-shirt, then the grey Nike sweatshirt. His raincoat was in the rucksack. He would have to buy a new one. And a new rucksack. Because he would have to run now. To Johannesburg? Durban? He didn’t know any of those places. He only knew the Cape.

Where would he go?

He put his black beanie on. You never wear a beanie,Tyrone. Makes you look like a criminal. Baseball caps too. Hats are better if you want to change your profile, but in the Cape wind daai’s difficult.

It’s a crisis, Uncle Solly. Camouflage.

In the bathroom he climbed onto the toilet, pushed up the trapdoor in the ceiling, reached for the hot-water cylinder, and loosened the pack of notes that he kept there. Two thousand rand. His emergency stash. He put the trapdoor back neatly.

He jumped in fright when the intercom at the door sudden growled.

The cops were here.

So soon?

He was shaking now, but he grabbed the stolen wallet and the iPod on his bed. The intercom made that irritating sound again. He stuffed the wallet, the stash, and the iPod in his trouser pockets, and pressed the button.

‘What?’

‘There’s a guy at the gate asking for you,’ said the rich Muslim’s daughter. She always spoke English.

‘A guy? What kind of a guy?’The cops were here. His heart jumped.

‘I don’t know.’ Irritation. ‘Just a guy.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Coloured guy, grey baseball cap.’

And then Tyrone had a horrible suspicion, as dread descended on him. ‘Black windcheater?’

‘Yes. I’ll buzz him in.’

‘No! Tell him I’m not here.’

He knew his voice would convey his panic, and he waited in suspense for her to answer. Jirre , please, don’t let her gooi that fat rich girl mentality, he thought.

‘What have you done?’ she asked. She was mos always suspicious.

‘Please. Just tell him I’m not here. Please!’ Then he grabbed the doorknob, opened it quietly, and slipped out, grateful that the gunman could not see him here in the backyard. He jumped up against the back wall.

That man was going to shoot her.

He jumped down again, ran back to his room, pressed the intercom. ‘Be careful, lock your door, the guy is dangerous. He’ll kill you. Call the cops. Now!’

He ran out, jumped up against the wall and clambered over.

On the other side a moerse big dog came for him.

Nyathi found Griessel and Cupido in the passage. ‘I was looking for you. Can I see you in my office?’

As usual, the Giraffe displayed no emotion.

Nyathi closed the door behind them. ‘Sit, please.’

They did so.

‘The brigadier had a call from our commissioner. We have to hand over all case material to officers of the Department of State Security.’ He put ‘officers’ in quotation marks with his fingers. ‘And stop the investigation.’

Griessel saw Cupido trying to make meaningful eye contact. He was too afraid that Nyathi would ask what was going on. He was afraid of microphones.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said quickly.

Tyrone screamed, the sound slipping involuntarily over his lips. The dog, huge and growling, teeth bared, rushed at him.

One hot summer night, hanging out with some mates on a Mitchell’s Plain street corner, one of them said if a dog attacked you, you should do two things. You rush at him with your arm like this, hanging out. Because they train dogs to go for the arm. And then, just before he grabs your arm, you hit him on the nose.

That’s the first thing that came into Tyrone’s head.

He didn’t think, just rushed at the dog holding out his skinny arm. Jirre , wasn’t his body hurting enough already?

The dog skidded to a halt in cloud of dust and Tyrone could swear he had a look of ‘what the fuck?’ in his eyes. The beast stood still as Tyrone ran past, alongside the house. He didn’t know if there was anyone home.

And then the dog came for him again.

For all his failings Vaughn Cupido was always quick on the uptake.

When Griessel took out his notebook and pen and put them on the desk to make a note, his colleague realised the Giraffe was going to say something about it.

‘State Security? That’s bullshit,’ said Cupido indignantly.

Griessel hoped Cupido would not overdo it, it sounded melodramatic, and he had never talked to Nyathi like that before. He scribbled hastily: Office bugged? Talk outside , and slid it over to the colonel, while Cupido said, ‘With all due respect, of course, sir. But what does State Security know about investigating a criminal case?’

Nyathi read and nodded.

‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but that’s the way it is. If you could bring me all relevant documentation, please.’

And he wrote in Benny’s little book: 5 mins.

Griessel replied with: Clubhouse.

He was almost at the high railing fence at the front of the neighbour’s house. But the dog was too close, Tyrone had to spin around to confront the creature.

This time the animal didn’t stop. He came at him, jumping at Tyrone’s midriff, his crotch, which in that moment seemed so unfair to Tyrone, so totally unacceptable – what sort of person taught his dog to bite a guy’s dick? – that rage drove away fear, and he hit out blindly, connecting with the dog’s muzzle. A sudden sharp pain in his fist. The dog yelped.

‘Hey!’ A voice came from one of the windows. A man.

It made the dog turn away, and Tyrone ran and leaped. Adrenaline made him agile, and suddenly he was over and on the pavement, he wasn’t sure how.

He just ran.

23

Captain Mbali Kaleni was the only woman in the DPCI’s Violent Crimes team. For six long months now. She was short and very fat. She was never to be seen without her SAPS identity card on a ribbon around her neck, and her service pistol on her plump hip. When she left her office, there was always a huge handbag of shiny black leather over her shoulder. Her expression was usually grim, as though she was constantly angry at someone. It was a defence mechanism, but only two of her colleagues understood that.

She had an honours degree in Police Science, and an IQ of 138. Her name meant ‘fl ower’ in Zulu. Behind her back she was called ‘the Heavy Hawk’, ‘the Flower’, ‘Cactus Flower’, and sometimes, when she had once again antagonised certain male colleagues with her unbending rigidity, ‘That fokken Mbali’.

Nyathi knew Mbali Kaleni and Vaughn Cupido did not necessarily see eye to eye.

The Flower could recite every article in the Criminal Procedure Act, and every ordinance of the Hawks. She always acted strictly according to these regulations. While Cupido saw everything as a vague, voluntary guideline. Nyathi knew that these divergent philosophies were frequently a recipe for conflict. Which he had to manage.

That was why he had not included his female detective in Griessel’s Franschhoek team, so she was now free to be sent to the bloodbath at the shopping centre.

The Sea Point Station commander stood at the door of the Waterfront Shopping Centre. He saw Captain Kaleni waddling towards him, filled with fire and purpose. His heart sank; her legendary reputation preceded her. He knew she was clever, but she was difficult.