Roadkill, page 18
Delport was struggling to contain himself. “That’s what got me interested, Sergeant, because I instantly recognised them when I ran the ID numbers through the SAPS database. Gary Johnson is the missing person we’ve been looking for. And Henley is the guy from North West Motor Spares who died the other day.”
“Take it slow, Constable. Did you say missing person?”
Delport breathed in deeply. Counted to five. “Yes, Captain. His girlfriend reported him missing two days ago. He disappeared while taking a morning jog.”
“Now, that is interesting.”
“Captain, do you want to know what else I worked out from the spreadsheet?”
“What, you have more?”
“Lots more. I know what ‘Co Ref’ stands for: Company Reference. The codes you see under that header are short for the names of big insurance companies. ‘OM’ stands for Old Mutual, ‘STM’ for Santam, ‘LL’ for Liberty Life, ‘MTM’ for Momentum.”
Engelbrecht studied the page. “You know what, I think you’re right … Unfokkenbelievable.”
“‘Date 1’ is when the person signed up with the life insurance company.”
“And ‘Date 2’?”
“Date 2 is when the person died; I’ve already cross-checked some of them, and the information matches what we have on the SAPS database.”
“Incredible … And what about these blank spaces?”
“Easy, sir. Those are people that aren’t dead yet.”
His head still rocking from side to side in amazement, Engelbrecht sat back and contemplated the freckly carrot top on the far side of the desk. How he’d ended up in the arse end of the world alongside the likes of Bossies Truter was beyond him. There had to be others just like him: undiscovered diamonds buried in the dust. The system was fucked. “I don’t know what to say. I seriously don’t know. It’s like someone’s crept up from behind and moered me on the back of the head with a panga. With this information …” Engelbrecht’s brain was racing ahead of itself, working through the legal and practical implications. One tiny unanswered question remained. A question he would have preferred to ignore. “Sorry, menere, but I have to ask you now, where did the USB stick come from? And, listen, I don’t need to hear all the gory details, just where it came from. Sergeant?”
Truter looked at Delport. Delport looked back at Truter.
“Yes, Sergeant? We’re waiting.”
Truter followed the SCU agent’s gaze to the water leak on the ceiling, then down again to the desk. “Ag, it’s no big deal, Captain,” he said as casually as was possible in the circumstances. “It was in the drawer of Jakkals Venter’s office.”
Engelbrecht let out a long slow controlled whistle. “Fok my dood!”
50
Otto Meissner was no longer feeling so chipper, now that the effects of the Blood River Artisan Ale were wearing thin, combined with the worrying fact that the Global Tours rep hadn’t called from the bank like he promised he would. His earlier euphoria had given way to a gnawing tapeworm.
His bunch of master keys dangling at his side, Meissner poked his head into the passage – all clear. He tiptoed down the corridor and halted in front of Rhino Room and pressed his ear against the door. Slipping the master key into the lock, he opened the door quietly, stepped inside, and locked it behind him.
The curtains were still drawn; the dank air hung heavy with male BO and mature Brie. He groped for the light switch and waited for the fluorescent tube to flicker into life. As it did so, the tapeworm in his gut took another large bite: the man’s clothing was strewn across the floor; a pair of fire-engine red tanga briefs were stretched taut over the bedside lamp as a makeshift shade; balls of toilet paper lay heaped at the side of the bed. A beaten-to-death leather suitcase with stickers and straps gaped open on the bed.
Navigating gingerly through the debris, Meissner worked his way over to the pine wardrobe and pulled on the handle – empty. He pulled out the drawer below – ditto. Fending off the early stirrings of panic, he shifted his attention to the suitcase, approaching the task as one would a dog turd on the front doorstep. The contents included (in no particular order of importance): a blue-check toiletry bag with a broken zip containing a tube of roll-on Brut deodorant; a crusty tortoise-shell comb; a tub of Vaseline; a gummed-up razor blade; earbuds in various shades of yellow; a half-bar of Lux soap wrapped in Jiffy. Shoved in below, a pair of beige Stokies; a faux snakeskin belt; a white vest; a knotted plastic bag with Wimpy sugar, Cremora and Ricoffy sachets; a BIC lighter; two pairs of black socks; a blue Insignia tie; a pair of Markham underpants with a stain on the crotch; an Okapi penknife; and various loose cash receipts.
