Roadkill, page 12
Tarryn turned away and roughly brushed at the tears that had come from nowhere. “It’s nothing, I’m fine.” She sucked in deeply, held the air, exhaled slowly. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this, Stevie. I swear I’m going to crack if we don’t get out of here soon. Today, in the caravan … I can’t get him out of my head.”
Steve Aldridge pulled his wife to him and held her tight, pressing her head into his chest. “We are going to get out of here. I promise you, T, no matter what it takes, I am going to get us out of here.”
Tarryn lifted her face to his. “I know you will. I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened there; it came out of the blue. I really want to be strong for you.”
“And I want to be strong for you.”
They kissed long and slow against the blood-red horizon.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“I love you more than all the galaxies of stars in the sky.”
“I love you more than all the grains of sand on all the beaches in the—”
“Stevie, what’s that over there?”
“Where?”
“There … In front of the gate.”
Aldridge turned and followed Tarryn’s gaze. “No ways, it can’t be!”
But it was. A police van parked in front of Eden Palm B&B. With an all-too familiar bull of a human in a blue SAPS uniform leaning casually up against it.
31
Otto Meissner planted a wet kiss on the dog’s head.
“What’s up with you, Dolfie, my boy? Suddenly not eating a thing, moping about like you’re not interested in life.” He clambered back to his feet and hiked his khaki shorts. “Sergeant, you’ve seen what Adolf is usually like. Always so full of beans.”
Truter grunted; his lead-lined riot boot knew all too well what Adolf was usually like. “You checked him for the biliary?”
Worry flashed over Meissner’s face. “You think that is it?”
“For sure. When I was with Benoni Dog Unit and we had a Rottie that wasn’t lus for the kill, we just put him on the tabs, and he’d be right as rain.”
“That must be it then. And here I was thinking he is bored with his diet.” Meissner fought back the lump in his throat. “He’s a very sensitive animal, as you know.”
Truter squinted into the setting sun, at the couple emerging slowly through it. “We’ve got company.”
“Don’t worry, that’s just my guests from Vanderbijl. Jumpy as sparrows, both of them … Mr and Mrs Odridge!” Meissner shouted across the way. A menacing growl floated up from below. The couple approached cautiously. “Come now, don’t be scared, my dog won’t bite … See what I mean?” he whispered over his shoulder. “So, my friends, how was your walk?”
“It was nice, thank you,” said the woman.
Truter had seen these two somewhere before. He shifted his bulk to face them head-on, blocking the path.
“How can one not enjoy our beautiful town? Don’t you agree, Sergeant?”
“Hundreds. It’s a sin against the creator if you don’t appreciate every day.” Truter locked onto a faint outline of nipple.
“Wise words,” said Meissner. “Not only is our police chief a crime-fighting machine, he’s also a spiritual man. And, and, if you don’t mind me mentioning, Sergeant, a braai master of note … Don’t try deny it, now. It was you, my friend, who taught those clowns from Southern Districts the true meaning of potjie last year.”
“That is but true.” Truter had definitely seen these two characters somewhere before.
Meissner furled back his lip and flashed a row of yellow at the couple – one-part sarcastic grin, one-part snigger. “I don’t know if it’s true, but there’s a rumour going around that these city-slickers are planning to give us locals a hiding at tomorrow’s Showdown.”
“Is that now a fact?” said Truter, his jaw tightening. His eyes shifted to the black bra strap peeping through the neck of the T-shirt.
“Unfortunately, it looks like we have to leave first thing in the morning—”
“Nonsense, Mrs Odridge. My wife has gone to a lot of trouble to organise you people an entry ticket.”
Mrs Odridge turned to her husband. “What do you think, Steve? Will the … hospital let us visit outside visiting hours?”
“I’m … I’m not sure.”
She turned back to Meissner. “We got a call earlier that Steve’s mother has had … a stroke. We need to get back as soon as—”
“As soon as we’ve treated you to true country hospitality. Not so, Sergeant?”
