Деон Мейер - Cobra

‘You sure?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll get Cloete out. And start oiling the consulatory wheels.’

Captain John Cloete was the Hawks’ media liaison officer. And Griessel knew they were going to need all the help they could get with the British Consulate. For though the Brits weren’t as bad as the Canadians, and the Canadians were not as difficult as the Chinese – embassies were not keen to share their citizens’ information, especially when there was crime involved. And in any case, they were bureaucratic dead-ends. So all he said was: ‘Thank you, sir.’

He noticed Nyathi’s gaze dwell on him a moment before the colonel nodded, turned, and walked back to his vehicle. He knew it was because he looked so terrible. He cursed himself again. Last night he should have . . .

‘Come, Benna,’ said Cupido, ‘let’s check how far Forensics are.’

In Dorp Street in Stellenbosch, a tour bus was parked in front of Oom Samie se Winkel, the now-legendary old-time store and tourist magnet.

Tyrone Kleinbooi eyed up the tourists on the pavement. Europeans, he recognised them by their pale legs, their get-up. He had given up wondering why European and American visitors were the only people in Africa who bought and wore safari outfits – the hunting jackets (with pockets for ammunition), the Livingstone helmets or wide-brimmed hats, the boots.

His senses sharpened. He focused on the group lining up at the door to get on the bus. At the back stood a middle-aged woman with a big raffia shoulder bag. Easy target. She would be expecting contact with other tour members. Her purse would be in the bag, right at the bottom, in the centre, big and fat, loaded with rands and euros and credit and cash cards, ripe for the picking. All he had to do was to take the hair clip with the little yellow sunflower that he had in his pocket, hide it in his hand, bend down in front of her, and pretend to pick it up.

Uncle Solly: I had an appie who tried that trick with money, a ten-rand note. He flashed it at the mark, and the mark’s attention went immediately to his wallet. Now that’s just stupid. You use something that is colourful and pretty. But not money.

‘I think you dropped this, ma’am,’ he would say quietly, intimately, confidentially, with his big innocent look-how-honest-our-locals-are smile. And his even features. With his right shoulder nearly touching her.

With her eyes and all her attention focused in surprise on the hair clip, he would slide his right hand into the bag, get a sure grip on the purse.

She would beam with grateful goodwill, because these white people from the north are black people pleasers, probably feeling guilty about their own colonial escapades. She would reach out her hand to the clip, and then shake her head. ‘Oh, thank you, but it’s not mine.’ He would bump her lightly with his right shoulder as he withdrew his hand from the bag, and put the purse in his pocket.

The withdrawal is the key. Smooth and fast. Keep the wallet upright, don’t let it hook on anything – the last thing you want at that crucial moment is a snag. And remember, there are other people who might be watching, so you want everyone’s attention on the dropped object, you hold it high and handsome. And then you get the wallet out of sight, and your hand out of your pocket. Show it to the people, here is my innocent hand.

‘My apology, ma’am,’ he would say.

She would reply in a Dutch or German accent: ‘No, please, don’t apologise.’ Except the Austrian woman, two years ago, who said ‘thank you’ and took the clip out of his hand. He had the last laugh though. The profit from her purse was nearly two thousand rand.

He would smile, turn, and walk away, look back and wave at her. Don’t rush it. Saunter,Ty. But be aware, want jy wiet nooit . . . You never know, the words echoed in his head.

He was in between the tourists, next to the woman, ready, every nerve ending tingling, the adrenaline flowing, just enough.

And then his brain said, Don’t.

If it feels wrong, walk away.

He saw the pair of security guards just beyond the shop, their eyes on him.

He walked past, to Market Street, and his sister’s flat.

5

From the front door, Griessel and Cupido could see the two men from Forensics at work under the bright spotlights in the sitting room. And hear their heated rugby conversation.

‘I’m telling you, Bismarck is not a man, he’s a machine,’ said Arnold, the short fat one, vehemently.

‘You shoot your own argument in the foot,’ said Jimmy, the tall thin one. They knelt side by side, in the spacious lounge.

‘What makes you say that?’

As a team they were known as Thick and Thin, a relic of the tired old quip from the days when they first began to work together: ‘Forensics will stand by you through thick and thin’, which in turn had been inspired by fat Arnold’s previous Forensics partner, a freckled, cheeky and pretty redhead woman, who had self-deprecatingly referred to their partnership as ‘Speckled & Egg’. There was a fair bit of murmuring when she left in search of greener pastures, and Jimmy – male, and far less attractive – was appointed.

‘Bismarck is a machine? How does a machine get injured? Anyway, this year we will win the Cup, because your Sharks machine is going to seize up when the chips are down. Just like last year . . .’

‘May we come in?’ Griessel called.

‘Thank the Lord, the Hawks are here,’ said Arnold.

‘I feel so safe now,’ said Jimmy.

‘Are you wearing shoe covers?’ Arnold asked.

‘Haven’t you finished up front here yet?’ Cupido retorted. ‘Maybe you should stop talking rugby kak and get your arses into second gear.’

‘Rugby kak ? What sort of Cape coloured are you?’

‘The sort who will kick your whitey arses if you don’t pull finger.’

‘If you’re a kicker, the Stormers need you,’ said Arnold. ‘All fifteen fly-halves are injured again.’

‘ Fokkof ,’ said Jimmy. ‘Come in if you have shoe covers on. There’s something very weird here you should see.’

The ‘something very weird’ was a cartridge case.

‘It’s a Cor-Bon .45 ACP +P,’ said thin Jimmy as he held it up for display with a pair of silver pliers.

‘Not all forty-fives can shoot the Plus P,’ said Arnold.

‘Only the more recent models.’

‘Your Plus P has a higher maximum internal pressure.’

‘And higher velocity.’

‘We can explain that in layman’s terms if you don’t understand.’

‘We know easy words too.’

‘So now you are ballistics and language experts?’ asked Cupido.

‘Your modern Forensic’s scientific knowledge is vast,’ said Jimmy. ‘Bordering on genius . . .’

‘In contrast with your average Hawk,’ said Arnold.

‘AKA the bird brains,’ said Jimmy.

‘ Fokkof ,’ said Griessel. He knew it wouldn’t help to try to be witty, because they always had the last word.

‘Benny, you look particularly appealing this morning.’

‘Or is that “appalling”?’The Forensics duo grinned at each other.

‘Not so very bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eh? And not too sharp-eyed for a Hawk either,’ said Arnold.

‘Don’t you see it?’ asked Jimmy.

‘See what?’ asked Cupido.

‘The engraving.’ He held the cartridge closer and rotated it.

‘What is it?’ asked Griessel.

‘Take this,’ said Arnold, and he held out a magnifying glass. Griessel took it, and studied the copper tube.

‘It looks like a snake. Ready to strike.’

‘Amazing,’ said Jimmy. ‘That he can see anything at all through those bloodshot eyes.’