Roadkill, page 17
“And the judging starts when?
“Three. At least, that’s what they said.”
“Which means … by four o’ clock, it’s all over, babes!”
Aldridge glanced nervously around him. “Geez, not so loud, Tarryn. The guy might hear you.”
“Sorry. I’m just excited we’re so close to putting this whole thing behind us.”
“I keep telling myself the same thing. It’s the only thing keeping me going right now.”
“Have you heard from the garage yet?”
Aldridge dropped to his haunches and shifted the coals around.
“Do you really need to keep doing that?”
“Sorry, just trying to stay busy. I did.”
“Did what?”
“Hear from them.”
“And?”
Aldridge stood up and pushed back on his aching hips. “They said the car will be ready this afternoon.”
“Crikey, Stevie, why didn’t you tell me? Are you serious?”
“I was going to tell you, but first wanted to make hundred per cent sure.”
“That’s fantastic news, babes!”
“Seriously, Tarryn, not so loud!”
“Sorry. But who here cares, anyway?”
“You never know—”
“So we can collect it straight after we’ve packed up here?”
“I guess.”
“And be on the road by this evening? Like, actually drive away from this hell hole in our own car?”
“That’s the plan.”
Tarryn gazed up at the sky, at the bank of dark cloud in the distance. “I can’t believe it.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You’re smiling, Steve. For the first time in days, you’re actually smiling.”
“Sorry, I’ll try not to if you want. So are you, by the way.”
Tarryn squeezed her husband’s hand. Looked him deep in the eyes. “I think I’m going to cry … From relief … And happiness.”
“We better not get too excited. I’ll only believe it when we’re sitting behind the wheel.”
“This definitely deserves a drink.”
“I reckon so. You want me to fetch?”
“No, I’ll go. I need a pee, anyway.”
“You don’t want to take a quick look first?”
“I didn’t dare ask.”
“You had better … just in case … Careful, the lid’s hot. Maybe use this cloth.”
Tarryn Aldridge cautiously lifted the potjie lid, releasing a sweet steamy bouquet of onion, garlic, rosemary, Old Brown Sherry and tender lamb. “It smells good, Steve. There’s no ways…” She peered through the steam. “Pass me that big spoon … Thanks.” Carefully stirring the contents, Tarryn separated out the cubes of meat from the thick sauce and the carrots and potatoes.
“What you think?” Aldridge whispered anxiously from behind her.
“There is no ways, Steve. If I didn’t know better—”
“You not just saying so?”
“No. Even the smell … How much is left in the Coleman?”
“Nothing.”
“You mean this is all of it?”
“Besides, you know … and what we fed to the dog and all.”
Tarryn replaced the lid and gazed up at her husband. Her eyes were filled with wonder and new-found respect. “It’s all in here? Every last bit is in this pot …”
“Except, you know…”
“Apart from that.”
“Yes, every last bit is in there.”
She climbed unsteadily to her feet. “I need a pee. And I need a Brutal Fruit. I need a seriously cold Brutal Fruit.”
47
Giving the room a final sweep, Johan Engelbrecht pulled the door shut behind him. Buffalo had done the job, but he wouldn’t be running back any day soon. He still hadn’t figured out his next move – drive back to Pretoria for the weekend, or sit it out and see what came up? On either count he had to keep moving. He had to keep the leads flowing.
He contemplated giving Cynthia a quick call, then shoved the thought aside; she would have called by now if she had something for him. Besides, he’d given her enough to work with. The woman could only do what the woman could do.
He decided he would toss a coin later, to head back to Pretoria or not. Until then he could kill the afternoon with a visit to another mortuary – collect more names for Cynthia to run background checks on. There was no telling what might come up – that New Horizons dump was proof of it. He could tick off that box, head home for the weekend if he felt like it, and be back again in the area by Monday lunchtime. Any plan was better than staring a weekend alone in the magoelas.
But first things first: pay the bill and blow this joint.