Truter grunted in agreement. A synapse had fired in his head. Odridge? How come he knew the name? Was it from the TV? These two didn’t fit the typical Crime Watch profile, but that meant squat. The Snowdown character was a case in point – he also didn’t look like a terrorist, but meanwhile, back at the ranch … Truter could feel the sweat coming off these two. He could smell it. He could just about taste it.
“Sorry, Sergeant, I see we’re taking up your valuable time here. Before we were interrupted you were saying about my employee disappearing and now there’s a missing person’s case on him?”
“Yebo! Last time his chick-wife saw him was sparrow’s fart two days ago. According to her, he went for his jog and vanished into space. Didn’t come home, didn’t call on the phone, didn’t send a SMS. Next thing, she hits the panic button and opens a missing person’s.”
“Incredible.”
Not one to waste a captive audience, Truter continued: “And next thing after that, we’ve escalated to a high-profile priority status case. Pretoria HQ, Special Investigations, Potch CID, you name it, I’ve got them all working twenty-four seven on it.”
“Are you serious, Sergeant?”
“Big-time serious. Faxes and intermails coming at us non-stop, my own staff working overtime.” Without warning, Truter pulled up the handbrake. “This is highly confidential stuff, so don’t even think of blabbing your mouths off.” His tone was laced with menace, far from the earlier pellie-pellie. His eyes had also glazed over, as something clicked in his brain. Aldridge! He had finally remembered. He turned to the city slapgat, whose skin was looking whiter than a jockstrap soaked overnight in OMO. What did a chick like her see in him? The guy couldn’t even stand up straight.
“Meneer, are you SJ Aldridge?”
“Yes … why do you ask?”
“I’ve got a present for you.” Truter reached into the van’s window and retrieved the K-Way jacket. “Catch!” The confused look on slapgat’s face reminded Truter of a springhare caught in his headlights, just before he clipped it.
“Where did you find it?”
“This isn’t the old South Africa, meneer. You must look after your things.”
“Ja, I’m also confused,” said Meissner. “Where did you find it?”
Truter chuckled. “You’ll like this one, Meissner.” He leant back against the van, taking his time. “My professional colleague arrives at the station this morning and trips over this vuil dronkie lying on the steps, wearing that jacket there. The thing’s brain is so fried from riding the meths train all night, he’s bladdy forgotten he’s carrying stolen goods.” Truter slapped the fender in delight. “So now my colleague must book him in for interrogation. I swear it’s eyes the size of paper plates, and snot and trane as the vuil thing tells my colleague about coming face-to-face with a dead white man in a caravan.” Truter gave the fender another appreciative slap. “Mense, this is why I love my career.”
“What a story,” said Meissner, in nervous admiration. “Where’s he now?”
“Who?”
“The criminal.”
“Ag, probly feeling all sorry for himself in a gutter somewhere. You chuck these things in the back of the van, leave them to cook in the sun, rock and roll them on a 4x4 road, and you think that will help them see right from wrong? Forget it! The second you dump them out in the veld, they’re back to their old nonsense.” Truter switched back to serious mode. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to call my superior to organise a search warrant.”
“A search warrant? For what?”
Truter aimed a pork sausage at the blue gum trees. “For that.” His tone was cold and official. He was no longer leaning casually against the van. “The suspect in the aforementioned case has confessed breaking into that caravan and stealing that jacket.” Truter lowered his hand towards his hip. “The South African Police Services have reasonable causes to believe there’s a dead white man inside that alleged caravan.” He stared grimly at the day’s dying embers, allowing the gravity of the situation to take slow effect. The couple skulking behind Meissner stood rooted to the ground, pale and sick with terror. Meissner himself was shaking his head from side to side, struggling to grasp the dangerous unfolding reality.
Without any pre-emptive warning, Truter’s hand came down on the van’s bonnet like a thunderclap from the heavens.
