Roadkill, page 19
“Don’t you bladdy answer that thing.”
“But it’s the second time he’s—”
“As your commanding officer, Delport, I command you not to answer,” hissed Truter. He was still peering around the wall, desperately scanning the area for Jakkals. He needed this more than anything. His future depended on it – his emotional, spiritual, and professional future depended on it. Above his head, a toilet flushed through the open window. Followed by the sound of a tap opening and whistling. His moment was slipping away from him. He clamped his eyes shut, unable to accept the unfolding reality. History was about to repeat itself all over. Just like last time, they were going to drag him across the burning coals, blame him for everything, then throw him to the dogs. This time there would be no coming back.
The guy inside the bogs was still whistling. From where or what he couldn’t remember, but Truter knew the tune. Pressed against the wall, he fought back his tears – tears of frustration and bitterness and twenty-five years of pain seeking relief. If anyone had deserved to bring Jakkals down, it was him, nobody else. He felt Delport at his back, waiting for his next move. He didn’t dare turn and look him in the eyes; all Delport would see in his so-called superior was a FF – Fuck-up Failure. The hand drier inside the bogs had stopped running. He was still whistling. Somewhere between the pain and frustration and despair it came to him: “Forever Young” by that group Alphaville that they used to listen to all the time on the border—
Truter’s skin had started to prickle. His pupils had started to dilate. His hands had turned clammy. His mouth had turned bone-dry. Behind him, as Delport would later recount in great detail, he watched, as if in slow motion, his commanding officer reach behind his back and in a Hollywood-choreographed sequence withdraw his .38, cock the hammer, arc it back round his body, and up to his chest. As he would also later recount in even greater detail, no sooner had Sergeant Truter demonstrated his amazing handling skills than Brits mayor and murderous life insurance syndicate ringleader Jakkals Dawid Venter stepped from the ablution block. Where subsequently, and to his total surprise and dismay, he encountered Sergeant Clinton Truter of SAPS Edendal ready and waiting to make the arrest of his professional career.
52
Sergeant Truter was content to let Delport do the talking. And just as well, because it would be several days before he understood the pieces of the puzzle. Besides, as he had iterated several times already to Constable Delport, he was a man of action, not empty words. Operation Red Jackal was proof in the pudding – if there was anything that South Africa needed right now, it was men of action.
Truter sat to one side nursing his knee with an icepack – he would have to pay Dr Santos a visit soon – observing Engelbrecht and the Special Task Team go about its mop-up operations. Behind him, Delport was cordoning off the area with yellow crime scene tape, struggling to keep the rubberneckers at bay. Jakkals Venter and Frederick Ferreira had been cuffed and read their rights and were now staring out forlornly from the behind the mesh of the black SCU (Special Canine Unit) Fortuner. For the past half-hour a rookie reporter from North West Sun (Cultural Events Supplement) had been going around interviewing witnesses, and was now angling for a one-on-one with Captain Johan Engelbrecht of the country’s elite Special Crimes Unit. An SCU Falcon helicopter could be heard fast approaching from the west, carrying Conrad Botes and Juan Dippenaar. It would emerge that Botes had been intercepted and arrested on the N4 highway without so much as a single shot fired. As for Dippenaar, after a prolonged chase across the North West’s backroads, the fugitive had abandoned his vehicle and wife, and fled into a nearby mielie field. After a brief exchange of fire, in which Dippenaar sustained a self-inflicted bullet wound to the foot, and a bite from a local farm dog, was apprehended.
The reporter had now cornered Engelbrecht, with a circle of onlookers forming thick and fast around him. Engelbrecht beckoned over the sun-burnt heads.