He headed down the side of the house, following the laminated arrows to Reception Office. He knocked on the sliding door. Knocked again. Cupping his hands, he peered through the mesh curtain. Nada. He would leave the cash on the desk. He pulled on the door. Music was coming from down the passage. Opera. First problem of the day: he had no idea what he owed. He stepped into the passage. The music was coming from three doors down. A bedroom. This was fast getting messier than a cash-in-transit heist gone wrong.
He tapped softly on the door. For some unknown reason, his heart was beating faster than its usual fifty-four BPM. He leant in against the door – a woman’s voice, singing along with the music. The voice wasn’t half bad. Something primal stirred deep in his gut.
Engelbrecht lifted his hand to knock again, hesitated, resisting the unknown. The something primal had shown its face: raw, careless yearning. He stared at the door. This was asking for trouble. Spelt with a capital “T”. He clamped down on his jaw as he watched the hand take hold of the handle, as if controlled by an outside force – the careless yearning was fast getting the better of him.
He now saw it for what it was, the electric static he’d felt pass between them. Standing there under the light the night before, then again when he had gone in to ask for fresh milk for his coffee. Engelbrecht was no stranger to loneliness and also knew longing when he saw it. She had to have felt it too.
Fokkit! He had been down this road one time too many – breaking up with the ex hadn’t even formed a scab, and here he was asking for more of the same. Pulling himself to himself, he had made up his mind. No silly buggers. No mixing business with pleasure. Hand over the cash. Say goodbye. Walk away. Don’t look back.
Engelbrecht pressed down on the handle.
Susan Meissner was swaying gently in front of the bedroom mirror, her eyes closed. Soft silvery light filtered through the curtains. She was barefoot, her hair down, wearing a red dress that stopped above her knees. Engelbrecht stood anchored to the floor, mouth dry. Retreat was out of the question – she had already sixth-sensed his presence. Slowing mid-sway, eyes opening, face already turning pink, hand lifting towards mouth in embarrassment.
“Oh, God, I thought everyone was out … This is so—”
“Sorry, it’s my fault. I should have knocked louder. I didn’t realise you were—”
“I feel so ridiculous.”
“You think you feel ridiculous? Look at me standing here like an idiot for barging in on you.” Engelbrecht laughed. “Maybe we must change the subject. What you say?”
“Yes, maybe that’s a good idea.” Her hands dropped to her side.
“I like this music. What is it?”
“Puccini.”
“It’s nice. It matches your dress. What I mean is—”
“I’ll try take that as a compliment.” She was now smiling shyly. No longer blushing.
“It’s a beautiful dress.” He meant it.
“This old thing? It’s just a—
“What with this nice music and the light through the curtain, I swear, you look like a flipping film star.”
The words had come out clumsy and cheesy. But he meant them – the bashful and beautiful woman standing in front of him did look like a flipping film star. He could have told her the same thing the night before when she was wearing that kimono number.
Susan Meissner tossed back her long brown hair and laughed. An open honest laugh. “Nobody’s said that to me before. Not even my husband … Especially not my husband.”
“Well, maybe he should, because it’s true.”
“It is?”
“Yes, hundred and ten per cent.”
“That’s … I don’t know how I should take it—”
Engelbrecht’s phone was ringing in his pocket. “Shit, sorry—”
“Shouldn’t you answer it?”
“Ja, I suppose I better.” He wrestled the Samsung out of his jean’s pocket – maybe it was Cynthia with news. “SAPS Edendal” flashed back at him. What the hell did they want? But whatever it was, they could wait. He pressed down on the power button and shoved the phone back into his pocket. Any remaining shards of rational thought were now fast dissolving. He looked up to meet her penetrating gaze. Her eyes were on fire, her lips red and moist.
“So, what happens now, Johnny?”
48
Aldridge’s hand trembled as he lifted the potjie lid and ladled the sauce over Otto’s Meissner’s paper plate.
“Let me help you there, sweetie … Looks like the nerves have got to my husband. Mr Venter, would you also like some more yummy sauce?”
