Roadkill, p.6
Roadkill, page 6
“How did he peg?”
“Asthma attack, according to the DS. I’d show him to you if I had the time, but blue in the face like you’ve never seen. Looked like he had choked to death.” Meyer followed the policeman’s gaze. He lifted the whisky bottle. “Sorry, man, we’ve klapped it dood. You want Lynette to make you a Nescafe?”
“No, I’m good. Anyways, I must hit the road.” Truter flicked the policy back in Meyer’s direction.
“Same here. We’re gaaning on like there’s no tomorrow.” There was a knock on the door. His secretary, Lynette. Wearing that short red number again; the one that drove Meyer nuts. If she wasn’t a reborn and married to his cousin, he would do her some serious damage. Pretending to act not interested – who did she think she was kidding?
“Sorry to disturb, Ferdie, but Mrs Henley’s here.”
“Okay, give me a sec to get organised. She can fill in the claim form so long.”
Meyer and Truter followed Lynette’s arse out the door. Meyer sighed. “Enough to give you serious sack ache.” He pulled on the lever; snapping the Exec to upright. For months now he’d been meaning to sort out the mechanism, but with things so busy he hardly had time to piss any more. “Back to the grindstone, Trutes, but I’ll keep you posted if the Johnson boy comes in.”
Meyer saw Truter out and shut the door. The guy reminded him of a psycho Rottweiler – all cute and cuddly until the thing ripped your head off. He lifted his jacket off the hook. A black sports number, a little frayed at the elbows and collar and a small tear dating back to a recent funeral where the sharp edge of a coffin had hooked. These minor defects aside, the jacket befitted a man of Meyer’s professional status. He returned to his desk and prepped the scene. Family portrait angled towards client. Casket and accessories catalogue with separate pricelist positioned to left of client – within sight and easy reach, but not in their face. Little Book of Inspirational Verses. The box of Carlton. He reached in the drawer for his can of Zesty Mint and fired two sharp bursts into his mouth. He pushed back his hair, breathed in deeply, and assumed position.
14
What the original architects of Eden Palm B&B lacked in talent, they had more than made up for in enthusiasm. It was a DIY project that had taken not only one bad wrong turn, but several. Starting life as a modest square face-brick home for a South African Railways employee, it had since transmogrified into a structure spanning several exotic architectural eras. Attached to the original clinker brick carcass was a series of protruding Bavarian turrets and other inspired flourishes of ill-defined nature. From here, it had wandered into the realm of Pretoria Tuscan, before taking a brief turn into Victorian in the form of a yellowing plastic broekie lace detail running the length of the veranda. According to the title deed, the previous owner had been a Mr GA van Staaten, who had purchased it with the proceeds of a retrenchment package from Zeerust Municipality. Mr van Staaten’s relationship with his new home was short-lived, due to an unfortunate encounter with a poorly laid faux-Batavian tile that gifted him a shattered hip and concussion. In a display of uncharacteristic efficiency, Van Staaten’s next-of-kin hired a private ambulance and promptly dispatched their father to a retirement home on the East Rand, where he passed his final days hovering between delirious delusions of grandeur and paranoid psychosis, thanks to a faulty morphine drip. In the interim, 13 Nerina Close was placed on auction and snapped up by one Otto Meissner.
Down the narrow passage and behind the locked door of Buffalo Room, Steve Aldridge was already in bed, his head buried under the blanket. Safe in this makeshift womb, his befogged mind began to clear. Didn’t accidents like this happen every day in South Africa? Yes, they did; the newspapers were full of them. In fact, he had read somewhere that a pedestrian was knocked over every three minutes. What difference then would one more make to the thousands already out there? It would soon be just another statistic in a mountain gathering dust in some government back office. Everybody knew the police couldn’t be bothered with stuff like this; they had more important things to worry about. Aldridge didn’t consider himself a racist by any stretch of the imagination – some of his best friends at work were black guys – but if he was coloured like Tarryn said, the South African Police Services would put less effort into the case. With something now positive to cling to, Aldridge dozed off.