“Please, mense, make an opening for our two police officers. They need to come through.” Engelbrecht waited for Truter to limp across to the arena, assisted by a beaming and still red-faced Delport. “Welcome, boys.” His stage set, Engelbrecht turned back to the reporter. “Ja, to get back to your question, it is thanks to the excellent detective work of these two police officers standing next to me, Sergeant Clinton Truter and Constable Delport, that we were able to make a number of critical arrests today in what has been an ongoing nationwide fraud investigation.” He turned and spoke directly to the growing crowd. “The residents of Edendal can be proud to have men of such moral calibre and loyalty. Men who are willing to place the safety of their country over and above their own lives.” Squeezing the PR moment – it was the least he could do for Truter – Engelbrecht turned to the two men, snapped to military attention, and saluted. “Sergeant Truter. Constable Delport. Your country thanks you!” On cue, a blast of spontaneous applause erupted from the crowd. This was way more than any of those present could have hoped for – a police drama included in the price of their Agri Fest entry ticket. Truter spotted his mom in the crowd and waved. Delport was still beaming. Engelbrecht turned back to the reporter. “Yes, we will be making further arrests in the days to come, but I’m unable to comment further at this point in time as the investigation is still prima facie. All I can say is, watch this space, people.” Above them, the Falcon was coming in to land. And with yet another thrilling distraction on the cards, the crowd dispersed and hurried along to catch the action.
Engelbrecht turned back to the two officers. “Once again, nice one, boys. Who would have thought, hey?” He rolled his head from side to side in wonderment. “When I woke up this morning, this was not how I expected things to go.” He reached out and shook Delport’s hand. “Exemplary work, Constable. Absolutely top-drawer research and analysis.”
“Thank you, sir!
“But I must warn you … You had better get ready to pack your bags.” Engelbrecht laughed. “Hey, don’t look so worried, man. What I’m saying is Human Resources is going to be in touch with you very soon, because I reckon SCU could do with that brain of yours.”
“Thank you, sir!
Engelbrecht moved on to Truter. He smiled. A genuine smile. A human smile.
“Sergeant.”
“Captain?”
“Good luck to you and your future career. You are a good man. And a good solider.”
Truter bit on his lip. “Thank you, Captain. I appreciate you saying that.”
Engelbrecht saluted his comrade. Maybe it was just the late afternoon light, or maybe he was just imagining it. But there was a flame burning in Truter’s eyes, a flame Engelbrecht had not noticed before.
53
Steve Aldridge caught himself giggling like a nervous schoolgirl as he worked the tow hitch. He couldn’t work out why or what, but it was the best feeling in the world. For some reason it made him think of those Eastern Germans reuniting with their long-lost relatives in the West after the Berlin Wall fell. Same for the North Koreans who broke through the DMY, or whatever zone.
Aldridge pulled on the tow bar – nice and tight – and stood back and admired the result. Fortuner and Jurgens back together in perfect harmony, like it was meant to be from the very start.
For what had to now be the third time, he checked that the caravan door was locked – last thing they needed was for the door to swing open on the N3 and the Coleman to come flying out. Satisfied all was as it should be, he strolled to the front of the car. He had to hand it to Swanies; the mechanic had done a decent job with the new radiator. It was a thing of beauty, gleaming glossy black under the open bonnet, a symbol of long-lost freedom. Aldridge tapped the coolant reservoir and checked the radiator cap was screwed tight. He dropped the lid. All systems go.
Tarryn was waiting in the car, doing her make-up in the mirror. Her eyes shone under a layer of heavy mascara. “Can we go now?”
“Yep, I think we’re all set.” Aldridge turned the ignition. The Fortuner purred into life. He gave her a gentle rev. It was the nearest thing to a choir of angels.
“Well, then, let’s get the flip out of this place, babes!”
Aldridge eased the Fortuner off the kerb. In the rear-view mirror, the Jurgens swayed gently from side to side. “Did you get to say bye?”
“Only to the wife. I still don’t understand what she’s doing with that prize A-hole.”
“You shouldn’t call …” Aldridge trailed off. For some reason he no longer cared.
“But I must say, she did seem much happier today.”
“Wasn’t she happy before?”
“No.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“That’s because you’re a man. Girls have a sixth sense about these things. She had this glow to her face. Like she was in love or something.”
“Definitely wouldn’t be … the prize A-hole.”
Tarryn pushed back into the headrest and laughed. A proper laugh. “Geez, this isn’t the Steve I know. Using foul language, and all. What’s more, he’s smiling!”
