Деон Мейер - Cobra

They rejoined Oom Stoffel at Nadia’s door, where he was searching through a big bunch of keys for the right one. He found it, unlocked, stood back, and waved his arm theatrically.

‘There you go,’ he said.

Griessel took a pair of gloves out of his case. ‘Please wait for me here.’

‘I have things to do,’ said the caretaker.

‘Like what?’ asked the student.

‘You’ve got no business here,’ said Oom Stoffel.

‘I’m supporting the Hawks,’ said the student.

The old man snorted.

Griessel picked up the case, opened the door, and went in. He closed the door behind him again, with a measure of relief.

The flat was tidy. A small kitchenette to the right, a sitting room ahead, and the bedroom behind that, to the left.

He was in a hurry, gave it only a cursory going over. He saw no sign that anyone had searched the place yet. It looked as if she had been the last one here.

A porridge bowl, spoon, and coffee mug were on the drying rack, washed. A few photos were stuck on the fridge. Group photos of four or five students. In one he recognised Tyrone Kleinbooi, from this morning’s video clips. He was with a girl he assumed to be Nadia; Tyrone’s arm was draped protectively around his sister’s shoulder.

Griessel opened his case, took out a plastic evidence bag. He took the photo off the fridge and put it in the bag.

In the sitting room there was a beige couch, covered in corduroy, old and a bit frayed, but clean. And a pine wood coffee table. Two books on it. The uppermost one showed an attractive woman eating pasta from a bowl. Nigellissima: Instant Italian Inspiration.

He went into the bedroom.

A single bed, made up. A teddy bear propped against the cushion stared at him with all-knowing glass eyes. An old easy chair covered in faded red material. One of the wooden legs was mended, soundly, but not very skilfully. Against the wall was a long table of Oregon pine. There was a mouse and a power cable, but no laptop. Textbooks in a row against the wall. More books on a small bookshelf below the window.

Griessel opened the built-in wardrobe.

The subtle scent of a pleasant perfume. A young girl’s clothing filled half the space. Jeans, blouses, a few dresses, a denim jacket. Below, six pairs of shoes. To the left, on different shelves, neatly piled and arranged, were her underwear, jerseys, T-shirts, and a shelf with perfume, a jewellery case. And a cellphone box for an iPhone 4. He picked up the box and slid it open.

Inside was a Vodacom information card for a pre-paid account. With the IMEI and phone number on it.

He held it between his fingers and walked to the front door. He went outside. Oom Stoffel stood there, arms folded, face thunderous. Beside him, the student looked very pleased with himself.

‘Can you please phone this number?’ asked Griessel and showed him the Vodacom card.

‘And now? Don’t the police have their own phones?’ asked Oom Stoffel.

‘His one is broken. So I’m helping him,’ said the student. ‘

Typical.’ A disparaging snort. ‘God save our country.’

‘Please pass it to me as soon as it rings,’ said Griessel.

The student phoned, listened for a moment, and gave Griessel the phone.

He stood listening to it ring, without much hope.

They sat in front of a computer at Admissions, Tyrone opposite the admin aunty.

‘Is that your phone?’ she asked when the ringtone sounded.

He was very tired. The terrible day weighed down on him, a veil over his thoughts. And he was worried about his sister – his thoughts were inside with her. ‘No,’ he said.

Then he realised the sound came from Nadia’s bag. Hoodie must have pushed it in there. He leaned over, took it out, looked at the screen. A number on the display. If it was one of Nadia’s contacts there would have been a name.

‘You’d better answer,’ said the aunty.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Who’s this?’The voice of a white man.

‘Who do you want to talk to?’

‘To Nadia Kleinbooi.’There was authority in the voice.

‘She isn’t available.’ Adrenaline flowed again and the fatigue was gone.

‘Who am I talking to now?’

Tyrone smelled police. He knew the aunty was listening, but he had to get off this line. They could do a lot to trace the call; they would know where he was.

‘Hello?’ said the voice. ‘Who am I talking to?’

‘OK,’ said Tyrone for the benefit of the aunty. ‘OK, I’ll give her the

message. OK, bye.’

He ended the call and put the phone back in Nadia’s book bag.

‘One of her classmates,’ he said. ‘Where were we?’

Griessel stood with the phone in his hand and he thought: that was Tyrone. It had to be. He didn’t know how it worked, he didn’t know how it all fitted together, but his instinct told him that was the pickpocket. The man had a shade of Cape Flats in that accent, and something else: a caution, a suspicion, a wariness.

And he was somewhere with people that he could not speak in front of.

The Cobras had Tyrone too.

That was the only explanation.

He took out his wallet again, fished out thirty rand in notes and pushed them into the pocket of the student’s leather jacket.

‘No, Captain, really it’s not . . .’

Griessel was tired of struggling with other people’s phones, with the whole bloody situation. ‘Take it,’ he said. Then he realised how it sounded. ‘Please. I have to make one more call.’

‘Any time. It’s our duty to help the police,’ said Johan, looking pointedly at Oom Stoffel.

The old man snorted again.

Griessel phoned Mbali.

When she answered, he said: ‘We need to track a number, Mbali. Very urgently.’

‘ Ingels ,’ said Oom Stoffel. ‘There’s your problem, right there, when our police have to start talking English . . .’

39

He had to get away from here,Tyrone thought.

He must phone PC Carolus and ask how long it would take someone to check where a phone was, but he thought it would be quick, the cops just checked on their computers. He might have ten minutes or so, then they would be here.

‘Aunty, please, I have to get back to work, they gonna fire me, but first I must know if my sister is OK.’

‘I’ve mos got your number here on the system. I’ll let you know.’

He thought. The cops would swarm all over this place. And they would find out everything. That Nadia was here in the hospital, and that she had been shot. They would interview her when she recovered. And they would tell her her brother was a pickpocket, and that he had shot people at the Waterfront, and she was going to get a shock, in her state. And there was sweet blow-all he could do about it, ’cause she needed serious medical attention, he couldn’t get her out of here now.

But at least she’d be safe. And he would phone her, and he would tell her nothing was like it seemed, first she must recuperate, then he would tell her everything.

Now he had to get out of here. Get rid of this new phone, ’cause the number was on Nadia’s phone, from when he talked to Hoodie. He was traceable.

He must become invisible again. So he could do what had to be done.

It was payback time.

‘Are you OK?’ asked the aunty.

‘Can I have your number, aunty, please; I’m not allowed to take calls at work.’

‘Now what kind of work is that? Surely they will understand if your sister is in the hospital.’

‘Paint contractors, those people are kwaai , aunty.’

She shook her head over the unfairness of it. Then she grew serious. ‘The police will want to talk to you. About what happened.’

He thought about that. ‘OK, give them my number. But I have to go. If aunty could just quickly go and see if she is orraait . Please.’