Meissner pulled hard on his goatee, forcing rounded rationality into a square hole – things were not always what they seemed to be; there had to be an explanation, although his pounding temples and powder-dry lips were telling him otherwise. He repacked the suitcase contents, dropped to his haunches and peered under the bed – other than a crusty sock, the search came up empty. He stood up, his back now aching, and walked over to the window and tore open the curtain. He stared into the dying afternoon, barely registering his wife’s questioning look from the washing line.
Blinking hard, repeating to himself there had to be a good explanation to all this, Otto Meissner turned back to the room. Only now had he noticed the green Anorak on the chair. One of those jackets that had been through the wars, what with the collar rubbed through and the elbow pad ripped. He tentatively squeezed the pockets, then flipped the jacket upside down and gave it a violent shake. Loose coins, a strapless Casio watch, a confetti of Peppermint wrappers, and a Medic Alert bracelet cascaded to the floor. Meissner hurled the Anorak across the room, before falling back into the chair in despair.
Abrahams, or whatever his name was, was good; he couldn’t deny him that. He had swallowed the Galactic Tours story, hook, line, and sinker. The guy had eaten his food, drunk his whisky, slept in his bed, emptied his bar fridge, and by now cashed his ten thousand ront cheque. The only thing he hadn’t done to him was fornicated with his wife. Meissner groaned, then reached limply for the bracelet. He turned it over, staring blankly at the faded lettering. He twisted it to the light, trying to make out the medical sob story. The jackhammering in his head was threatening to explode. Black spots floated back and forth across the room. He groped at his (empty) shirt pocket for his glasses—
Succumbing to a toxic mix of despair and rage, Otto Meissner hurled the Medic Alert against the bedroom far wall. For an ever-so-brief moment it hung suspended in mid-air, before disappearing from view behind the pine headboard.
51
A hand was tugging urgently at Tarryn Aldridge’s sleeve.
“What’s wrong?”
“There!”
“Where? What?”
“There, flipping hell, at the gate!”
Tarryn tracked her husband’s stunned stare. “Oh, sweet Jesus, Stevie!” Even at a distance there was no mistaking Him – battering ram head dropped forwards, thighs apart, hand fingering holster, vacuum-packed biceps. Judging by the way the psycho cop was scanning the terrain, this was no social visit. What’s more, he had come with backup – in the form of a skinny red-haired policeman. Tarryn bit hard into her lip, pushing down on a wave of fear that threatened to engulf and sweep her away. It was game over.
Cowering behind her, Aldridge was also watching his life unravel before him. They were everywhere – the SWAT team – disguised as civilians, fanning out in every direction, blocking off the exits, taking up position: one of them standing guard at the beer tent, dressed in khaki, another two in tracksuits and bush hats at the turnstiles. Reinforcements were streaming in through the gate, mingling with the crowd, their weapons and bullet-proof vests hidden under camo hunting jackets. His head felt hot: infrared crosshairs of police snipers trained on him from up on the spectator stands. But he had to be strong. Strong for Tarryn. Go quietly. Go like a man.
“We tried, Stevie. We really tried.”
“I know. It’s okay—”
“We did our best—”
“We did our best. It wasn’t meant to be—”
Tarryn dug her nails into his arm. “He’s seen us! Oh my God, Steve, they’re coming for us.”
“Whatever you do, don’t move,” Aldridge whispered hoarsely. His brain had watched enough “Man Encounters Angry Mother Grizzly” videos on YouTube to override the fight-or-flight instinct, opting instead to play dead.
At the far side of the Agri Showgrounds arena, Truter was fast losing patience and gatvol of hanging around. “Come, Delport, it’s time to make a move.”
“But sir, mustn’t we await our instructions from—”
“Fok that. I know how this lot from Pretoria operates. The cows will be home asleep by the time they get their poepols into gear. If we don’t go now, we’re gonna miss our chance. Kom ons gaan!”