Jakkals Venter held out his plate. “If not, why not? It smells damn tasty.”
“And how about you, Mr Botha?”
“I’m good. Got to save myself.”
“I see you could definitely do with a meat top-up, Mr Meissner?”
“Come on, girlie, none of this Mr Meissner. For you, it’s Otto.”
Tarryn smiled coyly. “Sorry, I mean Otto.” She nudged her husband with her elbow. “Steve, the man’s hungry.”
“Did I say, or did I not say you people would have a good time in our little town?” Licking his lips, Meissner inched closer to Tarryn. “You know what our motto is?”
“Where you arrive a stranger and leave a friend?”
“Exactamont!” Meissner closed his eyes. “This now smells good. What you think, Nils? Are our friends from Sasolburg in for a chance?”
Nils Botha prodded the chunks of meat on his plate. “So far, so good. I’m impressed by how soft and tender this lamb is. You see how it’s falling off the bone here, gents? That’s one of the things you must look for as a judge. The meat must be just right. Not tough like an old tyre, but also not boiled to death.” Botha set his plate down on the fold-up table, retrieved the pencil from behind his ear, and scribbled a note on his scorecard. Taking their cue, Meissner and Venter followed suit. “I won’t ask where you people get your lamb, but this is quality. Definitely not Shoprite.”
Venter shovelled a forkful of meat into his mouth and swallowed hungrily. “Bladdy tasty, that’s all I’ll say.”
“And I’ll eat to that,” said Meissner. “Check how nervous these people are. You would swear we are in the Olympic Games.”
The Free State champion gave his plate another prod. “And I like what you’ve done here with the sauce. The sweet of the dried fruit and OBS isn’t so hectic that it drowns out the taste of the meat. A big mistake we often come across in judging.”
“Thanks, Mr Botha. We actually used a different sherry for this recipe. A more expensive one that’s less sweet. Isn’t that right, Steve?”
Mesmerised by the simmering potjie, Aldridge looked up and smiled weakly. “Yes, it’s a less sweet one.”
“Nice. Very nice.” Botha turned to his co-judges. “I will say these city slickers know what they’re doing.”
Meissner had scraped his plate clean, and for a man of limited stature had a surprisingly large appetite. “What was that herby thingie going on in there?”
“It’s called rosemary, Mr—Otto. How about a last scoop for you?”
“Hold your horses, boys. We’re not even halfway down the line yet.”
Meissner shrugged. “Sorry, but you heard the man, girlie. I have to say no.”
“Of course, I understand,” said Tarryn, sending another coy smile the wolf’s way. “In that case, how about a tot of sherry before you hardworking men move on?”
“Tarryn, I don’t think they—”
“Nice touch, people. Matching the potjie with a sherry tasting. Very clever.” Nils Botha scribbled on his scorecard.
“I won’t say no to a quick sherry … cherry.”
Tarryn giggled. “That’s really funny, Otto. Don’t you think so, Steve?”
Aldridge forced yet another weak smile. “Definitely.”
As if suddenly remembering something of great import, Meissner pulled back his sleeve and checked his watch.
“Something wrong, Otto?”
“Wrong? Oh no! Definitely nothing wrong. I’m expecting a very important business call,” he said smugly. “Concerning a big investment deal, if you must know. Tight deadlines. Big game pressure—”
“Wow. A man of many talents.”
“Yes, girlie, you could say that.”
“Okay, gents, down the hatch and then we must keep moving, because we still have three contestants to go.” Nils Botha tilted his bush hat at the couple. “Nice one, people. I’m impressed. You can now open up to the public.”
Meissner threw back the contents of his paper cup, wiped his chin, and gave Tarryn a final look-in. “See you later, alligator.”
“In a while, crocodile.”
The couple watched the man scuttle after the other two judges. Tarryn turned to her husband.
“Socks and Crocs. Can you actually believe it?”
49
“What we drinking this time, Constable?”