“Fok, is that funny or what! Just imagine, Meissner, a white man sitting on ice in these people’s nice Jurgens caravan. Not even I’ve seen that in my twenty-eight years in the force.” He thumped Meissner on the back, rattling his implants. Meissner chortled nervously, in the manner of someone giving a crotch-sniffing Rottweiler a pat on the head. “That is a fine joke. That is a very fine joke you make, Sergeant.”
“And you know what’s a bigger lag, Meissner?”
“Ja?”
“If these people now have the white man’s head in the coolbox, and have fed the rest of him to your biliary-infested brak here!”
32
After a long day trawling Rustenburg’s old age homes for kickbacks, Pastor Gerald Phelps of the North West New Evangelical Reform Church unlocked his front door and stepped into the homely smell of Mr Min and Cobra Floor Wax. It felt good to be home.
“Beauty?” he called down the hallway. “Beauty!”
A stern word would be called for in the morning, because this wasn’t the first time the woman had left early. He ran his finger along the ball-and-claw sideboard and held it to the light; a well-trained domestic was near impossible to find these days.
Pulling off his white collar, he headed straight for the lounge. He flipped through the pile of mail left on the table, among it his monthly Capitec statement; the usual bulk meat specials from the Checkers Hyperama in Brits; an Agri Festival flyer; and his Beares and Telkom account.
A stiff drink was calling his name. He dug out the key from behind his video collection, unlocked the cabinet, and screwed open the box tap, filling his glass with a “subtle fusion of youngberry and Marmite”. He lowered himself into the couch and sighed contentedly.
For a modest man of the cloth, Phelps had done rather well for himself. Complementing the new Nevada lounge suite was a new glass-top coffee table, a new Hisense 60-inch plasma television with surround-sound speakers, and a new DSTV Explora decoder.
“What the hell?”
Phelps leant in for a better view, for a moment thinking he was imagining it. He stood up and walked over to the patio door. What in God’s name was Beauty thinking? He pulled the patio door shut and toggled the key. Unbelievable! Not only had the woman left the door open, she had somehow managed to smash the lock. His blood boiled. His blood pressure spiked. Abandoning his efforts, Phelps slam-locked the Trellidor shut and padded over to the Salton; he’d hardly eaten a thing all day and was ravenous. One thing he’d grant that woman – at least she knew how to cook. He peeled away the clingwrap and surveyed the steaming heap of grilled lamb chops, sweet potato with sugar and cinnamon, buttered carrots, and yellow rice swimming in Knorr.
With the lamb chops sucked clean and his third glass of Drostdy Hof coursing through the veins, Gerald Phelps felt like a new man. Lowering the volume on Stephanie Powers, he settled deeper into the Nevada and turned his attention to his mail.
A hundred and fifty bucks for ten kilos’ pork mince wasn’t a bad deal; a trip to Brits might be called for. He tore open the Telkom account: three hundred and eighty-four rand and fifty-four cents. Higher than usual and cause for concern. Either Beauty was using the phone, or Telkom was ripping him off. Or both. He reached over for his glass; for some reason the wine now tasted more Marmite than youngberry. And for some reason he felt queasy.
Phelps had kept the Capitec statement for last. It never ceased to amaze him how small amounts added up over time. What with the New Horizons funeral commissions and his TFS life cover loyalty credits, he would be back on his feet in no time. Phelps burped. Then burped again. He set the bank statement aside and rubbed his chest. The queasiness had upgraded to acute heartburn; that’s what came from drinking on an empty stomach. His plans for a quiet evening in were dissolving rapidly, and the mere thought of watching flesh on flesh on the new Plasma was nauseating. His stomach cramped and roiled. The heartburn was unbearable. Phelps climbed unsteadily to his feet. This was pain of an entirely new order, as an unseen force took a long dagger to his bowels, twisting and turning it this way, then that way. His chest was swimming in pool acid. He couldn’t decide if he needed to vomit, drop a load, or carry out both simultaneously. He staggered across the carpet towards the bathroom.
Gripping the toilet bowl, Phelps implored whoever above might be listening for blessed relief. His pleas were promptly answered with a fresh assault of nausea and cramping, the likes of which he had never before experienced.