A minute later a truck came crashing through the bathroom wall and continued to idle. A door slammed, followed by a blinding flash of white fluorescent. Tarryn’s face loomed large above him.
“What are you doing under there?”
“Just resting … You might need to jiggle the toilet handle to stop it from running.”
“You think I didn’t try that? Why don’t you have a go, and while you’re at it, you can get the hot water to work. It’s not even lukewarm.”
“Sorry, I was only trying to help.”
“I bet the cheapskate hasn’t even bothered to switch on the geyser.” Tarryn pointed accusingly around the room. “And I bet everything here is from a second-hand junk shop.” She sat down heavily on the single bed, triggering a mass protest from the springs below. “I hate this place!”
Sitting upright, Aldridge stretched his neck round to the left, then to the right. “It’s only for one night, Tarryn. We’ve got to try make the best of a bad situation.”
“Oh, really? Only one night? How then do you plan to get us out of here tomorrow?”
“What you mean?”
“As in, how are you going to fix the car?”
Aldridge hadn’t yet managed to think that far ahead. “Well … I’ll go find a garage first thing in the morning. We’ll repair the radiator and be out of here by lunchtime.”
“I hope you’re right. Because this place is a shithole.”
“Flipping hell, T! What if he hears you?” said Aldridge, scrambling off the bed and racing to shut the bathroom door.
“I don’t care if he hears me. It’s not like we’re staying for free, you know.”
Aldridge glanced nervously at the plywood drywalling separating their room from the main house. A thin shaft of light shone from the gap below. Tarryn dropped her towel to the floor and rummaged in her suitcase for a clean bra and panties; Aldridge looked the other way. She pulled on her tracksuit pants and T-shirt, plonked herself on the bed, and proceeded to file her nails as if her survival depended on it.
“Sorry, I’m just tired. It’s been such a crappy day.”
“Tell me about it.” She was right, the place was a dump, but at least they had a bed to sleep in. Compared to the alternative – sleeping in the caravan, with a corpse in the car, or vice versa – it was paradise.
“Do you want me to pretend everything is fine and we’re staying at Sun City? I can if you want?”
“No need to go that far.” Aldridge reached behind his neck and explored the circumference of an angry pimple that had appeared from nowhere. “You can’t deny your feelings. You feel what you feel.”
Tarryn examined her hands. “My nails are such a mess.”
“They look okay to me.”
“You’re just saying so … Don’t you want to shower? You must be feeling all sweaty.”
“I don’t have the energy. I just want to rest.”
“What are we going to do for supper?”
“I dunno. What do you want to do?”
“Also don’t know, but we better eat something.”
“I’m not even hungry.”
“How about I micro the leftover ribs from last night and slice up some tomato and onion. We also have the garlic bread from the Spar that I can warm up.”
“Sounds nice. What about the invite?”
“What invite?”
“You know, to join Mr Meissner and his wife for a free glass of sherry.”
“I forgot about that. You go if you want, because I can’t face it.”
“Me too. But won’t they think bad of us if we don’t go?”
“Who cares if they do? I’m …” Tarryn had stopped filing her nails.
“Hell, T, what’s wrong?” Aldridge moved across to his wife’s bed and hugged her awkwardly. The tears were flowing freely down her face.
“What are we going to do, Stevie? We’re not evil people. Why us? Why’s this happening to us?”
Aldridge pulled his wife close to him. He could feel her warm wetness soaking through his Cape Union shirt, into his skin.
“I don’t know. I don’t know why. All I know is, I’m going to do whatever it takes to get us out of this mess.”
15
Now that he had established the guy wasn’t lying on ice, Truter was left with one of three possibles: 1. Gary Johnson was vrotting in the veld somewhere after suffering a heart attack-slash-stroke-diabetes poisoning. 2. Gary Johnson had left town in a hurry after pulling a fast one. 3. Gary Johnson was tucking into some fresh biefsteak on the side. Although Truter was still willing to bet his hard-earned cash on the latter, any policeman worth his salt kept an open mind.