“Nescafe Gold, sir.”
“You boys don’t mess around.”
Truter fired a caustic look Delport’s way. “The station only has it on special occasions, Captain. The rest of the time we drink Ricoffy. Not so, Delport?”
“Don’t look so worried, man. You can drink fancy filter coffee for all I care. We all work hard for a living and deserve a treat now and then. Anyways, back to business. Delport, you left a message on my cell that you had something important to show me? So here I am, gents, at your disposal. Sergeant, any idea what this is about?”
Truter shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t look at me. I hope you’re not planning to waste our time, Delport, because some of us have important work to do.”
“I understand, sir.” Delport opened his blue folder. His hands were shaking. “Sergeant, you know the USB stick you asked me to take a look at?”
Truter coughed. “This is not the time or place—”
“Well, I managed to open it on my computer and I found—”
“Didn’t you hear me, man? I said this is not—”
“Jissus, give the guy a chance, Truter.”
“I’m just saying, Captain—”
“There were some files that I think you might find interesting, sir.”
“Is that them there? Looks like a heap.”
“Yes, sir. I printed them all out, so I could study them at home.”
“I’m still clueless where this is going, but carry on, boet.”
Truter bent down and proceeded to extricate a syringa berry from the underside of his boot. “I rest my case.”
“So, um, basically, these printouts are all Excel spreadsheets,” said Delport. He tentatively inched the stapled ream in the SCU agent’s direction. “As you can see, it’s mostly just columns of codes and numbers.”
“Yes, I can see that. Lots of codes and numbers.”
“It took me a while, but I think I know what they are.”
“I also think I know what they are,” said Truter, flicking the berry to the floor. “Gobbledygook. Jesus, Delport, I’m just about up to here!”
“Truter! Zip it. Alright, let me take a squizz.” Engelbrecht adjusted his reading glasses. “‘Client Ref, Co Ref, Date 1, Date 2, S/total 1, S/total 2, Nett.’ Can’t say these headers mean anything to me.”
“For example, sir, the numbers under Client Ref got me thinking that maybe they were identity numbers of people. So, just for fun I ran—”
Truter rolled his head in disbelief. “‘Just for fun.’ You hear that, Captain?”
“What I mean is, I decided to run some of the numbers through the system to see if anything would come up.”
“And? Did anything come up?”
“Yes, sir. They are identity numbers of actual people.” Delport reached nervously into the blue folder and pulled out another page. “These are the names the system came up with.”
“Okay, lemme see.”
“Why’s your hand shaking, Delport?”
“I’m not sure why, Sergeant.”
Engelbrecht was now sitting more upright. “Is this all of them?”
“No, just the first page, sir. But I can easily check the rest.”
For a few moments silence descended over Truter’s office. Broken by a long slow whistle. “If this is what I think it is … Where did you say these files came from again?”
“The USB stick that—”
“Oh, ja, the USB stick. Can I borrow your pen, Constable?”
“Sure, sir.”
The muscles of his jaw working hard, Engelbrecht ran a finger down the page, popping off the names as he went. “John Simmonds. Tick! Adrian Daniels. Tick! Gerald Phelps. Nope. Hans de Bruyn, Tick! Roger Henley. Tick! John Andrews. Nope. Jerry Conradie. Nope. Gary Johnson. Nope. Phillip van der Spuy. Tick!” Engelbrecht looked up from the page, his eyes now glowing like some nocturnal predator. “Keep talking, my friend. You have my full attention.”
“All deceased, sir.”
“Who all deceased?”
“The names you marked with ticks. They’re all recently deceased.”
“Now you’ve got me. How the hell do you know that?”
“Because I cross-checked.”
A Wimbledon spectator watching a Nadal-Federer rally, Truter’s eyes darted back and forth between the SCU agent and his deputy. Simultaneously, something in the deeper recesses of his brain was worming its way towards the light. “Roger Henley and Gary Johnson? How come I know those bladdy names …”