Choking on his vomit, Pastor Gerald Phelps of the North West New Evangelical Reform Church collapsed face first to the floor. Less than a minute later, he was gone.
33
Tarryn Aldridge applied the lipstick in thick confident strokes. The name had grabbed her from word go: Summer Rouge – For the Woman Who Dares to be Different. She pouted Sophia Loren-like into the mirror. It tied in brilliantly with her highlights. She looked over her shoulder to check nothing was sticking out. She’d seen it for herself at the Ocean Basket in Gold Reef City – this quite pretty-looking woman coming out the loo dragging a long sheet of toilet paper behind her. You didn’t get more embarrassing than that.
Tarryn packed away her lipstick and mascara stick in their little case, grabbed a last look in the mirror, then set off across the restaurant to join Steve at their table.
“How’s your steak, babes?”
“Not bad. Your ribs look good?”
“They are. Especially with the monkeygland sauce. But I just wish they would turn the lights down. It’s like a mortuary in here.”
“At least we found somewhere to eat.”
“That’s true.”
“How about we order another wine each? It’s only twenty rand a glass.”
“We should have ordered a bottle, to celebrate and all.”
“Why celebrate?”
“You know, Stevie. Coming up with a solution to the problem this morning? Not panicking in front of that psycho cop?”
“I didn’t think of it like that … We better keep it down – the waitress is coming.”
“You people enjoying your meal?”
“It’s nice, thanks. Can we order another glass of your house wine?”
“Same as last time. White and a red?”
“Yes, please.”
“You want a doggy bag for that, ma’am?”
“I’m still busy.”
“Okay, but shout if you do. So, where you guys from?”
“Sasolburg. We were—”
“We’re on our way to Kruger,” intercepted Tarryn.
“Why you staying here then? I would be like, head straight for Kruger. Don’t pass Begin, don’t collect two hundred rand.”
“We enjoy touring,” intercepted Tarryn again. “We like experiencing different parts of the country and all that.”
“This place is a dump. I can’t wait to get out.”
“Why don’t you leave then?”
Bianca – according to the badge on her shirt – rubbed two fingers together. “Don’t you worry, as soon as I have the bucks I’m out of here big time.”
“Aren’t you married?” asked Tarryn.
Bianca held up her hand. “Do you see a ring? No ways, my boyfriend and me aren’t into the whole society commitment marriage thing. I don’t even know where he’s at this very minute.”
“What you mean?”
“Like, I mean he’s gone AWOL. Disappeared without saying a word. I’m going to kill him when he gets back, because he mustn’t think he can just come and go as he pleases … Sorry, here I’m sharing my personal sob story. A white and a red coming up.”
Tarryn waited until Bianca was back behind the bar. “Don’t even go there, Steve.”
“But you must be thinking what I’m thinking?”
“What, that it’s one and the same?”
“It’s possible, don’t you think?”
“Anything’s possible. There’s also something called coincidence. People come and go all the time. And that’s called life. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Shit, just when we were starting to relax.” Tarryn tore at a rib.
“Sorry, but after that close shave with the policeman this afternoon … Okay, maybe I’m just being paranoid.”
Tarryn dipped her fingers into the water bowl and flicked them at her husband. “At least you’re man enough to admit it.”
“Hey, you do that again and I’ll have no choice but to chuck you in the pool at Satara.”
“I dare you. In fact, I can’t wait.”
Aldridge took a sip of wine. “You want to hear my idea, T?”
“Not another one. Okay, go ahead, tell me.”
“I reckon one day we should sell the house and go live in the bush.”
“And do what?”
“Manage a lodge or something. I could study game ranging through Unisa and take the tourists on guided drives and walks. And you could cook for them. You always said you wanted to own a restaurant.”
“Sounds great, babes. You and your grand dreams – it’s cute.”
“If you don’t have dreams, what do you have?”
“Maybe I’m not so keen on giving up our comforts and living in the jungle.”