With Meyer’s Three Ships still floating in his bloodstream, he was in a reflective mood. As he had explained earlier to Delport, you couldn’t rush a missing person’s investigation. You had to be patient, allow the truth to marinate, and it would eventually reveal itself. But then again, what did Delport know about Zen and the Art of Police Investigation?
He leant across to the passenger seat and twisted the portable radio’s dial until he found Drive Time with Vern. He cranked up the volume.
“Wat die fok?” Instead of Vernon Frost, some woman called Anel was coming at him. Truter pressed the accelerator into the floorboard; if you couldn’t rely on your DJ to be there when you needed him, who then could you rely on?
The prospect of searching for a body had made the missing person’s case more interesting. This was right up his alley – real police work. If Johnson was in fact dead and vrotting in thirty-five-degree sun, it was just a matter of time before he found him, because Truter considered himself a seasoned expert in the area of Search and Recovery. He was no stranger to decomposing corpses, and had seen more than he could count in his career as a professional soldier. According to his mental calcs, the maggots and flies would soon be working their magic. The corpse would be blowing up like a balloon at a kid’s party. The honk would be worse than a dead tortoise.
This Anel chick knew her music; he would grant her that. This was the real deal – music that cut like a knife deep into the soul. He cranked the volume higher, wound down the window, and handed himself over to the approaching deluge.
En my huis en my plaas tot kole verbrand
Sodat hulle ons kan vang
Maar daai vlamme en vuur
Brand nou diep, diep binne my.
De La Rey, De La Rey
Sal jy die Boere kom lei?
De La Rey, De La Rey
Generaal—
Truter slammed his hand against the radio, halting the advert for North West Nissan in its tracks. Wiping away the snot on his sleeve, he held down the clutch and coasted the van to a standstill at the side of the road. He sat for a minute, disoriented, staring straight ahead, pushing up against raw wounds.
He climbed out the van and scanned the terrain. Open African veld unfurled in all directions. The grass grew long under the power lines racing towards Witbank. He would never leave this country – they would have to kill him first.
A seasoned jackal sensing carrion on the African plain, Truter angled his head to one side and sniffed the thick afternoon air. He licked his finger and gauged the light breeze. He cocked his head downwind. He walked up and down the road, pitching his head this way and that, sampling the air, angling for the scent of putrefying flesh.
He waded into the grass. If Gary Johnson was turning sour in the veld somewhere between Brits and Edendal, he would eventually pick up the trail; if not today, tomorrow or the next day. Definitely within the next forty-eight hours. That much he knew from his days tracking Swapo.
Forcing a square peg into a round hole, Truter picked over Delport’s statement. Assuming Bianca Reyneke – or whatever her name was – was telling the truth, the facts of the case could be summarised as follows: Her husband-slash-pomp partner had left the house at six hundred hours for his morning jog; at the time of his disappearance, he was wearing blue running shorts, a SAD vest, running shoes, and a Casio watch; he was in training for some half-marathon and had left his phone at home. According to the woman, he was usually back by seven hundred hours and at his place of work by eight hundred hours; he was presently employed in the services of Eden Palm B&B. By nine hundred hours, the chick became worried, and after searching for him for more than an hour, she drove to SAPS Edendal and opened a missing person’s case.
Typical of Delport, the statement gave him near zilch to go on. If Johnson didn’t pitch up soon, he would personally have to interrogate her. Several obvious questions sprung to mind:
1. Does your aforesaid husband/boyfriend/lover have a drinking problem?
2. Does he smoke dagga? Tik, mandrax, other?
3. Is your husband/boyfriend having an affair with another woman? If no, how do you know?
4. Is your husband then having an affair with another man? If no, how do you know?
5. Does your husband suffer from a mental illness? If no, do you suffer from a mental illness?
6. How many times has your husband/boyfriend gone AWOL before?
7. Have you been experiencing financial difficulties in the bedroom?
8. Have you been experiencing any other difficulties in the bedroom?
9. How many times a week/day do you and your husband/boyfriend—
The delicious images shaping in Truter’s brain were cut short by the crackle of a distant police radio. He hurried back through the grass and reached into the window.