Abandoning his post at Exit 1, Truter cut a path through the dawdling ice-cream lickers, trailed by a nervous Constable Delport. Engelbrecht’s earlier strategy brief – that this was to be a clean operation with minimal loss to civilian life and limb – had long since flown Truter’s coop, now that the opportunity to finally prove his mettle to God and country (and Pretoria, for that matter), had presented itself. He was intent on squeezing out every last drop.
Delport caught up with him. “Sir, you really don’t think we should hold back? Oh, bliksem—” Stepping over the woman his boss had just knocked to the ground, he slalomed around her tray of disembowelled boerewors. “Sorry, mevrou, South African Police Services.” People were now beginning to stare, sensing something was about to go down. Delport hurried on after his superior.
“Delport, you got me covered?” called Truter from the front.
Sucked along by the wake of raw animal power and passion, Delport threw aside his remaining misgivings. “Behind you all the way, sir!”
“That’s my boy!” shouted Truter, and with that reached down and unleashed his .38 in an impressive flowing arc action – simultaneously triggering a seismic ripple of public panic. Women and children scattered before him, adult men scurried behind stall tables, popcorn was strewn across the ground like confetti at a wedding.
Drunk on a heady mix of bloodlust, boerewors, and the distant clatter of police chopper blades, Truter had passed the point of no return. He had waited twenty-five years for redemption and could now taste the revenge coming his way – a revenge sweeter than a home-baked koeksuster dipped in syrup. Nobody, but nobody was going to stand between him and delivering the fatal blow.
Coordinating (the just recently dubbed) “Operation Red Jackal” from high up on the spectator stand, Captain Johan Engelbrecht had been caught off-guard by the sudden turn of events unfolding below. Taking rapid stock of the situation, he knew he had a potential bloodbath on his hands – there would be hell to pay if civilian lives were lost. He lowered his binocs and chewed hard on the inside of his cheek, weighing up the options.
Including Bossies Truter in the operation – a decision motivated solely by pity – had been a gross error of judgement. Inferring from the singular intent of the animal weaving through the crowd below, it was already blatantly obvious they’d have an easier time stopping a charging bull rhino. Engelbrecht turned to the SCU ops member behind him.
“Pass me the radio, we’ll try one more time … Sergeant Truter, come in!” No response. “Constable Delport, are you there?” Nothing. “Truter, I order you to pull back.” Engelbrecht handed the radio back. “The psycho’s gone rogue.” He lifted his binocs and adjusted the focus ring. Extrapolating from Truter’s due-north trajectory, his target had to be the grand Lotto prize – head honcho himself, Jakkals Venter.
Up until the moment Truter had gone walkabout, the SCU task team had been tracking Venter’s movements and had him where they wanted him – wandering slowly in the direction of Exit 2 and the yellow Hummer, away from the crowds, because there was no way of knowing what these paranoid ex-Ops were packing, or for that matter what they were prepared to do to get out of a tight spot. A messy hostage situation was on the cards if they didn’t get them out the area soon. Engelbrecht arced the binocs ninety degrees to the left and locked on Juan Dippenaar. His kid was on his shoulders, his wife trailing behind, making their way towards the car park and the midnight-black Navarra under the blue gums. Engelbrecht adjusted his focus. “I don’t see Botes? Hans, you still got a fix on him?”
“Sitting vas like Loctite at eleven o’ clock, approx three hundred metres.”
“Okay, I got him.” Conrad Botes appeared to be alone, a beer in his hand, stuffing his face with a boerewors roll. “What about Ferreira? Who the heck’s tracking Ferreira?”
“Me, sir … I had him until a few seconds ago … Hang on, I see him again; just came out the bogs. Heading back in direction of beer tent.”
“All right, good. Make sure you don’t lose him.”
“Roger that!”
Engelbrecht raked his binoculars back and forth across the main showground arena. Where the hell had he got to? “Please tell me one of you have a lock on Venter. Denzel?”
“Negative, Captain. He went behind the food stalls and hasn’t come out yet. Maybe he’s gone out the back entrance?”
