Деон Мейер - Cobra

‘I was on duty at the Red Shed when I heard them on the radio,’ said the security man. He was shocked and nervous.

‘What time was this?’ asked Mbali.

‘I can’t say exactly.’

‘More or less?’

‘I’d say about nine. Maybe . . . maybe quarter to, ten to nine . . . I’m not sure.’

‘OK, what did you hear on the radio?’

‘That they’ve caught Knippies.’

‘Who is Knippies?’

‘He’s the pickpocket. We’ve been trying to catch him for a long time now.’

‘Is that his name? Knippies?’

‘That was what we called him. He’s . . .’

‘What is his real name?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did your colleagues know?’

‘No. Nobody knows.’

‘What do you know about him?’

‘We . . . He . . . We’ve had complaints, for a long time, two years, maybe longer. People who report they’ve been robbed. By a pickpocket. Every time, it’s the same thing, this guy, Knippies, he would come up to them and ask if they dropped this hair knippie , what do you call it, a hairpin, you know, the thing women put in their hair, with a butterfly or a flower on it. Sometimes he would use a lighter, like a Zippo, when it’s a guy he wants to rob. And they all said it’s a black guy, slim, about one point eight metres tall, wears black, sometimes blue denim. So, for a year . . . maybe more, we were looking for him, all the security officials, we would look for a skinny black guy. And the control room would scan for him, and tell us there’s a suspect . . .’

Mbali put her hand in the air. The security official stopped talking.

‘The control room is where the CCTV is?’

‘Yes.’

‘This Knippies, how often did he rob people?’ she asked.

‘Once a month. Maybe . . . It . . . I don’t know, sometimes it would be two on one day, and then nothing for weeks.’

‘But about once a month?’

‘About.’

‘OK.’

He said nothing.

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘Oh. OK. I . . . Yes, once a month. But he was clever, he knew where the cameras were, so he always robbed people where there weren’t any cameras. And then about a year ago, maybe less, maybe August . . . I’m not sure . . .’

‘That’s OK.’

‘OK. Thank you. So, maybe August, they put in extra cameras, the small ones. And in March – yes, it must have been March – they caught him on camera, just by the pier, at the charter signs. They caught him on video stealing from a guy, a photographer, he stole a lens from his bag with the lighter trick. But they didn’t see it live, he is very slick, very quick. When the guy came in to report it, they played the video back, and they saw him. And then we had a shot . . . a photograph of Knippies. Turns out he’s coloured, but dark, you know? So they showed all of us the photograph, and the video . . .’

‘That’s the same photograph that is on the wall? In the control room? The one that looks like the guy on the TV screen?’

‘Yes, that’s Knippies.’

‘OK. And this morning?’

‘I heard it on the radio.’

‘Exactly what did you hear on the radio?’

‘I heard Control call Gertjie and Louw. They patrol the amphitheatre. Control said they had spotted Knippies, and Gertjie and Louw must look for him. There were a lot of civilians, we had the cruise ship in this morning, so Control was directing them, you know. Go left, go right. And then I heard Louw call it in, they caught him.’

‘Is that what he said?’

‘Yes, but in Afrikaans. “ Ons het hom, Control, ons bring hom in .”’

‘And then?’

‘Then everybody called in to say well done. And Control said: “His ass is grass, he’s on video.”’

‘And then?’

‘Then I heard Jerome call on the radio about the shooting.’

‘Who is Jerome?’

‘He’s an official.’

‘A security official?’

‘Yes.’

‘Like you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What time was this?’

‘I don’t know. After nine. Some time after nine.’

‘How did Jerome know about the shooting?’

‘He had his tea break, and he said he wanted to take a look at Knippies, so he went to the control room, and he saw everybody was dead.’

‘Where is Jerome now?’

‘He’s in the bathroom. He’s throwing up. A lot.’

Tyrone stole a Samsung S3 in St George’s Mall, from a man’s windcheater.

He hated Samsung S3s, because they have seven sorts of screen lock. Most people used the pattern, the nine dots that had to be connected in a certain order.

He tried the three most popular patterns.

Nothing. The thing stayed locked.

He didn’t have time. He tossed it in a rubbish bin and looked for his next victim.

They threaded their way through the traffic on the N1, blue lights on, but sirens off. Griessel drove. Cupido blew off some steam about Mbali.

‘Last week she tells me, a man’s worth is no greater than his ambition. Just because I was taking a break with Angry Birds. I mean, can’t a man take a break now and then . . .’

‘Who is Angry Birds?’

Lithpel Davids laughed from the back seat.

‘Not “who”, Benna, “what”,’ said Cupido patiently. ‘It’s a game. On my phone. You should try it, there’s an iOS version too. Great stress reliever. Anyway, so then I want to say to her: “Mbali, if I had as much ambition as you have, I would also be a doos ,” but fok weet , then you would never get her to shut up about your swearing, and how that’s also a sure sign of weakness, she’s always got a fokken quote. What’s wrong with swearing? I mean, it’s just another word. What really pisses me off is people that want to say “ fokken ”, but then they gooi “ flippen ” instead, and that’s OK. It’s not fokken OK, they mean the same thing. And intent is nine-tenths of the law, pappie. But you can ma ’ say “ flippen ” in front of Mbali, daai’s cool. I mean, Benna, there’s no justice when it comes to that woman.’

‘Possession.’

‘Huh?’

‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law.’

‘OK. True. But what is possession without intent?’

‘Also true.’

‘ Fokken Mbali . . .’

Cupido was quiet for a while, and Griessel thought of a conversation he had had in the Wimpy at the Winelands Engen service station on the N1, one morning on the way back from a case in Paarl. Over coffee, Mbali had hauled a textbook out of her massive handbag. The Law of Contract in South Africa.

‘I’m sorry, Benny, I have an exam tonight.’

He hadn’t known she was studying again. She, who already had an honours degree in Police Science. So he asked.

‘I’m doing a B Iuris at UNISA.’

‘Do you want to leave the Service?’

‘No, Benny.’ She had hesitated and looked at him in a measured way, then decided she could trust him. ‘I want to be the commissioner. One day.’ There was no arrogance in the statement, just a quiet determination.

He had accepted that she meant the national commissioner, and he had sat thinking in amazement. About people. About himself. His trouble was that he had never wanted to be something. He had just wanted to be .

A man’s worth is no greater than his ambition.

Perhaps that was why he had become a boozer and fuck-up. Perhaps you should have three- and five- and ten-year plans for yourself, higher aspirations. But how do you get there if you are still struggling with all the trouble that life throws at you?

What was he to do about this trouble between him and Alexa?

His only ‘ambition’ was to avoid a njaps .

What did that say of his worth?