“I know. It feels like I’m floating in a dream. I can’t actually believe we’re driving out of this … kakhole.” To emphasise the point, Aldridge pressed his foot into the accelerator. To the front lay a new beginning. A new life.
“You’re so right, it does feel like a dream. We’ve done well, babes. We’ve done so amazingly well. And do you notice something else?”
“What?”
“We’re making small talk again.”
“That is but true. We are.”
“It feels nice. Like old times … Hey, isn’t that—”
“The guy who was staying at the B&B? It does look like him.”
“It’s definitely him, Steve. Poor man, he’s not even carrying a suitcase, or anything. You think we should offer him a lift?”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Why not, babes? He seems like a harmless sort.”
“Ja, okay, but as long as we only take him as far as the Engen on the N3. He’ll easily get another lift from there.” Aldridge slowed the Fortuner and pulled off the road. He kept watch in the side mirror. “I don’t think he’s clicked that we’ve stopped for him. He’s still just standing there.”
“Maybe you should hoot?”
“Good idea … Okay, he’s coming now. You’re right, he has nothing with him. Nothing but the clothes on his back.”
“I wonder where he’s going to?”
“We’ll ask him … He’s coming round to your side.” Aldridge dropped Tarryn’s window.
“Evenings!” said the hitchhiker. A gold-toothed smile was plastered across his face.
“Hi there,” said Tarryn. “Where are you going to?”
“Joburg, ma’am. To the big city lights.”
Aldridge leant across. “We’re going north, but if you want, we can take you to the One-Stop on the N3. Will that be okay?”
“Will that be okay? My friend, that will be perfecto!”
Without further prompting, the back door opened and the man squeezed in behind Tarryn.
“You can move that trophy across. Do you have enough leg space? I can move my seat forwards.”
“No worries, ma’am, I’m snug as a bug in a rug. And I’m very grateful to you good people. Catching a lift isn’t so easy these days. Because why? Nobody trusts nobody any more. That’s what I call tragic!”
“That is true. But we recognised you from the guesthouse. We were also staying there.”
“Is that now right? Well, nice to meet some genuine people finally.”
“By the way, I’m Steve, and this is my wife, Tarryn.”
“Honoured to meet you, Steve and Tarryn. You’ve done well for yourself, sir. Lovely car. Lovely caravan. Lovely wife.”
Aldridge gave Tarryn’s knee a squeeze, looked up in the rear-view and winked. “Thanks, I know. I’ve done very well for myself.”
Tarryn turned in her seat. “What’s your name?”
“My name?”
“Yes.”
The man smiled. A confident self-knowing smile. He gazed out the window at the distant orange glow descending over Mother Africa. He patted the thick envelope in his jacket pocket. “The name is Johnson. Gary Johnson.”
Epilogue
Kruger Tourist Stumbles on Gruesome Scene
Correspondent – A British tourist yesterday came across a gruesome scene in the Kruger National Park. According to Park spokeswoman Lettie Nieuwoudt, the unnamed tourist and his family were staying at Olifants Camp. They were on an early morning game drive in their hired car when they came across what initially appeared to them to be an animal kill at the side of the road. On closer inspection they discovered to their horror a dismembered human head. They immediately reported the find to the Kruger authorities, who cordoned off the area to the public. The police arrived several hours later, by which time the head had allegedly been dragged off into the bush by an animal – most likely a hyena, according to Nieuwoudt. Trackers are still searching for it. Authorities believe the head belonged to a person attempting to enter South Africa illegally from Mozambique, and was killed during the night by lions. According to Nieuwoudt, lion attacks on illegal migrants are believed to be relatively common. In most cases, however, there would be very little evidence by way of human remains. The police are investigating further.
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Born and bred in the Free State gold mining town of Virginia, Paul Leger stumbled through a degree in Journalism and Psychology at Rhodes University, followed by a brief stint as an academic researcher. Fleeing the ivory tower, he’s since made intermittent stabs at a writing career, laying claim to SA’s first guide to mountain biking, six editions of the popular Guide to Budget Getaways, and the autobiographical novel, Sean, Eddie and Me. Roadkill is his second novel.
Paul Leger, Roadkill