“I don’t need to hear maybes. Come on, manne, this is not the time to drop the ball.” This wasn’t good. Not good at all. Venter’s reputation among security circles as a fearless fighter was well earned. He wouldn’t go down without a bloody fight, that much he knew. Engelbrecht dreaded to think what firepower was tucked into the guy’s ankle holster and other places on his body. Same went for others. Unless they got them out of there pronto, he would be forced to pull out. A voice crackled in his ear. “What’s it, Lieutenant?”
“SAPS Edendal circling beer tent, sir.”
“Jesus, this is all we fokken need.” An impending bloodbath was unfolding before his very eyes – accompanied by the image of a crazed pit bull released into a confined room of rats. Above him, in the far distance, he could hear the hovering chopper, awaiting his further instructions. He chewed on his cheek.
“Captain, SAPS Edendal now moving away from beer tent. Continuing due north.” Engelbrecht heaved a sigh of relief. This was too close for comfort; he had to do something. “Sir!”
“What’s it, Hans?”
“Ferreira and Botes heading away from south end. Both now going through Exit One.”
Engelbrecht shut his eyes, grouping his thoughts. “Let me know when they start driving. Is Dippenaar out the pen yet?”
“Yes, sir. Him, plus white female and minor have climbed into black Navarra.”
Potentially messy on the one hand. But on the other, it would work to Team Sky’s advantage. “But still no fokken sign of Venter?”
“Nothing yet, Captain. SAPS Edendal still roaming the environs.”
Engelbrecht had used up his nine lives. The time had come to switch course, make some snap decisions. Dropping his chin, he barked into the mic. “Okay, manne, change of plan. Prepare to move in.”
Emerging from the smoke and dust, the Neanderthal-like creature bore down on the huddle of terror awaiting the lethal blow that would deliver them into the hands of the ever-after.
But it never came.
“Out the way, mense!” shouted the policeman, leaping over the potjie pot, veering a sharp left and disappearing back into the smoke like some nightmarish apparition. Cantering close behind its master was a ginger-haired specimen with a red face, its gun drawn and at the ready.
Steve and Tarryn Aldridge slowly opened their eyes and looked around them, struggling to comprehend. An eerie silence had descended over the showgrounds. Alongside, the man in the Isuzu T-shirt and rugby shorts shrugged, then continued packing up his equipment.
Tarryn could barely manage a croaky whisper. “Steve?” Her husband stared back at her, even less capable of speech. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” She lifted her hand to her mouth, hoping against hope. Terror was fast giving way to bewildered relief. “Stevie?” Her husband nodded. “It wasn’t us they were coming for.”
Truter was running out of steam – the impressive leap over the potjie pot had been a leap too far. His knee was starting to protest in agony.
“Sir, are you okay?” puffed Delport at his shoulder.
“Of course I’m okay. Don’t I look okay?” puffed Truter back. “You still have me covered, Delport?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Good!” Truter pulled up behind the ablution block. “We’ll regroup here for a bit.” He bent over, hands gripping his thighs, staring into the ground, trying to slow his spinning world.
“You sure you okay, sir?”
“All good, Delport, just dizzy.” He looked up. People were staring. Waiting for his next move. “Put that bladdy gun away, Delport. You’re making the mense nervous. And keep your voice down.”
Delport quickly holstered his weapon. “Sorry. What about yours?”
Truter grunted, considered for a moment, then shoved his .38 into the back of his pants. “Can you see him?”
“Who, sir?”
“Jakkals Venter. What do you think we’re doing here, man?”
“I didn’t realise we were—”
Truter straightened up. “Don’t worry, Delport. Like usual, you let me do all the heavy lifting. Wait here.” Truter slid along the clinker brick wall and peered around the corner. “Waar die fok is jy?”
“Are you talking about the mayor, sir?” whispered Delport at his back. “Last time I heard him he was on the loudspeaker at the stage.”
Truter stared up at the sky. “I know that! But did you not see him, moegoe?”
“No, sir. I didn’t know that’s who we were after. You didn’t brief me—”
“Delport, you know what, you just keep me covered. And you keep quiet. I’ll do the rest.”
Sergeant Truter! Constable Delport! This is Captain Engelbrecht. Come in!
Delport reached towards his radio.