“Ja, Delport, what’s up? … Delport?”
“Sorry, sir. Just waiting again for you to say ‘Over’. Over.”
“What the …” Truter twisted his head and spat into the ground. The slow pounding behind his eyes was coming back.
“Sorry for disturbing you, but I’ve just received a call from a Brigadier Duminy in Potchefstroom.”
The hair on Truter’s neck bristled. “So, what about it? Jissus, Delport, are you on tik? Slow down, man.” The guy sounded like he was running a marathon.
“It seems Miss Reynold’s father has connections in the force.”
“Who the hell is Miss Reynolds?”
“Bianca Reynolds. The partner of Gary Johnson? The missing person, sir? Over.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. And so? … Delport!”
“Sorry, sir. The brigadier says we have to give the case priority status. That we must leave no stone unturned. And that from now on we must report directly to him.”
“Is that a fact now?”
“Yes, sir. Those were his exact words.”
“Well, that’s very interesting indeed. Thank you, Delport.”
“It’s a pleasure, sir. Oh, before I forget, the rest of that fax from Pretoria came in on the email.” Truter’s head throbbed with new intensity. Priority status. Poncy brigadiers from Potch. Missing person’s. Faxes and emails coming at them non-stop. Pretoria sniffing up his arse for more stats. “I’m sure now it has to do with some undercover investigation, sir, because they’re asking for a long, detailed checklist. Over.”
“That’s your department, Delport.” The mere mention of checklist sat less comfortably with him than a Malema at a Freedom Front braai. Checklists meant one thing: admin, forms to fill, more useless waste of time.
“Not to worry, sir, I’m on it.”
It never ceased to amaze Truter: Delport creaming himself at the prospect of filling in more forms.
“Good man. Delport?”
“Yes, sir? … Sorry, Over.”
“Have you organised the SAPS display for the Agri Fest?”
“Almost there. I’m just waiting for the posters to be printed. Everything else is done.”
“How big you making the posters?”
“A3, sir.”
“White man’s language, Delport. How big’s that?”
“About the size of a half braai drum. The place you said we must use in Krugersdorp can’t print them any bigger.”
Truter had something way bigger in mind. Like highway billboard bigger. It was his best selfie yet – him at the shooting range, Sansui headphones on his head, the setting North West sun reflecting off his mirror sunglasses, the barrel of his gun pointing into the camera. It would be nothing less than inspiring to the kids of today, the crime fighters of tomorrow. He should have done the job himself. Sent the picture to one of the big companies in Joburg.
“Alright, but make sure you print enough of them. Now, anything else on your mind, Delport?”
“I think that’s all for now, sir.”
“Good. In that case … Whoa, hold your horses, Delport, I’ve just spotted something.” Leaving the police radio to dangle by its cord, Truter walked back into the veld, and picked up the dusty takkie lying on the ground. Holding it by the laces, he carried it back to the van. “You said the guy was wearing running shoes?”
“Who, sir?”
“The flipping missing person, idiot. In your report, you said he was wearing running shoes, yes or no?”
“Yes, sir. According to Miss Reynolds—”
“I bet you didn’t bother asking what make they were?”
“I actually did. They were Nikes. Size nine, if I remember right. You want me to double-check the statement, sir? Over.”
Truter pulled open the laces. Jackpot! “Constable Delport, for once I’m impressed with your police work.”
16
After a fairly long and mediocre life, Glen Mitchell appeared to have gone quietly. Other than for the glistening trickle of saliva running from the corner of his mouth, down the left side of his chin, into his collar and lower into his shirt, where it had ended in a dark pool framed by the E of Castle and L of Lager, there wasn’t much evidence he had moved on to the next world at all.
